CHAPTER TITLES:
TIME IS TREASURE
THE GUILT TRAIN
WHAT THEY TEACH YOU
LAUGH AT YOURSELF
PARENTING PAINS/GROWING PAINS
GET YOUR HAIR WET

TIME IS TREASURE

Boys in Pajamas

I am crazy about boys in pajamas. Maybe it’s the PJ’s themselves. Spider Man, Sponge Bob, and the all time favorite, Power Rangers. Or maybe it’s because boys in pajamas still means that they’re little boys. That they haven’t graduated to boxers and they still get a kick out of tying towels round their necks, stretching their arms out, and flying from one bed to another. Or maybe it’s because pajamas mean bedtime. Bedtime for boys and bedtime for Mommies and Daddies.

But I think the real reason why I like my boys in pajamas is that once their tucked in and snuggled tightly to their favorite stuffed friend, there is a moment, a precious, beautiful moment, when I watch them sleep and pray for sweet dreams and God’s grace.

Sleep tight little boys.
Home Movies

I stayed up way past my bedtime watching old home movies. My husband is converting now antique video tapes into a more progressive DVDs. We watched the birth of my son, my niece’s third birthday party, and bath time with my boys. We previewed ten years of memories and cried seeing loved ones that are now gone and images of babies that have grown into little boys.

It’s gone by too fast. I went into my boys’ room and laid down and listened to them breathe. I feel a need to embrace each moment and hold on to onto it before it turns into a memory. I encourage you to do the same. Hold them, love them, engage them, play with them, bless them, and thank God every day for each moment shared during this magical time of childhood.

In My Heart
Sunday nights are hard for me. After spending time with my children, returning to work on Monday morning makes me – let’s face it – a little depressed. My four-year-old took notice and said,

“What’s wrong Mommy”

“I’m a little sad. I have to go to work tomorrow and I am going to miss you so much.”

“I’m not going to miss you Mommy.”

“You’re not,” I said sadly. “Not even a little bit?”

“Nope” he said. “Because your right here…in my heart.”

He held his heart and then hugged my neck. My tears flowed and he said,

“I know, Mommy. You’re crying happy.”

Laughter

I had a “Top Ten” moment this weekend. By “Top Ten,” I mean a moment that you want to cling onto and replay over and over again in your memory. I was riding a mini roller-coaster with my two (soon to be three) year-old son. His squeals of delight combined with unrestrained laughter sent my soul soaring higher than the wooden hills we were climbing. I couldn’t get enough of his face. I stared at him the entire time – almost oblivious to the twists and turns we were encountering. He was beautiful and tears filled my eyes knowing that the ride would be over in seconds and that my memory would not be an adequate substitute for the moment.

As the ride came to an end, he cried while pleading with me “Go again, Mommy. Go again, Mommy.” If it weren’t for the line of people waiting to ride, I would stay on the cramped coaster and ride over and over just to witness his joy.
Baby Turns Three
My little boy turned three. I held it together throughout the Peter Pan birthday party. There is some irony in that the theme of his birthday party was about a boy who never wanted to grow up. It’s not that way in real life – my children can’t wait to grow-up. It’s their mommy who cries each year as another candle is added to the cake.
However, I managed to maintain composure throughout the day and celebrated with family, friends and even Captain Hook (played by his newly crowned “Coolest Uncle in the World”). However, the tears finally came at bed time.
“What’s wrong Mommy?”
“I’m just a little sad that you are growing up so fast.”
Hugs and kisses and then this response…
“Don’t cry Mommy. I’ll be two a few more minutes.”
We squeezed into the rocking chair and he let me sing him a lullaby before tucking him into his big-boy bed. I can’t think of a better way to spend a “few more minutes” with my two-year-old.
You Are My Sunshine

I lay down next to him; close enough to smell his sweet breath. “One more time Mommy”, he said in a whisper. I obliged by singing “You Are My Sunshine” for the third time. This time, he sang with me and ran his little fingers across the top of my eyes and around my face. His voice was the sweetest ever heard and I tried to sing softly so I could hear his precious melody.

“ You are my sunshine.
My only sunshine.
You make me happy, when skies are grey.
You’ll never know dear, how much I love you.
Please don’t take my sunshine away”

Holding On

I remember being thrilled when my oldest grew out of Barney videos. Now, I find myself trying to convince my three-year-old that a big purple dinosaur is cool and shouldn’t be traded for an obnoxious talking sponge wearing shorts! With my first, I couldn’t wait for the various milestones to be reached. However, with my youngest, I cried at the first steps, the first tooth, the first birthday and the first day of preschool. I know how quickly it goes and I relish each time he giggles when I tickle his toes with “This Little Piggy” or crawl up his tummy with “Itsy Bitsy Spider”.

I feel like I am clinging to this time, desparate for a few more years of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. Sure, there are times I wish I could escape for a few days and not worry about carpool or book reports. However, for the most part, I am aware that the magic of childhood is fleeting and that the realities of the world will soon interfere. Until that time, I pray that I can turn off the computer and leave the dishes in the sink for another round of Play-Doh, and of course, another episode of Barney.

Special Memory

Summer vacation is finally over. Our little weary band of travelers returned home late Sunday night. Although I would love to recap my trip, I will spare you the verbal slide show and simply talk about the highlights. Scratch that – one highlight.

It happened unexpectently. We went on a hike along the trail to Adams Falls – a beautiful site nestled in the quaint community of Grand Lake, Colorado. The hike takes you through some steep areas overlooking a series of waterfalls. While the others played and explored, I took my youngest with me on a trail which followed the river.

We found a rock safe enough for him to climb and we sat and took in the view. The mountains were steep with bits of snow still lingering at the top. The river flowed quietly and the sound of the ripples over the rocks felt like a lullaby. For a good five minutes, we didn’t speak. I find it extraordinary that a place exists where the beauty can take words away from a three-year-old. Our moment was finally interrupted by a spider trying to share our space on our rock. We moved quickly and returned to civilization where other family members waited.

Thank you God for setting the scenery for a moment I hope to never forget.
Happily Ever After

I volunteered at my son’s school today. I worked in the library and tried not to shelve the books in the wrong place. There was a visiting author reading his most recent book to the children. He said, “I love to write books because I can make the ending anyway I want to.” I thought to myself, wouldn’t it be great if life could be that way? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could draft our own stories with a guaranteed happy ending?

As parents, we serve as the authors of our children’s lives – at least initially. We control the characters and develop the plot. However, the story quickly moves beyond our control and another author takes up the pen and drafts the destiny for our children. Frankly, I would much rather continue to compose my children’s lives. It is difficult to hand over control. I guess that’s where faith comes in. Eventually, our influence in the fate of our children is praying, always praying, that our children will grow up and live “Happily Ever After”.

Quantity over Quality

I was home all day long today. I mean All Day Long. It was not my original intention. I had the standard errands to run and lunch appointments scheduled. But before I headed out, my oldest son said, “Mom, would you stay home today?” I stopped and looked at him. His tone was different, more sincere. Not whining for the sake of whining. “But I have so much to do!” I groaned. He looked at me and said, “I just want you to stay home. I don’t want you to go anywhere.”

I had a lot of details to process. I started to feel guilty and I became irritated. Frustrated I said, “I’m really busy and don’t have a lot of time. What is it that you want?” He said simply, “I want to be with you.” That stopped me in my tracks – literally. It took less than five minutes to cancel my appointments. We watched two movies and took walk to the bagel shop. We also did a lot of things independent of each other – but we were both home. He really didn’t want to be entertained. He wanted to hear me piddle around and know that I was near. I have always been a big believer in quality over quantity. But in this case, quantity was what he needed. I got nothing done, but it was definitely a productive day.

Purple Dinosaur

I have to hand it to that purple dinosaur. Tonight, as I was cleaning out a bathroom closet tossing crusted toothpaste and throwing out empty cans of hairspray, my three-year-old runs in and says “He’s Singing It! He’s Singing It!” I drop everything and follow him into my bedroom just in time to dance to Barney singing “I Love You”. As I hold him, he says “Sing it Loud Mommy”. We rock back and forth and hug and kiss on cue as the lyrics say “and a great big hug and a kiss from me to you.” We sing in unison, “won’t you say you love me too.”
So while in a board meeting, when I am unable to get the grating melody out of my brain, I’ll remember this moment and say a prayer of thanks for the big purple dinosaur who’s not afraid to say “I love you”.

Cover My Ears

It’s bedtime. My little Luke and I are snuggled together reading a family classic. “Corduroy” is a story about a little stuffed bear that sat on a department store shelf waiting to be adopted. The little bear had lost a button to his overalls making him less appealing to would-be child shoppers. The beginning of the book is a little sad and I looked at Luke – trying to read his face while reading the words.

He sat up and said, “Mommy, this part is really sad.”
“I know Luke – it is sad.”
“Don’t worry Mommy. I will cover your ears so you won’t hear.”
He leaned over and placed his little fingers inside my ears while I continued reading.
“Almost over Mommy. Keep reading.”

Trying desperately not to giggle, he continued to protect his Mommy from the sad parts and finally released his hold once a little girl spots Corduroy and decides to take him home.

A great ending for both Corduroy and me!

THE GUILT TRAIN

YearBook

My oldest appeared at my bedroom door, head down, tears in his eyes, holding his 1st Grade Year Book – something he received on the first day of Second Grade.

“What’s wrong?” I ask reaching out to hold him.

“I’m not in any of the pictures except for the one where I am standing with the other kids from Art Class and Molly Henderson’s pony tail covers my face…” Sob, sob and catches his breath and then continues with, “Mark is in four pictures and Allen is in five, I know, I counted, and I’m in ZERO except for the stupid Art Class one.”

WHOOSH! A memory enters my mind. One that I had completely shelved at the end of last year as I was coordinating the “School’s Out” party and planning our summer vacation. Amidst the piles of paper work, there was a note sent home requesting pictures from parents to include in the year book.

You see, I don’t take pictures. Other, more organized moms take pictures. I request copies and pay for film, but I don’t take pictures. The good news is that I have organized photo albums – but only because I get the left over pictures from generous relatives or friends.

I guess I hoped that my son’s image would be included by association or osmosis or something. After all, he was involved in everything – surely some mom some where would have snapped a picture of her child with my son visible in the background. Unfortunately, I wasn’t so lucky.

So what do I do? I’ll tell you what I am going to do…..I am going to actually use the digital camera I got for Christmas, take the extra step of pulling the images off of the computer, and turn them into the Year Book Committee along with dozen cookies and gift certificates to Starbucks. I’ve heard a picture is worth a thousand words…. Looks like NO picture is worth about the same in tears and guilt!

Not-So-Perfect Parent: School Fundraiser

There is nothing you can do to avoid it. It’s as predictable as Christmas. Every year, my little boy gleefully announces that if he sells 475 rolls of wrapping paper, he can win a pair of walkie-talkies! The school fundraiser is a nightmare for parents as they attempt to complete complicated order forms, collect money and distribute the items to irritated family members who were guilted into buying overpriced Holiday crap. I mean, after all, who wraps presents anymore anyway??? Give me a gift bag and some tissue paper and consider it done! Although the school officials encourage the kids to be responsible for the sales, the bottom line is that the parents are the ones who really make the effort.

Last year, I had made a decision that I was not going to allow my child to partake in the fund-raiser. This was a racket! Our children were being pressured into this business with tempting incentives like inflatable animals and Spider Man pencils. I justified our lack of participation by making a donation to the school and taking my son to Wal-Mart to pick a toy that he would otherwise “earn”. I felt confident about my decision until I overheard a group of mothers discussing the fundraiser. Their conversation went something like this;

“So how much did you spend this year?”

“$100.00 in wrapping paper and another $50 in candy and candles.”

“My husband said I couldn’t spend more than $200 because we still had wrapping paper that we didn’t use last year.”

“I collected $400 from family members and I threw in another $150. I also agreed to contribute another $25 because two of the children in Johnny’s class haven’t anything. Poor things! If there is not 100% participation in the class, then they don’t get the pizza party.”

I caved. They won. I immediately went home, dug the catalog out of the recycle bin, and filled out the order form – buying stuff that I would likely never use. Although I hated giving into this peer pressure, my little boy was proud to show me the .50 cent plastic hand clappers that he earned from my investment.

But this year is going to be different. I will not succumb to the temptation that will come once other kids start racking up the sales because their parents have expendable income or because they have family in New Jersey that feel guilty for not sending Tommy a birthday gift and are willing to buy a lifetime supply of gift tags.

You see, the items I bought last year are STILL in the box under my bed along with old holiday sweaters and never used scrapbooking materials. At least I know where the stuff is – the plastic hand clappers are nowhere to be found.

Nature Hunt

I was one of the volunteer moms at my son’s school “Nature Hunt” – a politically correct term for Easter Egg Hunt. Volunteering at school is a relatively new phenomenon. With my revised work schedule, I am able to find time to be at the school and participate more in his activities. However, it’s a new hat I’m wearing and I’m struggling to make it fit.

Volunteer moms are of a different breed. They can produce sun block, crayons and healthy snacks in labeled baggies at a moment’s notice. They wear fashionable casual wear with coordinated sneakers. Frankly, I am intimidated and insecure when I am around them.

As the volunteer mom for the Nature Hunt, I was responsible for bringing water bottles, blankets, and filled eggs. After spending ten minutes too long in front of my closet, I settled on jeans and layered t-shirts (a volunteer mom fashion trend that I have finally picked up on). I was feeling pretty good on the way to the school. I arrived at the playground a little early and thought I would be proactive by passing out not only my eggs, but all of the eggs that were labeled Mrs. Feldman’s class. By the time the other mothers arrived, the job was done. That was until one mom, (dressed to the nines in her Neiman’s warm-up and Channel sunglasses) said “how many eggs did you hide so we can make sure each child has the same amount?”

What?? You were supposed to count the eggs??!! That never entered my mind and now they were lying all over the playground area. One mom volunteered to run home and fill more eggs just in case some kids didn’t get enough.

Soon, the kids started arriving. My son’s class emerged, each holding their Easter Basket. I looked up and saw my son. He didn’t have an Easter Basket. He was holding a brown paper bag that the teacher gave him because I forgot to pack the damn Easter Basket. When the mom arrived with the extra eggs, she saw my poor son picking up eggs and placing them in his lame paper bag. She ran up to him and handed him a basket. She looked at me and said, “I always bring a few extra – just in case.”

Conflicting emotions came over me, I was relieved for my son, but I hated this woman who represented other moms who would carry extra Easter Baskets in their car. What pressure!! If my son arrives at school with his backpack and his homework, I consider the morning a success! Extra Easter Baskets?? Come on! I think I need more time observing from the sidelines before I can play in their league. However, even with additional practice, being the Home Room mom may not be in my future.

WHAT THEY TEACH YOU

Flowers for Mrs. Brown

My son and I went on a Valentine Run last night. Our shopping list included:
• Materials for a his Valentine Box to collect valentines from his friends

• Valentines to distribute. (There was much debate over Sponge Bob and Transformers. Sponge Bob won out.)

• Flowers for Mrs. Brown

“Who is Mrs. Brown?” I asked.

“She’s the lunch room monitor and the recess monitor,” was his reply. “She’s grumpy most of the time and the kids are a little scared of her.”

“Why do you want to bring her flowers?” I asked.

“Because nobody else would bring her flowers on Valentines Day.”

Childhood Wonder
I love to watch a child delight in simple things. The kinds of things that are almost invisible to grown-ups as we wallow in the details. Yesterday, my youngest sat in front of an oscillating fan singing “Twinkle-Twinkle Little Star” and giggling periodically hearing his voice altered by the swirling blades. He loved to push the button on top delighted that the fan would start and stop on his command. He was fascinated and I was fascinated by his fascination.

Later we went outside and blew bubbles. He chased the larger ones trying to catch them before they popped. He stopped only to observe an interested squirrel seeking food before returning the safety of the trees. If you stop and think about it, how often do adults relish in the delights of something new? Every now and then, we may get a little jazzed up the two times a year we take a nature hike or visit an art museum. However, for the most part, we have the attitude of “been there, done that” and it takes a lot for us to take notice. I think that is why the entertainment industry is compelled to produce shocking programming – it’s the only thing that gets our attention.

Maintaining childhood wonder is almost impossible. However, one way to start is by being grateful. Grateful for the little things such as turning on a light, sending an email, or watching an airplane sour above. Maybe through our gratitude, wonder can be restored and appreciation renewed. Until that time, grab your kids (or borrow some if you don’t have any) and relish in their wonder. Watching their fascination will motivate you to find your own.

Armadillo

“Luke, what’s your favorite color?” I asked.

“Orange and sometimes green,” he replied.

“What’s your favorite food?” I probed.

“Fish Sticks!” he said. “Yummy!”

“What’s your favorite animal?”

“An armadillo.”

“Armadillo? Why an Armadillo?” I inquired.

“Because they like to hop.”

“Armadillos like to hop?”

“Of course! Don’t you like to hop?”

Lollypop

Both of my kids were in the back seat. I was stupid enough to have a single lollypop in plain few on my side console. Sure enough, my youngest says,

“Can I have the lollypop?”

“No” I sigh. “There is only one and we can share it.”

Pause. Pout. And then,

“I have a great idea! We don’t have to share! I’ll eat the whole thing!”

Fireworks!

It’s bedtime. I finally get the kids tucked in – stories told with their favorite stuffed friend in place. As I leave with promises of sweet dreams – we hear the pops. Fireworks were going off for a pre-4th of July Show in Fort Worth. Without saying a word, we all ran for the front door and seconds later, we were standing in the front yard, barefoot and in our pajamas, watching the skies light up. What is it about fireworks? They appeal to all of us – except for poor Buster who chose to stay hidden under the bed rather than join us outside.

We didn’t speak to each other instead allowing the fireworks to do all of the talking. As usual, they were over too quickly and Luke whimpered as we returned to bedtime. Extra kisses were needed.

“When will we see the fireworks again,” he cried.

“Just in a couple of days – on the 4th of July!”

“That’s too long,” he sighed.

A couple of more kisses and then this whisper,

“I know mommy! Maybe they will be in my dreams!”

Sweet dreams indeed!

Storytime

It’s bedtime. My little Luke and I are snuggled together reading a family classic. “Corduroy” is a story about a little stuffed bear that sat on a department store shelf waiting to be adopted. The little bear had lost a button to his overalls making him less appealing to would-be child shoppers. The beginning of the book is a little sad and I looked at Luke – trying to read his face while reading the words.

He sat up and said, “Mommy, this part is really sad.”

“I know Luke – it is sad.”

“Don’t worry Mommy. I will cover your ears so you won’t hear.”

He leaned over and placed his little fingers inside my ears while I continued reading.

“Almost over Mommy. Keep reading.”

Trying desperately not to giggle, he continued to protect his Mommy from the sad parts and finally released his hold once a little girl spots Corduroy and decides to take him home.

A great ending for both Corduroy and me!

Bible

“What book is this?”

My three-year-old asked this question while holding his father’s baptism Bible. The tattered book is just like you imagine. Small, white, with red lettering for Jesus’ words. This Bible is unique in that it has a zipper (now rusted) securing the contents. I have always thought that books with locks or with zippers were particularly special- so special that the contents needed extra protection as if the words could be stolen or somehow spill from the binding.

“It’s Daddy’s”, I said.

“I love this book! Who wrote this?”

Making it simple, I said, “God”

“Can I read it?”

“Sure”, I said. “What does it say?

“Hmmm…” he said thoughtfully, carefully turning the thin pages, “It says God loves people and God love dinosaurs.”

Darwin would be proud.

Broken Arrow

I picked up my son from his first overnight camp experience. Thankfully, they thought better of having the closing ceremony at the horse stables with the flies and the manure and chose instead to have the event in the air conditioned Rec Hall. The parents waited until the campers made their grand entrance. Sweaty boys and girls ran in, screaming greetings to their moms and dads. I was thrilled to see Colton, but not as excited as his little brother who threw himself at him and said, “I missed you so much Bubba!”

The kids lined up and serenaded their families with favorite camp songs. That’s when little brother started to whine. After all, he wanted to stand in front and get a little of that lime light that his brother was hogging. Finally, the songs ended and Colton invited Luke to sit next to him on the floor with the other big kids.

The Awards Ceremony began. Each child was honored. There was the “Best Canoe-er” Award, the “Most Muddy” Award and the “Loudest Screamer” Award (given to a child that shouted “AWESOME!!!” at an ear-shattering pitch when his name was called). Each child was recognized and each walked away with their certificate in hand.

The last award of the evening was called the “Broken Arrow” award. A camp counselor told a story about the tradition of the “Broken Arrow” and its importance through the years. The campers selected the winner by voting on who was deserving of such an honor. Traits such as honesty, loyalty, friendship and leadership needed to be considered when casting their vote. I was more than thrilled when they called my son’s name as the winner. My pride started to well and I could feel the eyes of the other envious parents on me.

Humility hit with a vengeance when my youngest completely fell apart. As my oldest went to receive his award, Luke wailed “I want a big pencil!!” Colton looked back and whispered through gritted teeth, “It’s not a pencil, it’s an arrow!” Luke responded with, “I want a big arrow pencil!!” As part of the ritual, they ceremoniously broke the arrow before handing it to Colton. That did it. Luke fell to the floor screaming, “They broke Bubba’s arrow pencil! They broke Bubba’s arrow pencil”.

I dragged him outside so he would no longer upstage his older brother. I desperately searched for a stick or something to break as a substitute for the arrow. Believe it or not, standing in the great outdoors, no stick could be found. Eventually, older brother came outside and handed Luke half of his arrow as a sort of a peace offering . A generous gesture to say the least but I guess pretty typical of a “Broken Arrow” award winner.

Spelling Game

When necessary, we parents resort to spelling words when communicating things to other adults that we don’t want our kids to hear. For example, “I saw her at the B-A-R and she was D-R-U-N-K!” or “I have to take him to the D-O-C-T-O-R and he has to get three S-H-O-T-S.” Recently, my three-year-old has picked up on this form of communication and is attempting to use it. Needless to say, a little is lost in the translation. “Mommy, can I have some T-V-H-G-Y?” I’m thoroughly confused. “I don’t understand”, I say. So he says it slower, and a little louder, like my grandmother used to when talking to someone from Mexico. “Mommy, can I have some H-W-C-B-W?”

“What’s that spell, sweetheart?”

“Candy,” he whispers, and actually rolls his eyes a little at me.

I don’t care. He is so L-M-R-T, and that spells CUTE to me.

Rainbows and Ice-Cream Cones

A friend of mine was taking her little girl out for a mother/daughter shopping trip. Right before they were leaving, her daughter emerged from her bedroom wearing a top dotted with brightly colored rainbows and shorts covered in ice-cream cones. The multi-colored top clashed terribly with the pink and brown shorts. “Honey, those don’t match,” my friend said impatiently. “Hurry and change – the car is running!”
“But mommy”, she replied, “I think rainbows and ice cream cones match perfectly!”

My friend couldn’t argue. Because in a child’s world – there simply isn’t a more perfect combination.

Chocolate Tree

Recent conversation with my four-year-old…

Luke: Mommy, have you ever had a Chocolate Leaf?

Me: You mean from a Chocolate Tree?

Luke: Of course!

Me: No, but I bet they’re yummy! Do you pick the chocolate leaves from the tree or do you eat the ones that have fallen on the ground.

Luke: Mainly the ones on the ground. The ones in the tree are hard to reach.

Me: Are the branches made out of Chocolate Covered Pretzels?

Luke: Yes, they are yummy to, but you can’t eat too many.

Me: Why? Will you get a tummy ache?

Luke: No silly, the tree will fall down!

Old Paint

When I was a little girl, I wasn’t into imaginary friends. One of my neighborhood buddies, Sue Ellen, had one and, to be honest, I thought she was a little weird. She would always want “Glenda” to play with us. What kind of freaked me out was when she said things like, “Glenda doesn’t like to play Monopoly” or “Glenda is hungry, can we have a snack?” Usually, I was the third man out and Sue Ellen and Glenda always agreed. When it came down to a vote, it was two against one, and majority always rules (even if it is a “silent” majority).

I did, however, have an imaginary horse named Bozo. He was a brown and white paint and I would ride him every day. For years, my mother thought there was something wrong with my leg. Not wanting me to be aware of my difference, she secretly consulted with doctors about my strange gait. Finally, she insisted on x-rays to make sure my spine was not curved. When the results were negative, she sat down with me and informed me that I ran with a limp. “Of course I do Mommy! I’m riding my horse!”

I had forgotten about this story until I saw my youngest, age three, limping around the back yard. “What are you doing?” I ask. He stopped and looked at me and said, “I’m riding Old Paint”. Yes, it’s true; not only does my little boy have an imaginary horse, but a Paint Horse to be exact. Neither of my children had ever heard me talk about my pony, yet somehow Bozo spawned a new generation of imaginary horses. The only difference is that Old Paint lives in my son’s pocket until he’s ready for a ride.

Luke got my blue eyes and my flair for the dramatic. Who would have thought that imaginary horses are also genetic!

LAUGH AT YOURSELF

School Project

My oldest son, Colt, was doing a school project on the power of advertising. He was asked to create a flyer that included a message intended to influence other people to take action. I sat with him as he pondered his options. His eyes widened and he said,

“I know what my poster should say!! ‘Always Kiss Your Mother Goodnight!’”

I sat there, overwhelmed by his charm. Tears started to well and I reached out and said, “That is the sweetest thing I have ever heard!”

Colt pushed back and stared at me in disbelief. “Mom, I was kidding! I couldn’t write that on a poster!! Are you crazy??!!”

He went with “More Soda = Better Burps!”

Size Matters
A friend of mine was getting her son ready for school and was surprised to see how short his jeans had become. “Wow! You have gotten so much taller!” she said. “We are going to need to move you up to a size 8.” “Well that makes sense, Mom” he replied. “I wore a size 7 when I was seven. Now that I’m eight, I need a size 8.” “Very True!” she replied.

Silence and then, “So Mom, does that mean you wear a size 40!”

Rain and Waterparks

We took the kids to a water park as a final send off to summer. I have to confess, I am not a big fan of water parks. Being that close to half naked people kinda eeks me out. Not to mention the fact that the same people who have season passes to Renaissance Festivals are VIP members of water parks. To make matters worse, it was raining – I mean pouring buckets. I have not been that wet for such a sustained period of time in my life. Don’t get me wrong, I expected to get wet. But not continuously, from all angles for 4 ½ hours. I kept praying for a little lightening so that they would shut the sucker down. But alas, no lightning in sight – just lots and lots of rain.

The good news is that it wasn’t crowded. Most people were smart enough to stay home. But not us – we packed a cooler and ate soggy sandwiches and stuck it out until my youngest lips started turning purple. You see, it was cold. Especially when we were standing in line at the top of the “Master Blaster” water slide where sheets of rain powered by 30 mile-an-hour winds made an August morning down right blustery. For a fleeting moment, I considered snuggling up to the big guy with a dragon tattoo and a hairy back. Instead, I discretely used him to shield my son until it was our turn to take the ride.

Overall, it was a great day and I got MAJOR cool mom points. Looking back, I would not have traded blue skies and sunshine for our monsoon conditions. By adding a little rain to a water park, we made a wet memory even wetter and a good memory even better.

PARENTING PAINS/GROWING PAINS

Mom’s Bored

I love them beyond distraction. They are precious little gifts from God and I am grateful that they’re mine. But let’s face it… even the cutest, most precious, freckled face little boy or girl can be, well, boring. No offense, but my eyes start to cross after reading “Goodnight Moon” for the ten thousandth time. I start getting a little antsy playing “Peek-A-Boo” or “Go Fish”. Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful – so grateful – for my kids. They are the light of my life. But, I need more stimulation than a game of “Hi Ho Cheery-o” can offer.

I feel guilty admitting this. I feel like I should always delight in my children – especially at this age. I know I will miss this time particularly when they start popping zits and texting their friends. In the mean time, I have got to find a way to spice up Hide-and-Seek and I Spy. Truth is, they’re probably bored too. Because, after awhile, even Barbie herself can get a little old.

Pass the Caffinne Please!

I cannot remember the last time I slept through the night. Dreams are constantly interrupted by coughs, sniffs, and an occasional squeal from my boys’ room. It’s like I have Bionic Woman ears that I can’t turn off. My body is ready to spring into action the moment a sound, any sound, is detected. Not to mention, our youngest has a tendency to sneak (in a not-so-sneaky sort of way) into our room around 2 am and squeezes in between my husband and me. Just when things settle down, WHAM an arm is flung across my face or POW a knee is inserted in my thigh. I went to the doctor yesterday and the nurse gasped when she saw all of the bruises on my leg.

“Were you in an accident?” she asked.
“Sort of. I accidentally got in the middle of a wrestling match where I was body slammed without warning.”

Being a mom is painful and exhausting. Sleep is a sacrifice and will continue to elude me as they grow-up and are out at night doing God knows what with God knows who. It’s frightening to think that I may be walking around like a zombie for another fifteen years. So pour me another Diet Coke and let’s toast to motherhood…. the joys, the pains, and the sleepless nights.

Battle of the Bedtimes
Bedtime has CONSISTENTLY been 8:00 for years – yet my kids groan and moan and beg for one more story, five more minutes of video games or just until the next commercial. I don’t know when this was up for debate? By the time bedtime rolls around for me – I feel like I have been hit by a truck, and I still have emails to answer, lunches to make, and mail to go through. When I give the “Final, and I mean Final, don’t Argue with Me or your grounded” hug and snuggle, my oldest will hold onto my neck, arm or hair with such force that I have to pry away. Once I make it to the door, I am usually safe, and can get on with my night time chores before I collapse into bed. Although I remember making the same pleas to my parents, the bedtime debate will always be a mystery to me. Can you relate?

I Hate Camping
Nobody likes camping. They say they like camping, but they really don’t. Camping is like a 2-hour Jazz Concert, or the “Complimentary continental breakfast.” It just sounds better than it really is.
The truth of the matter is that it’s the idea of camping that sounds appealing… the smell of pine trees and marshmallows roasting, enjoying God’s creation by being one with the outdoors. It’s the little details they don’t mention—dirt in your tent, bugs in your tent—that represent the realities that make camping frankly, and sometimes literally, a pain in the neck.
I look at it this way. Thousands of years of human evolution — also known as “progress” — have led mankind in a clear direction AWAY from everything that characterizes camping: lying on the ground, running from wild animals, living in a constant state of dirtiness, picking bugs out of food, and sleeping without air-conditioning or heat. Think of how little time it took Eve to figure a way out of the garden.
I understand the problem I’m creating for women with this level of truth. Women experience the peer pressure of being “good sports” and “low maintenance” because we don’t want to admit that we hate using a pine tree as a bathroom. Actually, I believe that 90% of the men who profess to “love to go camping” would fail a lie detector test. At my house, “roughing it” means he can’t find the remote and has to walk up to the TV to turn it off…
So call me a party pooper. However, I refuse to believe that I am a bad mother and wife because I prefer a roof over my head in a home limited to the human species and domesticated animals.
After all, the average day in my house sees more than its share of wildlife. I married the bear I have to hide food from, we bought a coyote-size mutt that howls in the middle of the night, and gave birth to two varmints that tear up our home site faster than I can clean it.
What I will tell you is that, as the mother of two boys, I will eventually find myself out there, braving the elements in the pursuit of that oh-so fleeting title of “Cool Mom.” Somehow, I will manage to put the worm on the hook, whip up a meal of “beanie weenies” and trail mix, and share a tent with boys that smell like sweat and bug spray. It doesn’t mean I have to like it.
Don’t Wake me Up Unless You Are On Fire!
Fatigue – it is a mother’s worse enemy. The minute your first bundle of joy enters the world – sleep becomes a precious commodity that is often sacrificed for a wet diaper, a monster in the closet, or a misplaced stuffed bunny. As they get older, sleep continues to elude us as we lie awake thinking about the C- on the report card, a broken heart, and their college entrance exams.

The problem with this lack of sleep runs deeper than the dark circles under our eyes. It clouds our judgment and affects our relationships. As our fuse gets shorter, our husbands become increasingly more stupid and our kids become progressively more annoying. As for us, rationality is replaced by pent-up anger that ultimately explodes into a freak-out tirade over such things as socks on the floor or a lost library book.
So what’s the answer? Well, I would love to offer such words of wisdom as “take care of yourself”, “give yourself a break”, or “schedule some ‘me-time’”…..but who am I kidding??? It all sounds good in theory – but your kids still need to get to baseball practice and your husband refuses to glue cotton balls on your third-grader’s history project.

The only advice I can give you is this – cut yourself some slack and take all the help you can get. That means don’t beat yourself up if you have to buy a store bought cake for the bake sale or if you forget to write that thank you note to Aunt Edna. There is only so much you can do with four hours of shut-eye and six cups of coffee!

Parenting Hurts!

Parenting hurts. Now, I’m not talking about emotional pain like the first day of kindergarten or the first C – on the report card. No, what I mean is that parenting is a full-contact sport. Granted, I am the mother of two boys which may contribute to the bruises I’m left with. However, I have found, in order to join in the fun, you have to expect to get messy and to get hurt.

It started early. Breast feeding was the single most painful experience of my life. What’s worse is that it got increasingly more painful when they began to grow little puppy-like teeth. It was the closest I have come to throwing my child across the room.

However, as they got older, the pain continued. My husband claims it’s my fault. Somehow he avoids injury by simply paying attention to where the ball is falling or where the light saber is aimed. For me, however, I invariably have to sit-out due to a poke in the eye, an elbow in the gut or kick in the shin. One thing I want to make clear, my kids never intend to hit me. In fact, they know how prone I am to injury and try hard not to inflict pain. However, somehow it happens and I have to hobble away without letting them see me cry. Yes, parenting is painful on many levels. However, I will continue to endure a few bruises as long as they continue to see me as a worthy playmate. I hope I will survive.

Thankless Job
Parenting can be a thankless job. I spent forty-five minutes finding the perfect tennis shoes for my oldest (by “perfect” I mean “coolest” for under $30). His response? “I liked the shoes mom, but you got the wrong socks.” I spent three hours of undivided, one-on-one, didn’t-even-answer-my-cell-phone time with my youngest only for him to fall on the floor screaming when I needed 10 minutes of privacy in the bathroom. I lovingly packed a lunch filled with favorites including peanut-butter and jelly, homemade cookies, and a hand-written note on his napkin. Drum roll please…. “Mom, you forgot to cut off the crust!”
I know you know what I am talking about. You spend hours doing laundry and your kids thank you by throwing their newly stained clothes all over their floor. You make tacos with pureed tomatoes to appease a picky eater who won’t eat vegetables only to have him push his plate away and beg for ice cream. It’s maddening and can send any otherwise sane individual into a complete Mommy Meltdown. I actually had one last night. My three-year-old stood there terrified while he watched his mommy holding a pair of stiff socks that were discovered under our deck and wailing “WHO LEFT THESE OUTSIDE?!” He was smart enough to blame it on the dog rather than suffer the wrath of a freaked-out mom.
Gross Factor

You burp, you scratch, you spit – these habits are unwelcome to say the least. However, boys at every age can’t help but giggle when they or a buddy produce obscene sounds. Tonight, my youngest spent five minutes trying to burp as loudly as his older brother. He tried so hard that he started gagging and his eyes started watering. Finally, after endless attempts and a few sips of soda, he was able to produce a respectable belch. So what was the payoff? Beats me. He was almost outdone by his father who burst through the door in his underwear and threatened to burp the alphabet. That one, I intercepted and stopped. Good man.

There is no way I can compete with that – nor do I want to resort to such disgusting tactics. However, my husband will always win the “most popular” contest because I refuse to pull their fingers or produce bodily sounds just for kicks. I think it’s gross – but it is the burden I have to bear as the mother of two boys. Sure, I don’t have to fuss with hair ribbons or deal with the drama of a pre-teen girl. However, my time to anti-up is now – when spit balls and arm pit noises are considered recreational. It’s the price we pay when we have boys.

It’s Only Just Begun

It’s late in the day and I am tired. It has been a hard week – both emotionally and physically. As I look towards my evening, I fantasize about going home to a quiet house, pouring myself a glass of wine, and immersing myself in a tub of hot water and bubbles. Unfortunately, my evening will look something like this:

I will pull into the driveway and try to avoid running over my dog who stands in the path of my car, barking and leaping thrilled that the one who feeds has finally returned home. I will walk in the door and hear brief squeals of joy from my two children. This will quickly turn to screaming and shouting as one child will inevitably hit the other or take a toy or step on a toe or whatever it is that they do that causes the hourly outburst.

After dealing with the crisis, I will try to make my way upstairs answering the barrage of questions coming from below:

“When do we eat?”
“What are we having for dinner?”
“Can Andy come over and play?”
“Can we watch TV during dinner?”
“Can I have some money?”

As I finally reach my room, I attempt to change clothes while my three-year-old dances around singing, “I’m Poopy! I’m Poopy! I’m Poopy!” The truth is, before I take off a high-heel or look through the mail, I will:

1. Referee four wrestling matches
2. Zap dinner in the microwave
3. Clean up spilt milk and dropped peas
4. Change two diapers
5. Answer seven phone calls
6. Wash four dirty hands and two filthy faces
7. Decide I am too tired for a bath for myself or my kids
8. Try to find two identical pairs of pajamas
9. If can’t find two identical pairs of pajamas, try to convince my three-year-old that Blues Clues pjs are as cool as Sponge Bob pjs.
10. Read three stories and say two prayers
11. Give sixteen kisses and seven hugs
12. Tux them into bed
13. Tell them to go back to bed
14. Demand that they go back to bed
15. Threaten them that if they don’t go back to bed, they cannot watch TV in the morning
16. Whimper and maybe cry a little

Not until those tasks are completed will I finally crawl into bed grateful that I survived. With my body exhausted, I hope my mind will follow-suit and shut down for a peaceful night’s sleep. However, that even eludes me and I lie awake, reliving my day, and anxious for tomorrow. GIVE ME A BREAK!

Water Waster

Okay, I admit it. I am a water waster. I recycle and turn out all the lights before leaving the house. But when it comes to water – I waste it like a rock star! You see, I believe mothers are entitled to baths. Not your “just enough to get you wet” philosophy that my grandfather had. No, I’m talking hot, soaking, bubbles to your nose kind of bath. In my opinion, we are entitled. It is our opportunity to regroup and reclaim our sanity.

I say leave water conservation to the men, the adolescents, the children (who are more concerned about making tub bubbles than relaxing). Mothers should be gifted the occasional soak with no limits on bath water and no concerns about water conservation. Let us have this one guilt-free, “Calgon Take Me Away” moment where we can indulge and pamper ourselves free from obligation And men, don’t even think about joining us. The bath is off limits to you – because we know you have other things in mind that are not conducive to relaxation! Leave us alone and allow us to wash away our worries. Believe me, it will benefit you in the long run!

Boys will be Boys
Last night, our family watched “America’s Funniest Home Videos”. It is one of the few shows that is entertaining for mom and dad and appropriate for the kids. While watching, I began to notice a disturbing trend. I have listed some of the highlights below. However, I am not going to give you the outcome of these various scenes or the common denominator found in each, but I bet you can figure it out.

1. Boys doing shopping cart races
2. Boys riding bikes down a flight of stairs.
3. Boys catching balls with their teeth.
4. Boys spitting at cats
5. Boys going down backwards on slides
6. Six boys riding a one-person sled
7. Boys poking a baby alligator with a stick
8. Boys jumping from a trampoline into a baby pool
9. Boys dancing and swinging their partners during a wedding reception
10. Boys trying to outrun an irritated bull.

So did you figure it out?? I bet you did! Most of the home movies highlighted members of the male species doing really stupid things. Although I referred to each of the examples as “boys”, many were grown men participating in these stunts. Regardless of age, when boys get around other boys their capacity to muster rational thoughts seems to fall out of their brains.

Although the females were not completely left-out, their goofs were usually the result or a) boys or b) an unstable piece of furniture. As the mother of two boys, this is a little frightening. I can do my best to encourage them to rethink setting off fireworks in the school bathroom. However, a mother’s influence is sometimes lost when his buddies are around. Something I call “stupid force” takes over and can overpower a normally rational male.

Case-in-point. When my older brother was ten, he shot out all of the basement windows with a BB Gun. This behavior was baffling and my brother was grounded for two weeks. However, he was not alone. He friend Steve was also there and they both decided shooting out the windows was a winner of an idea.

In another incident, my brother and a few of his friends, set off stink bombs in the Girl Scout Meeting. The little girls ran out screaming and crying. What makes this incident rank among the most stupid in all the world is that the Girl Scout Meeting was being held in a Sunday School room at my father’s church. Yes, I said my FATHER’s church. He was the minister and was the one who caught the kids as they were running from the scene.

It’s clear that the whole notion that “two-heads are better than one” does not apply to men. The more testosterone present, the more likely stupid things are going to happen. I think people are beginning to wise-up to this reality. It’s taken us a while, but who knows, we may have a woman in the White House.

GET YOUR HAIR WET

Memorial Day Memory

Yesterday was Memorial Day. Like many Americans, we spent it at the lake. The sky was still overcast from a relentless rainy season, however, it did not stop my children from taking a dip.

They begged me to get in. The lake looked murky and I did not want to go through the painful experience of putting on a bathing suit for the first time this season. However, in my quest to participate rather than observe my children’s lives, I finally succumbed to the pleas and put on my suit along with a borrowed pair of outdated high-rise pleated shorts that went up to my boobs and my father-in-law’s tee-shirt that went down to my knees. Looking lovely I made my way out to the dock.

I stood there, looking at the cold, muddy water, trying to muster the courage to plunge. My son and his cousin Mindy started chanting “JUMP! JUMP! JUMP!” After six deep breaths and a quick prayer, I leaped while screaming at the top of my lungs.

As the frigid water consumed me, I immediately regretted my decision. I flapped around trying to get warm and to get to a place where I could stand. When I finally got my bearings, I heard the kids cheering. They were thrilled that I left the grown-up world for an instant and entered into their territory. As I stood there shivering and begging for a towel, my regret started slipping away. Yes it was cold, yes it was dirty, yes, it was uncomfortable, but, you know what? It made a memory. No I won’t regret it – even though I still smell a little like lake water.

Wet Head
As a child, I used to beg my mother to get in the pool with us.  She would sometimes oblige and wade in waist deep.  But that was not enough – “Get Your Hair Wet!  Get Your Hair Wet!”, we would chant.   One day, she completely surprised us when she finally succumbed to our pleas and completely submerged herself.  I have to say, the moment was a little anti-climatic.  I don’t know what I expected, but when she finally got her hair wet, it wasn’t nearly as exciting as I thought. 

Now that I am a mother, I get the same pressure from my children.  It is a HUGE deal for me to get my hair wet.  Having hair like my mother’s, I now understand what a pain it is to get your hair wet and then restyle it before any neighbors see.  Unfortunately, I am not one of those super model types that looks good with wet hair. In fact, when doused with water, I look more like a wet dog than a Sports Illustrated model. But still, in the spirit of being a “cool mom” I dive in the pool and spend the afternoon splashing around with the kids. All goes well until my youngest says, “Let’s get out, Mommy. You look funny.” I guess this experience was a little anti-climatic for him, too.

Take a Stroll

When’s the last time you went on a stroll? Seriously, a stroll? Not a jog on the treadmill or a walk to the parking lot, I’m talking about a stroll. It had been years for me until last night when my youngest asked me to take him on a stroll.

“Like in your stroller?” I asked. “You’re getting too big for your stroller.”

“Can we stroll without my stroller?” He asked.

Hmmm… I had a pile of mail to go through not to mention getting dinner on the table. But I thought about it and decided a stroll would be nice.

We went outside and strolled down the neighborhood. We stopped along the way to see if we could spot any caterpillars or doodle bugs. We took the time to stomp on some dead leaves and hear them crunch. We blew a few dandelions and took turns finding the biggest stick. We had no destination and no obligations.

I don’t want to wait until I am 80 before I go on another stroll. I want to learn from my children before a hip replacement results in something less than a stroll. Please God, help me never, ever, ever forget what is important. And, on the days that I do forget, persuade me to listen to the priorities of my heart rather than the details in my head.

Childhood Wonder
I love to watch a child delight in simple things. The kinds of things that are almost invisible to grown-ups as we wallow in the details. Yesterday, my youngest sat in front of an oscillating fan singing “Twinkle-Twinkle Little Star” and giggling periodically hearing his voice altered by the swirling blades. He loved to push the button on top delighted that the fan would start and stop on his command. He was fascinated and I was fascinated by his fascination.

Later we went outside and blew bubbles. He chased the larger ones trying to catch them before they popped. He stopped only to observe an interested squirrel seeking food before returning the safety of the trees. If you stop and think about it, how often do adults relish in the delights of something new? Every now and then, we may get a little jazzed up the two times a year we take a nature hike or visit an art museum. However, for the most part, we have the attitude of “been there, done that” and it takes a lot for us to take notice. I think that is why the entertainment industry is compelled to produce shocking programming – it’s the only thing that gets our attention.

Maintaining childhood wonder is almost impossible. However, one way to start is by being grateful. Grateful for the little things such as turning on a light, sending an email, or watching an airplane sour above. Maybe through our gratitude, wonder can be restored and appreciation renewed. Until that time, grab your kids (or borrow some if you don’t have any) and relish in their wonder. Watching their fascination will motivate you to find your own.