While packing for our recent trip to Colorado, I was frantically searching. Searching for our two identical garbage trucks. Our dear friends were meeting us in Colorado and they, too, have a two-year-old son, Cullen, born just five days before Henry. I thought it would be great for each of them to have an identical truck to play with to circumvent any potential truck envy. I could hear the possible conversations,
“MY GARBAGE TRUCK!”
“NO, MINE!”
While a perfectly great dump truck sat by, idling sadly.
So, before I even placed my clothes into their suitcase, before I made sure I had all my mountain necessities gathered, I broke a sweat looking for these plastic beauties. I had just seen them. I checked under beds, tables, in closets, in the garage, the backyard. I found one, but not the other. Still sweating, still searching, still no twin garbage truck.
I regretfully realized the twin truck was in some cosmic garage, gleefully hiding from me along with missing Lighting McQueen and Sally. Outsmarted by a plastic garbage truck, I brought a dump truck instead.
I spent 40 minutes looking for a truck before I finished packing for a one and half week trip. No question about how much I love my son and my dear Cullen.
Post Script: Henry and Cullen are two of the best behaved, well-mannered two-year-old boys I could fathom. They had an occasional, typical two-year-old moment, but not even the unmatched trucks detoured their enjoyment of their vacation and each other. 10-4 good buddies.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
Tall Oak Trees
Now that Abby is in Kindergarten, she is tired. As a result, we are all adjusting to her widened, slightly more volatile range of emotion. She now attends school five days a week, from 7:50 am to 2:45 pm. She is exhausted. And hungry.
She vacillates between:
“I’m a big Kindergartener! Mommy, I learned all these things today!”
AND
“Mooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy,” pout, pout, “what did you bring for a snack?”
As life’s rhythm usually dictates, my emotional swing that started before she started school has returned to center and now she’s swinging left, back, right and diagonally. I count my lucky stars that we’re not swinging wildly at the same time.
At any given moment, Abby's normally calm temperament will be usurped by a cascade of raw anger and tears. The bottom lip visits. The crocodile tears travel. The high pitched cry drowns. I have some dear, candid friends and they’ve confirmed the same types of behavior from their Kindergarteners (whew).
Even with this reassurance, tonight, I lost my calm footing and raised my voice (really, really raised my voice) while bathing the children, after ensuing an entire afternoon of attempting to stay calm during Kate’s post-school exhaustion. A brief recap:
“Mommy”, chokes out Abby through tears and whine, “why did Henry get to get into the tub first tonight and why did I have to wait?”
I answered calmly.
“Mommy, why does Henry get to sit in front of the running water?” sob, sob sobs Abby.
I deliver another measured answer.
“Mommy”, she cries as she’s now sitting in front of the running bath water because I moved her brother, and tears are still traveling down her face, “why was Henry's turn longer in front of the running water?”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” (from Henry who is revolting against his demoted position in the back of the bath tub).
“Henry, sit down.” I say.
At this point, after two hours of visits from Whine and Pout, I’m vigorously washing the children, just hoping to get them clean, out of the tub and into the peaceful nod of bedtime stories.
“Henry, sit down.” I say again.
“Moooooooommmmmmmmmyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!” cries Abby….
“STOP IT!” I yell, “YOU, be quiet. YOU, be quiet. I’ve had enough from both of you!” (From my repertoire of brilliant, positive parenting methods I’ve picked up.) Now, both children are (rightfully) crying and mayhem ensues. Bedtime proceeds. After the squalls settle, Abby and I chat about the evening and how to make tomorrow a better day. We read, hug and love and she goes to sleep.
After this bath time debacle, I was still keyed and raw. I sat outside, rethinking my stellar parenting skills and figuring out how I could do it better tomorrow. It was a cool, dry fall evening (hooray!!). I gazed at the tall, pin oak trees that enshroud our backyard. Tall, elegant, graceful. Backlit by an aubergine sky. Strong. Reaching so high with their branches and so deep with their roots. Peaceful. Wise. Nurturing. Even after being thrown around by hurricane Ike. Just watching them calms me. In future emotional storms, I will remember the tall pin oaks and try to emulate their graceful strength. Strong roots, peaceful reserves. I will remember that I am setting a constant example for my children and try not to loose patience. But if (or when) I do, I will also remember that a big enough storm can knock down even the strongest, most resilient tree. I’ve learned from the oak trees and hopefully they can learn from me, too. We all get knocked down but then we pick ourselves up, brush off the pine straw and stand tall, simultaneously stretching back up to the sky and lovingly down to our children. No matter how strong the hurricane winds may blow.
She vacillates between:
“I’m a big Kindergartener! Mommy, I learned all these things today!”
AND
“Mooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy,” pout, pout, “what did you bring for a snack?”
As life’s rhythm usually dictates, my emotional swing that started before she started school has returned to center and now she’s swinging left, back, right and diagonally. I count my lucky stars that we’re not swinging wildly at the same time.
At any given moment, Abby's normally calm temperament will be usurped by a cascade of raw anger and tears. The bottom lip visits. The crocodile tears travel. The high pitched cry drowns. I have some dear, candid friends and they’ve confirmed the same types of behavior from their Kindergarteners (whew).
Even with this reassurance, tonight, I lost my calm footing and raised my voice (really, really raised my voice) while bathing the children, after ensuing an entire afternoon of attempting to stay calm during Kate’s post-school exhaustion. A brief recap:
“Mommy”, chokes out Abby through tears and whine, “why did Henry get to get into the tub first tonight and why did I have to wait?”
I answered calmly.
“Mommy, why does Henry get to sit in front of the running water?” sob, sob sobs Abby.
I deliver another measured answer.
“Mommy”, she cries as she’s now sitting in front of the running bath water because I moved her brother, and tears are still traveling down her face, “why was Henry's turn longer in front of the running water?”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” (from Henry who is revolting against his demoted position in the back of the bath tub).
“Henry, sit down.” I say.
At this point, after two hours of visits from Whine and Pout, I’m vigorously washing the children, just hoping to get them clean, out of the tub and into the peaceful nod of bedtime stories.
“Henry, sit down.” I say again.
“Moooooooommmmmmmmmyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!” cries Abby….
“STOP IT!” I yell, “YOU, be quiet. YOU, be quiet. I’ve had enough from both of you!” (From my repertoire of brilliant, positive parenting methods I’ve picked up.) Now, both children are (rightfully) crying and mayhem ensues. Bedtime proceeds. After the squalls settle, Abby and I chat about the evening and how to make tomorrow a better day. We read, hug and love and she goes to sleep.
After this bath time debacle, I was still keyed and raw. I sat outside, rethinking my stellar parenting skills and figuring out how I could do it better tomorrow. It was a cool, dry fall evening (hooray!!). I gazed at the tall, pin oak trees that enshroud our backyard. Tall, elegant, graceful. Backlit by an aubergine sky. Strong. Reaching so high with their branches and so deep with their roots. Peaceful. Wise. Nurturing. Even after being thrown around by hurricane Ike. Just watching them calms me. In future emotional storms, I will remember the tall pin oaks and try to emulate their graceful strength. Strong roots, peaceful reserves. I will remember that I am setting a constant example for my children and try not to loose patience. But if (or when) I do, I will also remember that a big enough storm can knock down even the strongest, most resilient tree. I’ve learned from the oak trees and hopefully they can learn from me, too. We all get knocked down but then we pick ourselves up, brush off the pine straw and stand tall, simultaneously stretching back up to the sky and lovingly down to our children. No matter how strong the hurricane winds may blow.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Oh Baby
For about two and half years, Abby has been on the brink of demanding an answer--she desperately wants to know how a baby gets out of the mommy. She asked me diligently every three to four months and I've answered just as diligently.
When she was three, I said, “When it’s time.”
When she was three-and-a-half, I said: “At the hospital.”
When she was four, I tried: “When it’s time, at the hospital.”
At four-and-a-half, I replied: “The doctor takes the baby out at the hospital.”
“How does the doctor get it out?” she prodded.
“Very carefully.”
My answers have been honest. But at her last questioning, I saw her pondering the information (again) and looking at me curiously, knowing somehow that I wasn’t being as forthcoming as I should. I knew the time was near--time for the full answer.
I don’t believe in deceiving children about life’s larger events. However, I don’t think kids need intricate and intimate details until they’ve come to that point in their maturation. Well, welcome to that point in Kate’s maturation.
After school yesterday, Abby drew a picture of herself with a baby in her tummy. (It was quite lovely, actually. A big, round circle full of orange dots.) While I worked in the kitchen, she told me about the imaginary twin girls she had in her tummy, “coming out in about five days”. At dinner, she fixed her gaze on me and said, “How does the baby get OUT of the mommy?”
I tried “the hospital”, “the doctor”, “very carefully by the doctor”, to no avail.
“But Mommy, HOW does the doctor get it out?”
Stare.
Stare.
Stare.
"I'll tell you at bedtime." (Whew.)
So bedtime arrived. Abby, Brian and I all laid in her bed. “So”, I said, “you asked me at dinner how babies get out of the mommy’s tummy.”
“Yes!” said Abby cheerfully. (“Finally”, I heard floating through her intonation.)
“The mommy uses her stomach muscles and pushes the baby out of her vagina.”
Abby said, “The vagina?!?! But the vagina is so icky in there!”
“Well, sometimes it can be. You know how you use your stomach muscles to poop? You use some of the same muscles to push a baby out.”
“But you don’t poop out a baby.”, Abby said matter-of-factly.
“Right.” I said. “You don’t poop out a baby.”
(But you might poop while you’re pushing out the baby. Luckily we didn’t have to cover that one tonight.)
To which she responded, “OK, let’s read Winnie the Pooh now!” She snuggled in between Brian and me and sleepily listened to the sweet adventures of Christopher Robin and gang.
Now I’m just waiting for the next destination in her maturation, “How does that baby get IN the mommy’s tummy?”
When she was three, I said, “When it’s time.”
When she was three-and-a-half, I said: “At the hospital.”
When she was four, I tried: “When it’s time, at the hospital.”
At four-and-a-half, I replied: “The doctor takes the baby out at the hospital.”
“How does the doctor get it out?” she prodded.
“Very carefully.”
My answers have been honest. But at her last questioning, I saw her pondering the information (again) and looking at me curiously, knowing somehow that I wasn’t being as forthcoming as I should. I knew the time was near--time for the full answer.
I don’t believe in deceiving children about life’s larger events. However, I don’t think kids need intricate and intimate details until they’ve come to that point in their maturation. Well, welcome to that point in Kate’s maturation.
After school yesterday, Abby drew a picture of herself with a baby in her tummy. (It was quite lovely, actually. A big, round circle full of orange dots.) While I worked in the kitchen, she told me about the imaginary twin girls she had in her tummy, “coming out in about five days”. At dinner, she fixed her gaze on me and said, “How does the baby get OUT of the mommy?”
I tried “the hospital”, “the doctor”, “very carefully by the doctor”, to no avail.
“But Mommy, HOW does the doctor get it out?”
Stare.
Stare.
Stare.
"I'll tell you at bedtime." (Whew.)
So bedtime arrived. Abby, Brian and I all laid in her bed. “So”, I said, “you asked me at dinner how babies get out of the mommy’s tummy.”
“Yes!” said Abby cheerfully. (“Finally”, I heard floating through her intonation.)
“The mommy uses her stomach muscles and pushes the baby out of her vagina.”
Abby said, “The vagina?!?! But the vagina is so icky in there!”
“Well, sometimes it can be. You know how you use your stomach muscles to poop? You use some of the same muscles to push a baby out.”
“But you don’t poop out a baby.”, Abby said matter-of-factly.
“Right.” I said. “You don’t poop out a baby.”
(But you might poop while you’re pushing out the baby. Luckily we didn’t have to cover that one tonight.)
To which she responded, “OK, let’s read Winnie the Pooh now!” She snuggled in between Brian and me and sleepily listened to the sweet adventures of Christopher Robin and gang.
Now I’m just waiting for the next destination in her maturation, “How does that baby get IN the mommy’s tummy?”
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Remember
Remembering those children who aren't with their parents.
Remembering those parents who aren't with their children.
Remembering their smiles, their hugs and their joys. Remembering the extreme sorrow of their losses.
Living fully today for those who no longer can.
Remembering September 11, 2001.
Remembering those parents who aren't with their children.
Remembering their smiles, their hugs and their joys. Remembering the extreme sorrow of their losses.
Living fully today for those who no longer can.
Remembering September 11, 2001.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Occasional Muse
Occasionally, my husband inspires my writing, too. Today is one of those times.
When I was rapidly getting ready to take the kids to school this morning, I had no time to dress. So I slipped on this super comfy brown jersey dress and flats. When I took Henry into school, so many people complimented me I was getting a bit embarrassed. Even people in the hallway paid tribute to my outfit—it was a great way to start the day. (I should note here that this dress is quite an a.m. wardrobe departure for me. I usually drop-off the kids in work-out clothes and a baseball hat. The fact that I had on anything other than wrinkly pants and a hoodie is cause for notice and probably a parade.)
Thus, I was feeling quite cute in my long, brown jersey dress. I was out running errands and I called my husband to see if he could meet for lunch. Yes! He could! He’ll get to see me looking so sassy!
I picked him up outside his office in my cute mood and sassy dress. He pops into the car and says, “What’s up, sweatpants?”
?????????
I had to shake my head to make sure I heard him correctly because I expected to hear, “Babe, you look so nice!”
But no, he indeed said, “What’s up, sweatpants?”
I replied,
“What’s up, jackass?”
(To minimally defend my husband, three points:
1. I usually AM in sweatpants or clothes that have been sweat on and
2. when I glanced down at the dress while I was sitting, the jersey material did drape over my legs looking suspiciously like sweatpants and
3. when we got out of the car at the restaurant, he genuinely complimented my obviously darling outfit. Smart man.)
So this evening, my hubby and were playfully bantering about his sweatpants comment. I recapped the exchange, and pointed out that maybe my retort should’ve been something like, “What’s up, no-sex-for-a-year?”
He giggled and said, “That’s not funny.” Even though he’s today’s muse, he wasn’t amused.
When I was rapidly getting ready to take the kids to school this morning, I had no time to dress. So I slipped on this super comfy brown jersey dress and flats. When I took Henry into school, so many people complimented me I was getting a bit embarrassed. Even people in the hallway paid tribute to my outfit—it was a great way to start the day. (I should note here that this dress is quite an a.m. wardrobe departure for me. I usually drop-off the kids in work-out clothes and a baseball hat. The fact that I had on anything other than wrinkly pants and a hoodie is cause for notice and probably a parade.)
Thus, I was feeling quite cute in my long, brown jersey dress. I was out running errands and I called my husband to see if he could meet for lunch. Yes! He could! He’ll get to see me looking so sassy!
I picked him up outside his office in my cute mood and sassy dress. He pops into the car and says, “What’s up, sweatpants?”
?????????
I had to shake my head to make sure I heard him correctly because I expected to hear, “Babe, you look so nice!”
But no, he indeed said, “What’s up, sweatpants?”
I replied,
“What’s up, jackass?”
(To minimally defend my husband, three points:
1. I usually AM in sweatpants or clothes that have been sweat on and
2. when I glanced down at the dress while I was sitting, the jersey material did drape over my legs looking suspiciously like sweatpants and
3. when we got out of the car at the restaurant, he genuinely complimented my obviously darling outfit. Smart man.)
So this evening, my hubby and were playfully bantering about his sweatpants comment. I recapped the exchange, and pointed out that maybe my retort should’ve been something like, “What’s up, no-sex-for-a-year?”
He giggled and said, “That’s not funny.” Even though he’s today’s muse, he wasn’t amused.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Zzzzzz
I lay my hand on my sleeping son's back and my heart fills with so much love and power that it overflows into my chest, warm and full. I float into a wonderful mommy orb.
Kissing my daughter's slightly sweaty, sleepy head grounds me each night. Knowing she's sleeping, she's alive and she's there allows me to pad my slippered feet into sleepy contentedness.
It's my ritual. I love it. I love them.
Kissing my daughter's slightly sweaty, sleepy head grounds me each night. Knowing she's sleeping, she's alive and she's there allows me to pad my slippered feet into sleepy contentedness.
It's my ritual. I love it. I love them.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Fledgling Finances
My husband and I think it is very important to educate our children about finances from an early age. We want to raise fiscally savvy children. To accomplish this, we discuss money, why it is important, how it is earned, how to save it and how it helps us get the things we need and want. Our children have to save half of any monetary gift they receive. We discuss the value of a penny, a nickel, a dime, a quarter and a dollar. In our household, Daddy has a job that rewards with financial gains and Mommy has a job that does not. (But I do have a memory bank full of weathered storms and sun-dappled reflections.)
Before we heavily embarked into the financial conversations, Abby tried to wrap her arms around this elusive idea of money:
“Mommy?”, Abby asked from her car seat.
“Yes, Abby.”
“I want some money to put in my new wallet.”
“Well,” I said, “maybe Daddy and I will have to find a way for you start earning money.”
“No Mommy. I just want some of the money from your wallet.”
Not too shabby, I thought. Time to start delving into money talks a bit more. So after several months of discussions of how the money Daddy earns pays for our house, and our cars and our gasoline and food, clothes, water, electricity and lunches, Abby had another question for me:
“Mommy?” she opened while I was cooking dinner.
“Yes sweetie.”
“Do you mean that Daddy goes to work… (pause)
and earns the money… (pause)
and then he just GIVES it to you?”
After I suppress an initial internal giggle, I felt like her small question had hit me square in the gut. I explained in the simplest terms that I could that yes, Daddy earns money and he and I decide how it is spent and saved. Likewise, I spend my days with her and her brother but that Daddy and I decide together how to do it. I told her that although I do not earn any money for our family, I add immeasurable, fabulous, far-reaching value by helping her and Henry grow, navigate, learn and play.
To which Abby responds,
“So you mean he just gives it to you.”
Needless to say, we’ve got more work to do on this one.
Before we heavily embarked into the financial conversations, Abby tried to wrap her arms around this elusive idea of money:
“Mommy?”, Abby asked from her car seat.
“Yes, Abby.”
“I want some money to put in my new wallet.”
“Well,” I said, “maybe Daddy and I will have to find a way for you start earning money.”
“No Mommy. I just want some of the money from your wallet.”
Not too shabby, I thought. Time to start delving into money talks a bit more. So after several months of discussions of how the money Daddy earns pays for our house, and our cars and our gasoline and food, clothes, water, electricity and lunches, Abby had another question for me:
“Mommy?” she opened while I was cooking dinner.
“Yes sweetie.”
“Do you mean that Daddy goes to work… (pause)
and earns the money… (pause)
and then he just GIVES it to you?”
After I suppress an initial internal giggle, I felt like her small question had hit me square in the gut. I explained in the simplest terms that I could that yes, Daddy earns money and he and I decide how it is spent and saved. Likewise, I spend my days with her and her brother but that Daddy and I decide together how to do it. I told her that although I do not earn any money for our family, I add immeasurable, fabulous, far-reaching value by helping her and Henry grow, navigate, learn and play.
To which Abby responds,
“So you mean he just gives it to you.”
Needless to say, we’ve got more work to do on this one.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Excuse me, Mrs. LaGory
Tonight, on the eve of her first day of Kindergarten, Abby lies in her bed. After we hugged and snuggled and kissed goodnight, she was practicing. Practicing saying her Kindergarten teacher’s name in the softest whisper imaginable,
“Excuse me, Mrs. LaGory…”
“Excuse me, Mrs. LaGory…”
“Excuse me, Mrs. LaGory…”
I lay there, listening to her independent vocal stride.
On Friday evening, we went to the school, saw Abby's classroom and sat at the little tables where she’ll fill her brain with wisdom and insight. And we met Mrs. LaGory. Ever since our meeting, we’ve been practicing saying “Mrs. LaGory” so Abby can say her teacher’s name with ease on her first day.
I, too, have been practicing her name.
“Excuse me, Mrs. LaGory, but today I’m leaving my first born child with you. Please protect her as if she is your own. Please look after her and always keep her best interests and safety in mind.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. LaGory, would you please know that my sweet Abby is very shy and might be very quiet at first but please, please help her integrate with the other students?”
“Excuse me, Mrs. LaGory, but I’m going to leave now. I may stop in the bathroom with the tiny little toilets and throw up after departing this classroom because I not only leave you my daughter today but also my heart. Then, Mrs. LaGory, I’ll try like hell not to bawl all the way home so as not to permanently scar Henry about the pending arrival of his kindergarten debut in three short years.”
“I know she’s ready, Mrs. LaGory. So I’ll leave you two to continue her journey. Together. I’ll pick up where you leave off, at three o’clock each day.”
“Goodbye, Mrs. LaGory. Goodbye, Abby. I’ll meet you on the other side of the day. I love you.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. LaGory…”
“Excuse me, Mrs. LaGory…”
“Excuse me, Mrs. LaGory…”
I lay there, listening to her independent vocal stride.
On Friday evening, we went to the school, saw Abby's classroom and sat at the little tables where she’ll fill her brain with wisdom and insight. And we met Mrs. LaGory. Ever since our meeting, we’ve been practicing saying “Mrs. LaGory” so Abby can say her teacher’s name with ease on her first day.
I, too, have been practicing her name.
“Excuse me, Mrs. LaGory, but today I’m leaving my first born child with you. Please protect her as if she is your own. Please look after her and always keep her best interests and safety in mind.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. LaGory, would you please know that my sweet Abby is very shy and might be very quiet at first but please, please help her integrate with the other students?”
“Excuse me, Mrs. LaGory, but I’m going to leave now. I may stop in the bathroom with the tiny little toilets and throw up after departing this classroom because I not only leave you my daughter today but also my heart. Then, Mrs. LaGory, I’ll try like hell not to bawl all the way home so as not to permanently scar Henry about the pending arrival of his kindergarten debut in three short years.”
“I know she’s ready, Mrs. LaGory. So I’ll leave you two to continue her journey. Together. I’ll pick up where you leave off, at three o’clock each day.”
“Goodbye, Mrs. LaGory. Goodbye, Abby. I’ll meet you on the other side of the day. I love you.”
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
New School
Today we visited Abby's new elementary school. Not only is it new for us, it is new for all. Construction is complete and they’re giving tours so all students and their families can view the new digs.
I started to cry this morning when I told my dearest friend that our day would include a tour of the school. I now realize that this is one of those poignant intervals of my life and my response has been reflective, raw and guttural. (Note: I successfully buried all gutturals and purchased school supplies. The tears gave several stellar attempts at a visit but my stoicism prevailed.) (Note 2: Abby is over-the-moon thrilled about starting Kindergarten and wants to know why she can’t start now and why she can't wear her uniform now.)
When the tour started, I reached out to hold Abby's hand. I will be forever grateful that her hand met mine as I desperately NEEDED to hold hers. Her cool, smooth little palm nestled next to mine.
Technically we were shown around the school by a first grade teacher and I guess our legs carried us through. But my official tour guide was my emotion. It showed me Abby's curly blond head, bent in concentration, at a brand new Kindergarten table. It pointed out that my daughter would be using the cute little potties and short sinks in the bathroom all by herself. Then it drafted a picture of Abby, beads of sweat on her brow, hair flying as she ran off the playground. It reminded me that she would be one of the youngest, tiniest students in the entire school.
I held her hand as long as I could, until my brave, independent little girl did just what I’ve always hoped she would. She let go.
I started to cry this morning when I told my dearest friend that our day would include a tour of the school. I now realize that this is one of those poignant intervals of my life and my response has been reflective, raw and guttural. (Note: I successfully buried all gutturals and purchased school supplies. The tears gave several stellar attempts at a visit but my stoicism prevailed.) (Note 2: Abby is over-the-moon thrilled about starting Kindergarten and wants to know why she can’t start now and why she can't wear her uniform now.)
When the tour started, I reached out to hold Abby's hand. I will be forever grateful that her hand met mine as I desperately NEEDED to hold hers. Her cool, smooth little palm nestled next to mine.
Technically we were shown around the school by a first grade teacher and I guess our legs carried us through. But my official tour guide was my emotion. It showed me Abby's curly blond head, bent in concentration, at a brand new Kindergarten table. It pointed out that my daughter would be using the cute little potties and short sinks in the bathroom all by herself. Then it drafted a picture of Abby, beads of sweat on her brow, hair flying as she ran off the playground. It reminded me that she would be one of the youngest, tiniest students in the entire school.
I held her hand as long as I could, until my brave, independent little girl did just what I’ve always hoped she would. She let go.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Mo Tuck
Tonight I spied a flatbed truck idling in our cul-de-sac. An odd occurrence but one that gave me a splendid idea.
I grabbed Henry, my “tuck”-loving boy, and walked out to our driveway. We stood in the twilight, illuminated by the street lamp and serenaded by the diesel chug of our visitor. Henry was mesmerized.
I whispered, “Look Henry, a truck.”
He whispered, “Tuck”.
We sat in our sloped driveway, him in my lap, and the truck driver lowered a fork lift from the back. He picked up loads of sod and drove them away, delivering them to their destination.
The sweet sweet words tumbled out of my Henry's mouth, each time the fork lift departed, “Mo tuck? Mo tuck?”
Henry sat still. Henry is never still.
Each time the fork lift returned, Henry peacefully murmured, “tuck”. All was right in his world.
The sod delivery was complete. The truck driver replaced the fork lift and got back into his truck. He waved to us and we waved goodbye in return.
Henry whispered, “Mo tuck.”
I quietly (and surprisingly sadly) explained that the truck had to leave.
“Mo tuck.”
The truck departed, singing farwell with its diesel chug.
It was my first true “little boy” moment with Henry. I never imagined that watching a truck would be so riveting, contemplative. But I reveled in Henry's pure joy.
Mo tuck indeed.
I grabbed Henry, my “tuck”-loving boy, and walked out to our driveway. We stood in the twilight, illuminated by the street lamp and serenaded by the diesel chug of our visitor. Henry was mesmerized.
I whispered, “Look Henry, a truck.”
He whispered, “Tuck”.
We sat in our sloped driveway, him in my lap, and the truck driver lowered a fork lift from the back. He picked up loads of sod and drove them away, delivering them to their destination.
The sweet sweet words tumbled out of my Henry's mouth, each time the fork lift departed, “Mo tuck? Mo tuck?”
Henry sat still. Henry is never still.
Each time the fork lift returned, Henry peacefully murmured, “tuck”. All was right in his world.
The sod delivery was complete. The truck driver replaced the fork lift and got back into his truck. He waved to us and we waved goodbye in return.
Henry whispered, “Mo tuck.”
I quietly (and surprisingly sadly) explained that the truck had to leave.
“Mo tuck.”
The truck departed, singing farwell with its diesel chug.
It was my first true “little boy” moment with Henry. I never imagined that watching a truck would be so riveting, contemplative. But I reveled in Henry's pure joy.
Mo tuck indeed.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Weather Girl
Yesterday morning, I was in a bit of a huff. Everything, every little thing, bugged me. I don’t know exactly what made me so cranky, but cranky I was. And unfortunately for my children, their age-appropriate actions really threw my crankiness into overdrive.
Abby spent the post-breakfast half hour coloring and asking me how to spell many words. On the 379th word (ok, ok, 42nd word), my intelligent daughter asked,
“Mommy, how do you spell birthday?”
“Mommy, how do you spell birthday?”
"Mommy, how do you spell birthday?"
“Mommy, how do y…
“Abby!!!”
“What?”
I finally, huffily explained that I couldn’t concentrate on making lunches and spell many words at the same time. I told her that I might put her cow’s milk into her milk-allergic brother’s lunch, give her blueberries (gasp!) instead of applesauce, etc. I fancy myself a proficient multi-tasker. Apparently I am not so proficient or fancy and I successfully smacked that learning fever right out my inquisitive daughter.
Despite the fact that my huff was picking up speed, I was about 15 minutes ahead of schedule. Beds were made, kids were dressed, camp backpacks and lunches patiently awaited our departure. So I thought I had time to pop onto the computer to send an important email. Silly Mommy. Henry walks in covered in water. Abby walks in with a beaming smile, so proud of the butt-part hairdo she’s given her brother. While she dutifully dampened his curly mop to comb it, he dutifully played in the running water and soaked his camp clothes.
Super.
They then hopped on the guest bed, clearly plotting against me to undo the one bed I hadn’t had to make this morning.
So I hit send, slammed the computer closed, remade that already-made bed and headed to the bathroom.
Abby pulls out all my lipsticks and glosses and asks which ones she can wear and why there are some she cannot. Henry bee-lines to my closet and with grand flourish pulls many pairs of my shoes of their shelves and starts handing me every one of my necklaces. This is a typical morning. But my huff is now way past huffdom and I’m now well into pissy.
Somewhere during this bathroom fun Abby brought me a picture she’d colored for me earlier. I quickly put it on the bathroom counter and dashed. I got the kids to camp. (Henry, now a member in the pissy club, screamed when I left him because his regular teacher was on vacation.) I got myself to the gym, cranked up my MP3 player and tried to work out whatever funky-funk had taken residence.
I pondered my moodiness. I had a visit from my self-critic and she pounced,
“BAD MOM! Kids will have awful days because of your bad mood! They don’t think you love them! BAD!” Moodiness quickly moved over to make room for heavy guilt.
I went home, showered and glanced down at the bathroom counter. There sat the drawing Abby had given me earlier. Four dark gray clouds lined the top of the paper. Thick green, blue and yellow hash marks fell from the ominous clouds. My perceptive daughter forecasted my mood perfectly with her Crayolas.
Interestingly, her perspective started to part my storm. I remembered a conversation we had on the way to school:
“Abby?”
“Yes, mommy?”
“It’s hard for me when you and your brother take apart things that I’ve just put together, like the beds. I was in a bad mood this morning and I’m shouldn’t have been grouchy with you. I’m sorry and I love you.”
“It’s ok mommy.”
She’s right. It IS ok. Being a good parent isn’t about being a perfect person. A good parent teaches their children how to deal with life’s inevitable, four-dark-gray-clouds-and-multi-colored-rain days. I showed her that bad moods happen to everyone (especially mommy). I hope she remembers not that I was a bitch but that I rectified a situation that I had handled badly.
I hope that she begins to grasp that people, including her, are not perfect. Life isn’t happily-ever-after with blue birds on our shoulders. The perfection myth needs to be busted open (but I shall blog on that another day). It’s a continuing life lesson which I’m clearly still trying to master after 36 years of ardent practice.
My take-away today: some things are meant to be undone. My great undoer undid my funk. And today, Abby's forecast called for purple flowers and rainbow skies. So far, she’s predicting with 100% accuracy.
Abby spent the post-breakfast half hour coloring and asking me how to spell many words. On the 379th word (ok, ok, 42nd word), my intelligent daughter asked,
“Mommy, how do you spell birthday?”
“Mommy, how do you spell birthday?”
"Mommy, how do you spell birthday?"
“Mommy, how do y…
“Abby!!!”
“What?”
I finally, huffily explained that I couldn’t concentrate on making lunches and spell many words at the same time. I told her that I might put her cow’s milk into her milk-allergic brother’s lunch, give her blueberries (gasp!) instead of applesauce, etc. I fancy myself a proficient multi-tasker. Apparently I am not so proficient or fancy and I successfully smacked that learning fever right out my inquisitive daughter.
Despite the fact that my huff was picking up speed, I was about 15 minutes ahead of schedule. Beds were made, kids were dressed, camp backpacks and lunches patiently awaited our departure. So I thought I had time to pop onto the computer to send an important email. Silly Mommy. Henry walks in covered in water. Abby walks in with a beaming smile, so proud of the butt-part hairdo she’s given her brother. While she dutifully dampened his curly mop to comb it, he dutifully played in the running water and soaked his camp clothes.
Super.
They then hopped on the guest bed, clearly plotting against me to undo the one bed I hadn’t had to make this morning.
So I hit send, slammed the computer closed, remade that already-made bed and headed to the bathroom.
Abby pulls out all my lipsticks and glosses and asks which ones she can wear and why there are some she cannot. Henry bee-lines to my closet and with grand flourish pulls many pairs of my shoes of their shelves and starts handing me every one of my necklaces. This is a typical morning. But my huff is now way past huffdom and I’m now well into pissy.
Somewhere during this bathroom fun Abby brought me a picture she’d colored for me earlier. I quickly put it on the bathroom counter and dashed. I got the kids to camp. (Henry, now a member in the pissy club, screamed when I left him because his regular teacher was on vacation.) I got myself to the gym, cranked up my MP3 player and tried to work out whatever funky-funk had taken residence.
I pondered my moodiness. I had a visit from my self-critic and she pounced,
“BAD MOM! Kids will have awful days because of your bad mood! They don’t think you love them! BAD!” Moodiness quickly moved over to make room for heavy guilt.
I went home, showered and glanced down at the bathroom counter. There sat the drawing Abby had given me earlier. Four dark gray clouds lined the top of the paper. Thick green, blue and yellow hash marks fell from the ominous clouds. My perceptive daughter forecasted my mood perfectly with her Crayolas.
Interestingly, her perspective started to part my storm. I remembered a conversation we had on the way to school:
“Abby?”
“Yes, mommy?”
“It’s hard for me when you and your brother take apart things that I’ve just put together, like the beds. I was in a bad mood this morning and I’m shouldn’t have been grouchy with you. I’m sorry and I love you.”
“It’s ok mommy.”
She’s right. It IS ok. Being a good parent isn’t about being a perfect person. A good parent teaches their children how to deal with life’s inevitable, four-dark-gray-clouds-and-multi-colored-rain days. I showed her that bad moods happen to everyone (especially mommy). I hope she remembers not that I was a bitch but that I rectified a situation that I had handled badly.
I hope that she begins to grasp that people, including her, are not perfect. Life isn’t happily-ever-after with blue birds on our shoulders. The perfection myth needs to be busted open (but I shall blog on that another day). It’s a continuing life lesson which I’m clearly still trying to master after 36 years of ardent practice.
My take-away today: some things are meant to be undone. My great undoer undid my funk. And today, Abby's forecast called for purple flowers and rainbow skies. So far, she’s predicting with 100% accuracy.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Target Meltdown
We’ve been eagerly preparing for Kindergarten. Uniforms, discussions about the brand new school and typical days. I knew that I might experience some wistful moments leading up to Abby's first day of Kindergarten. But nothing prepared me for the emotional upheaval that the procurement of school supplies caused.
I went on my weekly run to Target, picking up thises and thats. I figured I’d knock out the purchase of Abby's supplies before we left for vacation. I pulled out my list. But I couldn’t read the words on the page. I blinked. “Hmm.” Shook my head. Ok. “Let’s see, Elmer’s Glue.” I looked up at the shelf and all the supplies were a menacing blur. I couldn’t see because of the unexpected tears that threatened to pour down my face.
Huh?
I looked down at the floor, took two deep, cleansing breaths and tried again. “This is silly”, I told myself. But emotion was now the boss and logic and efficiency mere underlings. I was stuck in place, holding a list of benign school sundries and I could not locate them, look at them or purchase them. My gut was churning. My breath was shallow.
I realized I had to leave immediately before I bawled my way out of Target.
Each threatening tear made its bold statement:
Abby is starting Kindergarten.
Next month, NEXT MONTH!, my baby is going to school five days a week.
She’s going to get out of the car in her little blue jumper and peter-pan collared shirt and walk into a HUGE school. She’s going to spend more waking hours with her teacher than she will with me.
I quickly paid for my non-school related items and was dashing for the exit when I saw a mother and her 18-year-old daughter pushing a cart which carried a big metal trunk. This mother was preparing for her baby’s ultimate departure to college, to another town, to the adult part of her life.
Flood gates officially opened. “Get to the car, get to the car”, I kept muttering to myself.
Abby was not just starting Kindergarten. This was the official beginning of the end, a short skip and a jump to her final departure. In 13 years she would be going to college. Holy shit.
Could I make it to the car?
I called my Mom. I bawled. I gasped. I cried myself hoarse.
How did we get here?
I went on my weekly run to Target, picking up thises and thats. I figured I’d knock out the purchase of Abby's supplies before we left for vacation. I pulled out my list. But I couldn’t read the words on the page. I blinked. “Hmm.” Shook my head. Ok. “Let’s see, Elmer’s Glue.” I looked up at the shelf and all the supplies were a menacing blur. I couldn’t see because of the unexpected tears that threatened to pour down my face.
Huh?
I looked down at the floor, took two deep, cleansing breaths and tried again. “This is silly”, I told myself. But emotion was now the boss and logic and efficiency mere underlings. I was stuck in place, holding a list of benign school sundries and I could not locate them, look at them or purchase them. My gut was churning. My breath was shallow.
I realized I had to leave immediately before I bawled my way out of Target.
Each threatening tear made its bold statement:
Abby is starting Kindergarten.
Next month, NEXT MONTH!, my baby is going to school five days a week.
She’s going to get out of the car in her little blue jumper and peter-pan collared shirt and walk into a HUGE school. She’s going to spend more waking hours with her teacher than she will with me.
I quickly paid for my non-school related items and was dashing for the exit when I saw a mother and her 18-year-old daughter pushing a cart which carried a big metal trunk. This mother was preparing for her baby’s ultimate departure to college, to another town, to the adult part of her life.
Flood gates officially opened. “Get to the car, get to the car”, I kept muttering to myself.
Abby was not just starting Kindergarten. This was the official beginning of the end, a short skip and a jump to her final departure. In 13 years she would be going to college. Holy shit.
Could I make it to the car?
I called my Mom. I bawled. I gasped. I cried myself hoarse.
How did we get here?
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Locks of Hair
I love Henry's tow-head curls. I love how the sun dances on his golden locks. I love the Sqiggy hair-do (thank you Laverne & Shirley) he gets at the pool when he comes up from being under water. Every time I cut Henry's hair and watch the golden locks drift to the ground, I get this panic in my belly. What irrational brain function makes me feel that it might be sane to save EVERY cut strand of his hair from now until he's 18? Why is it so hard to throw these precious pieces of hair away? I don't have any problem throwing away nail clippings (thank goodness). Do I think that a keepsake box of his hair will forever hold his sweet, little boy smell and that I could open that box and inhale deeply, soaking up his scent?
Or is it that I hate to waste anything that is so essentially him?
It's probably this same brain activity that lead me to my firm (and not so sound decision) to continue washing Henry's clothes with baby detergent well after the statute of limitations had passed on this "requirement". That scent was so him, so luscious baby boy, that I couldn't withhold such a lovely bouquet from my mommy olfactories. (Even though he's now two, I just recently bought another bottle of the detergent so I can occasionally wash his clothes in sweet memories. Don't tell my pragmatic husband.)
It really is about the memories. I worry that I won't remember. I don't ever want to loose the image of Henry dutifully looking into my eyes as we discuss the whys of the world. I don't want to forget the feel of his clean, chubby cheek and just-washed, damp hair again my neck. However odd it may seem, I will continue to grimace each time I have to toss his golden locks, and with it his shrinking infanthood. Luckily, you can all exhale knowing there is NOT a box hidden in my attic holding all of Henry's hair trimmings. Instead, I will rejoice in knowing that all of his essence is locked within, and that it will journey with him through the decades. I know that in twenty-some years, when he's relaying some powerful life occurrence, I will again look into those same eyes, see the same dancing golden hair and maybe, if I'm still, catch a whiff of my sweet, little boy.
Or is it that I hate to waste anything that is so essentially him?
It's probably this same brain activity that lead me to my firm (and not so sound decision) to continue washing Henry's clothes with baby detergent well after the statute of limitations had passed on this "requirement". That scent was so him, so luscious baby boy, that I couldn't withhold such a lovely bouquet from my mommy olfactories. (Even though he's now two, I just recently bought another bottle of the detergent so I can occasionally wash his clothes in sweet memories. Don't tell my pragmatic husband.)
It really is about the memories. I worry that I won't remember. I don't ever want to loose the image of Henry dutifully looking into my eyes as we discuss the whys of the world. I don't want to forget the feel of his clean, chubby cheek and just-washed, damp hair again my neck. However odd it may seem, I will continue to grimace each time I have to toss his golden locks, and with it his shrinking infanthood. Luckily, you can all exhale knowing there is NOT a box hidden in my attic holding all of Henry's hair trimmings. Instead, I will rejoice in knowing that all of his essence is locked within, and that it will journey with him through the decades. I know that in twenty-some years, when he's relaying some powerful life occurrence, I will again look into those same eyes, see the same dancing golden hair and maybe, if I'm still, catch a whiff of my sweet, little boy.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Ahhhh
Our day was filled with bliss.
I remained calm.
Henry listened.
Abby rose like a shining star and filled the holes left by my deficiencies with distractions and fun for her brother.
I didn't yell--not even once.
Henry only visited time-out TWICE (that's an 80% reduction in misbehavior from yesterday!)
Abby closed the door from the house to the garage without a reminder. !!!
We still lived with two-year-old and four-year-old behavior (both the ugly and the pretty) and we still experienced rough spots. But, as usual, the emery board of distance and perspective came along and smoothed away the jagged edges of the previous four days.
Ahhhh.
Good night.
I remained calm.
Henry listened.
Abby rose like a shining star and filled the holes left by my deficiencies with distractions and fun for her brother.
I didn't yell--not even once.
Henry only visited time-out TWICE (that's an 80% reduction in misbehavior from yesterday!)
Abby closed the door from the house to the garage without a reminder. !!!
We still lived with two-year-old and four-year-old behavior (both the ugly and the pretty) and we still experienced rough spots. But, as usual, the emery board of distance and perspective came along and smoothed away the jagged edges of the previous four days.
Ahhhh.
Good night.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Momtra
I am a good mom.
I am a good mom.
I am a good mom.
Even though I fed my kids hot dogs, peanut butter sandwiches and frozen veggies for dinner, I am a good mom.
Even though my children's nails and finger prints mark the inside of the front door from when I left the house in a horrid huff and escaped to the front porch and they tried desperately through crocodile tears and cries to get outside to me, I am a good mom.
Even though I was sure that if I heard yet another cry or whine I might forever begrudge myself for the awful thoughts I had, ("Shut up! Shut up! SHUT UP! I CAN'T STAND IT ANYMORE! I'm going to punch the wall if you follow me around crying much longer! I'm going to vomit if I have to hear your mopey-mope-mope about NOTHING for another moment. STOP ITTTTT!!!!"), I am a good mom.
Right?
I am a good mom.
I am a good mom.
I am a good mom.
Even though I feel like a cruel, heartless dictator at times, I am a good mom.
Even though I open snacks at the store and feed them to my always-hungry children before I've even paid for said snacks, I am a good mom.
Even though I thought I might hurl the riding Mater ("My name's Mater. Kinda Like "Tuh-mater"... but without the "tuh" ") out the window if I had to step over his inconvenient parking spot one more time, I am a good mom.
Even though I had to ask Abby to turn off her closet light for the 53rd time, and had to ask Henry to stop hitting for the 276th time, I am a good mom.
Even though today I was not so sure that I'm a good mom, I am a good mom.
For all those things I didn't do and the many seemingly perfunctory tasks I did do, I am a good mom.
I admitted today that motherhood is many hours, and days, of not so pleasant stretches. Today, just today, after five years of parenthood, I realized this? Yes. With a large dose of honesty, frustration, exhaustion and blunt observation, yes. I'm allowing the dark side of mommyhood out of the guilty corners of my brain. Being a parent is eternally hard. Each of us has a different journey, some exponentially harder than others. My trying day might sound like a snooze in a lazy hammock to you. Although our paths differ, I believe that there is universality in the raw emotions evoked by parenthood.
Thankfully, these long stretches and dark emotions are punctuated by sweet hugs, snuggles, gleeful smiles, secrets, kisses and epiphanies. By the dusk-illuminated eyelashes of a child mesmerized by a book. Yes, there are many days that are epically better than this one.
I am a good mom because I love my children even when, well, even when today happens.
I am a good mom because I had to soak up LOTS of bath water from the floor and thought, "well, now I don't have to mop."
I am thankful that bedtime has passed, all children are fed, clean and slumbering in their beds, and I am on the other side of this day. I will continue to repeat my Momtra,
I am a good mom.
I am a good mom.
I am a good mom.
I am a good mom.
I am a good mom.
Even though I fed my kids hot dogs, peanut butter sandwiches and frozen veggies for dinner, I am a good mom.
Even though my children's nails and finger prints mark the inside of the front door from when I left the house in a horrid huff and escaped to the front porch and they tried desperately through crocodile tears and cries to get outside to me, I am a good mom.
Even though I was sure that if I heard yet another cry or whine I might forever begrudge myself for the awful thoughts I had, ("Shut up! Shut up! SHUT UP! I CAN'T STAND IT ANYMORE! I'm going to punch the wall if you follow me around crying much longer! I'm going to vomit if I have to hear your mopey-mope-mope about NOTHING for another moment. STOP ITTTTT!!!!"), I am a good mom.
Right?
I am a good mom.
I am a good mom.
I am a good mom.
Even though I feel like a cruel, heartless dictator at times, I am a good mom.
Even though I open snacks at the store and feed them to my always-hungry children before I've even paid for said snacks, I am a good mom.
Even though I thought I might hurl the riding Mater ("My name's Mater. Kinda Like "Tuh-mater"... but without the "tuh" ") out the window if I had to step over his inconvenient parking spot one more time, I am a good mom.
Even though I had to ask Abby to turn off her closet light for the 53rd time, and had to ask Henry to stop hitting for the 276th time, I am a good mom.
Even though today I was not so sure that I'm a good mom, I am a good mom.
For all those things I didn't do and the many seemingly perfunctory tasks I did do, I am a good mom.
I admitted today that motherhood is many hours, and days, of not so pleasant stretches. Today, just today, after five years of parenthood, I realized this? Yes. With a large dose of honesty, frustration, exhaustion and blunt observation, yes. I'm allowing the dark side of mommyhood out of the guilty corners of my brain. Being a parent is eternally hard. Each of us has a different journey, some exponentially harder than others. My trying day might sound like a snooze in a lazy hammock to you. Although our paths differ, I believe that there is universality in the raw emotions evoked by parenthood.
Thankfully, these long stretches and dark emotions are punctuated by sweet hugs, snuggles, gleeful smiles, secrets, kisses and epiphanies. By the dusk-illuminated eyelashes of a child mesmerized by a book. Yes, there are many days that are epically better than this one.
I am a good mom because I love my children even when, well, even when today happens.
I am a good mom because I had to soak up LOTS of bath water from the floor and thought, "well, now I don't have to mop."
I am thankful that bedtime has passed, all children are fed, clean and slumbering in their beds, and I am on the other side of this day. I will continue to repeat my Momtra,
I am a good mom.
I am a good mom.
I am a good mom.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Nahnah Mama
Since our son got tubes in his ears about two months ago, his speech development has been phenomenal. His articulation and vocabulary grow on such a steep crescendo that I feel like I'm watching his brain synapse with each new word.
In the last two weeks, he started linking words together famously, like, "Buh bye Dis (Sis)" or "Nahnah Dada (night night Dada)". His words and rudimentary sentences are like an infant symphony, still crude but powerful in its ability to swell and move.
Tonight I nuzzled his sweet-smelling neck in the last moments before I put him down in his crib.
I said, "Night night, Henry, I love you."
He said, "Nahnah Mama. Nahnah Mama."
This was the first time he ever uttered those words to me. I almost choked on my raw reaction to his beautiful, verbal sentiment. I left the room, listening to his sweet song, "Nahnah Mama." I whispered, "Night night, Henry" in reply.
"Nahnah Mama" he's still repeating as I type.
Goodnight, my sweet symphonic prince. I love you.
In the last two weeks, he started linking words together famously, like, "Buh bye Dis (Sis)" or "Nahnah Dada (night night Dada)". His words and rudimentary sentences are like an infant symphony, still crude but powerful in its ability to swell and move.
Tonight I nuzzled his sweet-smelling neck in the last moments before I put him down in his crib.
I said, "Night night, Henry, I love you."
He said, "Nahnah Mama. Nahnah Mama."
This was the first time he ever uttered those words to me. I almost choked on my raw reaction to his beautiful, verbal sentiment. I left the room, listening to his sweet song, "Nahnah Mama." I whispered, "Night night, Henry" in reply.
"Nahnah Mama" he's still repeating as I type.
Goodnight, my sweet symphonic prince. I love you.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
One Way Ticket to the Moon
Henry can feel the impending milestone of his second birthday. I know because he has been an absolute wretched stinker the last three days. He hits. He pulls. He throws. He screams NO whenever anything doesn't completely suit him (even my choice of clothing). And he is driving me and Abby and Brian nuts. Even Ruby is steering clear of him.
Yesterday morning he sat in timeout three times before 8:30 am. Today we realized a stark improvement with only one timeout before we left the house. At Abyy's dance studio, we had cupcakes because it was her last day of lessons. I offered Henry his "tuptake" but explained that I had to hold it for him. This yielded five solid minutes of tantrum. In the middle of the dance studio. Because he wanted to hold it. Tonight we had macaroni and cheese for dinner. Henry loves mac and cheese. He loves eating it out of a bowl and using a spoon. Tonight he dumped all the lovely macaronis onto his tray. Then he hurled his bowl, and then his spoon, at me. (On the bright side, the kid really has a good arm--he threw both a good six feet AND met his target, moi.)
I know that sweet Henry is still in there. He still delivers the best I-love-you-so-much hugs. And he still looks at me like I hung the moon. So, in order to make sure that I foster the spaces between us, and to ensure that Henry makes it to his second birthday, I've promised him a one-way ticket to the moon. I hope he likes the way I hung it.
Yesterday morning he sat in timeout three times before 8:30 am. Today we realized a stark improvement with only one timeout before we left the house. At Abyy's dance studio, we had cupcakes because it was her last day of lessons. I offered Henry his "tuptake" but explained that I had to hold it for him. This yielded five solid minutes of tantrum. In the middle of the dance studio. Because he wanted to hold it. Tonight we had macaroni and cheese for dinner. Henry loves mac and cheese. He loves eating it out of a bowl and using a spoon. Tonight he dumped all the lovely macaronis onto his tray. Then he hurled his bowl, and then his spoon, at me. (On the bright side, the kid really has a good arm--he threw both a good six feet AND met his target, moi.)
I know that sweet Henry is still in there. He still delivers the best I-love-you-so-much hugs. And he still looks at me like I hung the moon. So, in order to make sure that I foster the spaces between us, and to ensure that Henry makes it to his second birthday, I've promised him a one-way ticket to the moon. I hope he likes the way I hung it.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Let There Be Spaces Between You
During our wedding mass, our priest told us to imagine our new marriage as two seedling trees, newly planted next to each other. Together and close, but with enough space between them to grow healthfully and to their full potential. That one nugget has knocked around in my head many times since our wedding day. I consider it fabulous advice for newlyweds and parents alike.
My sweet daughter Abby has always been timid with new people and situations. She'll try new things and go new places but she doesn't like to talk much during these adventures. Hoping to raise Abby as a polite, interactive and socially comfortable child, I've always been her social fairy godmother, prompting her to say thank you after a compliment has been delivered, to return a friendly "Hello!" with an equally friendly, "Hi!" and to generally interact with others graciously.
As a parent, this is my job. I've taken it very seriously. As a parent, it is also my job to allow my child to be who SHE is at HER pace. I realized today that I haven't allowed enough space between her rapidly growing tender-leaved tree and my own solid, old tree.
Today we were at lunch and our server complimented Abby on her necklace. Abby smiled nervously at the woman and paused. I held my breath. The less-aware, less-evolved me (read: yesterday's Denise) would have quielty said to Abby, "What do you say, honey?". Today's me just sat and waited. Three long seconds later Abby looked the woman straight in the eye and responded to her compliment with a gracious, "Thank you."
Swooosh. I could feel the wind joyously dance in the space between us. I exhaled. Abby beamed. On this Mother's Day, I am reminded that yes, I am a teacher. But I am also a student, learning from this very wise, tender-hearted young tree.
My sweet daughter Abby has always been timid with new people and situations. She'll try new things and go new places but she doesn't like to talk much during these adventures. Hoping to raise Abby as a polite, interactive and socially comfortable child, I've always been her social fairy godmother, prompting her to say thank you after a compliment has been delivered, to return a friendly "Hello!" with an equally friendly, "Hi!" and to generally interact with others graciously.
As a parent, this is my job. I've taken it very seriously. As a parent, it is also my job to allow my child to be who SHE is at HER pace. I realized today that I haven't allowed enough space between her rapidly growing tender-leaved tree and my own solid, old tree.
Today we were at lunch and our server complimented Abby on her necklace. Abby smiled nervously at the woman and paused. I held my breath. The less-aware, less-evolved me (read: yesterday's Denise) would have quielty said to Abby, "What do you say, honey?". Today's me just sat and waited. Three long seconds later Abby looked the woman straight in the eye and responded to her compliment with a gracious, "Thank you."
Swooosh. I could feel the wind joyously dance in the space between us. I exhaled. Abby beamed. On this Mother's Day, I am reminded that yes, I am a teacher. But I am also a student, learning from this very wise, tender-hearted young tree.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Easy Editor
I was at dinner last night at a restaurant filled with families. We sat at a table that was very, very close another table seating a lovely couple and their not so lovely 3 ½ year old. Every word, every demand, every action dripped with sass, whine and audaciousness. She cried and complained when she had the wrong drink. And continued to cry and be belligerent until the correct beverage arrived. She whined when she wanted more pretzels and dipping sauce. “I want more PRETZELS!” Her nose was wrinkled and her brow furrowed. She yelled “NO!” at Henry when he looked at her. I turned on my best kid smile (I consider myself a bit of a child charmer) and challenged myself to find a smile and a lightened, brightened mood. No dice. I didn’t blame this little 3 ½ year old for her behavior. I blamed her parents.
How did they handle the situation? Well, I can tell you what they didn’t do. Her parents never once requested that she say please. Never did they ask her to rephrase her rude requests—they just gave her what she asked for. They rewarded and reinforced every rude sound, glance and grunt by fulfilling her requests. One after the other.
So, there I sat in my uncharmed seat, recoiling at the lovely parents’ choices and perceived lack of parenting savvy. I was judging them. I would like say that I don’t judge others but then I would be lying to you and me. I’m guessing that you’ve found yourself in a similar situation and judged another’s parenting choices, too. If you haven’t, please contact me immediately and let me in on your altruistic secret.
So, back to me and my judging. I thought about how differently I handle my children and was very grateful that my husband and I are relentless about expecting manners and respect from our children. We treat them with respect and we expect the same in return from them. I don’t deliver on whiny, rude requests. These requests are ignored until my children deliver them in a nice, polite manner. Yeah me! Yeah us!
The next morning I woke up recalling the previous evening’s events. I was struck by the ease with which I was able to judge other parents’ actions because I had the gift of distance and perspective. I wondered how I would judge and edit my own parenting if I was able to offer this same gift to myself. I wished for a hidden video camera to record our daily interactions that I could later watch and edit. Hoped for a visit from the Super Nanny so I could brush up on my child-rearing acumen.
As I don’t see either of these options materializing, I’m going to do my best to remember the following:
1. I am not perfect.
2. I, therefore, should not expect perfection from my children (or other parents).
3. One of the best gauges of the parent is the child itself.
4. I will continue to do my best. When I do not, and, as Dr. Seuss says, sometimes I will not, I hope that I will see my mistake, accept responsibility for it, correct it and LEARN FROM IT.
5. Through this, I will show my children that I am fallible. This is crucial. I will show them how I handle my fallibility. This is essential. Hopefully they’ll sponge this up like a dry piece of toast with an egg over easy.
It is with this constant strife and desire to learn and grow that we become better parents. And since we cannot always see the errors in our work, the next time I mess up, I hope another parent is present so they can mentally edit my mistakes and carry away an affirmation of their own.
How did they handle the situation? Well, I can tell you what they didn’t do. Her parents never once requested that she say please. Never did they ask her to rephrase her rude requests—they just gave her what she asked for. They rewarded and reinforced every rude sound, glance and grunt by fulfilling her requests. One after the other.
So, there I sat in my uncharmed seat, recoiling at the lovely parents’ choices and perceived lack of parenting savvy. I was judging them. I would like say that I don’t judge others but then I would be lying to you and me. I’m guessing that you’ve found yourself in a similar situation and judged another’s parenting choices, too. If you haven’t, please contact me immediately and let me in on your altruistic secret.
So, back to me and my judging. I thought about how differently I handle my children and was very grateful that my husband and I are relentless about expecting manners and respect from our children. We treat them with respect and we expect the same in return from them. I don’t deliver on whiny, rude requests. These requests are ignored until my children deliver them in a nice, polite manner. Yeah me! Yeah us!
The next morning I woke up recalling the previous evening’s events. I was struck by the ease with which I was able to judge other parents’ actions because I had the gift of distance and perspective. I wondered how I would judge and edit my own parenting if I was able to offer this same gift to myself. I wished for a hidden video camera to record our daily interactions that I could later watch and edit. Hoped for a visit from the Super Nanny so I could brush up on my child-rearing acumen.
As I don’t see either of these options materializing, I’m going to do my best to remember the following:
1. I am not perfect.
2. I, therefore, should not expect perfection from my children (or other parents).
3. One of the best gauges of the parent is the child itself.
4. I will continue to do my best. When I do not, and, as Dr. Seuss says, sometimes I will not, I hope that I will see my mistake, accept responsibility for it, correct it and LEARN FROM IT.
5. Through this, I will show my children that I am fallible. This is crucial. I will show them how I handle my fallibility. This is essential. Hopefully they’ll sponge this up like a dry piece of toast with an egg over easy.
It is with this constant strife and desire to learn and grow that we become better parents. And since we cannot always see the errors in our work, the next time I mess up, I hope another parent is present so they can mentally edit my mistakes and carry away an affirmation of their own.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Note to Husband
Dear husband,
Just because I was (yes, now in the past tense) in my PJs until 12:45 pm today does not mean I was not a productive member of society and our family. Look at all of the fabulous, industrial things I accomplished since 4:00 am today:
4:00 am Henry cries. Hold conference with husband and both agree to let Henry cry to teach him that 4 am is not an acceptable time to start the day.
6:00 am Wake up because Abby and Henry wake up (and slept in!)
6:25 am Negotiate Abby's melt down which occurred because I threw away the little plastic ring to the newly opened milk carton which apparently she desperately needed/wanted. Hugs and kisses administered.
6:42 am Second conference with husband held. Discuss trash responsibilities and request that he adopt a later work departure so said husband can be with children while I finish preparing trash for waste disposal.
6:47 am Third conference with husband/negotiation with Abby regarding little plastic milk carton ring which husband unknowingly threw away. More tears, further pacification.
6:50 am Administer nutritious, balanced breakfast to offspring.
6:50 am Empty dish washer.
6:50.30 am Administer more food to offspring.
6:51 am Put away hand-washed dishes.
7:00 am Turn on Today Show for national and international news updates. Learn, in small sound bytes, about the world outside of my very productive two-room universe.
7:15 am Discovery: wet, moldy clothes in clothes washer that the laundry fairy never transferred to dryer. Run quick cycle and transfer to dryer. Place new, soiled clothes into washer.
7:15 am Discussion with oldest Abby about why M&Ms cannot be eaten at 7:15 am.
7:17 am Turn on computer, check email, start ToDo list.
8:00 am Teleconference with Toyota service department about reasons behind missed service appointment last week. Issue apology and reschedule appointment (which, unfortunately, coincides with regularly scheduled work out regime. Muffin top prevails for another day.)
8:30 am 17 minute teleconference with new accountant.
8:40 am (During aforementioned account call), navigate snack demands of Abby and Henry.
8:50 am Accounting call is finished. Administer further nutrition to children.
9:00 am Teach spatial concepts to Abby through activities with hearts, diamonds, squares and circles.
9:00 – 9:30 am Teach Henry the importance of perseverance and patience through repetition of the phrases, “Henry don’t put the crayons in your mouth, crayons are for coloring.” “Henry, please color on the paper, not the chair.” AND “Henry, sit down in the chair.”
9:31 am Teach Henry that even the strongest camel has a back-breaking straw by pounding the kitchen table and yelling, “Henry Benjamin, SIT DOWN for goodness sakes! Gheshhh!”
9:31.30 am Mission accomplished. Henry's bum is in the chair and he will forever remember that one must yell to get anything accomplished. (Call the Mother-of-the-Year committee, they have a winner.)
9:40 am Continue researching the intricacies of the democratic party’s nomination process.
9:46 am Help oldest daughter write thank you notes to Grandmother and Aunt for Valentine’s Day care package.
10:00 am Transfer wet clothes to dryer, put more clothes into washer. Refill dog’s water dish.
10:10 am Edit my writings.
10:15 am More coloring, playing, general lounging around.
10:30 am Discussion with Mother about upcoming Democratic National primaries and the role of the super delegates. Probe her for answers to my unanswered questions.
10:45 am Lunch plan discussion with children.
10:50 am Administer milk to cows (ahem, children).
11:15 am Prepare lunch foods for children; serve.
11:17 am Clean downstairs bathroom while children eat. Listen to happy giggles as I scrub away pink mold and other unmentionables.
11:40 am Clean up lunch tools.
11:45 am Play a bit.
11:50 am Parse husband’s shrimp and crawfish gumbo into freezer safe containers. Clean stock pot, fill dish washer. Pick up all crazy straws Charlie removed from cabinet immediately under foot.
12:15 pm Put children down for naps. Henry into sleeping chamber first. Listen to protest screams while putting Abby down second.
12:20 pm Fold all previously cleaned laundry. Distribute.
12:30 pm Wash face, floss and brush teeth. Improve general appearance.
12:41 pm REMOVE PJs.
12:42 pm Adorn self with clothes.
12:46 pm Strip sheets off of master bed.
12:48 pm Insert sheets into washer.
12:50 pm Return missed phone call to husband who laughs when told I was getting dressed when he called earlier. He apologizes for getting me out of bed. I make a mental note to shoot off tongue-and-cheek email to husband.
Just because I was (yes, now in the past tense) in my PJs until 12:45 pm today does not mean I was not a productive member of society and our family. Look at all of the fabulous, industrial things I accomplished since 4:00 am today:
4:00 am Henry cries. Hold conference with husband and both agree to let Henry cry to teach him that 4 am is not an acceptable time to start the day.
6:00 am Wake up because Abby and Henry wake up (and slept in!)
6:25 am Negotiate Abby's melt down which occurred because I threw away the little plastic ring to the newly opened milk carton which apparently she desperately needed/wanted. Hugs and kisses administered.
6:42 am Second conference with husband held. Discuss trash responsibilities and request that he adopt a later work departure so said husband can be with children while I finish preparing trash for waste disposal.
6:47 am Third conference with husband/negotiation with Abby regarding little plastic milk carton ring which husband unknowingly threw away. More tears, further pacification.
6:50 am Administer nutritious, balanced breakfast to offspring.
6:50 am Empty dish washer.
6:50.30 am Administer more food to offspring.
6:51 am Put away hand-washed dishes.
7:00 am Turn on Today Show for national and international news updates. Learn, in small sound bytes, about the world outside of my very productive two-room universe.
7:15 am Discovery: wet, moldy clothes in clothes washer that the laundry fairy never transferred to dryer. Run quick cycle and transfer to dryer. Place new, soiled clothes into washer.
7:15 am Discussion with oldest Abby about why M&Ms cannot be eaten at 7:15 am.
7:17 am Turn on computer, check email, start ToDo list.
8:00 am Teleconference with Toyota service department about reasons behind missed service appointment last week. Issue apology and reschedule appointment (which, unfortunately, coincides with regularly scheduled work out regime. Muffin top prevails for another day.)
8:30 am 17 minute teleconference with new accountant.
8:40 am (During aforementioned account call), navigate snack demands of Abby and Henry.
8:50 am Accounting call is finished. Administer further nutrition to children.
9:00 am Teach spatial concepts to Abby through activities with hearts, diamonds, squares and circles.
9:00 – 9:30 am Teach Henry the importance of perseverance and patience through repetition of the phrases, “Henry don’t put the crayons in your mouth, crayons are for coloring.” “Henry, please color on the paper, not the chair.” AND “Henry, sit down in the chair.”
9:31 am Teach Henry that even the strongest camel has a back-breaking straw by pounding the kitchen table and yelling, “Henry Benjamin, SIT DOWN for goodness sakes! Gheshhh!”
9:31.30 am Mission accomplished. Henry's bum is in the chair and he will forever remember that one must yell to get anything accomplished. (Call the Mother-of-the-Year committee, they have a winner.)
9:40 am Continue researching the intricacies of the democratic party’s nomination process.
9:46 am Help oldest daughter write thank you notes to Grandmother and Aunt for Valentine’s Day care package.
10:00 am Transfer wet clothes to dryer, put more clothes into washer. Refill dog’s water dish.
10:10 am Edit my writings.
10:15 am More coloring, playing, general lounging around.
10:30 am Discussion with Mother about upcoming Democratic National primaries and the role of the super delegates. Probe her for answers to my unanswered questions.
10:45 am Lunch plan discussion with children.
10:50 am Administer milk to cows (ahem, children).
11:15 am Prepare lunch foods for children; serve.
11:17 am Clean downstairs bathroom while children eat. Listen to happy giggles as I scrub away pink mold and other unmentionables.
11:40 am Clean up lunch tools.
11:45 am Play a bit.
11:50 am Parse husband’s shrimp and crawfish gumbo into freezer safe containers. Clean stock pot, fill dish washer. Pick up all crazy straws Charlie removed from cabinet immediately under foot.
12:15 pm Put children down for naps. Henry into sleeping chamber first. Listen to protest screams while putting Abby down second.
12:20 pm Fold all previously cleaned laundry. Distribute.
12:30 pm Wash face, floss and brush teeth. Improve general appearance.
12:41 pm REMOVE PJs.
12:42 pm Adorn self with clothes.
12:46 pm Strip sheets off of master bed.
12:48 pm Insert sheets into washer.
12:50 pm Return missed phone call to husband who laughs when told I was getting dressed when he called earlier. He apologizes for getting me out of bed. I make a mental note to shoot off tongue-and-cheek email to husband.
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