“Am I tall enough?”

Every day since it closed last fall, my two-year old has asked me,

“Mom…is Snoopy’s House opened today?”

Every day since it closed last fall, my five-year old has asked me,

“Mom…how many more days until SUMMER???!!!”

It’s fun, to remember the ache for summer to come in the dead of winter.  The anxiety of knowing it’s closer when spring arrives.  When Cedar Point finally opens for the season, my kids lose their minds.  And I pick up something to hang over their heads every day until it closes.

“Better behave…or we’re not going to Cedar Point, today.”

Ha. Ha. Ha.

My kids are privileged, because they live the next town over from “Snoopy’s House.”  It’s literally possible for them to go there every day…so the fact that we sometimes don’t just kills them.  It’s sounds spoiled and ridiculous, I realize.  Not so long ago, I, myself, remember packing my bag on Friday to high-tail it up here from Brecksville as fast as possible to our family boat at Cedar Point Marina.  I would step out of that van and smell the lake…the funnel cakes…I even remember the smell of the dock after it rained…or in the morning when it was covered with dew and spider webs.  That was just my life on the weekends.  Imagine my kids getting to go up there every day if they want to.

I’ve questioned my parenting abilities lately, wondering why my kids seem to have lost missing good behaviors that used to be lodged into their little brains.  When, really, it’s summer’s fault.  How could I have forgotten how exciting it is?!

The beach, the lake, boats, Cedar Point rides…and we don’t have to drive from suburbia to get here.  We live here!

Just writing that down is like a deep breath of therapy for me.  I gotta admit.

What turned the switch on?  What rescued me from that land where, at the end of a bad week, I just want to sit down and pull my hair out strand by strand?

The stick.

That 48 inch tall piece of pvc pipe…candy striped in colored electrical tape.

The look on my kids face when they come nose to nose with that stick.  Oh, man.  Priceless.

In the moment I watched them measured for the first time this summer, hoping beyond all hope that they are good enough…tall enough… I remember all the disappointed kids I had to turn away during my time as a Dragon Lady on Iron Dragon.  But also, all the elated ones.  All the first time riders that  were so relieved not to have another year of “eat your vegetables so you’re tall enough to ride” for another year.  You can almost hear the relief.

Both my kids get to ride new rides this year.  Watching them light up as they experience a new thrill is amazing.  As a parent, I never get tired of watching ‘firsts.’  Especially first rides on the Troika Troika Troika. Totally awesome.  Dad is relieved, because that’s one more adult sized ride, and one less slightly cramped kiddie ride.  We’re getting closer.

It’s sometimes hard for me not to rush things.  After all, I am a runner.  Faster is better.  Perhaps my most recent bout of injury, resulting in a frustrating week off of running, is God sending me a message.  In the midst of being so mad at why this can’t just happen to lazy people who don’t give a crap about running everyday while the sun comes up…walking through Cedar Point trying to pull my Radio Flyer full of cuteness with the opposite hand of the side that I’m injured on…analyzing every step to see how painful it is and if the IB profen is kicking in or it really just feels OK today…in the midst of all my mental belly aching…

Little Lo saw Woodstock.

“Woodstock!!!!!!!!!!!” She yelled, and ran faster than her little legs have ever gone before over to that big yellow bird for a hug.  The look on her sweet little face as she held onto that birds wings and danced with it refocused my own brain.

I want to hold on to the toddler years.  They are good years.  Terribly frustrating, insane, crazy, and part of the reason I’m constantly injured…but totally awesome.  Any day that makes me appreciate my glass of wine after little person bedtime like it’s the holy grail is a good day, full of life….full of hilarious stories…way to many to have the time to write down here.  As I looked in the mirror after putting them down for naps after another fun trip to “Snoopy’s House,” I had to remind myself how old I am.

It’s been a good run, so far.  Who cares if I miss a week, or a month, or even a year of running?  I might accumulate a slight spare tire from eating desert twice a day, and enjoying a beer or two on my front porch listening to the lake or laughing with family and friends.  Maybe, in the grand scheme of things, I need to drop the stick.  Just like my kids can only control so much of how fast they grow…I can only control so much of how my injury heals.  In the meantime, there’s a lot of life to enjoy.

Happy Measuring…

Megs

“What’s baby’s name, Lo?” I’ll ask.

“Um….Honey’s name is Choo-Cha,” she’ll reply.

Never makes a like of sense, or remotely resembles an existing word.  So, you ask, how do know for certain she has one particular ‘Honey” that serves as her imaginary friend.  In her comical genius, she has revealed some pretty marked clues.

First came the tattles.  “Mom,”  she’d say in her ‘matter of fact,’ more serious, tone…”Honey’s bad.  She’s in time out.”

The look on her face matched her serious tone.  Honey must have been in some serious hot water.

“What did she do, Lo?” I asked.  I can’t help myself but to participate fully in her world.  It’s the most fun EVER.

“She hit me.  Then she kicked me,” Lo reported.

“Oh, my goodness gracious.  I’m so sorry, Lo.  You’re right.  She does  need a time out,” I reinforced.

“Yeah,” Lo agreed.

Lo and Honey blowing bubbles at the beach.

Since then, there have been multiple reports of Honey behaving inappropriately.  In fact, if Honey’s not sleeping or napping, she’s most likely causing a ruckus for poor little Lo.  She’s “being bad,” or “she’s in trouble,”or  “she needs a crack on ‘da butt.”

I don’t ever get to meet Honey, or join in with them when they are playing…so if I want in on the action I have to eavesdrop.  They have tea together, play dolls together, read books, set up the dollhouse, play in the big sister’s room when she’s at pre-school.

Both of my girls have been way into Barbie lately.  So much so that we even own a few of the movies.  DO NOT include them in your DVD collection until you are fully committed as a parent to have them on continuously for weeks at a time.  Yes, I can just turn the TV off.  But listen…it’s been rainy, my yard is a pile of mud right now…they watch TV sometimes.  And it’s a lot easier to let them watch something they want to watch then to negotiate a treaty.  Barbie is a highly sought after commodity in the land of little girls.  Nothing’s changed, there.

Anyway, to return the point at hand, Brianne and Lauren re-enact all of the movies and then some.  Brianne, being the older one, always claims Barbie as her character.  Then, she spends the next 20 minutes selling Lo on why she ‘wants’ to be Ken and not Barbie.  When I hear it happening, I intervene and make them switch off…or insert one of Barbies many friends into the picture as possible choices for Lo.  Lo, not thrilled at all about having to be the boy, one morning eventually got a girl character to play…Brianne assigned her the evil Mermaid.

“Brianne!” I intervened….

“What Mom,” an annoyed voice trailed down the stairs.

“Stop making Lo be the boys and the evil characters…” I instruct.

“OK, fine….”

That’s what busted sounds like.

I think this whole repeated situation threw Lo over to the ‘for sure’ category in the imaginary friend department.  It’s

Lo and Honey at the park.

really quite logical.  When Brianne is not around, she is Barbie, and Honey is Ken.  Lo gets to play her way every time.  Having a big sister can be suffocating at times.  I know this first hand, because I still want to suffocate my little sister and she’s about to be 30 years old.

I’m not sure how long it’ll last, because everyone wants Lo to introduce Honey to them…and it seems as though she’s less than thrilled to share her BFF with other people.  Honey is always unavailable for introduction.  She’s only for Lo.  Just when I think I’m sure, she’ll call another doll ‘Honey,” or when I cross examine her she’ll say that Honey’s name is “Audrey Ann” (her American Girl Doll.)  It makes me wonder if I’m misinterpreting the situation.  Until Honey has another situation…like when Lo woke up one morning and flew down the stairs yelling,

“Mom!  Honey is barfing!  She needs the bucket!”

And so, I rushed upstairs with her to give her the bucket, so that she could tend to “Honey.”

I’ll play along with it as long as she is playing.  My mom tells me I had an imaginary friend when I was little, and I believe it!  In the four years it took for my sister to arrive, I probably had a whole clique full of them.  I’ve always wanted to be friends with everyone.  That’s how my little Lo is, too.  After playing with one of the neighbors today…first time ever they played, she hugged me and said,

“I love her, Mom.  She’s the best ever.”

No, Lo, you are the best ever.

Happy Imagining

Megs

“I marker-ed my face.”

Yes.  She “marker-ed” her face.  And her fingers and her toes…and my kitchen table.  Oh, and a little bit on the coloring book, too.  That’s what I get for drying my hair.

Moms, you know how it goes…Our own hair takes a back seat…especially on Monday morning.  Especially for someone like me, who crams a run and a shower into the madness that already encompasses our mornings.  But…I just got a hair cut.  And…I love it!  So much so, that I actually felt motivated on a sunny Monday morning, to dry it, straighten it, and wear it down.  There’s no way I could squeeze it in before pre-school drop off…so I put a hat on over my wet hair and looked forward to coming back home and spending that hour in between school drop off and my youngest daughter’s music class in my new bathroom…where I can can actually plug the hair dryer and the flat iron in all at once…and doing my hair.

Now, usually, as soon as I set off to get something accomplished, my kids are peeking in every 5 seconds with a demand, request, comment, tattle, tragedy…it’s always something.  I can’t read books, blog, take a bath, dry my hair…get dressed…no.  They have to be in the know…and apparently so do I.  But this glorious Monday morning…I got 10 whole minutes to myself to do my hair in peace.  Hmmmm… I enjoyed it so much I took a picture of my hair cut and put it on facebook.  Even changed my profile picture.  Could it be, that my little Lo was just old enough to entertain herself for 10 whole minutes…going on 15?

I happily pranced down the stairs to get her ready to go to music class…and that’s when I saw WHY she had been able to amuse herself for 10 whole minutes…going on 15…

She had found her big sisters fabric markers, tucked away in their own pencil case in Brianne’s art easel.  Lo decided that the 3 boxes of brand new crayons in her drawer weren’t good enough for her new coloring book.  So, she took the markers and sat back down at the kitchen table to create new masterpiece in her Alice and Wonderland coloring book.  Then, after coloring the picture for a while, she had an even better idea.  Lo decided to marker her face.  And her hands.  And her feet.  And her legs.  And my kitchen table.  And….well, she was dotting her eye lids when I pranced so happily down the stairs and our eyes met.

I had a moment.  A moment where I usually would have lost my mind completely…yelled at her, spanked her butt and sent her to her room.  But that sunny Monday morning, I had a moment.  Maybe it was new hair cut, putting me in such a good mood that even a markered child couldn’t destroy it.  No.  I knew that hair would be back in a pony tail by noon…and it was…

Lauren looked me straight in the eye…and in that tone of voice she uses when she tattles on herself (which is a lot…before she’s even been caught doing something…and sometimes she makes up stuff she didn’t even do…which is totally weird…), and said…

“I marker-ed my face.”

“Lo!  What did you do?!” I said back to her in a bewildered and shocked tone.  She continued to look at me like she KNEW she was about to get disciplined.  Then she said,

“I did my fingers and my toes…”

It was seriously everything I could do not to laugh!  Who was I?!  This was not me.  I’m gifted with volume, and my girls know it…especially when they misbehave.  I’m sure that’s what Lauren was expecting.  But, I just couldn’t do it.  Something urged me to see if the marker would come right off before I flipped out on her.’

“Go look in the bathroom mirror, and let’s say a prayer it comes right off, Lo.”

If that little peanut knows how to pray, believe me…she was.  I was!  I wanted so badly for it to just come right off so that my calm state remained in tact.  Wouldn’t you know…permanent fabric marker…and it came right off her face.  And her hands.  Not so much her toes…but we got most of it.  Came right off my table, too.  The fear in her eyes was proof enough that she’d learned her lesson before I’d even had to say it.

And honestly, look at her face?  What a nut!  How could I be too terribly angry with her?  After all, she was just being herself.  Lo has been destructive ever since she was a baby.  Messy eater.  Sticks everything into her mouth…including but not limited to rocks, dead fish on the beach, and Q-tips.  Into everything.  Ask my husband how many stickers he’s peeled off the floor.  When she discovered crayons she decided to update the color of our kitchen floor.  She has no regard for her body when she leaps into the air.  No worry about how she’ll land or what she’ll damage when she looses her balance in that last ballerina spin…or clips the table on her 50th lap running around the house.  That’s just my Lo.

Maybe it’s that a part of me wishes I had that carefree spirit that Lo Lo does.  It’s a cool part of who she is.  It reminds me to relax, sometimes.  Now, when she’s yelling…I mean yelling…at the top of her lungs at other kids on the play ground?  That’s when I yank her back to reality, into the van, and back home to sit in her room.  When she hauls off and clocks her sister for no reason at all but to provoke a situation?  Looks at me and screams “NO!” as if the louder she says it the more seriously I will understand that this time she means it?  Listen, the kid doesn’t have free reign.  She knows when she’s crossed the line.  She cries before I even punish her.

But for now, I think I’m just going to have to hide the scissors…because I think my mom is right.  The hair will be  next.

Happy Marker-ing!

Megs

She carries around some small treasure at all times, and the baby bunnies and the puppies are her favorite ‘little’ toys of the moment.

My Little Lo.

The baby of the family, perhaps that’s why she has a ton of nicknames. Lo Lo, Loey Bear, Lo Lo Bear, Loey, Lo Lo Baby…it goes on and on.  I was so particular not to baby talk to my first child, but the second requires a bit more will power.  Just knowing that she’s the last baby (and rest assured…she IS) makes me want to savor every little ‘baby’ thing that she does.  Even things that I considered ‘terrible two’ behaviors for my older daughter, I consider explosively cute coming from Miss Lo.

Cracking up at Lo when I know I need to discipline her for something makes me acutely sympathetic towards Brianne, that’s for sure!  She’ll be 5 in a couple of weeks, and I have to remind myself to tone it down a notch on disciplining her for things the first time.  Her ‘stages’ that she goes through, though frustrating as all get out right now…will most likely be the very things that crack me up when Lo goes through them.  Frustrating still, but on a different…much more adorable…level.  Not that one child is cuter than the other…oh, boy…can you see where this vicious cycle goes?

Back to the point at hand, it takes a lot of will power not to baby my baby.  With Brianne, it was easier.  She talked early, loved animals…collected and drug them around the house…loved to run with me…a really independent child.  Lo, is a total princess.  It’s all babies and dollies and mommies and daddies and princesses and princes and fairies and fairy godmothers with her.  Brianne skipped walking and took off running.  Lo is still content to walk around on her tippy toes.  Seriously, I don’t even know how it’s physically possible for her to walk on the very tips of her toes like that!

Lo tip toes around the house, my dainty little princess, sipping tea (no exaggeration) while careful to hold it over a saucer in case of a spill.  In her dollhouse, which is bigger than she is, every baby is tucked in with a blanket.  Every pet puppy or kitty or bunny has a pillow and a blanket.  Every dolly’s name is “Honey,” and they usually all have some sort of ailment than needs immediate attention.

It’s not unlikely to see Lauren come tip toe-ing down the hallway, rocking her doll in her arms, saying, “It’s OK, Honey…it’s OK.  Mommy’s got ya.”

So, not only is she the baby, but she’s into everything little and small…mothering every toy and tiny collectible treasure that she has.  Naming them all “Honey.”  It’s too cute to resist!

But maybe that’s the point.  Perhaps, my baby needs to be babied just a little bit.  No worries, you don’t need a translator to decipher our conversations.  I”m all for leaving English words spoken the way they are supposed to be.  But the tone of play…jumping into her imaginary world…that, I”m discovering, is just as fun as sneaking into her room and playing with her dollhouse when she’s not looking.

“Lo Lo,” I say in a high voice layered with fret, “is Honey going to be OK?”

“Uh-Huh,” she mutters and she looks at me with a concerned sigh.

Then I realize…she’s mimicking me.  That’s how I am when she’s sick.  I stay by her side until she can sleep peacefully on her own…doting on her in complete concern and worry- because I am.  (I HATE when my babies are sick.  It’s terrible.  Rips my heart out.)  When she falls (which for Lo happens quite a bit..little bit of trouble with gravity…), I rush to the scene and scoop her up in my arms whispering in her ear, “It’s OK…Mommy’s got ya.”  And, my heart just melts.

Observing how my extra sensitivity to my baby Lo has affected her mannerisms, I’ve learned to turn back and apply that to Brianne, too.  In doing this, I’ve found that she, too, mimics that behavior.  Illustrating it’s never too late to show compassion.  They pour out the same compassion that is shown to them.  I witness it when they play with their toys  in their imaginary play-lands, and to their friends.

It’s plain to see that my daughters know they are loved and cherished, even in times of dispute and disobedience.  They have faith that I will always be there for them.  To “scoop” them up and tell them , “It’s OK, Mommy’s got ya.”  Knowing it’s not just me, but God, too, that puts His arms around them with unconditional love.

“I’ll Always Be Here for You.”  It’s Brianne’s favorite book.  It’s mine, too, because I mean every word.  I will always…in my own imperfect way, attempt to pay forward the love and grace given to me.  Why encourage my girls to be ‘tough’ and rush them to act  ‘grown up.’  Seems a little backwards when we’re instructed to have a “child like faith.”

Happy “Baby” Talk,

Megs

“I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.   Therefore, whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. “  Matthew 18:3-4

To look at my kitchen floor, you would think that I let me kids dance on the table, and on the bench they sit in, and all over the kitchen, for that matter.  My daughters are two and four, and have learned nothing about eating over the table despite my constant nagging on the matter their entire little lives.  It’s a crumb-tastrope in there.  No matter how much I sweep the floor, I always miss some crumbs.  Either that, or my kids follow behind the broom and drop new ones.

The day I clean the house?  That’s when the juice-tastrophe’s and milk-tastrophies and chocolate pudding plops and slimy banana bombs hit the floor.  Blueberries plummet to the ground and get stuck on my nice clean sock.  The cat barfs up a hairball.  It’s inevitable.

So, now…the day I clean the house…I plan to be done cleaning right at naptime.  That way, I can revel in the sparkly, beautiful, fresh-smelling house…all by myself…in peace and quiet.  Then, I go into the kitchen and start making a mess of my own.  That way, I can at least account for my crumbs in the smell and taste of freshly baked goods coming out of the oven.  And when I sweep up my own crumbs, after what I’ve cooked and baked has left smiles on the faces of my family…it’s not nearly as annoying.  At least, that’s what I tell myself.

It may seem silly to be frustrated by crumbs on the floor, and odder still to find a subtle joy and sense of accomplishment in sweeping them up at times.  But, not to me.

As long as I have crumbs to prevent and sweep up, I have a purpose.  It’s simple…but it keeps me busy all day long.  See where I’m going with this crumb analogy?

I do the same for my daughters, essentially, in trying to prevent and solve their little problems as the days run by.  Problems with each other, with friends, with me, with homework, with chores, with bedtime, with eating dinner…you get the point.  In a sense,  motherhood…life… would be easier without problems to prevent and solve.

Or would it?

Where would the sense of accomplishment be in being handed an ‘easy’ life?  Would I appreciate, or even recognize it if I had it, or would I- being human- have to find something to prevent or fix or solve or make better?  As my older daughter prepares to turn five in a couple of weeks, the thought of Safety Town and Kindergarten screening reminds me to find joy in my crumbs.  These are good crumbs.  Having two daughters, as exhausting and daunting a task as it may be to raise them up, is sharpening me.

Little by little, I’m learning to relax about the crumbs.  OK, I’m not.  Crumbs on the floor drive me crazy, and I have to sweep them up…like…immediately.  But, the problems and challenges that arise with my daughters…now those, I’m learning to embrace.  I’m human.  I’ll never be perfect, nor is anyone’s life meant to exist without purposeful challenge.    There will always be something to fix, learn, and improve.  But there are also moments at the end of each lesson in life when the light-bulb comes on and I take an attitude of thanks for the whatever I’ve just come through.  My daughters are no different.  Expecting them to not to fail and have problems just isn’t realistic.  I’m finding joy in recognizing a situation I can help them navigate through.  With a lot…A LOT.. of prayer, I’m beginning to find the patience and compassion to guide them through some of their toddler woes.

“MOM!!!!  I JUST DON’T FEEL LIKE IT!”

Good, thing, too.  Because just when I think I’ve found a way to gather enough patience to make it through a five year old melt down…she ups the anty.

“Brianne,” I say calmly…purposely and forcibly calm…”just eat your dinner and then we’ll get ready for bed and read a some books.”

“No.  I don’t want to,” she says curtly.

Sigh.  I’ll get the broom…

Happy Sweeping!

Megs

Yesterday, being sunny and 60 after a winter full of ‘below zero,’ the kingdom of little girls decided to venture out of the castle and over to Grammy and Papa’s to fly kites.  It was there, I witnessed a literal example of what happens when The Enchanted Land of Little Girls and the actual world, full of things like wind, rocks and gravity, come colliding together.

Now, as a side note, I hope teaching my older daughter to tie her shoes and drive a car will be easier than teaching her how to fly a kite.  There’s a little bit of patience involved in all of that.  I may be doomed.

As for kite-flying….first, came the independent streak.  “Mom, I can do it myself.”

Thump.  Kite on the ground.  Thump.  Kite on the ground.  Thump-

“Mom!  It won’t fly!!”

Eager to rush her into stage two, where I rescue her from her frustration by teaching her the correct way to fly the kite, I pick up the kite and launch it into the air.  After quite a few failed attempts sent the kite crashing into the rocks, I needed backup.

On to stage three…call in Grandpa because I can’t remember how to fly a kite.  Together we whip up a strategy, and  I offered to hold  Brianne’s kite up for her until the wind kicked it up a bit, and then signal her to take off running.

“Just for a little bit, then you have to stop and let it fly.” I explained to her.

The wind picked up, I gave her the go…and off she went.  It flew, alright!  Success!

“Brianne!  It’s flying!!! Look!” I exclaimed.  “Brianne!  Bri!  BRIANNE!”

Still running.  And letting more, and more string out.

“It needs more string to go higher and higher up into the sky.” she yelled from a distance.

She finally stopped, and shortly after she turned around to glance at her kite flying high up in the sky (Mary Poppins ‘Go Fly a Kite’ blaring in her ears-this I’m sure), a tree ate her kite.  In her mind, the scene was about to be glorious.  Her kite way up in the sky, her letting more and more string out…

The look on her face as she saw the tree munching on her kite was not that of total bliss.  Nor was the one she sported while yanking and tugging on the string to get it down from the tree.  One last tug and it was out…and started to fly again…right into Grandpa’s head!  The dance he did to try and get out of that kite’s way was the funniest thing I’ve seen in months.   I hit the ground laughing harder than my kids do when they’re tickled.  It may not have been the seen from the movie where the whole family is laughing and smiling at the kite flying through the sky…but the whole family sure was laughing and smiling!

That kite made it through three more rounds with that tree branch, before the light-post sent it into early retirement.  It’s a tricky thing, trying to explain to a four year old how much string is the appropriate amount.  And a test of my patience to keep reeling it back in over and over again….helping Brianne re-launch the kite over and over and then watching and waiting to see if it would fly.

Children are like that, aren’t they?  As parents, we do our best to put together a sound and sturdy kite, with just the right amount of string.  We try to create a clear path, void of trees that the kite can be caught in, forgetting that some of the most valuable moments are getting caught up in the branches.   Forgetting what its like to use our imagination.  To dream big.  To just lift the string up to the heavens, and just let go…

In Brianne’s mind, she was imagining that kite flying up so high she could barely see it.  She’s wasn’t concerned with the rules of kite flying or with gravity pulling it down.  The thought never even crossed her mind.  She’s focused on making that kite soar.  Even my two-year-old Lo took off running with her little kite…not doubting for a second if it could fly.

After all, she lives in The Enchanted Land of Little Girls.  Her imagination is used to soaring.  She hears Cinderella’s voice ringing in her ears telling her never to give up on her dreams.  This kite flying experience will be the talk of the tea party, tomorrow, I can guarantee that.

I hope my daughters always have the courage  to let the string out to the sky and just let go.

Happy Kite Flying

Megs

“Lauren, sit down in your seat at the table, please,” I directed her, one morning at breakfast.

“NO!  POO-POO-TEE-TEE-SHUT-UP!”

Well, at least she’s efficient…get’s them all out at once.  Pack as much ammunition into it as possible to get your point across.  Crazy little peep.  The funniest part of it all is the look on her face when she’s doing it.   She just looks at me with pure disdain.  As if I’ve truly offended her for the last time, and she will no longer tolerate my silly demands.  What’s funnier still, is that she fell off her chair ten seconds later. As she ran into my arms for comfort, I gave her the old “I told you so,” in response to which she gave me huge hug and said she was sorry.

No, that didn’t happen.  There would be no story here.  She didn’t appreciate my comforting at all.  Instead, she hauled off and smacked me upside the head.

It seriously hurt so bad I had to put her down and walk away to evaluate what had just happened.  When I came back into the room to discipline her for it, she had dug her heals in even harder.  At the first sight of me and sound of my voice she launched into a fit of “POO-POO!  SHUT UP, MOM!  SHUT UP!  TEE TEE! “

OK, so we’re here now.  As I reached down to pick her up, she took off running.  When I caught up to her and picked her up, she started smacking me upside the head again.

Up the stairs and into her room, I set her on her bed and gave her one last chance to calm down and be realistic.  Please.  That’s as funny as her smacking me upside the head when I wasn’t expecting it.

“Lauren, you cannot hit.  You cannot say tee tee, shut up, or poo poo,” I reiterate.  It’s time for you take a nap, now.

She kicked me and told me to shut up.

I slapped her hand.

Now, at no point in this whole madness did I yell.  I gave it up for Lent.  That, alone, tells you where I’m at with this, right?  Yet, one little slap on the hand, and her world ended.

Finally, she looked at me with apologetic eyes, as if she’d finally realized what she’d done to the Mommy that she loves so much.  It’s as if she just snapped right out of it.  I opened my arms and she climbed in for a snuggle.  Then, I tucked her in, told her I loved her and shut the door for  nap-time.

By 11:30 am, I had already accomplished so much.  I had handled a tantrum without yelling!  Yay for Mommy!  If only that could just last until my husband gets home at 7pm…he’d believe that it really does exist!

I start out every day with the greatest intentions in disciplining my children.  My mind is a constant fury of research and prayer to figure out how to ensure my daughters know that they are unconditionally loved, but not allowed to rule my house.  Sometimes, I make it through the entire day without losing patience one single time.  Ha ha ha ha .  Did you believe that?  I’m sorry…that was a mean joke.  It’s more likely that by 8 am I’ve already lost my patience multiple times.

Learning how to deal with my own actions when my patience is lost is the most difficult kind of endurance training I’ve ever put myself through.  But, after taking my husbands complaints about me yelling at them every night when he gets home from work…you know…the dinner-bath-bed- routine…to heart, and decided to make a change.  Or, at least try.  Because no matter how I justify why I’ve earned the right to lose my patience after an entire day of being smacked upside the head (figuratively, and literally!!!), I don’t.

“Treat others the way you want to be treated.”  It’s the point I’m driving home with my older daughter right now.  I am in her face about it, the way only I can be.  It’s kind of hard to teach her that lesson unless I model it myself.  So, when she told me that she doesn’t like the way I treat her when I yell, I accepted the challenge.

“Ok, Brianne.  I won’t yell at you if you listen to me.  We listen to each other, because we want others to listen to what we have to say, too.”  No, it didn’t work immediately.  But when I yelled, or she didn’t listen, we talked about it…and I just kind of stuck with it.  Maybe, if she  sees me trying to handle situations in a calm manner, than she will follow suit.  And it helps me be less rattled with the younger one…who is the complete opposite of her sister and requires an entirely different set of rules.  I just calmly take her out of the situation, and if it takes a little smack on the hand to snap her out of it, so be it.

There’s a lot to be said for removing yourself from the situation.  I need to check myself in that category quite often.  In my scramble to figure out how to be a good parent, I needed to remind myself that my children are a blessing…and that the best parent of all is  looking out for their best interest, and mine.  After all, He never lost patience with me….never gave up and made me feel like I wasn’t loved.  No, every time I yelled, stomped my feet, and ran away…he calmly slapped me on the wrist…and sat there with open arms until I snapped out of it.  Always open arms.  Always an ‘I love you.”  Unconditionally.  So, I think it’s only right that my children deserve the same kind of love, patience and understanding.  It’s a lofty goal to aim to be that way all the time…but if you don’t aim high, you’ll never get off the ground.

Here’s praying my patience lasts until noon tomorrow.

Happy patience exercising…

Megs

Brianne and Grammy

Unfortunately, it’s not the only method of comfort she’s addicted to.  It’s accompanied by her thumb jammed into her mouth.  I loved it when she was a baby.  I never had to worry about breaking her from a pacifier.  She spit that binky out for her thumb at 3 months old and never looked back.  I loved the blanket, too…and encouraged it.  It was cute to watch her get excited to snuggle up with  her favorite pink blankie at nap time and bed time.  Or, when the ouchies occurred.  As time went on and she grew into her tall, lanky legs, those ouchies happened more and more…and she needed that pink blanket more and more each time a new scrape or bruise or bump turned up.

Soon, it became necessary to carry blankie everywhere, because she was just coming fresh off a boo-boo, or as anticipating the next one.  The farther she got into toddler-hood, the more complicated the boo-boo’s got.  As I struggled with methods of discipline, she struggled with the little toddler hurts of the word “no.”  When baby sister came along, blankie was there as she learned to share her Mommy and Daddy and Kitty.  As baby sister got older, blankie was there to dry tears of hurt feelings over sibling squabbles.  And now, I can’t help but smile as she tells me all about the boy she’s going to marry someday while holding that pink blanket and her her thumb stuck in her mouth.

When Brianne get’s home from school everyday, it’s the first thing she looks for.  Pink Blankie.  Fuzzy Wuzzy.  It’s really fine with me, even though she’s getting ready to turn five in a couple of months.  As far as I’m concerned, she can carry that beat up blanket around as long as her little heart desires.  But, the thumb has to go.

Thumb-sucking, though a blessing in her infancy, has become unsanitary.  To the point that it makes me gag watching her stick her thumb in her mouth.  Why, gag?  Am I being to dramatic?  No, I’m not.  Not when I’m there to witness everything she does right before her thumb hits her mouth…and no, it’s not washing her hands diligently.  She just picked a booger out of her nose, or her wedgie out of her butt, or itched her but, or ran her hand alongside the dirty car, played on the playground, took off and inspected her shoes and socks, picked toe lint out, took a worm back to his family in the dirt, built a castle in the sand which is surrounded by sea-gull poop, got done swimming in the lake, just fell on the driveway, used a public bathroom, rode a roller coaster at Cedar Point…there’s a magnitude of really nasty stuff that kids begin to touch with their hands as they grow.  No amount of hand washing and sanitizing can cover it all.  It just becomes really nasty, and warrants the end of thumb sucking.

The first time I approached Brianne with the issue, she understood.  With a grossed out look on her face, she said in response, “But I have to suck my thumb with Fuzzy Wuzzy.”

Dilemma.

Strategy number two seemed logical.  Temporarily remove the blanket.  It worked, somewhat.  She doesn’t always suck her thumb without Flower Blankie..unless she get’s hurt or is scared or mad or sad…then the thumb goes in with or without it’s companion.  And what mother can  let her baby girls go through the night without the blanket she’s clutched to every night since birth?  Not this one.  I have to come clean, even when Dad takes it away for disciplinary reasons…and rightly so!…I sneak one to her to sleep with.  Spare blankets…replacements.  I cannot let her go to bed heartbroken over anything.  I just can’t.

Sensing my frustration on what to do about the issue of thumb-sucking during one of our bedtime talks, Brianne said to me,

“Mom, how ’bout I just stop sucking my thumb when I turn 5.  Like, on my Birthday, when I wake up, I’ll just stop sucking my thumb.”

“Okay,” I replied, remembering all the struggle it took to potty train her until one day she just looked at me plainly and said, ‘I want to wear big girl pants now,’ and never looked back.

So, we’ll see.  Will she drop the habit on the morning of April 3rd?  I believe that she will.  I have faith in this little girl, who has so plainly and openly told me what’s going on in that sweet little head of hers since she could talk.  Hours of bedtime chatting between the two of us, starting very young…before she was 2.  My early talker has been giving the gift of verbosity, that’s certainly clear.  It’s forced me to be a better listener.

Almost 5 years old, I clutch onto every conversation we have as if it’s the last glass of drinkable water on the planet.  Hoping it never ends.  That I don’t make mistakes in parenting that shut off those lines of communication that have always flowed so freely between us.  Though she has to stop sucking her thumb, she can have her blankie forever.  I will be one of those moms that drags it out to show her husband one day, proudly telling the story of how she carried it everywhere with her.

I will hold onto Pink Blankie longer than she will.  That’s my  job.  I’m her Mom.  It’s my job to keep  reminding her of what a beautiful baby she was when she was born.  How I wrapped her in that beautiful blanket and passed her to her Grandpa, who’s eyes welled up with tears at the sight of his first grandchild.  It will be me that reminds her of our bedtime talks…and my job to keep telling her how continually amazed at what a beautiful, wonderful, human being God entrusted me with.

Five years old doesn’t just symbolize the end of thumb sucking.  It’s the beginning of Kindergarten, and she doesn’t want to go to.  “I will miss you, Mommy,” she says with tears in her eyes, clutching onto Fuzzy Wuzzy.  “I will miss you, too,” I respond, with tears in mine.  “But I will be there to pick you up, and write you notes in your lunch box…”

It will be a whole new world of adventures for us, my daughter and I.  I can’t stop time.  I can’t even pause it for long enough to take a breath sometimes.  All I can do is continue to be there, always.  Ready to listen, praying for more patience than I knew I could posses, putting lady-like manners in place and enforcing the “no boys allowed in your room” rule. Hopefully, as time progresses, she’ll be able to clutch onto me, and to her faith, as freely and easily as she does to Fuzzy Wuzzy.  That’s the ultimate goal, right?  To lead them there.  I was always told…’be a leader.’

Happy ‘Leading,” Mom’s.

Megs

You that know me aren’t shocked at all.  I’ve had run in’s with bikes, jog-strollers, Jeeps, cracks in the sidewalk, borrowed rugby cleats, even my own shoe laces… amazing, really, that I’ve made it this far into adult-hood without ever requiring stitches.   Being a parent adds a whole new element to injury.  There’s no loyal friend around to carry your tray for you at lunch and dinner every day (thank you, still, Renee…), and even if there was life’s way to complicated as a mother of two toddler girls for anyone to just swoop in and take over so that the injury can heal.  Mom is Mom.   That’s why women grow to respect their mothers so much when they have kids of their own.  I call it the “OMG how did you do this?” awakening.

So, after I gashed my head so hard that it rattled my left front tooth, I headed in to grab the only thing I could think of to minimize the damage.  I swiped a bad of frozen peas out of the freezer and slapped them onto my head.  “Here’s your i pad, Grandma…I just hit my head really hard on the door of your new Cadillac,” I stated, to the family I so gratefully had over the house that afternoon.  You know God’s got your back when you suffer the worst head injury of your life twenty minutes after your parents and Grandma arrive.  Pretty much best case scenario, there.

One, because my two little girls had no knowledge of it happening.  Two, because I didn’t have to access the damage myself.  Needle-phobic to the max, I go into flip mode when I think their presence might be required.  Pulling the peas away for my Dad to look, he told me to put them right back on and called my mom.  Uh,  oh.  Starting to flip.  Mom inspects the carnage…”oh, get a towel it’s bleeding…”

Now completely flipping.  “It’s bad, omg, it’s bad, isn’t it?”  I panic stutter.  You know when else you know God’s got your back?  When he plants an amazing friend in your life who can fix it…

I was back with three stitches before my girls even knew I was hurt.  Good thing, too.  My oldest is all heart, and so sensitive to stuff like that.  One look and her eyes welled up with tears.  The little one, taking a minute to take in ‘side-show-mom,’ finally puts her hand on my arm and says,

“Ohhhhhhhhhhh, NOOoooooooooo….you need a band-aide, Mommy.”

Classic.

“Now, Brianne, you have to be extra good while Mommy’s head get’s better.  Help her out, ok?” Grandpa instructs.  And she did, right?  And pulled her younger sister into help-mommy-mode, too, right?  Bah.  Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha-ha-ha.

No.

That’s not how toddlers work.  They don’t see past the band-aide.  It fixes everything.  Put a band-aide on it and get rolling, Mom.  And that’s the reality of it.  Parenthood isn’t for everyone.  Some days, it’s not even for the ones who are whole-hardheartedly up to the challenge.  It’s like the lesson of God’s love smacking me in the face.  The times when I’m sick or hurt, and all I want is for my family to rally around me and cooperate for a few hours.  Those are the times the house explodes in chaos.

Thankful to have my family there to handle dinner on this particular occasion, all I had to do was console my older daughter to sleep as she cried in worry of my hurt head, and walk my youngest back up to bed three separate times.

Where was all this when I needed it?

Drifting over into the next morning…as challenging days often turn into a challenging string of days…or a week…or a month…as all parents know.  This particular morning was  no different.  Frustrated to point that I was 5 minutes late to every Monday morning commitment today.  Bent over putting kids shoes on who have done the action themselves countless times, but pick the day when my head throbs every time I bend over to be stubborn about it.

Needless to say, my before 9am this morning, my four year old was grounded from TV for the week and went to school without socks on.  My two year old ‘tee-tee’ed’ all over the bathroom floor right next to the toilet holding a clean diaper in her hand. And I left for the morning without my coffee. That NEVER happens.  EVER.

Ah, bumps.  I can’t expect to get through life without them.  But, why is it, that no matter how much perspective I reason myself with, they still hurt.  No matter how far into adult-hood I get, or how comfortable life that surrounds me becomes, they are still hard to recover from.

My silver lining from this nasty craziness on my head is that I’ll be able to relate to my kids if they need them some day.  Know how they feel.  And, most importantly, by pointing to my stitched up forehead, can give them a good visual on what is inevitably going to happen if they insist on running full speed on the unfinished concrete floor in the basement.  Ha ha…looks of terror.

Happy Bumps,

Megs

Last walk down Canton Ave

I just took my Christmas tree down yesterday.  I had literally almost forgotten it was there.  Significant, because about a week and a half ago, I was sitting in the family room of our little lake house, feeling as if my Christmas tree was going to eat me.  A bit of dream to live down the street from Lake Erie, my husband and I had stretched every last bit of space out of our ranch home.   So much so, that with Christmas decorations out this past holiday season, we had no idea where Santa was going to put the presents.

That’s been home.  Crammed in and close-knit, but beach access.  In such a rush to get the keys to our new house down the road, I never thought about the sentimental Christmas morning we’d have if we didn’t move before then. Turned out, we didn’t get the keys until two days after Christmas.  My crazy self had been ready to move the Christmas tree at a moments notice for weeks, so my first rush of emotion was disappointment.  Then, a good friend pointed out it’d be our last Christmas morning in our little lake house.

“DAD!  HE WAS HERE!!  QUICK!  YOU GO GET MOM!  I’LL GET LO!”

Jim got to watch the whole thing unfold.  Though him getting up to go to the bathroom woke her up, he swears she ran right by him without even seeing him.  Right for the tree.  So excited to see if Santa came.

After a morning full of present madness, I took off for my Christmas morning run.  As I went down to the beach to stretch afterwards, it hit me.  After weeks of wondering when the last time I’d be standing there after a run would be, that was it.  Watching the sunrise over Lake Erie every morning has kept me as grounded as my daily run.  It makes it easy to remember to thank God for my blessings every morning when I’m standing on a beach watching the sun come up over the lake.  It’s beautiful.  How can you have a bad day after that?

My daughters both learned how to walk on that beach.  Lo tried to eat a fish, Brianne drew faces on rocks with Grandpa.  I pulled my kids down the street on their little red sled so many times to play in the snow on the beach.  Family rock skipping contestes.  My sister in laws Christmas card picture almost every year.  The girls collected so many rocks, that I’m still moving them over to the new house in buckets.  I can’t let them go.  They’re too much a piece of this family.

Sure enough, as a blizzard moved in, that did end up being the last time I ran to the end of Canton Ave to stretch after my run.  2 days later, we got the keys to the new house, and an hour later, my shoes were displayed neatly on my new shoe rack in my new closet.  (First time ever I could see all my shoes at once.)  My kids watched two whole movies in the truckster while I frantically loaded and unloaded boxes…ending with a pizza party with my 2 girlies on the floor of our new house.

With every cherished memory from the old house, there’s a new one forming here.  Like, Lo, so confused about which potty to run to when she has to go that she refuses to wear pants.  Brianne, being so excited to see her new room put together for the first time…and Lo immdiately hating hers.

“Do you like your new room, Lo?” I asked her….”NO.”  Nice.

It’s not just my kids who run around in circles through all the open space, but my husband, too.  And my girls, not used to having stairs in thier house, rolled down the second day we were here.  A bunch of little thumps and two big ones…then…

“Mom!  I just started to rol down the stairs and then I bumped into Lo Lo and then we both rolled down to the very bottom!” Brianne explaned, through shocked little wimpers…as Lo sat there stunned and wailing on the floor.  I guess it takes 101 “use the railing’s” before the actually do…

It’s been an adjustment.  Now that I realize how crammed in we were in our cute little house, I don’t know how we pulled of off for so long.  We didn’t buy one single piece of furniture when we moved..yet we went from 1 floor to 2 floors and a basement.  Totally insane.  I took my Christmas tree down yesterday and had to replace it with…nothing.  No piece of furniture that was stashed in the attic or the shed for the season.  No pack and play, bouncy toy or baby swing…just empty space.  There’s a few of those that will never see a piece of furniture.  Just because.

Even the cat has an improved life.  Instead of having to weave her way through the furnace, the hot water heater, the mop bucket and the trash can to find her litter box, she has a cat door into the laundry room.  Right.  A laundry room.  It’s not in my kichen.  That’s a–freaking–mazing.

We started off 2013 falling asleep on the couch, my 4 year old making sure we stayed awake for midnight.  I guess, in the grand scheme of new memories, that’s the direction mine are going.  My kids are growing up.  Brianne will be in Kindergarden next year.  She’s talking back and refusing to wear any outfit I pick out for her to school.  It’s the beginning of a new era.  As my girls fight with each other over who’s door stays shut and who’s stays open…at two and four…I know I’m going to be grateful for all this new space.

Today, as I pulled the van into the garage, I heard my daughter, Brianne, say from the back seat…

“Ahhh…There’s no place like home.”

Granted, my girls are infatuated with The Wizard of Oz right now…right down to my oldest having a pair of her own ruby slippers…because we can’t ‘half-do’ anything in this family.  Over the top…always… Which could be why it struck an overly sentimental chord in me today.  A little much that it brought a tear to my eye?  Not in our house.  Not right now.  Not when the top two sentences out of my husband and I’s mouths are,

“I can’t believe this is our house.  I can’t believe we live here.”

I miss the pile of sand under my running shoes at the front door.  My fingers are crossed that my neighbors across the street with the lake view don’t mind a visitor every morning at sunrise….but feel so blessed.  With more in this life than anything I could have thought to pray for.  So…very…blessed.

Happy New Year.

Megs