As holidays go, this one was pretty typical. Travel, shop, eat; sleep a little, eat, shop some more; eat, eat, eat; wrap presents, open presents, clean up trash created from opening presents; eat, play with new toys, try not to lose new toys; eat, clean up the endless mess from all the eating, eat a little more; pack bags, give hugs and kisses, travel to another destination and do it all over again.
Don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas. But sometimes the parts we look forward to just get lost in the hubbub. I always start off very optimistic; excited to see all our family, to spend time visiting and catching up. Then reality hits me like a runaway Thomas Train and I remember…we have kids. We all have kids, and kids have to eat, play, dress, poop, drink oceans of juice and be corrected at almost every turn-and as of yet, they can do none of this by themselves. So I’ve had to learn to alter my expectations. After all, Christmas is for children.
We have tried really hard not to over do the gift getting part of the holiday. It’s hard, because we see things we know they’d love, and we want them to have it. But let’s face it, that’s a monster we don’t want to create. While Dollar Store stuff will satisfy them now, they will grow up, and who wants two entitled teenagers who can’t be content on their 16th birthday with a $1500 used truck that they had to help pay for? So this year, we got creative.
Now, when I say “we”, what I really mean is Dad. He may be the brains in the family, but he’s also pretty artistic when the need arises. See, the present that we wanted to give the boys this year was nowhere to be found, at least not in our price range. So “we” decided to make it.
Thanks to a book from their grandmother and a movie from Aunt Debbie, our boys have fallen in love with Peter Pan. And while we’re thankful it isn’t Barney or The Wiggles or Spongebob Squarepants, I’ve had to draw the line at just exactly what they can use to reenact their favorite tale. The day I found them using wire hangers for hooks and part of Brisco’s baby book for their treasure map, I decided maybe they needed a few props. And that’s what got us thinking.
Dad said if I would get the canvas, he would paint the boys a treasure map. I glued some dowel rods on each end, and we rolled it up and put it under the tree. I found a small pair of kids’ binoculars as well, and that is what they woke up to find on Christmas morning.
Now to some, this may not seem like much, but their love of this classic cannot be understated. Every hook-shaped candy cane is a reason to shout, “I’ve got you now, Pan!” Every empty paper towel roll is an excuse to yell, “Peter Pan ahoy!” One day I walked through the living room and heard Cooper saying, “Licky butter nickels” (translation: like barnacles) and calling Brisco “Mr. Smee”. At our house, this Neverland thing is serious business. So when Randy suggested that Santa leave the boys’ gifts under a different tree, I thought it was the greatest idea since Pixie Dust. See, the map that he had created was of Grandmother’s house, complete with cars in the driveway, dog pen, home plate, trees, sidewalks, blue shutters and a little boy looking out the second story window. And an “X” just happened to mark “the spot” under the big, dead elm tree in Grandmother’s back yard.
So on Christmas morning, after all the presents had been opened, Dad put coats and shoes on their still-pajamad-feet, and told them to grab their binoculars and map. We had a Christmas treasure to find.
Cooper was in the lead, and he had this treasure hunt thing down to an art. As he walked around the house, map opened in front of him like a scroll, following the dotted line in front of him to the step, Brisco followed with the binoculars, and together they went looking for “buried treasure”. As they rounded that old elm tree out back, they discovered a shiny, new, red wagon, a huge box full of Lincoln Logs and best of all, a giant “hook” of a candy cane, filled with Christmas candy. And with a smile and a look of accomplishment, they hauled their booty to the house.
So as it turns out, this Christmas was not so typical. I hope the boys will be able to remember their holiday treasure hunt and to retell their story to their own kids some day. I hope that as parents, when we contemplate the many Christmases to come, we will remember the excitement of the moment and the anticipation we felt in giving such simple gifts and watching our boys light up at their discovery.
As a good friend of mine put it, Christmas is for children. “Just to have all those little ones tearing open their gifts surrounded by people who are focusing on them and radiating love for them-that’s quite an experience.” And she’s right.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Monday, December 29, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
“Year in review”
As the holidays approach, it’s that time of year when we often find ourselves looking back over the past months and taking stock of our existence. What were our goals? What did we accomplish? Did we at least survive? Such is life for a parent.
I look back at the last 12 months and I wonder how my kids could have changed as they have. I wonder where those babies have gone! Could it really be that just a short time ago we were learning to talk and changing two sets of diapers and finally sleeping alone? Those are only a few of the moments we’ve endured over the course of this past year.
We met mean little kids at the grade school playground. We grew accustomed to taste-testing every new bowl of dog food, and we perfected our performance at family weddings.
We learned how to shop with a superstore buggy and learned to make “Alto Meal” without any lumps. We learned that there’s more than one Old Yeller in the family, and if we’re not careful, those crazy Road Trips just might cause someone to let out a serious growl.
We’ve learned that there is just no excuse for poor performance at the ballpark, and no amount of screaming or crying or peeing in the stands will save you when you’re due a swat from Daddy’s belt.
We’ve moved homes and moved towns and changed the color of our teams, but we finally came to understand that not all “red socks” are “dirty”.
We’ve learned to sing and catch fly balls and be at one with nature.
We’ve watched as our boys have developed personalities of their own. Cooper, our true Little Randy, his daddy through and through, and Brisco, that ornery, mischievous little rascal who we’ll either laugh at or beat to death, depending on the day of the week. Both alike in so many ways, yet distinctly different, growing into the best of pals and the greatest of competitors all at the same time.
Over the course of the year, I’ve learned to accept the importance of male bonding, conceded that I’ve seen the last of my Saturdays, and prayed for my very own superhero to deliver a moment of peace at the end of a weary day. I’ve learned that sometimes a mom needs to give in and let go. Say yes a little more often. Worry a little less.
We’ve enjoyed blessings and adventures. We have taught lasting truths and learned valuable lessons-many of them the hard way. And all these things we have done together.
As we move into a new year, we’ll continue to enjoy the firsts of our boys and keep looking for firsts of our own. We’ll celebrate every new memory of childhood and revel in whatever stage of life we happen to find ourselves, no matter what challenges parenthood brings next. And above all, we’ll thank God for the blessings of the year gone by and the joy that is surely to come.
And that’s our year in review.
I look back at the last 12 months and I wonder how my kids could have changed as they have. I wonder where those babies have gone! Could it really be that just a short time ago we were learning to talk and changing two sets of diapers and finally sleeping alone? Those are only a few of the moments we’ve endured over the course of this past year.
We met mean little kids at the grade school playground. We grew accustomed to taste-testing every new bowl of dog food, and we perfected our performance at family weddings.
We learned how to shop with a superstore buggy and learned to make “Alto Meal” without any lumps. We learned that there’s more than one Old Yeller in the family, and if we’re not careful, those crazy Road Trips just might cause someone to let out a serious growl.
We’ve learned that there is just no excuse for poor performance at the ballpark, and no amount of screaming or crying or peeing in the stands will save you when you’re due a swat from Daddy’s belt.
We’ve moved homes and moved towns and changed the color of our teams, but we finally came to understand that not all “red socks” are “dirty”.
We’ve learned to sing and catch fly balls and be at one with nature.
We’ve watched as our boys have developed personalities of their own. Cooper, our true Little Randy, his daddy through and through, and Brisco, that ornery, mischievous little rascal who we’ll either laugh at or beat to death, depending on the day of the week. Both alike in so many ways, yet distinctly different, growing into the best of pals and the greatest of competitors all at the same time.
Over the course of the year, I’ve learned to accept the importance of male bonding, conceded that I’ve seen the last of my Saturdays, and prayed for my very own superhero to deliver a moment of peace at the end of a weary day. I’ve learned that sometimes a mom needs to give in and let go. Say yes a little more often. Worry a little less.
We’ve enjoyed blessings and adventures. We have taught lasting truths and learned valuable lessons-many of them the hard way. And all these things we have done together.
As we move into a new year, we’ll continue to enjoy the firsts of our boys and keep looking for firsts of our own. We’ll celebrate every new memory of childhood and revel in whatever stage of life we happen to find ourselves, no matter what challenges parenthood brings next. And above all, we’ll thank God for the blessings of the year gone by and the joy that is surely to come.
And that’s our year in review.
“Year in review”
As the holidays approach, it’s that time of year when we often find ourselves looking back over the past months and taking stock of our existence. What were our goals? What did we accomplish? Did we at least survive? Such is life for a parent.
I look back at the last 12 months and I wonder how my kids could have changed as they have. I wonder where those babies have gone! Could it really be that just a short time ago we were learning to talk and changing two sets of diapers and finally sleeping alone? Those are only a few of the moments we’ve endured over the course of this past year.
We met mean little kids at the grade school playground. We grew accustomed to taste-testing every new bowl of dog food, and we perfected our performance at family weddings.
We learned how to shop with a superstore buggy and learned to make “Alto Meal” without any lumps. We learned that there’s more than one Old Yeller in the family, and if we’re not careful, those crazy Road Trips just might cause someone to let out a serious growl.
We’ve learned that there is just no excuse for poor performance at the ballpark, and no amount of screaming or crying or peeing in the stands will save you when you’re due a swat from Daddy’s belt.
We’ve moved homes and moved towns and changed the color of our teams, but we finally came to understand that not all “red socks” are “dirty”.
We’ve learned to sing and catch fly balls and be at one with nature.
We’ve watched as our boys have developed personalities of their own. Cooper, our true Little Randy, his daddy through and through, and Brisco, that ornery, mischievous little rascal who we’ll either laugh at or beat to death, depending on the day of the week. Both alike in so many ways, yet distinctly different, growing into the best of pals and the greatest of competitors all at the same time.
Over the course of the year, I’ve learned to accept the importance of male bonding, conceded that I’ve seen the last of my Saturdays, and prayed for my very own superhero to deliver a moment of peace at the end of a weary day. I’ve learned that sometimes a mom needs to give in and let go. Say yes a little more often. Worry a little less.
We’ve enjoyed blessings and adventures. We have taught lasting truths and learned valuable lessons-many of them the hard way. And all these things we have done together.
As we move into a new year, we’ll continue to enjoy the firsts of our boys and keep looking for firsts of our own. We’ll celebrate every new memory of childhood and revel in whatever stage of life we happen to find ourselves, no matter what challenges parenthood brings next. And above all, we’ll thank God for the blessings of the year gone by and the joy that is surely to come.
And that’s our year in review.
I look back at the last 12 months and I wonder how my kids could have changed as they have. I wonder where those babies have gone! Could it really be that just a short time ago we were learning to talk and changing two sets of diapers and finally sleeping alone? Those are only a few of the moments we’ve endured over the course of this past year.
We met mean little kids at the grade school playground. We grew accustomed to taste-testing every new bowl of dog food, and we perfected our performance at family weddings.
We learned how to shop with a superstore buggy and learned to make “Alto Meal” without any lumps. We learned that there’s more than one Old Yeller in the family, and if we’re not careful, those crazy Road Trips just might cause someone to let out a serious growl.
We’ve learned that there is just no excuse for poor performance at the ballpark, and no amount of screaming or crying or peeing in the stands will save you when you’re due a swat from Daddy’s belt.
We’ve moved homes and moved towns and changed the color of our teams, but we finally came to understand that not all “red socks” are “dirty”.
We’ve learned to sing and catch fly balls and be at one with nature.
We’ve watched as our boys have developed personalities of their own. Cooper, our true Little Randy, his daddy through and through, and Brisco, that ornery, mischievous little rascal who we’ll either laugh at or beat to death, depending on the day of the week. Both alike in so many ways, yet distinctly different, growing into the best of pals and the greatest of competitors all at the same time.
Over the course of the year, I’ve learned to accept the importance of male bonding, conceded that I’ve seen the last of my Saturdays, and prayed for my very own superhero to deliver a moment of peace at the end of a weary day. I’ve learned that sometimes a mom needs to give in and let go. Say yes a little more often. Worry a little less.
We’ve enjoyed blessings and adventures. We have taught lasting truths and learned valuable lessons-many of them the hard way. And all these things we have done together.
As we move into a new year, we’ll continue to enjoy the firsts of our boys and keep looking for firsts of our own. We’ll celebrate every new memory of childhood and revel in whatever stage of life we happen to find ourselves, no matter what challenges parenthood brings next. And above all, we’ll thank God for the blessings of the year gone by and the joy that is surely to come.
And that’s our year in review.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Don’t Mess with my Toot Toot!
Music is a part of life, and our house is no exception. Whether it’s a drippy faucet, a squeaky shoe on the bathroom tile, or a song being blared out of a standard-option, car radio, kids love the sounds that pervade their world.
When they are young, they make no distinction between music and noise. I guess that’s something that comes with age. And they don’t really care about getting the words right or carrying the proper tune. They just revel in the sounds that so easily sail out of their mouths and into their auditory locale. The “Itsy Bitsy Spider” is a prime example.
I’m not sure why our kids love this song so much. Maybe it is a boy’s natural inclination to investigate spiders and snakes and the like. Whatever their draw to the classic nursery song, they both have their eight-legged friend going up “the spider spout”, and no amount of correction from mom can change it.
The alphabet song is another of their favorites. Both boys get the same letters transposed when they sing it, but they never forget to say, “Next time won’t you sing with me,” unlike their cousin Harlie who actually says, “Next time don’t sing with me.” Cooper and Brisco must agree on some level because they haven’t quite connected on the idea of singing in unison. They each want to be the loudest, and when the other brother tries to bust in with his own version, they’ll holler, “Mom! I can’t hear myself sing while he is singing!”
Brisco is really the musical one of the two. I can remember singing to him a lot when he was just a baby. I sang to Cooper too, but it never seemed to soothe him the way it did little B. Even to this day he will lull about the house, singing to himself while he’s playing with his toys or tormenting his brother. And the kid really can hold a tune. Cooper, bless his heart, can get dramatic with his musical inflection but the notes don’t always seem to come out just right.
But that is no matter. It doesn’t keep him from trying. He actually seems to be getting a feel for some of the more popular jives. An old AC/DC tune came on the radio last week in the car and Randy and I both got a kick out of watching him bob and sway his body about in his head-bangin’ little car seat. And the boy grins and giggles with delight when Dad says, in his best Cheech Marin impersonation, “Respect the classics, man!”
From showing their muscles at the “He is strong” part of “Jesus Loves Me” to misinterpreting Garth Brooks’ “Loooo-ng neck bottle” for “Naaaa-ked bottom”, there is really no end to the hilarity and entertainment that music, created by a child, can bring.
And when they get going, there’s really no stopping them. They’ll go about the day spouting one liners from a whole spectrum of different songs. From “Take you ridin’ in my car, car,” to “Pea-nuuut, peanut butter…jelly!” these boys are definitely a sight to behold, and a sound to be heard as they go about their daily business and play.
Their newest favorites are a collection of songs sent from an old classmate of mine including timeless classics such as “The Chicken Dance” and “Herman the Worm”. It isn’t unusual to find all three of us waddling around the living room singing, “Bawk, bawk, bawk, bawk,” like a trio of crazed chicks, or wiggling and wriggling as we grow “thiiiiis big!” just like ole Herman.
But banging the bottom of two metal racecars together is just as pleasing to their sweet little ears as a requiem by Mozart or a concerto by Tchaikovsky. And playing the air-harmonica to an old Bob Dylan classic with Brisco in the background saying, “He said Steel-an-Stone!” can bring a smile to a mom’s face like no other over-priced, live and in person concert I’ve ever attended.
Yes, music is a part of life. And there’s none that sounds sweeter than when it’s created by children. Especially your own. So until the days when we disagree about what they consider music and what we consider noise, I’ll continue to enjoy dancing around like a chicken and listening to my baby meander about, impersonating ole Fats himself with his own two-year-old version, “Don’t mess-y my Toot Toot!”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
When they are young, they make no distinction between music and noise. I guess that’s something that comes with age. And they don’t really care about getting the words right or carrying the proper tune. They just revel in the sounds that so easily sail out of their mouths and into their auditory locale. The “Itsy Bitsy Spider” is a prime example.
I’m not sure why our kids love this song so much. Maybe it is a boy’s natural inclination to investigate spiders and snakes and the like. Whatever their draw to the classic nursery song, they both have their eight-legged friend going up “the spider spout”, and no amount of correction from mom can change it.
The alphabet song is another of their favorites. Both boys get the same letters transposed when they sing it, but they never forget to say, “Next time won’t you sing with me,” unlike their cousin Harlie who actually says, “Next time don’t sing with me.” Cooper and Brisco must agree on some level because they haven’t quite connected on the idea of singing in unison. They each want to be the loudest, and when the other brother tries to bust in with his own version, they’ll holler, “Mom! I can’t hear myself sing while he is singing!”
Brisco is really the musical one of the two. I can remember singing to him a lot when he was just a baby. I sang to Cooper too, but it never seemed to soothe him the way it did little B. Even to this day he will lull about the house, singing to himself while he’s playing with his toys or tormenting his brother. And the kid really can hold a tune. Cooper, bless his heart, can get dramatic with his musical inflection but the notes don’t always seem to come out just right.
But that is no matter. It doesn’t keep him from trying. He actually seems to be getting a feel for some of the more popular jives. An old AC/DC tune came on the radio last week in the car and Randy and I both got a kick out of watching him bob and sway his body about in his head-bangin’ little car seat. And the boy grins and giggles with delight when Dad says, in his best Cheech Marin impersonation, “Respect the classics, man!”
From showing their muscles at the “He is strong” part of “Jesus Loves Me” to misinterpreting Garth Brooks’ “Loooo-ng neck bottle” for “Naaaa-ked bottom”, there is really no end to the hilarity and entertainment that music, created by a child, can bring.
And when they get going, there’s really no stopping them. They’ll go about the day spouting one liners from a whole spectrum of different songs. From “Take you ridin’ in my car, car,” to “Pea-nuuut, peanut butter…jelly!” these boys are definitely a sight to behold, and a sound to be heard as they go about their daily business and play.
Their newest favorites are a collection of songs sent from an old classmate of mine including timeless classics such as “The Chicken Dance” and “Herman the Worm”. It isn’t unusual to find all three of us waddling around the living room singing, “Bawk, bawk, bawk, bawk,” like a trio of crazed chicks, or wiggling and wriggling as we grow “thiiiiis big!” just like ole Herman.
But banging the bottom of two metal racecars together is just as pleasing to their sweet little ears as a requiem by Mozart or a concerto by Tchaikovsky. And playing the air-harmonica to an old Bob Dylan classic with Brisco in the background saying, “He said Steel-an-Stone!” can bring a smile to a mom’s face like no other over-priced, live and in person concert I’ve ever attended.
Yes, music is a part of life. And there’s none that sounds sweeter than when it’s created by children. Especially your own. So until the days when we disagree about what they consider music and what we consider noise, I’ll continue to enjoy dancing around like a chicken and listening to my baby meander about, impersonating ole Fats himself with his own two-year-old version, “Don’t mess-y my Toot Toot!”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
The beauty of nature
Over the last couple of months, we have taken the time to share with our boys the beauty of nature. They are always outside making some valiant attempt to be at one with their environment. Whether it’s digging in the dirt, eating the dirt, or taking full blown baths in the mud they created from their dirt, it seems-at least in a mother’s mind-they could use a little guidance.
With the off season comes a little free time for Dad, and a true, concerted effort on our part to keep the boys interested in being kids. And that means playing, exploring, and of course, getting dirty. We made a day trip to the Wichita Mountains, spent several days walking the creek at Mamaw and Papaw’s and even braved an overnight camping expedition, indoor plumbing excluded. It was quite an adventure. But the experiences our boys added to their future memories of childhood far outweighed every rock to the shin and scratch from a tree branch we endured.
There’s nothing like a couple of boys seeing their first big buffalo to bring to life the closest thing they’ll ever see in the wild to the huge furry mammoth of Ice Age. And after their first viewing of Bambi, it couldn’t be more fitting for a huge, 10-point buck to be crossing the meadow in front of our car with two beautiful does and a little Bambino following close behind.
Little children are so easily entertained. They appreciate the smallest of gestures and the cheapest pursuits of amusement. There’s no need for trips to Disney or vacations to the moon when a drive through Prairie Dog Town will bring the smiles and laughter of two satisfied little boys. “I can’t believe they want to eat our pretzels!” Brisco shouted in disbelief.
I watched as my boys learned valuable lessons from their daddy and their Uncle Ryan-lessons I had to learn from Tom Hanks in a movie or that I leaned right along with them for the very first time. Like why we dig a hole underneath our camp fire or how to fry eggs and biscuits without a stove top to cook on.
I watched as my boys ran around the campsite, thrilled by the simplicity of shining their own flashlight into the dark night. I smiled as they sat side by side with their dad, imitating his movements, whittling a fallen tree branch with their white, plastic knives.
I watched their Daddy reliving his own childhood memories by climbing trees and jumping the creek, while the boys watched in awe and tried desperately to walk in his footsteps, following his every move. From skipping rocks on the water to “steaming” marshmallows on the fire, there’s little that compares to an adventure with dad and learning to be at one with nature.
We walked the rows of freshly planted wheat and answered questions about planting and harvesting and electric fences. We became explorers as we searched for deer tracks and “man tracks” and were overjoyed to find that “baseballs”, big and yellow, were also a part of God’s creation, although to me they seemed strangely similar to a gourd.
We all were taken aback as we climbed a steep hill of trees and brush and found ourselves face to face with a bull snake, just soaking up the sun.
And just this past weekend, as we celebrated Thanksgiving, we were totally immersed in the beauty of nature-maybe further than any man, woman or two-year old child needs to be, in my opinion-as we watched a mother cow give birth.
There is not a day that goes by that I am not thankful for the boys God gave us-dirt, snot, slobber and all. Above that, I’m grateful for the father they have to look up to. There are many gifts a mother can give her sons, but the best gift in my mind is that of a firm, fun-loving and faithful father. Just one more way God allows the beauty of nature to come full circle, creating precious childhood memories that will last a lifetime.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
With the off season comes a little free time for Dad, and a true, concerted effort on our part to keep the boys interested in being kids. And that means playing, exploring, and of course, getting dirty. We made a day trip to the Wichita Mountains, spent several days walking the creek at Mamaw and Papaw’s and even braved an overnight camping expedition, indoor plumbing excluded. It was quite an adventure. But the experiences our boys added to their future memories of childhood far outweighed every rock to the shin and scratch from a tree branch we endured.
There’s nothing like a couple of boys seeing their first big buffalo to bring to life the closest thing they’ll ever see in the wild to the huge furry mammoth of Ice Age. And after their first viewing of Bambi, it couldn’t be more fitting for a huge, 10-point buck to be crossing the meadow in front of our car with two beautiful does and a little Bambino following close behind.
Little children are so easily entertained. They appreciate the smallest of gestures and the cheapest pursuits of amusement. There’s no need for trips to Disney or vacations to the moon when a drive through Prairie Dog Town will bring the smiles and laughter of two satisfied little boys. “I can’t believe they want to eat our pretzels!” Brisco shouted in disbelief.
I watched as my boys learned valuable lessons from their daddy and their Uncle Ryan-lessons I had to learn from Tom Hanks in a movie or that I leaned right along with them for the very first time. Like why we dig a hole underneath our camp fire or how to fry eggs and biscuits without a stove top to cook on.
I watched as my boys ran around the campsite, thrilled by the simplicity of shining their own flashlight into the dark night. I smiled as they sat side by side with their dad, imitating his movements, whittling a fallen tree branch with their white, plastic knives.
I watched their Daddy reliving his own childhood memories by climbing trees and jumping the creek, while the boys watched in awe and tried desperately to walk in his footsteps, following his every move. From skipping rocks on the water to “steaming” marshmallows on the fire, there’s little that compares to an adventure with dad and learning to be at one with nature.
We walked the rows of freshly planted wheat and answered questions about planting and harvesting and electric fences. We became explorers as we searched for deer tracks and “man tracks” and were overjoyed to find that “baseballs”, big and yellow, were also a part of God’s creation, although to me they seemed strangely similar to a gourd.
We all were taken aback as we climbed a steep hill of trees and brush and found ourselves face to face with a bull snake, just soaking up the sun.
And just this past weekend, as we celebrated Thanksgiving, we were totally immersed in the beauty of nature-maybe further than any man, woman or two-year old child needs to be, in my opinion-as we watched a mother cow give birth.
There is not a day that goes by that I am not thankful for the boys God gave us-dirt, snot, slobber and all. Above that, I’m grateful for the father they have to look up to. There are many gifts a mother can give her sons, but the best gift in my mind is that of a firm, fun-loving and faithful father. Just one more way God allows the beauty of nature to come full circle, creating precious childhood memories that will last a lifetime.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Giving thanks
As the day approaches that has been designated for doing what we tell our kids they should be doing every day, I thought it might be interesting to see what exactly a two and a four year old are giving thanks for at this particular moment in their lives.
Are they thankful for their trucks and their trains? Do they especially love their race cars and their movies and their books? Just what is it that a little kid appreciates? And just how much does he even understand about the concept? I decided that I would ask.
I sat them down separately and explained that there was a special day this week called Thanksgiving, when we take a time out to say an extra special “Thank you” for all the things God has given us. Brisco seemed unimpressed with the idea; Cooper just looked at me and said, “Oh.” Their responses made me a little nervous about the answers I was about to receive.
In a world of technology, toys and general abundance, parents never know if the important lessons we try to instill in our kids are being fully absorbed. We want them to appreciate their possessions, but not rely on their existence, to enjoy their material blessings, without feeling entitled to receive them. So just how good of a job are we doing? My conversations with my sons were as follows:
“So, Cooper, tell Mommy what you are thankful for.”
The boy replied, “Well, I’m just thankful for the snow and the ice.” And with a little more thought, he added “…and Bessie and Rudy (the dogs).”
And it seemed one thought just led to another and he really got on a roll. “And for Grandma and Aunt Robyn and Granddaddy. And for Caitlyn and Kelln and Jordan and Hunter. And for Aunt Keri and the babies.
And for Martha and Grandmother and Brisco and Daddy and you. And…oh, and for Tyler and Haley.” And just when I thought he was finished with his list, he added, “Oh, and I’m just thankful for the water. And the leaves to jump into. And that’s all!” he added with a smile.
With Brisco, I had to try a little harder, like most things that involve my second son. “Can you tell Mommy what or who are you thankful for, Brisco?” Right away, he excitedly said, “Food!” Beyond that, he responded with a dozen, “I don’t know’s”. So I prompted him with a question or two.
“Who takes care of you that you are thankful for?” I asked.
“Coopa,” he said with a smile.
I pried. “Is there anyone else?”
“Daddy!” he said with a twinkle in his eye. I thought to myself that this could go on for days, but then he added, “Oh, and Mommy does too.” Whew. I’m glad he noticed.
No doubt if I’d asked, they’d both have given me a plethora of toys and games and things that they consider their favorites. And to eliminate the TV and the trucks and the trains would crush their little hearts at the time. But knowing they’re most thankful for the people in their lives is a great place to start, and is enough to make this parent give thanks every day of the year.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Are they thankful for their trucks and their trains? Do they especially love their race cars and their movies and their books? Just what is it that a little kid appreciates? And just how much does he even understand about the concept? I decided that I would ask.
I sat them down separately and explained that there was a special day this week called Thanksgiving, when we take a time out to say an extra special “Thank you” for all the things God has given us. Brisco seemed unimpressed with the idea; Cooper just looked at me and said, “Oh.” Their responses made me a little nervous about the answers I was about to receive.
In a world of technology, toys and general abundance, parents never know if the important lessons we try to instill in our kids are being fully absorbed. We want them to appreciate their possessions, but not rely on their existence, to enjoy their material blessings, without feeling entitled to receive them. So just how good of a job are we doing? My conversations with my sons were as follows:
“So, Cooper, tell Mommy what you are thankful for.”
The boy replied, “Well, I’m just thankful for the snow and the ice.” And with a little more thought, he added “…and Bessie and Rudy (the dogs).”
And it seemed one thought just led to another and he really got on a roll. “And for Grandma and Aunt Robyn and Granddaddy. And for Caitlyn and Kelln and Jordan and Hunter. And for Aunt Keri and the babies.
And for Martha and Grandmother and Brisco and Daddy and you. And…oh, and for Tyler and Haley.” And just when I thought he was finished with his list, he added, “Oh, and I’m just thankful for the water. And the leaves to jump into. And that’s all!” he added with a smile.
With Brisco, I had to try a little harder, like most things that involve my second son. “Can you tell Mommy what or who are you thankful for, Brisco?” Right away, he excitedly said, “Food!” Beyond that, he responded with a dozen, “I don’t know’s”. So I prompted him with a question or two.
“Who takes care of you that you are thankful for?” I asked.
“Coopa,” he said with a smile.
I pried. “Is there anyone else?”
“Daddy!” he said with a twinkle in his eye. I thought to myself that this could go on for days, but then he added, “Oh, and Mommy does too.” Whew. I’m glad he noticed.
No doubt if I’d asked, they’d both have given me a plethora of toys and games and things that they consider their favorites. And to eliminate the TV and the trucks and the trains would crush their little hearts at the time. But knowing they’re most thankful for the people in their lives is a great place to start, and is enough to make this parent give thanks every day of the year.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Mischievous
A while back, a lady at church made the observation and comment that “little Brisco sure is mischievous”. I had been looking for that word for a while now, but for some reason it alluded me. Ornery is the only word that came to mind, but it seemed like such a toothless, back-of-the-pickup-in-your-overalls, haven’t–had-a-bath-in-six-months kind of descriptor, while still, albeit 100% true.
But mischievous more clearly and succinctly encompasses my thoughts. And it brings into focus a memory of long ago that I guess I had forgotten until this word was reintroduced to my life as a description for my own child.
Years ago as a small child, my family and I would come to Sentinel to visit. We’d make our rounds to Martha’s and Jones’ and then over to Grandma and Ruby’s. I had an uncle named Buss, which in and of itself always seemed strange to me as a kid. Why would a grown up have a name like Buss, and what did it mean anyway? But “Uncle Buss” was a name that just seemed to fit. He was always tickling us and smiling and sticking out his dentures. We thought it was funny, and maybe a little gross, but we were little kids. Easily entertained.
I don’t remember when it started, or why for that matter. But it seemed, like the second born of my children, I had earned the title “mischievous”. Whether I had done one thing or many, or I simply had “that look”, to Uncle Buss, my name was just that. And it didn’t come out like a school marm reading it from a Dickens' novel. It was that twangy, four-syllable way I still pronounce it today: “mis-chee-vee-us”.
It’s funny how some things stick out in a child’s memory. I couldn’t tell you 10 things about Uncle Buss today if I had to. But I remember always being the one with “the look”. I could be sitting on that old floweredy couch with the raised, gold stitching doing nothing but sitting still and he’d look across at me, grinning, and say, “There’s that mischievous one over there.”
As a child, I don’t remember knowing what that word really meant. I’m sure I asked at some point in time. Maybe I got a truthful response; maybe I didn’t. It didn’t really matter. It wasn’t something I could change or mask or eliminate from my being. It just was. And I guess the same is so for our Brisco.
It is true; some kids just have the look. And maybe some don’t live up to the interpretations of their personalities, but let’s face it, some kids do. Whether it is embraced or avoided, accepted or denied, it is what it is. It somehow helps define who we are and how other people see us. At least while we are young.
Having an ornery little kid is a thing to endure, but I know there are things much worse. After all, my parents lived through it. But when the boy is told not to touch the chocolate cake and while you are watching-making solid eye contact with him, in the presence of God and other witnesses-he takes his fingers and walks them across the table toward that sweet, forbidden snack…taunting my authority with a grin on his face and “the look” in his eyes…that mischievous child can almost win me over, forcing me to overlook his ornery disobedience. Almost.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
But mischievous more clearly and succinctly encompasses my thoughts. And it brings into focus a memory of long ago that I guess I had forgotten until this word was reintroduced to my life as a description for my own child.
Years ago as a small child, my family and I would come to Sentinel to visit. We’d make our rounds to Martha’s and Jones’ and then over to Grandma and Ruby’s. I had an uncle named Buss, which in and of itself always seemed strange to me as a kid. Why would a grown up have a name like Buss, and what did it mean anyway? But “Uncle Buss” was a name that just seemed to fit. He was always tickling us and smiling and sticking out his dentures. We thought it was funny, and maybe a little gross, but we were little kids. Easily entertained.
I don’t remember when it started, or why for that matter. But it seemed, like the second born of my children, I had earned the title “mischievous”. Whether I had done one thing or many, or I simply had “that look”, to Uncle Buss, my name was just that. And it didn’t come out like a school marm reading it from a Dickens' novel. It was that twangy, four-syllable way I still pronounce it today: “mis-chee-vee-us”.
It’s funny how some things stick out in a child’s memory. I couldn’t tell you 10 things about Uncle Buss today if I had to. But I remember always being the one with “the look”. I could be sitting on that old floweredy couch with the raised, gold stitching doing nothing but sitting still and he’d look across at me, grinning, and say, “There’s that mischievous one over there.”
As a child, I don’t remember knowing what that word really meant. I’m sure I asked at some point in time. Maybe I got a truthful response; maybe I didn’t. It didn’t really matter. It wasn’t something I could change or mask or eliminate from my being. It just was. And I guess the same is so for our Brisco.
It is true; some kids just have the look. And maybe some don’t live up to the interpretations of their personalities, but let’s face it, some kids do. Whether it is embraced or avoided, accepted or denied, it is what it is. It somehow helps define who we are and how other people see us. At least while we are young.
Having an ornery little kid is a thing to endure, but I know there are things much worse. After all, my parents lived through it. But when the boy is told not to touch the chocolate cake and while you are watching-making solid eye contact with him, in the presence of God and other witnesses-he takes his fingers and walks them across the table toward that sweet, forbidden snack…taunting my authority with a grin on his face and “the look” in his eyes…that mischievous child can almost win me over, forcing me to overlook his ornery disobedience. Almost.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Conversations between brothers
Eavesdropping on two toddlers is pretty easy. It’s not as if they’ve got nonchalance down to an art; they’re just babes after all. So by timing things just right, I’ve discovered that listening to a five minute conversation between brothers can deliver more amusement to a busy mother than just about any other activity I can squeeze into my day.
Hearing what children discuss when they think no one is listening is worth all the effort it takes for a mom to strain her ears and stand at attention for 10 minutes outside a closed bathroom door. Crouching in the hall-calves cramping, legs numb-while the oldest gives directions to his brother in his most stern, parental voice is all the invitation a parent needs to sit listening to their playtime antics.
Yes, children will act and re-enact 101 different scenarios during their daily amusements-most of which they have seen or heard their parents or friends doing first. Our boys were playing one afternoon at a friend’s house while his “Gram” was there supervising. She had given the boys instructions on what they should and should not be doing with her important business papers, and as she left the room and rounded the corner, she swears she heard my first born say, “Man, she’s bossy!”
Even so, the bigger boy is usually the best at following the rules, even when mom’s out of the picture. I often overhear him telling Brisco that they “can’t go to the alley” because mom said they “have to stay on the porch”. Most of the time Brisco will follow his lead.
I guess I tell them often enough to stop and think before they act. “Just use your brain,” I believe are my words. I suppose I have given little thought to the fact that at this age, a brain is unseen and incomprehensible, and biology class is still more than 10 years away. But at least I know they are listening. Just today Cooper told me, “Mom, I really used my brain! I thought, ‘what did Mommy tell me to do…’ and then I just did it!”
Over the weekend, that same little boy told his aunt Rhonda that maybe someday his Dad will be able to play football like the boys on TV, “when he gets a little bigger”. I guess he has received that response a time or two as well.
Good parents want their kids to listen and do and create good habits from the lessons we teach them every day. We can only hope that they take hold of the positive examples we set and sail right past our faults. And there’s nothing more eye opening to the kind of job we’re doing than observing our children’s behavior when they think that no one is watching.
Like the afternoon our boys spent playing in the backyard with a little boy from church. It seems they found a frog in the dog bowl, and somewhere along the way, they decided to name him Scout.
On that particular day, Scout was destined to be an explorer along with his coarse and curious new friends. He explored the inside of plastic cups. He explored the back of the dump truck. He explored the inside of the dog food bucket and the John Deere tractor and an empty cardboard box. Poor ole Scout had explored so many places that I had to go out and make sure he was exploring of his own free will and not by force…or worse, post-mortem.
I explained to the boys that even frogs were part of God’s creation, and reminded them to be nice to their new friend while they were teaching him to explore. They all let out an “OK, Mom!” and returned to their busy play.
Keeping an ear to the window, I was reassured to find that although their handling of poor ole Scout was anything but gentle, their spirits could not have been kinder. And when they finally decided to let him go free (shooting him through a hole three-feet high on the chain-link fence), I couldn’t help but snicker at how closely our boys have been paying attention. “Bye-bye, Scout! Be careful! Have fun! We love you!”
I was taken aback for a moment at how this afternoon outside, playing with a frog, so closely resembled the raising of children. They snoop and explore and investigate. Sometimes on their own; sometimes with a little nudge from their parents. And someday, they’ll jump right out of the safe confines of mom and dad’s backyard, with both of us waving and shouting behind, “Be careful! Have Fun! We love you!” Job well done.
Until that time, I know we’ll hear many more conversations take place between these brothers, and not all will end with such peace and pride for their parents. But for now they are doing their best. So until that next secret adventure takes place behind closed doors, I’ll be watching and waiting for my five minutes of comedy delivered straight from the mouths of my babes.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Hearing what children discuss when they think no one is listening is worth all the effort it takes for a mom to strain her ears and stand at attention for 10 minutes outside a closed bathroom door. Crouching in the hall-calves cramping, legs numb-while the oldest gives directions to his brother in his most stern, parental voice is all the invitation a parent needs to sit listening to their playtime antics.
Yes, children will act and re-enact 101 different scenarios during their daily amusements-most of which they have seen or heard their parents or friends doing first. Our boys were playing one afternoon at a friend’s house while his “Gram” was there supervising. She had given the boys instructions on what they should and should not be doing with her important business papers, and as she left the room and rounded the corner, she swears she heard my first born say, “Man, she’s bossy!”
Even so, the bigger boy is usually the best at following the rules, even when mom’s out of the picture. I often overhear him telling Brisco that they “can’t go to the alley” because mom said they “have to stay on the porch”. Most of the time Brisco will follow his lead.
I guess I tell them often enough to stop and think before they act. “Just use your brain,” I believe are my words. I suppose I have given little thought to the fact that at this age, a brain is unseen and incomprehensible, and biology class is still more than 10 years away. But at least I know they are listening. Just today Cooper told me, “Mom, I really used my brain! I thought, ‘what did Mommy tell me to do…’ and then I just did it!”
Over the weekend, that same little boy told his aunt Rhonda that maybe someday his Dad will be able to play football like the boys on TV, “when he gets a little bigger”. I guess he has received that response a time or two as well.
Good parents want their kids to listen and do and create good habits from the lessons we teach them every day. We can only hope that they take hold of the positive examples we set and sail right past our faults. And there’s nothing more eye opening to the kind of job we’re doing than observing our children’s behavior when they think that no one is watching.
Like the afternoon our boys spent playing in the backyard with a little boy from church. It seems they found a frog in the dog bowl, and somewhere along the way, they decided to name him Scout.
On that particular day, Scout was destined to be an explorer along with his coarse and curious new friends. He explored the inside of plastic cups. He explored the back of the dump truck. He explored the inside of the dog food bucket and the John Deere tractor and an empty cardboard box. Poor ole Scout had explored so many places that I had to go out and make sure he was exploring of his own free will and not by force…or worse, post-mortem.
I explained to the boys that even frogs were part of God’s creation, and reminded them to be nice to their new friend while they were teaching him to explore. They all let out an “OK, Mom!” and returned to their busy play.
Keeping an ear to the window, I was reassured to find that although their handling of poor ole Scout was anything but gentle, their spirits could not have been kinder. And when they finally decided to let him go free (shooting him through a hole three-feet high on the chain-link fence), I couldn’t help but snicker at how closely our boys have been paying attention. “Bye-bye, Scout! Be careful! Have fun! We love you!”
I was taken aback for a moment at how this afternoon outside, playing with a frog, so closely resembled the raising of children. They snoop and explore and investigate. Sometimes on their own; sometimes with a little nudge from their parents. And someday, they’ll jump right out of the safe confines of mom and dad’s backyard, with both of us waving and shouting behind, “Be careful! Have Fun! We love you!” Job well done.
Until that time, I know we’ll hear many more conversations take place between these brothers, and not all will end with such peace and pride for their parents. But for now they are doing their best. So until that next secret adventure takes place behind closed doors, I’ll be watching and waiting for my five minutes of comedy delivered straight from the mouths of my babes.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Monday, November 10, 2008
Church chat
It seems church chat is really on the minds of our boys as of late.
Last week, Cooper came looking for a pen and some paper because he was in the den “doing some preaching just like John”.
And Brisco has become his generation’s version of Lawrence Welk, as he has taken to leading the congregation in song. Of course every song is either “Jesus Loves Me” or “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and it is sung from the pew, at the top of his lungs, and with is book upside down. But that doesn’t seem to matter to him at all.
Cooper was taking a nap just today, and out of the blue, he rushed down the stairs to tell me that he had sung “Jesus Loves Me” all by himself in the bed. These are good things by which to occupy their minds. But sometimes, church chat can get confused with regular old chitchat, and from a child’s mind to his mouth comes pure parental entertainment.
Brisco’s latest piece of Biblical humor is the result of listening to prayers. For some reason, the boy finds it amusing when someone prays for the “body”. Whether it is restoring health to someone’s “body” or being thankful for the food which “nourishes our body”, he can’t seem to contain his amusement when he hears that word and will raise his head, unfold his hands and practically yell through his laughter, “He said ‘BODY’!”
I came across some similar pieces of church chat from children much like my own.
Dear God,
I went to this wedding and they kissed right in church. Is that OK?
Dear God,
I think the stapler is one of your greatest inventions.
Dear God,
In Bible times did they really talk that fancy?
Dear God,
I think about you sometimes, even when I’m not praying.
Dear God,
I am American. What are you?
Dear God,
If you will watch in church on Sunday, I will show you my new shoes.
Dear God,
If we come back as something, please don’t let me be Jennifer Horton because I hate her.
Dear God,
I would like to live 900 years like the guy in the Bible.
Dear God,
If you give me a genie lamp like Aladdin, I will give you anything you want except my money or my chess set.
Dear God,
We read that Thomas Edison made light. But in Sunday school they said you did it. So I bet he stoled your idea.
Dear God,
If you let the dinosaur not be extinct, we would not have a country. You did the right thing.
Dear God,
Please send Dennis Clark to a different camp this year.
Dear God,
Maybe Cain and Abel would not kill each other so much if they had their own rooms. It works with my brother.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Last week, Cooper came looking for a pen and some paper because he was in the den “doing some preaching just like John”.
And Brisco has become his generation’s version of Lawrence Welk, as he has taken to leading the congregation in song. Of course every song is either “Jesus Loves Me” or “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and it is sung from the pew, at the top of his lungs, and with is book upside down. But that doesn’t seem to matter to him at all.
Cooper was taking a nap just today, and out of the blue, he rushed down the stairs to tell me that he had sung “Jesus Loves Me” all by himself in the bed. These are good things by which to occupy their minds. But sometimes, church chat can get confused with regular old chitchat, and from a child’s mind to his mouth comes pure parental entertainment.
Brisco’s latest piece of Biblical humor is the result of listening to prayers. For some reason, the boy finds it amusing when someone prays for the “body”. Whether it is restoring health to someone’s “body” or being thankful for the food which “nourishes our body”, he can’t seem to contain his amusement when he hears that word and will raise his head, unfold his hands and practically yell through his laughter, “He said ‘BODY’!”
I came across some similar pieces of church chat from children much like my own.
Dear God,
I went to this wedding and they kissed right in church. Is that OK?
Dear God,
I think the stapler is one of your greatest inventions.
Dear God,
In Bible times did they really talk that fancy?
Dear God,
I think about you sometimes, even when I’m not praying.
Dear God,
I am American. What are you?
Dear God,
If you will watch in church on Sunday, I will show you my new shoes.
Dear God,
If we come back as something, please don’t let me be Jennifer Horton because I hate her.
Dear God,
I would like to live 900 years like the guy in the Bible.
Dear God,
If you give me a genie lamp like Aladdin, I will give you anything you want except my money or my chess set.
Dear God,
We read that Thomas Edison made light. But in Sunday school they said you did it. So I bet he stoled your idea.
Dear God,
If you let the dinosaur not be extinct, we would not have a country. You did the right thing.
Dear God,
Please send Dennis Clark to a different camp this year.
Dear God,
Maybe Cain and Abel would not kill each other so much if they had their own rooms. It works with my brother.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Friday, October 31, 2008
The business of the home
Sometimes parenting can be so obvious, yet we still don’t get it until it hits us in the face. Or in my case, until I read it in a book.
In one of my latest reads, the author talked about how children should learn the business of the home by following parents in their daily tasks. Big revelation. What common sense. But when I actually stopped to think, I realized that many of my “daily tasks” take place when they boys are, quite frankly, out of my hair.
Sure, it makes sense to let the children follow me around, soaking up the lessons of the day, but let’s face it, a mom can get a whole lot more done if the children aren’t underfoot. After all, how many times should we fold and re-fold seven loads of laundry? And how will we ever get supper by six if it takes two kids and a mom three hours to boil four eggs?
Of course, there is something to be said for picking the right opportunity for learning. Perhaps teaching a two year old to mop the kitchen floor is a lesson better saved for a time other than ten minutes before Sunday dinner. And what mom in her right mind would consider a lesson on making chocolate icing from scratch only 30minutes before a nap? Like most things in life, when parenting, timing is everything.
One of Cooper’s birthday gifts was a pen striped, nothing-but-Yankee step stool. The boys are always wanting to see what’s happening on the countertops in the kitchen, so this week, we put that present to use.
Right away, both boys were tiptoeing on the top step and looking for some action. I had a few boiled eggs that needed peeling, so I thought we’d give that a whirl. After all, what could be more fun to a couple of little boys than bangin’ eggs on the kitchen cabinet-with mom’s permission, of course. Predictably, they loved every minute of it. From the meticulous, two-fingered technique of the elder to the sledge hammer maneuver of his little brother, both boys were bangin’ eggs like a couple of old pros. But our fun didn’t stop there.
Before I could clean the breakfast dishes off the table, they were begging for “something to stir”. Without a clean pot to cook in, I quickly improvised with a small mixing bowl for each. They had already located the wooden spoons and spatulas and were ready to whip up something tasty.
As I scavenged my brain and every kitchen cabinet for the least messy ingredients, all I could come up with was a bag of dry beans. And that seemed to satisfy them. They each stirred those dry beans around in their bowls for all of about 30 seconds. That’s when Cooper decided “the recipe” called for something more.
They’d each found a measuring cup and insisted on something to pour, so I meagerly gave them both some water. That too, was fun for a moment, but a split-second later, they were looking for what Cooper’s recipe called “more greed-ants”. I assumed that meant “ingredients” and since we’d just had a pot of beans over the weekend, I supposed a little soda and salt would suffice. At least we could soak another batch for later.
After all of the stirring and sloshing around, I almost had the entire kitchen-children’s prep area excluded-clean and ready for our next real meal. Now that’s what I call an opportunity for learning. But it seemed my boys weren’t satisfied with pretending to cook; they really wanted to cook their creations. So we added a little pepper, at our little brother’s request, and put those beans to the fire.
I’d like to say it was the perfect supper for our not-so-perfect pack, but after beans all weekend, a bean supper on Monday, and a Tuesday school lunch-of what else but brown beans-we never even tasted our little boys’ concoctions. It seems we’d had about all the magical fruit one household can handle.
We did “stir up” a batch of sugar cookies, although between the three of us we had little left to bake. But the fun of the experience far outweighed the short-lived sugar high and the crash that came soon after.
Regardless of the time we spend completing tasks when our kids are not underfoot, I know that they really are learning the business of our home. Cooper still helps me put the wet clothes in the dryer, and his new favorite task is getting “all the cold stuff” on the supper table. Brisco is big on emptying the dish washer. I think he’s intrigued about the possibility of finding a crumb from a cupcake or a trace of cheddar cheese lying in the bottom of the silverware container. Whatever his motivation, he’s learning to do it, nonetheless.
I used to joke that I was the type who wouldn’t change a roll of toilet paper until I read somebody’s “how to” on the best way to get it done. But being a mom is slowly bringing me around. Whether it’s bangin’ eggs or finding something to stir, these boys of ours are finding ways to create their own opportunities for learning. And teaching me a thing or two in the process.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
In one of my latest reads, the author talked about how children should learn the business of the home by following parents in their daily tasks. Big revelation. What common sense. But when I actually stopped to think, I realized that many of my “daily tasks” take place when they boys are, quite frankly, out of my hair.
Sure, it makes sense to let the children follow me around, soaking up the lessons of the day, but let’s face it, a mom can get a whole lot more done if the children aren’t underfoot. After all, how many times should we fold and re-fold seven loads of laundry? And how will we ever get supper by six if it takes two kids and a mom three hours to boil four eggs?
Of course, there is something to be said for picking the right opportunity for learning. Perhaps teaching a two year old to mop the kitchen floor is a lesson better saved for a time other than ten minutes before Sunday dinner. And what mom in her right mind would consider a lesson on making chocolate icing from scratch only 30minutes before a nap? Like most things in life, when parenting, timing is everything.
One of Cooper’s birthday gifts was a pen striped, nothing-but-Yankee step stool. The boys are always wanting to see what’s happening on the countertops in the kitchen, so this week, we put that present to use.
Right away, both boys were tiptoeing on the top step and looking for some action. I had a few boiled eggs that needed peeling, so I thought we’d give that a whirl. After all, what could be more fun to a couple of little boys than bangin’ eggs on the kitchen cabinet-with mom’s permission, of course. Predictably, they loved every minute of it. From the meticulous, two-fingered technique of the elder to the sledge hammer maneuver of his little brother, both boys were bangin’ eggs like a couple of old pros. But our fun didn’t stop there.
Before I could clean the breakfast dishes off the table, they were begging for “something to stir”. Without a clean pot to cook in, I quickly improvised with a small mixing bowl for each. They had already located the wooden spoons and spatulas and were ready to whip up something tasty.
As I scavenged my brain and every kitchen cabinet for the least messy ingredients, all I could come up with was a bag of dry beans. And that seemed to satisfy them. They each stirred those dry beans around in their bowls for all of about 30 seconds. That’s when Cooper decided “the recipe” called for something more.
They’d each found a measuring cup and insisted on something to pour, so I meagerly gave them both some water. That too, was fun for a moment, but a split-second later, they were looking for what Cooper’s recipe called “more greed-ants”. I assumed that meant “ingredients” and since we’d just had a pot of beans over the weekend, I supposed a little soda and salt would suffice. At least we could soak another batch for later.
After all of the stirring and sloshing around, I almost had the entire kitchen-children’s prep area excluded-clean and ready for our next real meal. Now that’s what I call an opportunity for learning. But it seemed my boys weren’t satisfied with pretending to cook; they really wanted to cook their creations. So we added a little pepper, at our little brother’s request, and put those beans to the fire.
I’d like to say it was the perfect supper for our not-so-perfect pack, but after beans all weekend, a bean supper on Monday, and a Tuesday school lunch-of what else but brown beans-we never even tasted our little boys’ concoctions. It seems we’d had about all the magical fruit one household can handle.
We did “stir up” a batch of sugar cookies, although between the three of us we had little left to bake. But the fun of the experience far outweighed the short-lived sugar high and the crash that came soon after.
Regardless of the time we spend completing tasks when our kids are not underfoot, I know that they really are learning the business of our home. Cooper still helps me put the wet clothes in the dryer, and his new favorite task is getting “all the cold stuff” on the supper table. Brisco is big on emptying the dish washer. I think he’s intrigued about the possibility of finding a crumb from a cupcake or a trace of cheddar cheese lying in the bottom of the silverware container. Whatever his motivation, he’s learning to do it, nonetheless.
I used to joke that I was the type who wouldn’t change a roll of toilet paper until I read somebody’s “how to” on the best way to get it done. But being a mom is slowly bringing me around. Whether it’s bangin’ eggs or finding something to stir, these boys of ours are finding ways to create their own opportunities for learning. And teaching me a thing or two in the process.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Favorites at four
We recently celebrated Cooper’s fourth birthday. As usual, I was planning for some kind of gathering that would include all of our favorite people: grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, uncles and all the many cousins we have in our family.
As things sometimes happen, we were hard pressed to find a time that was best for us all, so we decided to celebrate in stages. We spent the weekend with our favorite paternal pals and had a small party at Grandma and Granddaddy’s. From crunching leaves and jumping on the trampoline to driving in the sand pile and playing with cousins, this seemed to be an ideal way for a little boy to spend his birthday.
The festivities continued on Monday, with monster trucks and cupcakes-mixed and baked by the birthday boy himself. There’s nothing sweeter than devouring strawberry cupcakes-licked and stirred-by a couple of helpful, little boys…even if they do turn out a girly shade of pink.
I decided since he was lucky enough to get to celebrate his day with most of his favorite people, we would take a moment to make a list for posterity of some of his other favorites at his now tender age of four. This is what I discovered.
His favorite colors are orange and red, unless it happens to be on a “Dirty Sox” uniform.
His life, it seems, completely revolves around the old standbys: Thomas the Train and Lightening McQueen. And his newest treasure is Peter Pan. His favorite toys, movies and books are all derivatives of one of these.
His favorite breakfast is still Alto-meal, simply “because it’s good!” And with a little bit of thought, he decided that water and Sprite are his favorite drinks. “Sprite’s kinda good, so you can drink it sometimes.”
His favorite songs are “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and “Humpty Dumpty”, and his favorite outings are going to the mountains and to the park. How lovely it is that a child can still find joy in a pair of swings and a set of monkey bars.
His favorite friends are Kelln, Hunter, and Caitlyn for the obvious fact that “I just like them.” No further explanation is needed.
His favorite things to do with his little brother, Brisco, are driving trains and crashing race cars, and his favorite mommy-time activity is playing with toys. Any old toy will do.
And if there is one activity above all others that he could choose to spend his time doing, it would be playing outside with Dad. “You know, just playing baseball, and football and bak-set-ball.”
He’s ready for school, and he’s now “so much bigger” than Brisco, yet he’s decided to delay his decision to stop sucking his thumb when he turns four. “I just don’t think I’m ready,” he said wryly.
While his favorites at four are sure to change with time, it’s clear to me that this growing boy is as easy to please as chocolate icing on a cupcake or a moment of mommy-time in the middle of the floor. And while the presents and sweets were all welcomed with wide eyes and open mouth, I do believe he would have been satisfied enjoying a weekend of fun with his family: those who he considers the best of his four-year-old-favorites.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
As things sometimes happen, we were hard pressed to find a time that was best for us all, so we decided to celebrate in stages. We spent the weekend with our favorite paternal pals and had a small party at Grandma and Granddaddy’s. From crunching leaves and jumping on the trampoline to driving in the sand pile and playing with cousins, this seemed to be an ideal way for a little boy to spend his birthday.
The festivities continued on Monday, with monster trucks and cupcakes-mixed and baked by the birthday boy himself. There’s nothing sweeter than devouring strawberry cupcakes-licked and stirred-by a couple of helpful, little boys…even if they do turn out a girly shade of pink.
I decided since he was lucky enough to get to celebrate his day with most of his favorite people, we would take a moment to make a list for posterity of some of his other favorites at his now tender age of four. This is what I discovered.
His favorite colors are orange and red, unless it happens to be on a “Dirty Sox” uniform.
His life, it seems, completely revolves around the old standbys: Thomas the Train and Lightening McQueen. And his newest treasure is Peter Pan. His favorite toys, movies and books are all derivatives of one of these.
His favorite breakfast is still Alto-meal, simply “because it’s good!” And with a little bit of thought, he decided that water and Sprite are his favorite drinks. “Sprite’s kinda good, so you can drink it sometimes.”
His favorite songs are “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and “Humpty Dumpty”, and his favorite outings are going to the mountains and to the park. How lovely it is that a child can still find joy in a pair of swings and a set of monkey bars.
His favorite friends are Kelln, Hunter, and Caitlyn for the obvious fact that “I just like them.” No further explanation is needed.
His favorite things to do with his little brother, Brisco, are driving trains and crashing race cars, and his favorite mommy-time activity is playing with toys. Any old toy will do.
And if there is one activity above all others that he could choose to spend his time doing, it would be playing outside with Dad. “You know, just playing baseball, and football and bak-set-ball.”
He’s ready for school, and he’s now “so much bigger” than Brisco, yet he’s decided to delay his decision to stop sucking his thumb when he turns four. “I just don’t think I’m ready,” he said wryly.
While his favorites at four are sure to change with time, it’s clear to me that this growing boy is as easy to please as chocolate icing on a cupcake or a moment of mommy-time in the middle of the floor. And while the presents and sweets were all welcomed with wide eyes and open mouth, I do believe he would have been satisfied enjoying a weekend of fun with his family: those who he considers the best of his four-year-old-favorites.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Choke up
Some of the cutest and most hilarious comments in life come from our innocent children. I’m always amazed at their perspective and their interpretation of events and things in their world.
For instance, Cooper has decided that his curly-headed cousin has “wrinkled hair”, and that his mom’s “kind of looks like a bale of hay”.
Brisco is busy deciphering the many catch phrases that sneak into our daily conversations. He was practicing hitting the baseball one evening and although he was getting close, he was still missing on every swing. I couldn’t convince him to switch to a lighter bat, so I told him to choke up on the one he was using. He looked at me for a second and then immediately lifted his bat, turned his face toward the sky, and let out a great big cough.
It took me a minute before I realized what he was doing, but then I saw it, as plain as the big, yellow bat in front of my face. He was literally, “choking up”.
As I thought of these things, I came across a collection of similar statements by other innocent, young minds and thought they were certainly worth sharing.
Jack, age 3, was watching his mom breast-feeding his new baby sister. After a while he asked, "Mom, why have you got two? Is one for hot milk and one for cold?"
Melanie, age 5, asked her Granny how old she was. Granny replied she was so old she didn't remember any more. Melanie said, "If you don't remember you must look in the back of your panties. Mine say five to six."
Steven, age 3, hugged and kissed his mom goodnight. Then he said, "I love you so much, that when you die I'm going to bury you outside my bedroom window."
Brittany, age 4, had an earache and wanted a chewable aspirin. She tried in vain to take the lid off the bottle. Seeing her frustration, her mom explained it was a childproof cap and she'd have to open it for her. Eyes wide with wonder, the little girl asked, "How does it know it's me?"
Susan, age 4, was drinking juice when she got the hiccups. "Please don't give me this juice again," she said. "It makes my teeth cough."
Diane, age 4, stepped onto the bathroom scale and asked, "How much do I cost?"
Marc, age 4, was engrossed in a young couple that was hugging and kissing in a restaurant. Without taking his eyes off them, he asked his dad, "Why is he whispering in her mouth?"
James, age 4, was listening to a Bible story. His dad read, "The man named Lot was warned to take his wife and flee out of the city, but his wife looked back and was turned to salt.” Concerned, James asked, "What happened to the flea?"
Jamie, age 4, was listening intently to the minister one Sunday morning. This particular Sunday, the preacher began, “Dear Lord,” with his arms extended toward heaven and a rapturous look on his upturned face. "Without you, we are but dust." He would have continued but at that moment sweet Jamie leaned over to her mother and asked quite audibly in her shrill, little girl voice, "Mom, what is butt dust?"
And that’s All in a day’s work!
For instance, Cooper has decided that his curly-headed cousin has “wrinkled hair”, and that his mom’s “kind of looks like a bale of hay”.
Brisco is busy deciphering the many catch phrases that sneak into our daily conversations. He was practicing hitting the baseball one evening and although he was getting close, he was still missing on every swing. I couldn’t convince him to switch to a lighter bat, so I told him to choke up on the one he was using. He looked at me for a second and then immediately lifted his bat, turned his face toward the sky, and let out a great big cough.
It took me a minute before I realized what he was doing, but then I saw it, as plain as the big, yellow bat in front of my face. He was literally, “choking up”.
As I thought of these things, I came across a collection of similar statements by other innocent, young minds and thought they were certainly worth sharing.
Jack, age 3, was watching his mom breast-feeding his new baby sister. After a while he asked, "Mom, why have you got two? Is one for hot milk and one for cold?"
Melanie, age 5, asked her Granny how old she was. Granny replied she was so old she didn't remember any more. Melanie said, "If you don't remember you must look in the back of your panties. Mine say five to six."
Steven, age 3, hugged and kissed his mom goodnight. Then he said, "I love you so much, that when you die I'm going to bury you outside my bedroom window."
Brittany, age 4, had an earache and wanted a chewable aspirin. She tried in vain to take the lid off the bottle. Seeing her frustration, her mom explained it was a childproof cap and she'd have to open it for her. Eyes wide with wonder, the little girl asked, "How does it know it's me?"
Susan, age 4, was drinking juice when she got the hiccups. "Please don't give me this juice again," she said. "It makes my teeth cough."
Diane, age 4, stepped onto the bathroom scale and asked, "How much do I cost?"
Marc, age 4, was engrossed in a young couple that was hugging and kissing in a restaurant. Without taking his eyes off them, he asked his dad, "Why is he whispering in her mouth?"
James, age 4, was listening to a Bible story. His dad read, "The man named Lot was warned to take his wife and flee out of the city, but his wife looked back and was turned to salt.” Concerned, James asked, "What happened to the flea?"
Jamie, age 4, was listening intently to the minister one Sunday morning. This particular Sunday, the preacher began, “Dear Lord,” with his arms extended toward heaven and a rapturous look on his upturned face. "Without you, we are but dust." He would have continued but at that moment sweet Jamie leaned over to her mother and asked quite audibly in her shrill, little girl voice, "Mom, what is butt dust?"
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Just say yes
It’s amazing how one tiny word can make or break the spirit of a child. Three little letters. One small syllable. But oh what a difference it can make. Whether it’s snack time or play time or tucking into bed time, finding a way to say yes to my boys seems to make everything right in their world.
I’ve learned my consent is actually my friend-an ally in times of traumatic, toddler terror. Like those trips to the grocery store when escaping from the buggy-belt is the only item on my boys’ list. How easily a simple “yes” could quell those agonizing, shopping fiascos.
Brisco is my storybook hero when it comes to celebrating the affirmative. It takes so little to make him happy, and he is always ready to tell the world and celebrate at even the smallest of victories. Typically, he is most excited when his snack time requests are met with a yes. From granola bars to graham crackers, his eyes start popping and his feet get to hopping and he’ll yell at the top of his lungs, “Cooooo-paaa! Mom said YES!!!”
We can forget containing his excitement if his desire is for sweets. He’ll dance in the aisle and sing in the streets for a dip of ice cream or a glass of strawberry milk. And if a piece of candy is what he’s eying, there’s nothing in life that could be more exhilarating than a nod of concession from mom.
Even in the midst of bowl full of Crispies, he’s asking about his next helping. And if mom says yes to a second yummy portion, that sweet, milky smile will slip across his face leaving a mom to revel in the joy she’s created with one simple word.
Sometimes no is a necessity; it simply can’t be avoided. But if the risk is less serious than injury or death, I’m willing to give my approval. After all, the grass will grow back and the windows can be washed and I really didn’t need that third pair of old tennis shoes. But the warmth in my heart when two proud, smiling boys bring me a dead Dandelion, planted in an old Reebok full of mud is a memory I’ll always treasure.
So when my gut starts to turn and my head starts to spin and I feel that old tug of reason, I just think of the fun a couple of brothers can have when the boundaries are lifted and the limits are stretched. I picture big, brown eyes and ear-to-ear smiles that no mother could dare disregard. And I hear the excitement in their voices as they shout in jubilation, “She said YES! She said YES! She said YES!”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
I’ve learned my consent is actually my friend-an ally in times of traumatic, toddler terror. Like those trips to the grocery store when escaping from the buggy-belt is the only item on my boys’ list. How easily a simple “yes” could quell those agonizing, shopping fiascos.
Brisco is my storybook hero when it comes to celebrating the affirmative. It takes so little to make him happy, and he is always ready to tell the world and celebrate at even the smallest of victories. Typically, he is most excited when his snack time requests are met with a yes. From granola bars to graham crackers, his eyes start popping and his feet get to hopping and he’ll yell at the top of his lungs, “Cooooo-paaa! Mom said YES!!!”
We can forget containing his excitement if his desire is for sweets. He’ll dance in the aisle and sing in the streets for a dip of ice cream or a glass of strawberry milk. And if a piece of candy is what he’s eying, there’s nothing in life that could be more exhilarating than a nod of concession from mom.
Even in the midst of bowl full of Crispies, he’s asking about his next helping. And if mom says yes to a second yummy portion, that sweet, milky smile will slip across his face leaving a mom to revel in the joy she’s created with one simple word.
Sometimes no is a necessity; it simply can’t be avoided. But if the risk is less serious than injury or death, I’m willing to give my approval. After all, the grass will grow back and the windows can be washed and I really didn’t need that third pair of old tennis shoes. But the warmth in my heart when two proud, smiling boys bring me a dead Dandelion, planted in an old Reebok full of mud is a memory I’ll always treasure.
So when my gut starts to turn and my head starts to spin and I feel that old tug of reason, I just think of the fun a couple of brothers can have when the boundaries are lifted and the limits are stretched. I picture big, brown eyes and ear-to-ear smiles that no mother could dare disregard. And I hear the excitement in their voices as they shout in jubilation, “She said YES! She said YES! She said YES!”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Monday, October 6, 2008
Lessons learned the hard way
The differences in children can be so vast that it boggles the mind. Simple things like the way they eat and the way they play prove it’s true: no two are alike. So it comes as no surprise that they must be disciplined differently as well. For Cooper all it takes is a rational explanation, but Brisco is determined to keep things interesting. From always attempting to get the last word to learning every lesson the hard way, this kid is certainly preparing to make life a challenge.
When little boy Brisco was a little bit younger, it seemed he knew just how to get us in a tizzy. Each time he was corrected, he had a “But…” or a “Well…” just waiting in the wings to defend his behavior.
We tried to control his endless excuses by accepting one simple response to our chides: “OK.” However, he has since learned to anticipate our admonishment, and it seems he will use this comeback to quickly cut-off his parents’ counsel, even before we’re finished giving it. He’ll throw out a lively “OK”, and with a smile on his face, hurry along with his business.
And the number of times this child has refused his parents’ forewarnings are far too numerous to count. From hot stoves to hot wax to the crack in the refrigerator door-apparently if pain doesn’t accompany the admonition, a parent’s warning is simply unheeded.
I know all about truth and consequences and letting kids reap what they’ve sown. Lucky enough, it seems the cause and effect of almost any situation has a way of finding my baby and teaching him the lesson no time out or leather belt could ever match.
Small lessons that even Cooper can comprehend are far more effective when they come crashing down around him. Last night, for instance, I told Brisco not to shoot baskets on his goal when there are clothes hanging from the rim. He decided not to heed my warning until the five-foot goal, wet laundry and all, came tumbling over on top of him.
Other lessons, while somewhat painful, are still best learned the hard way. And if I’ve told him once I’ve told him a thousand times, we don’t go outside naked. But he refuses to listen and has the absurd inclination toward playing outdoors in the buff.
Aside from the laws of modesty and decency, I’ve tried to explain that a boy could get hurt playing unprotected from the elements in these late-summer days in Oklahoma. He refuses to listen, playing happily in the bushes, grass and dirt-enjoying being one with Mother Nature.
I had mixed emotions, then, when he came inside last week, itching and scratching from head to toe. It seemed the mosquitoes had found his stark-naked body the perfect milking ground for their last feast of the season. I hated to see him all spotted and whelped, and I felt my heart sink at yet another lesson he’d chosen to learn the hard way. But in spite of my feelings and empathy for the boy, I felt a twinge of satisfaction knowing that he had gotten just what he asked for. I reminded him gently and with a great big hug that “This is what happens when we play naked in the yard.” Through his tears and discomfort, he simply replied, “OK.”
While a parent can often let logical consequences be her guide in raising children, there are certain times when we simply must intervene. We’re just not willing to let a steak knife to the toe or a semi to the face be a teacher to our sweet baby boys.
So when curiosity calls and the devil on his shoulder is tempting him to go against the laws of nature and the commandments of mom, I pray that my child will use a little more discernment and a little more restraint. I hope that he will hear his mother’s voice giving sound advice in his head. And I certainly hope his big brother is nearby, to yell for help if it’s needed.
But most of all I hope we can teach him to rely on the counsel of those whom he loves; to trust that mom and dad will never lead him astray; and to believe that sometimes in life, there’s a better way than the hard way.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
When little boy Brisco was a little bit younger, it seemed he knew just how to get us in a tizzy. Each time he was corrected, he had a “But…” or a “Well…” just waiting in the wings to defend his behavior.
We tried to control his endless excuses by accepting one simple response to our chides: “OK.” However, he has since learned to anticipate our admonishment, and it seems he will use this comeback to quickly cut-off his parents’ counsel, even before we’re finished giving it. He’ll throw out a lively “OK”, and with a smile on his face, hurry along with his business.
And the number of times this child has refused his parents’ forewarnings are far too numerous to count. From hot stoves to hot wax to the crack in the refrigerator door-apparently if pain doesn’t accompany the admonition, a parent’s warning is simply unheeded.
I know all about truth and consequences and letting kids reap what they’ve sown. Lucky enough, it seems the cause and effect of almost any situation has a way of finding my baby and teaching him the lesson no time out or leather belt could ever match.
Small lessons that even Cooper can comprehend are far more effective when they come crashing down around him. Last night, for instance, I told Brisco not to shoot baskets on his goal when there are clothes hanging from the rim. He decided not to heed my warning until the five-foot goal, wet laundry and all, came tumbling over on top of him.
Other lessons, while somewhat painful, are still best learned the hard way. And if I’ve told him once I’ve told him a thousand times, we don’t go outside naked. But he refuses to listen and has the absurd inclination toward playing outdoors in the buff.
Aside from the laws of modesty and decency, I’ve tried to explain that a boy could get hurt playing unprotected from the elements in these late-summer days in Oklahoma. He refuses to listen, playing happily in the bushes, grass and dirt-enjoying being one with Mother Nature.
I had mixed emotions, then, when he came inside last week, itching and scratching from head to toe. It seemed the mosquitoes had found his stark-naked body the perfect milking ground for their last feast of the season. I hated to see him all spotted and whelped, and I felt my heart sink at yet another lesson he’d chosen to learn the hard way. But in spite of my feelings and empathy for the boy, I felt a twinge of satisfaction knowing that he had gotten just what he asked for. I reminded him gently and with a great big hug that “This is what happens when we play naked in the yard.” Through his tears and discomfort, he simply replied, “OK.”
While a parent can often let logical consequences be her guide in raising children, there are certain times when we simply must intervene. We’re just not willing to let a steak knife to the toe or a semi to the face be a teacher to our sweet baby boys.
So when curiosity calls and the devil on his shoulder is tempting him to go against the laws of nature and the commandments of mom, I pray that my child will use a little more discernment and a little more restraint. I hope that he will hear his mother’s voice giving sound advice in his head. And I certainly hope his big brother is nearby, to yell for help if it’s needed.
But most of all I hope we can teach him to rely on the counsel of those whom he loves; to trust that mom and dad will never lead him astray; and to believe that sometimes in life, there’s a better way than the hard way.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Watch this!
“Watch this mom! Did you see me? Did you watch it?”
There may be no other phrase in the history of parenthood that is so well weathered by children under five than the redundant and exhausting, “Watch this!” It seems that kids will master the expression and utilize it every chance they get.
Our boys engage in a lot of independent play. But sometimes, it seems a kid just needs an audience. Whether it’s “shunting cars and hauling freight”, driving racecars around the card-table race track, or just having a buddy to color with, our boys apparently receive more satisfaction from the activity if an adult gives a watchful eye.
Sometimes a brother is enough of a crowd to play up to. After all, one can always count on the other to laugh at whatever nonsensical joke has been uttered, as long as the punchline is (predictably) “poop”. And the ear-piercing, obnoxious, dying-pig snorts never fail to elicit a great big belly laugh from one another when all a parent wants to do is say “Shhh!”
Other times, nothing less than the full attention of a grown up will do. Last week Cooper asked me if I wanted to sit down at the table and watch him eat his breakfast. I told him, no thanks, that I thought he had it covered, and he continued on with his boiled eggs and bacon.
Brisco, on the other hand, is not so easily appeased. Just this morning, my attention was required as the boy spent 20 minutes trying to trap dust particles that were floating in a ray of sunshine coming through the living room window. It was a first discovery for him, and it seemed he needed a spectator for this special “Watch this!” debut.
Sometimes, a parent’s attentiveness is not so much required as it is just needed for an added laugh. Our kids have a habit of making silly faces, and the more eyes that are upon them, the sillier they seem to be. It’s become an actual contest to see which child can contort their bodies and faces into the most ridiculous of shapes and grimaces.
There are certain times when our kids are dying for us to watch, but only at their command. One day Cooper was playing in the equipment room at the ball park. I went to check on him, but he quickly shewed me away. It seems he didn’t want anyone to see him until he was good and ready, fully dressed-out in his “chesty” and “leggers”, with only his big brown eyes shining beneath that huge mask to identify him as the catcher.
Then there are the times when a parent’s attention is simply expected. Like the countless hours they spend rounding those bases in front of a crowd full of people-beating those throws and sliding into home. You can bet when the dust clears, the first face they are looking for in the crowd is mom’s. And with a wave or a thumb’s up and a baby-Bulldog smile, they are off again, without a care in the world but getting dirty and being safe at home, knowing that mom and dad are watching nearby. These are our prime-time “Watch this!” moments.
I know we’re lucky that they still want our attention. In another few years, they’ll focus on, “Are we there yet?” And soon after that, it will be all grunts and moans and the answer to every question we ask will be, “Fine.”
But these early years are the innocent ones when something as senseless as a finger up the nose or a double back flip with a two-dollar monster truck seems like the re-invention of the wheel, and there’s nobody with whom children wish to share these experiences more than the ones they love.
So for me, there’s no better way for a mom to spend her time than keeping one eye on the kid and one on the clock, as a simple reminder that before I can blink, these uncomplicated, unpredictable and unsurpassed days will be a thing of the past. “Watch this!”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
There may be no other phrase in the history of parenthood that is so well weathered by children under five than the redundant and exhausting, “Watch this!” It seems that kids will master the expression and utilize it every chance they get.
Our boys engage in a lot of independent play. But sometimes, it seems a kid just needs an audience. Whether it’s “shunting cars and hauling freight”, driving racecars around the card-table race track, or just having a buddy to color with, our boys apparently receive more satisfaction from the activity if an adult gives a watchful eye.
Sometimes a brother is enough of a crowd to play up to. After all, one can always count on the other to laugh at whatever nonsensical joke has been uttered, as long as the punchline is (predictably) “poop”. And the ear-piercing, obnoxious, dying-pig snorts never fail to elicit a great big belly laugh from one another when all a parent wants to do is say “Shhh!”
Other times, nothing less than the full attention of a grown up will do. Last week Cooper asked me if I wanted to sit down at the table and watch him eat his breakfast. I told him, no thanks, that I thought he had it covered, and he continued on with his boiled eggs and bacon.
Brisco, on the other hand, is not so easily appeased. Just this morning, my attention was required as the boy spent 20 minutes trying to trap dust particles that were floating in a ray of sunshine coming through the living room window. It was a first discovery for him, and it seemed he needed a spectator for this special “Watch this!” debut.
Sometimes, a parent’s attentiveness is not so much required as it is just needed for an added laugh. Our kids have a habit of making silly faces, and the more eyes that are upon them, the sillier they seem to be. It’s become an actual contest to see which child can contort their bodies and faces into the most ridiculous of shapes and grimaces.
There are certain times when our kids are dying for us to watch, but only at their command. One day Cooper was playing in the equipment room at the ball park. I went to check on him, but he quickly shewed me away. It seems he didn’t want anyone to see him until he was good and ready, fully dressed-out in his “chesty” and “leggers”, with only his big brown eyes shining beneath that huge mask to identify him as the catcher.
Then there are the times when a parent’s attention is simply expected. Like the countless hours they spend rounding those bases in front of a crowd full of people-beating those throws and sliding into home. You can bet when the dust clears, the first face they are looking for in the crowd is mom’s. And with a wave or a thumb’s up and a baby-Bulldog smile, they are off again, without a care in the world but getting dirty and being safe at home, knowing that mom and dad are watching nearby. These are our prime-time “Watch this!” moments.
I know we’re lucky that they still want our attention. In another few years, they’ll focus on, “Are we there yet?” And soon after that, it will be all grunts and moans and the answer to every question we ask will be, “Fine.”
But these early years are the innocent ones when something as senseless as a finger up the nose or a double back flip with a two-dollar monster truck seems like the re-invention of the wheel, and there’s nobody with whom children wish to share these experiences more than the ones they love.
So for me, there’s no better way for a mom to spend her time than keeping one eye on the kid and one on the clock, as a simple reminder that before I can blink, these uncomplicated, unpredictable and unsurpassed days will be a thing of the past. “Watch this!”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Animal house
I had a moment last week, between diapers and dishes, to sit leisurely and gaze out the back window, pondering the big picture of life. As I watched the boys and the dog chase each other tirelessly around the yard, it hit me that there are some aspects of raising kids that can be compared to nothing better than that of training animals.
It’s a given that with kids, especially when they are small, it often feels like we’re living in a zoo, talking to the animals, or attempting to “train” mindless creatures to perform culturally acceptable tricks. Let’s be honest, sometimes it’s just simply a circus. From standing on their heads in the middle of the kitchen to practicing their tightrope walking on the back of the couch, sometimes a mom just prays for a top hat and an elephant whip to appear out of thin air.
It seems there is all kinds of help out there these days. For horses we have the Horse Whisperer, for dogs, the Dog Whisperer. I think a Kid Whisperer sounds like an oxymoron, but I bet some of those talks they have with the animals would probably work on my children.
Brisco is a prime example of a child who is harder to train than a dog. Inevitably at bath time, I spend the entire time telling Brisco to “Sit!” He simply refuses to stay seated. So I squat there on my knees, wishing I had a pocket full of dog treats to give him if he should decide to obey. I’ve got a dog who can sit with just a hand signal. I could do the Macarena and my kid would still be standing there in the tub, just trying to find a way to fall and bust his head wide open.
I house trained my dog in a week. Our oldest kid was three years old and still pooping in the floor before he finally decided potties weren’t so bad. Now we’ve got a two and a half year old to convince.
I’ve seen people who dress their dogs in clothes. Heck, I’m ashamed to admit it, but before we had kids, I was guilty of putting Halloween costumes on our labs one year. But deep inside, I knew that my two, 80 pound Labradors would have rather been snipped than to face another canine in their bumble bee antennas and lady bug capes.
Evidently my youngest child feels quite the same about the garments I choose for him to wear, although it doesn’t take a humiliating insect costume to cause this boy to shed his gear. One day last week I told him to stand at the front door and watch for Daddy to come home. When I went to check on him, he was out in the front yard, naked from the waist down, singing, “Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home! I’m thinking his nickname should have been Free Willy.
I went to the ball field to pick the boys up on Sunday afternoon. I guess they needed a spot to cool off in, much like our dogs do in the heat of the summer when they dig in the dirt until they hit moist ground. They boys were shirtless and covered from head to toe with thick clods of mud-and splatters of mud-and mud they’d sucked right off their thumbs. I brought them home and pulled out the garden hose, much like I would do to their four-legged sister after a nice romp in the flowerbed. All I needed was a dog brush and a rawhide bone to shine up their coats and freshen their breath after a long hard day in the dirt.
It seems the similarities between kids and animals are endless. Maybe it’s because kids really are animals until we as parents tame them and train them to be the sweet little angels God created them to be. I’m hoping we start to see progress soon.
One thing’s for sure, much like the love of a good pet, there’s nothing better than a couple of little boys who like their ears tickled, their bellies rubbed, and give wet slobbery kisses. Even if they are a couple of animals.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
It’s a given that with kids, especially when they are small, it often feels like we’re living in a zoo, talking to the animals, or attempting to “train” mindless creatures to perform culturally acceptable tricks. Let’s be honest, sometimes it’s just simply a circus. From standing on their heads in the middle of the kitchen to practicing their tightrope walking on the back of the couch, sometimes a mom just prays for a top hat and an elephant whip to appear out of thin air.
It seems there is all kinds of help out there these days. For horses we have the Horse Whisperer, for dogs, the Dog Whisperer. I think a Kid Whisperer sounds like an oxymoron, but I bet some of those talks they have with the animals would probably work on my children.
Brisco is a prime example of a child who is harder to train than a dog. Inevitably at bath time, I spend the entire time telling Brisco to “Sit!” He simply refuses to stay seated. So I squat there on my knees, wishing I had a pocket full of dog treats to give him if he should decide to obey. I’ve got a dog who can sit with just a hand signal. I could do the Macarena and my kid would still be standing there in the tub, just trying to find a way to fall and bust his head wide open.
I house trained my dog in a week. Our oldest kid was three years old and still pooping in the floor before he finally decided potties weren’t so bad. Now we’ve got a two and a half year old to convince.
I’ve seen people who dress their dogs in clothes. Heck, I’m ashamed to admit it, but before we had kids, I was guilty of putting Halloween costumes on our labs one year. But deep inside, I knew that my two, 80 pound Labradors would have rather been snipped than to face another canine in their bumble bee antennas and lady bug capes.
Evidently my youngest child feels quite the same about the garments I choose for him to wear, although it doesn’t take a humiliating insect costume to cause this boy to shed his gear. One day last week I told him to stand at the front door and watch for Daddy to come home. When I went to check on him, he was out in the front yard, naked from the waist down, singing, “Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home! I’m thinking his nickname should have been Free Willy.
I went to the ball field to pick the boys up on Sunday afternoon. I guess they needed a spot to cool off in, much like our dogs do in the heat of the summer when they dig in the dirt until they hit moist ground. They boys were shirtless and covered from head to toe with thick clods of mud-and splatters of mud-and mud they’d sucked right off their thumbs. I brought them home and pulled out the garden hose, much like I would do to their four-legged sister after a nice romp in the flowerbed. All I needed was a dog brush and a rawhide bone to shine up their coats and freshen their breath after a long hard day in the dirt.
It seems the similarities between kids and animals are endless. Maybe it’s because kids really are animals until we as parents tame them and train them to be the sweet little angels God created them to be. I’m hoping we start to see progress soon.
One thing’s for sure, much like the love of a good pet, there’s nothing better than a couple of little boys who like their ears tickled, their bellies rubbed, and give wet slobbery kisses. Even if they are a couple of animals.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Sunday, September 14, 2008
"Brotherly love"
I get lots of stories from people like us who have raised little boys who are close in age. Almost always and seldom without fail, they are stories of love or hate: two little guys who can’t get enough of each other and grow into best friends for life, or a competitive, get outa my way, I’m doing this first and best kind of relationship that follows them all the way to the grave.
It seems when people speak of brotherly love, it is either the genuine, loyal, protective variety, or it’s the tongue in cheek, sarcasm that arises when they see two siblings duking it out in the school yard. A mother’s obvious choice is door number one, but sometimes-although it may be hard to believe-kids have a will of their own.
We’re trying to mold our boys into being the kind of brothers that the other can’t live without. Sometimes it seems to be working. From the time he was tiny to this very day, it never fails: the first words out of Brisco’s mouth every morning are, “Where’s Coopa?” And if Brisco dares take too long a nap in the afternoon, Cooper is beside himself for his first and best mate.
They play pretty well together, most of the time. They mimic one another at the drop of a hat, and that door swings both ways. I always tell Cooper his little brother is watching, but the truth is, Cooper is watching too. If the little show-off does something to get a laugh from the crowd, you can bet the big show-off will try the same trick.
They are starting to display their manly nature and wrestle with each other as boys enjoy doing. Cooper is bigger and can do more damage, but Brisco is really pretty tough; he always takes more than I expect. They call their game (created by dad) “tackle down” and it helps fill the baseball off-season with a little mid-winter football fun in the yard. All bundled up in mittens and layered down to their skivvies, they get out in that cold winter air, dad on his knees, and play football-one man per team. I guess Brisco will be big enough to really take some hits this year.
My favorite shows of brotherly love are those precious moments when I catch them hugging, in genuine adoration and appreciation for each other. It melts a mother’s heart-but it doesn’t leave a mess-because this Hallmark moment never lasts more than a second before one of them is squeezing too tight in an effort to “smash his head like a pancake”, or some other fun experiment that boys seem to like to try.
On Saturday we were at the ball field helping Dad with some field work. He put out the slip and slide so the boys would have something fun to do, but when the excitement of that wore off, all they really wanted to do was “help”. I could only admire the way they were working together to pull out a couple of hundred pound push mowers: one in front pulling away, and one in back pushing and spouting directions. It reminded me a lot of me and their dad. But they were working together toward a common goal, and they’d had no intervention from the grown ups.
I glanced at them once, and they were pushing those lawn mowers around the bases as fast as their tiny legs would move. Then next time I looked up I saw that Cooper had high-centered on the infield grass and Brisco was halfway to the centerfield fence. But they had done it together, and you can bet they thought they were doing their part to pitch in.
On those rare occasions when I hear them say, “I love you” or when I witness kindness and compassion after an accident or a fall, I know that God’s plan to give us these two little boys-so closely together in time and space-was just another example of His mark of genius.
After surviving the craziness of that first year, I can’t imagine today having one without the other following closely behind. The first saying, “Come on, Bisco, I’ll teach you how to pee off the porch.” And the other saying, “But Coopa, I want to wash the window.”
Yes, there is something almost perfect about having a live-in playmate-one who adores your every move, will follow you to the ends of the earth, and will sell you out to mom in an instant for five seconds with his favorite race car. But that’s brotherly love for ya.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
It seems when people speak of brotherly love, it is either the genuine, loyal, protective variety, or it’s the tongue in cheek, sarcasm that arises when they see two siblings duking it out in the school yard. A mother’s obvious choice is door number one, but sometimes-although it may be hard to believe-kids have a will of their own.
We’re trying to mold our boys into being the kind of brothers that the other can’t live without. Sometimes it seems to be working. From the time he was tiny to this very day, it never fails: the first words out of Brisco’s mouth every morning are, “Where’s Coopa?” And if Brisco dares take too long a nap in the afternoon, Cooper is beside himself for his first and best mate.
They play pretty well together, most of the time. They mimic one another at the drop of a hat, and that door swings both ways. I always tell Cooper his little brother is watching, but the truth is, Cooper is watching too. If the little show-off does something to get a laugh from the crowd, you can bet the big show-off will try the same trick.
They are starting to display their manly nature and wrestle with each other as boys enjoy doing. Cooper is bigger and can do more damage, but Brisco is really pretty tough; he always takes more than I expect. They call their game (created by dad) “tackle down” and it helps fill the baseball off-season with a little mid-winter football fun in the yard. All bundled up in mittens and layered down to their skivvies, they get out in that cold winter air, dad on his knees, and play football-one man per team. I guess Brisco will be big enough to really take some hits this year.
My favorite shows of brotherly love are those precious moments when I catch them hugging, in genuine adoration and appreciation for each other. It melts a mother’s heart-but it doesn’t leave a mess-because this Hallmark moment never lasts more than a second before one of them is squeezing too tight in an effort to “smash his head like a pancake”, or some other fun experiment that boys seem to like to try.
On Saturday we were at the ball field helping Dad with some field work. He put out the slip and slide so the boys would have something fun to do, but when the excitement of that wore off, all they really wanted to do was “help”. I could only admire the way they were working together to pull out a couple of hundred pound push mowers: one in front pulling away, and one in back pushing and spouting directions. It reminded me a lot of me and their dad. But they were working together toward a common goal, and they’d had no intervention from the grown ups.
I glanced at them once, and they were pushing those lawn mowers around the bases as fast as their tiny legs would move. Then next time I looked up I saw that Cooper had high-centered on the infield grass and Brisco was halfway to the centerfield fence. But they had done it together, and you can bet they thought they were doing their part to pitch in.
On those rare occasions when I hear them say, “I love you” or when I witness kindness and compassion after an accident or a fall, I know that God’s plan to give us these two little boys-so closely together in time and space-was just another example of His mark of genius.
After surviving the craziness of that first year, I can’t imagine today having one without the other following closely behind. The first saying, “Come on, Bisco, I’ll teach you how to pee off the porch.” And the other saying, “But Coopa, I want to wash the window.”
Yes, there is something almost perfect about having a live-in playmate-one who adores your every move, will follow you to the ends of the earth, and will sell you out to mom in an instant for five seconds with his favorite race car. But that’s brotherly love for ya.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Supermom
I was never really into superheroes as a kid. I guess I liked Superman alright, but something about a bat-man and a spider-man just didn’t peak my interest. I came along after the days of the real comic book heroes, so all I knew of them growing up was whatever was still being printed in the Sunday paper, or whatever had been adapted for the silver screen.
It wasn’t until I had kids that I realized how far off those super heroes of the past (and present) really are. Sure, they can reverse time, sleep upside down in a cave and shoot webs out of their wrists. But can they raise kids? This is the kind of super hero I’m interested in.
The kind of heroine who cooks supper, sews a prom dress and gives the baby a bath all at the same time. The kind of superwoman who never runs out of milk and eggs, remembers to send birthday cards to all four of her best friend’s children, and takes hand rolled cannoli to the homeless-all in her spare time. Yes, Supermom, as I would call her, could do all of these things and more.
This Superwoman of motherhood brings to mind a good humored, but all so true email I received from a fellow Supermom friend of mine. I’m sure any mother (or father) can attest to its accuracy.
“Why I love mom”
Mom and Dad were watching TV when Mom said, “I’m tired, and it’s getting late. I think I’ll go to bed”.
She went to the kitchen to make sandwiches for the next day’s lunch, rinsed out the popcorn bowls, took meat out of the freezer for supper the following evening, checked the cereal box levels, filled the sugar container, put spoons and bowls on the table and started the coffee pot for brewing the next morning. She then put some wet clothes in the dryer, put a load of clothes into the washer, ironed a shirt and secured a loose button.
She picked up the game pieces left on the table, put the phone back on the charger and put the telephone book into the drawer. She watered the plants, emptied a wastebasket and hung up a towel to dry.
She yawned and stretched and headed for the bedroom. She stopped by the desk, wrote a note to the teacher, counted out some cash for the field trip, and pulled a textbook out from hiding under the chair.
She signed a birthday card for a friend, addressed and stamped the envelope and wrote a quick note for the grocery store. She put both near her purse.
Mom then washed her face with three-in-one cleanser, put on her night solution and age fighting moisturizer, brushed and flossed her teeth and filed her nails.
Dad called out, “I thought you were going to bed?”
“I’m on my way,” she said.
She put some water into the dog’s dish, and then made sure the doors were locked and the patio light was on.
She looked in on each of the kids and turned out their bedside lamps and TVs , hung up a shirt, threw some dirty socks into the hamper, and had a brief conversation with the one up, still doing homework.
In her own room, she set the alarm, laid out clothing for the next day, and straightened up the shoe rack. She added three things to her six most important things to do list. She said her prayers, and visualized the accomplishment of her goals.
About that time, Dad turned off the TV and announced to no one in particular, “I’m going to bed”.
And he did.~
Now that I’m a mother, I could sure use a little help from this Supermom. Leaping tall (Lego) buildings in a single bound would be kind of nice. And mom-handling my two little villains when they get out of line would certainly be easier if I was made of steel. Of course I’m sure my boys would manage to dig up a lifetime supply of kryptonite buried in the bushes in Grandmother’s yard. Oh well, a mother can always dream.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
It wasn’t until I had kids that I realized how far off those super heroes of the past (and present) really are. Sure, they can reverse time, sleep upside down in a cave and shoot webs out of their wrists. But can they raise kids? This is the kind of super hero I’m interested in.
The kind of heroine who cooks supper, sews a prom dress and gives the baby a bath all at the same time. The kind of superwoman who never runs out of milk and eggs, remembers to send birthday cards to all four of her best friend’s children, and takes hand rolled cannoli to the homeless-all in her spare time. Yes, Supermom, as I would call her, could do all of these things and more.
This Superwoman of motherhood brings to mind a good humored, but all so true email I received from a fellow Supermom friend of mine. I’m sure any mother (or father) can attest to its accuracy.
“Why I love mom”
Mom and Dad were watching TV when Mom said, “I’m tired, and it’s getting late. I think I’ll go to bed”.
She went to the kitchen to make sandwiches for the next day’s lunch, rinsed out the popcorn bowls, took meat out of the freezer for supper the following evening, checked the cereal box levels, filled the sugar container, put spoons and bowls on the table and started the coffee pot for brewing the next morning. She then put some wet clothes in the dryer, put a load of clothes into the washer, ironed a shirt and secured a loose button.
She picked up the game pieces left on the table, put the phone back on the charger and put the telephone book into the drawer. She watered the plants, emptied a wastebasket and hung up a towel to dry.
She yawned and stretched and headed for the bedroom. She stopped by the desk, wrote a note to the teacher, counted out some cash for the field trip, and pulled a textbook out from hiding under the chair.
She signed a birthday card for a friend, addressed and stamped the envelope and wrote a quick note for the grocery store. She put both near her purse.
Mom then washed her face with three-in-one cleanser, put on her night solution and age fighting moisturizer, brushed and flossed her teeth and filed her nails.
Dad called out, “I thought you were going to bed?”
“I’m on my way,” she said.
She put some water into the dog’s dish, and then made sure the doors were locked and the patio light was on.
She looked in on each of the kids and turned out their bedside lamps and TVs , hung up a shirt, threw some dirty socks into the hamper, and had a brief conversation with the one up, still doing homework.
In her own room, she set the alarm, laid out clothing for the next day, and straightened up the shoe rack. She added three things to her six most important things to do list. She said her prayers, and visualized the accomplishment of her goals.
About that time, Dad turned off the TV and announced to no one in particular, “I’m going to bed”.
And he did.~
Now that I’m a mother, I could sure use a little help from this Supermom. Leaping tall (Lego) buildings in a single bound would be kind of nice. And mom-handling my two little villains when they get out of line would certainly be easier if I was made of steel. Of course I’m sure my boys would manage to dig up a lifetime supply of kryptonite buried in the bushes in Grandmother’s yard. Oh well, a mother can always dream.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Cow-boy
I never said I was a farm girl. I lived in the country for a while as a young kid, and I liked climbing trees and playing in the creek and doing the kind of things that some girls wouldn’t. But a farm girl I am not.
My husband, on the other hand, was born in a barn. Well, almost. He was actually raised, the majority of his life, on or near his family’s dairy farm. He worked in the barn and helped milk the cows and did the FFA thing-the whole nine yards. It wasn’t until we’d been married many years that I discovered by chance that his favorite animal is a cow. A cow? Seriously?
I decided I wouldn’t let that kind of information sneak up on me again. I figured if I was going to raise a couple of boys, I wanted to know up front what their tendencies were going to be, at least regarding the world of animals. So I started paying attention and doing my part to sway them to my way of thinking.
We’ve always had dogs, since the boys have been around. Our first dog was a give away and Randy never gave her much thought, other than to name her sweet “Lucille” after the show-stopping character in his favorite movie Cool Hand Luke. But after her untimely death and my near devastation, it was his idea to get our second pet, Bessie, a registered yellow Labrador retriever. (For some reason, being registered seemed to make her more desirable to my bovine loving hubby.)
We loved her to death, but her playful nature demanded that she be presented with a playmate. And that’s when we got Shelby, the slobbering, digging, a little on the healthy side Lab that was a bit more of a snowball than her sis.
When the boys came along, the dogs were all they knew. Oh, there was a cat or two that used to hang around the place. We’d feed them so they’d stay and chase off the mice, but I would certainly never call them pets. But of course kids are curious; they want to see and touch and hold everything that intrigues them, so they had to learn the hard way that cats have claws and hissing is what they do when you pull too hard on their tails.
I figured with incidents like this, (and subliminal messages about Mad Cow Disease piped through their bedrooms while they slept) it would be a definite that they’d take after their mom and be dog-lovers for life, forget those smelly ole fly-magnets that could kill you in an instant if they ever had the want to.
However, and to my dismay, I think my oldest son could be the first to prove me wrong. It never fails, on trips to Mamaw and Papaw’s, he is the first one to rush out to the barn and beg to be given a chore to help Uncle Billy with the milking. Whether he’s taste-testing the feed, or just crouching down to get a boy’s-eye-view of the automatic milkers, he seems right at home in the middle of all that smelly mess.
And he has no qualms about drinking the fresh milk right out of the tank. He’s not afraid to let the calves eat out of his hand, and when it’s time to go home, he loves to get up on the stool in the kitchen and watch that rich, milky cream turn to butter.
It’s strange how some things just seem to come ingrained in our children. Very seldom do we get to that milk barn, and it is definitely the only time we are near or around cattle, but Cooper is right at home, every time. Just like his dad.
Brisco’s still a bit small to be too excited about a huge ole heifer, so maybe there’s hope that he will be a dog lover like me. I don’t know, though. Seems to me “dog-boy” has a little less appeal than “cow-boy”. Maybe I’ll concede the loss and give in…just this once.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
My husband, on the other hand, was born in a barn. Well, almost. He was actually raised, the majority of his life, on or near his family’s dairy farm. He worked in the barn and helped milk the cows and did the FFA thing-the whole nine yards. It wasn’t until we’d been married many years that I discovered by chance that his favorite animal is a cow. A cow? Seriously?
I decided I wouldn’t let that kind of information sneak up on me again. I figured if I was going to raise a couple of boys, I wanted to know up front what their tendencies were going to be, at least regarding the world of animals. So I started paying attention and doing my part to sway them to my way of thinking.
We’ve always had dogs, since the boys have been around. Our first dog was a give away and Randy never gave her much thought, other than to name her sweet “Lucille” after the show-stopping character in his favorite movie Cool Hand Luke. But after her untimely death and my near devastation, it was his idea to get our second pet, Bessie, a registered yellow Labrador retriever. (For some reason, being registered seemed to make her more desirable to my bovine loving hubby.)
We loved her to death, but her playful nature demanded that she be presented with a playmate. And that’s when we got Shelby, the slobbering, digging, a little on the healthy side Lab that was a bit more of a snowball than her sis.
When the boys came along, the dogs were all they knew. Oh, there was a cat or two that used to hang around the place. We’d feed them so they’d stay and chase off the mice, but I would certainly never call them pets. But of course kids are curious; they want to see and touch and hold everything that intrigues them, so they had to learn the hard way that cats have claws and hissing is what they do when you pull too hard on their tails.
I figured with incidents like this, (and subliminal messages about Mad Cow Disease piped through their bedrooms while they slept) it would be a definite that they’d take after their mom and be dog-lovers for life, forget those smelly ole fly-magnets that could kill you in an instant if they ever had the want to.
However, and to my dismay, I think my oldest son could be the first to prove me wrong. It never fails, on trips to Mamaw and Papaw’s, he is the first one to rush out to the barn and beg to be given a chore to help Uncle Billy with the milking. Whether he’s taste-testing the feed, or just crouching down to get a boy’s-eye-view of the automatic milkers, he seems right at home in the middle of all that smelly mess.
And he has no qualms about drinking the fresh milk right out of the tank. He’s not afraid to let the calves eat out of his hand, and when it’s time to go home, he loves to get up on the stool in the kitchen and watch that rich, milky cream turn to butter.
It’s strange how some things just seem to come ingrained in our children. Very seldom do we get to that milk barn, and it is definitely the only time we are near or around cattle, but Cooper is right at home, every time. Just like his dad.
Brisco’s still a bit small to be too excited about a huge ole heifer, so maybe there’s hope that he will be a dog lover like me. I don’t know, though. Seems to me “dog-boy” has a little less appeal than “cow-boy”. Maybe I’ll concede the loss and give in…just this once.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Why God made moms
I’ve always admired elementary school teachers. They perform some of the most important jobs on earth with some of the most unpredictable clients known to man.
At the beginning of the school year, their product is perfect in design; however, each design is uniquely different. All of their precious goods come from different factories and have their own unique packaging. They each have a pre-programmed performance mechanism that they as the teacher are responsible for shaping and developing into a top of the line commodity.
Some clients walk in the door groomed to the nines, already experts in the necessities of life, like tying their shoes and wiping their own bottoms. Others are more timid and unseasoned, a bit frightened by the many tasks and adventures that lie ahead in this place called “school”.
But some way, some how, these leaders, these shapers of our children’s minds accept the task as hand. They teach each child-different as they are-their letters, their numbers, their colors and their names. They teach them to count and to read, to sing and to play ball.
And in the midst of all this, they have time to ask thought provoking questions of our little wonders. Some questions to which we as adults may take for granted having always known the answers. And others that we just might have been afraid to ask.
So to all the creators and shapers of young minds who do their jobs for the children and because they love it, the answers to the following questions will come as no surprise. From someone who admires and respects the job they do, thanks for asking the questions.
“Why God Made Moms”
Answers given by 2nd grade school children
1. Why did God make mothers?
-She’s the only one who knows where the scotch tape is.
-Mostly to clean the house.
-To help us out of there when we were getting born.
2. How did God make mothers?
-He used dirt, just like for the rest of us.
-Magic plus super powers and a lot of stirring.
-God made my Mom just the same like he made me. He just used bigger parts.
3. Of what ingredients are mothers made?
-God makes mothers out of clouds and angel hair and everything nice in the world and one dab of mean.
-They had to get their start from men’s bones. Then they mostly use string, I think.
4. Why did God give you your mother and not some other mom?
-We’re related.
-God knew she likes me a lot more than other people’s moms like me.
5. What kind of little girl was your mom?
-My Mom has always been my mom and none of that other stuff.
-I don’t know because I wasn’t there, but my guess would be pretty bossy.
-They say she used to be nice.
6. What did mom need to know about dad before she married him?
-His last name.
-She had to know his background. Like is he a crook? Does he get drunk on beer?
-Does he make at least $800 a year? Did he say NO to drugs and YES to chores?
7. Why did your mom marry your dad?
-My dad makes the best spaghetti in the world. And my Mom eats a lot.
-She got too old to do anything else with him.
-My grandma says that Mom didn’t have her thinking cap on.
8. Who’s the boss at your house?
-Mom doesn’t want to be boss, but she has to because dad’s such a goof ball.
-Mom. You can tell by room inspection. She sees the stuff under the bed.
-I guess Mom is, but only because she has a lot more to do than dad.
9. What’s the difference between moms and dads?
-Moms work at work and work at home and dads just go to work at work.
-Moms know how to talk to teachers without scaring them.
-Dads are taller and stronger, but moms have all the real power ‘cause that’s who you got to ask if you want to sleep over at your friend’s.
-Moms have magic; they make you feel better without medicine.
10. What does your mom do in her spare time?
-Mothers don’t do spare time.
-To hear her tell it, she pays bills all day long.
11. What would it take to make your mom perfect?
-On the inside she’s already perfect. Outside, I think some kind of plastic surgery.
-Diet. You know, her hair. I’d diet, maybe blue.
12. If you could change one thing about your mom, what would it be?
-She has this weird thing about me keeping my room clean. I’d get rid of that.
-I’d make my mom smarter. Then she would know it was my sister who did it and not me.
-I would like for her to get rid of those invisible eyes on the back of her head.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
At the beginning of the school year, their product is perfect in design; however, each design is uniquely different. All of their precious goods come from different factories and have their own unique packaging. They each have a pre-programmed performance mechanism that they as the teacher are responsible for shaping and developing into a top of the line commodity.
Some clients walk in the door groomed to the nines, already experts in the necessities of life, like tying their shoes and wiping their own bottoms. Others are more timid and unseasoned, a bit frightened by the many tasks and adventures that lie ahead in this place called “school”.
But some way, some how, these leaders, these shapers of our children’s minds accept the task as hand. They teach each child-different as they are-their letters, their numbers, their colors and their names. They teach them to count and to read, to sing and to play ball.
And in the midst of all this, they have time to ask thought provoking questions of our little wonders. Some questions to which we as adults may take for granted having always known the answers. And others that we just might have been afraid to ask.
So to all the creators and shapers of young minds who do their jobs for the children and because they love it, the answers to the following questions will come as no surprise. From someone who admires and respects the job they do, thanks for asking the questions.
“Why God Made Moms”
Answers given by 2nd grade school children
1. Why did God make mothers?
-She’s the only one who knows where the scotch tape is.
-Mostly to clean the house.
-To help us out of there when we were getting born.
2. How did God make mothers?
-He used dirt, just like for the rest of us.
-Magic plus super powers and a lot of stirring.
-God made my Mom just the same like he made me. He just used bigger parts.
3. Of what ingredients are mothers made?
-God makes mothers out of clouds and angel hair and everything nice in the world and one dab of mean.
-They had to get their start from men’s bones. Then they mostly use string, I think.
4. Why did God give you your mother and not some other mom?
-We’re related.
-God knew she likes me a lot more than other people’s moms like me.
5. What kind of little girl was your mom?
-My Mom has always been my mom and none of that other stuff.
-I don’t know because I wasn’t there, but my guess would be pretty bossy.
-They say she used to be nice.
6. What did mom need to know about dad before she married him?
-His last name.
-She had to know his background. Like is he a crook? Does he get drunk on beer?
-Does he make at least $800 a year? Did he say NO to drugs and YES to chores?
7. Why did your mom marry your dad?
-My dad makes the best spaghetti in the world. And my Mom eats a lot.
-She got too old to do anything else with him.
-My grandma says that Mom didn’t have her thinking cap on.
8. Who’s the boss at your house?
-Mom doesn’t want to be boss, but she has to because dad’s such a goof ball.
-Mom. You can tell by room inspection. She sees the stuff under the bed.
-I guess Mom is, but only because she has a lot more to do than dad.
9. What’s the difference between moms and dads?
-Moms work at work and work at home and dads just go to work at work.
-Moms know how to talk to teachers without scaring them.
-Dads are taller and stronger, but moms have all the real power ‘cause that’s who you got to ask if you want to sleep over at your friend’s.
-Moms have magic; they make you feel better without medicine.
10. What does your mom do in her spare time?
-Mothers don’t do spare time.
-To hear her tell it, she pays bills all day long.
11. What would it take to make your mom perfect?
-On the inside she’s already perfect. Outside, I think some kind of plastic surgery.
-Diet. You know, her hair. I’d diet, maybe blue.
12. If you could change one thing about your mom, what would it be?
-She has this weird thing about me keeping my room clean. I’d get rid of that.
-I’d make my mom smarter. Then she would know it was my sister who did it and not me.
-I would like for her to get rid of those invisible eyes on the back of her head.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
The age of the ring bearer
It seems we’ve entered the age of the ring bearer: the time in a young boy’s life when he first becomes uniquely qualified to hold an important and public position. You know, a little person, able to walk, and with a strong inclination toward causing a scene. That’s us in a nutshell.
Our first official hire was last September, when Randy’s cousin got married in Ft. Worth. Cooper’s services had been requested.
We agreed we’d try, without making any promises, and in the weeks prior to the wedding, we talked about his responsibilities as much as possible. After all, there’s only so much preparation a (then) two year old can do for an occasion that he really has no chance of comprehending. But we did our best, told him that good behavior would probably get him a fast race car or a big truck, and hoped and prayed that was all the boy needed to be on his best behavior.
We decided to make the experience an adventure just for mother and son, so we packed our suitcases, stocked the car with goodies for the drive, and headed south to see what kind of damage we might do at this formal, country-club affair.
We left Friday morning plenty early to make it to our destination on time. I allowed for all the necessary stretch breaks and diaper breaks, and packed dozens of DVD’s for the drive. I figured we would make the most of the 5 hour expedition, enjoy our one-on-one time together, and report for duty with time to spare. But of course I’d never been on a long road trip alone with a kid before.
We cruised for an hour or so, taking full advantage of the ranch style Chex Mix and peanut butter crackers. Little Einstein was flying along beside us on the DVD, and I thought to myself, “Wow, this is going to be easy.” But it seems I broke Cardinal Rule Number One in the karmic book of Mommy Kismet because just as I was settling in and thinking about the possibility of a quick shopping spree at the outlet mall, Cooper started crying for no apparent reason. This is pretty atypical behavior for him, especially in the car, but it only took a few seconds for me to discover what it was that had him so upset. Just as we were cruising past the town of Moore, he “coughed” all over the back seat.
As luck would have it, bad luck I mean, we were driving through one of those black holes on the interstate where there is absolutely no place to exit. I couldn’t safely slow down to the shoulder, so we had no other option but to keep on driving. After four or five heaves, about a thousand, “Oh, honey, I’m sorry’s”, and a backseat full of undigested, fully fragrant travel snacks, we finally made it to a pungent little taco shack where we changed clothes, cleaned up, and tried to figure out what to do next.
Fortunately, his stomach settled, we eliminated some of our more tangy treats, and the rest of our trip was painless. At that point, I figured performing in a wedding would be a breeze. And for the most part, it was.
The moment arrived for the kids to do their thing. Cooper was a little unsure about walking down the aisle with all those eyes upon him. After all, he is his father’s son. But he’d been promised that at the end of that “hall” was a very fast race car waiting in his cousin Brant’s suit pocket. All he had to do was get there.
And get there he did. Chin ducked, eyes peering out the top of his forehead, carrying his pillow and looking handsome all the way. And when he made it to the front, he sunk his hand into Brant’s pocket, laid down on the floor in front of the groomsmen, and drove the wheels off of that speedster.
Since then, we’ve been asked for an encore appearance and a third performance after that, each with their own unique, Cooper-style and Brisco-flavor. Of course I’m a nervous wreck every time. “Wedding crasher” is certainly not a reputation I wish for either of my sons to acquire.
But I guess these brides and grooms know what they are getting into. Or maybe they don’t-the most recent wedding we attended this summer had Cooper and Brisco standing at the front of a church full of lit candles wrapped in tulle.
Of course they kept things interesting, and entertain the crowd, and years from now, they can look back at the pictures and wonder what in the world they were doing in a tie. But that’s the age of the ring bearer: a moment in time when cuteness counts, being a cut-up is ok, and as long as they don’t burn the church down or tear the wedding dress off the bride, the whole thing is considered a success. Well, pretty much.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Our first official hire was last September, when Randy’s cousin got married in Ft. Worth. Cooper’s services had been requested.
We agreed we’d try, without making any promises, and in the weeks prior to the wedding, we talked about his responsibilities as much as possible. After all, there’s only so much preparation a (then) two year old can do for an occasion that he really has no chance of comprehending. But we did our best, told him that good behavior would probably get him a fast race car or a big truck, and hoped and prayed that was all the boy needed to be on his best behavior.
We decided to make the experience an adventure just for mother and son, so we packed our suitcases, stocked the car with goodies for the drive, and headed south to see what kind of damage we might do at this formal, country-club affair.
We left Friday morning plenty early to make it to our destination on time. I allowed for all the necessary stretch breaks and diaper breaks, and packed dozens of DVD’s for the drive. I figured we would make the most of the 5 hour expedition, enjoy our one-on-one time together, and report for duty with time to spare. But of course I’d never been on a long road trip alone with a kid before.
We cruised for an hour or so, taking full advantage of the ranch style Chex Mix and peanut butter crackers. Little Einstein was flying along beside us on the DVD, and I thought to myself, “Wow, this is going to be easy.” But it seems I broke Cardinal Rule Number One in the karmic book of Mommy Kismet because just as I was settling in and thinking about the possibility of a quick shopping spree at the outlet mall, Cooper started crying for no apparent reason. This is pretty atypical behavior for him, especially in the car, but it only took a few seconds for me to discover what it was that had him so upset. Just as we were cruising past the town of Moore, he “coughed” all over the back seat.
As luck would have it, bad luck I mean, we were driving through one of those black holes on the interstate where there is absolutely no place to exit. I couldn’t safely slow down to the shoulder, so we had no other option but to keep on driving. After four or five heaves, about a thousand, “Oh, honey, I’m sorry’s”, and a backseat full of undigested, fully fragrant travel snacks, we finally made it to a pungent little taco shack where we changed clothes, cleaned up, and tried to figure out what to do next.
Fortunately, his stomach settled, we eliminated some of our more tangy treats, and the rest of our trip was painless. At that point, I figured performing in a wedding would be a breeze. And for the most part, it was.
The moment arrived for the kids to do their thing. Cooper was a little unsure about walking down the aisle with all those eyes upon him. After all, he is his father’s son. But he’d been promised that at the end of that “hall” was a very fast race car waiting in his cousin Brant’s suit pocket. All he had to do was get there.
And get there he did. Chin ducked, eyes peering out the top of his forehead, carrying his pillow and looking handsome all the way. And when he made it to the front, he sunk his hand into Brant’s pocket, laid down on the floor in front of the groomsmen, and drove the wheels off of that speedster.
Since then, we’ve been asked for an encore appearance and a third performance after that, each with their own unique, Cooper-style and Brisco-flavor. Of course I’m a nervous wreck every time. “Wedding crasher” is certainly not a reputation I wish for either of my sons to acquire.
But I guess these brides and grooms know what they are getting into. Or maybe they don’t-the most recent wedding we attended this summer had Cooper and Brisco standing at the front of a church full of lit candles wrapped in tulle.
Of course they kept things interesting, and entertain the crowd, and years from now, they can look back at the pictures and wonder what in the world they were doing in a tie. But that’s the age of the ring bearer: a moment in time when cuteness counts, being a cut-up is ok, and as long as they don’t burn the church down or tear the wedding dress off the bride, the whole thing is considered a success. Well, pretty much.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Communication made simple
Living in a house with two little kids, there’s no mincing words. Toddlers “don’t do” tact, and their vocabulary is quite limited, so there’s really no other option but for them to communicate simply and call things as they see them. Cooper is a prime example.
When he decided he wanted to learn to count, he was off and running. But when I introduced him to written numbers, he stumbled a little when he got past 10. See, to him, the number 1 is “one”. So shouldn’t that mean number 11 is “one dee one”? And likewise, shouldn’t 12 be “one dee two”, and so on? The boy simply wanted to say it as he saw it.
That really got me thinking: How much simpler would life be if we could all communicate so easily and to the point? With only a little “dee” or a “a la” stuck in here and there, is it possible that we really could all just get along?
Like those annoying little habits our spouses pick up over the years. We let them slip by in the beginning because we love them and all of life is a honeymoon, but eventually time passes and the new wears off, and all those cute little quirks they had in the beginning simply become intolerable. It seems to me a furrowed brow and a quick “no nose-dee-picking in public” should be enough to get the point across. Or a one time clothes pin to the nostrils and a little “toot a la shoo shoo” done once in the company of others—maybe that would leave an impression? Wouldn’t life be sweet if we could just communicate like our kids?
Brisco has almost mastered this concept. His latest is to let me know that “Daddy’s spankings are harder” than the ones I seem to administer. Of course he usually informs me of this with tears streaming down his face after a couple of swats given by his weakling of a mother.
Sometimes his communication is so simple that it borders on the insane. For example, if I ask him why he took a crayon and scribbled all over Grandmother’s kitchen table, his response might be, “Because I did.” Or if I ask why he likes to curl up his nose and talk like a duck with his bill stapled shut, he might say, “Because I do.” I can’t wait till he uses that kind of reasoning on an English teacher someday.
Cooper, on the other hand, is always inventing new and ingenious ways to say the simple. It is usually entertaining and quite satisfying to hear such uncomplicated, direct descriptions of things we use everyday. For example, his favorite tool is a “tap tap” that he uses for (what else) tapping nails into place. He likes the “twister” for working on screws, and what other than a “shooter” would be used for bundling all those stacks of newspapers.
I’ve been told by my boys that I’m mean, that I’m silly, and that their daddy is stinky. Well, they are right on all counts. And none of their straightforward comments were intended to do anything but convey simple thoughts, directly and precisely. I’m glad I’m taking notes.
In a world full of commercial disclaimers, fine print, and political repartee, it’s refreshing to know we can still sit down with those we love and have an honest exchange about the important things in life. Like why mommy “keeps making the squash when she knows I don’t like it”, or discussing the universal experience of “when there are boogers in my nose, I have to get them out.”
It’s nice to know someone is shooting straight with me when they call a pimple an “owie”, or say that my legs feel “stickery”, or that I need to “clean up this dirty kitchen”. It’s painfully necessary to hear the cold hard truth after I lose my patience and raise my voice, and see the honest looks on their faces that tell me a chapter full of stories I’d rather not hear.
Yes, children will call it like they see it, say it like they mean it, and leave no room for misinterpretation. What a blessing it is to have children in our lives to remind us that communication really is that simple.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
When he decided he wanted to learn to count, he was off and running. But when I introduced him to written numbers, he stumbled a little when he got past 10. See, to him, the number 1 is “one”. So shouldn’t that mean number 11 is “one dee one”? And likewise, shouldn’t 12 be “one dee two”, and so on? The boy simply wanted to say it as he saw it.
That really got me thinking: How much simpler would life be if we could all communicate so easily and to the point? With only a little “dee” or a “a la” stuck in here and there, is it possible that we really could all just get along?
Like those annoying little habits our spouses pick up over the years. We let them slip by in the beginning because we love them and all of life is a honeymoon, but eventually time passes and the new wears off, and all those cute little quirks they had in the beginning simply become intolerable. It seems to me a furrowed brow and a quick “no nose-dee-picking in public” should be enough to get the point across. Or a one time clothes pin to the nostrils and a little “toot a la shoo shoo” done once in the company of others—maybe that would leave an impression? Wouldn’t life be sweet if we could just communicate like our kids?
Brisco has almost mastered this concept. His latest is to let me know that “Daddy’s spankings are harder” than the ones I seem to administer. Of course he usually informs me of this with tears streaming down his face after a couple of swats given by his weakling of a mother.
Sometimes his communication is so simple that it borders on the insane. For example, if I ask him why he took a crayon and scribbled all over Grandmother’s kitchen table, his response might be, “Because I did.” Or if I ask why he likes to curl up his nose and talk like a duck with his bill stapled shut, he might say, “Because I do.” I can’t wait till he uses that kind of reasoning on an English teacher someday.
Cooper, on the other hand, is always inventing new and ingenious ways to say the simple. It is usually entertaining and quite satisfying to hear such uncomplicated, direct descriptions of things we use everyday. For example, his favorite tool is a “tap tap” that he uses for (what else) tapping nails into place. He likes the “twister” for working on screws, and what other than a “shooter” would be used for bundling all those stacks of newspapers.
I’ve been told by my boys that I’m mean, that I’m silly, and that their daddy is stinky. Well, they are right on all counts. And none of their straightforward comments were intended to do anything but convey simple thoughts, directly and precisely. I’m glad I’m taking notes.
In a world full of commercial disclaimers, fine print, and political repartee, it’s refreshing to know we can still sit down with those we love and have an honest exchange about the important things in life. Like why mommy “keeps making the squash when she knows I don’t like it”, or discussing the universal experience of “when there are boogers in my nose, I have to get them out.”
It’s nice to know someone is shooting straight with me when they call a pimple an “owie”, or say that my legs feel “stickery”, or that I need to “clean up this dirty kitchen”. It’s painfully necessary to hear the cold hard truth after I lose my patience and raise my voice, and see the honest looks on their faces that tell me a chapter full of stories I’d rather not hear.
Yes, children will call it like they see it, say it like they mean it, and leave no room for misinterpretation. What a blessing it is to have children in our lives to remind us that communication really is that simple.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
“For Judy”
I spent last weekend celebrating my sister-in-law’s new marriage. During that time, I had the opportunity to reconnect with family and friends I hadn’t seen for some time. For many of those, life was the same; for others, it had changed. And for others still, they had been changed by life.
You inherit many things when you marry into a new family, and one of those treasures is the friendship and love of those who love your new family. In our family, Judy is one of those blessings.
I hadn’t seen Judy in almost a year, and during that time, her life had changed. With two children of her own, both grown and married, she’d faced a day no parent should face. Seen a sight no parent should see. And now, six months after her first born, Heidi’s, passing, she is living a life no parent should live: one without her child.
We visited and shared and cried together, and through a mother’s grief, I was able to grab on to a ribbon of lasting truth. In spite of her loss and her total devastation-or maybe because of it-Judy reminded me how important it is to cherish every day with my boys. To be thankful and appreciative for every sticky finger, every glass of spilled milk and every defiant “no” my boys throw my way. Because every day with our children in our lives is a blessing.
So, inspired by a mother and her daughter, a woman I never met, I scribbled this tribute on a brown paper bag, in the middle of a hot summer day, on the carpet of my own mother’s piano room floor.
For Judy
As we lay there curled around each other,
both ironically in our own version of the fetal position,
your hands twisting about in my freshly washed hair,
I watch your eyes as they stare and blink and stare,
trying desperately to focus on anything besides that sleepy world
that awaits you behind those big brown orbs.
You blink…slowly, allowing your gaze to laze about
under those beautiful dark lashes
only a grown woman should possess.
Your eyes roll about.
They close.
They jump back open with what little force your weak and tired body can muster
after a long day of hitting and catching and sliding in the dirt.
And finally, they come together
like the closing of a curtain
on opening night.
I wait, not sure if you’ve truly drifted
into that peaceful slumber
you so desperately need.
And in this moment, I think of the mothers
whose children are past the age of naptime
and snuggling and holding them
just because.
I know that for us too, this day will quickly come.
I think of the mothers who have watched their children
sleep a different kind of slumber.
One to which there is no moment of joy
when they open their eyes. Refreshed.
Renewed.
I pray I will never know a day such as this.
I lay there, still, and in this
moment of moments
when time seems to stand at my attention,
I thank God for my sons.
For their hearts.
For their spirits.
For their sadness.
For their joy.
And mostly for their presence.
I feel your body jerk.
I know for certain you have entered
that wonderful world of sleep.
I know you will awaken with a smile and a thumb
and yet another moment where you want me,
Your Mama, to hold you tight,
snuggle in beside you
and lavish in the perfection
that is simply being together.
And that’s All in a day’s work.
You inherit many things when you marry into a new family, and one of those treasures is the friendship and love of those who love your new family. In our family, Judy is one of those blessings.
I hadn’t seen Judy in almost a year, and during that time, her life had changed. With two children of her own, both grown and married, she’d faced a day no parent should face. Seen a sight no parent should see. And now, six months after her first born, Heidi’s, passing, she is living a life no parent should live: one without her child.
We visited and shared and cried together, and through a mother’s grief, I was able to grab on to a ribbon of lasting truth. In spite of her loss and her total devastation-or maybe because of it-Judy reminded me how important it is to cherish every day with my boys. To be thankful and appreciative for every sticky finger, every glass of spilled milk and every defiant “no” my boys throw my way. Because every day with our children in our lives is a blessing.
So, inspired by a mother and her daughter, a woman I never met, I scribbled this tribute on a brown paper bag, in the middle of a hot summer day, on the carpet of my own mother’s piano room floor.
For Judy
As we lay there curled around each other,
both ironically in our own version of the fetal position,
your hands twisting about in my freshly washed hair,
I watch your eyes as they stare and blink and stare,
trying desperately to focus on anything besides that sleepy world
that awaits you behind those big brown orbs.
You blink…slowly, allowing your gaze to laze about
under those beautiful dark lashes
only a grown woman should possess.
Your eyes roll about.
They close.
They jump back open with what little force your weak and tired body can muster
after a long day of hitting and catching and sliding in the dirt.
And finally, they come together
like the closing of a curtain
on opening night.
I wait, not sure if you’ve truly drifted
into that peaceful slumber
you so desperately need.
And in this moment, I think of the mothers
whose children are past the age of naptime
and snuggling and holding them
just because.
I know that for us too, this day will quickly come.
I think of the mothers who have watched their children
sleep a different kind of slumber.
One to which there is no moment of joy
when they open their eyes. Refreshed.
Renewed.
I pray I will never know a day such as this.
I lay there, still, and in this
moment of moments
when time seems to stand at my attention,
I thank God for my sons.
For their hearts.
For their spirits.
For their sadness.
For their joy.
And mostly for their presence.
I feel your body jerk.
I know for certain you have entered
that wonderful world of sleep.
I know you will awaken with a smile and a thumb
and yet another moment where you want me,
Your Mama, to hold you tight,
snuggle in beside you
and lavish in the perfection
that is simply being together.
And that’s All in a day’s work.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Male bonding
I believe in male bonding. Not the kind where grown men sloth about on a couch belching and scratching and cussing at the umpires. But the kind of male bonding that takes place between a father and his sons.
A fair share of that bonding, at least at our house, takes the form of the physical. Not just hugs and kisses-that happens often enough. But the rolling around on the floor, climbing on the back, tickling the ribs kind of bonding that keeps the house full of laughter and the kids full of love.
And it works, too. There are definitely times when our boys want their mama to hold them or want to cuddle in my lap with “some covers and a snack”. But given the choice, especially as of late, I’m pretty sure they’d opt for a wrestling match with Dad.
Early on, it was hard for me to understand this physical communication, these roustabouts, this roughhousing that was taking place in my living room floor, wreaking havoc down my hallways, taking every picture frame hanging on every wall of my home to the edge of destruction and back.
I simply couldn’t understand why it was necessary, much less important, that my two and three year olds be taught how to play “Attack” where the object is to run screaming through the house avoiding Daddy while he pelts baseballs and basketballs and footballs at their heads. Or why little boys need to learn (from their father) how to “boom” each other with their fists and laugh uncontrollably at one another’s pretend-pain. But for some reason, I’ve come to believe that it is important. For fathers and for sons.
Of course they have to be taught that there’s a time and a place for this kind of fun. We don’t play “Attack” with grown ups when we are guests in their home. And we don’t “boom” other little boys in the belly (and then wonder why they are crying while we are laughing our heads off).
We just returned from a few nights away from the boys, and I was a little disconcerted when I called mid-trip to check on them and all they had to say to me was, “I wanna talk to my dad!” But listening to the grown-up end of that conversation (“What kind of prize do you want me to bring you?”), I pretty much understand why they had that preference. And if that wasn’t bad enough, when we walked in the door after being gone for four days, all they could say was, “Daddy! Where have you been?!”
Of course I know they love me as much as they love their dad. Love just comes in different forms. And the display of that affection between fathers and sons is a special bond no mother can match, nor should she try.
I want our kids to know that we show our love to others through our actions, no matter what our age. A goodnight kiss at the end of the day is just not enough. I want our boys to feel the love of their parents literally, in their bones and their bellies; in their hearts and their hands. Yes, I believe in male bonding. Regardless of the mess.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
A fair share of that bonding, at least at our house, takes the form of the physical. Not just hugs and kisses-that happens often enough. But the rolling around on the floor, climbing on the back, tickling the ribs kind of bonding that keeps the house full of laughter and the kids full of love.
And it works, too. There are definitely times when our boys want their mama to hold them or want to cuddle in my lap with “some covers and a snack”. But given the choice, especially as of late, I’m pretty sure they’d opt for a wrestling match with Dad.
Early on, it was hard for me to understand this physical communication, these roustabouts, this roughhousing that was taking place in my living room floor, wreaking havoc down my hallways, taking every picture frame hanging on every wall of my home to the edge of destruction and back.
I simply couldn’t understand why it was necessary, much less important, that my two and three year olds be taught how to play “Attack” where the object is to run screaming through the house avoiding Daddy while he pelts baseballs and basketballs and footballs at their heads. Or why little boys need to learn (from their father) how to “boom” each other with their fists and laugh uncontrollably at one another’s pretend-pain. But for some reason, I’ve come to believe that it is important. For fathers and for sons.
Of course they have to be taught that there’s a time and a place for this kind of fun. We don’t play “Attack” with grown ups when we are guests in their home. And we don’t “boom” other little boys in the belly (and then wonder why they are crying while we are laughing our heads off).
We just returned from a few nights away from the boys, and I was a little disconcerted when I called mid-trip to check on them and all they had to say to me was, “I wanna talk to my dad!” But listening to the grown-up end of that conversation (“What kind of prize do you want me to bring you?”), I pretty much understand why they had that preference. And if that wasn’t bad enough, when we walked in the door after being gone for four days, all they could say was, “Daddy! Where have you been?!”
Of course I know they love me as much as they love their dad. Love just comes in different forms. And the display of that affection between fathers and sons is a special bond no mother can match, nor should she try.
I want our kids to know that we show our love to others through our actions, no matter what our age. A goodnight kiss at the end of the day is just not enough. I want our boys to feel the love of their parents literally, in their bones and their bellies; in their hearts and their hands. Yes, I believe in male bonding. Regardless of the mess.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Monday, July 21, 2008
The Mother's Dictionary by Joyce Armor (exerpt)
Zany definitions only a parent can appreciate
Amnesia: Condition that enables a woman who has gone through labor to have more children.
Baby book: Where you put locks of the baby’s hair and pictures of him naked so you can embarrass him when he’s a teenager.
Bathroom: Where your child doesn’t need to go until you’re backing the car out of the driveway.
Bottle feeding: An opportunity for Dad to get up at 2 a.m., too.
Contractions: What are to cramps as Lake Michigan is to a puddle.
Defense: What you’d better have around de yard if you’re going to let de children outside.
Deja vu: When you respond to your child the same way your mother responded to you.
Double fault: When both your children are guilty.
Equations: The point at which you need a tutor to explain your child’s homework to you.
Family planning: The art of spacing your children the proper distance apart to keep you on the edge of financial disaster.
Fifth dimension: Where all the missing puzzle pieces, train tracks, Lincoln Logs and racecars are.
Full name: What you call your child when you are mad at him.
Genes: The reason your daughter will grow up to blame her thighs on you.
Hearing aid: A child who informs you of all the rotten things his brother says when you are out of earshot.
Hearsay: What toddlers do when anyone mutters a naughty word.
Impregnable: A woman whose memory of labor is still vivid.
Independent: How we want our children to be as long as they do everything we say.
“Look out!”: What it’s too late for your child to do by the time you scream it.
Manual dexterity: Your ability to reach the wipes, open them with your teeth and keep a baby with an open diaper pinned to the changing table.
Milestone: The moment when you stop worrying about something hurting the baby and start worrying about the baby hurting something.
Modesty: What women in labor have to get over.
Nothing: The standard answer to “What did you do in school today?”
On the wagon: Where three children insist on being when the wagon holds only one.
Opinionated: Anyone who knows more than you do about child care.
Ow: The first word spoken by children with older siblings.
Paradox: Two obstetricians.
Preconceive: To get pregnant before you intend to.
Prenatal: When your life was still somewhat your own.
Prepared childbirth: A contradiction in terms.
Puddle: A small body of water that draws to it other small bodies, wearing dry shoes.
Rationalize: To wait to get back into shape until you last child is born.
Reversible: Dirty on both sides.
Saturation point: What a diaper usually reaches before you reach the diaper.
Second trimester: The second three months of pregnancy when you ask yourself the question, “Will my husband notice if I eat this gallon of ice cream and side of beef before he gets home?”
Separatist: A teenager who would rather die than be seen with his parents.
Show off: Any child who is more talented than yours.
Sickness: What keeps kids in bed all week, until Saturday morning.
Spunk: One of those traits that are much cuter in other people’s children than in your own.
Sterilize: What you do to your first baby’s pacifier by boiling it, and to your last baby’s pacifier by blowing on it.
Storeroom: The distance required between supermarket aisles to ensure children in shopping carts can’t dismantle the merchandise.
Straight flush: When a child flushes the toilet without using it.
Sugar daddy: A father who lets the kids eat junk when Mom’s not around.
Temper tantrums: What you should keep to a minimum so as not to upset the children.
Thunderstorm: A chance to see how many family members can fit in one bed.
Time flies: The reason your child will be wearing diapers one day and a purple Mohawk the next.
Top bunk: Where you should never put a child wearing Superman jammies.
Town crier: Child who finds a reason to burst into tears every time you take him out in public.
Ultra sound: The noise your crying baby makes.
Unarmed: A doll who has been disciplined by your sweet little daughter.
Unrest: What parents get when a child is sick.
Utopia: That fictional wonderland where children reply, “Yes, Mother, whatever you say.”
Verbal: Able to whine in words.
Weaker sex: The kind you have after the kids have worn you out.
Wear and tear: What happens when children and clothes come in contact.
Whodunit: None of the children who live at your house.
Whoops: An exclamation that translates roughly into “Get a sponge.”
Zzzzzzzz: What you will do soundly again when your children are grown and able to keep what they’re really doing a secret from you.
(A great big thanks to my friend, Ginger, mother of two, who found and sent this excerpt to me in the mail.)
Amnesia: Condition that enables a woman who has gone through labor to have more children.
Baby book: Where you put locks of the baby’s hair and pictures of him naked so you can embarrass him when he’s a teenager.
Bathroom: Where your child doesn’t need to go until you’re backing the car out of the driveway.
Bottle feeding: An opportunity for Dad to get up at 2 a.m., too.
Contractions: What are to cramps as Lake Michigan is to a puddle.
Defense: What you’d better have around de yard if you’re going to let de children outside.
Deja vu: When you respond to your child the same way your mother responded to you.
Double fault: When both your children are guilty.
Equations: The point at which you need a tutor to explain your child’s homework to you.
Family planning: The art of spacing your children the proper distance apart to keep you on the edge of financial disaster.
Fifth dimension: Where all the missing puzzle pieces, train tracks, Lincoln Logs and racecars are.
Full name: What you call your child when you are mad at him.
Genes: The reason your daughter will grow up to blame her thighs on you.
Hearing aid: A child who informs you of all the rotten things his brother says when you are out of earshot.
Hearsay: What toddlers do when anyone mutters a naughty word.
Impregnable: A woman whose memory of labor is still vivid.
Independent: How we want our children to be as long as they do everything we say.
“Look out!”: What it’s too late for your child to do by the time you scream it.
Manual dexterity: Your ability to reach the wipes, open them with your teeth and keep a baby with an open diaper pinned to the changing table.
Milestone: The moment when you stop worrying about something hurting the baby and start worrying about the baby hurting something.
Modesty: What women in labor have to get over.
Nothing: The standard answer to “What did you do in school today?”
On the wagon: Where three children insist on being when the wagon holds only one.
Opinionated: Anyone who knows more than you do about child care.
Ow: The first word spoken by children with older siblings.
Paradox: Two obstetricians.
Preconceive: To get pregnant before you intend to.
Prenatal: When your life was still somewhat your own.
Prepared childbirth: A contradiction in terms.
Puddle: A small body of water that draws to it other small bodies, wearing dry shoes.
Rationalize: To wait to get back into shape until you last child is born.
Reversible: Dirty on both sides.
Saturation point: What a diaper usually reaches before you reach the diaper.
Second trimester: The second three months of pregnancy when you ask yourself the question, “Will my husband notice if I eat this gallon of ice cream and side of beef before he gets home?”
Separatist: A teenager who would rather die than be seen with his parents.
Show off: Any child who is more talented than yours.
Sickness: What keeps kids in bed all week, until Saturday morning.
Spunk: One of those traits that are much cuter in other people’s children than in your own.
Sterilize: What you do to your first baby’s pacifier by boiling it, and to your last baby’s pacifier by blowing on it.
Storeroom: The distance required between supermarket aisles to ensure children in shopping carts can’t dismantle the merchandise.
Straight flush: When a child flushes the toilet without using it.
Sugar daddy: A father who lets the kids eat junk when Mom’s not around.
Temper tantrums: What you should keep to a minimum so as not to upset the children.
Thunderstorm: A chance to see how many family members can fit in one bed.
Time flies: The reason your child will be wearing diapers one day and a purple Mohawk the next.
Top bunk: Where you should never put a child wearing Superman jammies.
Town crier: Child who finds a reason to burst into tears every time you take him out in public.
Ultra sound: The noise your crying baby makes.
Unarmed: A doll who has been disciplined by your sweet little daughter.
Unrest: What parents get when a child is sick.
Utopia: That fictional wonderland where children reply, “Yes, Mother, whatever you say.”
Verbal: Able to whine in words.
Weaker sex: The kind you have after the kids have worn you out.
Wear and tear: What happens when children and clothes come in contact.
Whodunit: None of the children who live at your house.
Whoops: An exclamation that translates roughly into “Get a sponge.”
Zzzzzzzz: What you will do soundly again when your children are grown and able to keep what they’re really doing a secret from you.
(A great big thanks to my friend, Ginger, mother of two, who found and sent this excerpt to me in the mail.)
Monday, July 14, 2008
How to tear up an anvil
My dad used to say I could tear up an anvil. It took me years before I knew what an anvil really was, and when I finally did, I didn’t really see the humor in his comment. But now that I have a child who seems to be following in my footsteps, I understand his statement completely.
For Brisco, it started with small things, like breaking toys and tearing pages in books. We never really had that problem with Cooper. He was more into trying to eat everything he touched. But Brisco just wants to break it.
He reminds me of the timeless character who makes random appearances in all the old comedies. The one who, wherever he goes, always seems to find a row of parked motorcycles and someway, somehow causes them to collapse like dominoes. That is our child.
Brisco will randomly select and destroy anything that looks like it has the mark of organization. Whether it is Cooper’s train tracks or a row of strangers’ lawn chairs at a ballgame, he seems to be pre-programmed for devastation.
He’s learned the phrase, “I didn’t mean to,” which at first was somewhat effective; however, since eye-witnessing him tearing out every flap in a 20 page flip book, I’ve learned that what he really means is “I didn’t mean to get caught.”
He even tries to demolish things that can’t possibly be destroyed. One night, he spent 20 minutes trying to turn over the metal trash cans at the ball park.
I feel like old mother haggard when he decides to go “destructo” because he doesn’t respond to lighthearted commands. I can’t tease or smile or say, “Sweetie, will you please…” He simply takes that as a dare. I have to use my meanest, mommy-scowl, find a really grouchy voice, and threaten (or deliver) a hard spanking to get his attention. And he always responds with a huge, toothy smile and an, “OK, Mommy. I’m sorry,” as he puts his hands over his backside to protect my target area, which, if I remember correctly, is terribly ineffective.
And nothing to this boy is sacred. If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a thousand times that the laundry is off limits. But it never fails. If I turn my back even for a moment on a stack of freshly washed and folded clothes, it will end up in a ball at the foot of the couch.
He’s not the kind of kid to whom one can say, “Look, but don’t touch.” Those words may as well be spoken in Spanish if something that “estupido” is to be directed at him. For to his ears, it is as if I have said, “Come, little boy, take this hand blown piece of crystal brought back hundreds of miles from Czechoslovakia and shatter it into a million pieces.”
He is very adamant about attempting to right his wrongs. He’ll insist that he can “fix it myself” after his destruction has occurred; however, he has not quite learned that after receiving a blow from Brisco, not everything can be repaired.
I’m hoping as he grows up, he’ll grow out of some of these awkward tendencies. But I’m afraid I may have more luck wishing on stars or sprinkling pixie dust around his pillow at night and expecting him to turn into a 25 pound piece of chocolate. He’ll never be that kind of sweet.
As history sometimes does, I’m sure we will repeat the many broken toys, broken windows and broken bones of our youth through this little boy of ours. I don’t know if our patience or our pocket book can handle his devastation, but I’m not sure we have any alternative but to cross our fingers and tread lightly in his wake. I may start shopping around for an anvil of our own, just so we have something to work on in our spare time.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
For Brisco, it started with small things, like breaking toys and tearing pages in books. We never really had that problem with Cooper. He was more into trying to eat everything he touched. But Brisco just wants to break it.
He reminds me of the timeless character who makes random appearances in all the old comedies. The one who, wherever he goes, always seems to find a row of parked motorcycles and someway, somehow causes them to collapse like dominoes. That is our child.
Brisco will randomly select and destroy anything that looks like it has the mark of organization. Whether it is Cooper’s train tracks or a row of strangers’ lawn chairs at a ballgame, he seems to be pre-programmed for devastation.
He’s learned the phrase, “I didn’t mean to,” which at first was somewhat effective; however, since eye-witnessing him tearing out every flap in a 20 page flip book, I’ve learned that what he really means is “I didn’t mean to get caught.”
He even tries to demolish things that can’t possibly be destroyed. One night, he spent 20 minutes trying to turn over the metal trash cans at the ball park.
I feel like old mother haggard when he decides to go “destructo” because he doesn’t respond to lighthearted commands. I can’t tease or smile or say, “Sweetie, will you please…” He simply takes that as a dare. I have to use my meanest, mommy-scowl, find a really grouchy voice, and threaten (or deliver) a hard spanking to get his attention. And he always responds with a huge, toothy smile and an, “OK, Mommy. I’m sorry,” as he puts his hands over his backside to protect my target area, which, if I remember correctly, is terribly ineffective.
And nothing to this boy is sacred. If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a thousand times that the laundry is off limits. But it never fails. If I turn my back even for a moment on a stack of freshly washed and folded clothes, it will end up in a ball at the foot of the couch.
He’s not the kind of kid to whom one can say, “Look, but don’t touch.” Those words may as well be spoken in Spanish if something that “estupido” is to be directed at him. For to his ears, it is as if I have said, “Come, little boy, take this hand blown piece of crystal brought back hundreds of miles from Czechoslovakia and shatter it into a million pieces.”
He is very adamant about attempting to right his wrongs. He’ll insist that he can “fix it myself” after his destruction has occurred; however, he has not quite learned that after receiving a blow from Brisco, not everything can be repaired.
I’m hoping as he grows up, he’ll grow out of some of these awkward tendencies. But I’m afraid I may have more luck wishing on stars or sprinkling pixie dust around his pillow at night and expecting him to turn into a 25 pound piece of chocolate. He’ll never be that kind of sweet.
As history sometimes does, I’m sure we will repeat the many broken toys, broken windows and broken bones of our youth through this little boy of ours. I don’t know if our patience or our pocket book can handle his devastation, but I’m not sure we have any alternative but to cross our fingers and tread lightly in his wake. I may start shopping around for an anvil of our own, just so we have something to work on in our spare time.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
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