tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31526639445439491862024-03-18T23:05:23.082-06:00Advice, UnsolicitedThe adventures of a work-at-home mom of 4, trying to have it all - and then not remembering where she put it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-28886441012403776602016-05-18T20:48:00.002-05:002016-05-18T21:06:46.210-05:00Coming of Age, Again<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ZnNpTsxD3aZY8hjYGVn8JCFwIs8nVit2j-nV0tMd1BmsGAGzjgbEDYeGVkbvQuZDCMUkmIe-eaJphFvuuRZI1WDVuSFG2IgUe9U6C-O3_OvB7hdiErDxvBVDtRcI8zGXHJ0mXZKPIIE/s1600/2016-05-18+20.59.48.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ZnNpTsxD3aZY8hjYGVn8JCFwIs8nVit2j-nV0tMd1BmsGAGzjgbEDYeGVkbvQuZDCMUkmIe-eaJphFvuuRZI1WDVuSFG2IgUe9U6C-O3_OvB7hdiErDxvBVDtRcI8zGXHJ0mXZKPIIE/s320/2016-05-18+20.59.48.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
So, it’s 11:30PM again. The only sounds in the house are the rustling
of sheets, soft snores and the occasional crash of a bedtime story book being
accidently kicked to the floor. It’s
finally my turn to go to bed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes in the calm quietness of these late nights I get
distracted from my bedtime routine by the bright over-mirror light highlighting
my facial imperfections in the mirror. I
just recently noticed my once smooth forehead now sports the most delicate
parallel lines across it. I raise my
eyebrows up and down and watch them deepen and flatten, but not quite
disappear. Dang it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once in a while I spend so much time inspecting my puckering
face that when I lay down to go to sleep, I realize that I forgot to brush my
teeth, and back to the bathroom I go. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s my birthday this week, the “cute” half of the thirties
is firmly behind me, and I’m sliding face first into forty faster than I am
prepared for. Why does 36 seem young and
37 seem so, so old? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To accentuate my new found oldness, my daughter’s 4<sup>th</sup>
grade class recently got “the talk” from the school nurse. She’s been fascinated with the idea of
puberty since she first learned about the concept last year. This milestone event at school has re-ignited
her interest in the topic. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seeing my little girl grow into a little woman as I’m slowly
pruning from the head down, feels a little bit like taunting at my new ripe old
age. Don’t be surprised if you see me
splashing water from muddy puddles in the area on my face hoping to find that the
fountain of youth is somewhere in the Meadowlands area. Bog water ought to be
good for something!</div>
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<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>Maybe waiting on full blown wrinkles is like waiting for
boobs. Looking for them consumes your
time in front of the mirror, until they show up and it’s no big deal.</b></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But in case it’s not like that, and wrinkles end up being a devastating
occurrence, I decided to come up with some reasons turning 37 might be great
anyway:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ol>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">No more wasting time at the liquor store trying
to find my ID in my suitcase of a purse.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">
</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">I definitely don’t look “younger than 30” anymore.</span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">What you see is what you get.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">I’ve been waiting years to discover my
perfect hair and fashion style, like my put-together friends who have chunky
necklaces to match each blouse and blazer, but it appears that jeans and
cardigan with slightly frizzy, needs to be dyed hair is my style.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">It’s almost liberating.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Searching for those vampire (because you can’t
see them in the mirror) wiry chin hairs will give me something to do while
waiting in lines. </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Friends aren’t afraid to be real.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">We’ve got nothing to prove anymore in the
friend department.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">If we lose one, we
can always pull a kid off the bench to spend time with.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">When the early twenty-something girls are
dancing, singing, and acting wild at the bar you can shake your head & roll
your eyes, but if you want to join them you can just say it’s “Mom’s Night Out”</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">and those behaviors become perfectly
acceptable.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">After years of falling asleep in make-up and not
religiously wearing sunscreen.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">My face
is now a test dummy for every kind of cream, gel, and crème that come in tiny,
expensive bottles and tubes in an attempt to try and reverse my bad habits
before it’s too late. </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">I get to be the old kindergarten mom as my
fourth and last kid enters school “for real” this fall. I know nearly all the
elementary school teachers, how the buses and lunch accounts work, and where
the elementary art room is, which in the eyes of the “new” kindergarten mom
makes me a god.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">I’m pretty sure.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">If we run out of lined paper, my first grader
can practice his penmanship on my forehead.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">And… with a little math, I’m finally a 10!
(3+7=10) …Which will probably feel just as legitimate now, as it did when I was
28..ha!</span></li>
</ol>
This coming of age,
again, isn’t as exciting as the first time around, but the result will probably
be the same... hopefully – a new found comfort in my own skin – Now with wrinkles and age
spots!… and a rogue chin hair, here and there.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-70200421390495726842016-02-06T20:48:00.001-06:002016-02-06T20:48:37.958-06:00Going, Going, Gratitude<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN7Gd3WaTE8vdAbPMvu-UEJ4tJL4T28lCsEyPyokYEvK4TLVRmttFTBE80B_vEsqdUpl5-OgpuEy_a_H5yhMtuCX2rEAzFdvc_ph_-vTmuwuD8k6lrXPR6smaRVxd7yLnTtlmiuRmqF8E/s1600/21540_1321306436306_5100954_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN7Gd3WaTE8vdAbPMvu-UEJ4tJL4T28lCsEyPyokYEvK4TLVRmttFTBE80B_vEsqdUpl5-OgpuEy_a_H5yhMtuCX2rEAzFdvc_ph_-vTmuwuD8k6lrXPR6smaRVxd7yLnTtlmiuRmqF8E/s320/21540_1321306436306_5100954_n.jpg" width="250" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We all have to face the loss of a loved one at some point in
our lives. The hardest are the unexpected
and tragic deaths, or those whose lives have ended too soon, but even when you
know the time is near for someone, and you’ve accepted that their passing is
the best outcome, the loss is still hard. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I got word that my grandma will only live for another week
or two. She has been on dialysis for the
last few years and the process has slowly stolen her mind and body. A recent injury and issues with dialysis have
led my grandpa to what must be the hardest decision of his life, to stop her
dialysis treatments. Now, as her blood
becomes more polluted, she will slip away to death, a process, the
professionals say, will take anywhere from one to three weeks. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While the news wasn’t unexpected, it hit me harder than I thought
it would. I spent the weekend getting
teary-eyed as thoughts and memories floated through my head. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have so many wonderful memories of my beautiful
grandma. It’s selfish of me to not want
her to go. She doesn’t even really
remember who we are anymore. It’s only
fair that her lovely soul be freed from her broken body. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I don’t want to say good-bye, so instead, I’ll say “Thank
You”. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My grandparents have always lived in St. Paul, where I grew
up. We spent a lot of time with them as
kids and I thank my grandma for the carefree hours we spent rolling or sledding
down the steep hill behind their house, or running through the sprinkler in our
undies, as she and grandpa listened to the Twins on the radio. I want to thank her for spending hours
playing card games with us, as well as the occasional game of scrabble and
dominoes. And thank her for the sketch
she drew of me diving off a diving board at swimming lessons in 1989, I still
have it safely stored away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thank her for helping us “work” at grandpa’s auto parts
store when we came to visit during the day, helping us up on the tall stools
behind the counter to impress customers with our cuteness. I want to thank her for her innocence and the
laughs it brought – like the time when the internet was “new” and she was
afraid to use our AOL dial-up because she was worried she might actually delete
the internet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, thanks grandma for the weekend sleepovers complete with
gram and gramps narrating a slide show of my mom and her siblings as they were
growing up, we loved seeing the life size images projected on a screen in the
kitchen. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And thank you for the weekends when all the women in the
family would gather at your house pre-holiday season to make homemade noodles
that would become lasagna or ravioli for our giant holiday gatherings. Grandma, mom and the aunts would knead and
roll, while us kids would take turns turning the crank on the noodle maker, or
carefully bringing freshly flattened dough to grandma’s big table to await it’s
next turn through the noodle maker. We’d
get the left over noodle dough to cut into little animal shapes that grandma would
cook up for lunch. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These everyday activities that have been cemented as memories
in my mind, and stayed crystal clear all these years, are the result of the
love and time she invested in us grandkids. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will miss the delicate, graceful way she made her way
though each day. I’ll miss being
embarrassed by the silly interactions between her and grandpa. So much of this
has already been lost over the last few years.
What remains is the feel of her baby soft cheeks and that flowery
grandma smell when you go in for an embrace, I will miss these the most. And
the joy she would get of seeing any visitor, even if she didn’t know who the heck
they were anymore. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was fortunate in that I knew all grandparents and all but
two of my great grandparents. I lost my
paternal grandma when I was about 4, I vaguely remember her, but rest of my
grandparents, great grandparents and great aunts and uncles, even a couple
great, great aunts hung around until I was middle school age. Longevity is on both sides of my family with
folks living until the late eighties, nineties, even my great grandma who lived
to almost 104. Which also means - I’ve
been to a lot of funerals, but it’s been a while. And this feels different. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe my perspective has changed. The loss of my grandma has conjured up a
strange mix of sadness and relief.
Relief that her soul will be free of her aching body, but sadness for my
grandpa, whose life will change dramatically without the partner who has been
at his side for what seems like an eternity. In time, the teary-eyed memories will
hopefully just come with a smile, but until then - I won’t say good bye, I’ll just offer my
gratitude to the sweet woman who embraced the role of grandma, and will remain
in my heart and mind as a wonderful example of grace and love.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-11741052764436713642016-01-22T21:22:00.002-06:002016-02-02T09:23:49.654-06:00Melting Down<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv-NLdHn2Q_IEXCYk2c6DKr5wSb6lT_bMqeEP-ZEGKfb8_dp7eVpq9T-ZOV2weBnHqLgj4r8jL5U8FKWnCTVbREDf7oC4KxuxqVW3KKUCtSczOCYIZaM1UtsXzvscNMHQFbUq5f4nnlsQ/s1600/melting_snowman_cookies_194929.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv-NLdHn2Q_IEXCYk2c6DKr5wSb6lT_bMqeEP-ZEGKfb8_dp7eVpq9T-ZOV2weBnHqLgj4r8jL5U8FKWnCTVbREDf7oC4KxuxqVW3KKUCtSczOCYIZaM1UtsXzvscNMHQFbUq5f4nnlsQ/s320/melting_snowman_cookies_194929.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It seems ironic that as everything outside is freezing up,
I’m indoors melting down. It happens
every year about this time – the lack of sunlight, the weather keeping everyone
indoors, the post-holiday dullness enhanced by the blah gray days that the calendar
says will continue for a dozen more weeks. It all gets a bit overwhelming. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I’m being completely honest, it’s overwhelming to the
point of possible internal combustion, that point where human contact should be
completely avoided because you can’t seem to say anything without the receiving
end responding “Don’t get mad at me!” or “You don’t have to yell!”. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not getting mad… I’ve gone mad. I’m not yelling, I can
just no longer control the volume (or the tone) of my voice. This is me, metaphorically hanging by a few
fingers from a cliff while trying to nicely tell you to pick up your ever
loving sh*t for the 100<sup>th</sup> time.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My cliff is not a rugged rock formation carved by wind and
water over millions of years, but a wobbly mountain that has grown over the
last 10 years out of missing gloves, dirty laundry, unfinished projects, work
and other obligations – until it grew too tall to balance on, so now I’m
hanging by the thread of some sweater/backpack/blanket/toy I was supposed to
fix. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a common misconception that our obligations weigh us
down. In fact, I think they build us up. They create our identity and we take
them on to grow into the person we think we should be, or what we think others
want us to be. And when it becomes
overwhelming, we cling to them and the person we think we are, even when it
hurts those around us…. Because. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because we have to?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because we don’t want to fail?<br />
Because everyone else can handle all this, and sometimes more, so I should,
too?<br />
<br />
So I do, until a recent chilly winter day at the tail end of the kids Christmas
vacation, I was struggling to get my work done so I can make it to the grocery
store and back before dinner time. The kids were fighting and my list had gone
missing… and when I’m finally – keys in hand – ready to leave, a condescending
voice complains that I neglected to warm up the car AGAIN. And that little thread I was hanging starts
to unravel.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remote started the truck as the cold winter walls and
closed up windows of my home started creeping in, and wondered “why is it so
effing hot in here!” Looking for an
escape, I “hid” sitting on the edge of the tub in the locked bathroom, silent,
hot tears running down my face – meltdown eminent. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a few minutes and deep breaths, I felt better – grabbed some TP and cleaned up what was left
of my eyeliner before emerging to a worried daughter that offered to spend part
of her gift card to buy me some coffee at Starbucks, and a sweet hug from a 5
year old as he says “Love you Mama” in a way I never want to stop hearing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Their love and need strengthen me, enough – maybe, to swing
my foot to the side of that cliff and catch my toe on the edge of a laundry basket
giving me just enough leverage to push myself back up on to the top of the pile
seconds before that thread gives way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t want help. <br />
I don’t need help. <br />
<br />
I just need perspective - a way to level
wobbly Mt. Obligation to make that helpless melt down feeling a little less
likely. A new way to look at not just
my to-do list, but the season. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nothing gives you more perspective than dangling from the
edge of your sanity. For the to do list
- my game plan is prioritizing the
obligations in to what I MUST do, what I SHOULD do and, finally, what I MIGHT
do, making that mountain into a series of rolling hills that are far less
likely to drop me into a crazed oblivion.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Managing the season will be a little tougher. I’ve never been a winter girl. I’d much
rather trade the sleds and snowmobiles for blankets and books – but after a few
days of not being out of the house, hibernation in your cozy home cave can
start feeling a bit like being trapped in a cage. I think my fix is to float some life rafts on
to my calendar – a night out here, an activity there, an event or two to look
forward too. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s bound to be
harder than it sounds, but the result will be more of the me I want to be. And… it’ll probably save me a bunch of money
on TP and eyeliner. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-85417690169964687842015-11-23T21:29:00.000-06:002015-11-23T21:32:33.168-06:00Crash Test Mommy<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd6rQtWGXHI4tfvtAspE85p0nEvVyT6_IFQaAw8yKzZYm52RVeB0zJ7FrBPNAycoSsaqz5J6zqjKB0-DeRE3keZfHiiEBu_9nAbZkaR-P7yD5NFeOaeGInlioEZMw9G-sCkKqddwbeqH4/s1600/crashtestmommy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd6rQtWGXHI4tfvtAspE85p0nEvVyT6_IFQaAw8yKzZYm52RVeB0zJ7FrBPNAycoSsaqz5J6zqjKB0-DeRE3keZfHiiEBu_9nAbZkaR-P7yD5NFeOaeGInlioEZMw9G-sCkKqddwbeqH4/s320/crashtestmommy.jpg" width="305" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crash Test Mommy Driver's License Pic :)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s almost 9PM as I plop down on the couch for the first
time that day without something I HAVE to do.
As I zone out looking at the ceiling, the only uncluttered space in the
house, a Acura commercial comes on. A
researcher is testing vehicle safety, placing dummies in a car, but this time
they look like him and his family. You
can see the concern on his face as they barrel toward the wall. A striking commercial for sure, but I was
struck by the “Mom”. I could relate to
her. How many times have I felt myself, metaphorically, racing toward a wall –
a crash test mommy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My walls are a less obvious than the steely one in the
commercial, adorned with warning symbols and caution tape. Mine are the deadlines, events and
obligations that dot my calendar, or sometimes the pressure I impose on myself
to be the parent I think I’m supposed to be. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is no formal training to be a mom. No Bachelors in Momology or Master in
Mommyhood. You can learn what you see from your parents, friends, and long
winded parenting self help books, but we’re all alone in applying that
knowledge and the results are sometimes less than desirable. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By some miracle, I’ve avoided an all out collision with one
of these walls. But I can’t count the
number of times the fenders have been bendered.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The whole purpose of being a crash test dummy, or mommy, is
to collect data to improve performance, right?
Or at the very least, find the lowest possible acceptable level you can
maintain without people wondering if they should call in professional
help. So far the crash test mommy data has uncovered some
interesting discoveries:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; text-indent: -0.25in;"> 1. </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Laundry creates a soft landing.</span></b><br />
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">If something has got to give, it’s going to be laundry. The kids can wear mismatched socks and “flood’s
coming” jeans – although preferably not together, for obvious reasons. And no
one will die if they have to wear the same PJs three days in a row. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">2.</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Don’t work so hard on dinner</b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">.</span><br />
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Sure, occasionally I want to make a prep heavy, “nice” dinner – lasagna,
meatloaf, roast with taters and gravy, baked chicken etc., but don’t do it for
the sake of the children. They’ll always
be more excited to see pizza, tacos or hamburgers on the table.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">3.</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> <b>
</b></span><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;">The little things are way more important than
the big things.</b><br />
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">If you mess up and disappoint your kid during a holiday or birthday, it’ll
sting and you’ll feel the impact of it like that steel wall, but the kids will
move on in a matter of moments. However,
if you consistently fail on a small thing: bedtime snuggles, the note in the
lunch box, or forgetting to get the granola bars they like in three consecutive
visits to the store. You may think it’s a not big deal (or even notice the
mistake) but the kid will feel forgotten.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">4.</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Plans are for amateurs</b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">.</span><br />
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">But old habits die hard, so I still waste time trying to control the
uncontrollable with detailed, timed, list inspiring plans, only to have them
run over by that car I’m trapped in.
Plans are like the toddler’s security blanket clutched so tightly until
he notices everyone else is off having a wildly fun time. So he leaves the blankey lying on the ground
by his overturned sippy cup and joins in.
The plans just need to be forgotten.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">5.</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Work: But did you die?</b><br />
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Sure it’s embarrassing to perform below your abilities at work, especially when
others notice, but usually (in most professions) even messing up a project in
every way possible won’t result in your demise.
Sometimes good enough is good enough.
You can always try selling the mess up as “thinking outside the
box”. Managers love that. Of course some professionals (doctors,
pilots, cops etc) should ignore this completely and absolutely not mess up.</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When it comes to those walls that keep appearing as I’m
flying through life at a 100MPH, I wonder who’s got it out for me. Then I
realize, I can only blame myself:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The person who would rather paint 210 Dalmatian spots on a
white sweat suit and sew a fleece headband with ears (finishing seconds before
he has to leave for school) to make my youngest’s Halloween costume, than shell
out $20 for the Disney version. The
person who likes to make pizza from scratch rather than buy the $3.99 frozen
version. Or write notes for every lunch
box, every day, or give into the begging child that wants to do one more after school
activity, or insist on going a bit nuts with the cake and décor for the kids
birthdays. It’s all on me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This afternoon the kids and I were talking about what we
should make for Christmas cookies and treats – now I have a list of caramels,
two kinds of truffles, 4 kinds of cookies, and a handful of other must make
Christmas treats – all to be made in the next three weeks. I can feel the acceleration already. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s okay to want to try and be the best at work and
home. It’s okay to load up the calendar
and only get a chance to breathe at 9 o’clock in the evening… as long as you
get a chance to enjoy all the effort you put into all that you do. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just over the horizon I can see the next wall being
built. In couple weeks the chaos of
Christmas, with its last minute shopping, baking and wrapping, will be in full
swing. At this point I can only hope to
avoid a full on crash into that festive wall, and instead, maybe land on a
nice, soft, heaping pile of dirty laundry.
The truffles will make it all worthwhile. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-73062539352410709282015-06-21T16:56:00.001-05:002015-06-21T16:58:02.554-05:00Dad's a Wonderful Guy <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikCxNOHILM6E0ykAMqEByrsqmcP4J0lDLhR5MiU7Twewy1ueXVAPRj7rOktqjV3XC3anelcdxFAj38hEccE3o4UAr697K1ruajkuskZu1NikIHhNI4pGs-OrIDzVn_InzisJr-z7kLIuk/s1600/dadblogpic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikCxNOHILM6E0ykAMqEByrsqmcP4J0lDLhR5MiU7Twewy1ueXVAPRj7rOktqjV3XC3anelcdxFAj38hEccE3o4UAr697K1ruajkuskZu1NikIHhNI4pGs-OrIDzVn_InzisJr-z7kLIuk/s320/dadblogpic.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Dad and I as Beetlejuice <br />
for Halloween in the late 80's</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">"Dad's
a Wonderful Guy!" "Dad's a Wonderful Guy!" That's what he would
make us yell, his very own version of "Mercy!" during tickle fights,
whisker burn, or my favorite, the "stop hitting yourself" game where
he'd control our arms and make us bonk ourselves on the head, all in good fun.
No amounts of "Stop! I'm going to pee my pants!" or "I think I'm
going to puke!" shouted through fits of</span> giggles would release us. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">And
it’s true, my Dad is a wonderful guy. He’s
also hilarious, a great storyteller, a hard worker, critical thinker and so
much more, it only made sense to share a bit of my appreciation for my pop on
Father’s Day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">My
Dad was outnumbered from the start, having three girls to deal with before he
finally got a boy. But he didn’t let us
be prissy girls and some of my fondest memories are of my Dad packing up all of
us kids and taking us to fish off the shore on Bald Eagle Lake. He taught us how to cast, bait our hooks,
even dig a hook out of a fish’s gut. And
when we were old enough, about 11 or 12, he taught us how to clean them. Skills
I don’t use often enough lately, but I’m still grateful for them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">At
about that age we got to cut down little trees with handsaws at our family’s
tree farm, drag them to a brush pile and in the cleared areas, plant hundreds
of little Black Walnut saplings. It was hard work, but pretty cool to see a
forest that we planted. He’d take us to
the park to practice basketball in the small indoor court, which was usually
occupied by a half dozen tall black guys playing full court, most under 6 foot
white guys with 3 or 4 kids in tow would have been nervous about asking them to
share the court, and they weren’t going to unless you pushed the issue, but not
my Dad. Us kids would spend the next
hour or so practicing lay ups and free throws while my Dad impressed anyone
watching by hitting three point and half court shots, we also learned you have
to ask for what you want, and a confidence goes a long way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">My
Dad was always serious about us trying and doing our best, when we played
softball he’d be out in the yard playing catch with us, or the whole family
would hit the park to bat and field. In
school A+’s were a must, and boy, we tried.
We all did well, even if it wasn’t all A+’s, but Dad never let us get
too proud of ourselves, he was kind of our anti-ego. He always thought we could do better, and because
of that we always tried. It may seem a
bit harsh, but if you think you’re the best, you might use it as an excuse to
stop learning and growing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">My
Dad was in charge of teaching us about all things with wheels, I remember
vividly trying to learn how to ride a bike.
We lived on a busy road in St. Paul and our backyard sloped down to our
garage. We spent many a terrified,
tearful try rolling accelerating (without even having to pedal) toward the man
door of the garage as we tried to learn to ride, I think that was called
motivation. Years later he taught me how
to drive, the terror was all his this time, 20 years later he’ll still bring up
our death-defying trip to my first drivers test, when I took a 25MPH clover
leaf exit at 60MPH on two wheels. Not
sure what the big deal was…we made it just fine, didn’t quite pass my test
though. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">I
inherited a lot from my Dad, I remember being 8 years old, standing the length
of the kitchen from my parents trying to read a box of Raisin Bran and
discovering I had my Dad’s bad eyesight. I spent the rest of my childhood wearing
chunky, plastic framed glasses looking like an animated cartoon bug. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">I
also got his sense of fun and humor, from making up silly songs, to teasing the
kids. You haven’t heard “Tip toe through
the tulips” until you’ve heard my Dad sing it.
He also has his own “special” (loud and crazy) way to sing Happy Birthday
to the grand kids. Every once in a while,
a quiet afternoon would erupt into full blast “Black Magic Woman” by Santana
and “Hair” by the Cowsills when my Dad decided to put his old records on, and
us kids thought it was the coolest thing ever. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">I
also inherited my Dad’s ability to worry oneself sick, as evidenced by my acid reflux
and TUMS soaring stock prices. In the
pre-cell phone era, my sister and I worked. I was at a grocery store and my
sister at Kmart, just up the road. My sister
didn’t drive, so I was often her ride.
One night I got off at 9PM and because my sister wasn’t done until 10PM
I just hung out for a bit. My Dad,
expecting us home shortly after 9PM went into panic mode and decided to go out
looking for us. By the time he got to Kmart we were already on our way home,
safe and sound. He didn’t have to worry
so much, we were good kids. And we’d do
anything to avoid a vein bulging, butt chewing from Dad. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">While
I don’t have a bulging forehead vein, I hope, I realized I had my Dad’s temperament
the day I heard myself yelling about tiny scraps of paper, one of his biggest
complaints. The paper was the kind that falls off the edge of a sheet of
notebook paper when you pull it free from the wire. Trying to keep the house clean with a pack of
kids is nearly impossible, and I started to see scraps of paper everywhere. They must be invisible to kids, I never
noticed them when I was young and my kids sure don’t see them. I had to laugh and call my dad to tell him I
could finally see the little scraps of paper. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">My
Dad’s also the perspective behind my politics, although he’s never preached to
us, he’d just point us in the direction of the information and let us come up
with our own conclusions. He still sends
us articles to read, and if ever the subject comes up on the phone, the next
hour and a half is always an impromptu “solve the world’s problems” brain
storming session. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">You
know how they say “Work smart, not hard”?
My Dad works smart and hard, which rubbed off on all of us kids, we don’t
make excuses when there is a job to be done.
He’s also a handyman; an electrician by trade, but a mechanic, plumber,
and contractor when need be. He added on
to our childhood homes so each of us could have our own rooms, he made us all dressers,
one of which is still used by my daughter today. Now that he’s retired, he takes requests,
making toy-sized wooden garages for my boys, a baby cradle for all the granddaughters,
picnic tables for each of us and more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">As
I see my husband try to balance work with time for the kids, I realize the
struggle my Dad endured to make sure we had a great dad and role model, and
that we were prepared for the world when it was time to take it on ourselves. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">He
even found a little fun in that preparation, when it was time to head off to
college, my Dad did the “here’s how to check oil/fill washer fluid/change tire”
refresher course. He also put a bucket in the trunk with supplies we may need: sand,
tire gauge, air pump, rag, etc. It was
only after I had been gone awhile that I went to check the oil and found the
rag was an old pair of his tighty whities, which were only made more hilarious
with a big brown streak of oil on them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">You
should meet my Dad, he’s a funny, smart, strong, wonderful guy. Thanks Dad, for
all you do and all you’ve taught me over the years!<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-9674383753048036262015-06-09T08:10:00.001-05:002016-06-19T12:41:58.582-05:00Building Character One Crappy Parenting Moment at a Time.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr5xXgPQGCBf79mpRsSRu8PZTZpVdxPJHJw6ViEzG-orXPXAhGM_edGVOa926deFi0czs00wl3dabFoRupRVxsE8WuPzxED7yDjLPCbW2iOP_lSeVB2Cc5jLHYifsWaideuvsRIYx0aC0/s1600/crappyparenting.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr5xXgPQGCBf79mpRsSRu8PZTZpVdxPJHJw6ViEzG-orXPXAhGM_edGVOa926deFi0czs00wl3dabFoRupRVxsE8WuPzxED7yDjLPCbW2iOP_lSeVB2Cc5jLHYifsWaideuvsRIYx0aC0/s400/crappyparenting.png" width="400" /></a></div>
I think most of us start out thinking we are going to really ace this parenting thing. How hard could it be? You just have to love them and teach them right from wrong and they'll turn out perfect, right? But that first sleepless night when your darling infant refuses to accept love, and pleading, and endless boob as a good enough reason to go to sleep, you may have realized this wasn't going to be a piece of cake. <br />
<br />
The slow-learner parents might not realize this until a year and a half later when their angry toddler refuses to take "no" for an answer and an epic battle of wills follows, ending with a sobbing heap of parent and a giggling toddler flinging applesauce and eating those smelly fruit puff things, because... well, because the winner in a battle of wills is the one without the to-do list.<br />
<br />
Over my past decade of parentdom, there have been many times when, my child(ren) refuse to accept my wise guidance, my incessant pleading, or loud - dare I say - yelled instructions, and I've said and done things that I wish I could take back or do-over. Many of those times, the kids have deserved a do-over. But there is no pause or rewind in parenting, and maybe in the minor ways that is for the best.<br />
<br />
I was pondering this the other day, as I often ponder things. After a not so "gold star" mom moment, I thought, wouldn't it be great if time could be returned, like the ill-fitting pair of jeans I impulsively pulled off the clearance rack and bought without trying on first? You could just grab your receipt for a crappy parenting moment and Father Time would pony-up a few fresh minutes that you could use a little wiser, or a little nicer?<br />
<br />
But nothing is so simple... here's where this blog turns into more of a story... [roll dream sequence footage here... everything is wavy, and there are chimes!]<br />
<br />
An old man sits behind a simple counter with a small cash register. His face is a web of wrinkles carved so deep into his flesh you wonder if they hurt. A beard, frizzled and white, falls from his face, ending somewhere behind the counter, just barely revealing the ironic "Got Time?" logo on his standard issue customer service polo shirt.<br />
<br />
As I approach the counter I can see that while time has left its mark on his skin, hair and stature, it has spared his eyes, which remain bright and wise and kind.<br />
<br />
He watches as I place my purse on the counter, waiting.<br />
<br />
I feel a bit nervous and stumble over my words as I dig through my purse. "I'd like to return some time", I say, "Can I return some time?"<br />
<br />
"Depends", replies the Old Man, "If it was truly poorly spent, I'd consider it, I suppose."<br />
<br />
I pull out the first receipt, "Oh.." I say, "this was one of many times where I had to work and the kids were bored, If I had this time back, I'd spend it doing something they'd enjoy, or maybe something educational?"<br />
<br />
The Old Man studies the receipt and passes it back to me. "I can't return this." He explains, "this was educational. Your children learned that life isn't always fun and games but it takes work and dedication. That's a valuable lesson they're learning."<br />
<br />
"Okay." I say skeptically, "I understand, but what about this..." I pull out another receipt, a long one. "This is all the times my children have hurt themselves in some minor way, and I told them to "walk it off" or "you'll live". Surely I should have been more of a doting mother, tending to every paper cut and scratch, right?"<br />
<br />
The Old Man laughed, "Did they live?"<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
<br />
"Then they learned that they can pick themselves up when they fall. You can't always be there for them. You don't really want to return that do you?" he asks.<br />
<br />
"No, I suppose not." I agree. I dig through my purse determined to find some time he'd return.<br />
<br />
"Oh! This one! You've got to agree this one is bad, I burdened the kids with a problem that was above their age range." I explain, "Money, house, car, people issues, I've probably given them too much information regarding all of them!"<br />
<br />
The Old Man thinks for a moment, I thought I had finally got one, until he slid the receipt back across the counter. "No." he says, "Of course it's not ideal to make kids worry about grown up things, but none of these are out of their realm of understanding, and a little reality when they are little will make a lot of reality easier for them to handle when they are grown."<br />
<br />
I frown. Man this old guy is tough! Frustrated, I start lining up my remaining receipts, "What about this one? The time I didn't take time to admire their art work? Or this one, my poor kid had a nervous breakdown at the table when I made him eat his peas? Or this - when I didn't let my daughter go to a party and it broke her heart? You've got to admit these are..."<br />
<br />
"Not returnable." He interrupts, pointing at each receipt he explains, "When you didn't have time to look, he had time to be proud of himself without others approval, and this one, well... peas are good for you..."<br />
<br />
"That's what I said!"<br />
<br />
"And this one? There are other parties right?"<br />
<br />
I nod.<br />
<br />
"And she learned that missing out on a little fun here and there isn't the end of the world."<br />
<br />
"Right, Okay..." I say, "but, I saved the worst for last...."<br />
<br />
"Alright." says the Old Man, "Let's see it."<br />
<br />
I gingerly pull the last receipt from my bag and slide it across the counter. "This happens more than I'd like to admit." Feeling ashamed I explain. "I often can't shake a bad mood and it effects the way I treat people, including my kids. If the work is piling up, or I have an annoying client hounding me, or nothing is getting done around the house, I get short tempered and snappy and have literally no patience for what is really normal kid behavior. No amount of taking deep breaths seems to help and I feel terrible for my tone and attitude when they deserve better."<br />
<br />
"I see." says the man looking at the receipt. He opens a drawer behind the counter and takes out a pen. Finally! I think. At least I'll get a second chance to right this wrong. <br />
<br />
Taking his time he scribbles something on the receipt and slides it back to me. Before he removes his hand he asks "Do your children know you love them?"<br />
<br />
I nod. He releases the receipt and I read what he's written. In shaky old man handwriting I see "No Returns. All Time is Final."<br />
<br />
I look up at him confused and a little annoyed.<br />
<br />
"Every day I sit at this desk and decline those who want to turn back the clocks, my clocks." he says. <br />
<br />
"But... but why do you have a return desk?"<br />
<br />
"Because," he explains. "its important to review your life's moments, especially the ones you're not proud of, so that you can learn from them and decide how you'll react when you encounter those situations again in the future."<br />
<br />
I nod.<br />
<br />
"And," he continues, "most often the moments you feel you're failing as a parent are the moments your kids are learning the most valuable lessons. They can learn their ABCs and 123s from anyone, but they need to learn the hardest lessons in the safety of love." <br />
<br />
<h3>
They need to learn the hardest lessons in the safety of love.</h3>
<br />
"Their trust and belief in your unconditional love lets them see past the tone that comes with your bad mood. It teaches them empathy... and," he says with a chuckle "when to run their little butts to their room and quickly clean it before mom really blows her top."<br />
<br />
I smile.<br />
<br />
"The best parents not only worry about their mistakes, but they own them. Take time after the moment has passed to explain or apologize and in return teach your children the most important lesson, that being perfect is not possible, but being accountable is."<br />
<br />
As I stand there wrapping my mind around his wisdom, the old man starts to fade away, before he's gone he says "Your flaws build their character."<br />
<br />
[Insert wavy coming out of a dream sequence and chimes here]<br />
<br />
Our flaws build their character.<br />
<br />
Imagine how little the child of a perfect parent would know.<br />
<br />
Trying to be the best parent is still the goal, of course, but when I inevitably mess up, I don't need to save the receipt in hopes that I can get a re-do on that moment someday. I can own it. I can explain it and I can apologize when necessary. Saying "sorry" doesn't fix mistakes, but explaining them builds a base of understanding. With that base, my kids will learn compassion, empathy and a way to understand people, not by what their actions are, but why they do those actions. And hopefully, this knowledge will help them to grow up to be better parents, and people, than we are. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-42055486733588857892015-05-10T22:46:00.000-05:002015-05-11T07:51:29.526-05:00My Mom is...Magic<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYofVGQZfF6cCHoePJya0o34zFV9vqLzT5Q8kRk2jmfen4TYdZzTV1cAZbFNmb2xT8p-3ObZFe9U3Y-z0UdRAKE6iiDp5LAgmz5mmv2KT04EIyV4UsuPR8sPt5YXGKdCFDkykl49z1FU4/s1600/mompic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYofVGQZfF6cCHoePJya0o34zFV9vqLzT5Q8kRk2jmfen4TYdZzTV1cAZbFNmb2xT8p-3ObZFe9U3Y-z0UdRAKE6iiDp5LAgmz5mmv2KT04EIyV4UsuPR8sPt5YXGKdCFDkykl49z1FU4/s320/mompic.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
When you’re a kid it’s easy to name the best qualities of
your mom. Usually they are scrawled in
crayon on Mother’s Day projects sent home with your first grader or kindergartner.
Simple things like “she’s nice”, “she’s
funny”, “she helps me”, or “she’s a good cooker” as my youngest says. As you get older it gets harder to put into
words what makes your mom great, because it’s less about what she can do and
more about what she has done for you – how she made you great.<br />
<br />
It's impossible to describe with words the
amazing lady who made me. I have one of
those moms that’s good at everything, which makes it a real challenge to be “just
like mom”. She reminds me of Barbara Eden on “I Dream of
Jeannie”. Whatever you need she can
wiggle her ears (instead of her nose) and get it done.<br />
<br />
My mom raised four kids too, except she had three girls and
one boy. We were fairly confident kids,
we new mom was there, but never overbearing.
I don’t ever remember my mom complaining either, even though I’m sure we
were worth a “good long complain” a few times a week.<br />
<br />
She taught us early how to do the dishes, sweep the floors
and do our own laundry. Maybe it’s
because I have more boys, but I haven’t been as lucky in teaching mine. They love to do the chores, but if left
unsupervised, they go a bit overboard – using a quarter inch of water to clean
the floor, or a half bottle of dawn just to rinse the dishes before they go in the
dishwasher, and at least 18 paper towels to clean up the smallest spill.<br />
<br />
My mom had patience beyond what I can muster. As she created craft sale items, she’d set us
up to make our own little projects – decorative pins, hair bows, painted
things, boo boo bunnies, and she’d let us sell them at the show and keep the
money. I still drag out the a good ol’
glue gun and a tin of buttons to make a masterpiece or two with the kids, but
when a button ends up glued to the table, and the tin gets tipped, spilling the
rest to the floor, I’d rather call it quits than laugh it off. She always let us decorate the cookies for
the holidays, and painstakingly paint molds with candy melts to make fancy Christmas
chocolates. She’d even put the splotchy, hideous ones we made out on the tray
for Grandma’s house, so we could show them off.<br />
<br />
My mom taught me the right way to play with your food – like
creating pancakes in any shape we can imagine.
I’ve gotten pretty good at making pancake snowmobiles, 4-wheelers and
princess crowns. I also remember all of us kids crowding around her, mesmerized
as Mom carved a watermelon into an animal shaped fruit bowl and hand-decorated
whatever we wanted on our birthday cakes.<br />
<br />
Mom is quite the seamstress, making us clothes when we were
little, as well as Halloween costumes, and holiday dresses – letting us pick our
own patterns and fabrics at the fabric store.
She even made our school uniforms and my wedding dress and all my
bridesmaids’ dresses.<br />
<br />
She walked me through crocheting a dress for my baby doll
when I was about 12. Taught me how to
sew, cook, balance a checkbook, and even got us “jobs” at her jobs – mostly filing
- during our Christmas and Spring breaks, but we loved feeling so
responsible.<br />
<br />
I realize now how my mom could have done things easier and
faster by herself, but she always took the time, as excruciating as it might
have been, to let us do and learn. I forget to do this sometimes, when dinner
is already late, or I have a million things to accomplish and not a million
hours to do them . But the best way to
learn is to do and my mom did this well – she continues her admirable patience
with the grandkids now, letting them each add their ingredient to the pancake
batter and mix it in, when she could just dump them all in at once.<br />
<br />
Even now that we’re grown, my Mom is always there for us. In
college my laptop wasn’t working and was sent in to be repaired. When Best Buy wouldn’t fess up to what
happened to it, it was gone longer than it should have been, and multiple
visits to pick it up only resulted in lies and excuses, my mom went to the customer service desk and
in her perfected Queen Bee tone, told them they were producing my computer or
getting me a new one. After scaring the
pants off the poor service guy, he confessed my computer was being held hostage
due to a bankruptcy at the company that was supposed to repair it and I walked
out of there with a new computer. I must
learn this skill!<br />
<br />
And when my first child was born, she came to help for a few
days, it was such a relief to have a pro on-site when you’re worried about
doing everything wrong. She came for
the next three arrivals too, watching the siblings-to-be and keeping them busy
when I came home with a new little one.
She stayed only a few days, as we settled into a new routine. Then she’d float away like Mary Poppins leaving
a well-prepared house behind. I shed a
few tears each time she left. Partly
hormones, I’m sure, but mostly because I was so grateful to have a mom willing
to give not just her time, but care, comfort, and a clean house, at a time when
I couldn't really give anything in return (unless you count the new
grandchild). And she always made it look
so easy. I hope I can return that favor
to my kids someday.<br />
<br />
Maybe the best way to describe my Mom is “Magic”. I’m in the midst of this mom thing and I’m
still not sure how the trick works. But I’m getting an idea. As parents we have an audience all the
time. We are the show, and our biggest
fans, who may occasionally get a little rowdy and throw tomatoes, are mostly mesmerized
by what we moms can do. <br />
<br />
The magic of mommyhood isn’t from fairy dust or some lucky
kid rubbing a lamp to find an ear-wiggling genie. It’s love.
Plain and simple. It’s love in
every handmade Halloween costume and decorated birthday cake. In every time I didn't have to eat the Lima Beans. And that night we spent changing each other’s
scribbles into pictures. In every time I
pick up a crochet hook, sewing needle or spatula and think “my mom taught me
this”. And, when I sing to my kids and
remember all of us in the living room singing “Kookaburra sits in the old gum
tree”, trying to get my little brother, Ricky, to fall asleep. Your actions, patience and all the effort you
put into teaching us was the best kind of love, and it made us the capable and maybe even a
little bit magical adults we are today.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Thanks Mom, for being “magic” for me, and now
the grandkids. I’m still mesmerized</span><br />
<div style="height: 0px;">
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-84905400119382476452015-04-28T08:29:00.000-05:002015-04-28T10:31:38.897-05:00Hobbies for Moms with No Time to Have HobbiesSometimes in the process of deep cleaning (the scary, spiders are a real possibility, kind), you find things that surprise you. Pieces of yourself that have either been forgotten or put away "for a bit", that instead end up lost behind the vacuum, extra sheets and some interesting wedding gifts for an eternity. <br />
<br />
On a mission to find some rummage sale donations, I found some of these... my old hobbies.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4U7Equ0C788/VT-CaFa0alI/AAAAAAAADQQ/36Ii21xSY8c/s1600/2015-04-28%2B07.51.31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4U7Equ0C788/VT-CaFa0alI/AAAAAAAADQQ/36Ii21xSY8c/s1600/2015-04-28%2B07.51.31.jpg" height="116" width="200" /></a>As I dug through our big basement closet for a tote full of garage sale left overs, I came upon my old<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mlV2ShtZyXA/VT-CHUDla3I/AAAAAAAADQI/b5AshY2o1D4/s1600/2015-04-28%2B07.50.13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mlV2ShtZyXA/VT-CHUDla3I/AAAAAAAADQI/b5AshY2o1D4/s1600/2015-04-28%2B07.50.13.jpg" height="138" width="200" /></a> high school sketch pad. As I looked through it I was surprised by how good I was. Over the years I've bought new pads and pencils, planning to draw again, and out of about 8 pads I've used a grand total of 0 pages. Not for lack of wanting, mostly just a lack of time or at the very least timing. The kids make up for it though, using every page - so at least those $10/50 sheet pads of paper aren't wasted...<br />
<br />
As I dug deeper, I found a half finished needlepoint, a whole tote of yarn, a box of oil paints, brushes and a half finished canvas, a box of VHS aerobics tapes. There were probably a notebook or two of poetry in there too. A whole closet of things I did when I had nothing to do.<br />
<br />
And yes, I do realize I have the hobbies of an older middle-aged woman. I also have a collection of decorative plates, what does that say about me? If I had a half dozen cats and 25 days worth of ugly Christmas sweaters I could probably inspire a skit on Saturday Night Live. Luckily I derailed the crazy cat-lady train when I got married and had kids.<br />
<br />
That's also when I realized that free time is taken for granted in the pre-kid years. Meals aren't timed by impending tantrums. You can pick up a book and spend an hour reading without interruption. You might even just slip on your shoes and take a walk, without a plan, supplies or a half an hour spent looking for one small shoe.<br />
<br />
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</div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9cytaOWFVW5RTYRvak8EzqVUiiY5afonBvTPv7Tv7BM5GSmRNFIA5KSXuV0fPjZCGkCI6jv3OqOdUYMDvXhG70bgd1pThN5Chbf_BOEunI8qPfLlrE7tUMPtugSVSUgkPXm7OYiIDYyM/s1600/IMG_4253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9cytaOWFVW5RTYRvak8EzqVUiiY5afonBvTPv7Tv7BM5GSmRNFIA5KSXuV0fPjZCGkCI6jv3OqOdUYMDvXhG70bgd1pThN5Chbf_BOEunI8qPfLlrE7tUMPtugSVSUgkPXm7OYiIDYyM/s1600/IMG_4253.JPG" height="200" style="cursor: move;" width="150" /></a>I didn't intend to quit my hobbies when the kids came along, but it was just easier than trying to do them while being interrupted...every time. Juice splatters on the sketch pad, tiny hands trying to tip the turpentine and not a single second of silence to ponder poetry or read a book. I traded wilderness photo shoots for candid baby shots, and aerobics for 100 reps of "pick up the toy and return it to the child in the high chair". I still get to be creative with birthday cakes, decorations, and Halloween costumes, but all my hobbies now have a kid element.<br />
<br />
Some parents manage to keep their hobbies post-kid, I get a mini guilt attack going for a walk and leaving the bedtime duties to dad.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMtP1c99iqLomu7TKrhXu9BylKAHFZ2uKsqJpgxGxpAFBlNO7YpUC6IC-lB14a3z2vxsGl9euaSMrXCRLMRe36hyIWQrl5fnU_jeFM8-8CplA9M-gaubtg17hyphenhyphen1Q9I9Wm2dYSEukkoCOw/s1600/IMG_4255.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMtP1c99iqLomu7TKrhXu9BylKAHFZ2uKsqJpgxGxpAFBlNO7YpUC6IC-lB14a3z2vxsGl9euaSMrXCRLMRe36hyIWQrl5fnU_jeFM8-8CplA9M-gaubtg17hyphenhyphen1Q9I9Wm2dYSEukkoCOw/s1600/IMG_4255.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><br />
Hobbies make people interesting, they give you something to talk about, to share with others, and since I don't have time to squeeze in some glamorous activities to make me seem cool and worldly, I decided to make some of what I have to do everyday my new hobbies, including:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<ol>
<li><b>Professional Driving.</b><br />Whether I'm headed to school, the store or back home, the kids are loaded and locked, the radio is under my control and nobody can get into anything, what's not to love.<br /></li>
<li><b>Repeating Myself.</b><br />If I say it once, I say it 4 to 8 times. This hobby is a bit tedious, I'm considering giving it up and getting a parrot or digging a large valley between the living room and the kids bedroom so when I yell "Clean your room!" it will echo a few times at their end and I won't have to do it myself.<br /></li>
<li><b>Yelling. </b><br />I think before I had kids there were years in a row when I didn't yell once, now with just a few years of practice I'm able to reach volumes and tones beyond my wildest imagination. I can also project not only sound but a sense of urgency loud enough for the neighbors to hear.<br /><br /> </li>
<li><b>Making PB&J Sandwiches.</b><br />I challenge anyone on Food Network to take on my PB&J skills. Of course, I'd lose because JIF, Welch's Grape and Target brand white bread does not a Next Food Network Star make, but the efficiency of my sandwich assembly is a sight to be seen.<br /><br /> </li>
<li><b>Saying NO.</b><br />From the simple "No" to more sarcastic "Ahhhhhhh No." and occasionally the rapid machine gun firing "No no no nonononono NO!" My faves include the "interrupting no": "Mom can I.." "No." and "read my mind no": "What do you think...." "No?" "Right." The "Art of the No" is an ancient one, but a challenge worth investing some time into.<br /></li>
<li><b>Reading the same books over and over and over. </b><br />Which leads to other hobbies just to cope with the 14th night in a row of "Little Blue Truck", for example: singing books that weren't intended to be songs - if it rhymes it's fair game. And reading books with accents and changing the words - Oh, you didn't know Curious George was Italian? Now you do.<br /></li>
<li><b>I said.... Repeating Myself!</b><br />Sorry... it's just a habit.<br /></li>
<li><b>Questioning kids' cartoons. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S4mmQWIPf0Y/VT-Cv75BVzI/AAAAAAAADQY/WSDdZjRv0jg/s1600/2015-04-28%2B07.53.01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S4mmQWIPf0Y/VT-Cv75BVzI/AAAAAAAADQY/WSDdZjRv0jg/s1600/2015-04-28%2B07.53.01.jpg" height="153" width="200" /></a></div>
</b><br />Why does Mickey wear pants and Donald wear a shirt? Why is Goofy a dog that acts like a person and Pluto a dog that acts like a dog? Why does Daniel Tiger's home have tiger patterned window curtains. If I had human skin pattern curtains people would be totally freaked out, but PBS must think this is fine.<br /></li>
<li><b>Clock Watching. </b><br />10 minutes to lunch... that'll keep them quiet for 7 minutes. 3 hours to bedtime, I can do this. I. Can. Do. This.<br /></li>
<li><b>Karaoke.</b><br />Because sometimes I want an audience that isn't picking their noise, telling me to be quiet, or interrupting me at my favorite part of a song every single time. And I don't have a real mic at home.<br /></li>
<li><b>Thinking about wine way more than I actually drink it. </b><br />I wish I could be more dedicated to an actual wine drinking hobby, but since it's one of the more expensive ones I want to make sure to give it my all - so I don't drink when I'm tired or when I know I can't finish the bottle, so that's pretty much not a lot.<br /></li>
<li><b>Sharing my kids mischief, mistakes and occasionally their cuteness and achievements for all of social media to enjoy</b>.<br />I figure, since I made them I own the copyrights to everything they do and say until they are 18 and I better take advantage of it while they are still too young to retaliate.<br /></li>
</ol>
Someday I'll get back to drawing, photography, writing poems that don't have potty words in them. Until then I'll focus on perfecting my mom hobbies and hope they make me just interesting enough that I don't have to get a cat and a closet full of Christmas sweaters.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-53069892208725357432015-04-08T14:24:00.002-05:002015-04-08T14:49:39.593-05:009 Ways Love Hurts When You're a Mom<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXmYqYne-3LCQycDGXpC09ymkRQp-vRc-Z8XVQSHqHQdd7NvmT1DrBb5T2A3i6ylXOL52qqwtVvR-Im1-iWwV3WiwIEvsiVXCtRaEIHMAG76AHqmq_j9z9wJTo_eQDdgJkvwyYrgxd0oo/s1600/IMG_3936.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXmYqYne-3LCQycDGXpC09ymkRQp-vRc-Z8XVQSHqHQdd7NvmT1DrBb5T2A3i6ylXOL52qqwtVvR-Im1-iWwV3WiwIEvsiVXCtRaEIHMAG76AHqmq_j9z9wJTo_eQDdgJkvwyYrgxd0oo/s1600/IMG_3936.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watch your back, the floor, and your heart when these guys are around.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
No woman plans for having a child without expecting a little pain, and most little ones don't disappoint in arriving with a soul splitting dose of ouch, but it's the hurt that follows that moms aren't prepared for. The mom truth is, unconditional love hurts ... as the song goes loves scars, love wounds and mars...<br />
<br />
Here's just a few of the many ways:<br />
<br />
<h4>
<ol>
<li>The Newborn Burn<br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">Stitches, hemorrhoids, tender tatas... those first few weeks are the pop quiz of Mom pain and you forgot to prepare, even when the birth injuries start to heal, that darling 7-8-9-10lb baby in a few weeks will be a 9-10-11-12 pounder and hauling that darling and their endless gear is a "feel the burn" kind of workout that doesn't end for a good 2 years.<br /></span></li>
<li>Brutal Babies<br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">One day your child is a sweet snugly angel, sucking on her clinched fists, swaddled in your arms, the next day the arms are flailing and those clinched fists have become velcro mitts ready to grab and grasp anything with in reach. Favorites include: your ears, handfuls of hair, your nose, your favorite necklace and occasionally they'll get in a good eye poke or head butt to your mouth or nose and you're left looking like you just went 10 rounds with that know-it-all-mom down the street. Why must face holes be so enticing and baby heads so hard. I'm pretty sure the inventor of Scünci hair binders was a mom just trying to save what was left of her hair.</span></li>
<li>Tough Toddlers<br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">A year or two of hauling your spawn has left you with enviable biceps, but the added strength doesn't always make up for the awkward stances you have to take when holding your well-coordinated toddler. No, you don't need the help of a tiny hand when writing a check, answering your phone or stirring the mac & cheese, but they refuse to believe you're capable of managing these tasks on your own. The result is awkward hip angles, neck stretching and back twisting that leaves you hoping there's still time for a hot bath at the end of the day. Spoiler Alert: Not gonna happen.<br /></span></li>
<li>You're Killing Me Kids!<br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">Once the children can be trusted to walk on their own, your spine starts to straighten and your head can safely center itself over your body, but the hurt doesn't end. Whether you're hauling a dead fish tantrum thrower out of a store (how do they make their 50lbs feel like a 100?) Or just poor decision making, like when I thought 3 weeks after gall bladder surgery I could carry my sleeping seven year old to her bed, only to tear some not quite yet healed stomach muscles. The bigger kids bring the pain with their pounds, they also bring a new kind of hurt...<br /></span></li>
<li><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Don't Go Breakin' My Heart</span><br style="font-weight: bold;" />You send your kids off to school with hugs and smiles, knowing full well you're throwing them to the wolves. Sure enough, they bring home heartache. It's impossible to prepare them for a world where they aren't the center. It's impossible to explain why people are mean. Why "so & so" says you can play with her one day and not the next. Why they didn't get the part in the the school play they wanted. Because if it were up to you, they'd get everything they want. So you join in their misery, but a mom's heart breaks twice, once for their pain and once for not being able to make it better for them. The same goes when your child is sick or injured. It hurts to see them hurt, that's how you know you're doing this mom thing right.<br /></span></li>
<li><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Insane in the Brain Pain</span><br style="font-weight: bold;" />Children bring the noise. Before kids the sound in your home was mostly controlled - the music was loud when you wanted, there was silence when you wanted, when you heard a strange sound, you could usually find it without too much trouble. But, the baby bag of tricks is mostly noise, uncontrolled noise, noise from them, noise from their things and eventually strange noises from their battery depleting toys, and a whole room to search for the Stinky the Garbage Truck that's saying in a low, creepy, dying battery voice "Heh. Heh. Thaaaaaat'sssss Grrrrroooossss!" All that noise usually ends in a pounding headache and sometimes a sore throat from all that yelling at them to be quiet...because that always works.<br /></span></li>
<li>Weapons of Mass Foot Destruction<br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">My kids love to collect weapons of mass foot destruction, from Monster High Doll shoes to Legos and Hotwheels cars with hard little spoilers. You learn to walk so your feet brush the ground before you fully step down, and night vision goggles are a must for the 10PM bed check. Even the most innocent looking jacket left on the kitchen floor can bring immense pain when you land on a zipper just right.<br /></span></li>
<li><span style="font-weight: bold;">Self-Inflicted Wounds</span><br style="font-weight: bold;" /><span style="font-weight: normal;">Self-inflicted pain is the most common in love, especially the unconditional, from my loins, type of love. Of course you want the best for your kids. You think you know what they will enjoy, so you plan something special for them and it's received without the anticipated, "I love you Mom! You're the best, most amazing, hilarious, and down right beautifulist mom in the whole world... wait, universe!". Okay.. that may have been expecting a bit much as a reaction for a surprise trip down to the beach before running errands, but, they could have at least given a tiny jump for joy. Next time we'll just go straight to the grocery store.<br /></span></li>
<li><span style="font-weight: bold;">Back to the Burn...</span><br style="font-weight: bold;" /><span style="font-weight: normal;">My kids are getting older and I find as the physical demands of care decrease, the mental and emotional elements increase, along with the levels of acid in my stomach. Before one month is done, the next is full of obligations, doctor's appointments, dance, nature club, school events - just trying to remember when to pick up who is a challenge, let alone which kid definitely needs cold lunch because they are on a field trip that day. And, that doesn't even take into account my own work, household chores and the dozen loads of dirty laundry that await me each weekend. The answer: Tum Ta Tum Tums. Some maybe able to handle all that with style and grace. I, on the other hand, am a tornado of blond hair, weekly planner pages and Tums causing a path of destruction while trying to get my world under control. My middle name is Ironic. The stress is probably doing irreparable damage I won't won't learn about for years, but all the calcium in the antacids should at least protect me from osteoporosis, right? </span></li>
</ol>
<div>
<span style="font-weight: normal;">I'm sure the worst is yet to come when my kids enter the teen years and bed time snuggles that help heal the pains of the day are replaced with a "knock, knock, good night" on a bedroom door. That's why moms suffer the baby head butts, heartbreaks and stress with a smile (even if forced or wine induced). Unconditional love hurts, but it's for the most precious of people, our darling kiddos, and who wouldn't endure anything for them. </span></div>
</h4>
<br />
<h4>
</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-57877197295102984302015-03-02T08:04:00.003-06:002015-03-02T08:11:43.955-06:00It's in My Purse<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUfRaDYa4NFNJA9Ul6NhjUn1Sz2OSLPRzToqm8R6qaJT6szBdnUInriDFi1LXdJvX1Kv7hGUyf_HgR-Fo4kJZ3wKYYnoS6akKxJPgsH3U1VH_ipxm5SEpE7qQZnx92i-X47SKH8qcishI/s1600/purse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUfRaDYa4NFNJA9Ul6NhjUn1Sz2OSLPRzToqm8R6qaJT6szBdnUInriDFi1LXdJvX1Kv7hGUyf_HgR-Fo4kJZ3wKYYnoS6akKxJPgsH3U1VH_ipxm5SEpE7qQZnx92i-X47SKH8qcishI/s1600/purse.jpg" height="320" title="My Purse" width="316" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Purse: Enter at Your Own Risk.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Few words strike fear into a man like hearing a woman say
“It’s in my purse”, when they ask a simple question like “Where’s the
stamps”. They wonder if what they need
is worth the danger or the wrath of messing with a women’s purse. It’s often not. But if an urgent need arises, most men choose
between two purse entry approaches: “The
Jaws” – complete with shark attack soundtrack playing in their head as they
gingerly peer inside, anticipating something horrible lurking in the murky
depths. Or… the “Indiana Jones” –
agilely jumping obstacles and swinging out of there with the stamps before the
whole thing blows. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Purses are a symbol of womanhood, often bestowed on us at a
young age to haul polly pockets and assorted lip glosses. My nine-year-old daughter has probably a
dozen purses and first realized the hassle of hauling one around with a
panicked, tear-streaked revelation that she left her “favorite” purse, full of
Barbie clothes and an empty gift card, hanging in the ladies restroom at Gander
Mountain. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Our purses are a testament to our preparedness. They are the grown up girl scout way to
succeed in life. <i> </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><b>“Buy new purses, but
keep thee old. One is purple and the
other has gold…embellishments.” </b></i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When on
a scene, we may not have the brute strength, mechanical know-how, or solid
right hook of our male companions, but with our purse, we are part hero, part
MacGyver, and part Muhammad Ali.
Ibuprophen, Tums, floss, nail clipper, tampon, hair-tie, Kleenex, we’ve
got it. And all together, a semi-aimed
swing of that 12 pound bag could take out most bad guys. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For me a purse became a necessity when I was in high school
and learned to drive. It was impossible
to fit my house and car keys in my pocket when they were tethered together by
half a dozen awesome and completely necessary key chains. The college days sported a bag with rolls of
film, male genitalia shaped straws from parties, the frequent patient card from the local
plasma donation center or a bar coaster that just had to be kept from a
memorable night nestled in next to my clunky “free with contract” Nokia phone. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the time you have kids, most of that stuff has worked its
way out of your bag. Heaven forbid
little Timmy pulls a penis shaped straw out of your bag and starts chewing on
it during his two-year well-child doctor appointment! But, being a mom makes you a literal bag
lady. Your biceps are never better than
the years you’re hauling a diaper bag, purse and baby in a car seat. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the need for the diaper bag fades, the size of your purse
grows. Part pantry, part emergency baby
kit, you need room for the pacifier (and backup pacifier), toys, teethers,
fruit snacks, fish crackers, freeze dried yogurt and those stinky baby cereal
puffs, not to mention an emergency diaper and wipes. At this stage it’s a toss-up to what weighs
more, the bag or your baby. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The baby days are behind me now, but the contents of my purse
are still a sight to behold, mostly garbage, crayons and hot wheels, very
little actual money. My current purse is
falling apart, that’s what inspired this blog.
I’ve actually purchased a new bag, but I haven’t worked up the courage
to make the switch yet. After three
years of the same bag, I’m afraid of what I may find!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From the top it looks okay.
A few dozen receipts and wads of the coupons that printed with them
float at the top, a stack of junk mail lines both sides, and there’s a little
pocket that safely corrals my business cards and my cell phone. The rest is a bit like the Little Mermaid’s
cave of treasures: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h4>
<i>“I’ve got lipgloss
and tic tacs a plenty, I’ve got whozits and whatzits galore. <br />You want packs of gum? I’ve got twenty… but
who cares, no big deal, it holds more!”</i></h4>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The mid-level is where my wallets, personal and business,
settle. But the real trouble is in the
seedy underbelly. I made the mistake of
tossing a button from our local fair in my purse last summer. Somehow the sharp end got loose from its
holder and the button, now armed and dangerous, attacks without warning
whenever I venture past my wallets. He
hides out down there with the other unsavory characters and I worry he’s training
a tiny army of forgotten tic tacs, hardened fruit snacks, restaurant mints and
naked pieces of gum that have escaped their little silver straight jackets. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m pretty sure they are planning a takeover of the upper
2/3rds. I think I can see tiny bunkers made out of cough drop and drinking
straw wrappers. Once the wallets cave, the receipts and junk mail don’t stand a
chance – it’s time to pull out! That’s
how I knew it was time to for a new purse.
It’s time for me to man up and make the switch… I’ll leave the army and
their evil button leader behind, but my new bag will still have room for the
important stuff - hot wheels, crayons and the two dozen pens that I’ll never
find when I need them. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-4089365736719633912015-02-23T22:35:00.001-06:002015-02-23T22:47:27.542-06:00The Best Kind of Mom<div class="MsoNormal">
The mommy wars have been waged since the first ladies with
babies donned their pencil skirts and heels and took their places behind
typewriters. Decades later the debate
rages on over who makes the best kind of mom – the stay-at-home mom or the
working mom. And the battle is a bitter
one. Every Mom wants to feel like they
are doing the best for their kids, and when you call into question a major
aspect of their parenting, feelings are easily hurt and tempers often rage. Is there a best kind of mom?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<h3>
<b>The Stay-at-Home Mom</b></h3>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJHQyywqOmNAHpGvbOepK9BWIpZLaTHPTrJEdoxImkGy7xdCUCHLHRQsCNtEyhtTI8s-OwkS1TluBTvCrVK2KoKqk2o5Oi61qcsKKLaFj8WijT8WvUOgyzb_dUw8b-2wotnHoYJnWXV80/s1600/workingfromhome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJHQyywqOmNAHpGvbOepK9BWIpZLaTHPTrJEdoxImkGy7xdCUCHLHRQsCNtEyhtTI8s-OwkS1TluBTvCrVK2KoKqk2o5Oi61qcsKKLaFj8WijT8WvUOgyzb_dUw8b-2wotnHoYJnWXV80/s1600/workingfromhome.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What working-from-home looks like.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Oh those lucky stay at home moms… Their hard working husbands toil away to
bring home the bacon so they can stay home making cookies and playing 1950’s
housewife. It’s all pinterest projects,
lullabies and pot roasts. Or at least
that is the stereotype. And while
stay-at-home mom’s have the privilege of being the main person in their
children’s lives, they have also shelved their other ambitions to be home with
their kids. They are often the moms
volunteering at school, chaperoning field trips and volunteering in
classrooms. They are the moms that on a
snow day, end up with extra kids at their house, so their working mom friends can
make it to the office. And while they
have more one-on-one time with their kids, and can mold them into early readers
and get them to memorize all the former presidents, before they are in
kindergarten, it doesn't necessarily mean their children will turn out better
than others. Yet, as they are making
personal sacrifices to try and do the best for their kids they can be looked
down upon or looked at with envy. When
people find out “I’m a stay-at-home mom”, the response is often “Oh, isn’t that
nice for you”, in a tone that makes it seem like you’re doing something
wrong. Some get the impression that
because you’re not dressing up and going to the office that you’re not educated,
that your decision to stay home wasn't pro’d and conned to death, that you
simply hung up your Wal-Mart vest, took off your McDonald’s visor and stayed
home. They expect Peg Bundy with bon-bons, when the truth is most stay-at-home
moms made a choice to give something up to be with their kids, and even if the
list of pros was 10 times longer than the cons, they still left something
behind in the decision. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<h3>
<b>The Working Mom</b></h3>
Also known as the Nights & Weekends Moms, have pro’d and conned their way
to the office – they do it because they
have to or because they want to. Their
kids may attend daycare, school, or spend days with grandparents while mom is
at work. And while the kids may not get
as much time with mom during the day, the separation can help them build
confidence and independence. The
quantity time they lack during the work week they make up with quality when
they are home. They rearrange schedules, coordinate their support system for
pick-ups and drop-offs, skip lunch to leave early and bargain with bosses for
an afternoon off to see their kids in the holiday concert. They not only have to keep their kids and
spouse happy, but their boss as well. When they put on their daughters mood ring
while playing dress up, it instantly turns to the murky black color that means “stressed”.
These are the moms that you find racing
through the grocery store at 5PM or lingering in the empty aisles with a
Starbucks long after their kids are snuggled into bed. They thrive on the least
amount of sleep, they’ve got the morning routine down to a science and live off
coffee with a side of guilt. Whether
they have to work or they love their job, they still feel the disappointment
when they miss their kids’ important moments, but they can take comfort in
knowing that the people they’ve chosen to help care for their kids when they
aren’t available create a special group of people that their kids can turn to
and trust in addition to their parents.
The working mom may argue that modern
stay-at-home moms are a relatively new phenomenon – Not too long ago dishes and
laundry didn’t wash themselves in fancy machines, food came from the family
garden and livestock that needed constant maintenance and care, and family fun
time was less pinteresty and more you feed the chickens, I’ll go pick
carrots. The curse of the working mom is
that no matter how hard they try, or how much they do, they still lay down to
sleep wondering if they are doing enough. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<h3>
<b>But What About the Work-at-Home Moms?</b></h3>
I’d be remiss to not mention the work-at-home moms, being one myself. I work-at-home
in marketing and design with my 4 kids. Us
work at home ladies have the best and worst of both worlds. Being able to work at home means more time
with the kids, it also means dedicating a big part of your day to getting work
done – which isn’t what the kids mind.
Every day is a balancing act, every “just 5 more minutes guys” is more
like 20 minutes, and every phone call is a gamble. You wonder, if I answer this, will they be
quiet? Will the littlest one start screaming from the bathroom “Wipe my butt!!”?
Will they undoubtedly realize you’re compromised and take that opportunity to
raid the snack cupboard/color on the wall/turn the bar of soap into a mushy
mess in the bathroom sink? Those answers would be Yes. Yes. And most definitely
Yes. And those clients often have a
knack for calling at the worst possible times. If you can clean up a poopy
diaper explosion while talking email marketing with a customer, then you have
the skills needed to be a work-at-home mom. And while we can make the daytime
events at school, squeeze in chaperoning a field-trip now and again, and hit
Target at 2PM on a Tuesday when there is practically no one else there, our
schedules can be crazy. We have to give
the illusion of working 9-5 for our clients – which means answering emails in
the Target parking lot and making calls while your kids eat lunch. But our hours are more like 8-Noon, 2-4PM, and
8-11PM and with a little luck I manage to throw enough dishes in the dishwasher
at some point to set the table for dinner. There is no turning off work or family, they
intermingle and overlap, and try as you might not to work on the weekend, you’ll
end up with an urgent email from a client who needs help ASAP – and because you
feel like you can’t hide: “Sorry, I’m out of the office for the day” to which
they say “That’s okay, I’ll wait the thirty seconds while you walk downstairs
to your office.”… you take care of it. Managing your priorities with your sense of
duty to both your clients and your family can be overwhelming, so you let the
dishes stack up and the floor may not get swept for a day…or four, and you just
hope your best is the enough for everyone counting on you. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<h3>
<b>The Best Kind of Mom</b></h3>
If we really want to know what makes the best kind of mom, we can ignore the
experts, the TV talk shows and that loud mouth mom at your kids’ school. If you want to know who the best kind of mom
is – just ask your kids. I just asked my
youngest and with a darling smile he said “you”. I have to agree. <br />
<br />
The best kind of mom is “You”. You – who
knows which of your child’s cries means “I’m hurt” or “I’m scared” or “man,
this has been long day”. You - who can
spot a cold coming on just by how they are eating of the color in their
cheeks. You – who can cure the hiccups
with some tickles and chase away the boogie monster by snuggling them in their
favorite blanket. You - who may once in
a while lose your temper or not handle a tantrum just right, but You – who has
the best hugs, smooches and smile to make it all okay in your kids’ world. So let’s stop worrying about what all the
other moms are doing, thinking and saying, let’s not propagate these mommy wars
by pointing out the differences in how we get things done and let’s just do what
we know makes OUR kids feel they have the best kind of mom.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-9635844706531930842015-02-10T15:12:00.000-06:002015-02-10T15:12:24.969-06:00Six More Weeks of Sniffles<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd3r5_Tch5i7GKGvU6-piHbEMoHNGqug_97vo2zJQ2gTv38DeMadIgt073yw4x2qHJtW-06x2_itGYz4WoG9ElheJi6s1AchYrm4fBKmwM7qvJmXONiM_IxS46OtT7hTHtxgLyFLdjHnk/s1600/blog-feb2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd3r5_Tch5i7GKGvU6-piHbEMoHNGqug_97vo2zJQ2gTv38DeMadIgt073yw4x2qHJtW-06x2_itGYz4WoG9ElheJi6s1AchYrm4fBKmwM7qvJmXONiM_IxS46OtT7hTHtxgLyFLdjHnk/s1600/blog-feb2015.jpg" height="360" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
I should have known when January swept by without so much
has a sneeze, that something (or things) ominous were waiting for
February. And sure as that rotten little
groundhog predicted six more weeks of winter, the antibacterial bubble we were
thriving in popped, flooding the house with germs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It always starts so innocently, a little cough, a sniffle, a
little throat tickle. If you’re lucky, it ends there. But, I've never been
lucky. So when I saw the shadow of my
youngest whimpering in the glow of the nightlight a week ago I knew there’d be
six more weeks of sniffles. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The little one’s whimpers signaled a sore throat and fever
that ended up being Strep, which was promptly shared with his brother… as I
waited for the oldest two to follow suit, something strange happened. They felt fine and I started to cough. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not one to get “stick a fork in me I’m done” sick. A little cough/sniffle/throat thing one or
two times a year, sure, but nothing that isn’t gone in a day or two. I actually felt perfectly fine the morning
of “the cough”. I thought it was just a
little dry throat, but by that afternoon I was wearing two sweaters and a robe,
debating burial or cremation… leaning toward cremation because it sounded like
the only way I may ever be warm again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As my fever rose, I thought, at least the antibiotics worked
on the younger two, they were feeling better.
Until I remembered the only thing worse than worrying about your sick
kids is trying to take care of your healthy kids when you’re sick. They still want to eat and play and be
loud. I just wanted to sit and shiver
in my blanket igloo. When I woke for
the 3<sup>rd</sup> day with a fever I thought I better go in, my throat was
irritated, maybe I have Strep too. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My go-to place for this stuff is the Qcare at Cub Foods,
when I got there it was closed. The staff all had strep. The boys were diagnosed there earlier that
week, so that was probably our fault (and the half dozen other people we waited
with who were all there for strep tests too).
This made me feel even more confident that I must be suffering the same
thing. I followed the instructions on
the door and headed to the nearest Urgent Care where I waited 2 hours to take a
6 minute test to find out from a doctor who’s shoes sound like bubble wrap
popping with each step, and who smelled like a fart (I could still smell at
this point, unfortunately), that I did not have Strep. He didn't offer any other thoughts on a
diagnosis, just told me to “Treat my symptoms.”, and bubble wrap-popped his way
out the door. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was emailed my lab result later I found the dictation
for the visit in the Patient Portal, imagine my surprise to learn that “Treat
my symptoms” means: <i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 115%;">“She is encouraged to take vitamin C and zinc supplements in
combination with increased water consumption to alleviate her discomfort. She
may also take Acetaminophen 500mg 2 tabs p.o. q.i.d. p.r.n.; or Ibuprofen 200mg
4 tabs p.o. t.i.d. p.r.n. discomfort. Use of lozenges is also encouraged.”.</span></i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 115%;">Fabulous advice I never
heard. <br />
</span></div>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 115%;">
The dictation also said “<i>It is not
necessary for her to remain home from work or school at this time.”</i> The “all-clear” to spread my fevery germs far
and wide. Not so fabulous advice.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">Two
more days of fever later, as I’m serving up roast beef, taters and gravy for
the kids, my temp’s running about 102 and I’m feeling a little wobbly, but I’m
not supposed to take anymore medicine for another hour. I’m pouring gravy on a plate while holding
it, not realizing its tipped ever so slightly until the scalding hot gravy
starts pouring through my fingers. The
jolt of pain transports me back to the last time I felt this sick. I was 17, so
sick I could barely move, I really wanted a cup of tea, so I put some water in
the microwave that hung over the range.
My mom had just taken dinner off the stove, and as I waited for the
microwave everything went black. I passed out and when I came to I had this
strange burn on my hand, apparently from trying to catch myself on the hot
stove. It was the flu then, and I
realized, even though my brain has been slow-cooking for the better part of a
week, that it’s the flu now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">Hours
later three of the four kids are coughing, two with a fever. Another trip to the Urgent Care and luckily a
visit with a much (so much) better doctor, and now our fridge has more medicine
in it than food. But this morning, while the horrible cough is lingering, no
one’s temp is above 100, a small victory.
The next week will probably be a long one. I was too far in for Tamiflu, so I’ll just
have to wait this out, on the bright side, I could almost smell my coffee this
morning. </span><span style="line-height: 115%;">So I’ll leave you with this
advice Nyquil Severe Cold and Flu pills actually let you feel almost normal
when you’re trying to fall asleep, and if you’re at Urgent Care and hear bubble-wrapped
footsteps coming your way, plug your nose and get a second opinion. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-28723010874890243912015-02-01T15:30:00.002-06:002015-03-13T08:26:35.354-06:00No One Ever Told Me About "The Lasts"<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCFL5845m_xYnXyObVs1f3LxHcnxJC_cNDXJpaXudJeMSkZfFE6vmfC8m7HOLU2sVjziOWNqgU7v-AK3xsAmWmRSKnBlBMUZG7UJ2e9p8wbR9tXTbaUYC4GIbyzY7SndV6kUrfAPsvD0/s1600/IMG_4189.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCFL5845m_xYnXyObVs1f3LxHcnxJC_cNDXJpaXudJeMSkZfFE6vmfC8m7HOLU2sVjziOWNqgU7v-AK3xsAmWmRSKnBlBMUZG7UJ2e9p8wbR9tXTbaUYC4GIbyzY7SndV6kUrfAPsvD0/s1600/IMG_4189.JPG" height="240" title="" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pretty soon the training wheels will be a thing of the past too.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m hyper aware of how much my baby isn’t a baby anymore. As I’m directing the morning production of “Let’s
make it to the bus stop without having to run!”, my youngest groggily stumbles
into the kitchen and raises his arms for the big morning squeeze that wakes him
up for the day. At 4, he can best be
described as an afternoon person. But
that morning hug from mom is pretty much all he needs from me these days. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I set him down and ask what he wants for breakfast as he
gathers his own cup, bowl and spoon. “Cheerios,
please.” followed by a “I said pleeeaaassseee!” because I told him it’s always
important to say please and he wants me to notice that he did.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He pours his own milk and cereal like a big boy, gobbles his
cereal and when done announces he’s going to get dressed, all while I’m still
trying to get the other three out the door.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A little voice in my head tells me those must-have morning
hugs won’t last. Pretty soon my youngest
will be cast in the off-to-school production and the “I can’t find my library
book!” panic will eat into the hugging time. My heart breaks a bit thinking of
it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No one ever told me about “the lasts”. Every baby book only ever talks about the
firsts. The first poop, tooth, word,
sit, roll, crawl, walk, and on, and on, and on. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the kids get older
you start to realize their firsts are your lasts. Their first time getting
dressed themselves is almost your last time helping them, their first shower is
your last bathtime fun, the first time you forget to do the silly bedtime tuck
in routine and they forget to remind you is the day after the last and you
rarely go back. Sigh. Most of the lasts signal the end of a routine and special
little daily moments parents share with their kids. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The impact of my older kids’ lasts, while still bittersweet,
were not as profound as my youngest’s.
With the others, there was always someone still working through their
exciting baby firsts to make the “lasts” of the others seem less final. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now I find myself having changed my last diaper, given my
last bath, dressed my last toddler and frantically looked for my last pacifier or
blanket at bedtime. Those moments went without the fanfare of the “firsts”,
there was no proud documentation in the baby books, probably, because they
sneak by so slowly. It feels like you’ll
never change your last diaper until you finally realize you have, three days
later. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The cruelest part of parenting is that you teach your
children to do without you. And while
there’s some days their independence can’t happen soon enough, most days it’s
hard to imagine them not needing you… and you not being the most important
person in their life. And while I can’t
stop them from growing up and doing for themselves, now that I’ve realized the
significance of “the lasts”, I’m going to watch for them, and take a minute to
mostly celebrate them, and maybe mourn them, just a little, while I wait for
the next big kid firsts to happen. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-89218652773607044762015-01-19T12:14:00.000-06:002015-01-19T12:44:54.626-06:009 Reasons Moms Can Only Hope "We'll sleep when we're dead"<div class="MsoNormal">
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When they say “a baby changes everything”, they mean
everything, from your body to your brain and even your relationships. While the stretch marks fade, the “mom-brain”
lessens and the Daddy finally realizes it’s just easier to do it all mommy’s
way, there’s a change so prolific its effects last for years. And years. And more years. It’s the relationship with your pillow. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I expected, like most, the sleepless nights with a nursing
infant, the predictable awakenings of the toddler years, even the random bad
dream or “I’m sick” snooze wrecker here and there, but not the near decade of
substandard sleep I’ve endured since my first was born. While the rest of the world REMs away, I am
the nocturnal creature stumbling about the darkness herding children back to
their beds with water, reassurance, new sheets or a puke bowl. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>So I offer you 9 reasons Mommy can’t sleep. </b></div>
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<br />
<ol>
<li><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> Moms sleep like a baby. </b><span style="text-indent: -24px;">Let’s be real here, babies are crappy sleepers.
Sure, when they’re out, they’re out, but it never lasts long and grown
up brains don’t really function on a two hours down, one hour up sleep pattern. The result is actually sleeping like a baby,
falling asleep on our lunch, at the computer or even while folding
laundry. I remember being so tired I
actually felt nauseous. I’ve put the
milk in the cupboard and the cereal in the fridge. The only upside was that
when my kids were babies, I never had trouble falling asleep at night</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><b>Rotten Little Deal Breakers!</b> </span>After a few months, my tiny kids and I were able to strike an agreement – I fed
them at 11PM with the understanding that they would then sleep until 4 or
5AM. We were both happy, or so I
thought, and the arrangement worked for weeks.
Then one night I hear rustling and a whimper at 2AM. What the hell! We had a deal! As I tried to console their
desperate cries, my sleep deprived mind takes a journey through an emotional
jungle – from concern and confusion (What. About. The. Deal?!) to “Why are you
ruining my life, child!?” until we’re both crying until we fall back
asleep. In the light of day you notice
the new tooth or that their 9 month pants are now suddenly an inch too short and
it makes sense. Luckily within a few nights the deals back on, for now.</li>
<li><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b>. </b></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><b>Night Ninja</b> </span>Once the kiddos start sleeping through the night (or so you tell people, it’s
never actually through the night, most nights).
Of course, I have the quantity disadvantage – even if it’s just one kid
waking up once a week, with four kids it’s still 4 nights of crappy sleep. So you try to prevent the waking and to do
so you develop Night Ninja skills. Let’s
set the scene: its 4AM and the youngest
wakes to a dark and eerily quiet house and panics, wouldn’t you? As a mom, I can miraculously sleep through
the snoring next to me, but my supersonic ears perk up to hear the telltale
rustle of the waterproof mattress pad, the littlest baby moan or the PLINKO
sound of the pacifier bouncing down the crib bars to the floor. Like a ninja I slide out of bed, avoiding
squeaky floor boards and knowing instinctively where the paci dropped, finding
it by feel and returning it to the fussing baby without him even knowing I was
there. The ninja maneuvers are
especially crucial for someone as nearsighted as I am. My crappy vision puts me past the threshold
for being legally blind and wasting time feeling for my glasses before
“Operation Paci Retrieval” is the difference between a whimper and all out
house waking wail.</li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><b> Sleep, the Musical </b></span>If you miss the whine to wail window, you’re in their room for the long haul,
but that’s nothing a little choreography can’t fix. One and two and three and four – five and six
and seven and eight, rock-rock-rock, lay down slowly, three and four and butt
pat, butt pat, butt pat, drop to floor, five and six and seven and army crawl,
two and three, watch that floorboard, seven and eight. Slide into bed … and sleep, or repeat.</li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><b>Small Bedfellows </b></span>When the choreography falls flat and I give up, having my head on or at least
near my pillow is more important than keeping my child in their own bed. You 0, Them 105. They win again, but I take comfort as a loser
just having my own bed under me, even when there’s a toddler’s butt on my head. </li>
<li><b><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Polk High’s Best Football Player </span></b><span style="text-indent: -24px;">Now that the kid is in bed with two giant people on each side some precautions
have to be taken, especially when one side could roll over the tiny human
without even noticing. So I give up my
pillow to the little one and position myself in what can best be described as
“Al Bundy’s 4 touchdowns in a single game” pose. One arm around baby, one straight out, locked
against the wall of dad to prevent or at least alert you to an impending
roll. Ahh, sleep, kinda.</span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><b>Sick and Scared and Wet and Tired</b> </span>My oldest is nine and I haven’t slept through the night once since she and her
three younger brothers were born. Even
with my youngest, now four, every night someone is sick, or has a bad dream or
gets up to use the bathroom and tries to pee in a closet, or just forgets to
get up before going to the bathroom.
I’m beginning to think this is the longest phase and it requires the
most supersonic senses and the most alertness in the wee morning hours. You’ve got to assess the situation, find puke
bowls and new sheets, banish mountain lions, white wolves and bears, oh my. And then try to go back to sleep.</li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><b>Spooked Sleep </b></span>On the rare occasion I don’t hear the rustle of the waterproof mattress covers,
I usually awake with near heart attack to a small, dark figure standing bedside
near my head, whispering “maaaamiiii” Ahh!
After you get them their glass of water or whatever, you’re heart’s
still racing too fast for you to fall back asleep. </li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><b>Did you hear that? </b></span>Even when the odds of a full night’s sleep are in my favor, my brain won’t let
me believe a full night’s sleep is possible.
As I lay, one ear pressed to my pillow, trying to clear my mind, the white
noise from the fan, the dishwasher, the furnace or the #&%$@ rock tumbler
rumbling downstairs, starts to sound like a child. Was that a cry? One of them talking? I lift
my head and listen, and hear nothing.
Just the fan/furnace/dishwasher/handful of rocks on their 8<sup>th</sup>
day of rotation. But, every time I put
my head down, I hear it again, like the phone ringing when you turn on the
vacuum or shower. </li>
</ol>
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<br /></div>
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I’m sure the tween and teen years will bring all sorts of
new sleep issues and by the time the kids are out of the house, I hear
menopause packs an insomnia punch. The
catch phrase “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” is a favorite with the party crowd, but
I’m pretty sure it started as a mom’s mantra. So, we’re gonna own this no sleep thing.
We’ll pretend the giant, puffy bags under our eyes are high cheek bones
and maybe cereal tastes better from the fridge. If not, at least our pillows
will have a longer than average lifespan. </div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-48727523845910388392015-01-12T18:00:00.000-06:002015-01-13T15:37:21.969-06:00Ruts for Dinner<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghAmw11CmaOnkkR2pfROgE4bwdCNOZS6ZCSHBHrqsCa1YbpRq0q7XBYd9QEYKd9dtSWWLhQ2DnzSWrBKs12NpXVDedA8MsUQJ_Aq2YXmtvOaduE4Ro4Iev57SvHTY8mXGEbPTwnDEkjS32/s1600/soup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghAmw11CmaOnkkR2pfROgE4bwdCNOZS6ZCSHBHrqsCa1YbpRq0q7XBYd9QEYKd9dtSWWLhQ2DnzSWrBKs12NpXVDedA8MsUQJ_Aq2YXmtvOaduE4Ro4Iev57SvHTY8mXGEbPTwnDEkjS32/s1600/soup.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meatball Soup again?!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It’s 4 o’clock again and I know that within the next 15
minutes four or more people are going to be asking me the question I’ve already
been asking myself for the last two hours, without answer. “What’s for dinner?”</div>
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We've got beef and pork and chicken. There’s pasta, potatoes and rice. At least some frozen veggies in the freezer,
why can’t I think of anything for dinner?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dinner rut happens a few times a year, usually as the
seasons signature meals lose their novelty.
Meatloaf, soup, pasta and hot dishes have lost my interest as they've
been taking turns on the menu for the last couple months. When you cook for your family 325-plus days a
year, you’re bound to run out of ideas at some point. And, we’re in a rut at our house. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I start my grocery shopping prep by planning 10 days of
meals and it usually works great. But
lately it’s a pasta dish, Mexican dish, meatloaf/roast, pizza, soup,
repeat. I recently found myself looking
to the kids’ school lunch menu for inspiration.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I've got over 500 pins on my Pinterest “Yummy Things” board,
the AllRecipes.com app on my phone and no less than a dozen cookbooks in my
house. I should be able to crawl my way
out of this rut somehow! A year ago I
even went through all my “pins” and recipes and made a kind of index of meals,
sorted by type of meat, type of cooking, quick meals, kid faves, etc. There were 125 ideas on there at least, but
it went missing – probably has a crayon drawing of a tractor on it and is
probably mixed in with the kids’ stash of “Mom!!! Don’t throw that away!”
artwork. I haven’t been motivated to
recreate it. </div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what’s for dinner? Tonight it was meatloaf and besides
the side of peas there were no complaints.
Maybe the rut isn’t the food itself, but my enjoyment in making it. It might be time to work a few new recipes
into the rotation, trying something new is always fun, even if my picky, 7 year
old, food critic doesn't approve. And
if that doesn't work, it’s only a few more months until nights of pasta salads
and grilled steaks, brats and burgers with the occasional longing for a hot
bowl of soup.</div>
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<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03653318596010606813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-70126413826458690692014-12-25T18:39:00.006-06:002014-12-29T12:19:28.759-06:00An Elf's Open Letter to Santa<div class="MsoNormal">
Dear Santa, <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2u-8b8Gya-wt-DrmJwmu5Lbh4e4xw-IGbOamy1Xt_HjWMQ4WyRhmaRG0xGZY77BCzD43s77u2vUgkpCxClaqZsA6BsawAGK3cvF0POuLgR916okyF73JOjy3BWSIuEzQgPToXZtPrMhfo/s1600/santa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2u-8b8Gya-wt-DrmJwmu5Lbh4e4xw-IGbOamy1Xt_HjWMQ4WyRhmaRG0xGZY77BCzD43s77u2vUgkpCxClaqZsA6BsawAGK3cvF0POuLgR916okyF73JOjy3BWSIuEzQgPToXZtPrMhfo/s1600/santa.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waiting for Santa to fill their stockings,</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For a few weeks now you’ve been making your appearances, shacked
up at the mall with daytrips to schools, businesses, bars and more. You’ve gobbled your share of cookies and
slurped an unfathomable amount of cocoa.
You’ve had thousands of kids plopped on your lap, and probably been sneezed
on, coughed on, cried on and maybe a few other less desirable things on you,
too. You still see the flashes when you
close your eyes and by the end of the day your Ho, Ho, Ho! Is more of a croak,
but you’re the star of the show, the CEO of Christmas. <br />
<br />
And I curse you Santa. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
While you smile and wave at your adoring adorable fans, the
elves, most of us taller than five feet and holding that adorable fan’s hand,
do your bidding, and for Ho Ho Nothing.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While the story says we toil away in your Toy Shop all year
for minimum wage in candy canes, in reality we have it a little better. While the job is unpaid (and in fact costs
quite a bit), it only takes about two months to complete. But there are certainly challenges, especially
with three of my four charges on the good list at any given time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Santa, have you considered our hours of brainstorming,
making lists (and checking them twice, which by the way, I thought I was your
job!), comparing each kid to make sure Santa doesn’t give one too much and
another too little. Then, more hours
searching Amazon.com for good deals on items that ship free. Not to mention,
Santa, there’s the risk of looking like a shoplifter when trying to sneak an
item in your cart while shopping with your kids. And then, looking a bit loopy at the
register, as the item is exposed for the world to see before it’s scanned and
bagged, and you’re trying to distract the kids by getting them to look elsewhere,
“Hey, is that uncle Casey?” “Look at
that!” “I think your shoe is untied”, only to have the cashier hold the item up
and ask if you want it bagged. Curse you as well, Target.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
There’s hiding items in your house and making those
areas off limits to certain people, which makes said certain people even more
interested in said area. “Don’t open
that closet!” “Why, Mom?” “I think I saw
a huge spider in there… and a bat, and probably a snake or porcupine…”. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s the godforsaken wrapping. It takes hours to do,
and they have it littering the living room in about 3 minutes on Christmas
morning. Santa, can’t you just be lazy one year? Send out a little press release that you’re
saving trees for Christmas and no gifts will be wrapped? Just a thought.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Mr. Claus, it’s a lot of work to be your elf. But you can keep your cozy, red velvet seat,
and your cookie crumb beard and peppermint breath. Because, even though it’s tedious, and tiring,
and, so dang expensive, I’ll keep up the charade for as long as I can. While it would be nice for the elves to get
credit for making it all happen, the truth would set the magic free. The stuffed stockings in the morning would
just be a tradition without the anticipation, the stories, the letter writing, and
the terrified faces of toddlers asked to sit on your strange lap for the first
time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
But, if you don’t mind, Santa, I have a request. All I want for Christmas is for my mostly
good little boys and girl to keep on believing.
The oldest is 9 and I know time is running out – but a couple more years
of tucking her in with sugar plums dancing in her head would be much
appreciated. A few more years of the
boys waking us up to tell us Santa came would be great. And most importantly, being able to use “Santa’s
watching” to instantly stop whatever troublesome thing<br />
they’re up to for a
while longer would definitely make my day.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angie Elf </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03653318596010606813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-14295161903996808882014-12-15T14:51:00.000-06:002014-12-17T13:40:44.382-06:00Spin Cycle: Lessons in a Messy House<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilGcUXvFYg3_1ZVFz0HcChgb2f1g6rcj9NAmxjxEqdpkmcATbf7LGaPcPnjWGCrJu6KKp4OnXyq0jMF5XB-VbsW5FeZOaRqlqinBHbPPAaBENl-wuSWa8mbpG9JN6FocS4jZZGyLEm5RU/s1600/spincycle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilGcUXvFYg3_1ZVFz0HcChgb2f1g6rcj9NAmxjxEqdpkmcATbf7LGaPcPnjWGCrJu6KKp4OnXyq0jMF5XB-VbsW5FeZOaRqlqinBHbPPAaBENl-wuSWa8mbpG9JN6FocS4jZZGyLEm5RU/s1600/spincycle.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a>Standing at the sink, trying to figure out how to fit the
day's 32<sup>nd</sup> cup into the dishwasher rack that holds a maximum of 30, my almost 4
year old runs into the kitchen with legitimate excitement, wiggles his little
orange and gray toes and announces “I found matching socks!”. There’s crumbs and dirt (so much dirt, that is in no doubt related to the dirt/mud/ice/snow driveway we have right now),
there are piles of tractor pictures on every flat surface, along with a
baseball hat, mate-less glove, a half eaten granola bar. Eeew. And
that is just the kitchen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not that I’m a bad housekeeper (I tell myself). In fact, before we had kids, even in college,
our house was always clean, my husband never had to wear damp from the dryer
pants to work and the kitchen sinks were empty – even though we didn’t have a
dishwasher. How did it all go downhill
so quickly? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t think its laziness.
From about 6:20AM to 10PM I’m always doing something: the off-to-school
rush, the banishment to my office for hours, after school chaos, dinner,
homework, practice spelling and vocab, bath time, read stories to all four of
them, tuck them in, make lunches for tomorrow, chase the kids out of the
bathroom and back to bed, check out and/or clean up whatever science experiment
they started in there, then finally sit down on the couch about 8:30PM and plan
my work for the next day, make a grocery/birthday/Christmas/whatever is coming
list until I put down my pen at 10PM for the news. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wonder if the house would be neater if there were more
hours in the day to get stuff done, then I realize that would just give the
kids more time to mess it up. So, while the “Mom Scouts” are off earning their badges in
sock-matching, sink scrubbing and crumbless carpets, I decided to do what I do
best, spin.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my day job as a marketing professional I get to frame
products and services to give them a purpose, and make them sound appealing or desirable. <br />
<br />
My “spinspiration” came during parenting time at my youngest’s ECFE class, we
were discussing the building blocks of math, and one of the first math skills
kids learn is to group, match and organize items, recognizing similarities and
differences. How could I deny this
learning opportunity to my offspring by matching their socks for them? And,
what other important lessons can be learned from my shotty housekeeping. <br />
<br />
<h4>
So far, I've found a few lessons in my messy house:</h4>
<div>
<br /></div>
<b>1. </b> Perhaps when the 5-year-old can’t find clean pants because
he put his clean clothes on his bed, instead of in his drawers, like I asked
him to, asking him where he put them results in critical thinking and
recognizing sequence of events.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b>2. </b>Maybe when there are only 4 forks left in the drawer because
I haven’t yet emptied the clean dishwasher, figuring out how many are needed
and finding them in the dishwasher is subtraction and addition.<br />
<br />
<b>3. </b>The investigation into the spilled juice that has mostly
glued my foot to the floor is probably a good attempt at storytelling or
persuasive speech, and cleaning it up anyway, is a good lesson in personal
responsibility.<br />
<br />
<b>4. </b> The thin coating of dust on everything is most likely a
better, organic immune system booster than vitamin C, I think I read…
somewhere.<br />
<br />
<b>5. </b> The little pebbles that find their way in the house in the
grooves of their boots serve to toughen our tootsies, no soft soled sissies
here.<br />
<br />
<b>6. </b> Hurtling the heap of winter outdoor clothes that never seem
to stay on their hooks most definitely improves agility and balance.<br />
<br />
<b>7.</b> Finding their homework in the tower of paper that arrives
home in three backpacks each Friday afternoon teaches determination.<br />
<br />
<b>8. </b> When there’s no cups left for that 3<sup>rd</sup> or 4<sup>th</sup>
glass of milk or juice in a day, Finding and rinsing the cup you used for
drinks 1, 2 or 3 seems like problem solving to me.<br />
<br />
<b>9. </b> The mom’s fed up with all the toys everywhere and you have
10 seconds to get it in your room countdown is a daily lesson on how to count
backwards.<br />
<br />
<b>10.</b> Avoiding discipline for the latest act of destruction:
coloring on the wall, gum in the carpet, is a good start for Law Concepts 101 –
pleading the fifth, deflecting blame, or pleading mom’s insanity (But Mom, it’s
been there forever!).<br />
<br />
<b>11.</b> The long lived leftovers in the fridge, a science experiment
in progress and quite possibly the next best thing since penicillin.<br />
<ol>
</ol>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m still trying to spin a few things, like the clumps of
SpongeBob toothpaste that magically appear on the bathroom sink daily and the
tiny scraps of paper that look like a notebook had its own surprise party and
didn’t clean up. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can tell myself how nicely the sandy dirt from the
backdoor that trails into our kitchen exfoliates my feet while I cook dinner,
but really the spin is just a final last attempt to not feel rotten about
having a house that could probably apply for national disaster assistance 350
out of 365 days a year. Trying to keep a
clean house with 4 kids under 10 is a challenge, and when you’re not passionate
about spotless windows and clutter-free counters, it’s nearly impossible. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’ll try not to be jealous and maybe a tiny bit ashamed
when the Mom Scouts parade around with their sashes full of super
mom/housekeeper badges. Instead, I’ll
focus on my achievements in other motherly things. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For example, my kids eat well, the freezer has just meat,
veggies and a tub or two of ice cream, one may be coffee flavored (in other
words, mine). But, there are no frozen
pizzas or chicken nuggets, if we have those I make them from scratch, that
ought to count for something. And
probably is the reason I have so many dishes to do all the time. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I write a note for their lunch boxes each day, I read to
them all each night, really look at their pictures, even if it’s the 40<sup>th</sup>
green tractor of the day. I remember,
most of the time, to thank them or tell them about a good thing they did that
day. We talk about what’s on the evening
news, even if it’s a bit scary, because I think, as they grow the more
“reality” they know the better and being the one to explain the scary and
strange things to them is important to me. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I demand their best, congratulate them on the best tries and
help them understand their failures, so they can get better the next time. I come
up with fun ways to remember their spelling words, for my 2<sup>nd</sup> grade
boy, that almost always includes potty humor.
I try to make their birthdays special by drawing their decorations,
designing and constructing cakes and making the food they want. I discipline them. I show them I love
them. And, I think, I hope, that when
they’re grown, they’ll remember all that more than the daily search for
matching socks and the towers of pieces of papers in our messy house. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03653318596010606813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-7538640912022831022014-11-21T14:30:00.002-06:002014-11-21T14:34:11.406-06:00Broken Promise Land<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_u8PkC9amy14ZBylxQtq2WuXFb4wtZY3fxVrtE1RcB268mxBMgmJgIishvS2aqj53S-2Eu5_jxRfS8qTfWZWLFZP8uiB6cEMcwAchwJ6gbIM86NugGw5DYYjXI39vT61h5HQnptaZjiY/s1600/IMG_3911.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_u8PkC9amy14ZBylxQtq2WuXFb4wtZY3fxVrtE1RcB268mxBMgmJgIishvS2aqj53S-2Eu5_jxRfS8qTfWZWLFZP8uiB6cEMcwAchwJ6gbIM86NugGw5DYYjXI39vT61h5HQnptaZjiY/s1600/IMG_3911.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The boys lake side on Superior, drift wood construction and a little agate hunting.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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On occasion, my heart writes checks the bank of time, and
sometimes money, can’t cash. Sometimes
this happens more often than I like.
Sometimes, so often, the broken promises litter the living room floor
like candy wrappers on Halloween night.
Welcome to Broken Promise Land. <br />
<br /></div>
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Well, they aren't exactly “promises”, but close enough for
the under 10 crowd. You give a kid the
slightest hope for something fun and they take it to heart and mind. Anticipation and expectations bloom in little
minds that have yet to grow the weeds of constraint, like us grown-ups. Their ideas become lush and colorful gardens,
while ours resemble my real “I know there’s a tomato under this lamb’s quarter
somewhere!” garden. The weeds: our
bills, obligations, lack of time, all steal from the anticipation and
expectations to make an idea more realistic – not in itself disappointing, but
less likely to disappoint if it doesn't work out. For instance, finding that tomato in my
garden has already been eaten by the resident garden worm. Oh well. <br />
<br /></div>
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<h3>
<i><span style="color: #0b5394;">But even knowing this, I like to think big, make plans and
occasionally let them slip to the kids.
Rookie mistake, I realize, but I greedily want their excited little
faces when they hear it and, I don’t have the patience to wait. </span></i></h3>
<br />
<br />
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This summer I told the kids *if they were good* I’d take
them down to Lake Superior once a week when we go to town to run errands. They
like to splash on the shore, find agates, build forts out of drift wood. It’s
fun, and free. We made it there three
times. In 12 weeks. They weren't that good a couple of weeks, but
it’s a lot to ask for them to behave while I work during the day. A couple times the weather or T-ball games
got in the way, but sometimes it was my fault, too much to do, not enough time
to play. <br />
<br /></div>
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We also promised the kids a camping trip this summer. We had it marked on the calendar, and of
course picked the weekend of a torrential rainstorm with no back-up weekend
available before school started. I was
just as disappointed as the kids were.
The last couple years the camping memories have been the best of summer
and I’ll miss not seeing a 2014 trip in our photo album. Maybe next year we can go twice. Better not mention that to the kids. <br />
<br /></div>
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I’m sure there are some lessons to learn in Broken Promise
Land. The old sales mantra of “under
promise, over deliver” comes to mind.
Or maybe the kids could learn “you can’t always get what you want”
without even knowing who the Rolling Stones are. And recently, my oldest boy pointed out an
advantage of his own, he mentioned that when I tell him he’s grounded for a
week it never lasts that long, to which his big sister gave him a swift elbow
to the ribs and said “Luke! Shush!”.<br />
<br /></div>
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I want my kids to be able to keep their boundless
anticipation and excitement for as long as possible. So there’s not much I can do but make one
more promise, no fingers crossed, to do better on following through on the fun
stuff…and, maybe on the discipline too. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-73197497885675911502014-10-31T14:32:00.001-06:002014-11-03T08:52:57.120-06:00What to Expect When You Lose What You're ExpectingI didn't know pregnancy loss had "a month" until my facebook news feed was filled with supportive and touching images the last few weeks, claiming October for awareness. One image said the purpose was to "start the conversation about pregnancy loss". That line struck me. Before giving birth to four kids, I lost two pregnancies and at the time of the first loss, I knew only of an aunt who had lost pregnancies, but I was too young at the time to really understand or remember what it all meant. I didn't have anyone to talk to, ask questions or get a little reassurance.<br />
<br />
I had considered doing a blog post on this topic since I started this blog, but I was never sure how to form it. The "starting a conversation" phrase inspired me. I'm also a big believer in "signs" and at the beginning of this month I was reading the novel "What Alice Forgot", about a woman who wakes from a head injury and has lost 10 years of year memory. As I was reading I wondered what that would be like if I woke up thinking it was 10 years ago, and realized if I did it would be during the most devastating time of my life so far, on the eve of the DNC for my second loss. It took me a little time to gather my thoughts and feelings for this blog. And please understand, these are my experiences with first trimester loss, and I don't mean to say this is what happens to other women, and I don't think I could ever comprehend the heartache and devastation of a loss later in pregnancy. <br />
<br />
<b>The following insight is what to expect when you lose what you're expecting, told through my stories of loss.</b><br />
<br />
<h4>
<b>1. Expect the Loss of Innocence</b></h4>
My husband and I were road-tripping to the West Coast as expectant parents on a our belated honeymoon, and as we drove the coast the spotting started, and then the loss itself. We were far from home, and I was feeling like my poor baby was being buried by way of gas station toilet as we traveled home. It was reality I'd not experienced before. Life's not perfect or easy, but it had never been this hard. It had never been this personal. To have something so magical dashed away. It was an awakening for me. A real loss of innocence. The first time I really felt like I had to deal with a serious adult situation. We'd been listening to the Big and Rich CD, "Horse of a Different Color" as we drove and the song "Holy Water" put words to how I was feeling so perfectly:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"Somewhere there's a stolen halo, I used to watch her wear it well. Everything would shine whereever she would go. But looking at her now you'd never tell. Someone ran away with her innocence. A memory she can't get out of her head. I can only imagine what she's feeling when she's praying. Kneeling at the edge of her bed".</i> [<a href="http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/bigrich/holywater.html" target="_blank">Read the full lyrics</a>] [<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4dXLC1butGc" target="_blank">Listen to the song</a>]</blockquote>
<h4>
2. Expect Kindness by Surprise </h4>
I come from a rather non-heart on the sleeve type family, we feel deeply, we just don't display it in soap opera flair, wailing draped over a bed or with wild-eyed fist pounding and cries of "Whhhhyyy". So I shouldn't have expected that kind visual of reaction when my family heard of the loss, but I think it needed someone to show me it was okay to feel as horrible as I did. No one did. Until one day, I get a big envelope in the mail with a sweet little book, about better days head, from the wife of my husband's good friend. That single, simple act of kindness allowed me to validate my feelings and I'm forever grateful for that.<br />
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<h4>
3. Expect a Bad Timing Breakdown</h4>
People are curious and they want to ask questions - either as a way to show they care or just because they are nosy. However, they don't always interrogate you at the appropriate time. For example, my second loss was in early October. A couple months later at Christmas dinner, at a table of no less than a dozen people, my aunt asks "so what happened with your pregnancy?" My second loss was unusual, a rare molar pregnancy and I got a lot of questions about it, but that day, as the table grew quiet and I tried to explain, the tears began to flow and I felt like a fool. What my aunt didn't know was because of this type of loss there was an extensive follow up period that I was still enduring....<br />
<br />
<h4>
4. Expect Inconsiderate People</h4>
Shortly after my second loss, my employers (a married couple) announced that they were pregnant and due a month after what was supposed to be my due date. This couple just happened to be childhood friends and college roommates of my husband. I wasn't upset about their pregnancy, but my work environment transformed in to a mine field. Because they were friends they knew the details of both losses, but empathy was lost on them.<br />
<br />
I should explain a molar pregnancy is very rare, and only occurs in 1 in 1500 pregnancies. It's when two sperm fertilize one egg resulting in a whole extra set of chromosomes. The baby fails to develop early on, but the placenta grows fast giving you all the appropriate pregnancy symptoms. Because of the extra "information" the placenta is more like a tumor that can grow through your uterus and attach to other organs. One in five molar pregnancies turns cancerous. Not many years ago the fix was a hysterectomy. Now the treatment is a very through and painful DNC to remove every single cell, necessary to prevent regrowth. It's impossible to tell if every cell is removed in surgery, so for months you have to return to the lab weekly for a blood draw to make sure your HCG hormone level is going down. You're also given birth control and told you can't "try again" for a year.<br />
<br />
My friends knew this. Every Friday, I'd spend my lunch hour at the clinic lab waiting to get my blood drawn and then the afternoon waiting for my "is it cancer?" call. I did this for three months. The lab didn't take appointments and I was on occasion 5-15 minutes late returning, at one point I was told to keep track of those minutes so they could be deducted from my sick days (regardless that I was salaried and came early/worked late regularly). Our office plan was open, no cubicles and the female boss's desk was just 10 feet or so from mine. More times than I cared to bear, the pregnant lady from the office next door would come over and hang out at my boss's desk to chat. They would discuss symptoms, baby showers, whether they could ride a snowmobile or not, all while I would practically draw blood biting my lip trying not to cry. I'd then go home a wreck to my dear husband who put up with more sadness than anyone should have to. I didn't expect to be treated with kid gloves, but a little discretion would have been nice.<br />
<br />
<h4>
5. Expect a Rock</h4>
Expect your spouse to not share or show their emotions - or at least not in the way you expect them to. I knew my husband was upset and sad, but I also saw his greatest concern was for me. Having a baby (in the first trimester) was still a little abstract for him, but his tenderness toward me let me know he understood even if it wasn't the same for him.<br />
<br />
<h4>
6. Expect Your Spouse to Feel Helpless</h4>
Whether your loss is natural and spontaneous or requires medical treatment, the whole process is out of your spouse's hands. My knight in shining armor didn't know how to come to my rescue. I needed to say what I needed from him, which was really just his presence and love.<br />
<br />
<h4>
7. Expect to Want to Know Why</h4>
With both losses I needed a reason, not just a physical "why" reason, but a spiritual reason - an understanding of the purpose of the loss. My first loss at 7 weeks was a spontaneous miscarriage, I don't know the physical reason for that loss - was it something I did? Was it the long drive to the west coast? Walking on the lower oxygen mountains? But, with this loss, I understood soon after, the spiritual reason - which was to need my new husband in a way I never had before. I had been his shoulder during a health situation with this dad, but I'd never been the one one needing a shoulder. This loss showed me how well my husband could care for me, how tender he could be, how available he was when I needed him most. All important things to know about your spouse and the father of your kids. I feel my first loss was a lesson in this way. My second loss, I know the physical reason, but 10 years later, still wonder what the spiritual purpose of that prolonged devastation was.<br />
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<h4>
8. Expect to Cry Yourself to Sleep</h4>
Bedtime was the worst for me, especially after the second loss. For months, maybe longer, the thoughts and dreams that entertained me as I drifted off to sleep were of the future and of course they included having children. Given the "you can't try again for a year" instruction, it literally felt like the doctor had sucked the dreams out of me with the "unviable tissue". And I would cry. Every night. For a long time.<br />
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<h4>
9. Expect to Want to Fill the Empty</h4>
The DNC left me physically and mentally empty. A hole I couldn't figure out how to fill, until one night I ate so much at a restaurant I felt like I could burst - and as horrible as that felt, I realized when I was that full it was pretty impossible to feel empty in any way. In my desperate sadness this became an easy answer, so for months I ate until I couldn't. I gained 20lbs, which 10 years later still hangs on me. I've gained and lost the weight with each of my kids, except this 20lbs and I'm starting to wonder if I'm subconsciously hanging on to it as the only thing I have left from those pregnancies. Or maybe I'm just extra creative in coming up with excuses.<br />
<br />
<h4>
10. Expect to Hear Things You'll Feel Bad About</h4>
My sister is a year younger than me and got married a year after me, and when I was having trouble with my pregnancies, she told me that our dad told her not to rush into having babies while I was going through this. Sure it would have been incredibly hard to have my younger sister pregnant as I was struggling but I never thought about how my losses would impact others out of courtesy for me, and I felt bad. And in all honesty, a little good too, for the misdirected concern.<br />
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<h4>
11. Expect Due Date Anxiety</h4>
Early losses fade and it seemed like just as I was starting to feel normal the due date was upon us, bringing me back to the sadness. We were supposed to be doing something so amazing and important on that day, and now it's just your average Wednesday.<br />
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<h4>
12. Expect Life to Go On</h4>
The hardest part of the early loss for me was that the baby was only "real" to me. You have to go back to work and back to normal with this inner ache that most around you don't understand and don't care to discuss. Your sadness has to be limited to your own time and the normalcy of the world around you seems so hard to fit into. Remembering to act "like yourself" is tiring, but having people ask you if you're feeling okay because you look down, and then having (or wanting to, but can't) explain that it's more than what they expect to be wrong with you, is even worse.<br />
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<h4>
13. Expect to See Babies Everywhere</h4>
One of the cruel facts of life is that you notice things in your environment because your brain is tuned into them. When you lose a baby you see all the babies and pregnant ladies - they practically glow. There's always a pregnant women in line with you at the store or crossing in front of you on the street. After my second loss, not only were the boss and next-door lady pregnant, but a month later another employee announced that his wife was pregnant with twins. I thought I was going to have to chain myself to my desk to keep from jumping out the window.<br />
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<h4>
14. Expect the Guilt & Feeling of Failure</h4>
When a loss begins you immediately being spinning all the scenarios of what caused it in your head. "I shouldn't have drove over the mountains", "I had to slam on the brakes because of that idiot driver, could that have done it?", "Did I eat deli meat!?". You worry you did something wrong. The guilt and feeling of failure are so personal. You let everyone down. It was your fault, you were trusted to grow this baby and you messed it up. The logical part of your brain and Google will tell you this isn't true, but you can't help how you feel.<br />
<br />
<h4>
15. Expect to Be Angry and Annoyed</h4>
People try to come up with things to say that are supposed to make you feel better. For me it made me feel angry and annoyed. "You're still a mom to a baby in heaven." Well, I didn't want a baby in heaven. I can't smell that baby or rock that baby. I can't see or hear that baby and while it's a sweet sentiment, it just reminds me of what I'm missing. Do moms of babies in heaven go to kindergarten round-up 5 years later? Or have kid size hand prints on their windows? Yes, those souls will have a home in my heart for eternity, but I'm not their mom in the way I want to be. Sometimes words make it worse. Sometimes a simple hug can say it better.<br />
<br />
<br />
The burden of sadness from losing a pregnancy is something many women experience. Whether you're alone in your grief or share it with those close to you, no one can fully understand your feelings - the mix of shock, sadness, guilt, anger and loss of the lifetime of dreams you had for that child can't be described or shared like it can with the loss of a living family member. In a lot of ways, even with a support system, you're alone in sorting out and managing your feelings. And it's okay to wallow in them.<br />
<br />
It's also okay to share your story - to start the conversation - for those women just now going through the pain of a pregnancy loss. You may say something that gives them a sense of comfort or at least the benefit of knowing what they are experiencing isn't unusual. So if you would like, please feel free to comment below with your experiences. Maybe our words can help someone who stumbles on this blog during their search for answers about their loss.<br />
<br />
Not everyone gets the happy ending that I did, and my heart breaks for those people. We're so fortunate in these modern times to have options when it comes to becoming a parent, from medical interventions to adoption and beyond. I hope those suffering through a loss right now can find the peace they need with it - an understanding, a reason or an acceptance that helps them move on.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-14179795780153090932014-10-15T19:06:00.001-05:002014-10-16T11:08:02.540-05:00Where Did My Words Go?As a mom, I'm used to misplacing things, or more likely having things I've placed moved by a small person that little old ladies in any store, ever, like to call "little helpers". I'm relatively certain they are responsible for my newest "missing" article - but it's a hard one to pin on them... my words are missing.<br />
<br />
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRZJH39Cc20fXQNQrlEXlW4ExiCndobnRSg-laHfUav3ObG7DCfqsfXsVqHCK-afWZcIBZpLZd8YSMpnhMCtVEO_kwYcH709dsQNilV7nXrXWi1ipm4KbiQCQJBTlB-qGV6y-uNjXcnwk/s1600/wheredidmywordsgo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRZJH39Cc20fXQNQrlEXlW4ExiCndobnRSg-laHfUav3ObG7DCfqsfXsVqHCK-afWZcIBZpLZd8YSMpnhMCtVEO_kwYcH709dsQNilV7nXrXWi1ipm4KbiQCQJBTlB-qGV6y-uNjXcnwk/s1600/wheredidmywordsgo.jpg" height="234" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
I found something I'd written a decade ago, nothing of importance, except that it was pre-kid and it was amazing. Complex thoughts combined intelligently in a series of sentences that used words I don't even remember knowing. I had to look twice to make sure I really did write it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
These days, I get a little edgy when it's time to practice the weekly vocab with my 3rd grader. Sure I know what the words mean but can I define them? I'm lucky to be able to string a verbal sentence together without an awkward pause or the words "thingy" and "stuff". What happened?!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I read, I work, I communicate with grown people on a daily basis and even though my poor, tired brain has been steeped in baby babble for the last 7.5 years, I should still be able to communicate like an educated person... yet, no.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I can almost feel the words I used to know wiggling in my brain. Like a caterpillar just about to emerge as a butterfly. When I'm trying to use them in conversation, I know they're in there... they're a whisper I can't quite hear. I just can't catch them. Where did my words go? I wonder if years of reading children's books, followed by sleepless nights, has caused the smart parts of my brain to lock themselves in a safe room until the onslaught of Dr. Suess and Pete the Cat subside. Every once in a while a good word will slip out (re: see "onslaught" above), but when that happens I just think the ol' gray matter is testing the waters. A little "If we let you have your brain back, will you use it properly?" trial period. No Brain, not yet. It's fall/winter/spring kid sickness season now, we won't sleep right until March, don't expect too much on the intellectual front.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Should I care that I need to nod and smile when someone is raving or ranting about their amazing... (what's a good word like adventure... but not really adventure... we'll just go with...) thingy... raving or ranting about their thingy with words I no longer know? Excuse me, I speak mommy now, can you please keep it to words with less than six letters and make it rhyme?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I debated on investing in a word of the day calendar to try to sound interesting again, but considering it's the middle of October and my monthly calendar still says September, I believe that may be a waste of money. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So bear with me, as I rely on my kids' weekly vocab lessons to rebuild my vocabulary 10 words at a time and if I look confused when you explain something that doesn't include counting shapes or feature talking animals, just dumb it on down to "thingy" and "stuff" and I'll try to catch up!</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-39164768906027342342014-09-29T09:44:00.002-05:002014-09-29T09:51:11.130-05:00Made With LoveI'm a big proponent of DIY projects that save me money. I make my kid's birthday cakes and decorations. I get a little crafty around the holidays and when it comes to Halloween hand-made is the only way to go. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Vuu5pJu6jQCY5bC_ASuxW_-Nf9JPeBVaIIIVL9sSo27HXKI9riZNenamftx3XoMf6hM1lU_-Z4xpZTMMxU1SreBwCos-vqYriSl_4-Mlp0VvESl5P3UWZzer1XKkVjrUm-mfG_dqJUs/s1600/halloween2009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Vuu5pJu6jQCY5bC_ASuxW_-Nf9JPeBVaIIIVL9sSo27HXKI9riZNenamftx3XoMf6hM1lU_-Z4xpZTMMxU1SreBwCos-vqYriSl_4-Mlp0VvESl5P3UWZzer1XKkVjrUm-mfG_dqJUs/s1600/halloween2009.jpg" height="171" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Luke as SpongeBob, Layna is Ariel and Jake was a "peanut".</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Even when I want to be lazy and buy costumes, a stroll through Target's Halloween aisle reminds me at $35 a pop (x4 = $140... I guess we won't eat for a week), a little nighttime crafting is the only way to go for costumes. Made with love... in other words I burned my self with the glue gun 5 times putting together this Sponge Bob costume, I don't care if it's not cartoon accurate, you're wearing it.<br />
<br />
My parents are DIYers. The difference being they had legitimate talent. My mom made our clothes, costumes and even my wedding dress. My dad made our dressers - one of which is still used by my daughter almost 30 years later. Unlike yours truly they made things that deserved to be cherished, and I did. Now my kids get the benefit of their hard work, with blankets, stuffed animals and clothes from grandma and wooden garages for the boys trucks, and a wood cradle for my daughters dolls. Amid rooms of store bought junk, I had to explain the special value in something made by hand. I asked my kids to imagine the item being made for them, how much time and effort it and the whole time it was being crafted they were being thought of. The time dedicated just to them - with them even being there, that's worth more than gold.<br />
<br />
The things I make don't have the longevity to be cherished. The cakes are gone in hours, the poster board decorations last on their bedrooms walls for a few months and the costumes are lucky to last through the couple Halloween functions we attend. The kids almost always like the things I make them, and sometimes they even turn out "cool!". <br />
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I've found that one of the side effects of the affliction of parenthood is the evaporation of hobbies. I was asked at an ECFE class last week to introduce myself and share hobbies and interests, the only thing I could come up with is "I read sometimes, I think"... are karaoke and wine hobbies? I have the best intentions to resume my pre-kid hobbies, but now, time is always filled with school and work and the fact that my family feels I should prepare them dinner every single night.<br />
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For now my only real hobby is making things for my kids' birthdays, Halloween and holidays. Party planning their theme lets me harken back to my pre-kid creative craftiness. Making crazy cakes, drawing characters for decorations or figuring out how to make a 4 year old into a 4-wheeler for Halloween. It's glue gun burns, marker stained fingers and scissor cramped hands, but I love it... because I love them. I love finishing a project and setting it up in the living room so it's the first thing they see in the morning, their excitement is only motivation I need to do it again. I hope they can look back on the photos someday and laugh at the hilarity of some of the results, but mostly realize how much love and thought was in those goofy projects.<br />
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Here are a few of my favorite DIYs:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyNH6xrZv-diIYGyLYrL4tRahSUatPIfFW2octBJR0u-o2QSiJb1AlGrtRn5lCXY94BgWwU24g78_qcba1A0HuOHzdb7DAJRkRFErKak0ZEn8jztX_3VxwO39hUy8phyV8sxifwbS3kro/s1600/halloween2008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyNH6xrZv-diIYGyLYrL4tRahSUatPIfFW2octBJR0u-o2QSiJb1AlGrtRn5lCXY94BgWwU24g78_qcba1A0HuOHzdb7DAJRkRFErKak0ZEn8jztX_3VxwO39hUy8phyV8sxifwbS3kro/s1600/halloween2008.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cinderella & BamBam, who wasn't as impressed<br />
with his costume as the princess.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWcZk7ktEf-N6Us8d0nSuiC0v-0wuCjE-1fS1_os8LkcIwy7BtuuJsd7w7MWlr-u_bJbtCYyjbckhSBp_p7tZahmHLF3yBTl-d0OsjiQHZREgrUxRjVNF8h9V9-tmPOaxwFSGknO1MClY/s1600/hallween2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWcZk7ktEf-N6Us8d0nSuiC0v-0wuCjE-1fS1_os8LkcIwy7BtuuJsd7w7MWlr-u_bJbtCYyjbckhSBp_p7tZahmHLF3yBTl-d0OsjiQHZREgrUxRjVNF8h9V9-tmPOaxwFSGknO1MClY/s1600/hallween2011.jpg" height="274" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Phineas (from & Ferb), a paperdoll and "camo" <br />
(that's a thing right?)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja8lCD2H9wAsq7mrAJw1y8tVF5sQ5ir85WCnT27T_CftVChKCG-eCN-53Kh1uo82GDOyr9BNP6dU3SO3op53mZezwMp0mcJ0HzzQzoL9fDbs9zUeZkkIDriYwjXgSPRSVkIWRk23_bIS0/s1600/hallween2012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja8lCD2H9wAsq7mrAJw1y8tVF5sQ5ir85WCnT27T_CftVChKCG-eCN-53Kh1uo82GDOyr9BNP6dU3SO3op53mZezwMp0mcJ0HzzQzoL9fDbs9zUeZkkIDriYwjXgSPRSVkIWRk23_bIS0/s1600/hallween2012.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Word Girl & Mickey Mouse</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqFIflPzzuEvp6z-RIK_HnwyxFo0vEY71wC6wRniFCgt-_S1batOAiRhtuhxTFkfbUBne77W1YkVMTYISTuVjhZSbNx7v5Yqth_K4t9o60FD_41D6Du_WYw9Jxs-BbLiauBgvAYtBzv5k/s1600/jakepirate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqFIflPzzuEvp6z-RIK_HnwyxFo0vEY71wC6wRniFCgt-_S1batOAiRhtuhxTFkfbUBne77W1YkVMTYISTuVjhZSbNx7v5Yqth_K4t9o60FD_41D6Du_WYw9Jxs-BbLiauBgvAYtBzv5k/s1600/jakepirate.jpg" height="171" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jake's Pirate Party (Jake & the Neverland Pirates)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlynLMANSwuX_SXOurKzir9axIYQx9BY1GJJdCTHKkwi-nPiwnlmjxqxbFQT2onJnv1IXii99lCdfedQdL-76oWVoMqaH4eUE_TyfC-UdPdPFnGHiZHAZ74Yw9LOVspTf8rDPQT2_xUdQ/s1600/layna-alice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlynLMANSwuX_SXOurKzir9axIYQx9BY1GJJdCTHKkwi-nPiwnlmjxqxbFQT2onJnv1IXii99lCdfedQdL-76oWVoMqaH4eUE_TyfC-UdPdPFnGHiZHAZ74Yw9LOVspTf8rDPQT2_xUdQ/s1600/layna-alice.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Layna's Alice & Wonderland Party, a true labor of love.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCfCz9oPNzYFUN_bdF4hqrltrVtwg3k1DeJj9dKxFNonj-nF4k-TDGsXbxG4HzAzHs8Vp4YRcZuv1V5D7aQK-RfAayxC5EWO_KuPPKtjP0hAkJROrpg8upzZCBR1zDjCCa_cc8vbqDnhw/s1600/layna-rapunzel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCfCz9oPNzYFUN_bdF4hqrltrVtwg3k1DeJj9dKxFNonj-nF4k-TDGsXbxG4HzAzHs8Vp4YRcZuv1V5D7aQK-RfAayxC5EWO_KuPPKtjP0hAkJROrpg8upzZCBR1zDjCCa_cc8vbqDnhw/s1600/layna-rapunzel.jpg" height="224" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rapunzel Party, I have to admit - girl parties are more fun.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1JzrmfPLtZ82uP0B1Kbkfnv9Q07ttrztb9O5h-mf_k-zHxeRrlSAfU6HHEAuHNfSdi2hBRFDwFAUFMorcMKunfHgHOXWqjRfTox9f4-uJf3CtF5dmhQg35F1ssaG4q1vRSLvEQXvJj5o/s1600/lukebday-dumptruck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1JzrmfPLtZ82uP0B1Kbkfnv9Q07ttrztb9O5h-mf_k-zHxeRrlSAfU6HHEAuHNfSdi2hBRFDwFAUFMorcMKunfHgHOXWqjRfTox9f4-uJf3CtF5dmhQg35F1ssaG4q1vRSLvEQXvJj5o/s1600/lukebday-dumptruck.jpg" height="149" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Luke's Construction Party, complete with "Big Bad Worker"<br />
safety vests.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKeooP-joqBj17_jymBwTb1-r2YoRHUjC7CvSrfv8N5EfdcusjBcwDb4hvpnMiY3vRduMt-6fcThImzICYqf8s8qxkwDWWY2dQdSjA53yfqCexdiogx4EPGRYFThaqtuCPBt50DrP6CgU/s1600/matt-george.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKeooP-joqBj17_jymBwTb1-r2YoRHUjC7CvSrfv8N5EfdcusjBcwDb4hvpnMiY3vRduMt-6fcThImzICYqf8s8qxkwDWWY2dQdSjA53yfqCexdiogx4EPGRYFThaqtuCPBt50DrP6CgU/s1600/matt-george.jpg" height="149" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matt's Curious George Party. The felt George Wall decor <br />
actually lasted a year on his bedroom wall.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9NBSIqJGV0dy4mlFK0NUCyfwDebA32310nTHnIOYYUu61GyI1q5M4c058VlYT8QFb0PVUwP-ioTVbGK_Ipp_VhOWG13WcDVrC12Vth8j3blwT5fpn0U8ranDNoU0mS6iHhrbneGfMpYs/s1600/23674_1404216949017_3788831_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9NBSIqJGV0dy4mlFK0NUCyfwDebA32310nTHnIOYYUu61GyI1q5M4c058VlYT8QFb0PVUwP-ioTVbGK_Ipp_VhOWG13WcDVrC12Vth8j3blwT5fpn0U8ranDNoU0mS6iHhrbneGfMpYs/s1600/23674_1404216949017_3788831_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jake's first birthday - puppy party. <br />
Saran Wrap & Gel frosting don't mix. Starbursts make good tongues.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM7g4G91xR9WD1K3M9kg-rUiTn_6ryZscIbp0eU2tV1qFrza1Qs2DFrtyod99YJjTs9WbCu8dl80xaRJq3WQWBMi9bzFFeQebksV5u0nNGYzG6ZTIkoCyeSfwLsP9x5FOx01B_YyrUXn4/s1600/249903_2070522606242_6363784_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM7g4G91xR9WD1K3M9kg-rUiTn_6ryZscIbp0eU2tV1qFrza1Qs2DFrtyod99YJjTs9WbCu8dl80xaRJq3WQWBMi9bzFFeQebksV5u0nNGYzG6ZTIkoCyeSfwLsP9x5FOx01B_YyrUXn4/s1600/249903_2070522606242_6363784_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tractor Party. The hay bales were the best part.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2XTsr9i-b8V8smA1aIEPOG-zmCLOF62RbN2mxSqayjAa7hYd_oxjqq8-uaV8pIrX_vuTc6KGXHIfXTx6K8LH9Gvk3Euo7CoE9nFn4-v3YoIK-yPf51I_e67s7HMlQZwT3jJtNgqmNY-o/s1600/380974_2740610598023_192020815_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2XTsr9i-b8V8smA1aIEPOG-zmCLOF62RbN2mxSqayjAa7hYd_oxjqq8-uaV8pIrX_vuTc6KGXHIfXTx6K8LH9Gvk3Euo7CoE9nFn4-v3YoIK-yPf51I_e67s7HMlQZwT3jJtNgqmNY-o/s1600/380974_2740610598023_192020815_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matt's 1st birthday - Winter Party with <br />
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Polar Bear Cake & Penquin Truffles.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4C57TKhaKKbawF2HvrAzuzEYCim_TTNAZRnGt25ahq8abg-ZoE5MgoSvAytTnshDb6SAsi0wxgAW0V32ClGeOqwIDqQspcKn93WR8x-lCgl9gp1REjX3EagE-vGT3SCtaWB-UUTaEK40/s1600/578353_4586096774024_1710828909_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4C57TKhaKKbawF2HvrAzuzEYCim_TTNAZRnGt25ahq8abg-ZoE5MgoSvAytTnshDb6SAsi0wxgAW0V32ClGeOqwIDqQspcKn93WR8x-lCgl9gp1REjX3EagE-vGT3SCtaWB-UUTaEK40/s1600/578353_4586096774024_1710828909_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flower Garden Party - to the right is a "prize garden" <br />
where the kids picked treats to fill their bags.</td></tr>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-48237423259839329132014-09-04T23:29:00.002-05:002014-09-05T07:56:11.592-05:00Summer Fun is Learning in Disguise, and 7 Other Lessons from Summer Vacation<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimauiMWP7UXP6Fw1yhJ6xGrXw7_VmbjxGO6qdOwoytaCoAF9aSRXGiofD3RDfyht_cv-eX47JHTo-Eh8l2VdJbr58TAhg3DNvDg_q9W8Gm78wK7Vry-wsdOwy1OWQiebVfkjwx3KQ4fbM/s1600/IMG_3496.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimauiMWP7UXP6Fw1yhJ6xGrXw7_VmbjxGO6qdOwoytaCoAF9aSRXGiofD3RDfyht_cv-eX47JHTo-Eh8l2VdJbr58TAhg3DNvDg_q9W8Gm78wK7Vry-wsdOwy1OWQiebVfkjwx3KQ4fbM/s1600/IMG_3496.JPG" height="300" width="400"></a>Summer always holds so much promise in May: Almost every weekend is free and the options for fun are endless, if only time and money came as easy as the good ideas.<br>
<br>
Working at home, summer is as much of a hassle as it is fun. My productivity slides as hand-washing turns into a water fight and reading into a wrestling match. I'm convinced school was invented to preserve the lives of younger siblings, more than it was for education.<br>
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Now as the backpacks are loaded and lined up for the morning hustle, I'm in a bit of denial that summer is over. Every weekend was full, lots of money was spent, but many of my summer "must-do's" have been left undone. Every summer seems to end this way, as the last of the sand slips through your fingers, and the school year saddles you for another nine months.<br>
<br>
For me, the perfect summer remains elusive, but the kids seem to find a little fun in each day, and through them I'm reminded what summer vacation is all about. Here's what they taught me this year:<br>
<br>
<b>1. 3 Months is Only 12 Weeks (or so)</b><br>
As soon as the last school bell rings, the clock starts ticking down. I remember driving by the electric billboard at school a few days ago, in June and seeing "School Starts September 2nd", and thinking "Ahhh, we have the whole summer". Last week I drove by it and was panic-stuck when I realized we only had 4 days left! The time in between just evaporated. I blame all the plans and activities: T-ball, parties, fairs, day trips, family events... all things we wanted to do, but all taking time to plan and participate, leaving just a few "dog days" to relax and do nothing. The lesson, you may have time to do it all, but you won't have time to do nothing. <br>
<br>
<b>2. Summer In Two Words: Hot Dogs</b><br>
Turns out you can actually survive on grilled processed meat for three months straight. Food cooked outdoors always tastes better, especially because Daddy is the grill master in our house. The lesson, summer tastes like hot dogs and brats...with the occasional pasta salad.<br>
<br>
<b>3. It's Never Too Cold To Swim</b><br>
I'd be surprised to hear that we cracked 80 degrees for more than 10 days this summer, but the same kids that are "frrrrreeeeezzzing" when the house is 67 degrees in the winter are doing "canyon balls" (as they call them) into the pool when it's only 65 degrees outside. The lesson, don't let a little weather ruin a pool day.<br>
<br>
<b>4. Rain Makes Mud, Mud Makes Messy</b><br>
Messy makes my babies... the most happy. Even bad summer weather has a silver lining - mud is always fun, even when mom has to dig it out of your ear canal. The lesson, washing machines are a necessary and important investment. If you're feeling extra economical, you can pre-treat in the pool.<br>
<br>
<b>5. Walks Rock</b><br>
Even though I moonlight as a "stay-at-home" mom, behind closed doors there's a computer with demanding (while lovely) clients who usually need something yesterday or at the latest tomorrow. The kids get bored with me working, so to break up the day we'd go outside for short periods during my typical work day and burn off a little energy. The favorite activity was walking our dirt road searching for agates, and we'd always find some, along with other pretty rocks. The lesson, when the house can't contain you anymore, take a walk for rocks.<br>
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<b>6. Nothing Can Be Anything</b><br>
When the kids are being good and I think "now's the time to get stuff done!" Sometimes laziness intervenes and I'm privy to the hilarity of my kids' imaginations - whether the boys are pretending to be my husband and his friends - driving tractors and baling hay or my daughter is making sand cookies to peddle to her "hard-working" brothers, taking the time to watch them always makes me smile. Sometimes, I even laugh out loud, like a rainy day they all donned sunglasses, vests, old walkie talkies and toy pistols as they stealthy crept along the walls, agents with the "FBI", in search of sneaky snake (that was just an old plastic snake). Perhaps a better job for animal control, but the FBI got him. The lesson, for the kids nothing can be anything, for me the "anything" is as precious as it is hilarious.<br>
<br>
<b>7. Summer's Just Enough Time To Not Severely Injure Your Sibling.</b><br>
Summer vacation is the perfect time for the "nights and weekends" siblings during the school year, to reconnect. To remember why they love each other, and shortly there after to remember why they despise each other. By the end of July, the sharing and caring wears thin and being shacked up with siblings for weeks on end gets old. The joy of togetherness fades until the kids can't decide what piece of living room furniture to sit on without a wrestling match. They hide the remote from each other so many times they can't find it when their dad gets home and for some reason the busted toy pick-up with the missing seats and no hood is suddenly the most desirable vehicle out of 2,173 to play with. The battles continue outdoors, in deciding who gets to throw the ball for the dog, who gets to open the mailbox and who gets to use what shovel in the sandbox. School and it's age segregating structure keeps the kids from each other for 8+ hours a day, ensuring the youngest survive until the older siblings are too cool to play with them anyway. The lesson, it's quite possible school saves you trips to the ER and a mental breakdown or two.<br>
<br>
<b>8. The Growing Season</b><br>
For 9 months kids are behind locked doors learning, but for 3 months they are home growing. All the walking, swimming and biking does a kid body good, but they're also growing in other ways - without being told what to do at all times, they get to do what they want, developing their personality, confidence and imagination. And being home to help with chores, they learn skills that serve them well all their life. I can't believe how much my kiddos grew and changed this summer. The lesson, summer fun is learning in disguise.<br>
<br>
I (like most parents, I imagine) want my kids to have the best summer vacation. Yet, the work that goes into planning the "big stuff" seems to zap the fun out of it. Or, even after creating the perfect outing/event/activity the kids aren't nearly as impressed with the idea as you were.<br>
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I guess the ideas left on my list will keep until next summer, but to make me feel better I asked the kids if they had a good summer and got a resounding "yes", whew! They loved the fairs, parties and day trips, but they all agreed on enjoying the little things, especially have a "huge" swimming pool this year (I guess 30" deep is huge when you're under 10). As sad as it seems to let summer go, fall is filled with it's own kind of fun and lessons to learn, and if you can't find anything to do, I know from experience you can make mud all year long.<br>
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<br>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-76499858561801598392014-08-04T18:45:00.001-05:002014-08-05T15:36:09.164-05:00#2 with a Side of Guilt...A short nine months after our daughter was born, I discovered I was pregnant with Baby #2. I would say it was a surprise, but we'd just put our house on the market and my husband specifically said "You better not get pregnant!", which is a clear opportunity for the universe to say, "You're not the boss of me!". Sure enough, two weeks later I had to check the package twice to make sure the two pink lines meant "baby-on-board."<br />
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In the early weeks the idea of two kids didn't really phase me, "everyone" has two kids, right? What's the big deal? But as my daughter grew and our daily activities and rituals became more routine, the idea of bringing home a baby created a feeling I didn't expect, a big heaping, helping of guilt.<br />
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Being a mom of one is easy to remember compared to trying to remember the early days with my other kids. Early morning wake-ups, followed by snuggling in bed, eating breakfast, holding a napping baby while I worked, breaking for The View for me and a bottle for baby. It was an easy schedule - a little of what I needed, a little of what she needed.<br />
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One morning I was balancing a bowl of Corn Pops on my baby belly, my daughter tucked to one side of me, mesmerized by some toy she was holding, when I realized soon it wouldn't be just us taking turns with daylight hours. Pretty soon there'd be a tiny person who needed me "now" and my little girl would have to wait. And it made me feel awful. It made me cry. It made me think "What have I done!" And each sweet moment we had began to feel like the last, and in some ways, they were.<br />
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We sold our house just in time. I was 4cm dilated and contracting every hour, but we closed and moved and I lasted a whole week longer until my doctor decided I live too far from a hospital to be so dilated and contracting with a toddler while my husband worked 45 minutes away. The morning I went in to be induced was heart wrenching, I felt this was the day my little girl's world changes forever and it's all my fault. It was hard to be excited for a new baby when I was sure I'd condemned my daughter to a life of "just a minute!", which translates to "I don't have time for you, I'm too busy with this noisy poop machine."<br />
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Bringing our new son home didn't really help my feelings. Everyone was fine with our new dynamic but me. My daughter was instantly the "Best Sister Ever". A little mommy if there ever was one. She was 18 months old and ready for independence, so having mommy occupied was a welcome reprieve from singing Old MacDonald for the 200th time. <br />
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She found all sorts of fun while I was glued to the couch with my shirt half off feeding her brother. One day she made an indoor sandbox out of her brother's baby rice cereal. (Tip: Don't ever try to vacuum that stuff.) <br />
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I held on to the guilt for a few months, I clearly remember the day it went away. It was a really hot day, the baby was in his little chair and I was snapping the day's obligatory new baby photos when my daughter came over, the breeze from the fan blowing her wispy hair back. She smooched her brother as I snapped away. It wasn't until that night, as I was clicking through the pictures that this shot stopped me and I finally understood. As I looked at these tiny people interacting I finally saw what she had, instead of what she lost. She had a brother who, seven years later, is her best friend (most days) and her back-up whenever she needs it. She gained someone to love and be loved by, and she has someone to turn to if she can't turn to Mom and Dad. You would think as someone who has three younger siblings herself that I would have known this from the start (hormone clouded judgement?).<br />
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I also realized that trying to be the best mom for one kid is very different than trying to be the best mom for two or more kids. With one kid you are 50% of their everything. With more kids you're only 33%, 25% or less. You still give all the love, but you don't have to be the entertainment, shoulder, snuggler, teacher, playmate all the time... sometimes to your dismay. Siblings are happy to jump into those roles, and others... antagonist, irritater, toy breaker.<br />
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I'd like to say I scraped the rest of that side of guilt into the garbage and was done with it, but I managed to store some to reheat with the births of brothers #2 and #3. With the younger brothers it was more of an appetizer than a side dish, easily forgotten once the meal arrived.<br />
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Even now I find a crumb or two of guilt laying around, especially when I realize how little one-on-one time I get with the kids. But as I listen to them playing some made up game down the hall I think, maybe that's just me missing it, they are too busy having fun with each other.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-27199961383559349932014-07-20T20:58:00.002-05:002014-07-23T11:25:21.696-05:00The Sound of QuietIn my house quiet is hard to come by. With young kids (three quarters of them boys) and a dog, the volume of our house regularly reaches unsafe levels. I often threaten to wear ear plugs, but as most moms know, hearing (or not hearing anything) is part of a mom's anti-danger awareness system which goes on high-alert when your eyes are otherwise occupied, and I can't safely turn that off. <br />
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Last week, my parents, bless their angelic souls, had all four of the kids to their house for a week (a whole week!!). They've had two or three of them in the years past, but this year, the youngest is potty trained and they all got to go. It was the first time in 8.5 years I had no children at home with me. And, it was quiet. <br />
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There were no truck noises, no fighting, no "Mom! So-and-so won't let me blah-blah-blah". There was no me yelling for them to be quiet only to hear "What?! We can't hear you! We're being to loud!", followed by sounds of my head banging off the wall. Of course there were none of the good noises either: the giggles, silly sayings and sweet "Mom, I love you"s. But... there was quiet. <br />
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I almost forgot it existed during the daylight hours.<br />
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When it was quiet, I heard the wind in the trees, the birds chirping away, the laundry thumping in the dryer downstairs, and I heard myself think! I went hours without having to speak. No twenty questions to answer, no over dramatic punishments to threaten - "No dessert for a year!". I didn't have to hold a press conference to announce the evenings menu, so I wasn't asked 5 separate times while I was preparing it:<br />
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<i>"Thank you for attending this evening's dinner press conference. The menu tonight will be a Roasted Red Pepper Pasta with Chicken, salad and garlic bread. Any questions? --- Yes, you four in the front row."</i><br />
In unison: "Are there onions in it?" <i><br />"No, there are no onions in it."</i> "Yay!"<br />
<i>"Any more questions? Tall guy, that just walked in."</i><br />
"Pasta, again?!" <i> "Would you like to rephrase that?".</i><br />
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While I was hearing "quiet", I realized I no longer had to listen. As a parent your eyes and ears and nose never turn off. You could be reading a book and still hear the little feet sneaking into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and then smell the pickles as they are being stealthily snatched from their jar. Moms can even wake from the deepest slumber when they hear the flick of the bathroom light switch at 4:18 AM.<br />
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Being able to power down from Mom-mode was almost like a vacation for my brain, even if I was still at my desk working. Last week was a gift for me more than it was for the kiddos. Sure, I missed them (less than I thought) and I worried (even more less than I thought -- but my parents are pros at managing kids, they had four of their own not that long ago). We all survived, though the grand-angels halos maybe be a tad tarnished, it's hard to be on your best behavior for a full day, let alone a whole week.<br />
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They're home now. The noise has returned. All Mom-systems are "GO". I can only hope that for my parents, the memory of the chaos, exhaustion and overwhelming energy of 4 grandkids will fade like the pain of childbirth over the next few months and they will want the kids to come visit again next summer, for, maybe.... two weeks?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3152663944543949186.post-45385264579478136272014-06-09T15:45:00.000-05:002014-06-12T17:24:53.424-05:00Give Props to Working PopsThe whole world knows how hard being a mom is. There are thousands (maybe millions?) of mom blogs, facebook posts, magazine articles and even the media to remind us. We hear what the stay-at-home moms should make based on what they do in a day ($115,000 a year according to Forbes). We know working moms have to make tough choices to be able to pay the bills, and that work-at-home moms are probably just crazy to begin with because who would ever try to get work done with the kids around. Even the stay-at-home dads get their 15 minutes of fame every once in a while, but the working dad NEVER gets credit, even when they meet the crazy high expectations of what society thinks a "dad" should be. My kids have an awesome working dad that makes me want to let the world know that working dad's have it hard too (shh...maybe even harder). <br />
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Hear me out.<br />
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When our children were born, I was prepared. I had a plan. The marsupial instincts kicked in, and with baby strapped to me, life went on as normal - if at a slower pace. I am woman, hear me roar. And roaring never sounds like a cry for help, even if you intend it to be. So Dad is on standby mode as you juggle bottles, diapers, and dinner. We whine about having to do everything, but we don't want anyone to help. Frankly, we're impossible and if Daddy holds, changes or feeds the child we are inches away supervising -- correcting the hold, the angle, the burping. And lord help him if he tries to fill the dishwasher or make dinner. I imagine the constant supervision and direction doesn't quite inspire them to take an overactive role in the child rearing. Mom's just naturally take charge, we pick and schedule doctors, schools, and activities. We are the Boss which leaves Dad the role of assistant. Affectionately abbreviated to Ass.<br />
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My hard-working hubby has been the delegated ass in our house for years now. He doesn't mind so much as long as there is beer around. And after a few of those beers, the tough exterior drops just enough for me to learn that how even though he's happy he doesn't have to manage the chaos that is 4 little kids, sometimes he feels he's not even part of it. My husband works 60 hours a week, often nights, occasionally weekends and he misses out on the fun, but also the routine. When he's home, it's the kids' schedule or my plans, my interior design and style of home management (which consists mostly of putting out fires, having a glass of wine and then putting out more fires). He works so hard to provide for us, but barely gets any say or time to enjoy any of it. I'm sure we're not the only family like this.<br />
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Ma usually has the house spinning like a merry-go-round, while Pop is just trying to figure out when to jump on. They literally made the in-crowd, but aren't always part of it. <br />
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Working dads have it harder.<br />
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Dads, just like moms, have unreachable expectations. They feel bad when they miss school functions and t-ball games because of work. And every hunting, fishing, boys weekend trip also becomes a guilt trip when they leave Ma and the kids at home. A dad today is still supposed to be the strong, hardworking, "wait until your dad gets home" disciplinarians, while at the same time a sentimental teddy bear, soapbox car building, fishing partner - and when you're not busy can you please see why the car is making that funny noise - guy. There are only so many hours in the day.<br />
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My husband, and all the other working dads out there, need to know they are appreciated and vital. They may not be able to attend every school concert or sports event, but they are setting a great example for their kids. Something moms should make sure the kids notice. <br />
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The silver lining is seeing the moments the kids get to spend with their dad, even if it's just helping him with the yard work. It may not seem like much, but I know those quality moments will mean so much more than seeing Dad on the bleachers at their t-ball game when they are older. <br />
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The days when Dad is around to connect with the kids and I are so important, maybe, just maybe, I could let him be Boss for a day. Or at the very least, when I see him trying to find the right moment to jump on our merry-go-round life - remember to slow it down a little and reach out my hand to pull him on, because we're always happier when "Daddy's Home!!".Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0