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.

 

Pavlovian whining

I sometimes think that my children look at me and then think of a whine. I can walk into a room where everyone is 100% content and when their little eyes catch sight of me, they reflexively blurt out a need. “I’m hungry!” “Bink!” “My ankle hurts!”

I returned home from the gym a few days ago and BEFORE I even hung up my keys (which I always do first thing), E had asked me for Special K cereal with milk and the strawberries picked out. My capable husband had been home the entire time. But she was simply overcome with hunger the second I walked in the door. Or, it is just a Pavlovian response: See Mom -> Ask for something. Anything.   

They do not do this with their father, from what I can tell. I am the Need-Filler. He is the Fun Guy. He is the guest star on the sitcom. The one that gets the laugh track and canned applause when he walks into the room. I assume those roles must flip when the father stays at home, so I don’t take it personally :)