A Taste For Rhinestones and Faux Fur

If it’s fluffy, shiny or covered in rhinestones my girls are drawn to it like moths to a flame.  It would seem that, while I have poured all of my fashion expertise into their young lives since the day they were born, they have developed their own sense of style.  A sense of style quite contrary to mine - one that prefers a little bling, bling and wild colors to that of warm hues, traditional dresses and coordinating outfit ensembles (with matching hair pieces, I might add).  Try as I might to convince and persuade them to tone down their spicy taste in couture, it is to no avail.   In their small world of pink glitter nail polish and cherry lip smacker Chap Stick, black velvet totally compliments hot pink, sequins and faux fur.  My girls put the “girl” in girlie.   

After all these years – all six-and-a-half of them - you would think that I would have learned the valuable lesson of which battles are worth fighting and of which ones to let go.  Usually I’m pretty good at keeping this at the forefront of my mind.  However, the other morning as we were preparing to leave the house for church, my obsessive compulsive controlling nature kicked in to high gear, and I fought for a good thirty minutes with Brooklyn over which coat she was going to wear.  I could have slapped myself silly for blowing such a minor difference of opinion into a full-blown war over appropriate outerwear.  When the grown up rational side of me finally came to, and realized how foolish I was behaving (it’s not like Brooklyn was resisting wearing a coat at all…she just wanted to wear her fluffy, white coat, not her navy, tailored wool coat that I just happen to prefer), I acquiesced and we all left for church smiling…and warm.  Just another example of how far I have to go in this thing called motherhood.

To my credit, I’ve come a long way baby!  Two years ago, when Sydney was displaying her strong tendencies for wild and crazy fashion, I struggled to relinquish the tight fisted hold I had on her wardrobe.  Over my dead body would she be permitted to wear red tights with her pastel pink skirt and coral colored track-jacket.  These days, I have learned to simply look the other way when it’s time to lay out their clothes for the morning.  Sometimes I cringe, and have to fight hard, the urge to intervene.  Other times I find myself pleasantly surprised and impressed by some of their outfit choices.  And I am always there to lend a helping hand or suggestion, but only when asked. 

What I’ve been learning is just how valuable it is to let go of the little things and allow my kids to develop their own sense of self.  There are boundaries and limits in our home that pertain to the rules of the house, and those are non-negotiable.  However, when it comes to clothes, as long as it’s modest and tasteful, I let them have the control.  Let them figure out how to put it all together.  Let them experience a safe kind of independence and autonomy through dressing themselves. 

I’m still working on this, as noted in the earlier part of this post.  The control freak in me still pops up every now and then, and I have to smack her back down with a good dose of “does it really matter?”  Does my daughter’s outfit, or coat, have anything to do with her character development or a core family value?  When the answer is “no” then I have to let it go. 

And slowly, but surely, I’m making progress…and so are they.

Bag Lady

Before I entered the world of motherhood I had some pretty strong (and ignorant, mind you) ideas of what kind of mom I was going to be.  I visualized myself prancing around town toting my offspring in a pristine and crumb-free stroller, with my hair bouncing on my shoulders just like Gwyneth Paltrow and baby Apple.  I was going to get up early every day, shower, do my hair and make-up and would not allow myself to look like the exhausted and haggard moms I spied at the mall, donning their husband’s over-sized t-shirts and worn out sweats, with a multitude of bags hanging from their shoulders and forearms.  Their strollers, encrusted with sticky substances and stale cheerios, grossed. me. out.  I vowed that my children would be forbidden to eat in the stroller, that I would only carry one bag, and I would never be caught dead sporting anything from my husband’s dresser drawers.  My baby would coo and giggle while out and about on our shopping ventures; not scream, cry and throw tantrums like the ones I so often observed parked in goo-infested travel systems outside MiMi’s Maternity Boutique.  I was going to do motherhood right – a one bag, spotless stroller, stylish Mommy, and adorable offspring kind of gal.  

Let’s flash forward about six years.  I am now the proud mother of three, ages 6, 4 and 3.  Our stroller looks like it’s been pummeled with applesauce and bananas with remnants of saltine crackers wedged into every nook and cranny.  It’s a health hazard.  Try as I did to firmly adhere to the “no food in the stroller” rule, a peaceful shopping experience won out, along with goldfish and mushy fruit.  (Anyone with a baby over the age of six months knows exactly what I’m talking about.)  A squeaky clean stroller was just a pipe dream.

Speaking of outings.  Remember my vow to “never be caught dead sporting anything from my husband’s dresser drawers”?  Children, too, have changed my perspective on what is appropriate “going out” attire.  These days comfort is key.  I long to be comfortable.  I have worn Joel’s t-shirts, sweatshirts, socks and ball caps.  And all I’ve worn shamelessly to the grocery store, shopping, walks around the block and running errands.  There have been days on end when not a smudge of make-up has touched my skin.  It’s not that I don’t care about my looks, but looking good tends to take a back seat when I’m absorbed with the needs of my little ones. 

And then there are the bags.  (Oh…the bags!)  They were, in fact, the inspiration of this post today.  As I was preparing to head out the door the other morning I stopped when I suddenly caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror with bags hanging from various body parts. I looked like a Christmas tree decked out in backpacks, book bags, lunch bags, my purse, coats and sweaters.  “Oh no!  Say it ain’t so!”  I turned from my reflection, blinked my eyes hoping the image was not as it appeared, and snuck a second glance.  Nothing had changed.  I knew right then and there I had become the bag lady. 

Not just the bag lady, but the poor mom huffing and puffing her way through the church foyer, feeling like she has forgotten something, hoping her hair still looks as cute as it did before Jackson’s curious hands touched and grabbed it while being buckled into his four-point harness car seat, and praying that no one will drop on the floor in blatant protest to mommy’s whispered instructions.  I am the mom that I said I would never become.  I’m the icky stroller, multi-bag toting, wearing hubbies cast-off tees, exhausted, and breathless mommy.

In the literal sense, it seems that everywhere we go requires huge amounts of excess baggage.  Just managing all the kids’ miscellaneous items is enough to wear me out – even when they, too, are carrying part of the load.  Which brings me to my “big thought” for the day.  What about all the excess stuff I carry around spiritually?  All the worries, stress, needless expectations I put on myself, the guilt (Oh the guilt!), and the fear…the list could easily go on and on.  Even when I unburden myself to my husband or a close friend, still the “bags” continue to hang from my shoulders or pull on my arms.  While there’s not much I can do about all the backpacks, water bottles, blankets and coats while my kids are young, there is something I can do about the bags I carry around in my spirit.  Those bags are unnecessary, and there is nowhere I can find that God desires for me to continue clinging to them. 

So how do I get rid of this spiritual baggage? 

By setting them down at the feet of Christ.  The whole reason God allowed His son Jesus to come to earth, dwell among us and sacrifice His life on the cross, was so that He could take every care of the world, every sin of every man and every burden we struggle to balance onto His own back and carry it for us.  We love to sing, “I surrender all”, but most of the time once we’ve left the altar where we’ve made that submission, we end up picking up our “all” right outside the door.  The challenge is not so much to spill out our lives in a moment of emotional surrender, but to daily give everything over to God.  Daily lift up our hands and say, “Take my fear today, take my sadness, take my struggles, my finances, my priorities, my family…take every burden weighing on this heart of mine…today.”  And then daily, He can take all those spiritual bags we’ve been dragging around for so long, and bring us the relief and peace we so desperately need and want. 

Psalm 68:19

Praise be to the Lord, to God our Savior, who daily bears our burdens.

Good Grief and New Beginnings

When Jackson turned a year old I embarked on a bittersweet  journey through grief.  People grieve for a number of reasons: Death of a loved one, a loss of some kind, a move, a change in job, divorce, an empty nest or their team losing the Rose Bowl.  There are so many reasons.  And I believe each one to be valid (and I will add that the process of grieving for any one of these is healthy and good).  It’s an important step, in my opinion, and a necessary one to move on to the next season of life.   

For me, my period of grief lasted about a year.  I wasn’t depressed.  I wasn’t experiencing post partum blues or any sort of clinical or physiological problems.  Simply stated, I was grieving the loss of having babies.  We all have our own issues.  This was one of mine. 

I love babies.  I have loved babies since the time I could hold a baby doll in my arms.  All I ever wanted in life was to get married and be a mom.  I dreamed of what it would feel like to have my own baby – to love, nurture, swaddle and kiss the sweet face of my very own child.  Joel and I had made the decision long ago that we would have three children.  I initially suggested four or five, but judging by the look of horror and downright fear on his face I quickly realized I was going to have to downsize my dream.  We settled on three, and have never questioned that decision.  In fact, after Jackson was born (even as I held his tiny body up close to my face and in a hormonal moment of tears and sweat blubbered, “Oh please don’t let this be my last baby,”) I sensed in my heart that our family was finally complete.  Even through Jackson’s first year, that conviction continued to solidify deep inside bringing me much peace and contentment.

Then my little guy turned one.  And something snapped.  No more babies.  This season I had so long waited and hoped for was coming to a close…and fast.  I felt sad.  I felt a sort of loss.  No more maternity clothes.  No more newborn sleepers and teeny tiny diapers.  No more toothless grins and late night feedings.  It was all passing away right before my eyes.  It’s not that I suddenly wanted another baby - I knew that season was completed.  Rather, I found myself needing to grieve it.

I shared this with very few people.  Most of the time if someone would ask us if we were going to have more children I was quick to roll my eyes and state matter-of-factly, “NO WAY!”  While on the inside I was struggling.  I had my moments when I knew if Joel had shown the slightest interest in having a fourth child I would have jumped at the idea.  It was an emotional roller coaster year for me.  One minute wishing we could have another child, the next minute being grateful that those years had come to a close.  Back and forth.  Back and forth.

Part of the grief was wondering what lie beyond the baby years.  What was my purpose beyond cleaning spit up and changing copious amounts of diapers every day?  I had always looked ahead toward the time I would finally settle down and have children, but I had never looked further than that…to the after part.  And this was where I found myself when Jackson turned one.

It was a good year.  God did amazing things in my life through the grieving process.  And slowly, as that year drew to a close, I discovered new things about myself.  An unexpected sense of confidence began to emerge, and eventually joy unfolded within me as I looked forward to a new beginning that was awaiting me.  A season that consists of making lunches, helping out with homework, sports events, ballet recitals, school programs, sleepovers, communicating with words instead of sounds, and family activities that don’t require strollers, diaper bags, and burp cloths.  A season of being a family, instead of building a family. 

Today Jackson turns three-years-old.  I can hardly believe my 8 pound, ruddy faced baby is now running around, tackling his sisters, playing with his cars, doing his “business” in the big boy potty and talking to me with a mouth full of teeth.  Amazing.  I would be remiss to say that I don’t feel the slightest little pang of sadness as I look at this precocious boy of mine and realize he is no longer a baby.  But that sad feeling doesn’t linger.  It wells up only for a brief moment, and then fades away fast in the pleasure I take in this new season I am entering.  

The grief was good.  I needed to face it, feel it and learn from it.  The blessing here is that I didn’t have to stay in that state of grief.  Once I journeyed through it what was waiting for me on the other side was a new beginning, and thus far I am becoming more and more convinced that I am going to thoroughly love this season as much as I loved the last.

So in conclusion I just want to say “Happy Birthday” to my little man.  Thank you, Jackson, for three marvelous years of growth, laughter, joy and unconditional love.  You are a blessing and a delight to me.  You brought me to this new beginning.  And, oh my, how I love you!

What's That Smell?

From the depths of sweet slumber I felt a tap, tap, tap on my shoulder.  Turning over and blinking my eyes, Sydney's face came into focus.  She had a bad dream.  I looked at the clock.  Not quite 4am.  

Rolling out of bed (my warm and cozy little nest), I took Sydney's hand and, in a state of drowsiness, quietly escorted her back to her room.  Covers were arranged, water was administered and a short (but to the point) prayer was prayed.  I leaned over to give her a kiss. 

Sydney paused.

"Mommy, what's that smell?

"What smell?"

Silence.

"What smell?"

Again, silence and Sydney's eyes peering into mine.

"Oh.  Is it my breath?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay Mommy.  I love you."

"I love you too." 

(But that's what you get, kiddo, for waking Mommy up in the wee hours of the morning from a deep, coma-like sleep.)

And we all returned to dreamland...happily ever after.

The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

I just botched every single warm fuzzy mommy moment only a few minutes ago as I snapped angrily at Sydney for asking (whining) for the umpteenth time if it was lunch time.  This outburst of mine completely undermined the earlier draft of this post I had been working on throughout the morning.  

In fact, I'm still not fully in the proper state of mind to tell about how I was sitting here at the computer tyring to figure out what to write when I heard this voice over my shoulder saying, "Don't panic. Don't panic."  From the corner of my eye I could see Sydney coming closer and closer to me with a big, white hair bow in hand.  She wanted to do my hair for me.   Meanwhile, Jackson and Brooklyn had been fighting over who got to massage my back.  (Oh the pampered life I live!)

We are only two days away from the big day.  The day my three wild ones have been anticipating and dreaming about for weeks and months.   One minute I'm basking in the simple pleasures of watching the excitement build in their eyes.  The next minute I feel like I'm barely holding on by a thread to keep some semblance of peace in the home.  These people, with their little hands and little faces, in a brief moment of sweetness, have worked extraordinarily hard to make sure I (Santa's wife) feel appreciated and loved (minus the first thing in the morning meltdown, the bickering over some stupid plastic toy and the tears shed when it was firmly explained that M&M's are not an appropriate breakfast food).   I know it's hard to be good all year long, let alone all day long!

If I could only manage to press hold and make time stand still, just for a moment.  For this moment when all three are peacefully playing, and the moment tomorrow that has yet to come and for the first peek at the gifts under the tree on Christmas morning.  In the minds of my children time is moving ever so slowly towards the day they've been anxiously awaiting for so long.  In my mind time is flying at the speed of light, and I've not enough space on my camera's memory stick to capture all the moments I long to remember and never forget: preschool Christmas programs, cookie baking mis-haps, potty training through the holidays, driving down Peacock Lane, eating Christmas treats and marveling at the warm glow of creative exterior lighting, the story of baby Jesus and the look of absolute conviction that crosses the faces of three young children, eyes large as saucers, as they give detailed accounts of their Christmas lists. 

As stressful as it can be, this truly is the most magical time of the year.  And inspite of my momentary lapse in motherly sweetness, I really do long to savour every single moment of this holiday season with my family.  So, I'll take the good parts, wrap them up in my heart, and open them every time I need a reminder of just how magical those hard-to-come-by well-behaved moments are. 

And in sheer delight I'll hold tightly to those twinkling passages of time that usher me right back into the joy of the season - the most wonderful time of the year!

Easy Button

I need an easy button.   

Running errands yesterday on less than a quarter tank of gas, calculating how much cash I have to spend, how much I’ve spent, how many more gifts I need to buy, how can I make due with what I’ve got, and can I make it to the cheap gas station before the “low fuel” light starts blinking, I secretly wished I could press a button and everything would end up working out perfectly…easily.

Then, last night when my six-year-old decided she couldn’t sleep and woke up her siblings right around the time I was getting ready to crawl into bed myself, I thought how nice it would be to have an easy button right about now.  Instead of a bedtime battle, screaming and tears there would be sugarplum fairies prancing and dancing my daughter to sleep. 

Just this morning as I was trying to get out the door for a Christmas brunch, Jackson insisted on wearing his new mittens.  I couldn’t find them (I only bought them yesterday!), and ended up rummaging through the winter accessories basket in the coat closet.  Scarves, hats and mismatched glove sets were strewn all over the floor.  Irritated, I started looking for an easy button hiding in the knitted mess. 

It didn’t stop there.  Pulling Jackson’s mittens on to his little hands proved more difficult than expected.  He couldn’t seem to grasp the concept of separating his thumb from the rest of his fingers thus culminating all his frustration into one gigantic outburst as I worked feverishly to find his lost thumbs: “Jackson, give me your thumb.  Put your thumb here.  Stop fighting me.  Do you really want to wear these mittens?  Then you need to cooperate with me.”  Ugh.  Easy button?

Errands before the brunch, errands after the brunch (I seem to be running errands a lot these days), I figured I deserved a little “me” time when we got home.  Jackson screamed when I put him down for a nap (press “easy” now), Brooklyn followed me downstairs playing twenty questions (or something of that nature), and I realized that having time for myself was probably not going to happen. 

Then, BAM, I hit my own easy button; something internal, I really can’t explain it.  Suddenly I was inspired to start our Christmas baking.  Donning our aprons and Christmas music blaring, Brooklyn became my sous chef as we measured, mixed, stirred and rolled out the most scrumptious of holiday treats.  I can still smell the peppermint from our candy cane cookies – a family favorite. 

In that brief span of time - baking with Brooklyn, then taste testing our yummy confections – being a mom became as easy and sweet as our holiday candy fudge bars.  The stress I was feeling rolled right off my back, and when Jackson woke up I felt like a brand new mommy. 

With one click of the easy button I was armed and ready to search for Jackson’s “Lightning McQueen” car (that he loses multiple times a day), help Brooklyn “type” an e-mail on the computer, clean out my fridge and freezer, tidy up the kitchen and sweep the floors.  All before 4:30pm.  Easily completed so that I could have a few minutes to write this post for my blog. 

I may not have discovered a tangible easy button, but I learned a lesson far more valuable.  It is actually one I tried to teach to Sydney this morning before she left for school.  It’s all about the attitude.  We don’t always have control over our circumstances and the junk that comes at us day in and day out, but we do have control over how we look at life.  If we think we’re going to have a bad day, then we probably will (the world out there is merciless and will no doubt gladly contribute to the badness).  However, if we change our perspective, even just a little bit, it can be the catalyst for an absolutely amazing afternoon – as I learned so well today.

Show & Tell

Our deep early morning conversation began like this:  

Sydney: “Mom, do you remember when I was a little girl?  You know…when I was five years old?”

Me: “Why, yes I do.” because that was all of six months ago.  (I know I’ve been forgetting a lot of things since I became a mom of three, but a five-year-old Sydney?  This I do remember.)

Sydney: “I was a cute kid.”

Working hard to stifle a laugh, I concurred: “Yep.  You were a very cute kid.  And you still are.”

Sydney has show-and-tell today at school.  She is supposed to bring something that she is thankful for.  Sydney decided that she wanted me to be her show-and-tell.  Today, I am the object of her affection.  My highly challenging, deeply intuitive and strong - both in will and passion - daughter wants to show me off to her entire first grade class as the thing she is most thankful for. 

I’ve never been so honored to be an object.

I’m going to take this day, put it in my heart and never let it go. 

Looking For The Funny

It seems over the past several weeks and months I haven’t had very many humorous experiences to write about.  There is so much tragedy, almost too much, happening all around me; friends and family members all touched to some degree with suffering, pain, loss and grief.  To tell about my most recent brush with the wild and unruly little people in my home might come across as shallow and empty, in light of the real hurt that others are walking through.  I find myself overwhelmed, grappling with such serious and heady issues.  With a heavy heart I’ve asked God, “Where’s the funny?”  

I’ve been looking for it.  Looking for the funny.  Even this morning, when all three of my children melted down simultaneously, and in perfect harmony I might add, while eating breakfast.  I paused for a moment and briefly analyzed the situation, “How can I spin this moment of shear chaos into something funny?”  Unfortunately, by 7:30am I was already pulling out my reserve nerves because my kids had successfully trampled on the last of my daily supply.  All this after waking up early to pray for these three monkeys!  There was nothing funny about that.

As I was trying to finish getting ready, my son came into the bathroom to help me.  In his effort, and to his credit he really was trying to help, he slammed my foot and finger (don’t ask - I don’t know I managed to have both my foot and finger in the same place at the same time) in the bathroom cabinet.  It hurt.  It was not funny.  I was not funny.  After I let out a glorious shout of “OUCH!” I looked at Jackson, his eyes wide open, and stifled what was about to leak out of my mouth next and started to pray…loudly.  Jackson was concerned and laid his hand on my foot and prayed too.  Then he gave it a kiss.  That’s not funny either, but it sure was sweet.

Once recovered, I sat down at my desk to collect my things for Bible study.  I had been praying this morning and preparing my heart for this time of fellowship with other women.  We are all facing various challenges in our lives, and we have been rallying around each other in prayer and encouragement.  These women have been high on my prayer list.  I was deep in thought when I turned to look at Jackson, who was once again following me.  He was picking his nose.  Then he was eating “it”.  I said, “Eew, Jackson.  Don’t eat your boogers.  Icky gross!”  He looked straight at me and said with defiance, “No!  I like my boogers.”  Then he stuck his germ-encrusted index finger up his nose, pulled something out and proceeded to plunge it into his mouth.  Completely satisfied with himself he let out a triumphant, “Mmmmmm,” and walked away.  And there it was.  The funny.  I found the funny.  Thanks to my two-year-old son and his appetite for boogers, funny found its way into my day.

Amidst the pain and sorrow that surrounds each and every one of us, finding the funny can be so hard - almost impossible.  I know that there are situations that are completely out of my control; things I need God to intervene on and I don’t know how or when He will.  There are other issues that seem inexplicable to me – pointless in the present – and again I just have to trust in the sovereignty of God.  In the meantime, I need a good laugh.  I need to feel the sides of my mouth turn upward while my heart flip-flops in glee.  I need the funny.  Sometimes the funny can be found everywhere and in everything.  Other times we have to look for it.  We have to set out to find it, and then relish in every moment of laughter it gives to us.  If you need to find the funny, then I truly hope you find it.  If you’ve found it, then I hope it lingers long enough to satisfy your longing.  For me, I’m still thinking about Jackson and his boogers, and I can’t help but smile.

Proverbs 15:13 (NIV)

A happy heart makes the face cheerful, but heartache crushes the spirit.

An Early Christmas Gift

Nope.  This is not another giveaway.  I apologize if I got your hopes up, but don’t let that keep you from reading on.  This post is a pre-holiday treat that I hope you will enjoy.  

Once November hits I officially become glued to my day planner.  It seems that holiday activities don’t wait until the traditional Christmas month of December.  Oh no.  Starting November first it seems we are inundated with television commercials, storefronts and e-mails announcing holiday markdowns and savings.  On top of which I find my schedule filling up faster than a stocking with Christmas goodies:  concerts, school activities, holiday bazaars and parties.  And somehow, someway I’ve got to squeeze in our annual family Christmas picture, order cards, go shopping for three eager children, husband, parents, grandparents, siblings, friends, etc.  One word.  Exhausting.  Three more words – I can’t wait.

We’re in the middle of a major office/playroom remodel (more on that another time).  For the past three days I’ve been sorting through toys, books, papers and files.  I have successfully filled a giant garbage bag with miscellaneous items, and it feels good to throw stuff out.  One of the projects I just completed was going through all of our children’s books.  I love books, but especially a really good children’s story.  We have so many, and of varying categories.  One of which is a stack of Christmas storybooks.  I’m pretty picky when it comes to children’s literature, and the ones we have are true Christmas treasures. 

My pre-holiday treat for you is a list of my top ten favorite children’s Christmas books.  Perhaps this list will give you some gift ideas.  I have chosen these particular books because of the content of their story or poem, and the quality of artwork.  The following books, to me, put a warm fuzzy in my heart, bring huge smiles on my little ones’ faces, and in their own special way make the season bright.

Amy’s Top Ten Children’s Christmas Books

• Snowmen At Christmas – written by Caralyn Buehner and illustrated by Mark Buehner.

• The Night Before Christmas – Clement C. Moore’s classic Christmas poem brought to life with the charming and winsome artwork of Mary Engelbreit.

• The Legend of the Candy Cane – written by Lori Walburg and illustrated by James Bernardin.

• Away In A Manger – the classic Christmas carol illuminated by the “artist of light”, Thomas Kinkade.

• Silent Night – yet another beautifully illustrated rendition of the traditional Christmas hymn by Thomas Kinkade.

• The Little Drummer Mouse – written and illustrated by Mercer Mayer.

• The Miracle of Jonathan Toomey – written by Susan Wojciechowski and illustrated by P.J. Lynch.

• Christmas Cookies – “Bite size holiday lessons”, written by Amy Krouse Rosenthal and illustrated by Jane Dyer.

• The Spirit of Christmas – written and illustrated by New York Times bestselling author, Nancy Tillman. 

• You Are My Miracle – written by Maryann Cusimano Love and illustrated by Satomi Ichikawa.

I’ll close with an excerpt from The Spirit of Christmas by Nancy Tillman:

That’s when the Spirit of Christmas smiled.

“Remember, this all began with a child.

Because it took nothing but love to begin it,

It’s not really Christmas if love isn’t in it.”

Your tree may be large as the room will allow

With a big yellow star on the uppermost bough,

But of one thing I’m certain,

I’m sure of one thing.

It is love that makes the angels sing.

Happy reading and pre-holidaying, my friends!

How To Survive Thursday

I’ve spent the better part of the morning, and early afternoon, trying to decide what I should write about today.  Every time I sit down to the computer I find myself quickly distracted by the likes of Facebook or the story of the six-year-old boy in the balloon.  I can’t focus, and even though I am the only one in the room presently (which is a miracle in and of itself), thoughts are chaos in my head, and I have no motivation to sort them out.  I guess the only excuse I have is that it’s Thursday, and Thursdays are notorious for meltdowns, grouchy family dynamics and slow moving neural synapses (or in other words, my brain is mush).   

Why Thursdays, you may wonder?  Because Wednesdays for the Slater brood are packed from the minute our eyes pop open in the morning until bedtime (which for the kids is, at least, two hours after they normally drift off to la, la land).  In addition to the various extra-curricular involvements we have on Wednesdays, we also have church activities in the evening.  We usually don’t get home until after 9pm, and rush to get our kids upstairs and in bed as quickly as possible.  As Joel and I drift off to sleep, we mentally prepare ourselves for the next morning.  There will be tears, there will be whining, and there will be a temper-tantrum of some sort.  This is what we get to look forward to on Thursdays!

Since Sydney started preschool – three years ago - we have had this challenge.  Fortunately, I’ve had time to come up with a few survival tips.  They don’t guarantee a blissful and smooth post-Wednesday night morning.  However, they do help Mommy and Daddy hold on to a portion of their sanity, and lessen the amount of battles we have to fight.  So here are my tips, for those of you who may find yourselves in the same boat:

• Have outfits picked out before leaving the house Wednesday afternoon.

• Have lunches for Thursday packed before leaving the house Wednesday afternoon.

• Have all items needed for school, work, MomsConnect group prepared and set out before leaving the house Wednesday afternoon.

• Beds DO NOT need to be made, and rooms DO NOT need to be picked up on Thursday mornings.  I have learned to let that one go and give the kids a day off.

• Mentally disengage and go brain dead when meltdowns ensue.  This is a great tip for every day tantrums, but especially helpful on Thursday mornings.

• Thursday night is leftover night!  Mommy doesn’t cook on Thursday, and if there are no leftovers, we do a sandwich night.

• Early, early, early bedtime on Thursday.  We will go to great lengths, even sacrificing bath time, in order to make sure our little ones are in bed EARLY on Thursday nights.  The benefit of this?  Fridays are amazing! 

• And lastly, prayer and coffee...and lots of both!

I know it’s not much, but like I mentioned earlier, it’s Thursday, and my brain is moving in slow motion.  This is about as deep as I can get post-Wednesday night.  Tomorrow is a new day, and perhaps I’ll be so fortunate as to squeeze something a little deeper out of this tired brain of mine over the weekend. 

Until then, happy Thursday to you!

Quotable

I love quotes.   

When I was in high school I would often daydream of perhaps being quoted someday.  Surrounded by notebooks and journals stuffed with poems, thoughts and long, hand-written emotional expressions, I would imagine one day someone discovering this treasure trove of language genius, and then quoting me.  In fact, armed with my pen and stacks of paper, I would brainstorm – working tirelessly to come up with a quote that would turn the world on its ear.  Here’s what my seventeen-year-old brain concocted (are you ready for this?):

“No one can judge that which comes from within.”

Hmmm…now that’s deep. 

Along with this excogitated thought I found a letter I had written to whomever was lucky enough to find my precious quote.  The first line of the letter is priceless:

“I just want you to know I am not an emotionally disturbed person.”

Interesting.  I find this highly disturbing!  If that line were any indication on the quality and depth of my high school writing career, it would appear my writings were of a somewhat dark nature.  To this day, my “quotes” remain unquoted.  Shocking, I know.

The question then, do I still dream of being quoted?  Well, these days I get quoted all the time, although I can’t say they are my most noteworthy words.  Still, when I hear Sydney exclaim, “Are you kidding me?” to her younger siblings, or when Jackson declares, “Hey, I’m working here!” when I pull him off of the computer keyboard.  Or even when Brooklyn, exasperated, lets out a huge sigh and says, “I’m getting so tired of this!” I think to myself, “Didn’t I just say that?”  Yeah, I’m getting quoted all the time.  When I hear words of impatience and irritation spilling from the mouths of my three innocent sponges, I feel like someone is twisting a knife in my stomach and reminding me of how often I fall short in the parenting department.  I would much rather catch someone repeating one of my more sweet and spiritually profound phrases, or in this day and age, be “re-tweeted” on Twitter for something pithy I posted.  Instead, my shortcomings and misquotes get played and re-played on a daily basis for my listening “pleasure”. 

I guess the moral of this story would be “Oh be careful little mouth what you say!”  It’s not so much about the words we throw around in the company of adults that get us into trouble, but the remarks we make in the presence of little people who are always eager to steal a quote or two from their unsuspecting parents.  To my three offspring, I am the most quotable person they know!

Psalm 19:14

May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing in your sight, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer.

I’ve got such a long way to go!

Off The Wagon

When Mama's sick life comes to a screeching halt.   

Three weeks ago I decided it was time for Jackson to say "bye, bye" to diapers and "hello" to the big boy potty.  We bought him super cool pull-ups and made any venture to the bathroom a reason for a full-blown party, treats included.  He was catching on pretty well to this new routine, and would even give a good, hearty "Yay Mommy" when I put my tinkle in the potty too.  There were plenty of accidents, but consistency is key, and I was consistently sticking his little bottom on his little potty seat every ten minutes (while consistently cleaning up all of his accidents too).

Then I had surgery.  My mother-in-law watched all three kids for us the whole week I was out of commission.  We sent the beloved potty chair to Mimi and Papa's house, along with a heap of well wishes.  Mimi did her best, and I'm just grateful that she was willing and gracious enough to take our three monkeys for a whole week.  But, I'm not sure how much progress in the potty training was made.  It was pretty much hit or miss.  However, Mimi bought Jackson a package of Lightning McQueen pull-ups which have become his most prized possession.  It would be even better if he prized them so much that he wouldn't keep doing his business in them.  One could only hope.

With the kids home, and Jackson full-speed-ahead into potty training boot-camp, I thought for sure we were going to get this thing taken care of once and for all.  Five days into it I got the flu.  It knocked me flat on my back for four days straight.  Production came to a halt and life stood still. 

While Joel was at work I laid on the couch and ran back-to-back episodes of Dora The Explorer for Jackson.  Fortunately the girls are old enough to entertain themselves, and spent hours playing with their dolls upstairs.  The kids' lunches consisted of a few pieces of cheese in between slices of bread, and snacks - though promised - never materialized.  When Jackson napped, I went back to bed.  Then yesterday afternoon, when my strength was finally coming back to me, I heard my son in his husky, two-year-old, baritone voice announce, "Hey Mama!  I got water in my pants!"  It was at that point that I realized our potty training effort had been flushed down the commode.  We really fell off the wagon.

And that is not the only thing that suffered while I was sick: memory verses for school/church weren't memorized, the house hasn't been cleaned, there is no food in the fridge, laundry is piling up (although to my husband's credit, he did a little laundry on Saturday and has made quite a few trips to the Safeway down the street for soup and crackers...for me), and my blog has sat seemingly abandoned for over a week.  I can't begin to tell you how much all of these combined really bum me out.  I feel like I've been negligent!

It would be so easy to beat myself up (even though I couldn't help being sick).  But the thing about falling of the wagon is that you don't have to stay on the ground in a helpless heap.  You can stand up, dust yourself off and get right back on again.  I realize that with Jackson and his potty training we are going to have to start back at square one.  That's how it is sometimes, when you fall off the wagon.  Whatever your goal may be, and whatever roadblock you may be facing, just remember to take it a step at a time.  And if you do fall off the wagon, don't forget to climb back on, and keep moving forward.

I know it's not much, but that's all I've got for now!

Gone To My Head

They say confession is good for the soul.  Okay.  I’ve got a confession to make.  Throughout the long summer months, the challenge of keeping my three little banshees from tearing the house and each other apart has been a major undertaking.  Somehow they have this innate ability to discover Mommy’s weakness, and daily, they zero in on it.  Nevertheless, because I’m a smart mommy too, I have managed to stay one step ahead of them, thus successfully keeping an inkling of peace in our home.  In fact, our final two weeks of summer vacation have been positively fourteen of the most serene and enjoyable days we’ve spent in a long time.  The girls, from the moment their little eyes popped open in the morning, commenced making beds, playing dolls, dress-up, school - whatever their fancy – without screaming, thrashing, and fighting, all the whilst Jackson occupied himself with his trains, cars, and books.  There has been no jumping off of furniture, no throwing hard, plastic objects at each other, no hair-pulling, or name calling.  Truly amazing.  

The first full day of this sweet-natured behavior I found myself blinking my eyes in disbelief and pinching myself throughout the day.  This was simply too good to be true.  And, in an effort not to jinx it, I mustered all the self-control in my being to keep my mouth shut until bedtime when I would point out to them how very much I appreciated their flawless and “Grade A” behavior.

As the days went by and this marvelous phenomenon remained consistent in my home, I started to feel pretty good about myself.  “Hmmm,” I thought, “I must be doing something right.  Look at these three angelic faces.  Had it not been for my dazzling parenting skills, they might still be climbing the walls and spreading mayhem through the land.”  I was really patting myself on the back, thinking I had figured it all out and was now officially ready to dish out parenting advice to all those poor, unfortunate moms still struggling to keep their children from ripping each other apart.  Yep.  I was full of it.

Once again, I think the same childhood intuition that sniffs out mommy’s weak spot can also sniff out the false sense of success that mommy is feeling.  No sooner was I struttin’ along like a proud, colorful peacock then one child swiped a toy away from another innocent child at playgroup on Thursday, inducing heartbreak and tears.  (There’s nothing like having to deal with a misbehaving child in a room full of other moms, especially when you are the group leader!)  After recovering from that humiliating experience, another child decided that she hadn’t been defiant for a while, and our daily quiet time turned into World War III, thus galvanizing this ‘One-Time Super Mom’ to take away all of this child’s brand new school clothes.  (She has to earn them back piece-by-piece; we’re making slow progress.)  In the meantime, I could hear my two-year-old son grousing, “Mommy, I no like you anymore.”  I still don’t know what I did to deserve that one.

Then, there is the “piece de resistance”.  Only three days ago, I was startled to hear a gut-wrenching scream coming from the playroom.  I had put Jackson down for a nap, got the girls set up to watch a movie, and dashed into the bathroom for a quick shower.  I just lathered the shampoo in my hair when Sydney’s voice of panic seized my heart.  I jumped out from the refreshing stream of warm water and, dripping, ran into the playroom to see what had happened.  Brooklyn was lying on her stomach and crying.  When I turned her over, my eyes quickly focused on the large blue knot, smack dab in the middle of her forehead.  She had been chasing Sydney (so much for quiet movie time), tripped, and landed face-first into the corner of their little pie cabinet.  I sprung into action, checking for any signs of concussion, asking her questions, taking a blow-by-blow account from Sydney of the incident.  When I was finally able to rule out a trip to the ER (and let me tell you, that was a huge relief to me), I realized I still had a head-full of soapy bubbles in my hair and was leaving a trail of water behind me.  My once-inflated ego was now popped and lying in complete shreds like a balloon burst into a million pieces.  This 'Super Mom' image I thought I had attained had gone straight to my head, and it took one major head bump (and several other not-so-lovely incidents) to quickly bring me back to reality.

It’s never pleasant to be knocked off my pedestal.  I’m not fond of humiliation either, but for some reason I’ve eaten my fair share of humble pie in recent years.  The saying that kids will bring out the best and the worst in a person is absolutely true.  However, I feel that my worst side seems to be revealed much more often than all my good traits combined.  The process of growing and maturing in parenthood is never-ending.   There is no “arriving” in this occupation.  We are always moving towards something, being stretched, challenged, and struck hard with the reality that there is always something new to learn, something new to teach and lots of surprises in between.  I’m grateful that I have a hands-on husband who takes the responsibility of raising our children as serious as I do, and together we make a great team.  But even further than that, beyond that earthly father figure that Joel represents, there is another set of hands that play a huge role in our home.  Without the influence and guidance of our Heavenly Father, I am certain that I would never be able to survive all of the “growing pains” that parenthood has brought my way. 

Proverbs 22:6

“Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it.”

As an adult, and even more so as a parent, I am consciously aware of my need for discipline and instruction.  God, as my Heavenly Father, is training me, propelling me to reach even further beyond myself, and never tiring when I slip up or have a bad day.  As I am striving to train up my children in the way they should go, not the way they want to go naturally, God is also training me.  His love and discipline trickles down and has provided me with the perfect parenting model.  And rather than taking the walk of shame every time my parenting flaws are revealed, I would rather focus on the character God is forming in me and the character I am developing in my own children.  So, when they’re screaming, fighting, and swiping toys away from unsuspecting playmates, it’s a reminder to me that my job ain’t done yet, and we still have such a long way to go.  As well, when they are stunning me with their adorable sweetness, loving on each other, and reflecting the better side of me, I think it’s okay to give myself a little pat on the back (because seriously, that’s evidence of a lot of hard work on my part!).  Then pause.  Snap back to reality.  And never forget what happens when I let it go to my head.

Jumping Jack

My two-year-old son is a fast learner.  It didn’t take him long to discover that standing at the top of the stairwell exclaiming, “Mommy, look!  I jump!” could initiate a performance of unparalleled drama and acrobatic skill from yours truly.  With his eyes opened wide and a grin revealing every tooth in that little mouth of his, he watches as I stretch my legs, leaping high, back arching and twisting, arms flailing, crying out in a panic-induced quivery voice, “No Sweetheart!  No, no, no…we don’t jump down an entire flight of stairs!”  By the time I’ve knocked my elbow into the handrail, and acquired a few rug burns on my knees making my rough and clumsy landing on the step below him, his smile has swelled to a hearty belly laugh.  I know he finds my “mother bear” antics both entertaining and impressive.  After the dust has settled and my heart rate has returned to normal, I wonder to myself what kinds of pranks this boy is going to pull ten years from now, and how on earth I’m going to survive them (especially since my joints won’t be nearly as limber as they are presently). 

The instant I heard my husband’s full and powerful voice echo through the delivery room (and down the hall) announcing, “It’s a boy!”, a flood of emotion washed over me.  I had a keen awareness that my life was forever changed, and I wondered – as his tiny, warm body lay curled up on my chest – “Am I ready for this?”  Two-and-a-half years, and innumerable panic-inducing moments later, I can honestly say I was totally made for this.  The adventure of raising a boy is one I never dreamed I had the disposition or temperament to handle.  How wrong I was.  I’ve realized it doesn’t take a rough and tumble, “natural chick” to connect with a boy.  It doesn’t take a once-captain of the girls’ basketball team to teach a son how to throw a ball.  And it doesn’t even take a former wrestling champ to flop on the floor for a tender tussle.  Nope.  Raising my little “Jumping Jack” takes only me (and a whole lot of prayer).

I wouldn’t trade having a boy for anything in the world.  There is no treasure as precious as walking with my son down a hotel hallway and watching as he flicks his “Lightning McQueen” clad foot with a slick “Ka-Chow!” at every passer-by.  Priceless.  Jackson’s obsession with cars, trains, and anything that makes noise and moves has opened a whole new world to me – a world that shuns pink, princess gowns, and tiaras but leaves room for hand-picked dandelions and wild flowers for Mommy.  This new world is truly a joy to discover.

And to think…I’ve only just begun.

(This post was inspired by the countless near-death experiences and mid-air ballet twirling rescue attempts that I have shared with my son, “Jumping Jack”.  Even as I am writing this, he is working tirelessly at putting a pair of miniature sunglasses on my face stating, “Cool Mama…Cool!”)

It's 'Go' Time

The countdown is on.  School starts in (a little over) a week, and I can already feel a slight shift taking place; not just in our home, but in the weather too.  I find myself waking up to a familiar autumn chill and, if I could actually smell, the scent of transition lingering in the cool morning air.  Yes, something fresh, something new, something exciting and wonderful is soon to begin.  Yet, rather than jumping up and down like a high school cheerleader, I pause instead - thinking and processing the wide scope of change that is on its way.  

For those that know me, it’s no secret that I’ve been chomping at the bit for the past three weeks, eagerly anticipating the first day of school.  In fact, if school could have resumed on August first, I would have been completely comfortable with that option.  (I already spent an entire blog post on my issues with the end of summer vacation, so I’m not going to go down that road again.)  Suffice it to say, as our home is slowly swelling from the influx of new school clothes, school supplies, backpacks and lists, the reality of our upcoming transition is becoming more and more an actuality to me, and I’m growing – believe it or not – slightly apprehensive as September ninth draws closer and closer.

To be frank, over the past (almost) three months I’ve been lazy.  I’ve done a few things scattered whimsically over the slow summer weeks, but by and large I’ve been a big bump on a log.  I’ve been staying up way too late, sleeping in, reading books for fun, staying in my jammies until noon some most days and playing on the computer much, much longer than my “allotted” time.  I’ve spent so much of my summer bucking the security of my regular routine, that laziness has quickly become equally as comfortable and second nature to me.  So, you can see why I might be looking ahead at the start of school with uneasiness.  I’m sincerely concerned that if I don’t get my act together over the next week, there could be some not-so-delightful ramifications for Mommy.

Joel and I were actually discussing this very thing the other night.  He, too, feels motivated to make some personal changes, and the kick off for fall feels like an appropriate time to do so.  We are embarking upon a new school year, a clean new slate, a new football season (Go Fighting Irish) and a fresh opportunity to reinstate order and self-discipline into our lives.  So, how do we plan to do this?  How will we corral our quasi-feral herd that has run wild and free in the sweet rays of succulent sunshine? What will be our strategy in turning a lazy summer home into a ship shape vessel prepared to set sail on a fresh, new course?  Since I am all about routines, schedules and organization, I have come up with a pretty darn good plan.  Uneasiness is giving way to confidence and motivation, and I think the kids have even caught a whiff of my take-charge vibe. 

It’s ‘GO’ time at my house starting today Monday.  We’re going to take September by the horns and ride into the new school year with confidence, determination and a full eight hours of sleep on our side. 

(Pause.)

(Sigh.)

Wish me luck!  (I think I’m gonna need it!)

Espresso, Pheasant Feathers & A Lesson In Parenting

The other evening my husband and I enjoyed a very rare and much anticipated night out together.  We found a cozy and friendly café that has quickly become a favorite spot of ours, and nestled in for a delicious meal and uninterrupted conversation.  We finished eating, but neither of us was ready to dash out the door, so my husband suggested we order espresso.  I agreed.  Espresso sounded like a great idea.  

As we continued our conversation over the strong flavor of rich coffee, taking slow sips between long and deliberate intervals, memories of my year living in France began to flood my mind.  It has been a long time since I stopped to enjoy a cup of espresso.  Equally, it has been quite some time since I rehashed old memories of France.  One experience in particular put a smile on my face, and even still evokes a good laugh.

It had been a busy day in the “bustling metropolis” of Vitrolles, France.  Truthfully, the bus ride home was more draining than the whole workweek combined, but I still was grateful to finally be off for a few days of Christmas holiday.  As I opened the door to Madame Buendia’s charming French townhome, I found a trail of feathers leading to the kitchen.  Curious, I followed the feather path.  Entering the kitchen, I startled Madame Buendia who was working on a stubborn pot in the sink.  When she recovered, a sly and mischievous grin crossed her face.  I asked her about the feathers.  She told me to open the fridge.  I did.  There, at the bottom of this tiny French refrigerator, lay three dead pheasants – “Christmas dinner!” announced Madame Buendia.  Her son’s father-in-law had a stellar hunting trip, and we were the honored recipients of part of his spoils.  Madame Buendia was getting the kitchen cleared and prepped so she could begin plucking the feathers from the pheasants.  I caught my second wind at the thought of plucking birds and hurried upstairs to change my clothes. 

When I returned, eager to start ripping away at the dead birds, I was sternly informed that I would not be permitted to participate in the pheasant plucking.  I asked why in as respectful and calm a tone as I could muster up.  Madame Buendia explained that this kind of work was not appropriate for “little American girls” (I was twenty-five years old and stood five feet, eight inches tall – not so little if you ask me).  After pausing for a few minutes and realizing she wasn’t going to budge on this one, I asked if I could at least get my picture taken with the dead, pre-plucked birds.  She acquiesced, and I got a nice “before” shot of Christmas dinner for my memory book.

 

I passed the remainder of the evening reading, and occasionally glancing over to the closed kitchen door.  Every now and then I’d hear grunting and cursing coming from, I’m quite certain, an exasperated and stubborn French woman.  If only she would have let me assist - we could have been grunting and cursing together!  How much more fun it would have been to pluck pheasants with company! 

The next morning, the remnants of the prior night’s activities were wafting in the air as I went to prepare myself a cup of espresso.  Feathers were everywhere: the floor, the countertops, chairs.  Every time I made a move, a rustle of feathers would swirl and whoosh like little tornadoes throughout the cramped kitchen.  Madame Buendia was still in bed- I’m sure recovering from her work out with the three dead birds the night before.  To this day I really wish I could have been a part of the Christmas-pheasant-feather-plucking action.   Yet, all I have is a picture of me holding two of them up by the legs. 

What’s the moral of the story?  As I sit here pounding away at the keyboard, Sydney is less than a foot away from me, earnestly sharpening a pile of pencils for school.  She is making a mess, but doing a great job and accomplishing a task that is well within her purview.  As I am slowly discovering – I tend to be a very slow learner – my kids are far more adept at simple and even not-so-simple tasks than I give them credit for.  They can make their beds, clean their dishes, do regular household chores and help me in the kitchen (my two-and-a-half year old included).  Do they do it perfectly?  Not always.  And I’m learning to lower my expectations and appreciate the effort they put into making their beds more so than the quality of the “military corners” and placement of throw pillows.  Those things really don’t matter anyway.

Another thing this teaches me is that the mess is not a bad thing.  Whether or not I helped Madame Buendia with the feather plucking, there was certain to be a mess.  Alone, she stayed up half the night working, long after I had drifted off to sleep.  And later, didn’t have the energy to clean up once the job was completed, as evidenced by the heaps of feathers lingering in the kitchen the next morning.  If I had been permitted to assist, the mess would have been made, but we could have finished a lot earlier and made sure the feathers were cleaned up too.  With my kids, I am doing them a great disservice if I never allow them to join me in making a mess.  Sometimes the only way to learn something is to mess it all up first.  Then, we also learn how to put it back together again.  I don’t want my kids to spend their lives staring at a “closed” kitchen door, longing to be in the thick of the chaos with me and learning something new.  I don’t want them to feel like I did the night of the feather plucking.  Witnessing a missed opportunity, but helpless to rectify it.

So here are a few “messes” I’ll be making with my kids this week:

• Sydney and I will be cleaning out closets, throwing things away and re-organizing (she has a gift, and I want to nurture that in her and watch it grow!).

• Brooklyn will be assisting me in the kitchen, putting together meals and snacks.

• Jackson will be setting the table (something he loves to do!), and “folding” laundry.

If all of this came out of one demi tasse of café, there’s no telling what profound insights will emerge the next time I get a date night with my husband and another shot of espresso!

Enough With Summer Vacation Already!

Disclaimer:  Read at your own risk.  The following may, or may not, come across as a negative tirade of complaints from a super exhausted mother of three.  The fact is it was, in fact, written by a tired and drained mother of three, but is not a true reflection of this tired mother of three’s character and mental stability.  It is simply a brief glimpse into a brief moment of a mindless brain spill (something that happens every so often when a perfectly good mommy lacks a perfectly good nights rest).  

I feel like the “Friday Scrooge”.  I was just on Facebook, reading the Friday morning status updates of all my friends and felt a twinge of conviction that I do not share the same “Friday Feel-Good” sentiments.  In fact, had I not read a dozen “TGIF’s” on Facebook, I wouldn’t have known what day it was.  Of course, I can’t tell people this (and yet, here I am sharing freely with everyone and blogging about it too, which probably makes me look both pessimistic and contradictory).  So, before I lie and post “Amy is ready to get her Friday on”, I have to stop and explain why I’m not quite in the “Friday Spirit”.  It actually has nothing to do with Friday at all.  The negativity I have stems from a deeper emotional and physical drain called “Summer Vacation”.

For the past two-and-a-half months my oldest has been out of school (and my middle child has been out of preschool).  We have approximately three-and-a-half weeks left of summer break, and I’m literally counting down the days, hours, and minutes until I can shuffle Sydney out the door for the day!  I had activities planned and prepared for the majority of June and July, but by the time August rolled around I was out of both creativity and money.  This is not to imply weakness or lack of capability on my part.  As I looked ahead to the hectic fall schedule we would soon be jumping into - the endless car trips to and from school, church, ballet lessons, playgroup, etc. - I surmised that a little August down time would be beneficial to us all me.  I’m so excited, not just for Sydney to head off to school (and Brooklyn off to preschool), but also for fall in general.  However, while trying to take care of myself in preparation for September, my intense and activity-driven firstborn is starting to climb the walls.  Our needs are butting heads, and nobody is happy.

Don’t get me wrong.  There have been quite a few wonderful highlights we’ve shared while the kids have been on break.  We spent a couple of days at the coast: playing in the sand, making homemade pizzas, staying up late cuddling and watching movies into the wee hours of the night; we’ve gone swimming, participated in camps, had play dates and sleepovers.  It’s been great.  We’ve connected, made memories, and bonded as a family.  However, August is here, and Mommy wants to slow down.  Mommy doesn’t want to race to the park and pool multiple times a day.  And I find it difficult to relish in “Friday” when there really isn’t anything that differentiates Friday from any other day on the calendar right now.  Each day sort of blends in to the next, and I am so looking forward to the structure of school, the rigorous weekly schedule, and multiple activities for the simple reason that Friday will, once again, mean more to me than just another day.

As my need for rest and the need of my first grader to be active collide, I wonder if there is hope in getting through the final weeks of summer vacation.  Alas, one survival skill I have learned is to give her lots and lots and lots of things to do.  When I start to see that glimmer of misbehavior gleam in her eye, I give her a cleaning rag and send her off dusting.  When that is done, I task her to sweep the floors downstairs (which she is doing at this very moment), organize her drawers and bedroom toys, etc, etc.  If it means my desk being dusted daily for the next couple of weeks, rather than a whining and disruptive Sydney, I’m okay with that.  I’m finding that her boredom could possibly work to my advantage, ie: a clean house.

So, here’s my honest to goodness Friday Facebook status update: “Amy is conjuring up multitudes of chores for her kids to do today to beat the Summer Break Blues”.  Tomorrow may possibly look exactly the same, and the following day, and the day after that until finally all the World Wide Web will read, “Amy is celebrating the beginning of school and the return of TGIF” (“TGIF” meaning “Thank God Its Fall”), with a spotless house no less.  Until that day comes, I will have to live with the feeling that I am nothing more than a “Friday Scrooge”, keeping that only to myself (and every one who reads my blog), while wearing the façade that I, too, love Fridays and the opportunity to spend another glorious and magical summer day with my children. 

Oy vey – bring on fall!

By the way, I'm not the only one in this scenario who is longing for summer vacation to end.  Daily, both of my girls ask me how many more days until school starts.  We're all in this together.

Blemishes

I am very freckly and I have moles.  The freckles are a result of many years of baking in the sun without sunscreen.  The moles?  Could quite possibly be blamed on the sun too, or maybe its just genetics.  I don’t think much about these physical blemishes very often.  That is, until my children so innocently point them out.  Brooklyn feels the need to pray for the mole on my eyelid (it’s inhabited that spot since I was a young child) every night at bedtime.  Jackson thinks my freckles are “boo boo’s” and points that out to me on a daily basis, “Mama…’boo boo’.  Mama…’boo boo’.”  He has even tried to pull the mole - that sits slightly above my upper lip - off with his little fingers.  Try as I may to convince these dear little ones that these are not, in fact, “boo boos”, they continue to insist that Mommy has been wounded in polka dots, and requires much prayer.  

I have cowlicks that run all the way across my hairline in the front.  If I allow my hair to dry naturally, it would literally dry in three different directions.  Thus, my need to both blow dry the fringe in front and utilize a curling iron.  On the rare occasion that I have failed to do so, my firstborn is quick to notice, and matter-of-factly informs me, that something is wrong with my hair.  Mornings before showering are the worst.  The looks I have received from all three children while wearing a mop of bed head upon my crown are priceless.  I’ve even been known to scare my own son with my direction-challenged hair. 

Then there are the physical side effects of birthing three children.  My skin sags…everywhere.  I’m a pretty thin person, so it’s not the extra baby pooch that I’m experiencing, but mostly it’s my skin that hangs and droops.  I keep telling myself, “When the kids are all in school I’ll start working out and toning up.”  I figure I have a couple more years until Jackson, two, heads off to kindergarten.  I guess the saggy skin will have to wait.

I could fill quite of few pages with a long and tedious list of all my physical blemishes (for example, my girls emphatically ask me to PLEASE put make-up on – it’s a good thing I have a pretty solid sense of self otherwise I might fall to pieces), but I won’t.  It isn’t necessary, and after a while becomes depressing.  I neither want to depress you or myself, so I’m thinking I should stop right here with the self-deprecation.

Kids say the darndest things – yes, they sure do.  But when they say something sweet and profound, we pride them with innocent and sincere honesty.  For instance when Sydney says to me, “Mommy, God is shining on me right now,” as she awakens to streams of sunlight pouring on her face.  Or when Jackson cups my chin in his two-year-old hand before we head out the door and says to me, “Mama, pretty.  Mama, pretty.”  And then at bedtime as I’m saying goodnight to Brooklyn and she looks me straight in the eyes and says, “Mama, I just lub you.”  My heart wells up with pride and affection.  Yes, children are honest, very honest.  While taking their criticism can be somewhat daunting - because more often than not they are absolutely dead on – I, too, can take their affirmations.  If they are honest in one thing, then I can trust they are honest about other things too (minus the, “Who’s responsible for this mess?” and of course, no one ever is).

So, the next time I’m cuddling with my three mini-stooges and one of them makes the insightful observation that Mommy’s legs are prickly, I’m just going to keep smiling.  If I can learn to laugh at myself, and my many blemishes, then my kids will learn that imperfection is fine and normal.  And when one of my “babies” tells me that I am the most “beautifulest” mommy in the world, again, I’ll pull that sweet face close to mine and kiss both chubby cheeks!  The “joy” of motherhood that many of us speak about is not just watching our children coo and smile, but the “joy” comes from experiencing life through their eyes.  The good.  The bad.  The ugly.  They will most certainly have something to say about it.  And most of the time their words will bring the biggest, warmest smile to a mother’s face, only if we’re willing to accept the truth of both blemishes and beauty from the perspective of a child.

Wonderwear, Diamonds and Bedtime Prayers

Bedtime is quite possibly my favorite time of day.  It’s not because I know that once the kids are tucked in and squared away for the night I get a couple of hours to myself.  I love bedtime because it is during those last few minutes before my little ones drift off to sleep that we share our most special and intimate moments together.  After stories have been read, the girls crawl up into their beds and wait for Mommy to come to them individually and pray.  Because this is such a sweet time for us, I utilize it as a way to teach them memory verses from the Bible, and shower them with words of affirmation.   

Listening to the girls recite back to me a verse we have been working on is truly a precious thing, even if some of the words get a little mispronounced.  For instance, the other night I was sitting on Brooklyn’s bed and it was time for her to do her memory verse.  Here is Psalm 139:14 according to Brooklyn:

“I praise you…dee-cause…I am fearfuuuulleee…and…wonderwear…oops…(a-hem)…wonder-fly made.”

Another night I was talking to Sydney about her day.  She had been such a helper, and I told her what a blessing her assistance was to me.  She smiled big and then went on to tell me how she was able to make good choices.  She described it this way:

Sydney:  “Mommy, God put a diamond inside of me.”

Me:  “Oh really?”

Sydney:  “Yes!  A big, beautiful diamond!  It was super shiny and shined a light for me to see how I could be a good girl today!”

Moments like these I want to hold on to forever.  While there will always be challenges in parenting, as I work hard to guide and direct them along the right path, I certainly don’t want to overlook the successes we’ve had.  I do a pretty good job of beating myself up over all the mistakes I make throughout the day, however when I hear my girls talk about God, and how much they love Him, I know I must be doing something right.  I’m an imperfect parent, but I serve a perfect God who also guides and directs my steps throughout the day.  As He is working in me, I am working on the lives of my little ones – one bedtime prayer at a time.

Got Goo?

One of the many things “motherhood” has taught me is that you have to have a strong enough stomach to deal with all of the ‘goo’ that these little bodies produce.  Whether it be the leaky poopie diaper or the nose that perpetually runs like Niagara Falls, mom has to be prepared to deal with whichever end the goo is coming from.  After six years of motherhood, I’ve earned my ‘goo badge’, and I wear it proudly.  I’ve cleaned poop off walls, cribs, clothes and hair (my own).  I have an entire collection of shirts that have religiously been used as Kleenex, as well as cleaned, caught and been covered in vomit.  Oh yes, I’ve earned my badge.   

Goo is simply a part of parenthood.  I remember looking lovingly for hours at my sweet and precious firstborn.  I have hundreds and hundreds (no exaggeration) of pictures and films documenting every move she made and nearly every outfit that chubby body ever wore.  And as much as I was enraptured in the beauty of new motherhood, I too was inducted into a whole new realm of mommy-ness that is not often discussed – the ‘goo’.  Sydney, child number one, spit up on anything and everything (she had impeccable timing and every suit my husband owns has worn the “Spit Up Badge of Honor”).  The reason I have so many pictures of her in various outfit ensembles is mostly due to the fact that I had to change her clothes multiple times a day due to the spit up.  And that does not even cover the amount of poop her itty-bitty body could produce!  You realize, even before leaving the hospital with that sweet bundle of baby, that with every coo and gurgle there comes a lot of goo.

 

So, I can handle my kids’ goo:  I can wipe the green goobers from my son’s nose without flinching and clean vomit from my daughter’s hair with my bare hands.  I’ve got the goo covered.  However, I have to confess, I cannot…(let me say that again)…I CAN NOT stomach other children’s goo.  I have no tolerance for it.  If the child is not genetically connected to me, I really don’t want to have anything to do with his runny nose.  I learned this from working with preschool age children.  I was passing out craft items to a group of three-year-olds when one adorable little girl called me over.  She started to hand me something saying, “Teacher.”  I opened up my hand to receive the mysterious item in her fingers.  Before I realized what ‘it’ was, her ‘gift’ was already in my hand as she said, “Teacher, its my boogie.”  Lovely.  This scrumptious, frilly three-year-old girl just handed her booger to me, and now it is sitting in the palm of my hand.  Did I want to vomit?  Oh yes I did.  I quietly excused myself and went to the bathroom to disinfect my hand.

Just the other day, after both my husband and I had been volunteering at a sports camp that our church hosted, we were talking about some of the funny things the kids had done.  My husband, Joel, shared with me that a little preschool boy picked his nose and proceeded to wipe it on my husband’s arm.  The very arm I had been holding and caressing so lovingly on the drive home, mind you.  Promptly I made him go and wash his arm in one bathroom while I went to another and washed my hands.  Ugh.  I just can’t deal with foreign goo!

What’s my point in all of this?  Well, as humorous (or disgusting) as recounting all of the “gooey” stories is, I just have to ask one thing:  Do we not all carry some kind of ‘goo’ around with us?  I’m not talking about spit up and poopie diapers.  I’m talking about those things we hide because we know that other people simply can’t handle our ‘stuff’, and if we share it we may end up rejected.  I know for certain that nobody is perfect, just as I know there is no such thing as a baby without goo, precious as they are.  Thankfully God takes us – ‘goo’ and all.  He doesn’t shame us or run to the bathroom to wash His hands after touching us.  No.  God receives us just as we are.  When I’ve messed up and wondered if there is any hope of redemption for my soul, I know that in the presence of God the goo is wiped away and He is looking lovingly at me – the person – and not at all of the stuff I’ve brought with me.  God doesn’t care about where the goo came from or to whom it belongs.  He simply cleans it up and restores us back to cleanliness.  He doesn’t judge.  He doesn’t wish we would stop coming to Him a gooey mess.  He loves.  He adores.  He sees the most precious part of us, and He longs to continue to bring out the best in each of us.  How thankful I am that my ‘goo’ doesn’t make my Heavenly Father sick to the stomach. 

Do you have ‘goo’?  Are you afraid to expose the most “icky” part of yourself for fear of rejection?  Let me please put your fears at ease and let you know that we ALL have ‘goo’.  Every single human being on this planet has ‘goo’.  No one is exempt.  The key to goo removal is not found in buying a Costco size box of baby wipes.  The key is going to God, exposing the ‘goo’ and receiving His forgiveness and love.  If you’ve got 'goo', God’s got grace.  And He’s waiting patiently, with open arms, to embrace and accept us - goo and all.