"Is the Easter Bunny real? Because [friend's name] says the Easter Bunny isn't real. Tell me the truth."
Not a conversation I expected to have with my five year old two days before Easter. I dodged it: "Well, I've never seen him myself, but I wonder who would put all that candy in our yard, if not him…"
Then, today, just one day before Easter, my six year old comes to me, perplexed. "Mom, Maddie says the Easter Bunny isn't real. Do you put all that candy in our baskets?"
"Well, what do you think?" I asked, holding my breath.
"I think she's wrong. I think he's real….But do you put the candy in?"
"It's a surprise." I smiled and winked and hightailed it out of the room.
That night, after the kids were tucked in bed, I joined a half a dozen other bleary eyed parents at Walgreen's, filling my shopping cart with enough sugar to put the dentist's children through college. I began to feel a little resentment toward Maddie's young friend. Why had she spoiled the fun? My kids still seem so young to me. Shouldn't I have a few good years of magic left?
Okay, so maybe it's not fair to get mad at a little girl who just happened to figure things out and share her new found discoveries with her friends, but….I was still worried a bit about how to navigate this new territory with my own little ones. How would I preserve the fun and magic of the tradition? Would the kids be angry, disappointed, sad? Or worse, would they stop believing me altogether?
I paid and sighed and headed home. In the living room I began the assembly process. Plastic grass, chocolate bunnies, Peeps, etc. My heart just wasn't in it anymore. Aaron sat with me, cross legged on the floor, filling plastic eggs with small candies.
Just then, who should pop around the corner, but our little night owl, Maddie. Really?? It was after ten o'clock! She was grinning ear to ear. "I just need to get my fairies out of my backpack." Aaron leapt up and ran to block her view. After she collected her dolls, we directed her back to her room.
"Did she see?" I whispered nervously.
"Yeah. She said, 'I knew you and mom bought the candy!'" He was shaking his head.
I marched to Maddie's room and sat on her bed. She sat across from me, and I tilted my head, raising my brows, giving my best serious look. "We need to talk."
She tried to hide her grin - a good sign. Looks like I hadn't scarred her for life.
"Maddie, you get to be a part of something really special now. It's the Easter surprise. Remember how mommy doesn't like secrets, but surprises are okay since everyone gets to find out about them in the end?"
She nodded.
"Well, this is a special surprise, and you found out before any of the other kids in our house. Most kids don't get to find out about this surprise until they are older. So it's very important you don't tell Jack and Parker yet. I'll let you tell them in a few years, okay?"
"Okay…"
"So, yes, mommies and daddies do put the candy in the baskets and the eggs at Easter. We get to be the Easter Bunny. And now, you get to join in the magic and be the Easter Bunny, too! You are the youngest Easter Bunny I have ever met! Want to come help?"
She bounded out of bed and ran into the living room. "I want to do everything!" she announced. She filled baskets and eggs and oohed and aahed about the toys the boys were "going to love!"
And just like that, the Easter magic had returned. And it was beautiful.
4/19/14
4/6/14
My Godmother
I have the most amazing godmother. She is my Aunt Joyce, mother of five boys (men, now), grandmother to 17 (I think that's right?) grandchildren, sister to my mother, and one of the most humble and godly women I know.
With all of those primary relationships drawing her time and attention away, she still manages to send me cards and packages…and has since I was a baby. She has never missed a birthday or anniversary. She sends books to my children with poignant quotes handwritten in the covers. She sends Easter eggs filled with money for the kids when she knows we won't make it the family Easter gathering because we've moved…again.
She has undoubtedly crossed out and rewritten our address in her address book [she refuses to buy or use a computer of any sort] multiple times. She saves Buckeyes for Aaron at Christmas because she knows they're his favorite (and even gave me her treasured recipe so I can make them for him when we aren't in at Christmas).
She sends clippings of my picture in the paper that are nearly 20 years old. She keeps treasures such as these and sends them at just the right moment. When new moves are on the horizon. When I am feeling a bit untethered to the world. When I need a reminder that there are ties that bind me to this place, this family.
She saves books and toys that belonged to my dear Grandmother. She shares some with me, so that I may share them with my dear ones. It makes my heart swell and tears fall. She is our record keeper, our memory saver.
I am a godmother myself now. I think of my sweet godson all the time. I am not nearly as good as Aunt Joyce in all the ways I have described above. I hope that the years will improve my skills at this noble task. I pray with all my heart that I will one day be half the godmother to my godson as dear Aunt Joyce is to me.
With all of those primary relationships drawing her time and attention away, she still manages to send me cards and packages…and has since I was a baby. She has never missed a birthday or anniversary. She sends books to my children with poignant quotes handwritten in the covers. She sends Easter eggs filled with money for the kids when she knows we won't make it the family Easter gathering because we've moved…again.
She has undoubtedly crossed out and rewritten our address in her address book [she refuses to buy or use a computer of any sort] multiple times. She saves Buckeyes for Aaron at Christmas because she knows they're his favorite (and even gave me her treasured recipe so I can make them for him when we aren't in at Christmas).
She sends clippings of my picture in the paper that are nearly 20 years old. She keeps treasures such as these and sends them at just the right moment. When new moves are on the horizon. When I am feeling a bit untethered to the world. When I need a reminder that there are ties that bind me to this place, this family.
She saves books and toys that belonged to my dear Grandmother. She shares some with me, so that I may share them with my dear ones. It makes my heart swell and tears fall. She is our record keeper, our memory saver.
I am a godmother myself now. I think of my sweet godson all the time. I am not nearly as good as Aunt Joyce in all the ways I have described above. I hope that the years will improve my skills at this noble task. I pray with all my heart that I will one day be half the godmother to my godson as dear Aunt Joyce is to me.
4/2/14
I'm up
It's kind of late. Everyone is in bed (including Aaron), but I'm up. I'm up packing lunches, making snacks, readying backpacks, washing shorts (because I haven't done laundry all week and Parker's completely out).
And it's the craziest thing…I'm not bitter. Not even a little tiny bit. I was lying in bed an hour ago, making a to-do list for tomorrow, when I realized I'd be better off getting a head start this evening. There was a time when I would have resented these chores. I would have been grumpy that I was up all by myself slaving away (oh the drama!). I somehow felt entitled to a more lofty position or higher calling than scraping dried banana bits from the highchair and floor. But, by the grace of God, that's not where I am this evening. Instead, I am grateful. I hear the dryer preparing tomorrow's shorts, see the bread and toaster waiting on the counter, the backpacks on the table, and I feel content.
I feel as though I have finally entered into my seasons of grace as a mom. This is our family's Golden Age. The one where the kids get along most of the time. The one where they are considerate, demonstrative, funny, and fun. The one where I am still cool in their eyes. We actually enjoy each other's company. We can be silly or serious. We still do The Kissing Hand (a great read if you need a children's book to aid with goodbyes), cuddles, tickle fights, bedtime prayers and kisses.
So it's a pleasure for me to take the time tonight to do what I could put off until the morning. To avoid the mad dash. To squeeze in some extra cuddle time before releasing them into the world. To thank them in a small way for being such amazing little people.
Good. Night.
And it's the craziest thing…I'm not bitter. Not even a little tiny bit. I was lying in bed an hour ago, making a to-do list for tomorrow, when I realized I'd be better off getting a head start this evening. There was a time when I would have resented these chores. I would have been grumpy that I was up all by myself slaving away (oh the drama!). I somehow felt entitled to a more lofty position or higher calling than scraping dried banana bits from the highchair and floor. But, by the grace of God, that's not where I am this evening. Instead, I am grateful. I hear the dryer preparing tomorrow's shorts, see the bread and toaster waiting on the counter, the backpacks on the table, and I feel content.
I feel as though I have finally entered into my seasons of grace as a mom. This is our family's Golden Age. The one where the kids get along most of the time. The one where they are considerate, demonstrative, funny, and fun. The one where I am still cool in their eyes. We actually enjoy each other's company. We can be silly or serious. We still do The Kissing Hand (a great read if you need a children's book to aid with goodbyes), cuddles, tickle fights, bedtime prayers and kisses.
So it's a pleasure for me to take the time tonight to do what I could put off until the morning. To avoid the mad dash. To squeeze in some extra cuddle time before releasing them into the world. To thank them in a small way for being such amazing little people.
Good. Night.
3/24/14
Little Preacher
Tonight as we were cleaning up the kitchen, I was lamenting the fact that I had just swept and mopped that morning (not that anyone could tell).
"I'll help, Mommy," Parker chimed in, and he ran to the pantry for the broom. As he made small piles all over the kitchen floor, I followed behind, dustpan in hand.
"Mom," he said thoughtfully, "It's kind of like these messes are our sins. Everyone makes messes every day. Well, everyone sins, I mean…And it's like this house is God's house…and we are all His children. We sin every day and he just cleans it all up for us…And He never minds."
I had tears in my eyes. "I think you're exactly right. Where did you get that idea?"
"I dunno. Just popped in my head."
"Parker, I think you'd make a great preacher one day," I commented.
"Well…I already have my job picked out," he replied.
"Oh yeah. Lego Builder, right?"
"Right."
"Well, maybe you could just preach on weekends."
He thought for a moment. "Yeah, I could take my kids to a fancy restaurant, like McDonald's, and if we met some people, our kids could play, and if they didn't know about God, I'll gladly tell them. I might bring my Bible…just in case."
"Good idea, buddy."
"I'll help, Mommy," Parker chimed in, and he ran to the pantry for the broom. As he made small piles all over the kitchen floor, I followed behind, dustpan in hand.
"Mom," he said thoughtfully, "It's kind of like these messes are our sins. Everyone makes messes every day. Well, everyone sins, I mean…And it's like this house is God's house…and we are all His children. We sin every day and he just cleans it all up for us…And He never minds."
I had tears in my eyes. "I think you're exactly right. Where did you get that idea?"
"I dunno. Just popped in my head."
"Parker, I think you'd make a great preacher one day," I commented.
"Well…I already have my job picked out," he replied.
"Oh yeah. Lego Builder, right?"
"Right."
"Well, maybe you could just preach on weekends."
He thought for a moment. "Yeah, I could take my kids to a fancy restaurant, like McDonald's, and if we met some people, our kids could play, and if they didn't know about God, I'll gladly tell them. I might bring my Bible…just in case."
"Good idea, buddy."
3/19/14
Slippery little devil
I gave Caleb a bath today. Not an unusual occurrence. In fact, quite the opposite. I can't tell you how many baths I have given little babies over the last 7 years. Too many to count!
I sat perched on the edge of the toilet, Caleb on my lap, and turned on the bath water. As the tub filled, I slipped his onesie over his head and his diaper off his bottom. Plop, into his bath seat he went. A quick scrub, some shampoo, rinse, conditioner, and out again. As I toweled him off in my lap, I shook my head at the ease of it all. Second nature.
Then tears sprung to my eyes. Because it won't be second nature for long. I can handle slippery little babies with ease, but this is a skill based upon repetition. My confidence is a direct result of experience, and lots of it. But I doubt it's like riding a bike. I may not forget how to bathe an infant, but I will never be as adept at it as I am now. And this makes me incredibly sad.
I remembered how very nervous I was to give Parker his first bath. It was torture trying to get him out of his little gown. I agonized over the water temperature and was certain he would catch a cold because I couldn't dry him quickly enough. I remember humbly accepting grandparents' help. Even then I hovered...What if he slipped from their grip? What if soap got in his eyes? Did they really remember how to do this?
I snapped back into the moment. A darling, slippery little devil bouncing on my knee. And I realized that this routine I had repeated oh so many times, was not as mundane as it had seemed yesterday. It was in fact, fleeting…precious.
Swallowing hard, I let the water out of the tub. I nuzzled Caleb's neck, as only his momma can, and dried his cotton candy hair. I thanked God for the moment, reserved only for parent and child. For a momma and her last baby.
I sat perched on the edge of the toilet, Caleb on my lap, and turned on the bath water. As the tub filled, I slipped his onesie over his head and his diaper off his bottom. Plop, into his bath seat he went. A quick scrub, some shampoo, rinse, conditioner, and out again. As I toweled him off in my lap, I shook my head at the ease of it all. Second nature.
Then tears sprung to my eyes. Because it won't be second nature for long. I can handle slippery little babies with ease, but this is a skill based upon repetition. My confidence is a direct result of experience, and lots of it. But I doubt it's like riding a bike. I may not forget how to bathe an infant, but I will never be as adept at it as I am now. And this makes me incredibly sad.
I remembered how very nervous I was to give Parker his first bath. It was torture trying to get him out of his little gown. I agonized over the water temperature and was certain he would catch a cold because I couldn't dry him quickly enough. I remember humbly accepting grandparents' help. Even then I hovered...What if he slipped from their grip? What if soap got in his eyes? Did they really remember how to do this?
I snapped back into the moment. A darling, slippery little devil bouncing on my knee. And I realized that this routine I had repeated oh so many times, was not as mundane as it had seemed yesterday. It was in fact, fleeting…precious.
Swallowing hard, I let the water out of the tub. I nuzzled Caleb's neck, as only his momma can, and dried his cotton candy hair. I thanked God for the moment, reserved only for parent and child. For a momma and her last baby.
2/20/14
The Ultimate Parent Equation
I can't tell you how many times I have heard people say, "Wow! Four kids! I don't know how you do it!"
When I had 3 children, I would often hear, "Whew! Three?! I only have two kids, and I'm struggling. How do you manage?"
When I had 2 children, the parents of only children would smile and shake their heads. "I can't even keep up with one," they'd say.
You get the idea. I have thought and thought about this phenomenon. Finally, I discovered the ultimate parenting equation. The one that makes life make sense again…Wait for it….
X- 1= easy life
X is the number of children you have. X must be greater than 0 (i.e. you must be a parent of at least one child) for this equation to make any sense.
You see, when you have your first child, no matter how much you love said child, you will likely reminisce about the days when you were child-free, free to park your car at the gas station and "run in" for some coffee or gum, free to pee by yourself, free to sleep through the night or stay up all night and sleep in the next day.
Then you went and had another baby. Sure it was precious, but oh how much easier it was with only one baby! No juggling the car seat on one arm and the toddler in the other. One grocery cart was big enough for groceries and children. It didn't feel like you were inconveniencing people too much when you asked them to watch your one child, but now that there are two, well…might want to get a sitter.
And on and on and on…I can't tell you how easy it feels to take three kids around with me at a time. Add the fourth, and whoa Nelly! It's another story. So I hate to break it to you, parent readers, I guess this equation means that if you have had one child, you've had one too many.
Just kidding, of course. But it does make you think!
When I had 3 children, I would often hear, "Whew! Three?! I only have two kids, and I'm struggling. How do you manage?"
When I had 2 children, the parents of only children would smile and shake their heads. "I can't even keep up with one," they'd say.
You get the idea. I have thought and thought about this phenomenon. Finally, I discovered the ultimate parenting equation. The one that makes life make sense again…Wait for it….
X- 1= easy life
X is the number of children you have. X must be greater than 0 (i.e. you must be a parent of at least one child) for this equation to make any sense.
You see, when you have your first child, no matter how much you love said child, you will likely reminisce about the days when you were child-free, free to park your car at the gas station and "run in" for some coffee or gum, free to pee by yourself, free to sleep through the night or stay up all night and sleep in the next day.
Then you went and had another baby. Sure it was precious, but oh how much easier it was with only one baby! No juggling the car seat on one arm and the toddler in the other. One grocery cart was big enough for groceries and children. It didn't feel like you were inconveniencing people too much when you asked them to watch your one child, but now that there are two, well…might want to get a sitter.
And on and on and on…I can't tell you how easy it feels to take three kids around with me at a time. Add the fourth, and whoa Nelly! It's another story. So I hate to break it to you, parent readers, I guess this equation means that if you have had one child, you've had one too many.
Just kidding, of course. But it does make you think!
2/19/14
Going to Miss This
You know, for someone who claims not to be a country music fan, I certainly reference country music quite a lot…
There is one country song I particularly detest. It is sung by a father, directed toward his adult daughter. One of her children is is crying, another is screaming, and she's dealing with a repairman. Just then the singer has the audacity to say [condescendingly, I might add], "You're gonna miss this."
Really? Really?? Might want to work on your timing there, grandpa. Better yet, why don't you hold the baby, entertain the toddler, deal with the repairman, and send mom out for a latte. Wait? What was that? You don't want to? Why ever not? I thought these moments were soooo precious that she would miss every single one!
I understand the intentions. Enjoy the kids while they're young, et cetera, et cetera. I get it. However, there are some moments no momma in her right mind would wish to relive. Like gripping your child in a full body lock while the doctor attempts to draw blood for testing. Like the 12 hour van ride with the toddler who has a sudden case of explosive diarrhea. Like mopping up the baby food on the floor, table, highchair, blinds, wall…again and again and again. Like the supermarket meltdowns. You get the picture. No one misses the tantrums, chaos, whining.
What we parents of very young children will miss are the mundane moments. The every day quiet moments that often slip by unnoticed. The brief sigh of relief between book bags dropping in the hall and dinner on the table. Somehow these moments are forgotten the second someone screams that So-and-so locked me out the bathroom! It's no fair! I have to pee, too!!
Last night I was able to catch one of those rare moments. Those quiet moments. Then that stupid country song came to mind, and I shook my head. For once the song rang true. I was going to miss this. I decided then and there that I would blog about our beautifully mundane evening. Because I don't want to forget...
I was standing at the stove, a baby balanced on my hip, as I stirred the vegetables. "Vroom! Vroom!" a two year old gripping a monster truck made his way down the hall. I wandered into the playroom to observe a sweet five year old girl, her head bent low as she put the finishing touches on her painting masterpiece. Behind a bedroom door I could hear grunts and high-pitched voices, all produced by one kindergartener in the midst of his intense Lego war. This, I thought to myself, this is a slice of heaven on earth. I am gonna miss this. My heart and arms were completely full.
Thank you, Lord, allowing me to see the extraordinary in the ordinary.
There is one country song I particularly detest. It is sung by a father, directed toward his adult daughter. One of her children is is crying, another is screaming, and she's dealing with a repairman. Just then the singer has the audacity to say [condescendingly, I might add], "You're gonna miss this."
Really? Really?? Might want to work on your timing there, grandpa. Better yet, why don't you hold the baby, entertain the toddler, deal with the repairman, and send mom out for a latte. Wait? What was that? You don't want to? Why ever not? I thought these moments were soooo precious that she would miss every single one!
I understand the intentions. Enjoy the kids while they're young, et cetera, et cetera. I get it. However, there are some moments no momma in her right mind would wish to relive. Like gripping your child in a full body lock while the doctor attempts to draw blood for testing. Like the 12 hour van ride with the toddler who has a sudden case of explosive diarrhea. Like mopping up the baby food on the floor, table, highchair, blinds, wall…again and again and again. Like the supermarket meltdowns. You get the picture. No one misses the tantrums, chaos, whining.
What we parents of very young children will miss are the mundane moments. The every day quiet moments that often slip by unnoticed. The brief sigh of relief between book bags dropping in the hall and dinner on the table. Somehow these moments are forgotten the second someone screams that So-and-so locked me out the bathroom! It's no fair! I have to pee, too!!
Last night I was able to catch one of those rare moments. Those quiet moments. Then that stupid country song came to mind, and I shook my head. For once the song rang true. I was going to miss this. I decided then and there that I would blog about our beautifully mundane evening. Because I don't want to forget...
I was standing at the stove, a baby balanced on my hip, as I stirred the vegetables. "Vroom! Vroom!" a two year old gripping a monster truck made his way down the hall. I wandered into the playroom to observe a sweet five year old girl, her head bent low as she put the finishing touches on her painting masterpiece. Behind a bedroom door I could hear grunts and high-pitched voices, all produced by one kindergartener in the midst of his intense Lego war. This, I thought to myself, this is a slice of heaven on earth. I am gonna miss this. My heart and arms were completely full.
Thank you, Lord, allowing me to see the extraordinary in the ordinary.
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