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!
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
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!
Monday, July 7, 2008
A game of firsts
Life is a game of firsts. First teeth. First words. First steps. But when all these new tricks become old hat, what of our existence then? I pondered this thought while sitting on the east porch one morning, sipping my hot coffee, heavy on the hazelnut. I thought what life must be like when we run out of firsts.
We are born, we live and we die. Many people describe life in those simple terms. But what about the time in between?
When children are small, the firsts come fast and frenzied. It seems we will never tire of taking those photos: First bottle, first bowel movement, first bright, gummy grin. First sucker, first swimsuit, first plate of spaghetti.
The same firsts for our subsequent offspring are seemingly overlooked, or are at least celebrated with less pomp and picture taking. Of course this doesn’t mean we love them any less, simply that we are human, and have learned to settle into ourselves and our routines and our lives as we know them.
But as with our children, when we age, the firsts become less frequent, or so we think. We, too, mastered the childhood benchmarks that acknowledged we were “normal”. We skipped through grade school and squeezed through adolescence and stepped apprehensively into the world of bills and bosses and being on our own. We married or stayed single, or maybe we did both, and we have finally come full circle with children of our own.
How easy it is to feel exhausted and overwhelmed with the task of shaping our children’s lives, forget trying to continue our own.
I’ve learned, however, that there’s always the opportunity to try something new. Like eating calamari or swimming with the dolphins. Or something as comfortable as giving a pedicure to my grandmother while my two-year old plays close by.
But the act is more than a simple gesture; it’s a lesson being taught and learned. As the child comes to stand by my side, I’m aware that he is watching and wondering and learning from such a small and effortless act. And feeling my heart open as he asks for some “wotion” to “rub on her owie so she can feel betta” and knowing that this is the start of sensitivity and compassion and kindness of heart. These are the firsts that I treasure.
My kids may not have a photo of every first black eye or scrape on the knee. They won’t remember their first Christmas or what they wore on their first Halloween. But what I hope they do remember when they are both grown are the opportunities that life has handed us to try new things or to make a difference in our world. Life is full of opportunities for firsts. Even if we’re not looking.
So while parasailing and scuba diving and exploring ancient ruins may be a thing of the past, for now, I’m content to keep my eyes open in search of the many unnoticed and unseen opportunities in our lives. For if we are looking, we can see that we will never run out of firsts to confront. But it’s what we do on these occasions-with this time in between-that is what makes all the difference.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
We are born, we live and we die. Many people describe life in those simple terms. But what about the time in between?
When children are small, the firsts come fast and frenzied. It seems we will never tire of taking those photos: First bottle, first bowel movement, first bright, gummy grin. First sucker, first swimsuit, first plate of spaghetti.
The same firsts for our subsequent offspring are seemingly overlooked, or are at least celebrated with less pomp and picture taking. Of course this doesn’t mean we love them any less, simply that we are human, and have learned to settle into ourselves and our routines and our lives as we know them.
But as with our children, when we age, the firsts become less frequent, or so we think. We, too, mastered the childhood benchmarks that acknowledged we were “normal”. We skipped through grade school and squeezed through adolescence and stepped apprehensively into the world of bills and bosses and being on our own. We married or stayed single, or maybe we did both, and we have finally come full circle with children of our own.
How easy it is to feel exhausted and overwhelmed with the task of shaping our children’s lives, forget trying to continue our own.
I’ve learned, however, that there’s always the opportunity to try something new. Like eating calamari or swimming with the dolphins. Or something as comfortable as giving a pedicure to my grandmother while my two-year old plays close by.
But the act is more than a simple gesture; it’s a lesson being taught and learned. As the child comes to stand by my side, I’m aware that he is watching and wondering and learning from such a small and effortless act. And feeling my heart open as he asks for some “wotion” to “rub on her owie so she can feel betta” and knowing that this is the start of sensitivity and compassion and kindness of heart. These are the firsts that I treasure.
My kids may not have a photo of every first black eye or scrape on the knee. They won’t remember their first Christmas or what they wore on their first Halloween. But what I hope they do remember when they are both grown are the opportunities that life has handed us to try new things or to make a difference in our world. Life is full of opportunities for firsts. Even if we’re not looking.
So while parasailing and scuba diving and exploring ancient ruins may be a thing of the past, for now, I’m content to keep my eyes open in search of the many unnoticed and unseen opportunities in our lives. For if we are looking, we can see that we will never run out of firsts to confront. But it’s what we do on these occasions-with this time in between-that is what makes all the difference.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)