I guess I could’ve been upset when our ‘Star Wars’ themed Halloween turned into a ‘Star Wars Meets the Disney Princesses’ Halloween. After all, we did plan this idea months ago. Hannah Grace was excited to dress up like the beautiful Princess Leia, and Chloe couldn’t wait to don her ‘Toyota’ costume (otherwise known as ‘Yoda’ to everyone over the age of two). Caleb already had his Luke Skywalker costume, Daddy was living out his dream as Darth Vader, and, since Natalie Portman and I could almost be twins, I thought Queen Amilama-dim-dom suited me just fine.
Hannah Grace was the first to give up. She wanted to be a superhero instead, which was fine with me since super Aunt Lisa bought them dress-up costumes for when they came over to visit. Chloe quickly followed the lead of her sister, and the ‘Star Wars’ theme changed into a ‘Superheroes’ theme–it all still worked.
Until, of course, four days before Halloween when Hannah Grace assumed the role she was born to play as ‘Fancy Nancy’ for Book Character Day at preschool. The girls were adorable, so I really didn’t care that our theme was unraveling before my eyes.
And speaking of Fancy Nancy, I really didn’t care when one little Nancy refused to smile during her parade.
Because, after all, some things are important, and some things are not. Halloween costumes are not important, even if it doesn’t make sense for one’s daughters to ditch the thought-out costumes, the multiple-thought out costumes, for their everyday, ripped, dress-up clothes. Princess dresses without the proper crowns or shoes or wigs–an arts-and-craftsy mother’s nightmare.
But luckily this mother doesn’t care.
Luckily, this mother didn’t care the night before when her husband started carving a pumpkin at 8:30, and the kids had school the next day (okay, I cared a little).
Because, luckily, this mama’s learning that sometimes (many times) life doesn’t go as planned. Sometimes weekends end up a little more hectic than planned, and the kids are up a little bit later than I’d like. Sometimes kids change their mind about Halloween costumes one hour before we leave for the Fall Festival. Sometimes teenagers forget how to read when they come upon an unattended Halloween bag that says, “Take 1.”
Sometimes kids go to school with different colored socks or hair sticking up in the back. Sometimes Mommy is a little too tired to make the healthier homemade pizza crust and buys a packaged one instead.
Sometimes, I have to pick my battles. And Halloween isn’t one of them.
Sometimes, five happy faces is more important.
And if anyone disagrees with me, I really don’t care.
How did you or your family dress up for Halloween? Are you able to say “I don’t care” to things that really don’t matter?
I often wondered when my children would first recognize differences in race and prayed that it wouldn’t look like the time my son asked loudly,”Why is she so wide?” as an overweight woman walked by. I silently willed that that poor woman developed sudden and temporary deafness, as there was no recovering gracefully from that blunder.
My freshman year in college, Bertice Berry came to my school and gave a wonderfully inspiring speech and made me want to change the world with a positive attitude that I’ve since had trouble keeping. I don’t remember many details of her lecture, but my mind often goes back to one of her stories as a guide for my parenting journey. One time in the grocery store, her nephew pointed to a woman clothed in traditional Indian dress and asked, “Why does she look like that?” Rather than hush him and push his finger down, walking away embarrassed, she used the opportunity to teach.”Isn’t she beautiful? Look at all the colors in her dress,” and she continued to teach this child how lovely this woman’s differences were.
The other night, I got the chance to instill those beliefs in my daughter Hannah Grace. She was lying in bed, and we had just finished prayers when she looked at me and said, “Grammy is different. And Papa Joe is different.”
I looked at her with that blank look I can give when I have no idea what someone is talking about.
“And I’m different, and Caleb is different, and Chloe is different, and you’re different, and Daddy is different.”
Once I realized that she wasn’t commenting on my parents’ personalities, I agreed with her. “Yes, God made us all different. He made us each unique.”
Hannah Grace continued: “Carmen at church has brown skin, and Brandon’s skin is black. They are different, too.”
“Isn’t God amazing?” I asked. “He made us all different, and He even made our skin different. Aren’t all the different colors beautiful?”
Hannah Grace nodded her head and smiled her sweet little smile and went to bed after a goodnight kiss.
The next day we had a chance to continue our conversation.
I came in the kitchen and stopped in my tracks: “Hannah Grace! What in the world?!” I had never witnessed such a display before.
Hannah Grace casually turned around and stuck out one leg completely colored with brown magic marker. She then showed me her other very-Caucasian-looking white leg. “See? God gave me one of each,” she stated matter-of-factly.
As is the case many times in my life as a mom, I had no idea how to respond. Honestly, I can’t remember exactly what I did or what I said, but I think it was something to the effect of “Hannah Grace, your skin is beautiful just the way it is” and “don’t color on your body with marker.” But I do know I let a smile peek through as I looked at my multi-colored daughter.
Hannah Grace, you have always had this amazing ability to find beauty in things that I wouldn’t normally give a second glance. I’ve saved some of your preschool coloring sheets because I was amazed at how you combined colors. Where I would’ve colored the giraffe orange, you added pink and blues in an incredible way. And Hannah Grace, you have shown me that you also see this beauty in people. Don’t ever lose that quality–that quality is what makes you truly gorgeous.
image courtesy of ^@^ina via Flickr's Creative Commons
I’m not sure I’m going to make it to try this half marathon. It’s not the distance that has me so concerned (although, the distance does have me concerned) but, rather, surviving the training that has me nervous.
This past weekend I, once again, headed out to a park to complete a run, this time five miles. Previously, I looked at the map of all the trails, and I noticed a trail that was a 5.5 mile loop. Perfect, I thought. I can run the five miles and walk the last .5 to cool down. However, once I arrived at the park, I had the feeling that this run would not turn out perfect.
Unlike the last time when I felt so cool arriving at the park around 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning, only to find out that there are a lot of cool people (do people even say ‘cool,’ anymore? The fact that I’m asking shows how cool I really am), this time I was one of a handful of people. Granted, I was at the other side of the park this time, and my arrival was closer to 7:30 a.m., but I felt a little nervous getting out of my car to run under that gray sky.
I proceeded, though. Matt knew where I was, I told him how long the run should take me, and I took Tae Kwan Do for a few months when I was 17; I was good to go. I locked my wallet in the glove compartment, tied my key around my shoe lace, grabbed my phone, and started walking toward the big map of the park.
I knew where I was going, but I wanted to double-check my route. It looked easy enough–I’d walk about a half mile on one loop, pick up another trail, and then the entrance to the five mile trail should cut into that second trail near the beginning. I started my walk, anxious to begin, wondering if I would struggle or find my groove on my big run.
As I entered the second route, I began looking for signs for the five mile trail. I remembered passing them on previous runs, so I knew I wasn’t far. Almost immediately, I saw a wooden sign pointing the way to the entrance…except I didn’t see an actual entrance. All the other trails that I had run were very clearly marked–white lines divided the pavement into two halves, and there were even arrows painted on the ground to signal how to exit the one loop to pick up another. However, I wasn’t noticing any of these clues. Hmm, I thought. I’ll just keep walking. After all, I knew there were a few entrances since the trail was a loop.
I walked, enjoying the quiet and the music on my iPhone. As I came upon the wooden marker showing that I had walked a half mile on this trail, I noticed another wooden marker showing the entrance to the five mile trail. Except I didn’t see an entrance. I saw grass. A field. And woods. “What the heck?” I said audibly, and I just stood for a minute. Now I was frustrated. Between the two loops, I had already walked about a mile, and I hadn’t even begun my run yet. “How am I lost on a trail with a big map and signs everywhere?” Yes, I said that audibly, too. I was talking to myself, but that was okay since I was alone on a trail on a cloudy, gray Saturday morning.
And then I knew exactly how I was lost. I was still the same woman who tried to get to a leadership retreat in Destin, Florida with some friends by taking 1-75 South. After driving for about five hours, we bought a map at the gas station and realized we were in the middle of the state instead of in the Panhandle, which, of course, is the northwest of the state. After screaming for a few minutes, we took every back road in the state to Destin and made our trip in about nine hours instead of six.
I was still the same woman who felt her stomach drop and her head get light when she was handed a compass and told she would navigate her group through the outdoors during the deployment exercise, the final project of Officer Training School. Thank God a hurricane came rushing through Alabama, forcing us on lockdown in our rooms for three days. My group might still be out in the woods had it not.
So I continued on past the marker, thinking that, once again, this sign was just pointing the way to an entrance up ahead. I walked, and when I saw that I was nearing the entrance to the first loop, I turned around. I head back to the wooden marker, stopped in front of it, and stared.
It clearly said, “Entrance to 5.5 mile trail.” I looked at the field. I looked at the grass. I looked at the woods, and I started to walk. My feet stepped through the grass until they felt dirt and pebbles and roots underneath. Yes, I was entering the woods alone on a Saturday morning with nothing but my phone, key, and Tae Kwan Do skills. And in that moment, I remembered that a body was found at this park recently.
I shook off the thought. I let a brief feeling of triumph wash over me because I had, in fact, found the trail. It wasn’t a paved trail, yet, but I clearly was on the path of the 5.5 mile loop. I started running, but not on purpose. The trail immediately sloped downward, and I jumped over roots as I made my way down. As I dodged a branch, I thought, This is ridiculous. I’ll just go a little further until this natural path leads into the paved loop where I will find a crowd of people joyously running in a five mile circle while little birds sing above their heads in a sunny sky full of puffy, white clouds.
Yeah, that didn’t happen. I did see a deer, though. As I came to a flat surface and could stop hurdling over roots and dodging tree branches, I looked to my right where I saw her. She was beautiful. I tried to remain still so I wouldn’t scare her away, and I stared. She stared back. “Hi,” I offered.
I had hoped that we would have a spiritual moment that transcended the need for language, that we could communicate in the forest together and find harmony. Instead, she looked at me and pounded her hoof into the ground two times.
I didn’t need to understand ‘deer’ to understand that deer. She was calling her family, and I now knew how the body found in the woods had met his demise. He pissed off a deer and was trampled to death by her and her family. So I turned around and ran back up the trail, looking, but not stopping, at the six deer that were hidden on the other side of the forest. Yeah, if I was going to die, I didn’t want my obituary to read Local girl dies after being trampled to death by a herd of deer. No, it needed to read Local girl dies after vicious bear attack. Bear found alive but with broken arm and puncture wound most likely made by a key.
I returned to the second loop, and walked around to where it picked up the first loop. I called Matt to tell him I was on my way home. I had walked nearly three miles in the hopes of running five. Yeah, it was time to go home and get help reading a map.
I hate fitting the role of the stereotypical woman who gets lost all the time. I want to ask for others to comment if they can relate, but maybe, instead, I should ask for stories from women who have a great sense of direction. Make us look better than I!
As I tied my shoe laces Saturday morning, I felt such pride in myself. It was 7:30 a.m., and here I was getting ready for a run while the rest of my town was sleeping. I grabbed a banana and my water bottle and headed to the car. Today was the day–four miles–and I was going to get them done while the air was cool and crisp, while my neighbors snuggled under their warm blankets.
But as I pulled into the packed parking lot of the park, I realized I wasn’t nearly as awesome as I thought. Evidently, a lot of people exercise early on Saturday morning. Nevertheless, I got out of the car ready to start my goal, albeit feeling slightly less important.
About a month ago, I had decided I wanted to train for a half marathon. I had run one about six years before, before I had kids, before I had become, apparently, out of shape. The training so far wasn’t going as well as I’d hoped. Running long distances has never been easy for me, but the first time I trained, I was able to increase my mileage each week. Now–well, let’s just say that if those heart sensors on treadmills had an alarm that goes off when one’s heart is about to explode, the paramedics would be ready and waiting most days of my training.
Prior to a race where Matt and I pretended to be runners only to almost die
This particular Saturday was no different. As my feet hit the pavement, my mind was thankful for the cool morning air and a change in scenery from the gym, but my body didn’t care; it wanted to go to bed. I knew from past experience that I take a few minutes to get going, to get a good pace and rhythm, but after five minutes, I was already struggling. My legs didn’t want to move, and I had to pee. Why, no matter how many times that I pee before starting, do I still have to pee two minutes into a run (I would guess childbirth has something to do with that answer. You men have it so good)?
It’s way too early to quit, I told myself. So I moved along and decided by a mile in, I’d find my groove. But after running one mile, I was still running at the pace of toddler learning to walk. I tried to stay positive and kept going. I smiled as a little chipmunk scurried in front of my path. I reflected on the wonder of God as a beam of light rays pushed through the tree branches ahead of me. I found a moment of joy.
And then I watched the 70-year-old man pass me on the left while I was contemplating if my own lungs would collapse.
I had run almost two miles, and I was still struggling. The little inclines were killing me. I was huffing and puffing. My legs felt tired, and my breathing hadn’t adjusted to a comfortable rhythm. I never found my groove.
I might have to stop. I didn’t want to have to holler after that 70- year-old that I was dying and needed his help to get me to my car so that I could go to Starbucks. I was ready to quit.
But I couldn’t.
My plan said I was supposed to run four miles that day, and if I didn’t run four, then the rest of the weeks of training would be that much harder.
So I kept going, shuffling my feet one in front of the other, hoping I didn’t see anyone I knew. But then something amazing happened.
Shortly after two miles, I noticed I could breathe. All of sudden, my body began to run on its own instead of me forcing it to move. I was now running at the pace of a four-year-old walking. I had found my groove. For the next two miles, I ran. I even passed some people. On a long, flat stretch, I picked up the pace again, and for a few moments, I slightly enjoyed myself.
When I saw the small, wooden sign marking my goal, I pushed myself and yearned for that finish. And when I finished, I felt good. My face was beat red, my stomach hurt, and I wanted to throw up–but I felt good. I could finally pee. I had finished. I had finished.
I wonder how many times we quit something one mile too soon.
While I was running, I felt like for the first time I could truly understand what it means to run with perseverance the race marked out for us, 2 fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith (Hebrews 12: 1-2). Sometimes marriage is not easy. Raising kids is not easy. Having a positive attitude at work is not easy. Sometimes, it’s easier to quit.
But if we would’ve held on for one more mile, would we have finally found our groove? Or would God have sent a little chipmunk or light rays through the branches of a tree to cause us to smile for a moment, distracting us from the discomfort of not being able to breathe easily, giving us just enough of a boost to continue a little further?
I’m convinced that my life is very much like running four miles. For some, they seem to run with ease, passing me on the left while I’m huffing and puffing and wondering if this is the end for me. But there are always those moments, always those moments scattered throughout my run to bring a smile to my face. And once in a while, I even fall into a groove, and when I do, I’m always glad that I didn’t fall down on the ground and ask the 70-year-old man to take me to Starbucks instead.
Two days ago, I watched my two-year-old daughter play with her best friend. I’ve never seen two children so small actually play with one another and not just alongside one another. They talked in their baby voices and laughed and chased each other, and they gave me that boost I needed to run uphill that day. So when I was digging through my son’s poop later that day looking for a Lego, I just thought of those sweet, little girls and realized now was not the time to throw in the towel–even though I still hadn’t found that stupid Lego and will have to dig again later this week.
If my marriage ever has a downfall, it will be the garage. Every time I park the van outside its doors to walk through the space intended for two cars but, instead, is used for boxes upon boxes of only God knows what, I clench my jaw. I look at the shelves filled with electronics and think Why won’t he give that stuff away? I see crates full of papers and wonder what important documents might be looming beneath the stack. But, mostly, I see that the majority of that crap isn’t mine.
However, I was given a slight wake-up call when we attempted to move a year or so ago. We cleaned out closets and did our best to show that our home had great storage–no need to ever use the garage for that–and my husband spent many hours straightening up the garage (not throwing things away…aargh). In the process, I helped out in the garage a little, too, and after putting book after book in boxes, I realized that I might have a few items leading to the mess out there.
But they’re books, and books don’t really count.
A few months ago, I attended a writer’s workshop, and one of the presenters came and spoke to me during the break. I had mentioned that I was a former English teacher, and the conversation carried on from there. She spoke of how students don’t enjoy reading because we force them to read books to which they cannot relate. I nodded my head in agreement. She then went on to say, “Why do we make kids read The Catcher in the Rye? I hated that book. It is completely pointless.” At that point in the conversation, my chin hit the floor. She was bashing my favorite book, the book that is in my nightstand drawer, taped together and with pages full of underlined sentences. On and on she continued to go–I couldn’t even interrupt to tell her how much I love that book. Shut up, I thought. I really, really want to punch you in the face right now.
Perhaps my reaction was a little dramatic but it illuminates what reading means to me. When we decided to have three kids in three years, I always had a baby to nurse, which meant I was always up at really odd hours. And then of course, when I was finished nursing, I then had children learning to sleep (and escape) in toddler beds. I was the one not getting much sleep, so when I even attempted to read a book, I found myself instead drooling all over my pillow.
It wasn’t until recently when I started consistently reading again that I realized how important diving into a book is to me. I love finding myself in a novel and learning what makes me tick. While Jay Gatsby and I live very different lives, I know what it’s like to pursue a dream that wasn’t a good dream in the first place. I didn’t grown up in the ’60s, nor have I ever had consistent help, but I can analyze the complexities of my own relationships, acknowledge my prejudices, and understand the fact that we all have more in common than we think. When I read a book by Donald Miller, I laugh at his humor while struggling with the challenges he has given me to strengthen my faith. And when I travel to Afghanistan in A Thousand Splendid Suns, I experience for a moment what it would be like to grow up in a culture and faith very unlike my own.
I mean, I’m not really expected to give away one of those books, am I? Each book in a box or on a shelf represents a part of me–except for the books that I haven’t read, yet, but one day when I do, those books will become a part of me, too–and if I give away a book, it would be like giving away one of my arms. Yes, I guess I could give away those books that aren’t my favorites, but what if they would’ve become one of my children’s favorites someday? Okay, I admit it. I hoard books, but my question is why doesn’t everybody?
I walked through the garage this morning, clenched my jaw as I stepped around pool noodles and bikes, and looked at the shelf with a stack of hardcover books. Yeah, that garage is never getting cleaned.
Linking up today with Mama Kat for her Writer’s Workshop. Do you enjoy building your own private library, or do you prefer checking out books from a public one? If you don’t hoard books, what is one item that you do hoard?
For almost five years I’ve always had a child awake and by my side during my waking, and sometimes sleeping, hours (thanks to the fact that two of those little boogers stopped napping at age two). But today things change. Today, my two sweet, little girls venture off into the magical place known as ‘preschool.’
For the last three weeks while their brother was at kindergarten, the three of us shared fun times at the library reading stories or at the playground running around. I enjoyed that special time with my girls. But today starts a new rhythm. For two days every week, all of my children will be out of the house for four hours. I’m sure the sound of silence will feel a little strange, and I know moments of sadness will find themselves in the pit of my stomach, but let’s get real. There was only one word that shot into my mind when I saw those three cuties dressed for school:
FREEDOM!!!!!!
Children, I love you so much, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’m totally excited. Any other parents out there know what I mean?
Heaven should be one of those topics that brings peace and joy to one’s heart, but I think I’m a little strange. Heaven was the topic at church this past Sunday, and for at least half the sermon, I was squirming in my seat. I actually have given a lot of thought to heaven, probably too much, wondering how far past the clouds I’ll have to travel to get there, if the streets are really made of gold, and if I’ll get bored at some point during eternity (I know, I know–silly, right?). And the concept of eternity? Yeah, thinking about it can send me into a mild panic attack.
When I try to think about time that doesn’t end, something that lasts forever and ever and ever, I start to freak out. Everything’s supposed to end. How can something not end? And at this point in my thought process, my body gets tingly and jittery feeling, and I have to shake my head to get rid of the thoughts and take some deep breaths.
I am willing to admit I’m a little crazy.
I know I need to trust that I won’t want heaven to end, just the way that I don’t want my time here on earth with my family to end. I need to have faith that a God who is good and merciful and love has figured this heaven thing out so that when I’m up there with Him I won’t spend eternity trying to figure out how eternity actually works. And I need to trust that panic attacks don’t happen in heaven.
But apparently I’m not the only one who has issues with heaven. During his sermon, our pastor offered that most people want to go to heaven but not now. I could raise my hand in agreement. Yes, even though I know heaven is a perfect place with Jesus (shouldn’t He make it worth it for me?), I’m happy to stay down here enduring the hell of carpool lines at two different schools every day.
But why?
Our pastor suggested one reason is that we don’t live our everyday with eternity in mind. We forget that our stay on earth is really a passing through point. We were made for eternity, and we are to live with eternity in mind.
We looked at the Lord’s Prayer:
Our Father, who art in heaven…
(God’s in heaven right now and always has been)
Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven…
(My life now should be consumed with doing God’s will here on earth)
For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, now and forever…
(This life is temporary, but God will reign forever)
My life here on earth is sandwiched between eternity, but I have the tendency to live my life as if it’s the main event. Perhaps this point of view contributes to my fear of that wonderful home that’s prepared for me.
The fear of the unknown also contributes to my nervousness about heaven. Everyone has a different opinion on heaven. Some think we’ll spend eternity singing praises with the angels to Jesus. All the time. That sounds nice, but I have to admit, I’ve wondered if that would get boring (I know that’s horrible–I’m just admitting the very human thought that entered my mind).
One pastor told me that he doesn’t think we’ll have any recollection of our relationships from earth because, if we did, we’d notice who wasn’t there in heaven with us. Knowing we had family or friends in hell would make it impossible to live in joy for eternity. I guess that view makes sense, but it leaves me feeling sad and empty.
I want to remember my family and friends. I want to open my arms wide and help welcome my children one day, and I want to feel the sweet embrace of my husband again. Yes, of course I want to see Jesus, but one of the comforts that Christians find in death is knowing that death is not the end. We hope to see our loved ones again. I cling to that hope. When I think of friends who have lost a spouse or a child, I find comfort imagining their sweet reunion one day.
In the second part of the sermon when I wasn’t squirming as much, we watched an interview with Colton Burpo and his father, Todd. Colton was almost four when he got very sick and nearly died. The book Heaven is for Realis his account of entering heaven. Colton’s mother had had a miscarriage earlier but never told her son; however, he told his parents that he met his sister as well as his great-grandfather who had died 30 years before. He described them in astounding detail and counted spending time with them among some of his favorite parts of heaven.
Colton also describe sitting in Jesus’ lap as one of his favorite memories. What an image–sitting on the lap of Jesus. After hearing this little boy’s testimony of a powerful God and loving Jesus and beautiful animals and welcoming family, a wave of peace washed over me. Oh how I wanted this little boy’s account to be true!
And then I realized something. Whether or not every detail of this child’s account is exactly what heaven will look like for me doesn’t matter. What matters is that the God I worship wants me to realize that He has prepared a home with many rooms. He knew what He was doing before. He knows what He’s doing now. And He’ll know what He’s doing for all eternity.
My life wasn’t made for this earth; my life was made for communion with Him, and when I reach heaven someday, I’ll finally feel at home.
So maybe it’s best if I stop trying to figure out how long eternity actually is and how it works. Maybe I should stop trying to figure out what heaven will look like and instead focus on what I do know: God is good. God is love. God is merciful. And He will always be all of these things, even when I’m a nut. So I think I’ll take a deep breath, relax, and trust Him.
Would you raise your hand as one who wants to go to heaven but not now? Has thinking about heaven ever caused you fear? Linking up with Michelle and Jen today!
I tend to put pressure on myself to create memory-worthy opportunities in my family. However, I’m realizing that the planned events might not be those that stick out in my children’s memories but the random that leave an impression. I know the following conversation found an immediate home in the recesses of my mind….
For whatever reason, Hannah Grace and I have our heart-to-heart moments amidst moving shoes and clothes off her floor to their correct homes. Such was the case yesterday when Hannah Grace startled me with her question:
“When you married Daddy, were you a maid?”
“What?”
“When you got married, were you a maid?” she asked, as if this question were any clearer to me the second time.
“What are you talking about?” Her question was not making any sense to me, especially since my life after marriage not before more closely mirrors that occupation.
“When you got married…what were you called? The maid?
“Oh. No, Hannah Grace,” I replied, somewhat relieved that she wasn’t conveying how she viewed me. “I was the bride.”
“Oh. And did the bride ride the broom?”
“What?!”
Now I was completely horrified. My four-year-old had managed to imply that I was akin to the Wicked Witch of the West and use a sexual euphemism in the same sentence.
image courtesy of photobucket.com
“What was Daddy called?”
“The groom. Yes, I married the groom.”
She giggled a little and continued.
“Oh. Why do they call the princes that funny name?”
“I don’t know, Hannah Grace, I don’t know.”
But I did know, as I ushered her out of the room, that one day she would have her fairy tale wedding, complete with princes and wicked witches and maids. Either that, or her gaffes would pave the way for an interesting career in politics.
As a mother of three kids very close together in age, I’m constantly facing the internal struggle of whether or not to leave the house with my children. I want them to enjoy their childhood and experience story time at the library, free summer movies, and play dates, but I also don’t want to kill them.
So as I left the house today with lunches made, towels and sunscreen packed, three children dressed in swimsuits, I also left with a mild sense of dread, for based on past experience, this day at my friend’s pool would be anything but relaxing. For me, that is.
Getting there is half the battle, and boy that battle was a tough one today! For children who were excited about swimming, they sure didn’t get ready with much enthusiasm. And Chloe–does her body have a little sensor that indicates when her mommy has just put a new (cloth) diaper on her, allowing her to release the effects of her iron medicine plus prune juice? The bathing suit that took ten minutes to get on the wiggly baby now had to come off. Ten more minutes to wipe a squirmy heiny and put a bathing suit back on, and we were on our way (again).
Once we arrived, the other half of the battle could begin. Before I had even finished setting out the kids’ lunch on their towels, Caleb and Hannah Grace had each taken a turn pulling the valve from the lemonade pitcher, releasing a wonderful mess all over the table and floor of the screened-in porch. I was so happy I got to clean up those messes twice, and apparently, so was Chloe. While I was cleaning, she was eating everyone else’s lunch. Peanut butter sandwiches, whole grapes–everything this mommy had restricted from this one-year-old she put in her mouth. Of course the cut grapes and cracker pieces I set out for her remained untouched.
The pool is a wonderful, refreshing idea for combatting this horrid Georgia heat, yet the pool only works if one gets in it. Hannah Grace won’t get in the pool, Caleb won’t get out of it, and Chloe won’t stay put. She wants in the pool, and less than 30 seconds later she wants out. I felt like a jack-in-the-box climbing in and out and in and out, chasing after the baby one minute, and yelling at Hannah Grace the next to leave the lemonade alone. It’s near impossible to watch three children when they’re all in different places. And when it’s 96 degrees outside and probably that percentage humidity, if I’m not soaking in a pool, I want to be inside–not chasing after children!
And so, I’d like to apologize to the group of mothers who sat beneath the umbrella, enjoying their lunch and adult conversation, jumping in the pool to cool themselves, and then resuming social time: I would’ve loved to socialize, as well. In fact, I am a pretty pleasant person, but seeing as my baby won’t stay in a float for two minutes before climbing out, my middle child wants to be pushed on the swing–the only child, by the way, who wants to swing instead of swim–and my oldest child insists on spraying every kid in the face with the water gun but then cries when anyone sprays him back (sorry about that, too), I think embracing my role as antisocial, crazy mother is best.
And while I’m apologizing, I’d also like to apologize to any mothers of only girls. My son doesn’t understand the concept of dropping his pants out-of-view before peeing behind the shed. We are working on modesty in my home, but that lesson hasn’t stuck, yet. I am pleased that at least Hannah Grace did not take her bathing suit off this time as she did at a previous swimming engagement.
And to the woman who brought the 100-calorie snack bag–no, you didn’t finish your snack, but my children did. While I was putting Hannah Grace in time-out for taking your food, Caleb came out of the pool and ate the rest. Think of it this way–now you only had a 50-calorie snack.
So to my dear friend, I always appreciate your invitations to come swim, but I don’t think I can bring my children when there is a large group. That, and the fact that I don’t think you’re going to invite us again since my daughter peed on your carpet.
This picture's not from the pool, but I'm sure you understand why.
As we get ready to head out of town with my family for a few days, I thought this post from last year would serve to remind me that the craziness always leads to a funny story! I hope your summer is filling up with memories that you will treasure, if not now, at least in a year! What’s a memory that you have that, at the time, brought you frustration but now brings you laughter?
They thwarted my plans. I wanted us to get ready quickly and head out the door, but they wanted to play beauty shop. I’m always amazed at how quickly their little attention spans can get diverted, like a dog on a walk seeing a squirrel. I thought the instructions were clear enough–Go upstairs, and put on your shoes–but I realize now that I should have taped red arrows on the carpet leading up the stairs, into their bedrooms, and stopping at their closets.
But I didn’t. Instead, I buckled their sister in her car seat, and when I came back in the house to find that they were still upstairs, I knew the quest to find shoes had turned into another adventure.
I walked into my bathroom, and there Caleb was applying eyeshadow to his sister’s face, reminiscent of Tammy Faye. I ushered them downstairs, keeping my cool, and sent Caleb to the van where his sister was waiting.
And that’s how I found myself alone with Hannah Grace in the kitchen.
I had wet a paper towel and was doing my best to gently remove the pastel colors from her eyelids and cheeks, explaining to her again that little girls shouldn’t wear make-up. Hannah Grace countered with the natural follow-up question:
“When I grow up, will you be dead?”
I sighed as I swept the paper towel across her forehead. This was not the first time she had asked this question.
“I hope not, Hannah Grace. Only God knows when we’re going to die.”
And then she looked up at me and smiled her smile that makes her eyes twinkle.
“When I grow up, then I’ll take care of you!” she laughed.
I paused for a moment.
I thought of my thwarted plans and realized one day, in fact, it might be my turn to thwart plans. Yes, one day Hannah Grace would have to wipe off a too heavily applied rouge from my cheeks.
She would care for me, and it would be my turn to drive her crazy.
A slight smile formed on my lips as I finished cleaning up Hannah Grace. One day it would be my turn to pee on her kitchen floor. And that thought brought me great comfort.
Jennifer Vignola Davis 