I swear I can't leave the house unsupervised for five seconds.
My oldest daughter is having the busiest end of school year I have ever known or even imagined in my 40 years. Every day there is something. So, today there was a short presentation and my oldest daughter really wanted me there for it, but I had the two little home and the 1st grader was sick.
So, I begged my husband to work from home for the morning, and that I would bribe(yes, as in with money) our 7-year old to 'babysit/entertain' the littles while I was gone for a very short hour and a half. He agreed, then disappeared upstairs to work, where apparently he stayed the entire time I was absent.
I came home to a house full of glitter.
All over the floor and carpet, sofa and chairs, tables, rugs, all over their stuffed animals, even in their hair. It looked like the roof of the house had opened up and it rained glitter.
Leaving for an hour and a half lead to two hours of clean up.
I guess that's what I get for leaving a seven-year old in charge.
A Lonely Playground
This morning was the first day back to school after Spring Break. My seven-year-old daughter woke up in her usual slow-moving, totally dragging, sad-faced way. She doesn't particularly like school. She's a homebody, so the fact that Spring Break was over didn't settle too well with her. But then again, this wasn't that different than every other school morning.
She went about this morning in her typical routine: We drag her out of bed, make sure she gets dressed, and she goes downstairs and plants herself on the couch. We beg her to come eat her breakfast because by now the clock is ticking and the school is a stickler on their tardy policy and it's not just her that would be late. Her older sister would suffer that consequence as well. She eats a few bites and asks us to check her fever, complaining that something ails her, ensuring us that she needs to stay home. So we humor her and confirm her lack of fever, and continue our scurrying around to make sure everyone is ready. We're out the door to send a sad-faced little girl and her sister off to school. This is probably a fairly normal morning for families that have a kid or two that don't enjoy school.
I'm usually in a hurry and I drop and go, nearly peeling out of one school parking lot to get to another where the two younger siblings go to preschool. My to-do list is raging through my mind as I calculate all I need to get done that day and subtracting it from the minimal amount of hours I have to do it all. I'm no longer thinking about that sad little face that jumped out of my van only moments ago.
But this morning as I reminded her every three seconds to please take another bite of Cheerios, there were tears. I took a deep breath, hugged her, and was secretly thinking, 'Great, here we go again.' I gave the usual pep-talk about the school year coming to an end soon, and a big trip we were taking that would ease the pain of making it through these last two months. She said her stomach hurt, and I told her I was sorry. She drug her feet over to her backpack, boots, and coat and put them on slowly (and I mean slow as in take slow motion in a movie and multiple it times one hundred). By now, I'm getting frustrated. We need to get out the door and everyone else is already in the car.
We tear into the school parking lot and my oldest leans over to me with a kiss and smile, then hops out the door. The seven-year old pauses until I open the van door with my ceiling button and lean back to give her a kiss. Her tiny mouth is tilted into a frown as I notice she is staring at the playground. Finally, she steps out of the van and her tiny head (hiding in a knit hat with an owl face on it) is hanging as she enters the gate to the playground.
Normally, that's when I back out. Once she's inside that gate, I'm outta there, moving on and about my day. But today, something told me not to hurry. Something made me watch her.
She strolled over to where the kids all place their backpacks until the whistle blows. She set her backpack down and turned around to gaze at the playground. She started to wander around a bit, but had yet to speak to another kid. Then one of her little friends that she had just had a play date with over the weekend entered the playground. I saw my daughter's face light up at the sight of this friend. But as my daughter began to move toward her friend, another little girl ran over and monopolized the friend.
Once those two were paired up, my daughter kept her distance, as if there were some unspoken (or spoken, possibly) rule that she couldn't join the other two girls. I watched as my daughter continued to glance in the direction of the other two girls, moving toward them occasionally, but then backing away, as if contemplating if she would be accepted into their duo, or would simply be a third wheel.
Her friend was left alone for a moment, and I saw my daughter take the opportunity to go say hello. They interacted briefly until the other little girl returned, and I watched as my daughter's friend locked elbows with the other little girl, and the pair turned and walked away from my daughter, leaving her standing alone.
I felt a tear stream down my own face as I realized what her little tears in the morning were really about. Why her stomach hurts and her body aches on the mornings she must go to school. That kind of rejection would be painful to anyone.
She's lonely. At a school of hundreds of children, she feels alone.
She has occasionally mentioned to us that she doesn't have anyone to play with at school, or that the other girls all pair up and there she stands without a partner. But some days, I ask her if she played with anyone on the playground, and she will say that she did. But today, I saw what the majority of her days must look like.
I don't recall ever not having friends at school, or not having someone to play with. But she is my introvert. My child that doesn't want to do any activities unless they are private. She is guarded and quiet, and on the playground I saw what she has talked about so many times before as she wandered around by herself in a sea of children. She is an island.
I don't know where the grass is greener in this situation. I can't be there for her at recess or lunchtime, and I think that to some extent, life can be like this and it's a road she is going to have to travel. I can't run out onto the playground and scold other children for ignoring her or turning the other way, or not including her. They may not even realize what they are doing. But I know that inside, my daughter's little heart breaks every time she is turned away, when three's a crowd and someone she thought was a friend leaves her standing alone.
I don't think I'd want to go to school either.
We've talked about her being brave. We've discussed her standing up for herself, speaking boldly about her feelings and what she wants and needs from her friends. Yet, I watched her let the two girls walk away, as if she were invisible. Maybe she thinks she is.
So I'm left to feel like there is something I should be doing, or could be doing, to make her schooldays a little brighter, yet I have no idea where a parent steps in. Does she just endure it, since she has to go to school? Do I call her friend's mom and tell her that her daughter is not including my daughter on the playground? Or is that forcing friendship where it doesn't belong? Do I want my daughter to have to beg someone to be a real, true, genuine friend that wouldn't neglect her? Or do these things have to forge their own path?
At this moment, I have no answers. I'm at a loss. I see no greener grass on the other side right now. But I know that when June rolls around, my daughter's face will be happy again. The grass outside our windows will be green and the flowers blooming.
Until then, I vow to be a better mom. To watch her more often. To talk more. To let her talk more. To be a better friend.
One Down (But can she keep her mouth shut?)
I'm driving in my car with my oldest daughter (only 9 1/2), and I've got Easter on the brain. It's time to be the bunny again and of course, it's the day before Easter and I've got nothing. I'm obviously quiet as I roll around some ideas in my head about when and how I'm going to pull off the visit to the store without any kids by bedtime.
My daughter (in her usual curious and observant state) could tell I was in thinking mode. She loves to break up my thinking mode. I don't know why (could it be that with four kids, it's an opportunity to get a little attention?), but it drives me nuts because my brain likes to think. A lot. When it gets interrupted, it's almost like I was just woken up from a deep sleep. It takes a minute to regain reality.
Back to Easter. So my daughter turns down the stereo and breaks up my thinking mode by saying, "Hey mom, what are you thinking about?" Original huh?
I think she said that same statement two more times (and quite a bit louder) before I returned from my trance and said, "Oh, sorry. Yeah, what's up?"
"What were you thinking about?" she asked again.
"Just Easter. What do you want from the bunny?"
"Really, Mom? You think I don't know about 'the bunny." She put 'the bunny' in quotation marks with her fingers (thank a lot Disney, I know that's where she learns this stuff).
I try to revamp her perception of "the bunny". "Yeah, and what exactly do you want "the bunny" to put in your basket?"
She turned to me and smiled. "A cell phone."
I laughed, even though I'm really annoyed, because I'm entirely too tired of this 'when can I have a cell phone' conversation, but I humor her. It was kind of clever to throw it in at that opportunistic moment. I also realized what it really meant. One down in the believer department. No more Santa, Bunny, or Tooth Fairy for her.
I rebut, "Well, I don't think "the bunny" can afford one more cell phone plan right now."
She argues, "Well, maybe if "the bunny" would give me the phone, I could pay for the plan."
"You're 9."
"Almost 10."
"But not 10, and "the bunny" doesn't give 10-year-olds phones either."
She pouted as I took a deep breath and realized that it's starting. She knows "the bunny" is me and her Dad, and that means she is growing up. Sometimes, I like it that she is growing up, but it made me sad today. So, I did what I usually try to do when I realize she is growing up in a certain area of her little life. I try to embrace it. So, I took another deep breath and said, "So, you want to help tonight; be 'the bunny's' assistant?"
She smiled and squealed and jumped up and down in her seat. I drove through the green light and asked, "ShopKo or Kmart."
"Kmart," she answered, and I whipped on into a parking space.
That night, she could barely contain herself. She was giddy with excitement as she asked me every two minutes when everyone was going to bed so that we could "you know, do that thing (hand signals included)."
Well, good thing I had a helper, because the hubby fell asleep and I would have been solo. As she and I stuffed eggs to hide and placed everyone's basket out (including hers so she could pretend 'the bunny' came), I reminded her that it has to be our secret, because we don't want to ruin the magic of it all for her little sisters and brother. She pretended to zip her lips. We hugged. I cried.
I was woken up at 5:45am to small children asking me if they can hunt for the eggs the bunny brought. I said 'sure', even though I was thinking how painful it was going to be because it was so effin early. I started to get out of bed, slowly. My new assistant put a hand on my shoulder and said, "You stay. I got this."
I shrugged. "Okay." I said, and snuggled back into bed. Slept until 9am. It rocked. Maybe this is what other Mama's mean when they say, 'don't worry, it does get better.'
I decided that maybe it really was a good department for her to be growing up in (as long as she can keep her mouth shut). The grass definitely seems greener.
My daughter (in her usual curious and observant state) could tell I was in thinking mode. She loves to break up my thinking mode. I don't know why (could it be that with four kids, it's an opportunity to get a little attention?), but it drives me nuts because my brain likes to think. A lot. When it gets interrupted, it's almost like I was just woken up from a deep sleep. It takes a minute to regain reality.
Back to Easter. So my daughter turns down the stereo and breaks up my thinking mode by saying, "Hey mom, what are you thinking about?" Original huh?
I think she said that same statement two more times (and quite a bit louder) before I returned from my trance and said, "Oh, sorry. Yeah, what's up?"
"What were you thinking about?" she asked again.
"Just Easter. What do you want from the bunny?"
"Really, Mom? You think I don't know about 'the bunny." She put 'the bunny' in quotation marks with her fingers (thank a lot Disney, I know that's where she learns this stuff).
I try to revamp her perception of "the bunny". "Yeah, and what exactly do you want "the bunny" to put in your basket?"
She turned to me and smiled. "A cell phone."
I laughed, even though I'm really annoyed, because I'm entirely too tired of this 'when can I have a cell phone' conversation, but I humor her. It was kind of clever to throw it in at that opportunistic moment. I also realized what it really meant. One down in the believer department. No more Santa, Bunny, or Tooth Fairy for her.
I rebut, "Well, I don't think "the bunny" can afford one more cell phone plan right now."
She argues, "Well, maybe if "the bunny" would give me the phone, I could pay for the plan."
"You're 9."
"Almost 10."
"But not 10, and "the bunny" doesn't give 10-year-olds phones either."
She pouted as I took a deep breath and realized that it's starting. She knows "the bunny" is me and her Dad, and that means she is growing up. Sometimes, I like it that she is growing up, but it made me sad today. So, I did what I usually try to do when I realize she is growing up in a certain area of her little life. I try to embrace it. So, I took another deep breath and said, "So, you want to help tonight; be 'the bunny's' assistant?"
She smiled and squealed and jumped up and down in her seat. I drove through the green light and asked, "ShopKo or Kmart."
"Kmart," she answered, and I whipped on into a parking space.
That night, she could barely contain herself. She was giddy with excitement as she asked me every two minutes when everyone was going to bed so that we could "you know, do that thing (hand signals included)."
Well, good thing I had a helper, because the hubby fell asleep and I would have been solo. As she and I stuffed eggs to hide and placed everyone's basket out (including hers so she could pretend 'the bunny' came), I reminded her that it has to be our secret, because we don't want to ruin the magic of it all for her little sisters and brother. She pretended to zip her lips. We hugged. I cried.
I was woken up at 5:45am to small children asking me if they can hunt for the eggs the bunny brought. I said 'sure', even though I was thinking how painful it was going to be because it was so effin early. I started to get out of bed, slowly. My new assistant put a hand on my shoulder and said, "You stay. I got this."
I shrugged. "Okay." I said, and snuggled back into bed. Slept until 9am. It rocked. Maybe this is what other Mama's mean when they say, 'don't worry, it does get better.'
I decided that maybe it really was a good department for her to be growing up in (as long as she can keep her mouth shut). The grass definitely seems greener.
Report Cards - Pay for Performance?
I love report card day. So far, report card days have been great days. I'm super blessed with kids that get good grades, and while I do have to give the teachers of all of the credit, I am rejuvenated in my motherhood on those days. I get to feel like I'm a really good mom (to make up for all those days I feel like the worst mom ever).
Third grade brought on a whole new level of report cards. We went to the letter system. My oldest daughter's first letter grade report card was all As and A+s. I beamed. Her father beamed. Most importantly, she beamed. Her teacher wrote a bunch of shiny, happy comments on how wonderful our daughter is (so, of course, I LOVE her teacher). We all beamed some more. We told her great job, keep it up, now you've done it and set the standard, we expect this every time, and by the way, we really do love you just the way you are as long as you're still getting straight As. Okay, so I was only thinking in my head the set the standard, expectations stuff, and of course I'll love her just the same if the grades ever drop. But I know my daughter and she was thinking it too. All is good in the world. We are the Cleavers.
Ironically, the next day I take my two-year-old to the barber shop to get his hair cut. The woman that cut his hair (let's call her Shirley), has owned the barber shop for 30 something years. So we're chatting as she's cutting my little wiggly guy's hair, and I'm not really considering what else she might have done during that 30 something years. To me, she was just this really nice woman with Buzz Light Year hanging over her head so that my child would be entertained long enough to get his hair cut.
She asked about my other kids and so I asked about hers. She has two boys. One is in college, and the other a senior in high school. The one is college was Valedictorian of his high school class. Her senior will also be Valedictorian of his class. Suddenly, Shirley was no longer the woman that owned the barber shop for 30 something years, but was now the proud mother of two Valedictorians. I asked her how she managed to pull that off. She said, "I'm just blessed."
Well, I get that blessed stuff and all, but I knew there was more to it. So I probed, as every mother seeking good advice should do. I asked her if they just got good grades because they wanted to, or if she rewarded them. I'd been tossing around the idea of paying for grades now that letter grades were in the picture, and I was curious what the best, most morally correct, and productive way to keep a straight A student motivated to continue being a straight A student. Or should grades be like those chores they must do simply because they are part of the family so they must contribute?
She smiled and said, "Sure I rewarded them. I mean, I get paid for my performance, why shouldn't they? Doesn't it teach them how life really works? Starting in third grade, I paid a quarter for every A and an extra dime for every A+. Every year, I increased it a quarter. By the time high school hit, my oldest still had straight As and he put a hand on my shoulder and said, 'Mom, you don't have to pay me anymore. I'm getting the grades for me now.'"
I wanted to cry and hug Shirley. There was my answer, as if light were shining down on Shirley and she was my fairy Godmother telling me that yes, it is okay to pay your child for good grades. It wasn't bribing them to do something they should want to do themselves, but rather it was encouraging them, providing an incentive, paying for performance. The same way life as an adult works. I wanted to spend the rest of the afternoon with Shirley, but she blew the hair off of my toddler, smiled, and said, "First haircut is on me."
So now we pay a quarter for each A and an extra dime if it's an A+. We're paying for S+ too; to get the younger one motivated and accustomed to the PFP (pay for performance) system she will enter in the third grade.
But this has not only been motivating for my daughter, it has opened up conversations. She brought home her report card last night and we discussed her grades and how much she earned for her performance, and she asked, "So what if you get straight As all the way through high school?"
I told her it opened a lot of doors, for whatever college she might want to attend, for scholarships, to pursue a dream job or even just a dream. She asked me if I'd heard of Stanford. I said, "Yes, but you're going to need a whole lot of perfect report cards for that one." She went to her room and started counting her money.
I know I may not end up with four Valedictorians, but I do thank Shirley for introducing a way for my husband and I to install the idea of pay for performance at an early age. I believe it will have a lasting impact, even if I'm broke by the time they all graduate from paying my kids for their report cards. In fact, I hope I am. That would mean they did well.
What about you? Will you pay for performance?
Get this book - unless you're all "rainbows and unicorns."
I just have to share the book these women wrote. I really wanted to write this book, but they did instead. But I can't hate them for beating me to it, because they are too darn funny, and that scores pretty high in my book (ha! no pun intended.) They're all bloggers, by the way, and since we all have so much spare time to just sit around reading blogs all day(not), you may as well just go ahead and put them on your list so you don't have to use that spare time researching blogs you should read in your spare time.
The book is titled, 'I Just Want to Pee Alone'.
Are you relating already? (Don't worry, the link to buy the book is just a few paragraphs away)
These women are so freaking hilarious that even if you did have the chance to pee alone, you might not make it to the bathroom. Yes, it is 'pee your pants', laugh-out-loud, read-over-another-mom's-shoulder funny. So since most of us didn't do the required number of kegels (but lie and say we did), you might just want to read it while on the toilet; assuming you actually do sneak away for a few precious moments of alone time. (Is that sad; I mean that we'll take alone time at the drop of a hat, even if it is in the bathroom?)
Anyway, the reason I love these ladies is because they don't take themselves too seriously, they pile on the sarcasm, don't give a hyena's hoot what other mother's think of them, willingly throw the f*bomb here and there, and pretty much let you know right off the bat that if you don't like what they write, you can just take your little prissy self somewhere else where they sip tea with their pinky in the air, never forget to cross their legs, and talk about their perfect children while those children are out throwing firecrackers into the neighbors car.
These ladies are my kind ladies. They inspire the H out of me. So, if you like to laugh, and appreciate motherhood for what it really is (I mean, let's be honest here, c'mon), get this book! Do yourself a favor, Momma. Don't you deserve a laugh today?
The book is titled, 'I Just Want to Pee Alone'.
Are you relating already? (Don't worry, the link to buy the book is just a few paragraphs away)
These women are so freaking hilarious that even if you did have the chance to pee alone, you might not make it to the bathroom. Yes, it is 'pee your pants', laugh-out-loud, read-over-another-mom's-shoulder funny. So since most of us didn't do the required number of kegels (but lie and say we did), you might just want to read it while on the toilet; assuming you actually do sneak away for a few precious moments of alone time. (Is that sad; I mean that we'll take alone time at the drop of a hat, even if it is in the bathroom?)
Anyway, the reason I love these ladies is because they don't take themselves too seriously, they pile on the sarcasm, don't give a hyena's hoot what other mother's think of them, willingly throw the f*bomb here and there, and pretty much let you know right off the bat that if you don't like what they write, you can just take your little prissy self somewhere else where they sip tea with their pinky in the air, never forget to cross their legs, and talk about their perfect children while those children are out throwing firecrackers into the neighbors car.
These ladies are my kind ladies. They inspire the H out of me. So, if you like to laugh, and appreciate motherhood for what it really is (I mean, let's be honest here, c'mon), get this book! Do yourself a favor, Momma. Don't you deserve a laugh today?
Where in the H did my quiet go?
Last week, my hubby ran off with the three girls to South Carolina, and left me home with two-year-old little man. For SEVEN DAYS and SIX NIGHTS. Heaven, did I hear you knocking? Hello? Oh, hello Heaven.
So, I was stuck home(poor me) with only one of my four children and no other human around, and I was spared the usual of the daily routine, like fighting, and making a meal only to hear the words "I don't like that", and I only heard a little whining when I wasn't giving little man 100 percent of my attention.
One of the best of all things: I didn't cook a darn thing. I microwaved, but I don't dare call that cooking (even though I kind of think it is) because the Betty Crocker/Martha Stewart/Rachel Ray types would dust me in that argument. So anyway, I was not necessarily "cooking" (but I did feed my child) and therefore, dishes were limited, laundry was null, and I spent a lot of time purging all of the crap out of the house, and making it all nice and purty for when everyone returned (to just mess it up again). I also read a lot. I slept a lot too, but not enough.
Because best of all, was the quiet. I wanted to cherish the quiet.
When little man went to bed at night, I knew he was a goner. No waking up wanting any stupid water, or another freaking banana. He was toast. Tired little dude. And the night was mine. Mine alone. I got to enjoy this super rare thing that I darn near forgot about, called quiet. My new most favorite thing in the entire world (except my family, of course, because I have to say that), but yes, quiet. My favorite thing in the whole world.
In fact, that's what I'm going to start asking for my birthday, and Christmas, and anything else anyone ever asks what I want. I'm going to reply, "I would love some quiet. What a precious gift that would be."
Seriously, just wrap me up some quiet with a great big bow. It would be the best gift I've ever received.
So, of course, the fastest six days ever went by, and the chaos returned in the form of three giddy little girls, and one really busy husband. The house is an instant disaster, and my quiet is all gone. And I just want it back. NOW!
But, dream big, I suppose, because slowly all the life bursting with enthusiasm and screaming around me will sink in and become the new normal again. I'll go about my days trying to answer everyone talking to me all at once while I pick up the eight million things that don't belong on the floor.
Quiet is gone. Not forever, but gone for now. I miss it already. Pretty heartbroken, actually.
So, until we meet again, possibly in Heaven, who knows. I love you, Quiet. With all my heart. When in the H can you come back? Not soon enough!
So, I was stuck home(poor me) with only one of my four children and no other human around, and I was spared the usual of the daily routine, like fighting, and making a meal only to hear the words "I don't like that", and I only heard a little whining when I wasn't giving little man 100 percent of my attention.
One of the best of all things: I didn't cook a darn thing. I microwaved, but I don't dare call that cooking (even though I kind of think it is) because the Betty Crocker/Martha Stewart/Rachel Ray types would dust me in that argument. So anyway, I was not necessarily "cooking" (but I did feed my child) and therefore, dishes were limited, laundry was null, and I spent a lot of time purging all of the crap out of the house, and making it all nice and purty for when everyone returned (to just mess it up again). I also read a lot. I slept a lot too, but not enough.
Because best of all, was the quiet. I wanted to cherish the quiet.
When little man went to bed at night, I knew he was a goner. No waking up wanting any stupid water, or another freaking banana. He was toast. Tired little dude. And the night was mine. Mine alone. I got to enjoy this super rare thing that I darn near forgot about, called quiet. My new most favorite thing in the entire world (except my family, of course, because I have to say that), but yes, quiet. My favorite thing in the whole world.
In fact, that's what I'm going to start asking for my birthday, and Christmas, and anything else anyone ever asks what I want. I'm going to reply, "I would love some quiet. What a precious gift that would be."
Seriously, just wrap me up some quiet with a great big bow. It would be the best gift I've ever received.
So, of course, the fastest six days ever went by, and the chaos returned in the form of three giddy little girls, and one really busy husband. The house is an instant disaster, and my quiet is all gone. And I just want it back. NOW!
But, dream big, I suppose, because slowly all the life bursting with enthusiasm and screaming around me will sink in and become the new normal again. I'll go about my days trying to answer everyone talking to me all at once while I pick up the eight million things that don't belong on the floor.
Quiet is gone. Not forever, but gone for now. I miss it already. Pretty heartbroken, actually.
So, until we meet again, possibly in Heaven, who knows. I love you, Quiet. With all my heart. When in the H can you come back? Not soon enough!
How We View Death
Sometimes my posts from my author site and my mommy site seem to cross over. This is one of those cases..
Kids really put things into perspective sometimes. Even things that are scary or uncomfortable or incomprehensible. My four year old daughter did just that the other night for me as we were reading books, discussing them, and getting ready to go to bed.
The sweet angel of a face turned to me dead (no pun intended) serious and said, “Mommy, I think Pops is going to heaven soon, because he has gray hair. But Mimi dyes hers black, so she’s gonna live a lot longer.”
At first it made my heart sink, and I wanted to say, never! Pops is never leaving this planet without us! He is my dad, and all.
But then I thought, wow. That really takes something very complicated and turns it into something very simple. Just dye your hair. You’ll live longer.
Is that really how these innocent young creatures view their own mortality? I mean, she really didn’t think it was all that big of a deal. It made me wonder what else did she have such simple solutions for. Death is a big thing. What were her thoughts on Peace? Cancer? Were they so simple as well?
In a few years, that perspective will take a new shape, and she’ll start to understand what death means on a deeper level, and she’ll fear it every now and then, for herself, and for others, but for now, it actually gives me comfort that she can be so at peace with something most people can barely internalize without slight desperation to have some kind of understanding. Maybe it’s that very perspective that we should take on. We only have a certain degree of control over death, about as much control as we have over choosing our hair color. And once we dye our hair, we have to throw up our hands, recognize the rest is up to God and just simply live life. Simply.
Kids really put things into perspective sometimes. Even things that are scary or uncomfortable or incomprehensible. My four year old daughter did just that the other night for me as we were reading books, discussing them, and getting ready to go to bed.
The sweet angel of a face turned to me dead (no pun intended) serious and said, “Mommy, I think Pops is going to heaven soon, because he has gray hair. But Mimi dyes hers black, so she’s gonna live a lot longer.”
At first it made my heart sink, and I wanted to say, never! Pops is never leaving this planet without us! He is my dad, and all.
But then I thought, wow. That really takes something very complicated and turns it into something very simple. Just dye your hair. You’ll live longer.
Is that really how these innocent young creatures view their own mortality? I mean, she really didn’t think it was all that big of a deal. It made me wonder what else did she have such simple solutions for. Death is a big thing. What were her thoughts on Peace? Cancer? Were they so simple as well?
In a few years, that perspective will take a new shape, and she’ll start to understand what death means on a deeper level, and she’ll fear it every now and then, for herself, and for others, but for now, it actually gives me comfort that she can be so at peace with something most people can barely internalize without slight desperation to have some kind of understanding. Maybe it’s that very perspective that we should take on. We only have a certain degree of control over death, about as much control as we have over choosing our hair color. And once we dye our hair, we have to throw up our hands, recognize the rest is up to God and just simply live life. Simply.
The Daily Storm
The storms on the east coast got me thinking about other kinds of storms in our lives. Like the ones our kids cause, maybe?
Each day starting at 3pm, this photo perfectly illustrates what my life feels like until bedtime. Looks peaceful, doesn't it?
When we're young and single and living it up, we really don't have any idea what we're in for when we catch that twinkle in our spouse's eye and say, "Sure, let's have children."
Now, I have four, remember? So, I'm not saying I wish I didn't have them. I'm just saying life is a freaking tornado every single day. So, the challenge is to embrace the storm. I'm still working on that. Take all that stuff that gets broken down and thrown around each day and rebuild it somehow. Reinvent it. Reinvent yourself.
I recently bought one of those trashy celebrity magazine (called like, OK! or something), and I read a quote that officially made me feel better about this life full of some serious Mommy Chaos (join the conversation on Twitter at #mommychaos).
They asked Gwen Stefani about balancing music and motherhood. Her response: "Every day is a challenge. It doesn't work most days, but some days you get up and it's all good."
Nice Gwen. I actually feel like that pretty much sums it up.
In Good Company
I have friends that run marathons (not me), or half marathons (nope), or 10Ks (still incredibly not likely). I have friends training to be triathletes and body builders and equestrians(no thanks, way too much work). And I say to you ladies, how do you do it?
Some of you love camping with your family so much, that in the summer, you spend Thurday and Friday packing and Monday and Tuesday unpacking. That's hard work, and lots of it. And I know you do it because the reward of spending that kind of quality time with your family is totally worth it. And yet still, I'm thinking, how do you do it?
Some of you keep a beautiful house and somehow know how to clean up and stay organized despite little people that drag their crap all over place 24-7. Yet, your house is spotless (not mine). So again, I say, how on earth do you do it?
Or maybe you cook all of your meals from scratch, or you NEVER go to McDonalds, or you even sew your kids their clothes. OR even grow your own food! I mean, hello!
Or maybe you are in the PTA, you volunteer in the classrooms, at church, you coach your kid's team, you're always treat mom, and you sub on days the school is desperate. I don't do hardly any of that, at least not right now!
And you 9-5er moms, who come home to empty mouths and hungry stomachs and homework and messes and likely a whole heck of a lot stress and stuff on your mind. Or maybe you've gone back to school? Or maybe you do both! My goodness, I bow to you. How do you do it?
And you that have husbands who are deployed, or work on business out of town, or who do not have a hint of family around, or who home school!!!!! How do you do it?
So, I guess my point is. I wrote a book. Because I love telling stories. And I have a whole bunch of them in my head, and they really need to come out. This past winter, I didn't do much else. Every free moment I could possibly find, I ran to my computer. And after a while, I realized that it was what I wanted to do (besides mothering) and that I needed to just go for it. So, like my friends who are runners, and they wake up some days thinking, 'I really don't want to run today', but they do anyway, and afterwards are so glad they did. That is how writing is for me. Somedays, baby goes for a nap and I am thinking of all the things I should be doing, or maybe the words just aren't there right away, but I make myself sit down, and I just do it. And eventually, the words come. And when I have to stop mid-sentence in the middle of some super emotional scene that I just think there is no way I can make it until tomorrow, I close my computer, and get my baby, and then, of course, I can't lie, I try to sneak in a few shots at the keyboard to finish up a scene! And when I think about the fact that I almost didn't write that day, I can't even believe the thought crossed mind, because afterwards, similar to the runners-high, I am exhilerated.
But when people say 'How does she do it?', I am of course grateful that you understand how difficult it is for a mother to do anything beyond keeping her own family fed. But I also feel like writing my novel has not been hard. And following this journey to publish my book has not felt hard. Frustrating, yes, because I need more time, a LOT more time (don't we all?). But maybe it's because I have a business and marketing background, and I tend to be an entrepreneur, and I am insanely driven, and have super supportive family and friends, but I really think that when we are doing something we love, something that we find value in, something that we think can be something good in the world, something that might inspire another person, or at the very least show my daughters that they can achieve their own dreams, then it's worth doing at any cost.
As a writer, when you move past the idea that authors have to be megastars, or be bestsellers, or that everyone just has to love your story (good, thick rhino-type skin is key, you can't please everybody!), or that you have to see your book in lights, and instead look at what you might have to offer the world, it really changes things, and it allows you to look deep inside and explore your options and your opportunities. I figure if I enterain even one lonely heart, or inspire even one Indie writer who is considering taking this trek on their own, or even just make my family proud, then I've done my job. And have had a heck of a good time doing it!
So, for all of you that wonder how I do it, you can be assured that whatever it is you do in your life that is affecting others, or giving you joy, or changing the world, I am equally wondering how do you? And for those of you that have a dream, I can only say that the best investment you will ever make is in yourself. Go for it. Go big! I'm totally behind you, the way so many have been behind me. There is this super cute sign I have above my desk that reads "The best way to predict your future is to create it." The grass just has to be greener when you do. So I say, go. Create. And enjoy this life we are so blessed to have. :)
"Whatever You're doing inside of me, it feels like chaos, but somehow there's peace. You're up to something bigger than than me, larger than life, something heavenly." --Sanctus Real
Some of you love camping with your family so much, that in the summer, you spend Thurday and Friday packing and Monday and Tuesday unpacking. That's hard work, and lots of it. And I know you do it because the reward of spending that kind of quality time with your family is totally worth it. And yet still, I'm thinking, how do you do it?
Some of you keep a beautiful house and somehow know how to clean up and stay organized despite little people that drag their crap all over place 24-7. Yet, your house is spotless (not mine). So again, I say, how on earth do you do it?
Or maybe you cook all of your meals from scratch, or you NEVER go to McDonalds, or you even sew your kids their clothes. OR even grow your own food! I mean, hello!
Or maybe you are in the PTA, you volunteer in the classrooms, at church, you coach your kid's team, you're always treat mom, and you sub on days the school is desperate. I don't do hardly any of that, at least not right now!
And you 9-5er moms, who come home to empty mouths and hungry stomachs and homework and messes and likely a whole heck of a lot stress and stuff on your mind. Or maybe you've gone back to school? Or maybe you do both! My goodness, I bow to you. How do you do it?
And you that have husbands who are deployed, or work on business out of town, or who do not have a hint of family around, or who home school!!!!! How do you do it?
So, I guess my point is. I wrote a book. Because I love telling stories. And I have a whole bunch of them in my head, and they really need to come out. This past winter, I didn't do much else. Every free moment I could possibly find, I ran to my computer. And after a while, I realized that it was what I wanted to do (besides mothering) and that I needed to just go for it. So, like my friends who are runners, and they wake up some days thinking, 'I really don't want to run today', but they do anyway, and afterwards are so glad they did. That is how writing is for me. Somedays, baby goes for a nap and I am thinking of all the things I should be doing, or maybe the words just aren't there right away, but I make myself sit down, and I just do it. And eventually, the words come. And when I have to stop mid-sentence in the middle of some super emotional scene that I just think there is no way I can make it until tomorrow, I close my computer, and get my baby, and then, of course, I can't lie, I try to sneak in a few shots at the keyboard to finish up a scene! And when I think about the fact that I almost didn't write that day, I can't even believe the thought crossed mind, because afterwards, similar to the runners-high, I am exhilerated.
But when people say 'How does she do it?', I am of course grateful that you understand how difficult it is for a mother to do anything beyond keeping her own family fed. But I also feel like writing my novel has not been hard. And following this journey to publish my book has not felt hard. Frustrating, yes, because I need more time, a LOT more time (don't we all?). But maybe it's because I have a business and marketing background, and I tend to be an entrepreneur, and I am insanely driven, and have super supportive family and friends, but I really think that when we are doing something we love, something that we find value in, something that we think can be something good in the world, something that might inspire another person, or at the very least show my daughters that they can achieve their own dreams, then it's worth doing at any cost.
As a writer, when you move past the idea that authors have to be megastars, or be bestsellers, or that everyone just has to love your story (good, thick rhino-type skin is key, you can't please everybody!), or that you have to see your book in lights, and instead look at what you might have to offer the world, it really changes things, and it allows you to look deep inside and explore your options and your opportunities. I figure if I enterain even one lonely heart, or inspire even one Indie writer who is considering taking this trek on their own, or even just make my family proud, then I've done my job. And have had a heck of a good time doing it!
So, for all of you that wonder how I do it, you can be assured that whatever it is you do in your life that is affecting others, or giving you joy, or changing the world, I am equally wondering how do you? And for those of you that have a dream, I can only say that the best investment you will ever make is in yourself. Go for it. Go big! I'm totally behind you, the way so many have been behind me. There is this super cute sign I have above my desk that reads "The best way to predict your future is to create it." The grass just has to be greener when you do. So I say, go. Create. And enjoy this life we are so blessed to have. :)
"Whatever You're doing inside of me, it feels like chaos, but somehow there's peace. You're up to something bigger than than me, larger than life, something heavenly." --Sanctus Real
The Mommy Spa
I love the spa. Seriously, I'd live there. For real. Forever. But it just doesn't happen.
It's intensely rare that I get manicures or pedicures, and maybe one massage every six months or so thaI can remember from a gal that now just comes to my house. But that whole spa experience where you feel like you are a queen and have absolutely no worries in the world? Yeah, doesn't happen.
So, I guess things have come down to the at-home Mommy Spa. Or at least that's what I call it, because in this chapter of life, it's about as close as I get. In case you're in need of one, here's how it goes.
Mommy makes the bath water super extra uber hot, because then maybe no one else will want to get in for awhile. That hopefully buys you about 10 minutes, until everyone has found where you tried to hide out, and is begging you to make it cooler so they can get in. Eventually, the whining wins, and suddenly your leisurely solitary soak turns into a tub of splashing chaos. (YOu're totally relaxed already, right?)
So, spas are all about those lovely aromas, right? Make sure you buy some really good (sample size) spa shampoo. Even Aveda works, they've got some great scents. Just lie back, close your eyes (only open them every other second so the baby doesn't drown), open the top, and take in a big whif. Ahhhhhhhhhh. Try to get about three big inhales before some little person nails an elbow to your boob.
When the small bottle of mood enhancing smelly stuffy gets swiped from you too, try throwing in some bath salts, lavender maybe. THis again is good for at least two minutes, until the baby tries to eat them, or screams because you won't let him put the top on and off repeatedly.
Finally, when you get out and wrap the tiny towel around you (because all of the small people stole the big ones), and get ready for bed, forget brushing your teeth, or smoothing some lucious nighttime wrinkle cream on your face, because little people are 'cold' and 'thirsty' and once you get them in bed, you all just fall asleep.
So, as you see, it actually does work. Because if nothing else, you are either so relaxed, or so friggin exhausted that you collaspe, and end up getting your beauty sleep.
Hopefully for all of you that don't get to the spa, you'll find some solace in the opportunity here. :)
It's intensely rare that I get manicures or pedicures, and maybe one massage every six months or so thaI can remember from a gal that now just comes to my house. But that whole spa experience where you feel like you are a queen and have absolutely no worries in the world? Yeah, doesn't happen.
So, I guess things have come down to the at-home Mommy Spa. Or at least that's what I call it, because in this chapter of life, it's about as close as I get. In case you're in need of one, here's how it goes.
Mommy makes the bath water super extra uber hot, because then maybe no one else will want to get in for awhile. That hopefully buys you about 10 minutes, until everyone has found where you tried to hide out, and is begging you to make it cooler so they can get in. Eventually, the whining wins, and suddenly your leisurely solitary soak turns into a tub of splashing chaos. (YOu're totally relaxed already, right?)
So, spas are all about those lovely aromas, right? Make sure you buy some really good (sample size) spa shampoo. Even Aveda works, they've got some great scents. Just lie back, close your eyes (only open them every other second so the baby doesn't drown), open the top, and take in a big whif. Ahhhhhhhhhh. Try to get about three big inhales before some little person nails an elbow to your boob.
When the small bottle of mood enhancing smelly stuffy gets swiped from you too, try throwing in some bath salts, lavender maybe. THis again is good for at least two minutes, until the baby tries to eat them, or screams because you won't let him put the top on and off repeatedly.
Finally, when you get out and wrap the tiny towel around you (because all of the small people stole the big ones), and get ready for bed, forget brushing your teeth, or smoothing some lucious nighttime wrinkle cream on your face, because little people are 'cold' and 'thirsty' and once you get them in bed, you all just fall asleep.
So, as you see, it actually does work. Because if nothing else, you are either so relaxed, or so friggin exhausted that you collaspe, and end up getting your beauty sleep.
Hopefully for all of you that don't get to the spa, you'll find some solace in the opportunity here. :)
The So Totally Cool Mom
We all know the opposite of the totally cool mom. They're the ones that give you that look when your kid is the one melting down at the grocery store, spinning around in circles on her head and then protesting by laying in the isle refusing to move. 'That look' is the one that gives off the aura that their child would never do such a thing. That you must be so much of a mess of a mom that you would allow it, first of all, and second of all, how wrong you must be doing in every mom department that your child could even conceive of the idea to behave so badly.
These so totally not cool moms also feel the need to openly whisper to their friend or husband, loudly enough for you to hear of course, about how much they would so NOT do what you're doing. They also make it clear by their expression that 1) They don't seem to particularly like everyone else's children, and 2) They probably don't even really enjoy their own.
If the so totally not cool mom knows you, then the situation is one gazillion times worse, because then they are fueled with some great new gossip, about how they so totally have it all together and you so totally do not. And if you know her, you try to be brave and act like you don't care, but instead, you are humiliated, you know there will be social circle backlash and plenty of backstabbing about your so not perfect children, and all you want to do is tell everyone to go away so you can sulk with your own cup of hot cocoa and marshmellows. So there!
Well, here's what I say to the so totally not cool moms out there. I can identify you with one simple glance. Eat dirt.
I prefer the So Totally COOL moms. The ones that walk up to you while you're breaking a sweat trying to just get your flailing kid off the grocery store floor, lay a hand on your shoulder and say, "That happened to me yesterday. And since I'm so fortunate right now to not have my little monsters, could I give you a hand?" Oh, how I love you, so cool mom.
Or the super uber-cool one that smiles and pulls a really big sucker out of her purse, makes eye contact with you as she raises a brow to get your approval, and then after you nod 'yes' so hard you pull a muscle in your neck, she hands it over to your screaming child and just bought you one full minute of peace.
Or the so over the top incredibly cool mom that goes out of her way to make your kid comfortable (which of course puts you at ease) and will let your kid take things out of her purse, even her wallet full of non-expired credit cards, if it helps you for five seconds or will let your kid tear her house apart when all you meant to was 'stop by real quick', because she 'totally gets it.' That mom can be my best friend anytime.
All you so totally cool moms out there, you rock the world, and you make it go around, rather than stop it cold and miserable the way the so totally not cool moms do. I am grateful for you cool moms more than you know. You help me breathe. God did some really good in you. :)
These so totally not cool moms also feel the need to openly whisper to their friend or husband, loudly enough for you to hear of course, about how much they would so NOT do what you're doing. They also make it clear by their expression that 1) They don't seem to particularly like everyone else's children, and 2) They probably don't even really enjoy their own.
If the so totally not cool mom knows you, then the situation is one gazillion times worse, because then they are fueled with some great new gossip, about how they so totally have it all together and you so totally do not. And if you know her, you try to be brave and act like you don't care, but instead, you are humiliated, you know there will be social circle backlash and plenty of backstabbing about your so not perfect children, and all you want to do is tell everyone to go away so you can sulk with your own cup of hot cocoa and marshmellows. So there!
Well, here's what I say to the so totally not cool moms out there. I can identify you with one simple glance. Eat dirt.
I prefer the So Totally COOL moms. The ones that walk up to you while you're breaking a sweat trying to just get your flailing kid off the grocery store floor, lay a hand on your shoulder and say, "That happened to me yesterday. And since I'm so fortunate right now to not have my little monsters, could I give you a hand?" Oh, how I love you, so cool mom.
Or the super uber-cool one that smiles and pulls a really big sucker out of her purse, makes eye contact with you as she raises a brow to get your approval, and then after you nod 'yes' so hard you pull a muscle in your neck, she hands it over to your screaming child and just bought you one full minute of peace.
Or the so over the top incredibly cool mom that goes out of her way to make your kid comfortable (which of course puts you at ease) and will let your kid take things out of her purse, even her wallet full of non-expired credit cards, if it helps you for five seconds or will let your kid tear her house apart when all you meant to was 'stop by real quick', because she 'totally gets it.' That mom can be my best friend anytime.
All you so totally cool moms out there, you rock the world, and you make it go around, rather than stop it cold and miserable the way the so totally not cool moms do. I am grateful for you cool moms more than you know. You help me breathe. God did some really good in you. :)
Imaginary Friends
I don't recall having any of these when I was a kid. I'm sure I did, because any young girl that would 'gallop' around on all fours around the dining room table enough times to make a lap in the carpet (yes, horse lover) surely had an imaginary rider, at the very least. But I don't remember relying on that imaginary friend to be that one person I rely on in my quiet times, and to whom I give so much of myself and my energy.
Well, I do now. In fact, I've got whole boatload of them. That's what happens when you immerse yourself into the world of the novel you are writing. My two best imaginary friends are Adie and Dannika and I sooooo want the best for them. Sometimes, it hurts me to have to put them in certain situations, but it would be way too boring if we just all sat around sipping tea all day.
I remember reading about how Stephenie Meyer just 'fell in love' with her characters and that's why she couldn't stop writing. I was like, that's just weird. Until I felt compelled (apparently) to give that whole concept a whirl and boy was I wrong. Well, actually, I'm probably not wrong, it probably is weird, but it's true! I told my husband the other day that I was so excited to write the sequel because my characters have choices to make and are in limbo and have love on hold and I just am so anxious to ignore my own life so that I can continue theirs. He just smiled and gave me a big hug and left for work, sure thinking 'that's just weird'.
I'm pretty sure my kids have imaginary friends. And they seem to take up all my time, too.
But I've determined that imaginary friends are lovely. And when the ones on paper talk about you behind your back, you can just hit delete. :)
I'm in the final phases of preparing to introduce my imaginary friends to the world, and it is so exciting. My imaginary friends are getting all gussied up for their big debut---hoping early Julyish, maybe even 7/7, like in my obsessively favorite movie, We Bought a Zoo (hey, that date worked for them). And yes, there are horses in the story.
Well, I do now. In fact, I've got whole boatload of them. That's what happens when you immerse yourself into the world of the novel you are writing. My two best imaginary friends are Adie and Dannika and I sooooo want the best for them. Sometimes, it hurts me to have to put them in certain situations, but it would be way too boring if we just all sat around sipping tea all day.
I remember reading about how Stephenie Meyer just 'fell in love' with her characters and that's why she couldn't stop writing. I was like, that's just weird. Until I felt compelled (apparently) to give that whole concept a whirl and boy was I wrong. Well, actually, I'm probably not wrong, it probably is weird, but it's true! I told my husband the other day that I was so excited to write the sequel because my characters have choices to make and are in limbo and have love on hold and I just am so anxious to ignore my own life so that I can continue theirs. He just smiled and gave me a big hug and left for work, sure thinking 'that's just weird'.
I'm pretty sure my kids have imaginary friends. And they seem to take up all my time, too.
But I've determined that imaginary friends are lovely. And when the ones on paper talk about you behind your back, you can just hit delete. :)
I'm in the final phases of preparing to introduce my imaginary friends to the world, and it is so exciting. My imaginary friends are getting all gussied up for their big debut---hoping early Julyish, maybe even 7/7, like in my obsessively favorite movie, We Bought a Zoo (hey, that date worked for them). And yes, there are horses in the story.
No such thing as a 'free lunch'
I was out to prove my Economics professor wrong.
Engrained in the back of my head, for some odd reason, is a phrase that my Economics professor said on the first day of class the first year at Carroll College.
"There is no such thing as a free lunch."
At the time, I had no idea what he was talking about. He went on to explain that everything has value, and therefore, everything comes at a price...even when it is supposedly 'free'. After a semester of the mind-boggling theories that proved him correct (and a feeble attempt at accomplishing anything beyond simply passing the class), I somewhat understood what he meant. And of course, once you graduate and are forced to enter the real world, it becomes very clear. Crystal.
However, I made the mistake of once again trying to cram too many things into a day, and forgot to feed my two toddlers before running a 'quick' (hahaha) errand to Costco. Fortunately, Costco came to the rescue, where around every corner and conveniently holding post at the end of each isle, was a friendly person with a hairnet serving up something yummy. After sampling each and every item we crossed (and I made an effort not to miss a one), both of my toddlers were no longer hungry.
Hmmmmmmm. I said. Maybe there is such a thing as a free lunch. It's called samples at Costco.
Before even checking out, I was already developing a plan. Three days a week, we would make a lunchtime appearance at Costco and stuff my kids full of food samples. I am sure I am not the first to figure this out.
But this is where my plan goes horribly South, like not Key West, or the beautiful Islands just below there, but into the treacherous ocean waters where hurricanes are a plenty. Because many of those samples are actually quite delicious (at which point I purchase an entire box or two). And Costco in itself is dangerous, with all its new kid's coats and dresses, and great wines, and yummy dips, and new chip flavors, and holiday candies, and the books...oh the books.
So, my 'free lunch' turns into a cart full of stuff I probably don't need, and would never have purchased had I not decided to pull one over on my professor.
Turns out he was right after all. In fact, I think a 'free lunch' might actually cost more.
Engrained in the back of my head, for some odd reason, is a phrase that my Economics professor said on the first day of class the first year at Carroll College.
"There is no such thing as a free lunch."
At the time, I had no idea what he was talking about. He went on to explain that everything has value, and therefore, everything comes at a price...even when it is supposedly 'free'. After a semester of the mind-boggling theories that proved him correct (and a feeble attempt at accomplishing anything beyond simply passing the class), I somewhat understood what he meant. And of course, once you graduate and are forced to enter the real world, it becomes very clear. Crystal.
However, I made the mistake of once again trying to cram too many things into a day, and forgot to feed my two toddlers before running a 'quick' (hahaha) errand to Costco. Fortunately, Costco came to the rescue, where around every corner and conveniently holding post at the end of each isle, was a friendly person with a hairnet serving up something yummy. After sampling each and every item we crossed (and I made an effort not to miss a one), both of my toddlers were no longer hungry.
Hmmmmmmm. I said. Maybe there is such a thing as a free lunch. It's called samples at Costco.
Before even checking out, I was already developing a plan. Three days a week, we would make a lunchtime appearance at Costco and stuff my kids full of food samples. I am sure I am not the first to figure this out.
But this is where my plan goes horribly South, like not Key West, or the beautiful Islands just below there, but into the treacherous ocean waters where hurricanes are a plenty. Because many of those samples are actually quite delicious (at which point I purchase an entire box or two). And Costco in itself is dangerous, with all its new kid's coats and dresses, and great wines, and yummy dips, and new chip flavors, and holiday candies, and the books...oh the books.
So, my 'free lunch' turns into a cart full of stuff I probably don't need, and would never have purchased had I not decided to pull one over on my professor.
Turns out he was right after all. In fact, I think a 'free lunch' might actually cost more.
Success
I am happy to say that we have successfully completed our fourth plane trip with all four kids.
I honestly don't know where it comes from--that impending desire to put on a iron clad front that traveling this way is a piece of cake--but I am starting to believe it has something to do with those oh so glorious compliments of how brave and amazing we are and please, dear stranger,feel free to go on about what great parents we are and how good our kids were and how you didn't hear a peep(because obviously if you did, that whole conversation would be entirely different beneath your scowl and vow to never, ever sit in front of kids on a plane again). But fortunately, dear stranger, we are not the family today that caused you to pay whatever it takes to upgrade to first class from this point forward. Because today, we had success. From the dear stranger's point of view, at the very least.
But despite our calm and have-it-all-together picture we unconsciously are painting for the lovely plane audience, deep down, I am exhausted. And I'm annoyed that my three year old is whining (soft enough that you, dear stranger can't hear her, but loud enough to set my hair on end). And my sweet, precious 18 month old sits still for a maximum of .09 seconds, and the squirming has me gritting my teeth and checking my watch every, oh, twenty seconds or so, just somehow hoping that an illusion of an hour may have actually passed. And we just read our new book "Worm is stuck" fifteen gazillion times and the three year old wants me to read it again. I assure her she can pull it off this time, and mommy is resting her eyes so that she can 'visualize' the story while the three year old lets the story of a stuck worm unfold in her own voice. But that doesn't fly for three year old, she wants mommy's eyes open and alert, and watching worm with an admiring stare.
Thank God they grow up into 8 and 6 year olds. I'll say that again, thank God they grow into 8 and 6 years olds, that will simply lay on a pillow and listen to music or read their own friggin book and are generally don't make you open your resting eyes unless it's to climb over you to go to the bathroom. And a lovely 8 year old that willingly offers to take the three year old to the bathroom for you, and even remembers to wash their hands--three times, while singing ABC forwards and backwards. So love my 8-year old.
So success, is subjective for one thing, as are most things in life, but however long the day seem to roll on, nothing was destroyed on the plane (that we are aware of), despite our lack of memory to bring a diaper (which of course, dear stranger, we played off like we are no such parents who forget diapers on a plane ride), we are home safe, and everyone is happy. That is success to me.
Did I mention I am grateful for our 6 and 8 year old?
I honestly don't know where it comes from--that impending desire to put on a iron clad front that traveling this way is a piece of cake--but I am starting to believe it has something to do with those oh so glorious compliments of how brave and amazing we are and please, dear stranger,feel free to go on about what great parents we are and how good our kids were and how you didn't hear a peep(because obviously if you did, that whole conversation would be entirely different beneath your scowl and vow to never, ever sit in front of kids on a plane again). But fortunately, dear stranger, we are not the family today that caused you to pay whatever it takes to upgrade to first class from this point forward. Because today, we had success. From the dear stranger's point of view, at the very least.
But despite our calm and have-it-all-together picture we unconsciously are painting for the lovely plane audience, deep down, I am exhausted. And I'm annoyed that my three year old is whining (soft enough that you, dear stranger can't hear her, but loud enough to set my hair on end). And my sweet, precious 18 month old sits still for a maximum of .09 seconds, and the squirming has me gritting my teeth and checking my watch every, oh, twenty seconds or so, just somehow hoping that an illusion of an hour may have actually passed. And we just read our new book "Worm is stuck" fifteen gazillion times and the three year old wants me to read it again. I assure her she can pull it off this time, and mommy is resting her eyes so that she can 'visualize' the story while the three year old lets the story of a stuck worm unfold in her own voice. But that doesn't fly for three year old, she wants mommy's eyes open and alert, and watching worm with an admiring stare.
Thank God they grow up into 8 and 6 year olds. I'll say that again, thank God they grow into 8 and 6 years olds, that will simply lay on a pillow and listen to music or read their own friggin book and are generally don't make you open your resting eyes unless it's to climb over you to go to the bathroom. And a lovely 8 year old that willingly offers to take the three year old to the bathroom for you, and even remembers to wash their hands--three times, while singing ABC forwards and backwards. So love my 8-year old.
So success, is subjective for one thing, as are most things in life, but however long the day seem to roll on, nothing was destroyed on the plane (that we are aware of), despite our lack of memory to bring a diaper (which of course, dear stranger, we played off like we are no such parents who forget diapers on a plane ride), we are home safe, and everyone is happy. That is success to me.
Did I mention I am grateful for our 6 and 8 year old?
Parade of Tailgates
Last weekend, Stan and I were in San Antonio, Texas for a wedding. It happened to be St. Patrick's Day and we were down on the Riverwalk where the party was going on. There was all kinds of fun from beer gardens to cloggers to bagpipers, but I must say the most hysterical of all was what they were calling a St. Patrick's Day water 'parade', which rolls on through the river that cuts through downtown.
First, they dye the water green. Very cool. That certainly brought on the excitement and expectation of much to come. The first float had a bunch of men in plaid skirts playing the bagpipes loud and clear. Of course. Very cool. Totally what we would expect in a parade.
But as the anticipation built for what might follow these lovely pipers, it proved to be bit disappointing. The remaining boats were simply of bunch of party barges, with adults dressed in green and advertising either a bar or a singing group, which I never heard actually sing. As in the photo, they were all holding books and drinks, but at least in the long stretch that passed me by, I didn't hear a single note come from their mouths. Note the guy holding the red cup, he looks like the subject of one of those pictures where you circle what doesn't belong.
The entire parade consisted of about six barges of what looked to me like a bunch of tourists that might have jumped on and grabbed a nice cold one from the mobile keg. All dressed for the occasion, but the requirement to be on the float was clearly to have the ability to 'smile and wave.'
I guess I just expected something different. I mean, San Antonio is a huge city. I certainly had it in my head that we would be viewing a glorious water display with bells and whistles and who knows, maybe even a flying Leprechaun. Our own Bigfork parade kicks that one in the pants big time.
But if you enjoy a good party to celebrate this particularly fun green day, the bars and gardens were full of fun-loving folk. So, I'd give San Antonio a thumbs up for St. Patrick's Day destination. Just don't give up your barstool for the parade.
Things are Not As They Appear
Every now and then, we are caught off-guard. Thrown aback by something we discover that is going on in the lives of our oh so resilient children. It's a funny thing about listening to kids; their truth is absolute and kind of cloudy at the same time. Either way, it doesn't pay not to listen, because there is something at the core of what they are telling you.
Recently, I've allowed a slightly later 'lights off' policy, when the conversation is flowing and they're opening up beyond the typical, 'Yeah, school was the same' kind of thing. If I ever wondered if it was worth it to allow an extra half-hour to let the soul arise in the words of a child, I am forever in debt to whatever unusual piece of knowledge within myself to not throw a fit that the rooms weren't all silent at 8:30pm.
Of course, we live our lives unaware of what goes on in the homes of others. It is always a possibility that children sway their story towards the regards of something of hope, or belief, or love of one parent over another, but regardless, stories of despair that flow from the mouth of one child to another have meaning in some sense, and should be considered.
So yeah, in case you were wondering, I'm totally talking in code, in some respects. Just can't be naming names here. But my children, however imperfect themselves, have shared equal stories of friends' at school and various predicaments that they might be working through. It's hard for me, as I have a passion for the justice of children, to hear such things. But I suppose it's also my reckoning, of the fact that things are rarely as they seem. And there is often not a damn thing we can do about it except pray, for them of course, but also for ourselves, not to be in that same awful place.
Hey, I suck as a parent sometimes. I yell at my kid for stupid stuff, like you forgot to hang up your coat, and because I'm so freaking at the end of my rope, I think you should have remembered that today. I apologize later and we practice the routine of hanging up coats with humor and cupcakes. What parent isn't guilty of that?
But lately I hear of stories wandering home from the school desk murmurs; parents fighting and slamming doors, taking it out with a hand on the child, or simply having a voice so loud as to keep the house awake for hours. My own kids wondering if Stan and I, too, might get divorced and who should they plan to live with. Oh dear, it's so sad.
These are the nights that I hold their hands tightly as we drift to sleep together, and I remind them that this is the very reason that I love to lay beside them at night, and hold their hand, and assure them that even thought their Daddy drives me crazy sometimes (and vice versa), and he tickles too much, and occasionally loses track of time, and eats ketchup on nearly everything, that we will be old and gray and wrinkly loving on our grandchildren, and while the things they hear at school are very real to those other children, they are quite unlikely for our family.
I am so sad for those kids. I think you can often tell, those ones. The ones whose parents fight much, thinking the kids are fast asleep, or maybe they don't even care if they hear. It's damaging in a quiet way. What child doesn't want Mom and Dad to be happy together, and to feel like they are a part of that happiness?
So, to clarify, this house is far from perfect. We don't fight much, and when we do, it's simply stupidity and pride, but it's rare. No two people will agree on everything and we try to bite our tongues in our differences. It's hard, I know that. But man, kids suffer. They often become a great, convenient source of venting. Maybe even of the physical type. But even if it's only the words they hear, it's brutal. It sticks. So much, apparently, that they finally break, and they share all with those they trust at school. And despite how exaggerated and bias it might be, there is something very fierce going on within those sweet kids, and God only knows who might be able to help them.
I guess in some scenic route sort of way, my point is, when your kids talk, listen. And try to sort out the garbage from the real stuff; because frankly, I'm not sure they honestly know the difference yet. But more than anything, try to asses how the situation, or the conversation, that they had with a friend will impact them as a person, an individual and how they might use that information to perceive the days ahead of them.
We all only get one chance at this. I know there are areas I messed up real bad in life, and I'll do anything for my kids to not do the same. Listening to them, at a very young age, and paying attention, and addressing it with them, and having honest, meaningful conversations; yes, that's where I believe the difference really becomes.
Recently, I've allowed a slightly later 'lights off' policy, when the conversation is flowing and they're opening up beyond the typical, 'Yeah, school was the same' kind of thing. If I ever wondered if it was worth it to allow an extra half-hour to let the soul arise in the words of a child, I am forever in debt to whatever unusual piece of knowledge within myself to not throw a fit that the rooms weren't all silent at 8:30pm.
Of course, we live our lives unaware of what goes on in the homes of others. It is always a possibility that children sway their story towards the regards of something of hope, or belief, or love of one parent over another, but regardless, stories of despair that flow from the mouth of one child to another have meaning in some sense, and should be considered.
So yeah, in case you were wondering, I'm totally talking in code, in some respects. Just can't be naming names here. But my children, however imperfect themselves, have shared equal stories of friends' at school and various predicaments that they might be working through. It's hard for me, as I have a passion for the justice of children, to hear such things. But I suppose it's also my reckoning, of the fact that things are rarely as they seem. And there is often not a damn thing we can do about it except pray, for them of course, but also for ourselves, not to be in that same awful place.
Hey, I suck as a parent sometimes. I yell at my kid for stupid stuff, like you forgot to hang up your coat, and because I'm so freaking at the end of my rope, I think you should have remembered that today. I apologize later and we practice the routine of hanging up coats with humor and cupcakes. What parent isn't guilty of that?
But lately I hear of stories wandering home from the school desk murmurs; parents fighting and slamming doors, taking it out with a hand on the child, or simply having a voice so loud as to keep the house awake for hours. My own kids wondering if Stan and I, too, might get divorced and who should they plan to live with. Oh dear, it's so sad.
These are the nights that I hold their hands tightly as we drift to sleep together, and I remind them that this is the very reason that I love to lay beside them at night, and hold their hand, and assure them that even thought their Daddy drives me crazy sometimes (and vice versa), and he tickles too much, and occasionally loses track of time, and eats ketchup on nearly everything, that we will be old and gray and wrinkly loving on our grandchildren, and while the things they hear at school are very real to those other children, they are quite unlikely for our family.
I am so sad for those kids. I think you can often tell, those ones. The ones whose parents fight much, thinking the kids are fast asleep, or maybe they don't even care if they hear. It's damaging in a quiet way. What child doesn't want Mom and Dad to be happy together, and to feel like they are a part of that happiness?
So, to clarify, this house is far from perfect. We don't fight much, and when we do, it's simply stupidity and pride, but it's rare. No two people will agree on everything and we try to bite our tongues in our differences. It's hard, I know that. But man, kids suffer. They often become a great, convenient source of venting. Maybe even of the physical type. But even if it's only the words they hear, it's brutal. It sticks. So much, apparently, that they finally break, and they share all with those they trust at school. And despite how exaggerated and bias it might be, there is something very fierce going on within those sweet kids, and God only knows who might be able to help them.
I guess in some scenic route sort of way, my point is, when your kids talk, listen. And try to sort out the garbage from the real stuff; because frankly, I'm not sure they honestly know the difference yet. But more than anything, try to asses how the situation, or the conversation, that they had with a friend will impact them as a person, an individual and how they might use that information to perceive the days ahead of them.
We all only get one chance at this. I know there are areas I messed up real bad in life, and I'll do anything for my kids to not do the same. Listening to them, at a very young age, and paying attention, and addressing it with them, and having honest, meaningful conversations; yes, that's where I believe the difference really becomes.
A scary glimpse into the future.
We often ponder over what our kids will be up to in their later years. Looks like I need seek no further for these two.
Numero tres and quatro are clearly developing an interesting relationship. She takes whatever she wants from him, and he chases after her simply to worship the ground she walks on. Okay, fine. That will shift when little miss princess discovers that we do actually have a little prince in the family. He's proving to be a charmer, no doubt.
But today, when princess(3) was taking prince (17 months) for an early Spring thrill ride in her pink hotrod, the writing was all over the pavement. I'm doomed.
Little man giggled for more, as my lead foot of a daughter spinned out and cranked turns in her Barbie car. All I could see about thirteen years from now is my strongest willed child convincing my mellow man to pull wheelies in the mall parking lot, likely taking out lamp posts and parking meters; and thinking it all to be quite funny.
Seriously, just look at those grins. We're in trouble.
You'll notice the binky in tact. Yeah, that'll probably be there when she's sporting an E-brake in her self-bought Honda Civic. License in hand, binky in mouth.
It's all good.
Update on the binky battles.
Just a quick reminder that the photo to the right is what we are working to avoid. And after our morning 'binky removal' episode this morning, I'm starting to think we're going to have to get a little tougher on the tough love.
We have now, as of this morning, reverted to the binky as only being allowed when one is in bed. This was after screaming fits so loud over the idea of simply giving it up for the day entirely, so I decided since the other four of us home today would like to keep our hearing, I'd give a little and allow the binky only for naps and bedtime. So, after only being awake for 1/2 hour, Caitlin says she is tired and would like a nap. Fine. She fails to forget to ask about the binky. Fine. We go get the binky. I place her in bed, and she sucks the binky.
I've busied myself with various productive activities that are sure to boost intelligence, such as picking small bits of cheetohs from the carpet and trying to remove sharpie from it's last visit to our walls, and I go to check on the binky-addict--still sucking away happily snuggled under warm blankets and flipping through board books.
So I'm torn, you know, about where the grass is greener on this one. On one note, the house is certainly quieter and my arms are much freer when the binky addict is happily sucking away in her bed. On the other note, will she just stay in her bed the rest of her life? Letting her stay there is probably a selfish motive, and the other a potential psychological nightmare. But seriously, the rest of us need to stay sane too. And I suppose there's the thing with my Dad being an orthodontist, so a few extra binky years shouldn't be what breaks the bank for us. But I'm tired of translating full stories through the binky, when she has perfectly lovely words without it.
Yes, it's our fault. In certain areas, we tend to do what's easiest so that our other children can get at least a little bit of attention. Or so we can sleep in order to have the energy to meet the attention demands of the binky addict. They really are all so different, aren't they?
Our second child ditched the binky overnight, happy to fill the void with a ridiculous amount of stuffed animals and Lofthouse cookies. But this one? If she was a stranded on an island, she'd choose that binky even over me. I'm sure of it.
Hmmmmm. [Sip of really strong coffee]. I'm guessing I've got about eight years before we get to the dreaded fate of the girl in the photo. So today, I'll allow her to plead her case. And surely, we'll settle. And we'll have one more day with that stupid plastic thing in her mouth for half of it. And I'll convince myself that our little binky trial was good practice for when she's some badass lawyer kicking butts and taking names in the courtroom. All because Mommy taught her how to make a case for one of the silliest looking baby products ever invented.
We do what we have to, right?
Just a Wii bit
Santa was good to us this year, hauling one of those big red bags down our tight squeeze of a chimney to deliver us one of those gadgets that guarantees to keep our kids inside for extended hours, ignoring their chores and homework, requesting their meals on a tv tray, and pretending that I don't exist. You got it, we got a Wii.
And I really love Santa and all, but when I think of video games, all I can see is Toby (Zackary Levi) from Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Squeakuel. Only in my nightmare, it's a tall, lanky blond that mixes stripes and plaids (and somehow pulls it off) and has the brains to be President (oh wait, do you need brains to be president?), okay, to be a neurosurgeon, but instead of holding a scalpel, she holds this black , or turquoise, or pink, remote control, and instead of saving lives, she is pretending to destroy them.
Now let's back up, because I'm the one that told Santa we needed a Wii. Mommy needed something to occupy at least two out of four children simultaneously so that some food might make it to the table, and a diaper or two might get changed before the rash sets in. But it turns out, to my pleasant surprise, that (so far) our girls are not glued to the Wii, and when they do play, they beg us parental units to play with them.
Maybe this Wii thing is kinda cool after all.
So I'm feeling pretty good that my girls are not going to turn into potato chip eating couch slobs whose strongest muscle in their bodies is their fingers. Instead, I'm realizing that the Wii might have some really great parent-kid bonding potential.
Until I dive in, and discover the real problem with Wii. It's not a concern of my kids losing brain cells, or not getting in the NFL's suggested hour per day of physical fitness, or eating from Michelle Obama's health plan, or even whether or not my child will be a victim of The Last Child in the Woods. My real concern with the Wii? Doctor bills.
Now I've been an athlete all of my life, three sports in high school, college basketball, supplemented with all sorts of recreational activities. And I've had an injury here and there, usually due to physical contact with another player, or some weird act of nature, and of course I've sprained my ankle fifteen million times. But I expect that from being active in that way.
But injured on the Wii? You could have never convinced me.
One game of Wii tennis--one game--and I crawl out of bed this morning gripping at my shoulder, a twinge of pain shooting out to my shoulder blade. I can't turn my neck so good and I feel some kind of strange referral junk down in my lower back. The base of my neck tingles when I hold my arm in certain positions, and when I hold my cup of coffee (and this is the one that is really brutal, not due to the pain, but because it inhibits my caffeine potential), I actually have to support it with my other hand. Seriously. This is no joke.
Now I know that I'm getting up there in the age department, but come on. My neck feels the same way it did in the last car accident I had when I got whipflash. Is there a disclaimer on Santa's little toy of joy?
I should have known. When my six year old daughter was complaining of pain in her neck and the back of her knee after a four hour session of Just Dance on Christmas Day. I should have just packed that sucker back up and signaled for a reindeer to come on back and retrieve it. Save us a few chiropractic bills.
But then I think hard about that tennis game, and my six year old smiling at me every time she won a shot. Her huge smile and high five when she'd ace me. Her funny laugh and sweet little voice saying "Mommy!" when I actually did win a game. Her big hug afterwards saying, "Thanks for playing with me, Mommy." Her excitement as she jumps up and down and wants to do it again over and over and over. With me. Bonding. And I realize that my Wii bit of an injury is worth it.
And I really love Santa and all, but when I think of video games, all I can see is Toby (Zackary Levi) from Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Squeakuel. Only in my nightmare, it's a tall, lanky blond that mixes stripes and plaids (and somehow pulls it off) and has the brains to be President (oh wait, do you need brains to be president?), okay, to be a neurosurgeon, but instead of holding a scalpel, she holds this black , or turquoise, or pink, remote control, and instead of saving lives, she is pretending to destroy them.
Now let's back up, because I'm the one that told Santa we needed a Wii. Mommy needed something to occupy at least two out of four children simultaneously so that some food might make it to the table, and a diaper or two might get changed before the rash sets in. But it turns out, to my pleasant surprise, that (so far) our girls are not glued to the Wii, and when they do play, they beg us parental units to play with them.
Maybe this Wii thing is kinda cool after all.
So I'm feeling pretty good that my girls are not going to turn into potato chip eating couch slobs whose strongest muscle in their bodies is their fingers. Instead, I'm realizing that the Wii might have some really great parent-kid bonding potential.
Until I dive in, and discover the real problem with Wii. It's not a concern of my kids losing brain cells, or not getting in the NFL's suggested hour per day of physical fitness, or eating from Michelle Obama's health plan, or even whether or not my child will be a victim of The Last Child in the Woods. My real concern with the Wii? Doctor bills.
Now I've been an athlete all of my life, three sports in high school, college basketball, supplemented with all sorts of recreational activities. And I've had an injury here and there, usually due to physical contact with another player, or some weird act of nature, and of course I've sprained my ankle fifteen million times. But I expect that from being active in that way.
But injured on the Wii? You could have never convinced me.
One game of Wii tennis--one game--and I crawl out of bed this morning gripping at my shoulder, a twinge of pain shooting out to my shoulder blade. I can't turn my neck so good and I feel some kind of strange referral junk down in my lower back. The base of my neck tingles when I hold my arm in certain positions, and when I hold my cup of coffee (and this is the one that is really brutal, not due to the pain, but because it inhibits my caffeine potential), I actually have to support it with my other hand. Seriously. This is no joke.
Now I know that I'm getting up there in the age department, but come on. My neck feels the same way it did in the last car accident I had when I got whipflash. Is there a disclaimer on Santa's little toy of joy?
I should have known. When my six year old daughter was complaining of pain in her neck and the back of her knee after a four hour session of Just Dance on Christmas Day. I should have just packed that sucker back up and signaled for a reindeer to come on back and retrieve it. Save us a few chiropractic bills.
But then I think hard about that tennis game, and my six year old smiling at me every time she won a shot. Her huge smile and high five when she'd ace me. Her funny laugh and sweet little voice saying "Mommy!" when I actually did win a game. Her big hug afterwards saying, "Thanks for playing with me, Mommy." Her excitement as she jumps up and down and wants to do it again over and over and over. With me. Bonding. And I realize that my Wii bit of an injury is worth it.
Let the Query Wars Begin
Writing a novel while managing a family of six is no easy feat. I sat tall with pride yesterday, as I carefully chipped away at my epiloque, grinning with a big sigh when I typed that last period and hit 'save'. Whew!
I've been editing my manuscript and will keep at it, but I knew I was ready to jump onto the real battlefield; querying.
From everything I've read, the query process is fierce and damn near debilitating. But I believe perseverance is they key. Writing is subjective. You gotta find that letter in a sea of words that loves your idea and your story as much as you do. A tough feat, no doubt.
But the battle has begun, as I sent a query yesterday and another today. I look at this part of the process as an opportunity to learn and explore and change and gain and eventually, sign a contract. Positive thinking only here, people.
But there is a lot of encouraging information out there; like, for example, that Stephen King wrote ten novels before being published (not sure if true, but read it somewhere), and that John Grisham received 29 rejection letters before an agency requested his manuscript. Then, of course, the infamous story of Stephenie Meyer, whose debut novel initally called Forks was way over the word limit for YOung Adult and should have been trashed immediately, but something caught the eye of an editor's assistant. Crazy how things finally get discovered, but can you imagine if they hadn't? I can't.
So a little faith, okay...a LOT of faith, and belief in yourself, and it will happen. Keep you posted.
I've been editing my manuscript and will keep at it, but I knew I was ready to jump onto the real battlefield; querying.
From everything I've read, the query process is fierce and damn near debilitating. But I believe perseverance is they key. Writing is subjective. You gotta find that letter in a sea of words that loves your idea and your story as much as you do. A tough feat, no doubt.
But the battle has begun, as I sent a query yesterday and another today. I look at this part of the process as an opportunity to learn and explore and change and gain and eventually, sign a contract. Positive thinking only here, people.
But there is a lot of encouraging information out there; like, for example, that Stephen King wrote ten novels before being published (not sure if true, but read it somewhere), and that John Grisham received 29 rejection letters before an agency requested his manuscript. Then, of course, the infamous story of Stephenie Meyer, whose debut novel initally called Forks was way over the word limit for YOung Adult and should have been trashed immediately, but something caught the eye of an editor's assistant. Crazy how things finally get discovered, but can you imagine if they hadn't? I can't.
So a little faith, okay...a LOT of faith, and belief in yourself, and it will happen. Keep you posted.
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