Henry woke up at 11:30 pm crying for Mommy. I went to him and found a red-cheeked, fevery boy. Take temperature? Check. Clean diaper? Check. Give Motrin? Check. Jammies off? Check. (Henry likes to be naked, especially when feverish.) He wanted to sleep with Mama, so off to the big bed we went.
An hour later I awoke to the sounds of choking. Luckily, I brought the sick bucket with us. Sick sick sick. Then some more. Clean sheets? Check. Clean child? Check. Prayer of gratitude for sick buckets? Check. Helicopter? Negative.
From the dark I heard, “Mommy, I wan my hewicockter.”
I zigged back to Henry’s room, procured his hewicockter and zagged back. Favorite toy? Check. No more vomit? Check. Happy child? Check.
Wide awake mama? Double check.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Frosting
I glanced into the kitchen the other day and saw Abby reaching up to the kitchen counter. Since I recently hid the step stool from her brother (who uses the stool to reach the butter and then eat it), I wondered what she was standing on to reach the counter.
When I got to the kitchen, I was shocked to see that she wasn’t standing on anything, except her feet, which were firmly rooted to the floor. She wasn’t even tippy-toeing. She was just standing there, lifting the top off of the cake plate, licking frosting off of her finger.
The moment made me feel like a visiting relative rather than a day-in-day-out parent. The “Oh my how you’ve grown” and “I remember you when you were this high…” thoughts danced through my head while simultaneously piercing my heart. I looked at my baby girl and surprisingly found a Kindergartener. She’s no longer a baby—she’s a stretched out, dish-clearing, about-to-tooth-loosing, go-into-school-by-herselfing, “whatever”-momming, I’m-going-to-read-a-chapter-by-myselfing big, big girl.
Wasn’t she just pushing the step stool through the kitchen to reach the goodies?
At times, I look at Abby and struggle to remember her as a baby, tiny and sleeping in my arms. At others, I vacillate between who she was, who she is and who she will become, all her memories twisting a fabulous tale. At others, I’m struck by the oldness of her. Luckily the present slaps me around every once in a while and brings me to now. So I can live in the present with my daughter. And so I can get to the frosting before she eats it all.
When I got to the kitchen, I was shocked to see that she wasn’t standing on anything, except her feet, which were firmly rooted to the floor. She wasn’t even tippy-toeing. She was just standing there, lifting the top off of the cake plate, licking frosting off of her finger.
The moment made me feel like a visiting relative rather than a day-in-day-out parent. The “Oh my how you’ve grown” and “I remember you when you were this high…” thoughts danced through my head while simultaneously piercing my heart. I looked at my baby girl and surprisingly found a Kindergartener. She’s no longer a baby—she’s a stretched out, dish-clearing, about-to-tooth-loosing, go-into-school-by-herselfing, “whatever”-momming, I’m-going-to-read-a-chapter-by-myselfing big, big girl.
Wasn’t she just pushing the step stool through the kitchen to reach the goodies?
At times, I look at Abby and struggle to remember her as a baby, tiny and sleeping in my arms. At others, I vacillate between who she was, who she is and who she will become, all her memories twisting a fabulous tale. At others, I’m struck by the oldness of her. Luckily the present slaps me around every once in a while and brings me to now. So I can live in the present with my daughter. And so I can get to the frosting before she eats it all.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Tasty Salad
Just a note here--in an effort to be healthier (read: be able to fit into my pants because of the large vats of cookie dough consumed), I'm now ordering salads at McDonald's. (For those that know me, you also know that even though I'm eating a salad, I'm still stealing my kids' french fries from the Happy Meal Bag.) The Southwest Grilled Chicken Salad is really quite good--complete with a lime wedge to shake up the flavor a bit.
A Little Boy
The other day, I was at a restaurant and a little boy passed me. He was probably five and he wore a Cubs baseball hat, which was the first thing that caught my attention--Go Cubbies!. Something about him, though, further captured my interest and tugged at my heart. I smiled at him.
He turned his head and smiled back.
This little boy offered a futuristic glace at my now two-year-old Henry. In this instant, my mind flooded with thoughts of my young, sweet boy. This poignant smile exchange unearthed an onslaught of memories—and possible future moments. Will Henry smile warmly at motherly women in restaurants? Will he respect his lineage and cheer for the Cubs? What subjects will captivate him in school? Which friends will he endear to him? Will he always like broccoli? How will his heart break for the first time? Who will heal it?
When he is 22 years old, I know that his childhood will seem just like that—an instant. As if we were carabineered to a zip line, coursing through the years.
I am so in love with my son—with his personality, with his past and with his future possibilities. His round, inquisitive face enables him to pick up my soul and tuck it into his pocket, where I can travel safely through this life with him. With this, I surrender to the guttural, maternal love I am so lucky to experience.
Thank you, Henry. I love you.
xoxo
He turned his head and smiled back.
This little boy offered a futuristic glace at my now two-year-old Henry. In this instant, my mind flooded with thoughts of my young, sweet boy. This poignant smile exchange unearthed an onslaught of memories—and possible future moments. Will Henry smile warmly at motherly women in restaurants? Will he respect his lineage and cheer for the Cubs? What subjects will captivate him in school? Which friends will he endear to him? Will he always like broccoli? How will his heart break for the first time? Who will heal it?
When he is 22 years old, I know that his childhood will seem just like that—an instant. As if we were carabineered to a zip line, coursing through the years.
I am so in love with my son—with his personality, with his past and with his future possibilities. His round, inquisitive face enables him to pick up my soul and tuck it into his pocket, where I can travel safely through this life with him. With this, I surrender to the guttural, maternal love I am so lucky to experience.
Thank you, Henry. I love you.
xoxo
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Vote
During the recent presidential campaign, we talked a lot about politics at home. A LOT. Abby knew that John McCain was the Republican candidate; she knew that Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama duked it out in the Democratic primaries. She knows that Mr. Obama is the 44th President of the United States. She knows that he is the first African American President of our country.
Interestingly, this morning, Abby asked why John McCain wasn’t our new president. I told her that he didn’t receive enough votes to become president.
She paused and considered this information. And asked,
“Mommy, what’s a vote?”
Interestingly, this morning, Abby asked why John McCain wasn’t our new president. I told her that he didn’t receive enough votes to become president.
She paused and considered this information. And asked,
“Mommy, what’s a vote?”
Monday, January 19, 2009
He Dreamed a Dream
This morning, Hubby and I talked with the kiddos about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. When I asked Abby if she knew who MLK was, she said yes; she saw a picture of him in her classroom. I asked her if she knew why we celebrate his life. She answered that he helped the “brown” children and the “peach” children go to the same school.
We discussed the many gross inequities in our country’s history and how Dr. King’s goal was to have people judged “not…by the color of their skin but by the content of their character”.
We watched moments of his powerful, goose-bump giving 1963 speech, “I Have a Dream.” We talked about the significance of the inauguration of our country’s first African American president, Barack Obama.
After we wrapped our impromptu history lesson, I asked Abby what she now knew about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. She answered,
“He dreamed a dream that everyone would be safe.”
Oh, a child’s perspective. Simultaneously innocent and wise.
I often reflect on the history of our country. Living in Little Rock, where one of the most notable Civil Rights moments occurred, I often take note of the currents. For instance, I could’ve done cartwheels when we first visited Abby’s new Kindergarten class and saw all the beautiful, diverse faces sitting around that room. My heart still skips each time I visit her classroom and see so many different faces smiling at me.
Dr. King also dreamed that, “one day right there in Alabama, little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.”
Well, Dr. King, we’re not in Alabama, but just a little west, here in Arkansas. I see those children holding hands daily. The little “brown” boys and girls, the little “peach” boys and girls, the little Hispanic boys and girls, the little Asian boys and girls…they all hold hands.
Thank you, Dr. King.
(And thank you, Abby, for getting it.)
We discussed the many gross inequities in our country’s history and how Dr. King’s goal was to have people judged “not…by the color of their skin but by the content of their character”.
We watched moments of his powerful, goose-bump giving 1963 speech, “I Have a Dream.” We talked about the significance of the inauguration of our country’s first African American president, Barack Obama.
After we wrapped our impromptu history lesson, I asked Abby what she now knew about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. She answered,
“He dreamed a dream that everyone would be safe.”
Oh, a child’s perspective. Simultaneously innocent and wise.
I often reflect on the history of our country. Living in Little Rock, where one of the most notable Civil Rights moments occurred, I often take note of the currents. For instance, I could’ve done cartwheels when we first visited Abby’s new Kindergarten class and saw all the beautiful, diverse faces sitting around that room. My heart still skips each time I visit her classroom and see so many different faces smiling at me.
Dr. King also dreamed that, “one day right there in Alabama, little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.”
Well, Dr. King, we’re not in Alabama, but just a little west, here in Arkansas. I see those children holding hands daily. The little “brown” boys and girls, the little “peach” boys and girls, the little Hispanic boys and girls, the little Asian boys and girls…they all hold hands.
Thank you, Dr. King.
(And thank you, Abby, for getting it.)
Friday, January 16, 2009
Constants
Henry is two. He has had an ear infection for a minimum of three weeks. He is in pain and he's toast.
Despite constant dosing of pain medication (for Henry), the half-hour tantrums continued. As did the constant crying. The only thing that provided him any solace was a constant, streaming supply of milk and the movie Cars. (Thank you Lightning McQueen and Disney/Pixar. Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you.)
I was calm and patient and nuturing. ALL DAY LONG.
It took:
Constant deep breaths, constant raw cookie dough (at least a dozen cookies worth), and a hefty (but not constant) glass of wine at the end of the day.
Despite constant dosing of pain medication (for Henry), the half-hour tantrums continued. As did the constant crying. The only thing that provided him any solace was a constant, streaming supply of milk and the movie Cars. (Thank you Lightning McQueen and Disney/Pixar. Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you.)
I was calm and patient and nuturing. ALL DAY LONG.
It took:
Constant deep breaths, constant raw cookie dough (at least a dozen cookies worth), and a hefty (but not constant) glass of wine at the end of the day.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
A Doll, A Doll, Henry Has A Doll
Henry’s current object of affection is one of his sister’s cast-off baby dolls. Her name is “My Baby” and Henry sleeps with her, puts her down for naps, checks on her, reports on her well-being and carries her all around the house. He insists that My Baby is swaddled (which his brilliant mother made the mistake of showing him) because he doesn’t like it when My Baby is cold.
I love that Henry loves My Baby. A younger, less-evolved, pedestrian or narrow-minded me might worry that his love of dolls might somehow endanger his future boyhood, potentially setting him up for a life of ridicule or hurt. Luckily, however, I find his fascination fascinating. I embrace and encourage it because I hope that if we allow him to nurture, cuddle and care-take now, he will always be this way. (His daddy, for instance, always had a strong affinity for stuffed animals. One night when he was six, he put the animals to bed and put a lit lamp under the covers with the them so they wouldn’t be frightened in the dark. His family discovered what he’d done when they smelled the smoke from his flaming mattress.) Hubby never lost that trait—the nurturing, not the fire-starting—and my children and I reap the benefits of his caring nature daily.
So, I proudly shout it from my bog—
“A doll, a doll, Henry has a doll!!” (Just like William did in the 1970s in Free To Be You and Me; props to Marlo Thomas and Alan Alda).
Henry loves that doll. Just today, while I got him ready for his nap, he handed me My Baby and her blanket, and said “My Baby no wanna be cold, Mommy.” So as I reswaddled her, again, I told Henry how glad I was that he loved My Baby. And he said,
“It’s not Your Baby, Mommy. Is My Baby.”
(Ok, so we have some work to do on pronouns.) I put My Baby into bed with Henry and he cuddled up with her beneath his covers, so happy he was for My Baby to rejoin him. What a sweet, sweet boy. And his doll.
I love that Henry loves My Baby. A younger, less-evolved, pedestrian or narrow-minded me might worry that his love of dolls might somehow endanger his future boyhood, potentially setting him up for a life of ridicule or hurt. Luckily, however, I find his fascination fascinating. I embrace and encourage it because I hope that if we allow him to nurture, cuddle and care-take now, he will always be this way. (His daddy, for instance, always had a strong affinity for stuffed animals. One night when he was six, he put the animals to bed and put a lit lamp under the covers with the them so they wouldn’t be frightened in the dark. His family discovered what he’d done when they smelled the smoke from his flaming mattress.) Hubby never lost that trait—the nurturing, not the fire-starting—and my children and I reap the benefits of his caring nature daily.
So, I proudly shout it from my bog—
“A doll, a doll, Henry has a doll!!” (Just like William did in the 1970s in Free To Be You and Me; props to Marlo Thomas and Alan Alda).
Henry loves that doll. Just today, while I got him ready for his nap, he handed me My Baby and her blanket, and said “My Baby no wanna be cold, Mommy.” So as I reswaddled her, again, I told Henry how glad I was that he loved My Baby. And he said,
“It’s not Your Baby, Mommy. Is My Baby.”
(Ok, so we have some work to do on pronouns.) I put My Baby into bed with Henry and he cuddled up with her beneath his covers, so happy he was for My Baby to rejoin him. What a sweet, sweet boy. And his doll.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
We Get What We Need
For Christmas this year, my family and I made our gifts for each other (see December's "Withdrawal" blog entry.) Not only did we make our gifts for each other, we made it through my homemade Christmas experiment. In tact.
After my retail-withdrawal tremors subsided, I threw myself into the experience of making gifts for the kids:
I made books for both Abby and Henry. (Now, please don’t roll your cyber eyes at me—they weren’t Martha Stewart masterpieces. Remember, I couldn’t buy ANYTHING and could only utilize the resources available to me at home.) Abby’s book was a rhyming Christmas story about her days leading up to Christmas; I’m fairly certain she will enjoy reading it in the years to come. Henry’s book was a truck extravaganza. I took him to different construction sites and photographed him on giant excavators, diggers and dump trucks. Those outings alone etched many lasting memories.
Hubby and I gave each other early gifts on Christmas Eve. (Minds out of the gutter, please.) We realized simultaneously that neither of us had yet made anything for the other—we both gave each other a homemade-gift pass, breathed huge sighs of relief, and went to bed hours earlier as a result.
Christmas morning finally arrived. We opened Henry’s gift from school—a hand-print Santa. How apropos for our hand-made Christmas.
Abby gave hand-decorated frames to both Daddy and Henry. Each was a huge hit. Santa, the champ that he is, brought small gifts to the kids, too. He also filled their stockings with Cheetos and gum. The wonder abounded when Abby and Henry found these prizes—and the amazement continued when we actually let them eat the Cheetos at 6:30 in the morning.
Hubby created a DVD showcasing the first five years of Abby's life. I now refer to this gift as The Showstopper. The moment I saw it, I started to cry. It was as much a gift for me as it was for her—I was absolutely shocked (and it is near impossible to surprise me).
We all sat together at 6:47 am on Christmas morning and watched that DVD. Hubby and I should’ve grabbed tissues before we started viewing.
My heart soared when I realized that my husband spent a week creating a DVD that recaps our first creation. (Incidentally, that DVD has been requested and watched more than ANY OTHER VIDEO IN OUR HOUSE, EVER.) Watching Abby proudly present her gifts to her daddy and brother, explaining how she made each one, filled me with pride and joy. My soul still stirs when I think of Henry asking me to read him his truck book, over and over again.
The dedication, love and simplicity of the morning amazed me. Interestingly, the usual Christmas night funk that usually hits me when it’s all over never arrived this year. I was full. And happy. We all were. Just what we needed.
Ultimately, Christmas morning delivered many treasures and lessons, none of which were purchased at a store. Soaring hearts. Stirring souls. A reminder of the true purpose of the season. Laughter. And Cheetos. Abby declared it "the best Christmas, ever." I agree.
As I realize all I've learned from this experiment, I'm reminded of the great Stone's lyrics:
“You can’t always get what you want,
But if you try sometime, you just might find,
you get what you need…” – The Rolling Stones
P.S. I loved our Christmas. We'll absolutley fold some part of this into our holiday tradition. However, just in case you think I’ve lost all my retail sensibilities, I want to come clean and report that I’ve been shopping the 75% off sales like a crazy woman. And it’s given me an idea for Christmas 2009…
Homemade Christmas gifts under the tree and post-holiday discounted shopping sprees. Has a nice ring, doesn’t it?
After my retail-withdrawal tremors subsided, I threw myself into the experience of making gifts for the kids:
I made books for both Abby and Henry. (Now, please don’t roll your cyber eyes at me—they weren’t Martha Stewart masterpieces. Remember, I couldn’t buy ANYTHING and could only utilize the resources available to me at home.) Abby’s book was a rhyming Christmas story about her days leading up to Christmas; I’m fairly certain she will enjoy reading it in the years to come. Henry’s book was a truck extravaganza. I took him to different construction sites and photographed him on giant excavators, diggers and dump trucks. Those outings alone etched many lasting memories.
Hubby and I gave each other early gifts on Christmas Eve. (Minds out of the gutter, please.) We realized simultaneously that neither of us had yet made anything for the other—we both gave each other a homemade-gift pass, breathed huge sighs of relief, and went to bed hours earlier as a result.
Christmas morning finally arrived. We opened Henry’s gift from school—a hand-print Santa. How apropos for our hand-made Christmas.
Abby gave hand-decorated frames to both Daddy and Henry. Each was a huge hit. Santa, the champ that he is, brought small gifts to the kids, too. He also filled their stockings with Cheetos and gum. The wonder abounded when Abby and Henry found these prizes—and the amazement continued when we actually let them eat the Cheetos at 6:30 in the morning.
Hubby created a DVD showcasing the first five years of Abby's life. I now refer to this gift as The Showstopper. The moment I saw it, I started to cry. It was as much a gift for me as it was for her—I was absolutely shocked (and it is near impossible to surprise me).
We all sat together at 6:47 am on Christmas morning and watched that DVD. Hubby and I should’ve grabbed tissues before we started viewing.
My heart soared when I realized that my husband spent a week creating a DVD that recaps our first creation. (Incidentally, that DVD has been requested and watched more than ANY OTHER VIDEO IN OUR HOUSE, EVER.) Watching Abby proudly present her gifts to her daddy and brother, explaining how she made each one, filled me with pride and joy. My soul still stirs when I think of Henry asking me to read him his truck book, over and over again.
The dedication, love and simplicity of the morning amazed me. Interestingly, the usual Christmas night funk that usually hits me when it’s all over never arrived this year. I was full. And happy. We all were. Just what we needed.
Ultimately, Christmas morning delivered many treasures and lessons, none of which were purchased at a store. Soaring hearts. Stirring souls. A reminder of the true purpose of the season. Laughter. And Cheetos. Abby declared it "the best Christmas, ever." I agree.
As I realize all I've learned from this experiment, I'm reminded of the great Stone's lyrics:
“You can’t always get what you want,
But if you try sometime, you just might find,
you get what you need…” – The Rolling Stones
P.S. I loved our Christmas. We'll absolutley fold some part of this into our holiday tradition. However, just in case you think I’ve lost all my retail sensibilities, I want to come clean and report that I’ve been shopping the 75% off sales like a crazy woman. And it’s given me an idea for Christmas 2009…
Homemade Christmas gifts under the tree and post-holiday discounted shopping sprees. Has a nice ring, doesn’t it?
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Tidbits
“Mommy, does a sea horse have a back bone?” – Abby
“Mommy, where did your penus go?” – Henry
“This is the best Christmas EVER!!” – Abby
“CHEETOS!!!” – Henry
“Mommy, when will Henry start wearing panties, too?” – Abby
“Honey, will you shave my neck?” – Hubby
“Mommy, I wan a put underwear on my penus.” – Henry
“Why?” – Henry
“It’s not fair!” – Abby
"Why?' - Henry
“Come on Henry, let’s go play in the ice!” – Abby
“Wuv you too, Mommy.” – Henry
“Mommy, where did your penus go?” – Henry
“This is the best Christmas EVER!!” – Abby
“CHEETOS!!!” – Henry
“Mommy, when will Henry start wearing panties, too?” – Abby
“Honey, will you shave my neck?” – Hubby
“Mommy, I wan a put underwear on my penus.” – Henry
“Why?” – Henry
“It’s not fair!” – Abby
"Wipe your bum affer you go poo poo in the potty. Do it now!" - Henry
“Why, Mommy?” – Henry
“Why no have another gum ball?”
(My answer about excess and sugar follows.)
“Why no have another gum ball?”
“Why no have another gum ball?”
“Why no have another gum ball?” – Henry
(He’s just dying for me to say it, isn’t he?)
“Because.” – Me
“Why?” – Henry
“Because I SAID SO!!!!” – Me (Yet another proud parenting moment.)
“Can you stop the car so I can find my gum balls?” – Abby
“Henry, you’re crazy.” – Abby
"Why?' - Henry
“Come on Henry, let’s go play in the ice!” – Abby
“Wuv you too, Mommy.” – Henry
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Withdrawal
This year I proposed to my husband and kids that we have a “homemade” Christmas. Between the four of us, the only gifts we could exchange were ones that are made by us using materials from our house or yard. The prevailing rule is that no one can spend any money on any part of the present.
Much to my delight, everyone agreed!
I’ve crafted fabulous gift ideas for Hubby, Abby and Henry. I’ve yet to start making/writing/photographing any of them.
The thing that surprises me about my homemade proclamation is how it’s affected me--in a fairly profound way. I’m going through retail withdrawal. I’m amazed that I’m feeling slightly empty thinking about a Christmas morning without any store-bought glitz under the tree. I find myself willing deliveries from the UPS man, with visions of retail wonders inside for ME. I'm both shocked and embarrassed by my reaction.
Every time I see an Old Navy TV commercial, I want to sprint to the store to stock up on $10 fleece for the whole family. While in Target, I suddenly find myself browsing the women’s pajamas that I could buy for the kids to give to me.
Why? Does anyone in my family really need a fourth fleece? Has society programmed me, a very willing participant, to buy Christmas? Am I just a retail whore? (Husband—please remember that these are rhetorical questions.)
My husband and I want to impart the true meaning of the holiday season to our children. We feel that by putting energy into others and by taking time to make thoughtful gifts, we will help them learn this lesson. As Dr. Seuss so wisely inspires in The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, "What if Christmas...doesn't come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more."
A good friend of mine says that we teach that which we need to learn.
I have a very, very wise friend.
Much to my delight, everyone agreed!
I’ve crafted fabulous gift ideas for Hubby, Abby and Henry. I’ve yet to start making/writing/photographing any of them.
The thing that surprises me about my homemade proclamation is how it’s affected me--in a fairly profound way. I’m going through retail withdrawal. I’m amazed that I’m feeling slightly empty thinking about a Christmas morning without any store-bought glitz under the tree. I find myself willing deliveries from the UPS man, with visions of retail wonders inside for ME. I'm both shocked and embarrassed by my reaction.
Every time I see an Old Navy TV commercial, I want to sprint to the store to stock up on $10 fleece for the whole family. While in Target, I suddenly find myself browsing the women’s pajamas that I could buy for the kids to give to me.
Why? Does anyone in my family really need a fourth fleece? Has society programmed me, a very willing participant, to buy Christmas? Am I just a retail whore? (Husband—please remember that these are rhetorical questions.)
My husband and I want to impart the true meaning of the holiday season to our children. We feel that by putting energy into others and by taking time to make thoughtful gifts, we will help them learn this lesson. As Dr. Seuss so wisely inspires in The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, "What if Christmas...doesn't come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more."
A good friend of mine says that we teach that which we need to learn.
I have a very, very wise friend.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Expat Yankees
I just came inside from the ice storm that currently inhibits Little Rock. Most sane southerners have been safely inside, staying warm. But my husband, son, daughter and I all finished dinner, donned our jackets and dashed outside to enjoy the wintry weather.
It was beautiful. It was dark. And cold. Our chimney scented the air with fragrant smoke and all cheeks were rosy, all eyes shining. We laughed, danced and giggled through the almost-there snow flakes, trying carefully not to slip on the more prominent ice.
Since I’m out of winter practice, I forgot to put on a hat. My hair began to freeze and this was my signal to escape inside to the fire. As I sat by the dancing flames, I listened to my husband, Abby and Henry outside, scraping together snow balls. (Since we do live in the south, this required a shovel to pry the “snow” up from the deck.)
I love that after all these years, Brian and I still love winter. We love the contrast of the ice and snow against the warm lull of a crackling fire. I love the red cheeks flaming against the winter skin. I love that my children love the winter. I love watching them celebrate the novelty of their origins.
They just came inside. Abby said to hubby, “It’s so nice to be home.”
My sentiments exactly.
It was beautiful. It was dark. And cold. Our chimney scented the air with fragrant smoke and all cheeks were rosy, all eyes shining. We laughed, danced and giggled through the almost-there snow flakes, trying carefully not to slip on the more prominent ice.
Since I’m out of winter practice, I forgot to put on a hat. My hair began to freeze and this was my signal to escape inside to the fire. As I sat by the dancing flames, I listened to my husband, Abby and Henry outside, scraping together snow balls. (Since we do live in the south, this required a shovel to pry the “snow” up from the deck.)
I love that after all these years, Brian and I still love winter. We love the contrast of the ice and snow against the warm lull of a crackling fire. I love the red cheeks flaming against the winter skin. I love that my children love the winter. I love watching them celebrate the novelty of their origins.
They just came inside. Abby said to hubby, “It’s so nice to be home.”
My sentiments exactly.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Moments of the Season
As a mother, I cherish it all:
Hugging Henry while his diaper is poop-filled and his face is covered with Abby’s kiwi mango melon lip gloss.
Tripping on Henry’s intricate trail of choo choo train tracks which have used my dresser for topographical interest.
Negotiating with Abby about how many red, green and silver Hershey’s kisses are really too many (while internally apologizing to her for passing down the “I-must-have-chocolate” gene).
Dashing down the driveway with Henry in search of the leaf blower that is “making dat noiwse”.
Receiving an early morning visit from a coughing daughter, snuggling in close and tight.
Reading a book to Henry and drifting off to sleep while his warm, just-washed head is nuzzled into mine.
Laughing with Abby while making our coveted Buckeyes about super-silly things which still elicit giggling in my heart.
Hanging Christmas lights with Henry's help which includes his standing on the last step of the step stool so I can't step down.
Realizing with a saddened heart that this might be the last Christmas that Abby innocently believes in Santa.
Rejoicing that Henry is just learning about that right jolly old elf.
Looking forward to helping Abby realize that Santa always lives in the hearts of those who truly believe.
Giving thanks for each moment this season brings.
Hugging Henry while his diaper is poop-filled and his face is covered with Abby’s kiwi mango melon lip gloss.
Tripping on Henry’s intricate trail of choo choo train tracks which have used my dresser for topographical interest.
Negotiating with Abby about how many red, green and silver Hershey’s kisses are really too many (while internally apologizing to her for passing down the “I-must-have-chocolate” gene).
Dashing down the driveway with Henry in search of the leaf blower that is “making dat noiwse”.
Receiving an early morning visit from a coughing daughter, snuggling in close and tight.
Reading a book to Henry and drifting off to sleep while his warm, just-washed head is nuzzled into mine.
Laughing with Abby while making our coveted Buckeyes about super-silly things which still elicit giggling in my heart.
Hanging Christmas lights with Henry's help which includes his standing on the last step of the step stool so I can't step down.
Realizing with a saddened heart that this might be the last Christmas that Abby innocently believes in Santa.
Rejoicing that Henry is just learning about that right jolly old elf.
Looking forward to helping Abby realize that Santa always lives in the hearts of those who truly believe.
Giving thanks for each moment this season brings.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Mumbai
A tragic casualty of the Mumbai terror is a now-orphaned two-year-old boy, Moshe; his parents were murdered in the assaults. His father was a Rabbi, originally from the States and his mother was an Israeli.
I watched the heartrending footage of this two-year-old’s parents’ funeral as he cried out repeatedly, “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” I am glad my children were not in the room because I crumbled to the floor in sorrow. I cried for him, for his parents and for the unfolding of my worst fears.
This child’s reality is my worst nightmare. I dare say it is every parent’s nightmare, dying while our children are young and leaving them in the hands of others.
How can a two-year-old understand that Mommy and Daddy aren’t coming back? How can a five-year-old comprehend the loss of her parents?
I know that Abby and Henry would survive and even thrive in a post-parent world. There are many who have done just that after loosing a parent or parents. The black cloud of raw fear that unravels my heart is that my children don’t yet know that they will be ok if Brian and I were to die.
I’ll hold in my heart that they will thrive and hope that because I believe it, they will, too. I’ll continue to write them letters of encouragement, take photos and fill them with love. I’ll kiss their cheeks and hands and hug them silly. I’ll create lasting memories. I’ll lead a life that fulfills me, one which my children will be proud to recant with laughter, through tears, after I’m gone.
For now, we continue to live. I hold my children tight. I instill in them my love, my values, my empathy, my joys and my essence. I teach them how to quiet the noise and listen to their hearts. I hold on and hold dear because I don’t know when I’ll have to let go and let someone else do the holding.
If the unimaginable happens, when Henry cries out, “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!”, someone can hold him close and draw pictures in his mind of me, of who I was and how I loved him—and he’ll remember. When Abby cries, “But I told Mommy and Daddy that I didn’t want them to ever die!”, someone can fold her into their arms and explain that we will always live in her heart.
My most sincere wish today is for the well-being of little Moshe, whose parents are now living in his memories and his heart.
I watched the heartrending footage of this two-year-old’s parents’ funeral as he cried out repeatedly, “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” I am glad my children were not in the room because I crumbled to the floor in sorrow. I cried for him, for his parents and for the unfolding of my worst fears.
This child’s reality is my worst nightmare. I dare say it is every parent’s nightmare, dying while our children are young and leaving them in the hands of others.
How can a two-year-old understand that Mommy and Daddy aren’t coming back? How can a five-year-old comprehend the loss of her parents?
I know that Abby and Henry would survive and even thrive in a post-parent world. There are many who have done just that after loosing a parent or parents. The black cloud of raw fear that unravels my heart is that my children don’t yet know that they will be ok if Brian and I were to die.
I’ll hold in my heart that they will thrive and hope that because I believe it, they will, too. I’ll continue to write them letters of encouragement, take photos and fill them with love. I’ll kiss their cheeks and hands and hug them silly. I’ll create lasting memories. I’ll lead a life that fulfills me, one which my children will be proud to recant with laughter, through tears, after I’m gone.
For now, we continue to live. I hold my children tight. I instill in them my love, my values, my empathy, my joys and my essence. I teach them how to quiet the noise and listen to their hearts. I hold on and hold dear because I don’t know when I’ll have to let go and let someone else do the holding.
If the unimaginable happens, when Henry cries out, “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!”, someone can hold him close and draw pictures in his mind of me, of who I was and how I loved him—and he’ll remember. When Abby cries, “But I told Mommy and Daddy that I didn’t want them to ever die!”, someone can fold her into their arms and explain that we will always live in her heart.
My most sincere wish today is for the well-being of little Moshe, whose parents are now living in his memories and his heart.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
The Deck
Last week, Henry and I were on the back deck, just hanging out. Well, I was hanging out and he did the two-year-version of hanging out…
“Mommy, wook (look), an airplane!”
“Mommy, I heawr an airplane!”
(Run in a circle. Jump up on the bench. Hands in the pockets.)
“Oooohhh, Mommy, wook, a twee (tree)!”
As I’ve been trying to do as of late, I just enjoyed the connectedness and peace of the moment with Henry.
Then, he says,
“Mommy, who is dat?”
I look over and see our neighbor, Miss Ida, out on her back deck. A man stood with her, looking up at the sky and around her yard.
“That’s Miss Ida”, I quietly told Henry, “our neighbor.”
“HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!”, yells Henry.
Miss Ida smiles and yells over the fence, “Hi Henry! Denise, this is my son, Greg.” We exchange hellos.
Miss Ida is about 90. (She was married to her first husband during World War II.) Greg is probably somewhere in his mid 60s. It struck me that although they’ve lived a lot more life than I, and now live it in different states, there Miss Ida and her son were, hanging out together on the back deck.
Mother and son, mother and son. Each on the back deck. One gently preparing to launch her son and the other tenderly receiving her son’s landing, his return home.
It was both symbolic and reassuring, knowing that even though those daily mother-son moments become less frequent in their recurrence, they continue. Continue to comfort and flow through decades and generations.
Maybe it comforts me because I am hopeful that Henry will always come home. Maybe it’s because I’ll always be his mom. And maybe it’s because he’ll always be my son, returning to the back deck, hands in his pockets, checking out the world.
“Mommy, wook (look), an airplane!”
“Mommy, I heawr an airplane!”
(Run in a circle. Jump up on the bench. Hands in the pockets.)
“Oooohhh, Mommy, wook, a twee (tree)!”
As I’ve been trying to do as of late, I just enjoyed the connectedness and peace of the moment with Henry.
Then, he says,
“Mommy, who is dat?”
I look over and see our neighbor, Miss Ida, out on her back deck. A man stood with her, looking up at the sky and around her yard.
“That’s Miss Ida”, I quietly told Henry, “our neighbor.”
“HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!”, yells Henry.
Miss Ida smiles and yells over the fence, “Hi Henry! Denise, this is my son, Greg.” We exchange hellos.
Miss Ida is about 90. (She was married to her first husband during World War II.) Greg is probably somewhere in his mid 60s. It struck me that although they’ve lived a lot more life than I, and now live it in different states, there Miss Ida and her son were, hanging out together on the back deck.
Mother and son, mother and son. Each on the back deck. One gently preparing to launch her son and the other tenderly receiving her son’s landing, his return home.
It was both symbolic and reassuring, knowing that even though those daily mother-son moments become less frequent in their recurrence, they continue. Continue to comfort and flow through decades and generations.
Maybe it comforts me because I am hopeful that Henry will always come home. Maybe it’s because I’ll always be his mom. And maybe it’s because he’ll always be my son, returning to the back deck, hands in his pockets, checking out the world.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Four and a Half Hours
For the last two weeks, each time I pick Abby up from school, the first thing out of her mouth has been, “What did you bring for a snack?”
When my response is one that does not meet her expectations, she starts whining and almost sobbing out some story about how I said that I would bring something else, or how she doesn’t like what I brought and it's just not fair. Her reactions make me crazy.
Today, I delivered my long-coming response. I was firm, swift and direct.
“Stop complaining about the snacks I bring. I don’t have to bring snacks. Who doesn’t like Cheezits/pretzels/gold fish? You should thank me for always bringing you food. If you whine or complain one more time about the snack choice I select for you, I will stop bringing snacks.”
In hindsight, a more refined (and effective) reply might have been,
“Let’s plan out the snacks together so we can avoid this type of turmoil in the future.” (Ahhhh, hindsight….)
So, those were the first frays of the unraveling of the last 4 1/2 waking hours with my children. There were bright moments. But unfortunately, the many dark moments eclipsed the slivers of sunshine.
So, after the snack debacle, we headed to ballet. While Abby attended her lesson, Henry and I did our usual dance: Redirect. Run. Redirect. Run. When we (finally) got in the car, Abby asked what we were having for dinner. I asked what she might like to have. She requested quesadillas. Because there is a gracious God above, I had the makings for said quesadillas.
We got home. I started making quesadillas. Henry repeated “pick me up pick me up pick me up” through dripping tears when, of course, I couldn’t. Kate started coloring. When dinner was ready, I delivered tasty, REQUESTED quesadillas to the children. Kate asked if she could finish the sky on her drawing before eating. I said,
“Sure.”
She wrapped up coloring and moved onto eating. She took a bite and spit out that bite.
“Mommy, these quesadillas are too dry.”
“Are you &*$%ing kidding me??!?!?”, I mentally retort. What I say aloud is, “What? They’re great! They’ve just cooled off.”
Big bottom lip comes to visit. Abby sits there and I watch her attempt to work herself into a large lather. “Will you,” sniffle sniffle, “please make me another quesadilla when you’ve finished eating?”
(At least her manners are impeccable.)
“Abby", I reply, "I made you exactly what you wanted for dinner. I let you finish coloring before you ate exactly what you wanted for dinner. And now you’re crying and telling me that they’re too DRY?”
Up until now, Henry has been quietly eating. He chooses this moment to start bombing our sisal rug with peas and quesadillas. The evening (and my patience) finished unraveling at this point. I’ll spare you the rest of the gory details, but I will tell you that it culminated with Abby in the bathroom, naked, sitting on the potty and bawling. She stopped crying long enough to throw Henry out of the bathroom.
I sat at the empty (more proof of the aforementioned gracious God) kitchen table wondering what in the hell happened. I ate my last bits of chicken quesadilla and savored my last sips of wine.
The evening was raw, emotional and ugly. I reminded myself that just because they are in foul moods doesn’t mean that I have to be, too. I told myself that it was great that they could unwind and land in the soft arms of home and mom. But, what I told myself and what I felt were, shall we say, slightly conflicted. I felt angry, frustrated and annoyed. Four hours can be an eternity at the end of the day.
Now, since the din has gone to bed, I can assuredly recap with these two thoughts:
1. I am so, so glad my whiney, worn-out children are asleep.
2. My life would be gaping without quesadilla bombs, quivering bottom lips and crocodile tears.
I'll take any four hours with them, even stretches like these. My wish for them tonight: sleep tight, sleepy children. Sweet dreams.
When my response is one that does not meet her expectations, she starts whining and almost sobbing out some story about how I said that I would bring something else, or how she doesn’t like what I brought and it's just not fair. Her reactions make me crazy.
Today, I delivered my long-coming response. I was firm, swift and direct.
“Stop complaining about the snacks I bring. I don’t have to bring snacks. Who doesn’t like Cheezits/pretzels/gold fish? You should thank me for always bringing you food. If you whine or complain one more time about the snack choice I select for you, I will stop bringing snacks.”
In hindsight, a more refined (and effective) reply might have been,
“Let’s plan out the snacks together so we can avoid this type of turmoil in the future.” (Ahhhh, hindsight….)
So, those were the first frays of the unraveling of the last 4 1/2 waking hours with my children. There were bright moments. But unfortunately, the many dark moments eclipsed the slivers of sunshine.
So, after the snack debacle, we headed to ballet. While Abby attended her lesson, Henry and I did our usual dance: Redirect. Run. Redirect. Run. When we (finally) got in the car, Abby asked what we were having for dinner. I asked what she might like to have. She requested quesadillas. Because there is a gracious God above, I had the makings for said quesadillas.
We got home. I started making quesadillas. Henry repeated “pick me up pick me up pick me up” through dripping tears when, of course, I couldn’t. Kate started coloring. When dinner was ready, I delivered tasty, REQUESTED quesadillas to the children. Kate asked if she could finish the sky on her drawing before eating. I said,
“Sure.”
She wrapped up coloring and moved onto eating. She took a bite and spit out that bite.
“Mommy, these quesadillas are too dry.”
“Are you &*$%ing kidding me??!?!?”, I mentally retort. What I say aloud is, “What? They’re great! They’ve just cooled off.”
Big bottom lip comes to visit. Abby sits there and I watch her attempt to work herself into a large lather. “Will you,” sniffle sniffle, “please make me another quesadilla when you’ve finished eating?”
(At least her manners are impeccable.)
“Abby", I reply, "I made you exactly what you wanted for dinner. I let you finish coloring before you ate exactly what you wanted for dinner. And now you’re crying and telling me that they’re too DRY?”
Up until now, Henry has been quietly eating. He chooses this moment to start bombing our sisal rug with peas and quesadillas. The evening (and my patience) finished unraveling at this point. I’ll spare you the rest of the gory details, but I will tell you that it culminated with Abby in the bathroom, naked, sitting on the potty and bawling. She stopped crying long enough to throw Henry out of the bathroom.
I sat at the empty (more proof of the aforementioned gracious God) kitchen table wondering what in the hell happened. I ate my last bits of chicken quesadilla and savored my last sips of wine.
The evening was raw, emotional and ugly. I reminded myself that just because they are in foul moods doesn’t mean that I have to be, too. I told myself that it was great that they could unwind and land in the soft arms of home and mom. But, what I told myself and what I felt were, shall we say, slightly conflicted. I felt angry, frustrated and annoyed. Four hours can be an eternity at the end of the day.
Now, since the din has gone to bed, I can assuredly recap with these two thoughts:
1. I am so, so glad my whiney, worn-out children are asleep.
2. My life would be gaping without quesadilla bombs, quivering bottom lips and crocodile tears.
I'll take any four hours with them, even stretches like these. My wish for them tonight: sleep tight, sleepy children. Sweet dreams.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Not So Bitter End
Tonight the cold descended on Little Rock. Beautifully crisp and clear, the night called out for our first fire. So built it we did and enjoy it we did. It was perfect.
The sun set. I turned on some music and the Dixie Chicks' song, “Bitter End” came on.
“Farewell to old friends, let’s raise our glass to the bitter end.”
This song always makes me think of endings and beginnings. I’ve said goodbye to many friends throughout my tenure. Each time I hear these lyrics, I think of those friends, not often seen but still just as dear. As I sat there in the fire lit dusk, listening, Henry paused by my perch on the couch. I kissed his sweet blond head, soaking up his two-year-old-boy scent. Like a gust of the cold front blowing outside, I catapulted to the future; to his leaving for college, to his wedding day. To many steps, that I want him to take, no matter how much they make my heart ache. It would make my heart ache more if he did not or could not take them.
As I was projecting to the future, Henry hopped onto his riding Mater (from Cars, you know, "just like tuh-mater without the tuh"…), looked up at me and said,
“Goodbye.”
And ambled away.
Just a slice of what’s to come. I’ll wish him well as I’m raising my glass to my bittersweet end and his joyous beginning, which will, as it always does, become my blissful beginning, too.
P.S. I bolted upstairs to my computer to write this. Henry must have seen me because I just heard a sound traveling down the hall toward me. He came into the room with a grin and his big, yellow Tonka truck. He said, “Hi Mommy!”. Ahhhhhh. Yet another joyous beginning.
The sun set. I turned on some music and the Dixie Chicks' song, “Bitter End” came on.
“Farewell to old friends, let’s raise our glass to the bitter end.”
This song always makes me think of endings and beginnings. I’ve said goodbye to many friends throughout my tenure. Each time I hear these lyrics, I think of those friends, not often seen but still just as dear. As I sat there in the fire lit dusk, listening, Henry paused by my perch on the couch. I kissed his sweet blond head, soaking up his two-year-old-boy scent. Like a gust of the cold front blowing outside, I catapulted to the future; to his leaving for college, to his wedding day. To many steps, that I want him to take, no matter how much they make my heart ache. It would make my heart ache more if he did not or could not take them.
As I was projecting to the future, Henry hopped onto his riding Mater (from Cars, you know, "just like tuh-mater without the tuh"…), looked up at me and said,
“Goodbye.”
And ambled away.
Just a slice of what’s to come. I’ll wish him well as I’m raising my glass to my bittersweet end and his joyous beginning, which will, as it always does, become my blissful beginning, too.
P.S. I bolted upstairs to my computer to write this. Henry must have seen me because I just heard a sound traveling down the hall toward me. He came into the room with a grin and his big, yellow Tonka truck. He said, “Hi Mommy!”. Ahhhhhh. Yet another joyous beginning.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Autumnal Catalyst
Fall is a time of obvious change. The weather changes and so do my outlook and my mood—my body leaps at the chance to enjoy cool weather and pending snow.
But it’s more than a time of change. It is a powerful catalyst for introspection. Autumn allows my innermost inklings and hopes to dance their way to the surface, jumping from their buried spot in my soul to the forefront of my heart and brain, primed and ready for action.
I love this season. Maybe I’ve mentioned it before. Maybe it's because this is the time of year I met my husband. Maybe it’s because I never tire of the stark contrast between the Crayola colors of the leaves blazing against the bright royal sky. One thing I know for certain--I love how the cold pushes me both inside and out, both physically and metaphorically. Out to embrace the stunning transformation and in to warm slippers, hearty stews, cozy fires and the pending changes within me.
But it’s more than a time of change. It is a powerful catalyst for introspection. Autumn allows my innermost inklings and hopes to dance their way to the surface, jumping from their buried spot in my soul to the forefront of my heart and brain, primed and ready for action.
I love this season. Maybe I’ve mentioned it before. Maybe it's because this is the time of year I met my husband. Maybe it’s because I never tire of the stark contrast between the Crayola colors of the leaves blazing against the bright royal sky. One thing I know for certain--I love how the cold pushes me both inside and out, both physically and metaphorically. Out to embrace the stunning transformation and in to warm slippers, hearty stews, cozy fires and the pending changes within me.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Remembering
“In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night….You-oh you will have stars that can laugh! And when your sorrow is comforted (time soothes all sorrows) you will be content that you have known me. You will always be my friend. You will want to laugh with me. And you will sometimes open your window, as you gaze up at the stars. It will be as if, in place of the stars, I had given you a great number of little bells that knew how to laugh…I shall not leave you.
Here, then, is a great mystery. For you who also love the little prince, and for me, nothing in the universe can be the same.”
Antoine de Saint Exupery, The Little Prince
Here, then, is a great mystery. For you who also love the little prince, and for me, nothing in the universe can be the same.”
Antoine de Saint Exupery, The Little Prince
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