I am learning...

...that I don't need much of the stuff that I possess.
...to let go of the things that I don't.
...not to do it when the children are around.
...that even though summer is too hot, it is also too short. I don't have the time to schedule all the park play dates and take (send) the kids on all the fun adventures that I'd like.
...that Vacation Bible School is a great, inexpensive way to entertain the children for a week.
...that jumping in is better that wading. But I'm too much of a sissified ninnymonger to do it that way.
...Harry Potter is cooler than Twilight.
...ebay can be profitable for others, but mostly it's a waste of time for me.
...you can get screaming deals on ebay, like $.99 for a handful of Italian-made clothes.
...that showering on a daily basis is not a necessity.
...deodorant is.
...that red meat gives my daughter stinky pits.
...to bring 2 barf buckets on road trips.
...to push ginger herb tea & ginger cookies to avoid the use of the barf buckets.
...about plenty of the things that I did as a young mother that are proving to be the wrong way to produce the results I desire.
...that it's too late to fix some of them.
...not to beat myself up over mistakes of inexperience.
...how to love other people's children that I don't particularly care for.
...that talking to children about sex isn't really so bad if you start early and treat it simply and matter-of-factly.
...some things that I keep learning over and over and over again.
...that even though 35 is the new 25, my body is still out of shape, has borne 4 children and badly needs chiropractic care. But it's not too late.
...that eating sugar makes me break out.
...that my husband's Love Language is not the landslide that I thought. He's got a close second that explains a lot.
...that things change, times change, situations change, and no matter how hard you can try to make it work, sometimes it's just best to cut ties and walk away, even if you're walking into the unknown.

And it's okay.

Missed-Nap Love Letter

Today you missed your nap.

Well, not really. I did lay you down. Twice. But you climbed out of your crib, unlocked the door, opened it and came down, happy to tell me about your achievement. You really should have slept, but I figured that the 'lock you in' trick wasn't working, so I gave up. Anyway, how can I put something so smart and determined and happy and CUTE back to bed?

Instead, you played outside with your siblings and helped me make applezini muffins--by "help" I mean that when my back was turned, you stuck your chubby fingers into the applesauce, shredded zucchini and batter to get a nibble.

After dinner you started screaming. I checked your bum, and found a mess that was really irritating your ouchy rash. During the diaper change you writhed, screamed and wailed. Not even a cool cloth on your burny nether-regions convinced you to turn off the tantrum.

So I did the only thing that I could think of. I held you. And rocked. And quietly sang the songs that bring me peace in times of turmoil and tantrum: I Am a Child of God, I Know My Father Lives, Teach Me To Walk in the Light, Jesus Wants Me For a Sunbeam. It worked like a charm, as usual. You didn't mind the number of times that I changed keys or cracked or simply struggled to hit the right note. There's just something about Mom's soft voice singing songs of the Spirit that brings quiet.

After a while you fell asleep.



Your full lips were just the right shape for kissing, so I did. Again and again and again and again. Your long, dark lashes don't all lay the right way, did you know? Some curl before they reach the length of the others. I'd never noticed before. I kissed your tear-wet eyes, too. Your face was a total mess. I think that crusty blob in your eyebrow once originated in your nose, but it could also have been batter. Probably batter. We never did get you your bath today, so your hair still smelled faintly of the stick of butter that you quietly demolished this morning.

As I rocked you, the evening sun cut through the blinds, the stripey shadows moving across the contours of your soft, round face. And in that lighting, the oils in your skin shattered the sunlight into spectrums of rainbows shimmering across your cloud-soft, perfect, dirty little face. Your chest moved rhythmically up and down as your breathing relaxed and deepened.

I wanted to capture the moment, so when Alex came in, I sent him to have Dad bring me the camera. He brought it and the others came to see what was camera-worthy. Each of them paused to marvel at your cute sleepihood. They adore you. We all do.

Thank you for coming to our family. You were--and continue to be--the best surprise I've ever had.

Laundry Letters

Dear Children,

Laundry is not done magically. Your dresser drawers are not bottomless like the drinks at Red Robin. They do not automatically refill when they get low on clean clothes.

Do you notice that your father and I share a laundry basket? You each have your own, but we two grown-ups with grown-up sized clothing have one.

Abby, please explain to me why I wash clothes every couple of weeks that I never see actually draped over your body parts. How does that work? And the next time I sort stinky, folded shirts, I swear, girl, you're doin' your own!

Alex, I am rather frightened that I wash a week's worth of laundry and fold two pairs of little unders for you. You have plenty. Wear them. Please.

Lee, considering that I have to beg, plead and order you to wear them at all, why am I folding a dozen of yours? And 'how because' your laundry pile is twice as tall as anyone else's, excepting Mom AND Dad's basket of three-times-as-large clothes?

Cora, thank you for your "help" sorting. Moving already-sorted laundry from one basket to another, however, constitutes UN-sorting. You're a very good helper. Now stop. And unless you're developing some sort of nighttime podiatric braille-reading program, get your cute, chubby, jammied foot off the book!

And everyone, the water stays in the tub. Towels may be used more than once. Unless, of course, they were used to take care of the water.

Much love,

The Laundry Fairy

Summer Conundrum

Summer should consist of two months of sending the kids out to play. (Well, really it should be three, but that's for the school district to decide.) They should be spending their time making daisy chains, swimming, creating elaborate plotlines in the woods with their friends, sitting in the shade eating popsicles, living in flip-flops, running to show me blackberry-purple fingers, turning the sidewalks into chalky art, sending bubbles into the atmosphere, lying in the grass watching it grow, running, biking, scootering and feeling the freedom that summer embodies.

After their chores are done.

I think it's only fair that if they contribute to making a household mess, they should learn to be responsible for cleaning it up. I feel that it's not a large expectation for them to spend a little time in the mornings completing their small chores on the job chart (30 minutes), making sure that their bedroom floors are tidied (10 minutes, they're not very dirty), keeping up on school skills (15 minutes) and practicing piano (10 minutes).

So why is it almost 4:00 and they're not close to going outside?

I've spent the last 5+ hours reminding them, steering them back on course and redirecting their Distract-O-Selves. That and breaking up fights. And trying not to listen to the tattling.

I'm completely irritated because I've got days of work to catch up on and they're screaming and fighting in the background. Do I give up my requirement that they contribute to the well-being of the household and send them outside so that I can have some quiet? Or do we spend the rest of the summer inside, attempting to teach them that it only takes a long time when you lie down and complain about it for 45 minutes. If you get up and do it, it should take about 10 minutes. If I send them outside, it sends the message that the prerequisites don't matter and don't listen to Mom because she'll cave anyway.

Mean Mom with children who grow up to be responsible, capable adults?
Fun Mom with entitled children who take for granted what they have?

How do other parents do it? How do you teach your children to just get their stuff done so they can play? Or do the whole of the household responsibilities simply fall on the parents?

Either way, summer ain't shapin' up to be fun for anybody!

LegoBug

Alex's Lego Ladybug:






Not the way that I would've constructed it, but he's proud of it. And that's what's important.

Lost & Found

Lost:
Youthful Midsection. Does not extend further than bra in profile photos, bloop over waistband or measure larger than bust measurement. Last seen with Hips that Hold Up Pants.

Found:
Slightly deflated pool floaty filled with Jell-O.

Please contact me to claim your dumb floaty. It looks ridiculous on me.

Can you hear...what I'm saying?

Okay, I'm about to reveal my true level of geekage.


I loved Star Trek: The Next Generation.


Jean-Luc Picard with his Earl-Grey tea, Ryker, Worf, LaForge and his cool visor, Westley--I loved the whole lot of 'em! Alright, I still do, but not on a weekly basis. Anymore. Often I think of Deanna Troi, and not simply that it was wrong on so many levels that she chose Worf over Ryker, who was handsome AND human. How could she even be attracted to Worf's cold, warrior, ridged-foreheaded self? Okay, Ryker had facial hair that would chap her lips from time to time, but at least his teeth weren't all pointy and he at least smiled!

I digress.

Deanna Troi was an Empath. She had the ability to sense others' feelings, thus the very ingenious name of her humanoid race. But when she was with other Empaths, like her nosy mother, they had a telepathic connection.

Which is the part that I think about far too frequently than I should admit.

Wouldn't it just be so much easier if we all knew each other's thoughts? Dating would be much simpler, I think. No more "'My stomach has felt funny since our date last night.' 'Mine too, I ate 3 plates of spaghetti at my dad's house'" miscommunications. How would marriages fare? Would the divorce rate decrease because we knew our spouses' thoughts or increase because, well, we knew our spouses' thoughts? Who would our elected leaders be if we could skip over the rhetoric and understand directly their genuine thoughts and motives? Lawyers would be out of a job. Lying would be obsolete and I'd know exactly who didn't flush and CLEARLY didn't wipe.

There would be no surprise parties, which would be a bummer, and Christmas morning would be a total bust. American Greetings would go out of business, because what would be the point in wrapping paper?

I watched parts of Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs the other day with my kiddos. One of the inventions that the main character comes up with is a thingamadealio that allows us to hear the thoughts of his pet monkey, Steve. (Steve!!!) Interestingly, the same technology is used in Disney/Pixar's Up to translate dogs' thoughts--squirrel!--, but without the stylin' headband that Steve gets to wear.

I'd seriously like one of those. Or to be an Empath. Or something so that when I try to have a difficult conversation with someone we can just strap on the groovy headband & actually communicate! I'd love to skip over the discrete phrasing and wading through a range of emotions to get to the one that's just right and finding the best word for it that will properly and effectively communicate to the other party exactly what I'm thinking and feeling without offending or stepping on toes or having to backpedal because that word wasn't quite the right one and you interpret it to mean a certain thing but because of this life experience I had it means something just a little different and while it's not catastrophic to me, it seems to be a big thing to you. Phew! Can we just get past the formalities and connect?

That's what I want. I want to be able to know what you feel and have you be conscious of my thoughts.

But I don't want to have to kiss a Klingon.

PS--Extra points if you can identify the song that the post title came from.