A year in review

I don’t send Christmas cards. Not because I’m a Scrooge, but because I’m cheap. I never could find the kind of cards to send that I thought matched our personalities. Those were the high-dollar cards that could only be special ordered at least six months in advance. I always ended up buying some dollar store mark down that was printed with a cheesy, grammatically incorrect holiday saying that was on sale because there was a word printed upside down. Or else they were just really boring. I decided to quit altogether, and it is a good thing because Christmas cards are just one more item that would have gone on the list of things I stopped doing when I became a mom.

I’m always impressed by those who faithfully send out Christmas cards, year after year. I’m even more impressed with those who have a picture made to put on those cards. But the folks who impress me the most are those who take the time to write a letter to include with their picture and their season’s greetings. Some people call it their year in review. Clearly, as a person who doesn’t make time to send Christmas cards I will most certainly not have time for writing a year in review…but if I did, it might go something like this:

Smith Family Year in Review 2007

Season’s greetings to all. We hope this finds everyone feeling well and enjoying the frigid weather. Since it turned cold, we’ve all been fighting the snotty-nose drainage and that pesky anal leakage that comes with the yearly diarrhea bug that’s been going around again. We’re all about to get over it now, except for the horrific diaper rash it caused on the baby and the chaffing it left on, well, someone who wishes to remain nameless.

The past year has been both a blessing and a curse in so many ways. On January 1, Randy and I celebrated our 11th wedding anniversary. I can’t remember where we were or what we did, but I think surely we spent at least part of the day together. January 10th marked the day our littlest one spoke his first word, “cracker”. We were so moved by the child’s truly sentimental nature. We celebrated a first tooth, learning to play catch, and giving kisses.

February marked Cooper’s discovery of “pooth taste” and his daily ritual of seeing how much of that squishy stuff he could eat before throwing up. He also received a special singing potty from his great-grandmother and made his first, and only, deposit. It’s true; we have pictures to prove it.

March was a big month for us. Cooper learned to hit a ball in motion. He now prefers hitting a pitched ball to one that just sits on a T. He is getting stronger, and he has such a quick bat. We are thinking of signing him up for winter little league. Oh yeah, and Brisco had his first birthday and also learned to walk.

April was a big month for high school baseball games and tournaments, and Opening Day for the Yankees was April 1. I kinda lost track of anything else.

May marked the end of school ball and the beginning of summer ball. We had Randy all to ourselves for a whole 10 days. Brisco continued to cut new teeth, and somehow he learned to perfect a funny little fish face. I’ll never know how he was able to suck in those huge cheeks!

Summer time was upon us, bringing the excitement of the Fourth of July and lots of opportunities for family gatherings and ball games in the yard. We prepared for late nights at the ball park, and anticipated the coming of Vacation Bible School.

Somewhere in the next few months, we endured playing in the rain, peeing in the pool, and the death of one of our dogs. We watched and listened to our kids repeat and mimic both our words and our actions at the most inopportune times and in the most unforgettable places. We chased boys over and across every baseball diamond in seven counties. We endured Sunday mornings, naked Tuesdays, and black Friday. We were blessed with family and friends who shared their lives and their love with our two boys, and for that we are so very thankful.

Over the past year, we have learned so much about our family and about being parents. We’ve learned that in this family, we all have a position to play. We’ve learned that you can lose two little boys in your own house, and if you leave the gate open, you better hope you have a helpful “neighborhood watch association”. We’ve learned that Black Fridays aren’t as uncommon as one might believe. We’ve learned that a parent can’t be too proud or she just might end up raising that kid, ‘cause heaven knows she’s already got her hands full. We’ve learned that you can’t rush nature. Singing potty or no singing potty; they’ll go when they’re ready. We’ve learned that life is full of crust; but if we have the guts to go for it, the good stuff will be our reward.

And above all, we’ve learned that sometimes in life, there’s nothing better than a little prayer, a little pillow talk, and knowing mom will let you lick the spoon.

And that’s our year in review.

The happiness of the holidays

I’ve been looking forward to the holidays for a while now. Our boys are at the age when everything is exhilarating and awe inspiring. They’ve both experienced at least one Christmas, but the memories of it have long since faded. So this year, everything will be fresh, exciting and new.

The boys have been enjoying looking at Christmas lights for several weeks now. We drive around town and each of them gets excited when the lights can be seen out “My side!” of the car window. Brisco calls them "Pissy Heights," but we know what he's saying, and he absolutely knows what he’s seeing.

We don't have a tree yet, but I’ve hung lights up in the living room, and that seems to be good enough for now. I'm pretty sure they don’t have the self control to keep from unwrapping any presents I might put out, so I may save myself the hassle of screaming at them every 10 minutes and just leave them for Santa to bring.

Speaking of Santa, both the boys seem to have a phobia of the old man in red. We’ve tried a couple of times to go sit on Santa’s lap, but the kids freeze up. They hide behind my legs and under my arms-anywhere to get out of Santa’s sight. They’ve got a real, live case of the scaredy-Claus.

We made a trip to K-Mart on Saturday and who should we see sitting in the aisle but ole Saint Nick himself. The boys both started to duck and cover, but this Santa was a pro. He had a bowl of candy sitting beside him, and he told the boys if they would come and sit on his lap they could have some. All Brisco had to hear was the word candy and he was ready to go, just for the chance at one little nibble…so much for the ole “don’t take candy from strange men” mantra. Needless to say, we now have pictures of both of the boys sitting on Santa’s lap, while he entices them with a big, blue bowl of candy. Priceless.

They both like the idea of Rudolph and the elves and all the other reindeer. We’ve watched the old Burl Ives version of Rudolph, and we are still trying to catch Frosty the Snowman. They don’t know there’s something called animatronics or computer animation or high definition television that can make Santa and his sleigh look as if it is coming right out of our set and into our living room. They are perfectly satisfied with seeing Christmas the same way we did as kids.

They don't really understand that there are presents coming either, but they will soon enough. These early years are the best, when kids are excited just to tear off the paper and play with the box. I remember one Christmas when my now-grown cousin opened every present with the exact same enthusiasm an adult would have shown after winning the lottery. “Look, Mom!! It’s socks!!” Top of the lungs; huge smile; proud as you please. Next year that same cousin will celebrate Christmas with his new baby, and the joy of the season will continue.

I look forward to the next few weeks as a time to share the exciting “firsts” of the holidays with our boys. After all, there are only so many things that can become truly new once children reach a certain age.

The happiness that comes with the holiday season is the tradition I hope the boys will remember most. It starts with the people we love and hold dear. It reaches far beyond presents and postcards and pictures of Santa. Yes, the happiness of the holidays is our most important Christmas first, and the one I hope my children will treasure.

Happy Holidays

Pet Peeves

Like most people, I get a lot of junk in my email. But every so often I receive a message that is not only interesting and funny, but also completely applicable to life as a parent.

Some time ago, a friend of mine sent me a list of the Top Ten Pet Peeves that Dogs have about Humans. Now this was funny. Especially for those who have dogs in the house. But for those who have kids in the house…well, it was priceless.

I’d love to give the author of this top ten list credit, but like so many emails, the originator remains anonymous. I’ve taken the liberty of adapting it to fit the lives of all the animals that live at our house, both the four-legged and the two-legged kind. Enjoy!

Top Ten Pet Peeves that Kids (and Dogs) Have about Parents

10. Yelling at me for crying (or barking)…I’m just a baby (dog), you idiot!

9. Blaming your toots on me...not funny... not funny at all!

8. Taking me for a walk, then not letting me check stuff out. Exactly whose walk is this anyway?

7. Any trick that involves balancing food on my nose or performing for your friends...stop it!

6. Any haircut that involves ribbons, bows, or clippers. Now you know why we chew your stuff up when you’re not looking.

5. The sleight-of-hand, fake-fetch, you-want-some-of-this-candy-I’ve-got-right-here trick. You fooled a toddler/dog. Whoooo Hoooooooo. What a proud moment for the grown up (and the top of the food chain).

4. How you act disgusted when I give you one of those really wet kisses. Now who was it that taught me that trick?

3. Taking me to the doctor for shots (or “the big snip”), then acting surprised when I freak out every time we go back!

2. Getting upset when I sniff at and slobber on your guests. Sorry, but I haven’t quite mastered that handshake thing yet.

1. Pooping on the floor. It’s instinct. God created me to squat, grunt, and let ’er rip. You’re the one who left me unclothed (and in the house) too long.

Now lay off on some of these things. We both know who’s boss around here. You don’t see me cleaning up your poop do you?

And that’s All in a day’s work!

Black Friday

I never thought of myself as much of a grudge holder. I’m sure there are people who’d disagree, but the truth is, all I really need is a sincere and appropriate apology and I’m over it, given a little time. I certainly never thought of myself as one who could hold a grudge against a child, but it seems the lessons I am destined to learn about myself through motherhood are endless.

Not two weeks after declaring “Naked Tuesdays” as the most effective potty training technique at our house, my oldest son found a way to prove me wrong. As I put in yet another load of laundry on the day I now call “Black Friday”, I found myself floating through one of those moments in time when all is quiet…a bit too quiet, for I know that with children, it is always quietest before a storm. So off I trudged to survey just what destruction my boys were on the verge of creating.

As I wandered through the house looking for the tattered remnants of a toddler tornado, I caught a whiff of something that made my eyes squint and my brow furrow. As I turned my head to bury my nose in my shoulder, I rounded the corner to my bedroom to discover a sight that will probably, before my life is over, send me (and my child) straight into therapy.

As I examined the room, my jaw dropped and my heart pounded faster than if I’d just run a marathon. I was speechless at the sight that was before me, and when I looked to my three-year old for an explanation, he was grinning up at me, with all the nonchalance of a pig wallowing in the mire.

I looked at his legs and feet which were smeared with the substance I knew I was smelling, but the lack of blood to my brain would not allow my intellect to register with my senses until his brown eyes and cheesy smile confirmed what my emotions already knew.

“Cooper, what did you do!?”
“I pooped in the floor, hee hee, hee hee!”

If there was ever a time for a parent to call 911, this was it. It must have been my child’s guardian angel who saved his life that day, because through my shock and fury, all I wanted to do was to rub his nose in the pile he had strung across my bedroom floor. I settled for a spanking and a cold shower, however, and a 20-minute scrub session in which I touted the maxim, “You made the mess; you clean it up!”

So what is a parent to do at nine o’clock in the morning after an episode such as this? Through anger and tears, we loaded into the car and headed straight for Grandmother’s.

As we drove those 55.5 miles that day, I was boiling. I couldn’t seem to get over what my child had just done. I glared back at him in my rearview mirror. It was clear from his sweet smile and “I love you, Mommy!” that he had gotten past the incident. Why couldn’t I?

I decided to search the air waves for some form of comfort or distraction but found none, so I grabbed the closest CD and shoved it into the player. I decided if I couldn’t drive my anger away I’d at least drown it out with some tunes.

What happened next was most unexpected. As the banjo player began to pick and the fiddle player began to fiddle, I noticed a quiet hush come over the passengers in my back seat. I turned up the volume to encourage their tranquility, and as I did, the kick that was in that bluegrass began to consume my two kids. I looked back to see the boys bouncing in their seats with their legs flailing about as if they were dancing the Irish River Dance. It was so fitting and so amusing, that I almost forgot the misery of my morning.

I turned up the music even louder, and felt myself tearing up as I did. I had been so angry with my child’s behavior that morning that I had allowed myself to hold a grudge against a three-year old. I took a breath and told myself, “Ok, so he pooped in the floor. Get over it already.” And at just that moment, I did.

There are a lot of things that parents expect to encounter when we are raising our kids-fevers, sleepless nights, spilled milk. But we don’t always expect the crazy stuff, like kids trying to change their own diapers, or driving the car into the side of the house, or Black Fridays. These are the things that catch us off guard. Test our loyalty. Test our strength. Test our love. After all, I know I love my boys, but there are things that I endure for them that cause me to daily prove that love. And on those days when the anger turns to resentment and the resentment sends you running straight for your own momma, there’s just nothing left to do but shed a few tears, force yourself to laugh, and breathe.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

Sunday Morning Meltdown

Why is it that the clock moves faster and the kids move slower on the first day of the week? Why is it that no matter how hard I try I can’t get the hundred and one tasks of the morning completed, regardless of what time the alarm goes off? Why is it that any other day of the week the house would be full of children who are wide awake at sunrise, but on this day, everyone wants to sleep in?

It’s a discovery that I made thirty seven months ago-a weekly nightmare that moved in with the first child and unloaded his dirty laundry with the second. I’ve accepted the fact that this is one bad dream that’s apparently here to stay, but until now it has remained nameless. It’s horrible, dreadful, unwelcome, unpopular, indiscriminate, irrational, and insane, and it's known to mothers around the globe as Sunday Morning Meltdown.

Why is it toddlers suddenly have an opinion about what they wear and how they wear it when typically they’d be satisfied to run around plumb naked? Sunday Morning Meltdown.

Why is it when I make time to fix Sunday breakfast, nobody wants it, but if I don’t, everyone is starving to death and there isn’t enough food in the church bag to feed a flea much less two little boys who haven’t eaten for 12 hours-and of course we’re out of goldfish? Sunday Morning Meltdown.

Why is it no matter what I pull out of the closet, it is either too tight, too loose, too stained or wrinkled, mismatched, misplaced, or simply a fashion mistake so it takes me twice as long to put on the same outfit I wore last week? Sunday Morning Meltdown.

Why is it that the whole reason I take the kids to church is to learn about God and Christ and doing good and living right and the fit I threw as I stomped out the front door and slammed myself into the car might just be enough to undo any of the good I’m trying so hard to instill? Sunday Morning Meltdown.

Why is it after I’ve screamed at my kids, ignored my husband, and kicked my dog-and we are still 10 minutes late for class-I sit alone on the pew at least five feet away from my now totally estranged spouse and drown in my own guilt over the way I have just behaved in front of my family? Sunday Morning Meltdown.

I don’t know why this agonizing phenomenon transpires, but it must be a natural occurrence in life, like the rising of the sun or the wind in Oklahoma. For no matter what I do or how hard I try, it always creeps in on that sacred, first day of the week. It’s ruthless. It’s harsh. It can make a mother crazy. It’s a get-down-on-your-knees, beg-for-mercy, give-me-a-break, one-Sunday-at-a-time kind of problem.

It’s like that ugly, nagging cough I get every winter. No matter how well I prepare to beat it, it always finds a way to get me. But there’s one thing I know for sure. If I can live through the misery that Sunday morning brings, I can without a doubt make it through the rest of the week.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

I used to be a grown-up

We took the boys to a local restaurant last week for supper. When we finished eating, I went to the register to pay for our meal. As the waitress and cashier stood patiently waiting for me to retrieve a pen out of my purse, I continued to dig and finally pulled out a bright, orange crayon by mistake. I just shook my head, sighed, and said, “Hmm. You know, I used to be a grown-up.”

I never cease to be amazed at the many ways life changes when we have children. No longer do I thumb through Country Living or search for the latest do-it-yourself, home improvement show on television. I’m much too busy reading the instructions on how to put a silly railroad track together, or checking the local listings for the official show times of the latest episode of Meteor the Monster Truck.

I used to keep a tube of lipstick and a bottle of perfume in my purse to help me freshen up when I’d had a long day. Now I have a pocket load of race cars and a purse full of sippy cups-items which are much more important than looking fresh or smelling good.

In my former life, I took pride in crafty things like scrapbooking and fashion and home décor. Now I keep all my photos in a shoe box in the closet, I only wear clothes that have already been stained, and I have a shower curtain duct taped to the bench at our kitchen table. A couple of toddlers can really wreak havoc on an oak finish.

There’s rarely a sitcom on prime time that I can watch with my boys much less a morning DJ or a block of “new country” on the radio that’s kid friendly. I guess maybe that’s why I abandoned listening to my own music and resorted to Burl Ives and other CD’s loaded with kids’ music in the boys’ collection.

Just the other night as I was preparing supper, I found myself mashing potatoes and bobbing my head to the tunes of “The Wheels on the Bus” and “Three Blind Mice”. I had to smile at the notion that I might actually be entertained by the simplicity of such songs.

A few minutes later, Brisco made his way into the kitchen. He heard children’s voices coming from the radio. They just happened to be singing, “Take Me Out to the Ballgame”. He knows the tune well, and as he recognized the song, his eyebrows lifted and a smile crept across his face. He started dancing around the kitchen, clapping his hands, and spinning circles. At the end he shouted, “Hooray!” just like when we sing it together.

I guess when I really think about it, it’s not so bad living in a toddler’s world. When else can the innocence and ease of life be so fulfilling? Watching my kids being effortlessly entertained in a world that to them is still so uncomplicated is a place in which I’m starting to take refuge. Besides, I have the next 50 years to be a grown up.

Yes, having children changes every aspect of a woman’s life. I look forward to the days when I can again participate in adult conversations without having to simultaneously wipe a snotty nose or referee a sibling slugfest. I’m learning to look beyond those insane moments of toddlerhood and take the good moments as they come-and savor them.

“If You’re Happy and You Know It Stomp Your Feet.” I do.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

House of Payne

Mrs. Payne is a friend and former co-worker of mine with whom I frequently exchange e-mails. She and her husband have two boys, and she always has great stories to tell. So when I have one of those days when my kids are packing for the orphanage and I’m preparing for the nut house, I give a shout for Monica. She always has something reassuring to say and can almost always outwit me with tales of her two boys’ antics and other goings on from her crazy world.

When I first told her I would be writing a column, she was the first to scream, “DO IT!” She is a natural encourager, and she promised that if I ran out of things to write about she could supply me with tons of ideas from her own experiences raising two boys. Over the last eight months, she has done just that.

A born storyteller, I tried to encourage her to put her words to the pen, but she just laughed and said, “No, no I can’t write. I just vent. The kid stuff I can find humor in, but tell me, sister, WHEN, WHEN, WHEN will I find humor in raising a 38 year old MAN!” Well, that’s a topic for an entirely different column, but I asked for permission, and with her blessing, I would like to share some of her insights and experiences raising kids…from the House of Payne.

Monica on life with children: “Tara, you have to write about why it is a mom can beg for kisses and love from her sweet boys, but the first moment the phone rings all you-know-what breaks loose. Or just as you lean back to enjoy the warm bubbles, you hear banging on the doors. ‘MOMMMMMMYYY! You in there? Mom, he hit me!’ And when you finally get to bed after taking temperatures all night and rocking people to sleep, you can just smell fresh linen sheets, and you hear, ‘Mommy, I need a drink.’ And then the alarm goes off.”

Monica on “What I wanna be when I grow up”: “Eber (Ethan) is the big 3. And my Big-C (Caleb) is now 8 going on 38. He is so smart; he’s going to be a paleontologist and work at the Sam Noble Museum, and at night he is going to be a mad scientist for a lab somewhere. ‘And prolly work somewhere they make tacos,’ so he tells me. All I see for Ethan’s future right now is that either he is going to be a stripper, because I can’t keep clothes on him, or a burglar because I keep finding my stuff in his toy box.”

Monica on bathing: “Never tell your two year old his Big Bubba is in the tub if you don’t know that Daddy helped him out. Ethan checked on Caleb just as the tub was draining and couldn’t find him. He let out a hysterical, bloody cry when he thought that his brother had been sucked down the drain. Try sticking a 25 pound kid in the kitchen sink to bathe until he gets over his fear of the tub. I had to get in the tub with him to show him it was okay. Next thing I know I feel warmth on my back. Yeah, he was peeing on my back, but don’t worry. That wasn’t as gross as seeing the floater that went by me. Who says white girls can’t jump? White mommas can. AHHHHHH! Mommy doesn’t get in the tub anymore unless she’s alone.”

Monica on doctor visits: “Guess what my son just did to me in the Dr.’s office? The doctor was asking them what their favorite food is, what they like to drink etc…Ethan said juice, Caleb said water. Then Ethan said, ‘My mom likes beers. Yeah, she puts them on the chickens a lot.’ I wanted to fall out of my chair! We use beer a lot for marinade, and he has become fascinated with the fact that he isn’t allowed to drink it, and doesn’t understand why we cook with it. Caleb says, ‘Yeah, my mom tries to get us drunk at dinner every time my dad uses the grill.’ I didn’t even return Caleb to school today in fear they are sending DHS to the school as we speak! Dr. Fields was rolling and said, ‘Mom, don’t worry. I have heard it ALL now.’ Great, now I have to find a new pediatrician.”

I used to think raising two boys so close in age was difficult, but it seems to me that raising children at any age can be just as tricky. Just when you think you’ve made it past the hard stuff like nap times and night feedings, they start doing things like talking, arguing, and playing tricks on their parents. I’m glad her kids will go through adolescence before mine do. I’m hoping to learn a lot from her Payne!

And that’s All in a day’s work!

Naked Tuesdays

After getting the kids to bed a few weeks ago, I caught the beginning of David Letterman. It seems Dave is having trouble getting his son, Harry, potty trained, and he was asking Paul Shaffer for advice. The advice Paul gave was pretty odd-something about making up a potty song and singing it to make the kid go? Maybe it was a joke, I don’t know, but I found it interesting the lengths to which parents are willing to go to get their kids to take the plunge.

Cooper turned three last Saturday, and he still refuses to let go of the diapers. I let the issue die a long time ago, convinced that he would start using the potty when he was ready. Three days after his third birthday, he decided he’d give it a try.

When the four of us sat down for lunch that day, we were completely unaware that we were about to experience the incident that would forever after be referred to as “Naked Tuesday”. Leave it to a three year old to create a warm, family moment like this one.

After eating a little of his lunch that day, Cooper quietly dismissed himself to his room in search of a little privacy, as it is customary for him to do. After a spell of silence that was long enough to make us question the safety of our home and second born child, I was off to investigate.

As I turned the corner to go down the hall, I noticed that Cooper was standing in the dark, sucking his thumb, in a kind of awkward stance that seemed to insinuate that he was trying to tread lightly. I had no idea why until I asked the question I always ask when he mysteriously goes into hiding: “Cooper, are you poopy?”

His answer sent me reeling. As he stood there, wide-eyed and smiling, he said, “No, I just pooped on the potty, but I need a little help with this right here.” And he lifted up his shirt to reveal a massive wad of dung that was smashed between his sweatpants and his back.

As my own eyes widened and my chest began to ache from holding in my laughter, I walked him back into the bathroom only to find that yes, he had pooped on the potty, although he had left a few skid marks on the seat on the way down. And as I looked a little closer, I also saw that he had left his diaper in the bowl, along with the half-roll of toilet paper he had attempted to use.

I praised him for his effort and immediately put him in the bathtub, but not before I ran into the kitchen to release my hidden hysterics and drag Randy in to see what his son had just done.

We entered the bathroom to find Cooper in the tub, squatted down in a catcher-like stance, while letting the water from the faucet stream onto his backside. He looked up at his daddy, smiled, and said proudly, “I pooped in the potty, Dad. I’m a big boy now!” After a heavy poke in the ribs, Dad agreed and praised him as well, even though I know his mind was racing with laughter and a whole string of poop jokes just dying to come out!

I knew that this was a turning point in our quest for a diaperless bottom. How we handled this situation might well dictate the decision our boy made about continuing to use the potty vs. making a prompt return to the Pampers. I decided I’d simply follow his lead.

After sanitization, purification, and decontamination, the moment of truth was upon us: diapers, pull-us, or panties; the decision was his to make. To my surprise he picked option number four: the buff.

At first, I didn’t know what to do. I figured he would run around for a while, enjoying the moment, and then be ready to put something back on. I was mistaken, however, and ten hours later after he had used the potty five times, he was still naked as a jay bird. That is when I decided that if Naked Tuesday at the Smith house was what it was going to take to get this kid trained, then Naked Tuesday is what it would be.

I went to bed that night a little unsure of the progress we seemed to have made that day. Sure, the technique was somewhat effective while we were at home, but we couldn’t stay holed up in this house forever. What would tomorrow hold?

I’m saddened to say that while Naked Tuesday was a go, we had to put a halt to Naked Wednesday. We have strict rules against worshipping in the nude, even if he is just a little boy. Since then, unfortunately, his interest in being a big boy has significantly waned.

It’s easy to question other people’s parenting techniques until it’s our turn to do the job. Somehow making up a potty song no longer seems so strange. As parents, we do the best we know how at a game that’s sometimes nothing more than a combination of personality and dumb luck. In our attempts to do what may seem impossible, we sometimes have no choice but to think outside the box-to stretch ourselves to a place we may never have thought we would go. I suppose Naked Tuesdays would qualify.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

It really does take a village

For someone who is about as disconnected with politics as a person can get, I’ve recently come to believe at least one line that has come from the lips of one of our day’s most well-known politicians. As Mrs. Clinton has put it, It Takes a Village, and on this subject I’d have to agree.

Parents need help. And while I’ve seen the evidence to support this fact during my educational career, I’ve felt it in my career as a parent.

It became overwhelmingly apparent to me a few months back when my boys and I took a trip to Red Rock Canyon to visit with a former coworker and friend who we hadn’t seen in quite some time.

While I tried to prepare the boys for what we might see on our picnic, I am self-admittedly, ill-equipped to teach them very much about nature. This, however, is just one of my friend, Ginger’s, many talents.

From slugs to millipedes to colorful dragonflies-I was amazed as I watched my boys interact with and listen to her as she pointed out the beautiful and the not-so-beautiful sights in the canyon. She was able to show them and explain to them about all things natural-things about which I know nothing. And they were soaking it up.

As I drove two sleeping boys home from our outing that day, I came to realize that not only do I sometimes need help being a parent, but my kids also need the kind of help that only others can give. There are many lessons which I can help teach my kids, but there are so many more that I can’t. My children deserve the exposure to and the expertise of all the craftsmen in our “community”.

Simple things, like a baby’s first weekend alone with his grandmother, can bring into perspective what a necessity it is for children to have opportunities to lean on and learn from the wisdom and experience of all those who can positively contribute to their childhood and their understanding of the world in which they live.

Even the most knowledgeable and most experienced parent needs help. Just ask any teenager. I know I don’t possess the wisdom or the expertise in the many areas that it will take to help my children become the best they can be. That is why we have grandparents, aunts, uncles, and friends.

There are many reasons to long for the days when all communities were like Mayberry and every family was like the Waltons. Those days are long past, but the lessons they taught us endure. Every kid deserves an Aunt Bea and a Barney Fife looking out for their best interests. And who better to teach the children about life than Grandpa Zeb and Grandma Ester? It really does take a village, and I’m certainly glad to have mine.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

Skills for a lifetime

It’s always rewarding when we spend time and effort teaching our kids a new skill and they are finally able to do it on their own. We’ve reached another of those milestones with our boys.

Experts say that repetition is one of the best ways to learn something new. But what if the skill you are trying to teach is more than just a physical action or reaction? I’ve learned that repetition, coupled with explanation, modeling, and lots of patience can help turn children’s “habits” into skills for a lifetime.

We started trying to teach Cooper how to pray when he was very young. We would sit in church, and during the prayers we would help him fold his hands in his lap, while folding our own and bowing our heads. As one can imagine, this technique didn’t take right away. It required much repetition. However, through time and a little explanation about what we were doing and why, he eventually caught on and just sorta went with it when we would prompt him that it was time to “say a prayer”.

While this is the kind of thing about which I could live with him being a follower, the “fake-it-till-you-make-it” philosophy was not my goal. But with the mind and thought processes of a not quite two year old, I knew we would have to take what we could get. So we did.

We continued to discuss and model praying in church and at home, but what this kid needed was outside influence. He needed confirmation from someone other than his parents that this praying thing was not just something to keep him quiet while the “nice man took a nap” behind the microphone. Thanks to the loving teachers of his Bible school classes who continued to model and teach the same things we were teaching at home, he had what he needed to be convinced that mom and dad weren’t crazy. If Miss Suzy was telling him it was the right thing to do, then it must be OK.

Although the desire to please was there, I knew he still lacked the intellect to understand why in the world he was being asked to try this praying thing. But he continued to go through the motions, and as time passed-and with much encouragement-he would even help say his prayers at bedtime.

In the weeks and months since his second birthday, the independent urgings of toddler autonomy have started creeping in (that’s the terrible twos for us simple folk). He has, in his quest for independence and self-efficacy, had a complete change of “habit”. He will still (usually) sit quietly during the prayers in worship services and will participate in bedtime prayers (some nights), but he has decided a thumb in his mouth is much more fulfilling than crossed hands in his lap. And for now, that’s ok.

Thanks to big brother’s short term example, he has set the tone for the little brother. Brisco has just recently decided to elect himself the charter member and poster child for the toddler chapter of the local Amen club. All we have to do is whisper in his ear, “Let’s say a prayer,” and he’s got his head bowed and his hands folded together…although sometimes he manages to hang on to that thumb with his mouth. And as soon as he hears the speaker say, “Amen,” he chimes in with his very own, “Ameen! Ameen! Ameen!”.

I don’t know how long it will be before our kids completely understand the true motivation and meaning behind saying daily prayers. I know sitting quietly with folded hands is not a prerequisite for “good praying”, but it is a good way to start teaching our boys about reverence and respect.

Hopefully through continued explanation and encouragement-and the development of abstract thinking-they will learn to change this simple childhood habit into a meaningful skill to last their lifetimes.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

Late-in-life parents

I had a conversation with an old high school girlfriend a while back who had just recently delivered a new baby. She and her husband also have two that are almost grown and I said to her, “Here you were, almost done raising kids, and I am just getting started!” She hinted that maybe finishing school and working on a career for a few years was “how it is supposed to happen.” I said yeah, right. I’ll be in a walker at my kids’ graduation, and on oxygen by the time they get married. We both just laughed. Of course with her new baby, she’ll be right there with me. At least she’ll have her older children to pick out her muu muus and keep her medical equipment up to date.

Not long after that, I saw another school mate and my old neighbor both of whom have boys around Brisco’s age. There’s nothing on earth like a proud Daddy. Now it seems it’s time for all hard working coaches in three counties to start having kids. I’m a little worried about the water we’re all drinking.

It’s funny how a person can get an idea into their head and, regardless of the irrationality of the thought, totally believe it is true. I grew up with parents who were so young (or at least young-looking) that my mother was always getting mistaken for a sister. She still does. She never missed a ball game; most of the time she sat in the dugout with us and kept the score book. She chaperoned all our school functions, and it never seemed like an imposition or a drudgery to have my mother along. Maybe that’s because I was such an angelic teenager…or more probably because my mother was still so young, and young at heart.

When I was in my 20’s, it seemed everyone around me was busy having babies and parenting kids. I was the only one who was left to my never-ending pursuit of education and the final answer to the monumental question of “what I really want to be when I grow up”.

Now it seems I am not alone in my (what some would consider) “late in life” parenthood. I had the amazing pleasure of reconnecting with two of my former classmates just last week, one who has a three year old son and the other a son who is only three weeks. While we all agreed our bodies may not have handled having babies as well at 34, it is a sure thing our minds are better off. I can only imagine the damage I’d have done trying to raise two boys at 22!

All things considered, I know that life-for the most part-is simply out of our hands. Yes, we must participate voluntarily, but in the grand scheme of things, we are not in control. And what a blessing that is. For what I thought I was capable of at 25, I know now at almost 35, that I would have no doubt found a way to make into a terrible mess.

I’ve also decided we are only “late in life” if we choose to be, regardless of our chronological age. I’ll be attending a 97th birthday party for my husband’s great-grandmother this weekend. I’ll bet she would agree.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

Child's play

I told my husband years ago that we could watch as much baseball on television as he wanted and I would never complain, as long as we didn’t have to watch football. Of course there are special OU-casions and the Super Bowl-which let’s face it, is all about the commercials anyway. But for the most part, football, in my opinion, is a beast that’s best left outside for neighborhood kids in backyards and family gatherings on the holidays.

So, when April rolls around and until the cool months of October, when folks ask me if I’ve seen the latest episode of this or the season premiere of that, I just smile and say, “No. But did you see that walk off homer the Yankees hit last night?”

I can’t imagine that two little boys would be satisfied with watching a three and a half hour baseball game when they know there is a brand new episode of “Thomas the Train” on the kid channel. But our boys seem fine with it. In fact last night, after a big Yankee win, Cooper picked up the remote as if he actually knew how to use it, and said, “Hey Momma, I’m gonna find another ball game to watch.”

Brisco’s not far behind. He knows he’s watching a ballgame, and he laughs and points and claps his hands. He gets his bat out and swings a few times, and then tosses it in the back of his school bus and gives it a ride up and down the hall.

Cooper is big enough to sit still and take in every pitch, although I have to admit he doesn’t quite have a firm grasp on the strategy. He tries his best to follow, asking questions when he doesn’t understand, and adding his own whoops and hollers when it feels appropriate. It’s not unusual to hear him shout, “Get a score!” or “Strike him out!” at any given moment in the game, regardless of who is playing defense or who is running the bases. And you can bet if someone hits a homer he will point and shout, “He hit a bong!”

Last night was a big win for our team. The boys and I were sitting on the edge of our fuzzy, Thomas, lounge chairs, hanging on to every pitch, and wailing at the umpire when he didn’t call it our way. They were really getting into it.

The game was finally over after the ace and closing pitcher walked the bases loaded, only to get the final out at the plate with a top of the 9th strike out for a Yankee win. It was high drama; nail biting at its finest. And when the game was over, the boys and I celebrated big with a glass of cold milk. The only thing missing was Dad.

As I looked out the back window to see my husband spending yet another late night on the ball field with his team, I longed for the days when I could go help shag balls or just sit back, relax, and spit sunflower seeds while watching him share his knowledge and talent and passion for what some know only as a game intended for children.

I felt a twinge of sadness that our favorite ball club had pulled out a big win, and he wasn’t here to enjoy it with us. Then I looked over and saw our boys: sitting side by side, cross legged, eyes glued to the television watching with what appeared to be true interest and listening intently to the post game interview with the winning pitcher. Those boys were taking it all in-the crowd, the field, the fireworks. I could see in them that spark that must have been in their daddy’s eyes when he was a boy just their age.

Suddenly, I wasn’t sad anymore. I was thankful that I had been there to share in that evening of “child’s play” with my boys. I know the outcome of the ball game was probably a meaningless victory to most, and yes, probably even to the boys. But what could never have been more monumental was witnessing that moment of connectedness between a father’s passion, and its effect on his two sons-boys who will someday share the drive and the love for this same child’s game that has shaped their father’s life. A game that when taught correctly, and accepted willingly, will help fashion them, also, into admirable young men.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

Lost boys

As you can imagine, losing your kid is a kind of take-it-to-the-grave story; not one that you might share with your local social service worker over coffee and donuts. However, since this frightful (and infuriating) event has happened to me on more than one occasion, I decided that I cannot possibly be alone. Surely scores of attentive parents have “lost track” of their precious cargo more than once over the years, and have simply sworn themselves to secrecy? I’m convinced that this is so.

The first time it happened to me, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. All it took was a split second of my diverted attention for the boys to escape into the back yard…in the rain…wearing nothing but diapers. It didn’t seem to bother them one bit as they cheerfully drove their dump trucks around the yard, screaming ecstatically at the freedom they had found.

Their first outdoor escape was just into the back yard, but the second time, when Dad had to leave the fence to check on them, they were on the ball field in Daddy’s dugout. This is when we started looking for a child proof lock for the back gate. Now all we need is electricity along the top and a row of barbed wire.

While it’s hard to admit, it has been more than once that Cooper has gotten out of the backyard and taken Brisco and Bessie the dog with him. Usually, either Randy or I see them as they are making a run for it. We drudge outside to get them and drag them back while they all three wear looks of bewilderment, not having a clue why we are so upset.

We did find that child proof lock, but it seems it’s more effective when we use it. I recently heard from a neighbor that Cooper and Bessie had been out jogging thru the school yard while Brisco and I had gone to the store. (Well, I guess I’d call him a neighbor. He lives three blocks over.) Come to find out, Daddy was on the computer (and the telephone) and the lock was not engaged. I didn’t ask for details on the resolution of that situation. I’m just glad everyone lived through it.

Not two days after I mustered up the nerve to rib ole Dad about his “lost boy” experience, I had one of my own. The boys were playing outside after supper as I was clearing the dishes from the table. I had been looking out the window every few minutes to make sure they were alright. I turned to wipe the kitchen table, when I looked up to see my neighbor walking into my open, backyard gate. I knew immediately why she had come.

I met her at the back door with my shoes in hand. As I stomped off after the boys, she tried to keep pace with me, but could probably tell by my set jaw and the smoke coming out of my ears that this was something I preferred to do alone. She stood at my back gate while she watched me march across the baseball field, through the school yard, and onto first base of the softball field where I finally caught up with the baby. I could see the dog, but my first born, the instigator and escape artist, was nowhere in sight. After scanning the area, I noticed a small figure hunched down on the back side of the outfield fence. It was Cooper, trying to pick stickers out of his shoeless feet.

When I finally reached him, I really wanted to force him to walk on those stickery feet the entire half mile back to our house, but instead, I pulled the stickers out, looked him straight in the eye and told him he would be getting a very hard spanking as soon as we got home.

We walked the whole way home in silence, me with my gnarled face and flaming head, Brisco with his sippy cup and snotty nose, and Cooper with his sore feet and the anticipation that he was about to get the beating of a lifetime.

As we neared our house, I could see in the distance a small figure, still standing by the gate of our back yard. I knew at once that it was our Gladys Cravits-like neighbor who had spotted the boys escape from the front window of her house. I thought it strange that she was still standing there waiting, when it occurred to me that from my demeanor and the looks of my boys-both crying, faces streaked with dirt and snot, no shirt, no shorts, no shoes-she might actually have been afraid for their well being.

I humbly thanked her for her “attentiveness” to my children’s escapades, and assured her that we were all fine and that after a long, hot soak in the tub we would all be turning in early. She didn’t seem convinced because it took me another 10 minutes to make my own escape into the house to tend to my now delirious little runaways. Thirty minutes later she rang the door bell, and an hour and a half after that, she left a message on my machine. I’m afraid if she witnesses one more incident, she may decide to send over a social worker or at the very least put us in her prayer chain.

After soaking, spanking and spending the rest of the evening alone in his room, I think Cooper finally got the picture: “I am not wowd to weave the yard wiff out a dult.” Although with a two-year-old I am never quite sure of which concepts he has a firm grasp until the excitement begins to unfold.

There are times I think I might not survive this life of raising two such adventuresome boys. Of course with the job of raising any child, there is always a little drama to endure. I guess it’s drama and adventure now with two little boys or drama and attitude later for those raising girls. I think I’ll take the adventure any day.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

Hover mother

I sat at a ball game last week and watched a young mother hen peck her six year-old daughter to near tears. The child wasn’t allowed to play with my kids or their toys. She wasn’t allowed to move up or down the bleachers. She wasn’t allowed to chew gum or get dirty or wiggle around very much at all. After about 30 minutes, the poor child was so frustrated, she became almost inconsolable when her mother said she couldn’t get something to drink. I thought to myself, “What a hover mother.”

I never want to be the kind of mother who hovers over my kids’ every move. I try to make a point of leaving the boys to themselves to play, when it is safe and appropriate. Some days the boys can be very constructive-reading or building towers or putting puzzles together like they’ve been doing it for years; other days, I can turn my head for a split second and they are on the verge of burning down the house. Yes, what children can get themselves into when their parents aren’t looking-that is what keeps us on our toes. I’ve learned that in our house, when all is quiet…that’s when I should be most afraid.

It wasn’t long after Cooper learned that he was big enough to open the fridge that I found him, after what seemed too long of a quiet spell, sitting on the bottom step of the refrigerator with the door open. He had climbed to the top shelf, grabbed the carton of strawberries, and proceeded to take a bite out of every one, after which he carelessly tossed each half-eaten berry onto the kitchen floor.

Or there was the time I caught him just as he was about to step from my computer chair onto the desk to reach for the video camera, which was sitting on the shelf directly above the laptop. In my moment of horror, I shouted his name. Startled, he turned and said, “Mommy, I was just going to get that camera right there so I can smile in it.”

And of course anything Cooper can do, the little guy can do better. Just this morning I caught Brisco standing in the middle of the kitchen table gumming up “fun-flower seeds” and spitting them all over his feet. Guess maybe I should do a little more hovering.

As far as I can tell, there is little good that comes from being a hover mother. I will admit, there would probably be fewer messes to clean up and less frustration experienced on the part of the parent. But who wants a clean, quiet, clingy, broken-spirited little child who can’t move or breathe for fear of getting his ear chewed off by a nagging mother?

I’ve discovered that there is a delicate balance between swarming my kids’ every move and giving them the space they need to play and explore and problem solve without simply getting in their way. Children will seek us out when they are in need; they will learn to be independent if we allow them. What they need is a little freedom and a lot of guidance…and a really good bar of soap.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

No fear

It seems like kids can get precocious over night. One day I’ve got two kids who can play semi-unsupervised for decent periods of time without me worrying that they are writing on the walls or drinking paint. The next minute they have grown into brazen explorers who fear nothing…not even the belt.

What do the words “be careful” mean to a toddler anyway? It wasn’t until I saw my kid hanging by one hand from the top row of the back side of the bleachers looking straight at me saying, “Look, Mom. I’m being careful,” that I realized just how different the meaning of that phrase is to a parent and a child.

I suppose I can remember having a fear-nothing attitude. It wasn’t until I was well into my twenties that I imagined myself breaking my neck while attempting to water ski behind my need-for-speed brother-in-law. Before that, it seemed ok to wake up the next morning with a sore back and arms and legs that wouldn’t function, not to mention a wild case of whiplash that took weeks to go away. So I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that my kids scale refrigerators, kitchen cabinets, and chain-link fences every chance they get.

I know part of what I perceive as orneriness is simply curiosity, and of course I want my kids to be curious. I believe curiosity helps instill a love for learning. So when the kid takes his wet, pink, sidewalk chalk and-out of curiosity-attempts to see if it is just as effective all over the side of the house (and the new white storm door) as it is on the porch, I must be careful how I approach the situation. I certainly don’t want to stifle any creative tendencies he may have.

And if he pours an entire bottle of Tilex into his freshly-run bathwater, it is surely a manifestation of his possible future in the field of chemical engineering?

And if the little one is obsessed with the garbage can, constantly tossing needed, household items in and taking rotten, repulsive items out, I should feel blessed that he has such advanced developmental coordination for his age (regardless of the fact that he has dripped tomato paste all over my carpet and I’ve recently “lost” one shoe, two steak knives, and three sets of keys)?

There are times when I long for the days of worry free play, oblivious to the dangers of germs or sharp objects, or the effect eating dog food can have on little boys’ intestines. But I guess the days of being fearless and carefree are best left to children. My task now is to ensure that my children survive long enough to reap the benefits of their ornery, curious, fearless childhood, just as I did mine.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

Re-inventing the sleeve

Long ago, when the world was a much more treacherous place to live, the barbarians had little use for the frivolous. Life was about survival. Cave mothers scuttled around in their sleeveless cave dresses because they were easy to make and easy to run in. When it was cold, they simply draped their animal skins and furs around them to keep warm. Just as our forerunners of long ago, we mothers of today have little need for the ostentatious. There isn’t time for the preparation or the upkeep it requires to be flashy and flamboyant. Practicality is definitely our bag.

Some identify the first major bookmark of civilization as the discovery of fire, or the invention of the wheel. However, the experienced mothers of today know that the true sign of civilized life was the invention of the sleeve.

What an invention, the sleeve. Before I became a mother, it was something I took for granted. Something that I wore daily and felt comfortable in when in public, but I had no idea how far reaching and life-saving this simple piece of cloth would be to my life as a mom.

Consider its usefulness: Kleenex, napkin, band-aid, tourniquet, wash rag, chamois, bath towel, and the one we’d rather not discuss…the diaper wipe. How could any mother raise kids with out this major necessity in her arsenal?

Of course the sleeve isn’t usually the first weapon we mothers look for when those messy situations arise, but sometimes you just have to make do. After all, you usually can’t find a box of tissue at a ballgame, a band-aid in the milk barn, or a roll of paper towels at your neighborhood playground. And when nature calls, you are miles from civilization, and fresh out of diaper-wipes…a mom’s gotta do what a mom’s gotta do. Thank goodness there was a spare T-shirt in the trunk.

Yes, life as a mother means being creative and resourceful, even when years of education and common sense tell you you’re crazy. Taking the shirt off your back to attend to your children is what being a mom is all about, even if it is your favorite old flannel.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

Licking the spoon

I’ve always looked forward to the days when I could pull a chair up to the kitchen cabinet and let my kids help me cook. I don’t have many specialties, but I would at least like for the boys to have fond memories of sitting on the counter helping me pat out biscuits or mix up cookies, and of course, begging to lick the spoon.

I remember always wanting to lick the beaters, no matter what my mom or grandmother was whipping up. Scraping the bowl and sucking every drop of batter off the spatula was a treat every time.

Since Cooper has always been curious about that “white noisy thing” that sits on our kitchen counter top, I decided it was time to start creating some sweet memories of our own by spending an afternoon making cookies.

Right away I learned that caution is the key when cooking with Cooper; he was willing to taste anything. I’ve never seen a child who likes the taste of plain flour. I know plenty who will eat biscuit dough, but flour right out of the sack? And he followed every bite with, “Mmm. I like that, Mommy.”

From the flour-dusting forward, he tried every ingredient in the recipe; from the soda and the salt to the sugar and vanilla-he liked them all. Even the baking powder and cream of tartar got a thumbs up. I think it was right after I let him lick the spatula that he declared, “Mmm, Mommy, this is good for me!”

Ever since our afternoon of baking, if I’m working in the kitchen, I have at least one little helper. He pulls his chair up to the counter, prepares his taste buds, and says, “Hey, Momma, what are you doin’ over here?”

Food is one of the best ways to keep good memories alive, at least for me. From Oreos and coffee to cocoa and toast, we can hang on to our most treasured memories when there’s a little something warm in our bellies to match that feeling in our hearts. That’s what I hope will happen with my boys.

I’m not sure we’re raising the next generation’s Emeril Lagasse, but to this day, I can’t turn on the mixer without two little boys running around the corner to see if they can lick the spoon, and that’s good enough for me.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

The human excavator

Maybe it’s due to some undiscovered fear of mine, or simply growing up with a joke-playing cousin, but I have always dreaded the day when my boys discovered that “the nose” has holes. The whole idea of two boys with ten fingers each to gouge and burrow into this newly discovered terrain sends waves of embarrassment through my delicate mind, and I suppose with good reason. But, no longer will I sit in waiting for this dreaded milestone of childhood; the disgusting day has arrived. Now I must simply endure.

Our youngest little digger is at the age where he is becoming aware of his face and his body. He is learning the names to put with those places, and though I hate to admit it, I will sometimes try to get him to “perform”, as all mothers shamelessly do. At a recent ballgame, we were performing for a rather large group of onlookers. He was obediently pointing to his eyes, ears, and mouth upon my command as well as any trained animal I’ve ever seen. To my surprise (and humiliation), when we got to “…and where’s Brisco’s nose…” his finger went straight up his nostril, almost to the third knuckle, and he immediately let out a cackle of a laugh like I have never heard before. By the sound of his voice, and the look on my face, we both knew that he had just discovered an exciting, new trick.

I always tell our oldest that he has to listen to Mommy and act right because his little brother is watching. But sometimes, it is the little pup who teaches the old dog all the new tricks. And this one seemed too intriguing for Cooper to let slip by. One day, just as we were paying out at the grocery store, he saw the little digger in action. The baby appeared to be having so much fun, that I guess Cooper figured he’d give it a whirl. He quickly discovered that this was an excellent way to get a huge laugh out of his brother and quick reaction from me. Needless to say, with a sideways look and a “you’ve- certainly-got-your-hands-full” smile, the nice lady at the check-out counter quickly finished scanning the items from our buggy, albeit with a slightly more cautious grip.

Whether we are driving down the interstate at 70 or walking into Sunday morning worship, big brother has no fear of holding his slimy finger high in the air, grinning his orneriest grin, and saying, “Boo-guh!” as if he has been temporarily possessed.

I made a mother’s biggest mistake by acting horrified the first time he waved that fiery flag in the air in the midst of a crowd. Like any normal two-year-old, he took my reaction as a sign that he should continue his foraging until he could produce enough of the gooey substance to feed a small family of farm rats. He’s like a human excavator competing at the Olympics; he won’t stop digging until he brings home the gold. Between that and announcing, “I got two toots!” every time he breaks wind, folks around here must think we’re raising the long-lost brothers of the moron twins.

As in all of life, there are times when raising boys can be a nasty, sticky, thumb-up-the-nose business that will leave even the brave of heart running for a Kleenex, a quick shower, or a clean change of clothes. And like all other stages of childhood I suppose, this too shall pass. But until that happens, the next time you catch a glimpse of someone else’s children behaving in a not so hygienic way-and enjoying it way too much-don’t judge their mother too harshly. There are some obstacles that good parenting just simply can’t overcome.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

Chewing the cud

All parents want their kids to grow up to be smart, happy, successful contributing citizens. That’s why we endure the pain of child rearing and why we don’t kill them when they hit puberty: the hope that someday they will be normal; however, some days, at least at my house, that can seem almost beyond reach!

I guess every kid’s got a little something about him that makes him unique. But when does unique cross the line and become simply bizarre? I think my little two-year-old may just be pushing those limits.

For starters, he’s a thumb sucker, which in and of itself is not so bad. But he isn’t content just to suck his thumb. No, my kid’s got a real love affair with hair.

There’s something about getting his hands on someone’s tresses that really gets his attention. And he’s not picky—long, short, male, female, clean or dirty—it doesn’t even have to be human hair to get his fingers itching! From the perfect stranger sitting in front of us in church, to the super-fine, barely-there-hair of his baby brother and cousins; if he can reach it—game on.

Unfortunately, his freaky fascination doesn’t stop there. When he goes out to play with his dogs, you can bet it’s not for a game of fetch. When I look out to check on him, I’m guaranteed to see him sucking his thumb and holding the dogs’ tails. Sometimes, if he’s had a real hard day, he’ll holler inside the house, “Mom, tell those dogs to sit down with me so I can hold their tails!”

If this were the only oddity my toddler had in his repertoire, I’d say we could straighten him out; however, the kid is a real over achiever. He believes in being unusual to the extreme. I think Freud would have called it an “oral fixation”, but we always just called it “chewing the cud”—or “the elastic substance made from the milky sap of various tropical plants”, as the case may be. Rubber, that is. That’s his target—and anything it covers: pencil erasers, finger grips on an ink pen, stroller handles, bat handles, the soles of an old tennis shoe. But most commonly his item of choice—tires. Tires on Hot Wheels, tires on tractors, tires on motorcycles and semis and trailers. I think if he could get his teeth around the tires of my car he’d have us stranded on the side of the road. Most people take their kids for a visit to someone’s house and ask them to put their glass and crystal out of reach. I beg them to hide the plunger.

Aside from the compromising positions this crazy fetish can put my child in (like the absurdity of the position he has to get into to chew on the handle of his baby brother’s car seat), my son’s unusual pastime can often get dangerous. Obviously, there is the hazard that he could choke on one of the many objects he puts in his anxious chops, but ultimately, the child could end up getting quite a shock. Yes, you guessed it. When the vacuum cleaner comes out, so do his fangs. On several occasions I’ve caught him on the ground, attempting to chew on the rubber cord. (And if you really did guess that, I can only believe that you, or one of your kids, have done the very same thing!) Maybe we just need to get him a rubber Gumby to stick in his pocket and move on.

I’m so intrigued by my kid’s strange behavior that I did some research to see if other parents have experienced anything similar with their children. I found that there were lots of creative diagnoses, such as “Sensory Integration Disorder” and “Tension Outlet Syndrome”. But I don’t really buy those explanations. No, I tend to attribute my kid’s oral fixation to simple genetics.

I was the thumb sucker at our house growing up, so I guess I will take responsibility for this dependency. The hair (and tail) thing is still too disturbing for me to contemplate its source, so for now I guess I’ll just be left to wonder. But the chewing…the constant chewing…that comes directly from the other side of his DNA.

So it would seem that I can’t be too hard on my kid after all; just when I start to panic, thinking he is headed straight for the rubber romper room, I step back and look at where the little fella came from. It is then that I have to remind myself that the poor child is doing the best he can.

Perhaps my son isn’t so strange after all. Perhaps if we as parents can have some impact on the individuals our children become they will someday grow out of their bizarre behaviors. Or perhaps the old saying is true: The apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree…I just hope he doesn’t choke on the core!

And that’s All in a day’s work.

Pride cometh before a fall

Pride isn’t just a sin; it’s a curse. For me, this came as quite a surprise. They didn’t teach it in Psychology 101. They didn’t teach it in the parenting classes offered at the hospital. It wasn’t in any one of the dozens of books I thumbed through when we were preparing to be parents. I didn’t even get a polite “heads up” from any of the experienced parents I’ve come to know over the years. This lesson, I had to learn the hard way.

I’ve discovered the fastest way to get my kids to misbehave is to brag about how smart, wonderful, and well-behaved they are. The first time it happened, I thought it was just a coincidence. I was sitting in the floor writing a letter to a friend. I had just completed a sentence that said something about how well Cooper was doing adjusting to a new house and a new town and how he really is “such a good kid.” Not a second and a half later, he rounded the corner, looked directly in my eyes, and punched me square in the face. No kidding. Doubled up fist and all.

After the shock of it wore off (and we both stopped crying) I thought surely it was the biggest coincidence ever. I didn’t realize that for my kids and me, it was no fluke; it was a guarantee. A curse.

Some time later, I was telling someone how good Cooper is about staying away from my desk and computer, even though I know he’s tempted by all the cool buttons and pictures that float across the screen. The next day I found something sticky next to the key pad of the laptop. I couldn’t figure out what it was. Then I remembered seeing him hiding on the back side of my computer chair. I looked down only to see a lidless, half-eaten glue stick lying on the floor. Thank goodness the label said non-toxic.

Even the baby has been affected by the curse. I was bragging to someone about how he is just the best sleeper. “Why, he’ll sleep 12 hours a night and still take a two hour nap!” I know now what a mistake that was. Sleep is the one sacred subject about which a parent should never brag. I guess I’m still a rookie. Needless to say, we are back to shorter nights, shorter naps, and sometimes even a middle of the night fit.

Weeks later, I bragged about how Cooper loves going to Bible class and of course about how well he behaves while he is there. Shortly after that, he started refusing to go to class, clinging to my leg when I’d take him to the door and crying like he was scared of his own shadow. Soon after, we had VBS, which was not what I’d call a raving success either.

Over the summer he had gotten much better, and was even asking to go to Bible class on days when we didn’t have it. I was so proud that I forgot to hold my tongue and again, let the curse cast its spell.

It happened the day he went to VBS at Grandmother’s church. He’d had such fun and behaved so saintly that when he said he wanted to ride the church van with “that nice lady” I allowed him to go, not thinking twice about it. Upon his return I discovered that “that nice lady” had to pull to the side of the road and stop the van to re-buckle my little angel, who had taken it upon himself to unbuckle, spit, and bite some little girl on the cheek, all within minutes of leaving the church building. Of course my first instinct was to ask what the other kid did to provoke him. Surely he was being teased or taunted in some intolerable way for him to have behaved so appallingly! But then I remembered…the curse.

I know there must be a more effective way for a mother to show that she is proud of her children. Maybe these incidents are lessons; God’s way of putting a proud parent in her place. Maybe subconsciously a mother’s bragging is her way of trying to prove to herself that she’s doing a good job being a mom. Or maybe some of us just have really bad luck. Maybe as parents, what we ought to do is talk a little less, love a little more, and laugh a little more often. Maybe that is the perfect remedy.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

"THAT kid"

When I began preparing for Vacation Bible School early this summer, I was excited that I was going to teach Cooper’s class. Typically a high school teacher, for once I was looking forward to teaching the little kids. I had no idea that my very presence in the classroom was going to turn my kid into the dreaded and infamous problem child: the one who forces new teachers out of the profession, and sends experienced ones to the nut house. The kid who sits behind you in the movie theater and talks and asks questions and throws popcorn in your hair throughout the entire show, and whose mother allows him to do it. The kid who, without fail, is a continuous crying, screaming, silverware-banging mess, and always seems to be seated at the table next to you in a restaurant not meant for kids. That was us. We were that kid.

I say “we” because as a parent, if you’ve ever been in a situation where your child is the most obnoxious kid in the building, you better believe every adult in the room is blaming you. Or at least that’s how I felt that first week in June.

VBS at our church lasted four nights. After the first night, I thought I was going to have to resort to sending my kid to the preacher’s office for some major one on one, religious instruction. Give him the fear of God sermon or something serious like that. But I decided to think positively; maybe it was just a one time thing. After all, I typically get great reports on Cooper’s behavior in class, so unless those ravings are secret code for “Honey, you’ve really got your hands full” then I had no choice but to give him a second chance and see how he would fare on night two.

There are times in life when positive thinking is quite useful. Other times it is sheer ignorance. On a scale of one to ten, night two was an 11, leaving a somewhat worse impression of my child and my parenting skills on my co-teacher than the night before.

I considered many options, taking him out in the hall and beating him senseless being at the top of my list; however, I wasn’t sure that would leave the door open for me to re-enter the classroom and finish teaching the kids how to be good neighbors for Jesus. So we just rode out the rest of the evening with lots of “mean mommy looks” and redirection and the unproductive “Just you wait till your Daddy finds out” statement that I swore I’d never use. I thought that night would never end.

Day three might have been the most painful of all. It was my turn to teach the class and my co-teacher’s turn to be the helper. As I began the evening trying to concentrate on the other students and our lesson, my attention was constantly drawn to my helper who seemed to be focusing her attention on my son. While he was trying to do better on night three, it seemed my assistant had in the forefront of her memory his inappropriate and unforgettable behaviors of the two nights before, when she was trying to teach the lesson. Needless to say, it was my kid the teacher’s helper had to sit next to during story time.
It was my kid who needed a hand placed firmly on his shoulder to remind him to “use his inside voice”. It was my kid’s name that was ringing in everyone’s ears hours after VBS had ended. Yes, we were that kid.

When we got home from the church building that night, I could do nothing but clean. I was so embarrassed and frustrated with my boy that I was the one who needed a time out. As I came down off of my two hour cleansing frenzy and stood at the sink doing my last bit of dishes, Cooper pulled up a chair beside me and asked if he could help. With a half-hearted grunt, I helped him up to the sink and handed him a rag. As we stood there together, I decided to have a talk with him about his behavior at VBS.

My tone was flat, and my words were matter of fact when I told him that I was disappointed when he misbehaved in Bible class. I told him that God was disappointed, too. I guess he surmised that disappointed meant somewhere in the vicinity of upset and let down because he said, “If I act nice in Bible class, then God and Mommy won’t be sad with me.” I answered that he was exactly right, and together we finished the dishes as a team, just like we’d been doing them together for years. I prayed our talk would “take”.

It was day four, the last day of VBS, D-Day. I was much more relaxed and was again optimistic about our last night of class together. As it turned out, Cooper was the star pupil that evening. He couldn’t have been a more attentive, enthusiastic, contributing student if he had been sitting at the feet of Mr. Roger’s himself.

The week of events made me think about the pressure, intended or not, that we as parents must put on our kids because of our professions, our attitudes, or simply our presence. If the parent is a teacher, the kid has to be the best student. If the parent’s an athlete, he better be an all-star, at least in our children’s eyes. Maybe I put some unintended pressure on my kid those first three nights of class. Maybe my perception of his behavior was much worse than anyone else’s. Or maybe he’s two and a half, and he’s just going to have days when he decides he wants to be two and a half.

Whatever the case, as the parent I guess I’m supposed to learn something from the experience-something about expectations or anxiety or communication. I’m making a list of those lessons and pondering the solutions, as I know our boys will continue to create many more teachable moments for their mom in the years to come. First on my list…for their safety (and my sanity), I’m devising a plan to ensure that I never have to be their principal.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

The truth hurts

How do you tell a two-year old their best dog died? I was forced to consider this question a few weeks ago after finding one of our two Labrador’s of nine years lying dead on our back porch.

After ruling the roost at our house for the first seven years of their lives, our two dogs had it made. But when we brought our first child home from the hospital, the dogs got the boot. They were perfectly happy living in the lap of luxury. (My lap, mostly.) They had the best of both worlds: five acres to roam and a nice cool house to come back to when they were overheated and in need of a soft place to rest. Yes, we treated our dogs better than some people treat their children. But when that baby came home, life really changed.

After the kid got bigger, he learned how to avoid the slobbery kisses and dodge the random tail swinging. He kind of started to like those dogs, and before long, they became the best of friends.

It became a daily ritual to “go out and play with Bessie and Shelby”, and when the weather wouldn’t allow it, the kids would gladly stand at the door and “visit”. When the snow and ice came, the boys were ecstatic that the dogs were allowed to come in the house to stay warm. And when the storms blew over, it was pure delight to let them in the garage to help shelter them from the thunder. These are just some of the things I hope my son remembers about his first best friend.

I suppose all children who have pets remember their favorite, and with that comes the memory of their death. As a parent, I wanted to protect my kids from that part of their world for as long as possible. However, we live in a fallen world. It is far from perfect, and my kids will learn all about that soon enough. Having to explain to my oldest that his best dog isn’t coming back is a sure sign that it will be here before I know it.

So I’ve learned that sometimes, when life throws a wrench in our plans, we have no choice but to bear down and go with it. We have to find a way to ease our kids into the real world and all the ugliness that sometimes comes with it. And even if we aren’t really ready for them to know it, we have to tell them the truth. Even if it hurts.

And that’s All in a day’s work.

Target practice

As I prepared in my mind for the summer heat that has finally arrived, I had high hopes of introducing the boys to the swimming pool and helping them fall in love with the water just as I did as a kid. Long days splashing and playing and staying nice and cool-with a dry towel close by to wipe our eyes, of course. What better way could there be for a mother and her boys to endure those hot summer days!

We picked a day last week when a little cool water was just what we needed to freshen us up in the muggy heat. We cleaned out the green, turtle sandbox, filled it with water, and we were ready to dive in. At the time, neither of the boys had swim suits, but I figured since we were just out back, they could swim in their diapers. After realizing that really saturated diapers can turn your kids into weebles, the kind that do fall down, I did some scrounging in the dresser and found some training pants that I thought would be just right.

The baby refused to have any part of those potty pants, but I told Cooper that they were just like Daddy’s panties, so he jumped in them with both feet and was ready to rock and roll.

Before long, the “feeling of freedom” must have come over Cooper because as soon as he realized he was allowed to run wild in the yard-without the soggy bottom boys in tow-a smile came across his face that was a reflection of sheer joy. It was better than the discovery of a two-week old bag of gold fish under the car seat. In that very moment, my dreams of teaching the kids to love the water turned into a “ready, aim, fire” contest…one in which I was not equipped to participate.

First it was the grass, then the dirt, then the side of the house. The harder I protested, the more fun this game appeared to become. It seemed there was no place on which he was afraid to “unload”, and quite frankly, I was a little nervous about chasing him around the yard while he was carrying a loaded weapon.

I decided to sit down on the porch, taking a more casual and unconcerned approach, thinking surely he would run out of ammunition soon. But he just kept coming back with more. And after the top-of-his-lungs, blood-curdling declaration of “Mommy! I’m gonna pee in your cup!” it clearly became necessary for us to conduct our first, sit-down, serious discussion about bathroom etiquette and public decorum.

I guess if there is a bright side, it’s that this is the closest we have come to potty training him so far. I’m not sure how much he took away from our discussion that day, but it solved the problem for the moment. Of course now all he wants to know is why Daddy stands up, and Mommy sits down. I think we’ll save that one for when he’s a little older.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

"Ten things I love about you: Ode to a heathen"

I’d been having one of those weeks when it seemed nothing I tried to teach my boys would stick. When I tried to correct a behavior, it became worse. If I introduced them to a new skill or a fun game, it became a battle of wills. I had decided it was time to find them both a new place to live, complete with a more patient and competent mom, when one of those milestone moments occurred.

I was changing yet another dirty diaper, complaining to the little monster about how disgusting his bowel movements can be, when he looked up at me with his nose curled, smiled, and repeated almost as clearly as he had heard it: “discaahthing”.

I thought surely he had just gargled his own spit or was choking on the smell of his nasty diaper, so I said it again to see what would happen: “discaahthing”. That was it. The little brother had finally decided to start talking.

Amazingly enough, at that moment, and in that position, I was able to find a way to let go of the frazzled week we’d just endured. One smile and a jumbled, almost-a-word from that little heathen gave me a much needed reminder as to what this job is really all about.

It was then that I decided to take a closer look at all the wonderful things my kids do every day that make being their mother such a blessing. In the heat of throwing toys, refusing to share, and begging for food, it’s easy to forget all the little things that make my kids special to me. What I discovered is that when I take the time to appreciate the small stuff, all the rest doesn’t seem so impossible. And, when life again becomes too “disgusting” to bear…I now keep a running list to remind me of the many beauties of my boys.

“Ten things I love about you: Ode to a heathen”

I love the first few minutes of every morning when you want to snuggle in bed together and hug and smile and love each other like good brothers should.

I love to watch you read to yourself or play with your trucks when you are all alone and you think no one is watching.

I love that when you give “big hugs” you squeeze real tight around my neck with both hands and let out a little grunt.

I love that your face is puffy and your eyes are swollen when you wake up from a good night’s rest-just like mine.

I love that you haven’t forgotten about your friend, Shelby, even though she’s been gone almost four months.

I love the way your face lights up at the smallest little treat like a graham cracker or a bag of gold fish.

I love that even when you are fighting mad, you can be convinced to smile if I tickle you in just the right spot.

I love that because you are so ticklish, any spot is the right spot.

I love that when you are eating, you open your mouth wide enough for a fork lift to drive through.

I love that when you are resting your head on my shoulder, you pat my back, just as gently as I am patting yours.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

The things we do for sleep

I remember preparing the baby room for my second child. The design plan was one of persuasion: attempt to make the nursery a haven for rest, a place my tired baby will beg to be taken. The techniques: one loud, humming floor fan for background noise, and one heavy, dark curtain to block out the sun. My game plan: convince the child that regardless of the time of day, when we enter the bedroom, it is time to sleep.

For a while the baby was an excellent sleeper, but literally overnight he decided that sleep was over rated. This is the point at which I discovered that my perfect haven for rest was missing two very important ingredients: night goggles and x-ray vision.

Midst all the baby-shower frenzy, I somehow overlooked these two important devices on the shelves of all the stores. In fact it never occurred to me that I would need such items at any point in my life—until I became a mom. But I soon learned that there’s nothing a mother won’t try when it is hours past her bedtime, days since she last ate, and at least a week since she’s been to the bathroom—and the kid still isn’t asleep. Yes, night goggles and x-ray vision were just the tools I needed for this job.

Any exhausted parent who has tried to put a reluctant sleeper to bed knows the dilemma that arises and the conversations that occur when you think the baby is asleep and you are ready to put him down. But what if he’s not?

“Ok, I’m ready. I think he’s out this time. Surely he’s asleep by now. I wish I could see his eyes to make sure. If only this bedroom wasn’t so dark. If only God would give me a sign. If only I had a pair of those night goggles...yes! Night goggles! Then I could see if his eyes are closed before I try to lay him down. Night goggles. Why didn’t I think of that before? I wonder if I can get some at Wal-Mart? --Wait a minute. His head is turned away from me. I couldn’t see his eyes even if I had some of those night goggle things. How am I gonna know for sure if he’s asleep or not?

X-ray vision! That’s it! After all these middle of the night feedings when I think he’s asleep, but it’s dark and his head is turned the other way so I’m not really sure...that’s what I need! I can feel his breathing--slow and steady. I can hear the rhythm of his thumb-sucking--slurp, slurp. I think he’s asleep, but let’s face it I’m not really thinking that clearly anyway, so just to make sure…X-ray vision! That’s it! Why didn’t I think of that before?”

Unfortunately, until those much needed mommy tools arrive in the mail, I’ll have to continue to use the two methods that have proven most effective for me: Hold and Release and Duck and Cover. (By the way, all moms have tried this at least once, whether they will admit to it or not.)

Through the eyes of an exhausted mother, the difficult task of getting a child to go to sleep and stay asleep (without the aid of the aforementioned amenities) might look something like this:

All systems are go. The kid is fed and dry, and all signs point toward a sleeping baby. I know the drill: hold and release. “I think I can…I think I can…I think I can…” I attempt to lay him down without waking him up. Slowly I stretch to my toes, and lift him up over the rail of the crib, keeping him tucked close to my body so he won’t discover my plan. Ever still slowly I lower him onto the sheets that I have tried to warm with a fresh towel out of the dryer to convince him he is still snuggled against my warm body. He squirms—I pause. He stills—I hold... hold…hold…and release. Aahh. Asleep at last. But wait!

Just as I turn to make my exit, I hear him rustle. Panic starts to creep in. “What… should…I…” Then, all the training I received (playing hide and seek as a kid) begins to kick in. In the form of the old “stop, drop, and roll” routine they used to teach us in grade school, I immediately duck onto the floor. Surely he can’t see me down here. But that kid is clever, so I stay put. After several minutes of holding my breath, I finally start to realize the absurdity of my situation, so I decide to make a break for it. But when I do my ankles crack and my knees pop and I hear the baby rustling again, so I retreat—to my own private fetal position on the floor of my infant baby’s bedroom. I scrounge for a stuffed animal and a baby blanket to create a makeshift cot and decide to wait it out like a man…I mean a mom.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

"Firsts on the 4th"

After what ended up being a week of July 4th events for our family, the kids experienced a new kind of fun to which they had never before been exposed. We enjoyed visiting with both sets of grandparents and great-grandparents, and while we all had a great time, the kids definitely participated in some out of the ordinary activities from what we consider the norm.
As kids, we all grew up with our parents telling us that there are certain things that aren’t safe, aren’t smart, or that we just shouldn’t do. Now, as the parent it is my turn to pass on those enduring “don’ts” to my own children. But from the parade and the park in Sentinel to the milk barn and the farm pond in Sterling, during this July 4th week, there were a few of those ageless rules that for the first time my kids were allowed to break, or see broken by one of their loved ones.
1. Don’t play in the street.
2. Don’t throw food. (or candy)
3. Don’t eat anything you picked up off the ground.
4. Don’t talk to strangers.
5. Never ride a motorcycle without a helmet. (Aunt Dottie!)
6. It’s never safe to play with fire.
7. Never stand (or walk) behind a large animal.
8. Drink your milk from a glass not the container. (or the cow)
9. Call things by their correct names. (the cow’s “other”)
10. Don’t play in the dog bowl...or “the cow drink”. (the pond)
Yes, childhood can be a confusing time, and the holidays can make things even crazier when the rules keep changing and the days seem to go on for weeks. But from sugar coated tummy aches to cow teats and pond scum, the memories made and the time shared with family sure seem to outweigh them all.
And that’s All in a day’s work!

The Business of Birth Order

I know there is an official theory that some highly-esteemed psychologist has put forth about birth order, but I’ve never really studied it closely. Maybe because I’m relatively sure what it says, at least about kids from families with two siblings. “The oldest is the responsible, high-achieving, take-care-of-things sibling. The youngest is the somewhat less-responsible, middle-of-the-road, can’t-make-up-their-mind sibling who doesn’t quite have the same drive as the elder.” Or maybe that is what Hollywood says. Either way, the more I watch my two boys, the more I am being forced to acknowledge that maybe it is a little more than just a theory. Maybe there really is something to this business of birth order.

Being the youngest myself, I tend to have avoided anything that could confirm or deny with scientific certainty that there is such a thing as second-child syndrome (be that the name or some other). Now that I’m a mom and I have my own personal lab rats chewing away at my brain daily, I suppose my inclination has been to observe the boys and let their natural tendencies answer my questions concerning the origin and nature of the behavior of young siblings.

For the bad reputations and poor P.R that second children have a propensity to acquire, I tend to believe we were led astray by our best teachers: our siblings. No, as a baby the first child never spit food across the table or screamed at the top of his lungs for no reason, or barked and jerked toys out of someone else’s hands. But he had never witnessed these fine acts by anyone as important or influential as his two year old brother.

The ornery, grin-and-run tendencies of the second offspring, I suspect, are simply moments of bliss when he thinks maybe he might have the opportunity to taunt and tease someone the same way he is used to being harassed and tortured. It seems to bring a smile to his older brother’s face, so it must be worth trying out for himself?

The “no fear” attitude, I have concluded, is developed from a confusion of what is real and what is imaginary. For example, when a little brother sees his big brother using a chair to scale the kitchen cabinet to get to mom’s hidden candy bowl, he decides that it looks real fun and he imagines he will try it out for himself-the next time no one is looking.

The fact that one spanking produces a laugh and a harder spanking produces a harder laugh is simply a result of the tough skin he has developed thanks to the random brotherly beatings that take place in the privacy of the play room, provided by the loving first born.

No, after my own personal observations and consideration, I’m not sure if I really buy into the pre-existing condition of second-child syndrome. While it is clear there is a difference between the first and the second, I think what characterizes us best, in whatever shape or form it may manifest, is the fact that we all have been forced to react and respond to the taunts and irritations of our perceptually perfect siblings. And looking back now, of course, we wouldn’t have it any other way.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

For scientific clarification: This researcher’s older sibling was completely ideal, and the one true phenomena that stood in complete juxtaposition of all other data that was collected.

"Mommy at the Bat" An adaptation of Ernest Lawrence Thayer's "Casey at the Bat"

What is a mother to do with her two caged children during the longest running rain spell in the history of the state? I have learned that sometimes you just have to step up to the plate, swing for the fence, and let your children lead you home.

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Smithville kids that day;
The rain just kept on coming down. Oh rain, please go away!
And then when Cooper threw a fit and Brisco did the same,
A sickly silence fell over Mom—she was about to go insane.

A straggling Mommy got off the floor in deep despair to straighten her face.
The children clung to hope—and Mommy’s legs they did embrace;
They thought if only Mom would let us play and skip our nap—
We’d stop this crying and whining if we could go outside and bat.

But Mommy didn’t change her mind. She firmly stood her ground.
For if she would have taken them out, one surely would have drowned.
So upon those stricken brothers, two, grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of them going out to bat.

So they stood there looking out the door, to the wonderment of all,
Dreaming of the day that Mom would let them go play ball;
They wondered why this rain wouldn’t stop; it just kept coming down.
“Why did this rain cloud come and take a seat over our town?”

Then from the two boys throats, through tears, there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For they just could not give up the hope of going out to bat.

There was ease in Mommy’s manner as she stepped into her place;
There was pride in Mommy’s bearing and a smile on Mommy’s face.
And when, responding to the cries, she gave each boy a spat,
No neighbor watching from the road could doubt ‘twas Mommy at the bat.

Four teary eyes were on her and she knew the spat had hurt;
Two sobbing children wiped their snotty noses on her skirt;
Then while the writhing children ground their faces into her hip,
Defiance gleamed in Mommy’s eye, a sneer curled Mommy’s lip.

And now a quite unusual thought came hurtling through the air,
And Mommy stood a-pondering it in haughty grandeur there.
I know I really should go put these crazy kids to bed—
But “that ain’t my style,” said Mommy. And out the door they fled.

From the front porch, deep with puddles, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
“Get her! Go splash Mommy!” shouted Cooper with a grin;
And it’s likely they’d have done it had not Mommy raised her hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Mommy’s visage shone;
She stilled the rising tumult; she bade their game go on;
Again she warned the kids, as their temptation grew and grew;
But she knew the urge was much too strong, so into the puddles they flew.

“Are you crazy?” cried the neighbor, “They will catch their death of cold!”
But one scornful look from Mommy and the neighbor was off-told.
They laughed and splashed and squealed til they were soaked from toe to head,
Creating such a memory, much more fun than going to bed.

Now, the sneer is gone from Mommy’s lip, no longer is she crazed;
Who knew that playing in the rain could fix Mommy’s malaise
And as for children taking naps, they still are daily needed,
But sometimes spontaneity should just go unimpeded.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The rain has ceased its falling, and the children’s hearts are light;
Two tired boys crawl into bed a-smiling, there’s no doubt
That tonight there’s joy in Smithville—Mommy let the kids go out.