honey, I vampired the kids

 

after dark

My husband and I don’t get to go out very often. When you are a parent of young children you are often inside your house by the time it gets dark. There are times when I am totally freaked out driving at night because it happens so rarely. It’s like I need to relearn how to do it. It reminds me of the reaction 17-month-old S had when we drove around in December looking at Christmas lights. It was a mix of awe and terror. He would squeal, point, and scream, “light!!!” Can you imagine what their little brains are thinking? I don’t shout, “light!” when driving at night but I’ve thought it.

Anyway, B and I got to go out after dark last week. And we got to dress up! I felt like a million bucks after having my hair and make-up done by a friend (thanks, JH). Add a borrowed dress and jewelry (thanks, sis). Shoes and purse I already owned. (Did I mention that I am frugal?) B owns a tux, too, so we both got swanky and headed out with free tickets (donated to us by a group at the hospital) to a black-tie charity event called Treads and Threads at the Speedway. Hence, the race car in the photo. So the grand total of our romantic evening of wine, food, and dancing was $60 for the babysitter (plus the gas to get there). A night out with my Prince Charming under the stars? Priceless.

 

Postscript: I knew that I’d found my soul mate after seeing this man get down on the dance floor. Hubby’s got moves.

the last first day of preschool

It was a big day for us last Friday. Miss E finally got to return to preschool, one of her favorite places on the planet (on par with Grandma's house, Dominican Republic, and Chip-n-Dip restaurants). She launched out of bed and waited at her special spot at the table until I came down to make her breakfast. She was dressed and ready with more than an hour to spare. So I got to take her outdoors for some photos... something we both enjoy.

S wasn't clueing-in that this was her photo shoot.

So I gave him some camera time. Who wouldn't want to capture those chubby cheeks?

And... he still didn't get the hint once we arrived at school.

E wears her emotions on her sleeve. No poker face (or Old Maid face, in her case). You can tell she is quite peeved at this point. Haha! But we got the mission-critical shots with her beloved cousin and partner-in-crime, A, and with my beautiful sister. How lucky are we that we live ten minutes from each other and have daughters the same age!? (And her son and Baby S are only one year apart.) Blessed indeed.

They will not go to Kindergarten together next year. Not even the same school district. [sniff, sniff] We haven't really told them this. So my sister and I will cherish these sweet preschool years ~ when we ushered off our girls, arm-in-arm, to school. 

playing nicely

Dear E,
Thank you for playing with your little brother so nicely yesterday. He adores you and loves to feel included in your world. You have no idea how happy it makes my heart.

Love,

Mama 

What she said

I realized that I don’t need to blog. I just need to read everyone else’s clever blogs and then compile the highlights in one place. I keep reading things that that make me want to stand up and shout. 

OMG, this writer must be my blog-twin, my internet-doppelganger. I pretty much loved and/or agreed with everything she said. And she said it with grace and honesty. Read it.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/joy-gabriel/kate-middleton-and-the-mom-in-the-mirror_b_3672553.html

“Once you cross the threshold into motherhood, there is no going back. You might feel instantly and with acuity "Help! What did I DO? I'm not ready for this! Get me offa this thing! I don't know what I'm doing!" but it's too late. The curtain is up on the most important role you will ever play and it's OK that you and your body have shifted so that it fits. More: it is right and good. You're not supposed to zip up your old jeans and slip back into your old life.”

And I am also totally developing a blog-crush (hmm, would that be a ‘blush’ or a ‘crog’?) on Jen Hatmaker who writes with wit, truth, and panache. She could be a stand-up comedienne; her material is that good. She has nailed the conversational insanity that takes place between parents and young offspring. I’ve been wanting to study the patterns. I’ve already written about how my kids seem to stockpile demands until the second I enter the room and then they come flying out – like bats out of hell. [Read that post here.] The following dialog seems to preside in our house right now:

Child: a request or a whine

Me: a sensible answer (“not right now”/“let me think about it”/etc.)

Child: “Whhyyy?”

The Whyyys are dangerous things. They make a person crazy. How the heck does one explain Whyyy we don’t eat gummy worms before 8:00 a.m.? Whyyys are the reason parents say dumb stuff like, “Because I said so!”.

Jen writes about this, too, and much more in this riotous gem about the End of Summer Parent: http://jenhatmaker.com/blog/2013/08/16/worst-end-of-summer-mom-ever-a-sequel

She reflects on how she will spend her first hours of freedom after her kids return to school:
“What will I do? I will think my thoughts, which I haven’t heard since June 5th. I miss my thoughts and I look forward to seeing what they’ve been doing. For all I know they could’ve been curing cancer, but they’ve been stamped out by missives like He won’t quit touching my game/remote control/Afro and Could you make me a sandwich/pizza/taco and I am bored/hot/hungry and When are we going to leave/eat/bathe again? My thoughts have done all they can do for these people, and they’ve put in their notice.”
 
And then there is Glennon, dear Glennon (of Momastery fame), who is currently on a well-deserved sabbatical. Somehow the topics she writes about dovetail with sermons at church and with what is going on in my life, so she often seems magic to me. She touched me with her thoughts on loneliness and the internet. It struck a chord with our senior pastor, too, because he quoted her in a sermon.
  
Tom (our pastor) was talking about technology and how it has the power to connect us and the power to isolate us. He cited Glennon’s confession that while she has more than 80,000 readers, she hadn’t had a real, live conversation with a friend in weeks. This notion was already bouncing around in my head because I was working on a devotion and thinking about why Stephen ministry (more on that later) is so valuable: Stephen ministers give the gift of real, live conversations to those who are hurting in an age where face-to-face conversations are becoming rare.

Glennon writes:

“The internet, I think – is turning into a compulsion for me. I’m starting to look to it for my own worth. I’m looking to it for comfort and as a balm for loneliness. I’m using it to hide a little from real live people. And I’m using it to numb my feelings. To zone out. ... The internet is not bad any more than wine or food are bad. But we can use all three in ways that dull our spirits … Every once in a while, I need to silence all the thousands of voices coming at me through the internet so that I can hear God in me. That is the only voice, the ONLY voice, that I can trust will never lead me wrong.”

So, stay tuned. Listen to the voices in your life. Schedule time for face-to-face conversations with those you love and enjoy. I will too. And I’ll continue to regurgitate what other better writers have said so we can all learn together.   

Christmas in July

When it was in the 100s last summer, we decided to make July 25th a Christmas-in-July celebration. For starters, we needed to remember that it would, in fact, get cooler. Listening to Christmas carols in July can seemingly drop the temperature by about 20 degrees.

We decorated the house, strung up white lights, and invited family over to eat some favorite holiday foods. In our clan, that includes monkey bread and an addictive cheeseball recipe that you eat with pretzel sticks. We also baked gingerbread cookies. We read Christmas stories and talked about baby Jesus, crafted winter-y scenes, and watched Frosty. We wore festive red and green. I even drug out the bin full of mittens and scarves and let the kids pretend it was cold outside. It was a huge hit. Here are some favorite photos from that day:

So you can bet that my oldest two children weren't about to let me forget July 25th this summer! We were sad that one set of cousins was not able to make it and that my folks were in Colorado enjoying real cooler temperatures. But we put on season-appropriate ensembles, hung the stockings, fired up Bing Crosby, enjoyed a holiday brunch, and opened small gifts. (Next year I will probably just wrap things they already own.) My crew even blessed me with an early wake-up call, just like the real December 25!  

The night before, Miss E and IMO took turns closing their eyes while the other one hid "gifts" in the stockings—a totally unscripted bonus! Miss E was so thrilled to see the looks on our faces the next morning when we found our treasures, such as a (used) binky for Baby S and a (half-full) bottle of hand sanitizer for me. Hmm, maybe the kids should be in charge of stocking-stuffing from now on? Who needs to spend money on tossed-away trinkets?

I share this not because I want you to vote me Pinterest's Mother of Year but because it was a day when I felt successful as a mom. Those days can be few and far between. I felt like I had given my kids something out-of-the-box that they might remember. I felt present. The practical, bah-humbug side of me wasn't enthused about dragging out the holiday décor knowing I'd be charged with putting it away in the days that followed. (I cannot even handle 15 minutes of Play-Dough, for crying out loud.) But I squashed that buzz-kill of a notion and got it all out anyway. And it paid dividends.

"... Let every heart prepare him room,
And heaven and nature sing,
And heaven and nature sing,
And heaven, and heaven, and nature sing."

progress report (July 18, 2013)

Now is about the time to ask: “So, how is that all working out for you, Michelle? All that appreciating your body, letting your kids be kids, ceasing to compare?”

Well, not so great. I’ve hit the exact day in summer when SAH moms really don’t know if they can spend another single day with their kids. You’re tapped out of creative ideas, it’s blistering hot outside, and their favorite pastime has become irritating each other. I might have also simultaneously hit the exact day in my eight-year SAH career when I wonder if there is much Michelle left at all. She may have been completely swallowed up by her other identity: Mom.

I am a blessed woman; that is for sure. But I am not a balanced person. Not right now. My current personhood is too heavily skewed toward the service of people eight years old and younger. And one of those people is a maniacal tyrant – an adorable, blonde, 30-lb tyrant – but a tyrant nonetheless.

So, yeah, I’ve totally failed on the “letting kids be kids” front. Apparently, I squeezed my oldest son’s wrist a little too hard last Sunday when he and his sister were being squirrelly hooligans in church – attracting far more attention to our row than I’d like. He actually produced big, fat tears on his cheeks, making me feel like that much worse of a mother. Inner monologue: “Great! Not only have you hurt your child in church, but others have now noticed both their unruly behavior and your ghastly response to it!” Mother of the Year!

Miss E was bored and wanted to play the baby, sitting on my lap facing front, then facing back, resting her head on one of my shoulders, then the other. Sucking her fingers. Playing with my hair. E is not a lap child. She is 3' 9" and weighs 44 lbs. With every movement, she would knee me somewhere sensitive and shove my skirt higher on my thighs. Awesome. IMO asked me every other minute if the sermon was over and was also clandestinely driven to touch portions of my body at all times. If you were to have gazed in my direction last Sunday, you would’ve witnessed these two medium-sized lumps playing Twister with me for 58 minutes while remaining partially seated. Hence, the Wrist Squeeze. Ugh.

I realize it is my fault. Who expects a 4-year-old and 8-year-old to make it through an hour-long service without being fidgety? My husband had to work and I’d (thankfully) dropped off Baby S with the childcare angels downstairs. These same two children have done okay in this service, but this particular Sunday they could not hold it together. For the grand finale, Miss E spilled her full cup of lemonade on the carpet in the Friendship Room. Not to be outdone, Baby S overturned his cup on the carpet, too, laughing like a hyena.    

I’ve also used my scary, goblin voice in the last week. I’m not proud of that. I’ve silently cursed my cellulite. I’ve felt envy. But I’ve also experienced triumph and joy. Miss E has completed four swimming lessons without freaking out! We didn't see that coming. And I could not stop smiling when Baby S tried to sing "Happy Birthday" today – messing up both the lyrics and the tune but singing with his whole heart. When he was done, he offered me a piece of his plastic “happy cake.” Thank God for these moments. Had it been real cake, I would’ve eaten every single bite while loving my body and not comparing myself against others :)    

Comparison robs you of joy

This phrase has been on my mind ever since I heard it during a sermon a few weeks ago. “Comparison robs you of joy.”

Here is a quick example: Know the feeling you have after you thumb through a magazine filled with gorgeous, slender, worldly, presumably wealthy women? Women in expensive clothes, drinking expensive drinks, sharing jokes with chiseled gentlemen who also possess shockingly-white teeth? You feel “less than.” You feel un-beautiful. You might even feel unfulfilled, unloved. Comparison robs you of joy.

I realized (once again) that magazines=depression at the salon where I had gone to get a haircut and, therefore, feel better about my appearance. Going to the salon is a huge treat! But ten minutes into the magazine I started feeling hopeless. Even the best haircut in the world wouldn’t make me look like Charlize Theron. Comparison robs you of joy.

Another example: My mom treated my sister and I to a fancy-home tour during the Christmas season. For a fee, you are allowed entry into these insanely beautiful, spacious homes decorated to the hilt for the holidays. Think: crackling fires in imported Italian fireplaces. They smell like leather and Balsam fir. I’ve always enjoyed interior design and architecture. But when I returned home, our house (which I love) looked drab and dated. Our Christmas tree looked chintzy. Nothing was shiny or historic. All I could see were the stains on the couch and chipped dishes in the sink. I felt pouty because we don’t have guest quarters. Comparison robs you of joy.
 
It’s so obvious. Yet we compare. Unwittingly. We compare every single day.

The sermon examined Matthew 20:1-16, also referred to as the “Workers in the Vineyard” story. https://bible.org/seriespage/workers-vineyard-matthew-201-16

To sum it up: A landowner gathered and employed men to work in his vineyards for the day – some began their day early, some began their toil much later. Yet, the boss paid everyone the same wage when the day was over. The ones who had worked the longest grumbled saying they had been treated unjustly even though they were compensated with the agreed-upon amount. It became “unfair” when they learned how much the generous landowner paid their cohorts. Comparison robs you of joy.

How do we stop comparing? How can we rid ourselves of the sour taste of envy? Is it as simple as gratitude? Or flat-out avoidance? If the homes of the rich and famous leave you feeling blue, take a tour on the other side of town, or, don't go. Sick of chicken nuggets (again) for dinner? Serve a meal for people who rarely get a hot meal. Read The Glass Castle, a memoir by Jeanette Walls, about her (and her siblings’) childhood, fending for themselves, picking through garbage to survive. Don’t read Glamour or Us Weekly. Don’t spend too much time at the gym, or worse, the pool at the gym, where it seems everybody is eyeing each other in a silent “who-is-the-fittest?” contest. Are the walls really lined with mirrors so we can check out our form? Or to measure ourselves against the others?

I’m going to start by recognizing comparison when it creeps in and calling it out. Keep the phrase handy in your mind: “Comparison robs you of joy.” Humans will never stop comparing. But we can put our inner brats in timeout. Then open the door wide for gratitude and joy.

 

car wash

Baby S hates the automated kind, but he loved doing it old-school with his Daddy.



in his own happy world

letting kids be kids

I'm trying to be the mom who reacts positively when her daughter shortens a dress with scissors (“Oh, she will be a fashion designer some day!”) but, honestly, it’s more, “What the h__ were you thinking?” She would've been wise to try this in the first half of the day. Shenanigans look more like treachery after 6:00 p.m.

Tomorrow is a new day. Thank God for fresh starts.

My children gift me with more smiles and laughter than I have ever known, but they also excel at getting  under my skin. Several times per day, I  breathe deep and remind myself that they are “just kids.”

Like when IMO, inspired by science camp, asked for an empty pump bottle so he could mix Sprite and soap. He claimed this potion would heal stubbed toes. I cringed as he dribbled it all over the counter and floor and proceeded to rub the sticky, foamy substance on his foot. Some mothers would not become unglued by this. But, sadly, I couldn’t see past the mess I was going to clean up later.

You’d be amazed how many times a day I have this conversation:

Me: “Is that food?”
Child: “No.”
Me: “Well, then, it shouldn’t be in your mouth. Only food and drink go in your mouth.”

My children will probably etch that last sentence on my grave.

I told a dear friend that I wasn’t sure that I was cut out for this job. I love order. I crave a quiet house. I hate stains. Some aspects of motherhood came naturally to me, but many others did not.

On my worst days, I fear that I enjoy babies more than I enjoy kids. Which means I will probably pack up and leave when they reach their teens. No one has a sweet, newlywed moment where you turn to your spouse, peer deep into his/her eyes, and say, “Honey, let’s have a tween.” No, we get warm and fuzzy over babies. And they grow up to do the things that bug us most about own personalities. Ever recognize your bad habits and quirks in your children? I do.

IMO obsesses over things. (Right now, the flavor of the week is Pokemon). He cannot change the channel. He perseverates. My poor Mom also had to deal with a relentless child with a one-track mind: me. Now I have one. Pay back.

Miss E is fiercely independent. We know that most kids go through this phase, but hers is here to stay. In an attempt to keep her from flipping out, I admit that I’ll undo something I’ve already done so she can do it herself. So it’s no surprise that I decline help even when I need it because I want to “do it myself.” As adults, we’re called Control Freaks. (Hmm, note to self: re-brand that.)

It might be too soon to tell what mannerisms we’ll see in Baby S. I will say that he is the bossiest and the most polite baby you’ve ever met… barking orders like a dictator but showering you with affection and gratitude once you’ve filled his need.

I don’t exactly know where I want to take this post from here. I just needed to write. But I’ll leave you with this quote from an incredible Huffington Post article by Steve Wiens, a pastor and writer:

“Maybe it's time to embrace being the kind of parent who says sorry when you yell. Who models what it's like to take time for yourself. Who asks God to help you to be a better version of the person that you actually are, not for more strength to be an ideal parent.”

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/steve-wiens/let-me-be-the-one-who-says-it-out-loud_b_3209305.html

Amen to that. I'm also asking God to help me see the magic in their messes and find joy in the chaos. They are not mini adults, after all; they are children. Perfectly imperfect children. And our house will be quiet soon enough.

summertime

Good-bye cheese, my old friend

I want to be friends with food again. Stop feeling guilty. Bargaining. Remember when eating was fun? I was talking to my sister-in-law this week about my eating habits as a teenager. Try to remember the time when you ate what sounded good. I’m pretty sure that I ate French fries and soft-serve ice-cream most days of my middle-school career. Fast-food every day of high-school? Yep. Giant Dr. Peppers from 7-11? You bet! For four years, 5-days-a-week, I ate in fast-food restaurants—not one bagged-lunch or cafeteria meal. Was that ideal? Heck no! Does it sound nauseating to me now? Yes. But I fondly remember those years as the Age When Food Wasn’t The Enemy. Seems so now, doesn’t it?

I love ingredients. I love recipes. I love cooking shows. I read cookbooks cover to cover. Breaking up with certain foods is a painful process. When my migraines reached a frightening frequency a few years ago, my neurologist told me it was time to drastically alter my diet. Some of her recommendations (no dairy?!) made me think that living with chronic migraines didn’t sound so bad.    

 

I’ve long since said good-bye to soda and fast-food restaurants. But nutritional decisions these days are not so black and white. I got my family switched over to whole-wheat and whole-grain foods just in time for gluten to be labeled the new villain. A personal trainer at the gym actually shuddered when I told her that I eat Cheerios for breakfast. Since when did Cheerios become the bad guy? What’s next?

That is why you should read this article. It is so right-on, so witty. It shows how ridiculously preoccupied we can be with terms like: free-range, organic, gluten-free, non-GMO, and on and on. (It’s even more sickening when you consider how many people go hungry in the U.S. and abroad every day.) So, you must read "The Terrible Tragedy of the Healthy Eater," if you haven’t already:

 

http://www.nwedible.com/2012/08/tragedy-healthy-eater.html

My favorite quote: “As you read more you begin to understand that grains are fine but before you eat them you must prepare them in the traditional way: by long soaking in the light of a new moon with a mix of mineral water and the strained lacto-fermented tears of a virgin.”

Our son was taught to read labels in second grade. It’s a terrific thing, I know, but I feel like he lost his dietary innocence. He worries about grams of fat like the rest of us neurotic Americans. In the wrong hands, I fear this information will lead to eating disorders at younger ages. I hope he can find the right balance. Have you?        

The perks of having a sister:

lip gloss.

Real Me vs. Better Me (part 2)

Ever wonder: Am I trying to work-out/diet my body into a body it can no longer be? Maybe this is the size I’m meant to be. These are the hips I should have. Why am I competing with my younger self? I’m not her anymore, nor would I want to be. Plus, it is not a fair comparison. She didn’t carry three children or nurse them for a collective 51 months. (Yes, you heard me correctly: 51 months. Adios, perky boobs.) We put a lot of miles on our bodies; why should we expect them to run--and look--the same as they once did?

I’ve made real headway on accepting Real Me. Two months ago, I purged my closet of all those clothes that used to fit; those nagging, “someday” clothes. It’s not a self-confidence boost to face your old, smaller-sized clothing every morning. You can almost hear them taunting you from their skinny little hangers, “Ha-ha! Remember us?” They are even more irritating when they get on your body and start chafing your muffin-top.

I do double-takes when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It’s shocking because 1) I don’t look at myself much [pee, wash hands at top-speed, and exit before children find a knife] and 2) I do not feel much older on the inside. Yes, I’ve had a hundreds of formative experiences in the last decade or so, but do I feel massively different than 30-year-old me or even 20-year-old me? Not really. I still laugh at the same brands of humor even if I have a different take on them. (The Simpsons will always be funny. So will Kids in the Hall skits.) I still feel like a kid masquerading as a grown-up sometimes. I have the urge to tell my children that I have no credentials whatsoever to be their parent… “Ha-ha, you thought I had a plan. I’m just winging it!”

Real Me and Better Me agree on one pivotal point: Exercise feels good. That is reason enough to keep showing up at fitness classes. And it might add years to my life, which means travelling with my husband (just the two of us!) and playing with my grandchildren. The Me’s agree on that. So I will keep taking care of my body (and appreciating it) at whatever age or stage it is at. Let’s work on that together. Deal?     

rethinking the pear

Sisters, we need to re-brand the pear shape. It has a bad rap. In some cultures, pear-shaped women are the ideal. They look healthy and men tend to view them as better mates (e.g., child-bearing hips).

My suggestion: let’s French-ify it. We’re not pear-shaped. We’re “en forme de poire.” Who wouldn’t want to be more poire-like? Besides, they are tasty, elegant fruits. They are the gift on the first day of Christmas (along with the partridge, a pear-shaped bird). They have a solid base. Ever see a strawberry stand on its own? I think not.

bag lady

A note to 4-year-old E:

I’d call you eccentric, honey, but that adjective has too many negative connotations. So instead, we’ll salute you today: our unique little bag lady. By bag lady, we mean someone who loves baggage in all its forms-- from purses to lunchboxes, from paper sacks to goody bags, from backpacks and duffels. This girl puts bags inside of bags. She sleeps with bags. She packs bags. She takes a bag with her everywhere she goes; and often, more than one bag hooked on to other bags (see Exhibit A). I count at least seven visible bags in this picture plus the stuffed unicorn.

Exhibit A

Miss E: You are a character. Your Auntie might’ve said it best, “E is always prepared… for what? No one knows.” But if you are ever in need of something, ask E. She might save the day! Because you never know when you might need a seashell, a Barbie shoe, an old gift receipt from Target, a Busch-Gardens map (Exhibit B)...    

Exhibit B

 

 

Real Me vs. Better Me (part 1)

Maybe it's because I have a pretty significant birthday coming up in 2013… I feel this sort of mid-life drive to examine myself and where I am. Every day, I vacillate between self-acceptance (Real Me) and self-improvement (Better Me). I don’t think that I am alone. I’m getting better with the former. I try to thank my body more and scrutinize it less. It’s a grim fact that my husband’s livelihood depends on bodies that fail. So any day that we are not sick or in the hospital is a day to celebrate! I thank God for every migraine-free day. Try it. When you feel a criticism coming on (“my thighs are flabby, my boobs are too small”), switch gears and thank your body for something. I wonder if our hearts are like, “hey, how about a little gratitude in here? I’ve been pumping blood for 39 years without a break!” (For some reason, my heart says that in a New York dialect.)  

I’m also letting go of that dreamy, domestic-bliss life – the elegant, uber-crafty, gourmet life that I pinned on Pinterest – and I’m learning to feel content (and proud) of the life I can actually achieve. I'm trying to rid myself of those near-panicky impulses to buy something to fill a void or soothe an insecurity. Make me look younger! Make our home organized! Make my skinny jeans fit. (There is a product developed specifically for shrinking mommy-bellies called: It Works! What marketing genius came up with that?) It makes me sick how much pressure there is to get your body “back” after pregnancies. I digress. 

I recently read a witty and clever article by Amber Dusick (author of the blog Parenting; Illustrated with Crappy Pictures) about the pursuit of the elusive product of happiness. I laughed out loud at her sketch of a woman cradling a crock-pot in arms with the caption, “I just know this slow-cooker will change my life.”

http://www.lhj.com/community/your-stories/amber-dusick-shopping-products-change-my-life/

Please take the time to read this, especially if you’ve never read her blog. Isn’t it nuts that we look outside ourselves for happiness when we should be looking inward and upward? I’m guilty. I shop when I have nothing to shop for. I even get a particular itchiness in my bones if I haven’t been to a TJ Maxx or a Marshalls in a while :) Still working on that…

Dear 8-year-old IMO

You are no wall flower. A couch potato? Never. Your eyes flutter open around 5:45 a.m. and your brain is off to the races, followed quickly by your mouth. Your body tries to contain all this action happening above your shoulders but it cannot. Your feet tap. You bounce balls. Your body launches into empty space. You are running, jumping, or whirring 100% of the time. Even before I take your temperature, I know you are sick if you’ve stayed in one spot too long. 
 

 

As your mother, I often wonder how I birthed such an unstoppable force of nature. You are so intense in the morning that I am almost forced to wear sunglasses to lay eyes on you. You are the person least likely to need caffeine. If people could distill you, they would and they’d shoot you straight into their veins.

I worry sometimes that you talk too much and don’t listen enough. Dad and I cringe when we see you do something obnoxious to draw attention to yourself. We’re hoping these habits morph into leadership traits. Or, maybe, you are destined to perform. The incredible news is that you don’t act this way at school. Mrs. G (your second-grade teacher) reassured your Dad and I that you are respectful; that you don’t talk too much. She appreciates how you lead discussions, saying that, “some lessons are more like private conversations between IMO and I.” So you know that there is a time and a place for theatrics. I am grateful that you realize that your home is your ‘safe place’ where you can be silly and be loved no matter what. Because we will love you, no matter what.

IMO, it’s not easy being your audience but it’s well worth the effort. You want to share and discuss everything. You are full of ideas and hypotheses. My wish is that I can summon the energy every day to listen to your stories and really be there -- be present. Even if you are simply re-hashing the plot of something you’ve just read or watched on YouTube. To be honest, I sometimes need a break and I tune out. But I don’t think you notice. As long as there is a body with a pulse within 10 yards, you can talk :) Sometimes, I am a million miles away, thinking about my grocery list or something mundane. But then you’ll say something deeply personal or profound and I am jolted back to reality. And my love for you swells. You are our nonstop comedian. Our talkative little scientist. Our eager explorer.   

You'll often say something that you find funny and then repeat it verbatim a second later, with almost no breath in between. Once I noticed this, it worried me. The psychology region of my brain wondered if it was a nervous tic. But maybe you repeat the comment just because the sound of it pleases you. Or maybe you realize your audience is nodding off and they did not hear you the first time!

IMO, you also have a soft side. I hope it isn’t temporary. I’ll admit that it pleases me to see you moved to tears by a photo or a memory.  Your extreme busy-ness hasn't taken away your ability to see God in the little moments. Like the miracle of a baby. Or the love you feel for family. I could tell it was a Big Deal when 23-month-old S asked you to rock him at bedtime. You are far more kind and patient with your siblings than I ever would’ve imagined. You love to teach them things and take pride in their accomplishments the way a parent would. You also show genuine respect for who and what came before you (your family, your ancestors, history).

IMO, you are a faithful friend. You follow rules (mostly). You have a quick and clever wit. I will never forget how you cracked up the audience at the Tarzan show at Club Med with your “this 3D is amazing!” comment. You are smart. Sometimes scary-smart. At times, we’ve thought that you possess a photographic memory. (You’d memorized all the Thomas the Train engines when you were barely two!) You’ve also got this skinny, blonde, surfer-guy look that I find totally charming.    

But it’s true: You wear me out. You never sit still. You try me sometimes. But that is the point, isn’t it? “Most of the things worth doing in the world had been declared impossible before they were done,” (-Louis D. Brandeis, Supreme Court Justice). I am not saying that you are impossible (though potty-training sure felt that way). My point is that if you didn’t ask anything of me, I wouldn’t learn to be a better parent. Or a better person. Because something feels hard, it is worth doing.

Do you realize that I had no "motherhood training" before you were born? I’m a total beginner! We are making our way through uncharted territory. Together. Some days it may feel like we are just hacking away at it with machetes, but I simply cannot imagine making this journey with any child other than you. You are our firstborn. You are perfectly imperfect, a miracle, a child of God.

I love you.

-Mom

  

* Second photo credit: Ashley Spaulding

monkey brain

Being a stay-at-home mother occupies loads of your time, but it doesn’t always occupy loads of your brain and I’ve always had a very busy brain. I think about everything. I have LOTS of ideas… with very little time to do anything with them. Ugh. I am the Queen of Half-finished Projects, as are most mothers. If I get 20 minutes without being interrupted (three minutes, if my youngest is awake), it is a miracle. You know those witty e-cards that pop up on your Facebook feed? This is my current favorite:

 

My busy-monkey brain weighs the pros and cons of working part-time vs. full-time and wonders what that work will be. It’s both an exhilarating and scary thing to be almost 40 and not know what you want to be when you grow up. I pray about it. God has plans for us. He loved us and knew us by name before we even took our first breath. Jeremiah 29:11 speaks to this: “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” I wondered if God was nudging me in church last Sunday to get back to my roots, to write, to look inward and upward. Writing is therapeutic for me. But it can also be a huge time-sucker because I agonize over word choices and re-write sentences ad nauseum. Thank goodness blogger doesn’t give me many font choices (only seven?!) because this monkey is short on time :)

E meets Mandy

Today I decided to give my daughter my vintage, Fisher-Price My Friend Mandy doll (circa 1977). My mom had saved it all these years (and My Friend Jenny, the brunette, who belonged to my sister). Mom also saved Mandy’s shiny-red carrying-case and all these amazing hand-sewn clothes on tiny plastic hangers. Mandy’s white shoes were even neatly tucked into the little cardboard drawer.

 

And, oh, Mandy’s smell. She still has it. It is a wonderful scent – which may actually be some kind of carcinogenic, Made-in-Taiwan plastic – but a delicious, nostalgic smell nonetheless. 

I had saved her in her red box until the right moment. (I am a saver; a dyed-in-the-wool, delay-of-gratification sort.) For some reason, Mandy called to me today from the basement shelves (sorry, it’s going to get all ‘Toy Story’ up in here). It was not a holiday or E's birthday. I just felt compelled. And it was magic. E fell in love before I even unhinged the brass clasp on the box. Toy-Story-esque dialogue poured out of my mouth… a bunch of stuff about how much I had loved her all those years ago and now it was time for E to take care of her the way I had. Not scripted, I promise!

They are fast friends. And I tried not to let it creep me out that my daughter looks A LOT like my childhood doll. They have the same shade of blonde hair, same style, same blue eyes. Was my Toy-Story moment about to turn Chucky on me? ;)

E wanted to sleep with Mandy and all her trappings but we ultimately agreed on just Mandy. When I tucked them into bed tonight, I swear that Mandy looked happier than I have ever seen her.