I suppose it's all my fault.
It started out harmless enough: as we'd wait for the stoplight to change, we'd say, "Green means go! Red means stop! Yellow means sllllooooooowwwww dowwwwwwnnnnnnnn!"
Little did I know that I was creating two backseat drivers in carseats.
A few months ago I took a right on red. "Mom..." I heard from the back. "Yeah?" I asked. "You just turned and the light was red." I caught his eye in the rear view mirror. He was not amused. "Oh no, honey. That's ok to do." I never thought that I'd have to give a lesson on driving to my 1st grader, but then again, there are a lot of things I never thought I'd have to do as a mom. He seemed pacified, although still a bit dubious at my explanation, as if maybe this was just some big story that I was inventing because after all, I was the one that had taught him 'Red means stop!'
A few days later, it happened again. "MOM!" "What??" I shriek, convinced that a projectile has come crashing through the back window and skewered my child, based solely on the sheer terror in his voice. "YOU TURNED AND IT WAS RED!" My pulse returning to normal, I managed to calmly reiterate the 'Right on red' rule. He also calmed down and seemed to accept my explanation a little easier this time.
The next week I turned left on a green arrow. From the back, a familiar, "Mooommm..." "Yes?" "You said that you could turn right on red, but you turned left that time and it was still red." "Didn't you see the green arrow? If you are turning left, sometimes we can make our turn even though the people going straight are still stopped." His mouth was set in a grim line, but he nodded.
"Mom?" "What, hon?" "How do you know how fast you can drive?" Thus the speed limit saga began. "See those signs with numbers on them? They tell you how fast you can go."
"Thirty-five, Mom. It says thirty-five." "Thanks." "Are you going thirty-five?" I glance down at my speedometer hovering just over 40. Moment of truth. I lick my lips. "Nope - but now that I know that it's just 35, that's how fast I'll go."
"Fifty-five, Mom." "Twenty, Mom. I just saw twenty." "Mom, did you see that? It said forty-five now. You can go forty-five." The 3 year old has begun to chime in too: "How fast, Mom, how fast?" My thoughts while driving now involve how hard it would be to make my back windows completely opaque and just how insane that would sound to explain to the car guy.
Next up, we bring the police into the mix. "Mom, what happens if you go faster than you're supposed to?" "The police will give you a ticket." I watch him in the rear view mirror as he digests this morsel. Lip quivering, he asks in a small voice, "Will we go to jail?" I assure him that we will absolutely not go to jail over a speeding ticket. It's only after I clarify that the driver is the only one who will be in trouble that he perks up.
Perhaps the most insulting query comes from the mouth of my 3 year old as we are en route to our weekly errands, a routine trip that I've driven for years now: "This is the wrong way!" I bite my tongue and sweetly repond, "Trust me; it's the right way" to which he reponds even more sweetly, "Are you sure?"
But I'll have the last laugh. The countdown has begun: only ten years until it's their turn in the drivers seat....
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
Renovation
I'm about 95% done with my first major renovation project. (And by 'I', I mean 'my dad'.)
We have two active boys, and one baby girl who recently became mobile. We do not have a big space indoors for them to expend their energy, stash their toys, play with their friends, etc. We do have a big unfinished basement. We do not have construction abilities. We do have a dad who does, along with a can-do attitute on our part (well, one of us at least).
The plan in my mind was simple, easy, and quick. The other grandparents invited the two boys to their house for a week in July. The timing couldn't have been better. Get Dad up here, slap up some walls, a little paint, perhaps some trim -- boom - finished basement. And the best part was that I could work along side him and learn how to do things myself.
My week of work was great. It was the start, I was full of energy and excitement for the project, and it showed all over me. I hauled lumber, carried sheet rock, made chalk lines, leveled for plum, drove screws into the studs. I worked 10 hour days and I sweated. And I loved it. It was coming along.
The week ended, we brought the boys home, and life got a little more complicated. Now we had two active boys here, a construction site in the basement, and all the toys piled up in the living room. 'No problem', I thought. 'I can go back and forth between the work and the kids.' It worked...sometimes. Probably more times, not.
And now we are almost a month into the project, a month of my house looking like someone took a pitchfork to it, a month of being absolutely exhausted, a month of splitting my time between my mom duties and my renovation duties and giving neither the proper due. I am tired of this. I want it over. I want to say, 'I don't care anymore - it's too hard - just leave it the way it is.'
When I near my breaking point, I have begun to say to myself, "It's worth it. It's rough now, but it will all be worth it at the end. Be patient." And I can overlook the drywall dust everywhere, the toys that are ankle-deep everywhere I step, and the general chaos that a project of this size brings. I can endure.
The most astonishing thing about this project, though, is how it has given me perspective in my spiritual life. I've been through the early days of being saved - the excitement, the can-do attitute, the feeling that I know what I'm in for, the confidence that I'm ready for what is to come. I've also been through the part where it starts to dawn on me that maybe I've bitten off a bit more than I could chew, and that it's a little harder than I once thought. I'm currently in the part where I think to myself, 'I'm tired of this. It's too hard. Just leave me the way I am.' And it's hard to say to myself, "It's worth it. It's rough now, but it will all be worth it at the end. Be patient." But that's exactly what I need to do.
My spiritual journey is not a quickie project, slap up some walls, a little paint, perhaps some trim, and boom - done. It's a lesson in endurance. It's a long project full of hard work and sweat. It's a life lived with heartache, and hardship, and chaos all around. But in the end, it's worth it. It's worth it. It's worth it.
We have two active boys, and one baby girl who recently became mobile. We do not have a big space indoors for them to expend their energy, stash their toys, play with their friends, etc. We do have a big unfinished basement. We do not have construction abilities. We do have a dad who does, along with a can-do attitute on our part (well, one of us at least).
The plan in my mind was simple, easy, and quick. The other grandparents invited the two boys to their house for a week in July. The timing couldn't have been better. Get Dad up here, slap up some walls, a little paint, perhaps some trim -- boom - finished basement. And the best part was that I could work along side him and learn how to do things myself.
My week of work was great. It was the start, I was full of energy and excitement for the project, and it showed all over me. I hauled lumber, carried sheet rock, made chalk lines, leveled for plum, drove screws into the studs. I worked 10 hour days and I sweated. And I loved it. It was coming along.
The week ended, we brought the boys home, and life got a little more complicated. Now we had two active boys here, a construction site in the basement, and all the toys piled up in the living room. 'No problem', I thought. 'I can go back and forth between the work and the kids.' It worked...sometimes. Probably more times, not.
And now we are almost a month into the project, a month of my house looking like someone took a pitchfork to it, a month of being absolutely exhausted, a month of splitting my time between my mom duties and my renovation duties and giving neither the proper due. I am tired of this. I want it over. I want to say, 'I don't care anymore - it's too hard - just leave it the way it is.'
When I near my breaking point, I have begun to say to myself, "It's worth it. It's rough now, but it will all be worth it at the end. Be patient." And I can overlook the drywall dust everywhere, the toys that are ankle-deep everywhere I step, and the general chaos that a project of this size brings. I can endure.
The most astonishing thing about this project, though, is how it has given me perspective in my spiritual life. I've been through the early days of being saved - the excitement, the can-do attitute, the feeling that I know what I'm in for, the confidence that I'm ready for what is to come. I've also been through the part where it starts to dawn on me that maybe I've bitten off a bit more than I could chew, and that it's a little harder than I once thought. I'm currently in the part where I think to myself, 'I'm tired of this. It's too hard. Just leave me the way I am.' And it's hard to say to myself, "It's worth it. It's rough now, but it will all be worth it at the end. Be patient." But that's exactly what I need to do.
My spiritual journey is not a quickie project, slap up some walls, a little paint, perhaps some trim, and boom - done. It's a lesson in endurance. It's a long project full of hard work and sweat. It's a life lived with heartache, and hardship, and chaos all around. But in the end, it's worth it. It's worth it. It's worth it.
Girl meets boy
Girl meets boy
I first laid eyes on my son seconds after he was pulled from my body, still covered in blood and goo, a little blue around the edges, and tears pricked my eyes. They rushed him away to clean, weigh, and whatever else they do, and I marveled to myself, "I have a boy".
I had been apprehensive of him ever since I found out that he was a 'him' rather than a 'her' around the fifth month of my pregnancy. I grew up the oldest of five girls, with no boys around except for my dad. I was not a girly girl, but I wasn't a tomboy either. I was just…a girl. Our childhood play was very orderly and nurturing. Store, school, doctor, house, carnival, baptism (my dad was a pastor – what can I say? You play what you know.) Dad played the dual role of father and big brother by roughhousing with us, barging into our store with a gun and announcing a stickup, shoving a football in our gut and yelling 'Tackle!', among other things. I was secretly glad we didn't have a real brother, if this was how boys were.
Then I got a boy of my own, and with him, my own personal invitation to BoyWorld.
At the beginning, there wasn't much of a difference. Infants are infants, no matter what the sex. The diapering took getting used to, but that shock was minor. He cuddled up against me in the middle of the night, and in my love-clouded haze, I thought, 'Bring it on'. Then the boy-ness kicked in.
He jumps, he runs, he hurls himself from the highest heights, just for the fact that he can. All day long I hear, 'Watch me, Mom! Look at this, Mom! How fast can I go, Mom?' He stops for a moment to rest and that moment turns into a wrestling match with the dog. He launches himself at me daily, with the blind faith that I will catch him, no matter what, even if I happen to be completely turned away from him with an armful of groceries and a pitcher of water at the time. I can almost see his energy brimming over the top of him at times, ready to burst forth and flood everything around him. And I have yet to see him walk by his younger brother without delivering a nudge, push, or bonk on the head.
The silliness of a boy knows no bounds when it comes to potty humor. I was expecting to deal with it around age six or seven...not three. Favorite words of girls: princess, bride, sparkles, kitten, cute. Favorite words of my son: butt, poop, pee, punch, penis. Followed by gales of laugher. I have to lay down the law when it comes to these words in inappropriate settings, but I have to fight my laughter each time he joyfully recites them.
He loves bugs and animals and notices them long before I do. He digs for worms in my garden, squatting down to let them squirm over his fingers. He is always willing to let whatever insect has gotten in the house crawl onto his hand in order to take it back outside. The other day, we were leaving the river and my husband was throwing bait fish back in the water. I watched him toss them one at a time until I realized that there were two splashes. I looked down to see my son gleefully plunge his hand in the bucket, close his hand around a wriggling fish and throw it out as far as he could.
And in the middle of all the exploring, the running, the jumping, and the silliness, he suddenly grabs my neck with such fierceness, presses his flushed cheek against mine, and says in my ear, "I love you mom', and for a brief moment, I get to hold my son still. And then he's off running again, pulling me deeper into the mysteries of BoyWorld.
October 14, 2007
I first laid eyes on my son seconds after he was pulled from my body, still covered in blood and goo, a little blue around the edges, and tears pricked my eyes. They rushed him away to clean, weigh, and whatever else they do, and I marveled to myself, "I have a boy".
I had been apprehensive of him ever since I found out that he was a 'him' rather than a 'her' around the fifth month of my pregnancy. I grew up the oldest of five girls, with no boys around except for my dad. I was not a girly girl, but I wasn't a tomboy either. I was just…a girl. Our childhood play was very orderly and nurturing. Store, school, doctor, house, carnival, baptism (my dad was a pastor – what can I say? You play what you know.) Dad played the dual role of father and big brother by roughhousing with us, barging into our store with a gun and announcing a stickup, shoving a football in our gut and yelling 'Tackle!', among other things. I was secretly glad we didn't have a real brother, if this was how boys were.
Then I got a boy of my own, and with him, my own personal invitation to BoyWorld.
At the beginning, there wasn't much of a difference. Infants are infants, no matter what the sex. The diapering took getting used to, but that shock was minor. He cuddled up against me in the middle of the night, and in my love-clouded haze, I thought, 'Bring it on'. Then the boy-ness kicked in.
He jumps, he runs, he hurls himself from the highest heights, just for the fact that he can. All day long I hear, 'Watch me, Mom! Look at this, Mom! How fast can I go, Mom?' He stops for a moment to rest and that moment turns into a wrestling match with the dog. He launches himself at me daily, with the blind faith that I will catch him, no matter what, even if I happen to be completely turned away from him with an armful of groceries and a pitcher of water at the time. I can almost see his energy brimming over the top of him at times, ready to burst forth and flood everything around him. And I have yet to see him walk by his younger brother without delivering a nudge, push, or bonk on the head.
The silliness of a boy knows no bounds when it comes to potty humor. I was expecting to deal with it around age six or seven...not three. Favorite words of girls: princess, bride, sparkles, kitten, cute. Favorite words of my son: butt, poop, pee, punch, penis. Followed by gales of laugher. I have to lay down the law when it comes to these words in inappropriate settings, but I have to fight my laughter each time he joyfully recites them.
He loves bugs and animals and notices them long before I do. He digs for worms in my garden, squatting down to let them squirm over his fingers. He is always willing to let whatever insect has gotten in the house crawl onto his hand in order to take it back outside. The other day, we were leaving the river and my husband was throwing bait fish back in the water. I watched him toss them one at a time until I realized that there were two splashes. I looked down to see my son gleefully plunge his hand in the bucket, close his hand around a wriggling fish and throw it out as far as he could.
And in the middle of all the exploring, the running, the jumping, and the silliness, he suddenly grabs my neck with such fierceness, presses his flushed cheek against mine, and says in my ear, "I love you mom', and for a brief moment, I get to hold my son still. And then he's off running again, pulling me deeper into the mysteries of BoyWorld.
October 14, 2007
fishing and hunting
I finally have an answer to a question I've been asking for years: is there anything more boring than a fishing show on T.V.?
Yes.
It's a video game about fishing.
My husband loves fishing. He goes every chance he gets. He makes regular pilgrimages to Bass Pro, the fisherman's mecca. He talks about jiggers and reels and line weight with passion. He watches fishing shows on cable.
These fishing shows are so boring. Every one I have seen has basically one or two guys fishing. Yes. Just sitting there with a line in water. Occasionally they catch a fish. Then it's mildly entertaining. More often, they don't. The tedium is overwhelming. I couldn't imagine anything more boring.
Then he came home tonight with a game for his Playstation. In this game, he gets to fish and hunt. The controller allows him to steer his boat around a lake, and then cast his line into the water. He then uses the controller to reel the line back in. He has been playing this for 35 minutes now. He has not yet caught anything yet. I am now watching a simulated man sit on a simulated boat in a simulated lake, casting a simulated rod to try and catch a simulated fish.
The hunting portion, however, was hilarious. He got a shotgun to go hunting on a snowy mountain complete with pine trees and little cabins, and a cheery 'friend' to add commentary to the game. He took his first shot. The friend said, 'Whoa - you can't fire a weapon within fifty feet of an inhabited residence. That's your first warning.' He took a second shot. His friend said, 'Whoa - you can't fire a weapon within fifty feet of an inhabited residence. That's your second warning.' He took a third shot. His friend said, 'Whoa - you can't fire a weapon within fifty feet of an inhabited residence. That's your third warning. I'm shutting this session down because you didn't follow the rules.' And the game ended.
He started another game. He took a shot at an elk. His friend said, 'Whoa - you don't have a license to shoot at that animal.' He tried to go a little deeper in the woods. His friend said, 'Whoa - you need to put on the appropriate clothing before you continue.' He put on the appropriate clothing. And then a cougar attacked him.
I love it.
Yes.
It's a video game about fishing.
My husband loves fishing. He goes every chance he gets. He makes regular pilgrimages to Bass Pro, the fisherman's mecca. He talks about jiggers and reels and line weight with passion. He watches fishing shows on cable.
These fishing shows are so boring. Every one I have seen has basically one or two guys fishing. Yes. Just sitting there with a line in water. Occasionally they catch a fish. Then it's mildly entertaining. More often, they don't. The tedium is overwhelming. I couldn't imagine anything more boring.
Then he came home tonight with a game for his Playstation. In this game, he gets to fish and hunt. The controller allows him to steer his boat around a lake, and then cast his line into the water. He then uses the controller to reel the line back in. He has been playing this for 35 minutes now. He has not yet caught anything yet. I am now watching a simulated man sit on a simulated boat in a simulated lake, casting a simulated rod to try and catch a simulated fish.
The hunting portion, however, was hilarious. He got a shotgun to go hunting on a snowy mountain complete with pine trees and little cabins, and a cheery 'friend' to add commentary to the game. He took his first shot. The friend said, 'Whoa - you can't fire a weapon within fifty feet of an inhabited residence. That's your first warning.' He took a second shot. His friend said, 'Whoa - you can't fire a weapon within fifty feet of an inhabited residence. That's your second warning.' He took a third shot. His friend said, 'Whoa - you can't fire a weapon within fifty feet of an inhabited residence. That's your third warning. I'm shutting this session down because you didn't follow the rules.' And the game ended.
He started another game. He took a shot at an elk. His friend said, 'Whoa - you don't have a license to shoot at that animal.' He tried to go a little deeper in the woods. His friend said, 'Whoa - you need to put on the appropriate clothing before you continue.' He put on the appropriate clothing. And then a cougar attacked him.
I love it.
gimmick
I'm a gimmick girl. The best way to get me to spend money in your place of business is to throw out a New and Improved item. You'll have me hook line and sinker.
The mountain of coolers that I own (and have owned) is all due to gimmicks. I buy a cooler. It is functional. It holds all the food I need it to hold. It keeps everything cool, just as promised. I'm happy with it. Then I happen to be in the store and wander by the cooler section. Hmm. Look at that cooler. It has a SIDE ZIP POCKET! Think of what I could store in there!!!!! And another cooler joins my coffers. And don't get me started on the coolers with wheels, an easy open top flap, and an expandable bottom compartment, apparently in case you get more food once you get where you're going and need the extra room. All of which I have.
My oldest child just turned three. I am on my fifth diaper bag. The first one was given to me as a gift at my baby shower. I registered for it. It was very gimmicky. Two side pockets for bottles, front pocket with Mom organizer, including a key fob, and a diaper changing pad, with a clear plastic 'dirty clothes' bag to complete it. Upon actually using this bag, I decided it was too big, and went for the complimentary diaper bag I got in the hospital. It worked for a while, but it was just one big space. I needed compartments, without going overboard, of course. The next diaper bag was just right….until I found out I was expecting #2. Now I needed a diaper bag to hold not only the infant diapers and wipes, but also the crayons and juice boxes of the older one. Some would say that any old bag would do. Not me. I found the perfect bag, full of compartments and organizers for the big kids stuff, and lots of empty space for the little one's stuff. That lasted about a year. My latest one is a sight to see. You know what won me over? It has 'stroller attachable straps'. Oooo…I'm getting goosebumps just thinking about it. Plus, you should see the zippered pockets on this thing.
And my fascination with gimmicks extends to the food world as well, where it probably exists in its most extreme form. I was the first on the bandwagon to try the different permutations of Coke and Pepsi when they went all Lemon, Lime, and whatever else. I've tasted the Dr. Pepper with Berries and Crème, the Fresca peach and black cherry, and more vanilla sodas than you can imagine. Back in 9th grade, I had one very specific request for my birthday dinner: Crystal Pepsi. What a concept! Pepsi! But it's clear!!
Wendy's has suckered me a few times. I've eaten their crispy chicken sandwiches quite a few times and thought they were good. Then came the commercial with an irresistible tag line: Now! CRISPIER! Crispier??? There's been crisp that I've been missing out on??? My latest Wendy's gimmick involved their Frosty, recently introduced in a vanilla version. Which, of course, is nothing more than a vanilla shake, something that can be found at any fast food restaurant across the nation. But it was more than that – it was a Frosty, but vanilla! I had to taste it for myself.
White chocolate M&Ms? Check. Reece's cups 'inside out'? Check. Special edition White Chocolate Kit-Kat? Check. McDonalds chicken ranch snack wrap? Check. Pepsi One? Check. Coke Zero? Check. Cherry Coke Zero? Check.
I feel like there may be a lesson in this for me to learn. But first, I noticed something the other day while I was driving home. Seems McDonalds has a new chicken snack wrap. This one has Honey Mustard. I'm in.
February 3, 2007
The mountain of coolers that I own (and have owned) is all due to gimmicks. I buy a cooler. It is functional. It holds all the food I need it to hold. It keeps everything cool, just as promised. I'm happy with it. Then I happen to be in the store and wander by the cooler section. Hmm. Look at that cooler. It has a SIDE ZIP POCKET! Think of what I could store in there!!!!! And another cooler joins my coffers. And don't get me started on the coolers with wheels, an easy open top flap, and an expandable bottom compartment, apparently in case you get more food once you get where you're going and need the extra room. All of which I have.
My oldest child just turned three. I am on my fifth diaper bag. The first one was given to me as a gift at my baby shower. I registered for it. It was very gimmicky. Two side pockets for bottles, front pocket with Mom organizer, including a key fob, and a diaper changing pad, with a clear plastic 'dirty clothes' bag to complete it. Upon actually using this bag, I decided it was too big, and went for the complimentary diaper bag I got in the hospital. It worked for a while, but it was just one big space. I needed compartments, without going overboard, of course. The next diaper bag was just right….until I found out I was expecting #2. Now I needed a diaper bag to hold not only the infant diapers and wipes, but also the crayons and juice boxes of the older one. Some would say that any old bag would do. Not me. I found the perfect bag, full of compartments and organizers for the big kids stuff, and lots of empty space for the little one's stuff. That lasted about a year. My latest one is a sight to see. You know what won me over? It has 'stroller attachable straps'. Oooo…I'm getting goosebumps just thinking about it. Plus, you should see the zippered pockets on this thing.
And my fascination with gimmicks extends to the food world as well, where it probably exists in its most extreme form. I was the first on the bandwagon to try the different permutations of Coke and Pepsi when they went all Lemon, Lime, and whatever else. I've tasted the Dr. Pepper with Berries and Crème, the Fresca peach and black cherry, and more vanilla sodas than you can imagine. Back in 9th grade, I had one very specific request for my birthday dinner: Crystal Pepsi. What a concept! Pepsi! But it's clear!!
Wendy's has suckered me a few times. I've eaten their crispy chicken sandwiches quite a few times and thought they were good. Then came the commercial with an irresistible tag line: Now! CRISPIER! Crispier??? There's been crisp that I've been missing out on??? My latest Wendy's gimmick involved their Frosty, recently introduced in a vanilla version. Which, of course, is nothing more than a vanilla shake, something that can be found at any fast food restaurant across the nation. But it was more than that – it was a Frosty, but vanilla! I had to taste it for myself.
White chocolate M&Ms? Check. Reece's cups 'inside out'? Check. Special edition White Chocolate Kit-Kat? Check. McDonalds chicken ranch snack wrap? Check. Pepsi One? Check. Coke Zero? Check. Cherry Coke Zero? Check.
I feel like there may be a lesson in this for me to learn. But first, I noticed something the other day while I was driving home. Seems McDonalds has a new chicken snack wrap. This one has Honey Mustard. I'm in.
February 3, 2007
independence
A fun fact about me: today was my due date, some 30+ years ago. Instead, I chose to bide my time, appearing ten days later on the 12th. I was supposed to be a Groundhog Day arrival and ended up a Lincoln baby.
My son came in my room the other morning, as he usually does when he wakes up. I had been up quite a bit during the night with the baby, so I was still very tired, and when he said in his little cheery voice, 'Good morning, Mom!', I just wanted him to go away. Half-asleep, with my eyes still closed, I told him to climb up in bed with me and cuddle a little bit, hoping to score a few more minutes lounging in bed. He did, and as he nestled into my chest, I ran my arm around his backside to pull him in closer and got a little surprise. Rather than the flannel jammie bottoms I expected to feel, my hand instead cradled a little bare bum. I opened my eyes and asked him, 'What happened to your pants?' He smiled at me and said, 'I peed in them so I took them off!' He paused a moment, perhaps for dramatic effect, then added, 'All by myself.'
All by myself. AS parents, part of our job is to move our kids to that phrase in every aspect of their lives. It starts almost from birth. Don't rock your baby to sleep, or he'll never learn to fall asleep on his own! Be sure your baby gets plenty of tummy time, so he can learn to hold his head up by himself. We're given these helpless creatures who are completely dependant on us and expected to turn out independent young adults in the 18 or so years that we have them.
Working towards this independence is quite a job, especially in the early years. My three year old can now go to the potty himself, relieving me of the diaper duty that kept him dependent on me. He can undress himself for the most part, and we're working now on getting dressed. He can put him own undies on, and most of the time his pants too. He can feed himself, but he's been doing that for a long time now. Not too long ago, he surprised us at how little he needed us to help with the TiVo, as he nonchalantly paused his show to run and get some milk.
It's so cute to see this little person develop. I can't believe this is the same newborn that we brought home a little more than three years ago. All of a sudden, it seems, he's doing his own thing. He tells me, 'Just a moment, Mom, I have to go check something.' Or he'll say, 'I've got a good idea! Maybe we could go eat some pizza!' Just this morning he told me, 'When the clock gets on seven, then it will be time for you to play with me.'
But each step towards independence is ultimately a step away from me. Soon he won't need me to help him put his shoes on. He won't want me picking him up from school, or hanging out on a Friday night. I am pouring my life and soul into these years with him, only to know that he will be leaving me in the end.
And that's the kicker. Every parent knows that the day is coming; it's lurking somewhere in the murky future when your child's life is no longer dependent on you. It's sweet and sour – the ache you feel at being not necessary is tempered by the wonder that is this new, independent person that you helped shape. I feel it now, even as my son is still a toddler. I miss shoveling cereal in his little mouth, but look how great he is at using that spoon himself.
So as you grow, dear son, I'll keep pushing you to do it yourself. Because one day, sooner than I'll be ready for, it will be all you. And I'll be content to sit back and admire my handiwork.
February 2, 2007
My son came in my room the other morning, as he usually does when he wakes up. I had been up quite a bit during the night with the baby, so I was still very tired, and when he said in his little cheery voice, 'Good morning, Mom!', I just wanted him to go away. Half-asleep, with my eyes still closed, I told him to climb up in bed with me and cuddle a little bit, hoping to score a few more minutes lounging in bed. He did, and as he nestled into my chest, I ran my arm around his backside to pull him in closer and got a little surprise. Rather than the flannel jammie bottoms I expected to feel, my hand instead cradled a little bare bum. I opened my eyes and asked him, 'What happened to your pants?' He smiled at me and said, 'I peed in them so I took them off!' He paused a moment, perhaps for dramatic effect, then added, 'All by myself.'
All by myself. AS parents, part of our job is to move our kids to that phrase in every aspect of their lives. It starts almost from birth. Don't rock your baby to sleep, or he'll never learn to fall asleep on his own! Be sure your baby gets plenty of tummy time, so he can learn to hold his head up by himself. We're given these helpless creatures who are completely dependant on us and expected to turn out independent young adults in the 18 or so years that we have them.
Working towards this independence is quite a job, especially in the early years. My three year old can now go to the potty himself, relieving me of the diaper duty that kept him dependent on me. He can undress himself for the most part, and we're working now on getting dressed. He can put him own undies on, and most of the time his pants too. He can feed himself, but he's been doing that for a long time now. Not too long ago, he surprised us at how little he needed us to help with the TiVo, as he nonchalantly paused his show to run and get some milk.
It's so cute to see this little person develop. I can't believe this is the same newborn that we brought home a little more than three years ago. All of a sudden, it seems, he's doing his own thing. He tells me, 'Just a moment, Mom, I have to go check something.' Or he'll say, 'I've got a good idea! Maybe we could go eat some pizza!' Just this morning he told me, 'When the clock gets on seven, then it will be time for you to play with me.'
But each step towards independence is ultimately a step away from me. Soon he won't need me to help him put his shoes on. He won't want me picking him up from school, or hanging out on a Friday night. I am pouring my life and soul into these years with him, only to know that he will be leaving me in the end.
And that's the kicker. Every parent knows that the day is coming; it's lurking somewhere in the murky future when your child's life is no longer dependent on you. It's sweet and sour – the ache you feel at being not necessary is tempered by the wonder that is this new, independent person that you helped shape. I feel it now, even as my son is still a toddler. I miss shoveling cereal in his little mouth, but look how great he is at using that spoon himself.
So as you grow, dear son, I'll keep pushing you to do it yourself. Because one day, sooner than I'll be ready for, it will be all you. And I'll be content to sit back and admire my handiwork.
February 2, 2007
Christmas wish
My 3 year old sat on Santa's lap and Santa asked him what he wanted for Christmas. He replied, "A candy cane." That was it. Nice and simple. I joked to the mom standing next to me, "I guess it will be an easy Christmas for me this year!"
I think back on that day with a tinge of melancholy, for I know that it will someday be lost in a whirlwind of memories and cute stories. I think on it with melancholy, for the innocence that allows him to wish for a candy cane for Christmas will also be gone someday and it tears me to pieces to think of it.
In the three short years since becoming a parent, I am amazed at the transformation in me. The little things that used to bug me are somehow smoothed over, the silly grudges I harbored have been released, the selfish nature that I laid claim to has been purged, all for the love of this child of mine. I don't allege to have become perfect by any means, but suddenly life has a bigger purpose than just my whims and indulgences. My life is this child. I rejoice to see him happy, I sympathize when he is sad, and I hurt to see him in pain.
Right now his world is so easy. His parents love him, he has a few friends that he likes to play with, and he gets a lollipop when he poops in the potty. Throw in a little 'Candy Land' and a trip to the playground and life is good...very good. He thinks everyone likes him, we're all laughing with him, and the hardest thing to deal with is having to turn the T.V. off after just one show.
But as the rest of us know, everyone doesn't always like us, they're not always laughing with us, and there are a lot harder things in life to deal with than a T.V. restriction. I feel almost physically sick to think of the day that will inevitably come when he is rejected by a friend. When he is excluded from the group. When he is the object of laughter. When his heart is broken. When life seems to be closing in on him. My precious son....
Life isn't fair, life isn't easy. I'm pained to know that he will have to learn these lessons. I want for him to know sunny skies and shining waters, not stormclouds and droughts. This sweet smile of his will fade and the sparkle in his eyes will dim. The only thing I can do is teach him that it doesn't have to be a permanent thing.
I want for him to keep the innocence of childhood in his heart forever. I want him to see beauty in a smooth rock on the sidewalk. I want him to know a true friendship. I want him to appreciate the simple things life has to offer. I want him to know that this life isn't the end.
I want him to get his candy cane.
December 20, 2006
I think back on that day with a tinge of melancholy, for I know that it will someday be lost in a whirlwind of memories and cute stories. I think on it with melancholy, for the innocence that allows him to wish for a candy cane for Christmas will also be gone someday and it tears me to pieces to think of it.
In the three short years since becoming a parent, I am amazed at the transformation in me. The little things that used to bug me are somehow smoothed over, the silly grudges I harbored have been released, the selfish nature that I laid claim to has been purged, all for the love of this child of mine. I don't allege to have become perfect by any means, but suddenly life has a bigger purpose than just my whims and indulgences. My life is this child. I rejoice to see him happy, I sympathize when he is sad, and I hurt to see him in pain.
Right now his world is so easy. His parents love him, he has a few friends that he likes to play with, and he gets a lollipop when he poops in the potty. Throw in a little 'Candy Land' and a trip to the playground and life is good...very good. He thinks everyone likes him, we're all laughing with him, and the hardest thing to deal with is having to turn the T.V. off after just one show.
But as the rest of us know, everyone doesn't always like us, they're not always laughing with us, and there are a lot harder things in life to deal with than a T.V. restriction. I feel almost physically sick to think of the day that will inevitably come when he is rejected by a friend. When he is excluded from the group. When he is the object of laughter. When his heart is broken. When life seems to be closing in on him. My precious son....
Life isn't fair, life isn't easy. I'm pained to know that he will have to learn these lessons. I want for him to know sunny skies and shining waters, not stormclouds and droughts. This sweet smile of his will fade and the sparkle in his eyes will dim. The only thing I can do is teach him that it doesn't have to be a permanent thing.
I want for him to keep the innocence of childhood in his heart forever. I want him to see beauty in a smooth rock on the sidewalk. I want him to know a true friendship. I want him to appreciate the simple things life has to offer. I want him to know that this life isn't the end.
I want him to get his candy cane.
December 20, 2006
4:00 a.m.
One of the fun things about having kids is never knowing if you'll get a full night's sleep or not. Kind of like some sort of cruel lottery - 'Ooooo - maybe tonight's the night!'
Last night was not one of those nights. Around 4 a.m., I had just put the baby back to bed after feeding him, when I heard cries from the older one coming from the next room. Since I was already up, I went over to see what was going on. We're at Grandma and Grandpa's for Thanksgiving, so I guessed that he had probably woken up and forgotten where he was. So I go in and he's sitting up in his bed, crying his eyes out. I sat down next to him, rubbed his back, and asked him what was wrong. He just kept crying, so I pulled him close to me for a hug, and that's when I felt the wet pants. Yup - he had peed in his bed. He's pretty new at the potty training thing, but up to this point, he hadn't wet the bed. But he was crying the most heartbreaking cry and he was wet and the bed was wet, so I stripped his pants and got him some new underwear, and then stripped the bed and was ready to tuck him back in, when I realized his pj top was also wet. So the poor kid already has no pants, and I'm taking his shirt also. I told him to hang on a moment while I got him a new shirt. I went back into my room, and when I came back, he was curled up on the floor shivering, and still sniffing a bit. I picked him up, put on his warm shirt and gave him a big hug before tucking him back into bed.
I went back into my room, where my husband had woken up, so I briefly told him what had happened. Then I laid there, trying to get back to sleep, but all I could think about was my poor little boy, sitting in his own pee, so sad and helpless to do anything about it, and I thought, "This is the time when I love being a mother." Strange, but true. It's not that I enjoy waking up in the middle of the night to change a boy and a bed, but it's the fact that I can take care of my son, who at that moment needs me desperately. My child, who is utterly helpless, laying in his own filth and misery, and I can make all that go away. This child is just pitiful -- and yet my heart swells with love to see him and want to help him.
And then my thoughts started to wander again, and a view of God cleared in my mind. How much more so are we pitiful little children, mired in our own filth and sin, wallowing in our helplessness and stench, unable to do anything about it, when He walks in, and is stirred with compassion and love for us. He lifts us out of it all, cleans us off, and gathers us in His embrace. I know my son was grateful for my help; I saw the look on his face as he snuggled into a dry bed once again. Where's my look of gratitude for my Father? Or am I so calloused to His mercy on my pitiful estate that I shrug it off, or worse, consider it unworthy of my thanks?
Just my thoughts in the night.....
November 23, 2006
Last night was not one of those nights. Around 4 a.m., I had just put the baby back to bed after feeding him, when I heard cries from the older one coming from the next room. Since I was already up, I went over to see what was going on. We're at Grandma and Grandpa's for Thanksgiving, so I guessed that he had probably woken up and forgotten where he was. So I go in and he's sitting up in his bed, crying his eyes out. I sat down next to him, rubbed his back, and asked him what was wrong. He just kept crying, so I pulled him close to me for a hug, and that's when I felt the wet pants. Yup - he had peed in his bed. He's pretty new at the potty training thing, but up to this point, he hadn't wet the bed. But he was crying the most heartbreaking cry and he was wet and the bed was wet, so I stripped his pants and got him some new underwear, and then stripped the bed and was ready to tuck him back in, when I realized his pj top was also wet. So the poor kid already has no pants, and I'm taking his shirt also. I told him to hang on a moment while I got him a new shirt. I went back into my room, and when I came back, he was curled up on the floor shivering, and still sniffing a bit. I picked him up, put on his warm shirt and gave him a big hug before tucking him back into bed.
I went back into my room, where my husband had woken up, so I briefly told him what had happened. Then I laid there, trying to get back to sleep, but all I could think about was my poor little boy, sitting in his own pee, so sad and helpless to do anything about it, and I thought, "This is the time when I love being a mother." Strange, but true. It's not that I enjoy waking up in the middle of the night to change a boy and a bed, but it's the fact that I can take care of my son, who at that moment needs me desperately. My child, who is utterly helpless, laying in his own filth and misery, and I can make all that go away. This child is just pitiful -- and yet my heart swells with love to see him and want to help him.
And then my thoughts started to wander again, and a view of God cleared in my mind. How much more so are we pitiful little children, mired in our own filth and sin, wallowing in our helplessness and stench, unable to do anything about it, when He walks in, and is stirred with compassion and love for us. He lifts us out of it all, cleans us off, and gathers us in His embrace. I know my son was grateful for my help; I saw the look on his face as he snuggled into a dry bed once again. Where's my look of gratitude for my Father? Or am I so calloused to His mercy on my pitiful estate that I shrug it off, or worse, consider it unworthy of my thanks?
Just my thoughts in the night.....
November 23, 2006
Bedtime musings
Ask any mother what her favorite time of day is, and I'd say that majority of your answers will be 'Bedtime'! Anyone who says otherwise is secretly thinking that anyway.
As much as I love my two boys, I'm ready for a break once bedtime rolls around. Tonight, two books, one music CD, and last minute trip up to administer cough medicine and the promise of a spanking should I hear the tell-tale patter of feet on the ceiling, and finally it is quiet. But before I get into my projects, I have to make sure that sleep has indeed stolen them away.
First up, the toddler. My first baby, not a baby anymore,pushing even the boundaries of toddlerhood. He moves nonstop during the day, drawing from a reserve of energy that I marvel at constantly. He is still only in sleep. And yet, not still. He's decided to sleep curled up on the floor in the corner between his bed and the wall. It's tempting to leave him there, but I haul him up to his bed anyway, tucking in arms and legs that flail lifelessly this way and that. He's getting heavier. I can still manuever him for now, but how much longer?. One side of his head is damp and sweaty from being ground into the carpet, and it puts off a faint soapy scent from a pre-bedtime bath. I lay him on his back, and he readjusts himself onto his side, groaning softly. From the light in the hall, I can make out the traces of the infant I brought home three years ago. His mouth is slightly agape, drool pooling in the corner, threatening to spill over at any minute onto his beloved bug pillowcase. He sighs once more and settles into the deep breathing of sleep. I'm convinced.
On to the baby. Not yet three months old, we're still working on the concept that night is for sleeping, and sleeping for long stretches of time, at that. In fact, last night was the first six hour stretch that he slept and it was like cool water to my parched, tired body. I'm hoping he repeats it tonight. I creep up to the bassinet and peek over, half expecting to see bright eyes staring back at me and - thank you God! - he's out. I'm struck by how small he is, especially in comparison to the toddler I've just visited. And yet I can see how much he's grown, even in the twelve weeks since we brought him home. So small, so big. He's wormed his way out of his swaddling. I wrapped him tightly when I put him down, I know it. And yet somehow this tiny being who can't even support his own body weight can squirm out of this straightjacket of a blanket. He's only gotten one arm out, though, and his tight fist rests gently beside his head. His head is slightly damp too, perhaps sweaty from the struggle it took to liberate that one fist from the confines of his bedding. In the semi-darkness, I realize that I'm straining to see his chest rise and fall with each breath. He seems unnaturally still all of a sudden....wait....a big intake of air.....and back out again. Ok; still breathing. And then a fluttering of eyelids, a contorted face, and a cry that never quite makes it out....a few seconds later, his face relaxes and he's still once again. I'm convinced.
Back downstairs, I'm ready for Me time. I fix my tea, cue up my TiVo....and all I want to do is wake up my babies and revel in their sweetness.
November 2, 1996
As much as I love my two boys, I'm ready for a break once bedtime rolls around. Tonight, two books, one music CD, and last minute trip up to administer cough medicine and the promise of a spanking should I hear the tell-tale patter of feet on the ceiling, and finally it is quiet. But before I get into my projects, I have to make sure that sleep has indeed stolen them away.
First up, the toddler. My first baby, not a baby anymore,pushing even the boundaries of toddlerhood. He moves nonstop during the day, drawing from a reserve of energy that I marvel at constantly. He is still only in sleep. And yet, not still. He's decided to sleep curled up on the floor in the corner between his bed and the wall. It's tempting to leave him there, but I haul him up to his bed anyway, tucking in arms and legs that flail lifelessly this way and that. He's getting heavier. I can still manuever him for now, but how much longer?. One side of his head is damp and sweaty from being ground into the carpet, and it puts off a faint soapy scent from a pre-bedtime bath. I lay him on his back, and he readjusts himself onto his side, groaning softly. From the light in the hall, I can make out the traces of the infant I brought home three years ago. His mouth is slightly agape, drool pooling in the corner, threatening to spill over at any minute onto his beloved bug pillowcase. He sighs once more and settles into the deep breathing of sleep. I'm convinced.
On to the baby. Not yet three months old, we're still working on the concept that night is for sleeping, and sleeping for long stretches of time, at that. In fact, last night was the first six hour stretch that he slept and it was like cool water to my parched, tired body. I'm hoping he repeats it tonight. I creep up to the bassinet and peek over, half expecting to see bright eyes staring back at me and - thank you God! - he's out. I'm struck by how small he is, especially in comparison to the toddler I've just visited. And yet I can see how much he's grown, even in the twelve weeks since we brought him home. So small, so big. He's wormed his way out of his swaddling. I wrapped him tightly when I put him down, I know it. And yet somehow this tiny being who can't even support his own body weight can squirm out of this straightjacket of a blanket. He's only gotten one arm out, though, and his tight fist rests gently beside his head. His head is slightly damp too, perhaps sweaty from the struggle it took to liberate that one fist from the confines of his bedding. In the semi-darkness, I realize that I'm straining to see his chest rise and fall with each breath. He seems unnaturally still all of a sudden....wait....a big intake of air.....and back out again. Ok; still breathing. And then a fluttering of eyelids, a contorted face, and a cry that never quite makes it out....a few seconds later, his face relaxes and he's still once again. I'm convinced.
Back downstairs, I'm ready for Me time. I fix my tea, cue up my TiVo....and all I want to do is wake up my babies and revel in their sweetness.
November 2, 1996
A Regulat Mom
So I blog now. I like to write, and I have some thoughts on things, and people who would like to read them (well, my mom at least). And so, I blog now.
Thanks for reading.
(oh - and if you're impressed by the fact that I wrote a whole bunch my first day blogging, don't be- I cheated a bit and put up a few essays from years past. don't get used to it.)
Thanks for reading.
(oh - and if you're impressed by the fact that I wrote a whole bunch my first day blogging, don't be- I cheated a bit and put up a few essays from years past. don't get used to it.)
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