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.
Monday, December 8, 2008
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
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Reprieve
While Henry and I sat in his glider reading books, we heard the nursery rhyme songs of Abby and Daddy dancing through the hallway and into our space. Henry said,
“Sissy singing?”
“Yes, sweet boy, Sissy singing.”
He hugged me. We finished Goodnight, Gorilla, and cuddled our way over to his crib. Henry snuggled in, cooing sweet nothings to himself.
No screaming, no scratching, no tantrum, no crying.
I padded over to Abby’s room to join and enjoy the evening wrap up. She read us Hop On Pop—I was mesmerized listening to her practice her newly acquired skill. (We’re still working on Constantinople and Timbuktu….)
A wonderful nightcap. A blissful, goodnight reprieve.
“Sissy singing?”
“Yes, sweet boy, Sissy singing.”
He hugged me. We finished Goodnight, Gorilla, and cuddled our way over to his crib. Henry snuggled in, cooing sweet nothings to himself.
No screaming, no scratching, no tantrum, no crying.
I padded over to Abby’s room to join and enjoy the evening wrap up. She read us Hop On Pop—I was mesmerized listening to her practice her newly acquired skill. (We’re still working on Constantinople and Timbuktu….)
A wonderful nightcap. A blissful, goodnight reprieve.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Scratch That
Yesterday I wrote about my new turn and how I’ve been espousing grace and level-headedness during Henry’s tantrums.
Cancel all calls to the Academy. I’ve got some work to do on … something. But I’m not sure what. Every time Henry saw me yesterday, he started whining or crying or whimpering. He’d be happily playing with Brian and Abby. Laughing, smiling, chubby cheeks glowing. Then I’d show up and he’d immediately contort his face into a crabby grimace.
This has been happening for days and days but yesterday brought his behavior to a huge crescendo. I felt fairly flat.
After the kids were asleep, I jumped into the shower to wash off my frustration and general malaise. Out came my personal boxing gloves:
"I’m a rotten parent."
"Why does my presence elicit such miserable behavior from my son?"
"What am I doing wrong?"
"Why do I allow myself to wallow along with him? Why aren’t I staying calm, cool and collected internally as well as externally?"
What I wouldn’t give to be a cool cucumber once again.
Cancel all calls to the Academy. I’ve got some work to do on … something. But I’m not sure what. Every time Henry saw me yesterday, he started whining or crying or whimpering. He’d be happily playing with Brian and Abby. Laughing, smiling, chubby cheeks glowing. Then I’d show up and he’d immediately contort his face into a crabby grimace.
This has been happening for days and days but yesterday brought his behavior to a huge crescendo. I felt fairly flat.
After the kids were asleep, I jumped into the shower to wash off my frustration and general malaise. Out came my personal boxing gloves:
"I’m a rotten parent."
"Why does my presence elicit such miserable behavior from my son?"
"What am I doing wrong?"
"Why do I allow myself to wallow along with him? Why aren’t I staying calm, cool and collected internally as well as externally?"
What I wouldn’t give to be a cool cucumber once again.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Oscar Nod
For the past three days, I have been calm. Collected. Some might mistake me for a cucumber I’ve been so cool. I’ve been trying a new strategy with Henry. When he becomes enraged, hysterical and physical (which he does at least twice a day), I become tranquil and composed. When he reacts with high-pitched temper-tantrum screams, my voice becomes smooth, velvety and low.
I transform myself into the exact opposite of Henry.
Even though it's working, it’s a huge façade. Inside, I am just as enraged, hot and mad as he is. Really, how often do I need to tell him not to use cabinet and draw pulls as climbing rungs? How many times does it take before he understands that I really mean it when I say, “Henry, we’re going to turn the water off, now.” How many times do I need to explain that I will take a turn brushing his teeth? And how often will he tantrum himself into a blind, furious rage?
A lot.
Therefore I will continue my peaceful front. I will teach Henry how to act and live all while dampening my frustration and anger. Call the Academy Awards—I see an Oscar nod coming my way. (I might nominate myself I’m so impressed with my acting prowess.) Hopefully, Oscar will nod me all the way to the red carpet where I’ll receive accolades for my skill and composure. Even if I don’t get the nod, I know that Oscar will be proud. And so will I.
I transform myself into the exact opposite of Henry.
Even though it's working, it’s a huge façade. Inside, I am just as enraged, hot and mad as he is. Really, how often do I need to tell him not to use cabinet and draw pulls as climbing rungs? How many times does it take before he understands that I really mean it when I say, “Henry, we’re going to turn the water off, now.” How many times do I need to explain that I will take a turn brushing his teeth? And how often will he tantrum himself into a blind, furious rage?
A lot.
Therefore I will continue my peaceful front. I will teach Henry how to act and live all while dampening my frustration and anger. Call the Academy Awards—I see an Oscar nod coming my way. (I might nominate myself I’m so impressed with my acting prowess.) Hopefully, Oscar will nod me all the way to the red carpet where I’ll receive accolades for my skill and composure. Even if I don’t get the nod, I know that Oscar will be proud. And so will I.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Priorities
Finish loading the dishwasher. Finish cutting the cucumbers. Finish sending an email. Finish changing diapers. When I’m in a get-things-done whirl, I hear Abby ask,
“Mommy, would you do a puzzle with me?”
“Mommy, can you do the wheel barrel with me?”
And Henry usually pipes in with, “Mama, hold you??”
“Just a second….” Or “I’m coming….” I usually reply.
When she was three, Abby started to say in response, “But I don’t see you coming…”
She called me on the carpet at the tender age of three. She was right. I wasn’t coming. I was a good five to ten minutes away from joining her. Why didn’t I just say so? So I upgraded to, “Just a minute, sweetie…” , delaying the inevitable push for my time, undervaluing my daughter and reinforcing the fact that I definitely cannot keep time.
My reality is that some of these important tasks have to be done and cannot be put off. For instance, if the dishwasher is full and the sink is full of dirty dishes, I have to put away and reload. On garbage day, I have to take the cans and recycling to the curb. I have to feed the family and clean up the kitchen and I have to make lunches. And although they must feel valued, children also must learn that they can’t always have what they want exactly when they want it. Wheel barrel races and snuggles must wait.
My other truth is that sometimes I deem tasks as urgent when really, well, they’re not. This feigned urgency is insidious, quietly creeping into my time with my family with more and more frequency. No one wins in the “Just a Minute” world. I would love to play, but I have to get other things done, too. I’m frustrated that I’m not able to finish a task and they’re understandably aggravated that Mommy is always saying, “Just this one more thing…”
So I’m recalibrating my priorities. I'm getting off the carpet and I’m going to be a better time manager. Does it really HAVE to be done now (or do I just WANT it to be done now?). If it’s gotta be done, I’m going to honestly estimate the time needed to complete it and set my kids’ expectations accordingly. I’m gonna try. Because if I continue at my current pace it won’t matter how many other things I've gotten done if my children are unhappy because they can’t catch a slot on my To Do list.
“Mommy, would you do a puzzle with me?”
“Mommy, can you do the wheel barrel with me?”
And Henry usually pipes in with, “Mama, hold you??”
“Just a second….” Or “I’m coming….” I usually reply.
When she was three, Abby started to say in response, “But I don’t see you coming…”
She called me on the carpet at the tender age of three. She was right. I wasn’t coming. I was a good five to ten minutes away from joining her. Why didn’t I just say so? So I upgraded to, “Just a minute, sweetie…” , delaying the inevitable push for my time, undervaluing my daughter and reinforcing the fact that I definitely cannot keep time.
My reality is that some of these important tasks have to be done and cannot be put off. For instance, if the dishwasher is full and the sink is full of dirty dishes, I have to put away and reload. On garbage day, I have to take the cans and recycling to the curb. I have to feed the family and clean up the kitchen and I have to make lunches. And although they must feel valued, children also must learn that they can’t always have what they want exactly when they want it. Wheel barrel races and snuggles must wait.
My other truth is that sometimes I deem tasks as urgent when really, well, they’re not. This feigned urgency is insidious, quietly creeping into my time with my family with more and more frequency. No one wins in the “Just a Minute” world. I would love to play, but I have to get other things done, too. I’m frustrated that I’m not able to finish a task and they’re understandably aggravated that Mommy is always saying, “Just this one more thing…”
So I’m recalibrating my priorities. I'm getting off the carpet and I’m going to be a better time manager. Does it really HAVE to be done now (or do I just WANT it to be done now?). If it’s gotta be done, I’m going to honestly estimate the time needed to complete it and set my kids’ expectations accordingly. I’m gonna try. Because if I continue at my current pace it won’t matter how many other things I've gotten done if my children are unhappy because they can’t catch a slot on my To Do list.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Crunchy Crunchy Crunchy
Fall has arrived in Little Rock. The crisp mornings and sun drenched afternoons resonate with my Midwestern sensibilities. It was 55 glorious degrees this morning. I had to put on a vest to keep warm while driving the kids to school. Zip-a-dee-frickin-do-dah!
The painted leaves amass more and more each day. I can put my shorts away (I know all friends will be glad to have a reprieve from my suntan-faded legs until spring) and stretch into long-sleeved tshirts and jeans. And fleece. Just the sound of the word makes me giddy with the anticipation of winter. Rock it. Break it down weather. It’s human weather, cherishable weather, skip-and-clip-your-heels-together weather.
Tonight the kids and I sat on the deck. I enjoyed a lovely Pinot Noir. I was chilly. They were chilly. No one was sweating. No bugs got stuck in our sweat. No bathing was necessary after being outside, in the evening, for 10 short minutes. I watered the plants and hummed a song rather than ripping the weather a new one under my breath. We could hear the reverberations of the high school football game, the announcer’s voice and the muted drum beats celebrating the home team’s touchdown. The snap in the air was not only audible but palpable, resting on our skin and tongues.
For as much as I’ve wallowed in my absolute disgust at the early autumn weather here, I have to give a big shout out to the current weather pattern. It is so lovely I could cry. I just might. Right after I pay homage to the weather gods.
The painted leaves amass more and more each day. I can put my shorts away (I know all friends will be glad to have a reprieve from my suntan-faded legs until spring) and stretch into long-sleeved tshirts and jeans. And fleece. Just the sound of the word makes me giddy with the anticipation of winter. Rock it. Break it down weather. It’s human weather, cherishable weather, skip-and-clip-your-heels-together weather.
Tonight the kids and I sat on the deck. I enjoyed a lovely Pinot Noir. I was chilly. They were chilly. No one was sweating. No bugs got stuck in our sweat. No bathing was necessary after being outside, in the evening, for 10 short minutes. I watered the plants and hummed a song rather than ripping the weather a new one under my breath. We could hear the reverberations of the high school football game, the announcer’s voice and the muted drum beats celebrating the home team’s touchdown. The snap in the air was not only audible but palpable, resting on our skin and tongues.
For as much as I’ve wallowed in my absolute disgust at the early autumn weather here, I have to give a big shout out to the current weather pattern. It is so lovely I could cry. I just might. Right after I pay homage to the weather gods.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Gifts
Today, Henry came out of his preschool wearing his big orange back pack. He loves that backpack and I love him. As I watched him walk to the car (and thanked my lucky stars for the pickup line), tears swelled in my eyes. So many thoughts and correlating emotions surfaced in that moment—
That backpack is as big as he is.
He’s no longer a baby.
Abby just toddled out of those same preschool doors, wearing her very own backpack. Now she is a Kindergartener.
Three years is not a long time. Just moments. A blink. Zooooommmmm.
Before I know it, Henry too will be in Kindergarten.
I choked back more tears.
I have the benefit of experiencing life on the other side of the two-year-old pick-up line and Abby grants me this gift of perspective. As a result, I soak up and appreciate the minutes I have with Henry. It’s more challenging with the oldest because there is no one ahead of them gifting 20/20 hindsight. But, I will fold these learnings into my moments with Abby as she pioneers her childhood as the eldest child.
So, if you’ll excuse me, I going to stop writing and go run up and down a corridor and jump off of a big rock with Henry. As we run outside, Abby is inside learning ballet, leaping into her new year. When she’s done, instead of instinctively rushing to our car, I’ll let her leap off the rock, too. And hopefully, in so doing, I will somehow slow the leap of time.
That backpack is as big as he is.
He’s no longer a baby.
Abby just toddled out of those same preschool doors, wearing her very own backpack. Now she is a Kindergartener.
Three years is not a long time. Just moments. A blink. Zooooommmmm.
Before I know it, Henry too will be in Kindergarten.
I choked back more tears.
I have the benefit of experiencing life on the other side of the two-year-old pick-up line and Abby grants me this gift of perspective. As a result, I soak up and appreciate the minutes I have with Henry. It’s more challenging with the oldest because there is no one ahead of them gifting 20/20 hindsight. But, I will fold these learnings into my moments with Abby as she pioneers her childhood as the eldest child.
So, if you’ll excuse me, I going to stop writing and go run up and down a corridor and jump off of a big rock with Henry. As we run outside, Abby is inside learning ballet, leaping into her new year. When she’s done, instead of instinctively rushing to our car, I’ll let her leap off the rock, too. And hopefully, in so doing, I will somehow slow the leap of time.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Questions
I’m currently reading a fascinating book of essays, all written by mothers. It’s called Mommy Wars, edited and compiled by Leslie Morgan Steiner.
As the title predicts, Morgan Steiner sets out to understand why we have an ongoing battle in our society about mothers’ choices. She wanted to gain perspectives from women in each place: those with paying careers and those without, and all the places in between. Are there mommies who truly love staying home? Are there mommies who are so happy working? Yes and yes. Are there some that fall somewhere in between? Yes. I have enjoyed reading each of these women’s stories about each of their entrees into mommyhood.
Why do you work?
Why do you stay home?
It is my question. It is your question. It is our question. But my answer is really none of your business. And your answer is none of mine. Nonetheless, our overall question prevails—answers and decisions instigate friction and all-out-war between otherwise civil, smart, level-headed women.
The only constant in these scenarios is this: A woman becomes pregnant. She has a baby….
Like most aspects of our lives, we each forge our own path.
I always knew I wanted to have children. Always. I was also certain I wanted to stay home with them. When I was 19, I was diagnosed with endometriosis. After treatments and two surgeries, my doctor told me to start having children by the time I was 25.
“Sure”, I thought sarcastically, “no problem.”
So my twenty-fifth birthday arrived. I was single, living in Chicago and couldn’t figure out why this birthday felt so, well, poignant. It really wasn’t until today that I realized the impact of that birthday’s passing with not a single possible father in sight.
Four years later, twenty nine comes along and so does my future husband. I swear I visualized him just months before he appeared in my life. Strong, independent, tall, funny and tender-hearted. (I didn’t visualize stubborn, but then I’m sure he didn’t check the “anal-retentive” box on his wish list….) We married when I was 30. After several very deep and tearful conversations about when we might have kids, we decide to start trying. I purge my body of bad things and he is a happy camper. (Sorry, Mom.)
Four months after we marry, I’m pregnant. I couldn’t believe the stick. I had to take at least four more tests between the first one and my doctor’s appointment.
I did not want to go back to work after the baby was born but thought I might have to for financial reasons. After many more very deep conversations, we decided I’d stay home (or, more accurately, I convinced Brian that I should stay home). I would’ve loved to work part-time, but advertising clients are not part-time. Abby was born and life was sweet. I was thrilled to be home with her. But three months after quitting I was surprised by pangs (ok, earthquake-like jolts) of jealously when my only other “equal” was promoted to our (I mean her) next level. My thoughts danced, “If I still worked there, would I have been promoted? Was I even in the consideration set?” I was happy for my colleague (I still truly like and respect her) but I was envious. And it didn’t help that I was covered in breast milk and carrying an extra twenty pounds.
Two years later, my hubbie and I decided to go for number two. Two weeks later I was staring at another positive pregnancy test. My husband joked and said I made up all this infertility stuff.
I went from thinking I might never have children to having two, each one when we wanted to, give or take a couple of days. Absolutely miraculous. When Henry was born, Brian was six months into his MBA program and traveling every other weekend to school. All while working full-time. Even though I had bad days, and sometimes bad weeks, I knew that home with the kids was exactly where I wanted to be.
Should I be awarded for my sacrifices and desire to stay home with our children? YES. Does it make me a better person than many of my dear friends who have continued their careers? NO. Are moms with careers better because they are setting a sound example for their children, showing them that women can and should have ambitious careers? NO. Are they gaining joy from their careers as well as from their children? YES. (Am I very thankful that those women are there highlighting the diversity of women’s choices for my dear daughter and son? YES.) Are we all fabulous for the things we do for our children and the contributions we make? Ab-so-stinkin-lutely.
When I was younger, maybe 16, I thought that every woman would want to stay home and raise their children but only some, with the right financial resources, were actually able to do this. Now that I’m more seasoned, I realize, once again, how naïve my beliefs were.
Some of us have no choice and have to work. There are moms who have no choice and have to stay home. There are some that have financial independence and choose to continue their careers after their children are born. And there are moms who choose to stay home. I’m one of those. It was the right answer for my family and me. Even on my worst of worst days, I’m still glad that I’m at home with them. I love supporting them and helping them grow. I have loved watching each of their inquisitive minds catapult and synapse. I love watching their golden hair shine in the midday sun. I love not having to rush out of the house to get to work.
Do my counterparts who work enjoy these things any less? Or more? Although I don’t know for sure, I doubt it. We all sort through the gifts of our children at our own pace and with our own individual filters.
I respect women and their families for their choices. Even when they are different from my own. Not better, not worse. Different.
There are aspects of staying home that are hard. With a husband who has a very full-time job and extensive travel, I am solo a lot. There are times when I desperately need a break and cannot get one. I sometimes wonder if I will ever stop cleaning up poop or crumbs off the table. At times I feel like a built-in-babysitter. Being thwarted by a two-year-old tantrum has made me throw some private tantrums. Some days, I think of bed time as a shimmering oasis.
And although I contribute my time, energy and love to my kids, my husband, my dog, all their bodily fluids and schedules, I do not contribute financially. This strikes me as odd. Especially since I was a financially independent woman for a decade before I got married. My husband and I carefully navigated those financial waters and ultimately mapped a route that worked for us. Now that I am freelance writing, and earning a bit, it feels great to say I’m contributing monetarily. But I wonder why it is important to me. Is it truly essential to me or is its importance dictated our society? In the past, I always knew I was doing a good job when I received a promotion and a raise. Or a hefty bonus. Now, my only barometer is my own equilibrium. Am I happy with my choices? Am I doing a good job? Are my children thriving? Does this feel right?
Will I ever have the answers? Will I ever stop asking the questions?
I’m not sure. But I know that my questions, your questions and our questions are eternal; garnering different feelings, nuances and responses with the shift of a boss, an age, a season or even a tide. I’m just glad we’re asking. May your answers be forthcoming and fruitful and may they resonate truthfully within you.
As the title predicts, Morgan Steiner sets out to understand why we have an ongoing battle in our society about mothers’ choices. She wanted to gain perspectives from women in each place: those with paying careers and those without, and all the places in between. Are there mommies who truly love staying home? Are there mommies who are so happy working? Yes and yes. Are there some that fall somewhere in between? Yes. I have enjoyed reading each of these women’s stories about each of their entrees into mommyhood.
Why do you work?
Why do you stay home?
It is my question. It is your question. It is our question. But my answer is really none of your business. And your answer is none of mine. Nonetheless, our overall question prevails—answers and decisions instigate friction and all-out-war between otherwise civil, smart, level-headed women.
The only constant in these scenarios is this: A woman becomes pregnant. She has a baby….
Like most aspects of our lives, we each forge our own path.
I always knew I wanted to have children. Always. I was also certain I wanted to stay home with them. When I was 19, I was diagnosed with endometriosis. After treatments and two surgeries, my doctor told me to start having children by the time I was 25.
“Sure”, I thought sarcastically, “no problem.”
So my twenty-fifth birthday arrived. I was single, living in Chicago and couldn’t figure out why this birthday felt so, well, poignant. It really wasn’t until today that I realized the impact of that birthday’s passing with not a single possible father in sight.
Four years later, twenty nine comes along and so does my future husband. I swear I visualized him just months before he appeared in my life. Strong, independent, tall, funny and tender-hearted. (I didn’t visualize stubborn, but then I’m sure he didn’t check the “anal-retentive” box on his wish list….) We married when I was 30. After several very deep and tearful conversations about when we might have kids, we decide to start trying. I purge my body of bad things and he is a happy camper. (Sorry, Mom.)
Four months after we marry, I’m pregnant. I couldn’t believe the stick. I had to take at least four more tests between the first one and my doctor’s appointment.
I did not want to go back to work after the baby was born but thought I might have to for financial reasons. After many more very deep conversations, we decided I’d stay home (or, more accurately, I convinced Brian that I should stay home). I would’ve loved to work part-time, but advertising clients are not part-time. Abby was born and life was sweet. I was thrilled to be home with her. But three months after quitting I was surprised by pangs (ok, earthquake-like jolts) of jealously when my only other “equal” was promoted to our (I mean her) next level. My thoughts danced, “If I still worked there, would I have been promoted? Was I even in the consideration set?” I was happy for my colleague (I still truly like and respect her) but I was envious. And it didn’t help that I was covered in breast milk and carrying an extra twenty pounds.
Two years later, my hubbie and I decided to go for number two. Two weeks later I was staring at another positive pregnancy test. My husband joked and said I made up all this infertility stuff.
I went from thinking I might never have children to having two, each one when we wanted to, give or take a couple of days. Absolutely miraculous. When Henry was born, Brian was six months into his MBA program and traveling every other weekend to school. All while working full-time. Even though I had bad days, and sometimes bad weeks, I knew that home with the kids was exactly where I wanted to be.
Should I be awarded for my sacrifices and desire to stay home with our children? YES. Does it make me a better person than many of my dear friends who have continued their careers? NO. Are moms with careers better because they are setting a sound example for their children, showing them that women can and should have ambitious careers? NO. Are they gaining joy from their careers as well as from their children? YES. (Am I very thankful that those women are there highlighting the diversity of women’s choices for my dear daughter and son? YES.) Are we all fabulous for the things we do for our children and the contributions we make? Ab-so-stinkin-lutely.
When I was younger, maybe 16, I thought that every woman would want to stay home and raise their children but only some, with the right financial resources, were actually able to do this. Now that I’m more seasoned, I realize, once again, how naïve my beliefs were.
Some of us have no choice and have to work. There are moms who have no choice and have to stay home. There are some that have financial independence and choose to continue their careers after their children are born. And there are moms who choose to stay home. I’m one of those. It was the right answer for my family and me. Even on my worst of worst days, I’m still glad that I’m at home with them. I love supporting them and helping them grow. I have loved watching each of their inquisitive minds catapult and synapse. I love watching their golden hair shine in the midday sun. I love not having to rush out of the house to get to work.
Do my counterparts who work enjoy these things any less? Or more? Although I don’t know for sure, I doubt it. We all sort through the gifts of our children at our own pace and with our own individual filters.
I respect women and their families for their choices. Even when they are different from my own. Not better, not worse. Different.
There are aspects of staying home that are hard. With a husband who has a very full-time job and extensive travel, I am solo a lot. There are times when I desperately need a break and cannot get one. I sometimes wonder if I will ever stop cleaning up poop or crumbs off the table. At times I feel like a built-in-babysitter. Being thwarted by a two-year-old tantrum has made me throw some private tantrums. Some days, I think of bed time as a shimmering oasis.
And although I contribute my time, energy and love to my kids, my husband, my dog, all their bodily fluids and schedules, I do not contribute financially. This strikes me as odd. Especially since I was a financially independent woman for a decade before I got married. My husband and I carefully navigated those financial waters and ultimately mapped a route that worked for us. Now that I am freelance writing, and earning a bit, it feels great to say I’m contributing monetarily. But I wonder why it is important to me. Is it truly essential to me or is its importance dictated our society? In the past, I always knew I was doing a good job when I received a promotion and a raise. Or a hefty bonus. Now, my only barometer is my own equilibrium. Am I happy with my choices? Am I doing a good job? Are my children thriving? Does this feel right?
Will I ever have the answers? Will I ever stop asking the questions?
I’m not sure. But I know that my questions, your questions and our questions are eternal; garnering different feelings, nuances and responses with the shift of a boss, an age, a season or even a tide. I’m just glad we’re asking. May your answers be forthcoming and fruitful and may they resonate truthfully within you.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Have Trucks, Will Travel
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.
“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.
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.
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