One Running Mother

And So It Begins . . . Again

2011-08-11T05:49:00.000-07:00

Crying a lot has always come quite easy to me--it's sort of a family trait on my dad's side. So last night when I was trying to go to sleep I wasn't surprised when the first tear fell. For I knew that this morning my youngest would be walking into his new kindergarten classroom.

Almost exactly two years ago I penned my first blog entry. It was prompted by my daughter's first day of school and the emotions and events of that day. It sure seems appropriate (and rather therapeutic) to write this now.

I value crying. It is good for us. Our bodies, minds, and spirits need us to shed tears. I think Jim Valvano said it better than I . . .

If you laugh, you think, and you cry, that's a full day. That's a heck of a day. You do that seven days a week, you're going to have something special.

Boy, Jim, you got that right.

We walked my son in this morning--my husband, his big second-grade sister, and me. My eyes burned all morning, but I fought back the family tradition of letting the floodgates open, at least so much as others could see. I wanted to be strong, especially in front of my son, who had already mentioned (approximately 3,647 times) this summer that he preferred not to go to kindergarten, but if he had to go to school he'd feel much better being in his sister's class so they could be together.

All summer I had been concerned about my little hesitant school boy. Of course I have passed along the extra crying gene, so he shed many tiny tears in anticipation of today. We rehearsed all summer the classic lines of how school was great, he'd do just fine--all the typical positive reinforcement a family can give.

I completely understand my son's cautious feelings. My pre-kindergarten fears wore well into school. In fact, I recall crying well into first grade most days after my mom dropped me off.

I am pleased to say that when we took him in the well-decorated, kid-friendly classroom, he was brave and happy and smiling that wonderful pleased-with-himself grin. After his teacher showed him around the room he was still just fine. And when his loving entourage left, he paused, asked me for "just one more hug" and went back to his bug puzzle.

But lucky for me, I had left his extra school supply bag in my car, so I HAD to return to his classroom to give it to his sweet teacher. Of course, he still looked happy and was really having a ball, and barely noticing me.

So he's been at school about two hours now. And although I'd win an award at next year's family reunion for my wet, red eyes, I am so proud to know my little guy was able to break the tradition--at least for today.

A Whale in Your Tale

2011-07-17T08:20:00.000-07:00

I got caught in a lie one day with my young son. Well, not actually a lie. I'd prefer to call it a euphemism. You know, a way to say something that is somehow unpleasant by glossing over the actual meaning. Please don't misunderstand, my intent is not to confuse or hide the truth from my kids. But on occasion I find it fun to add humor to the inherent unpleasantness of some bodily functions and generally gross behaviors. A lot of us do it, especially when talking to young ones, I think. But on this summer day, I learned that it can backfire, literally.

This particular incident happened when the kids and I were on our play set. To set the scene--I was struggling to balance on the two-person glider swing, a device clearly not intended for anyone equipped with anything larger than a toddler tush. Then out of nowhere, a funny, loud squirty sound (that would have made my Uncle Joe puff up with pride) came from my co-pilot son, followed by an over-the-shoulder glance and impish smile. "You got a buffalo in your britches?" I asked. (In our house when someone let's one go, one of us--normally me--poses this question, normally inserting whatever large creature comes to mind. Buffalo are a popular favorite, followed by dinosaur and giraffe--the larger the animal the better.) Of course, the stinky little man denied it, grinning like the Cheshire cat that he is.

After a short delay, he owned up to his rotten rear rip. Then after a short pause with furrowed brow, puppy-dog eyes, and tilted head he asks me in all seriousness, "So how DO the animals get up your beezer?"

Ugh. . . caught in my foolish fib, my tall tale, my cockamamy expression. I stammered. I winced. I tried to think quickly. So how do I explain the process of the ol' passing of gas to my preschooler? As I tried to imagine the internal human anatomy, particularly focusing on the guts and beyond, I couldn't help but envision a smiling, chubby rhinoceros staring back at me as it made its way through the intestinal tract.

"Well, honey. Actually there are no animals up there. It happens because, well, you see, they start when, well, it, I mean they . . ." How did they happen exactly?! There, I was just a hangin', trying to articulate just the right explanation, the perfect description of how a toot truly transpires. And I was a little stumped on what words to use, what details to share. How did I give an honest and informative answer after seriously confusing my sweet son? What would make sense to his young developing mind which I had previously supplied major misinformation?

After a few minutes of hemming and hawing, while attempting to draw a few pitiful diagrams in the sand, he squealed with delight, "Gotcha! Mommy, I KNOW big animals don't come out of there!" now rolling in hysterics with his big sister who was also reveling at the idea of their mom squirming for an explanation.

I was reminded of a few good life lessons that day. Like my kids are smarter than me. It's good to laugh at yourself. Honesty is the best policy. So while I have not completely dropped my use of colorful accounts of certain foul functions, when someone lets one slip, I still stop short of asking "Who farted?" Which, truth be told, still somehow sounds more vile to me than having a mammoth pop out of your butt.

The Gift of a Girl

2011-06-02T11:50:00.000-07:00

While sitting on my husband's cousin's bed slightly dazed, I looked around the room at the typical teenager guy posters and smattering of displayed sports memorabilia. I snuggled my little baby daughter, often caressing her cute chubby cheeks. She nursed on, completely unaware of the swirling sadness all around her. I couldn't imagine going into the other upstairs bedroom-to be where another sweet girl used to lay her precious head almost every night of her short sixteen years on Earth.

I wasn't alone. My husband's aunt sat nearby me in disbelief and raw sorrow as she talked about how hard this was going to be on the family. She was especially concerned, as we all were, about how her brother- and sister-in-law could go on after the death of their child-their only daughter. With each mention of that word I remember pulling my then only cherished child closer, trying NOT to know what it would be like. I could not comprehend, nor did I want to. How could I? My daughter had only been in my life for six months. We were just starting to get to know one another. I was learning her habits, she was learning my voice. We were in awe of each other, for very different reasons. I was her main source of love, nurturing, and nourishment. She was my new hope, inspiration, and my, well, new everything.

I only met my husband's cousin a few times, but she is the kind of girl who leaves an impression. A fantastic smile, full of life, and unique, gorgeous eyes that you simply would have to see for yourself to understand. My most significant memory of her was when she caught the bouquet at our wedding. Her face bright and proud, as many of my single girlfriends looked on and tried to be polite that a "tweener" had caught the bridal flowers instead of one of the ready-to-finally-get-the-ring young women. I remember laughing inside and thinking, Good for you, girl. Way to go after what you want! I was impressed at her chutzpah (not to mention her cat-like reflexes).

So I sat on the bed of the brother who had just lost his little sister days before, and all I wanted to think about was that great flower catch. At least for that instant. I wanted to bathe in the beauty and wonderful moment she gave me and the wedding guests. Crying tears of joy cradling my own daughter, I also cried tears of pain for someone else's, while I prayed that her parents would be able to both cover and fill themselves to overflowing with the thousands of unforgettable and amazing memories she left for them.

Love for My New Florist

2011-04-19T09:32:00.000-07:00

I used to hate them, I mean absolutely abhor them, so much so I wanted to kill them every chance I could. I got such satisfaction when I ripped one up out of the ground--my unfriendly outdoor foe--the dandelion. Whenever I spotted one in our yard, I'd practically trip over myself to go grab the garden tool which twists the pesty plants up, roots and all. Heaven forbid if I ever caught one in my flower or veggie garden. Bye-bye, you good-plant-obliterating, water-stealing sucker!

But as with so many other things, one of my children has again helped changed my perspective and shed some new light. Since we have been staying at my husband's parents' house till our own off the mountain sells, we have not planted a full-size garden here, just some simple container planting to scratch the garden growing itch for now (and a pretty effective way to keep weeds at bay). However, I have been blessed with blossoms in a different way--a dandy way. Throughout this spring my son has been bringing me these large frilly yellow flowers that he finds. And he is so excited and proud each time he presents me with a dandelion. As his chubby hand grips each one, he announces "For you Mommy." Then he usually reminds me that he knows that they are my favorite color. And because of his gorgeous gifts, I have another favorite flower.

What's even better about this is that when I recently mentioned to him that "some people" actually consider dandelions to be weeds, he simply shrugged then said, "They're still pretty," and ran off to pick me some more. Oh yes, beauty can be found if you are willing and open to it AND choose not to let others define it for you.

So of course now whenever I'm out driving in the country or running downtown and see a patch of dandelions or even a single dandy bloom, I no longer feel ill-will but rather a big fat goofy smile emerge--yet another present to add to the growing heap that my children continue to give.

But what will I do next spring when we have our own yard and (YES!) our own gardens again? Hhhmmm . . . guess I'll be reading and rereading this blog post (and as a backup, hiding my cool weed tool in the shed from my sweet son).

Spring Snow Day

2011-03-28T05:02:00.000-07:00

After walking my daughter into school this morning to deliver the class snack, I was struck--and yes, I mean literally PELTED by the most enormous, gorgeous, fluffy white clusters of snow! They were awesome, in fact, they are still falling now (so I better hurry up and write this, as they may be calling off school any minute.)

Then as I sat in my car to get it warmed back up, I glanced across the parking lot and was struck even deeper. One of the second-grade teachers was outside with her students catching these giant white flakes from the sky. While looking at them I could not help but see an image of what the delighted and dancing Israelites must have felt like so long ago as they awoke to discover the much-needed manna that had fallen around them.

These kids (and even perhaps more so their teacher) were dancing around with all eyes looking upward. It was a celebration of the awesomeness of nature--a true science lesson they will not soon forget. When their Moses led her snow strutting crew with their collection of white puffs on paper sheets, I smiled as they skipped back into the classroom with their frozen treasures.

We've been in Boone for seven months now, and I haven't blogged since then. Although there have been many things to share--both good and well, challenging--today's scenes and images are just what I needed, and so wanted to share them. And I am thankful.

Thank you, teachers, for providing what our children need. In a time of questionable economy and world disaster, in a time where teachers are enduring through substantial criticism and blame, I say thank you to the educators who stick it out each day and continue to teach real lessons to our children. Here's to the millions of "snow days" happening in classrooms all over the world today.

Lessons in Liquor

2010-06-16T09:35:00.000-07:00

I wonder if my dad remembers this story. Although vascular dementia has taken much of his short-term memory, I am often amazed at what his mind can recall. Think I'll ask him at our next visit . . .

It was awfully early on a Saturday morning when I was abruptly awoken by my dad who was standing in the doorway of my room. I jolted upright. Oh no! I thought. What time is it? I've got practice. A surge of headache ran up the back of my brain, forcing me to lie down again.

I looked back at Dad who was now smiling at me, still leaning against the doorjamb. "How you feeling this morning?"

"Oh, just fine, Dad. Just need a little more sleep," I fibbed.

"I think you've got soccer this morning, don't you?" He turned away and headed toward the kitchen. I could tell there was something more he wanted to say, so I drug my aching butt out of bed and followed him to the dining table.

"So, you're tired, huh? Maybe that's what you get for staying out all night," he added.

"Aw, Dad. It was just a bunch of us seniors getting together to hang out. You know, in a few months most of us are gonna be at different places. I want to spend as much time as I can with them." My head was screaming at me as each word came out, but I thought I was hiding my hangover pretty well.

"Well, that's what I want to talk to you about." (Important back story: if you know my dad, you know that besides making a corny crack or gentle tease, he's never been a real Chatty Cathy. And if you don't know my dad, then I should also tell you that while he worries a lot about his kids, he left most of the difficult child-rearing discussions for my mom.)

"I don't mind you saying all your good-byes to your high school friends from around here, but I do mind seeing that large box of empty liquor bottles tucked away in your room." I braced for the worst.

Dead silence. My dizzy head tried hard to picture the events of last night. Had fun, hung out with friends, drank a little bit--well, more than a little bit, well, more than I should have since A) I was pretty new to alcohol, B) because I was underage, and C) who I am I kidding, 26 letters is not enough key points to state why it was dumb for me to be drinking . . .

I did have a hazy recollection at the end of the night of announcing to the group that they could not leave the bottles behind. "We must recycle them!" I said with passion (and a few Dixie cups of vodka mixed with red kool-aid). Guess the only redeeming part to my story is that I was green before it was officially cool!?

But yes, I did actually utter those words. And even crazier, I had collected the bottles of cheap whiskey, vodka, gin, etc. and stuck them under the empty cutout beneath my desk . . . in my bedroom! (Apparently I had not thought through the discard phase of my recycling plan.)

"Oh, Dad. Yes, we were drinking some last night. I know it was dumb. I DID have a DD, I promise!" I spat out. "I just took the bottles home so I could, could, well, recycle them. They were going to get tossed out," I added, feeling stupid, a little ashamed, and mostly dumbfounded that I was having this conversation with my dad.

My loving, devoted dad looked at his youngest child and with complete seriousness said, "Sweetheart, there's a few things you need to know about drinking. Most of them you'll learn on your own. But for one thing, you have no business drinking Wild Turkey (bourbon). Ladies drink Southern Comfort." Then he left the room.

As I sat there with my mouth agape. I knew there was so much more that my dad wanted to say to his youngest of four, but he didn't need to give me another speech on underage drinking. He had said so much more in those few sentences than any well-intended D.A.R.E. officer, pleading pastor, or the average overprotective parent. Now a mother myself, I realize that he probably wanted to wrap me in bubble wrap and keep me safe in my room until I was a better-prepared grown-up. Instead he knew I was going to face decisions and choices in the years to come that a ranting, raving father could not fix that morning.

Thanks for the advice, Dad. I still smile when I see a bottle of Southern Comfort-even though I can't stomach the stuff. And just so you know, Daddy, another lesson I've learned since our first drinking discussion . . . real ladies drink well-crafted beer (in moderation).

Back to the Bottle Again

2010-05-23T06:55:00.001-07:00

I smiled as I sat on the grassy edge of the soccer field watching my son and his buddies chase the ball all over, occasionally seeing it end up in the goal (usually due to defensive error or goalie mishap). But it was a great moment. Until...

My husband, who was standing next to me also enjoying the human herd, looked down and commented with a pleasant but matter-of-fact tone, "Hey, I never noticed all those GRAY hairs you've got." (BTW, it must be mentioned that he was actually smiling sweetly as he said this.)

My immediate thoughts were (in this order) . . . No, he did NOT just say that! Then Oh crap, it IS that obvious! Followed by Wonder how soon I can get in to see my hair lady?!? Ending with Hhhmmm, surely he does not plan on seeing this gray-haired woman's naked body tonight?

I sat there stunned, analyzing my feelings about his revelation (of course, this was not new info to me because I had stopped highlighting my hair months ago, and I noticed that those blonde streaks I had been adding for so long not only helped me cling onto the image of my younger self, but they also provided the added benefit of blending the random grays that I previously did not know existed in such growing numbers.)

What sucks even more about my new hair nemeses is the fact that my husband has his own little evidence of getting older. He is blessed with the prettiest light gray streak right in the front of his hair. Women who are trying to "grow old gracefully" pay big for that look. And he gets it naturally. Can you believe that?!?

So this is the guy, not the first to notice, I am sure, just the first with the ill-fortune of pointing it out to me. His next line was even better, for when he saw my look of horror from his comment, he quickly said, "No, I think it looks good! It's kinda like highlights, don't you think?"

No, dearest, it absolutely is not! A for effort. F for execution. Trust me, my grays add no aesthetic quality to my tresses. He could not say anything to make it better.

Perhaps I would not have been so deflated at his poorly-chosen proclamation had my daughter with peachy-perfect skin not been recently connecting the "cool red polka dots" on my belly. I later learned these are cherry angiomas, yes, scarlet age spots resulting from overexposure to the sun--my curse from my cuter, tanner bikini years.

It's been a few weeks since that soccer practice and belly game. Since then I've admitted to myself that I can't blame my husband or anyone else for my dulling do or sinister spots. I was being overly sensitive about the inevitable. I am getting older. I can squint when I'm in front of the mirror to blur the view of my eye wrinkles. I can dollop layers of lotion crammed full of collagen from tip to toe. My body is aging. I get some solace (but not much) from the new (but pretty ridiculous) saying that "40 is the new 30." But, hey, I'll take it, despite the fact that the words don't erase crows' feet.

And I've decided the next time one of my curious family members wants to innocently inquire about the tiny lines forming on my calves, rather than putting fresh linens on the guest bed and serving brussel sprouts for dinner, I plan to take a deep breath, smile big, and glance at my husband's gorgeous gray streak and admire my children's supple skin before announcing, "Spider veins, guys. My hair colorist says they're all the rage!"

Taking the Long Way

2010-05-04T05:47:00.000-07:00

I've been accused that I can be a bit overprotective of my children in certain areas. In fact, my husband snickers whenever the kids and I sing one of my remixes of a classic tune where I have slightly altered the lyrics in order to get a result I like. (WHO STICKS A BABY IN A CRADLE IN A FRICKIN' TREE ANYWAY?!?) I've shared with my husband and others, that I am not trying to shelter my kids. But I occasionally steer away from some subjects till I am ready to best address my children's questions. I want them to ask me anything they want to. I want them to learn about life, but, yes, there are topics that I'm still trying to figure out as an adult before having to explain them to my learning little ones.

A few weeks ago we were headed off to school and my four-year-old noticed something in the road, not moving. "Look, Mommy! That turtle is slooooooooow."

My daughter leaned closer toward her little brother's window and said,"Um, I don't think that's a turtle. It's got some fur left. Maybe long ears? And it's not moving at all. Mommy, what was that?"

Crap. Our first real and very close-up roadkill sighting. Couldn't it have been something less cute?!? I glanced in my rear view mirror at the squashed bunny. Here goes, I sighed...

I gave a brief explanation of how sometimes animals are not as fast as cars. Both kids asked many good follow-up questions, particularly curious about the family the rabbit left behind. They seemed a little sad, but by the time we arrived at my daughter's school, they both seem satisfied with our talk. There were some questions in the days to come--mostly about dying. Again, they seemed to accept my answers.

Just two minutes into our jogging stroller run this morning, my son spotted something in the road up ahead. "WHAT IS THAT?" he yelled. I could see from 50 feet away that it was a dead animal. After we passed the mangled marsupial (veering as far away as I safely could), we went at least a mile with my son asking questions about the smashed critter. Thankfully, he moved on to math when he spotted several numbered mailboxes. (Geez, how many questions can you answer about one dead animal?)

On the way back up the hill, I could see the even flatter remnants of the opossum. I braced myself for more questions. Instead my son offered five plausible reasons as to why the opossum was killed in the street. My favorite being "he didn't have enough energy to go fast because he needed a healthy snack."

What I am realizing about some of these tough topics that must and will be addressed in my journey of parenthood and my children's life learning is that if you give your kids the support, open communication, and opportunity to explore their world, they'll come up with their own thoughtful explanations and conclusions about life. I don't have to have all of the answers. And sometimes it's probably better that I don't.

In fact, kids often have the best ones. As we neared the opossum the second time my son suggested we not drive right through it because that would be too bloody and gross--instead we should "just go around it." I'm glad to see that not only has my veering strategy been passed down to my son, but even happier to know he's managed to make it look like it's actually the smart thing to do sometimes.

A Clearer Picture

2010-04-21T09:40:00.000-07:00

On the way down the stairs I was thinking of a difficult family situation we're going through-getting older, taking care of loved ones, making the most out of life. Pretty big stuff.

As my mind was reeling about all of this, I brushed by a picture of my son and knocked it off the wall. I was relieved when I saw that the large piece of glass remained unbroken after the tumble. Smiling at the photo of my little guy at four months old-big chubby smile and fat fists, I knew this was sheer joy caught on film.

After adjusting the crooked matte, I returned the framed picture to the wall and walked away. Again it fell down, this time causing black streaks and a rather large dent in the foyer wall which I recently repainted.

Not quite as tickled this time, I was still able to manage a grin when I noticed the glass was still intact. I hung the picture-again-this time making sure it was fully connected to the tiny, metal hanger. On my knees I scrubbed the wall clean. Still on my knees Please make me like that glass-fragile but strong, visible but able to show the beauty of others, delicate but resilient to what life brings.

I Blame it on Silent Night

2010-02-25T09:05:00.000-08:00

While I prepared lunch for my son today, he patiently drew pictures at the kitchen table. He also provided the entertainment by performing his one-man show where he tells me a great story, often impressing me with his vocabulary and unique retelling of a classic tale with his little tike twist.

Today's narrative was very loosely based on Little Red Riding Hood. As I slathered peanut butter on bread listening to the lengthy monologue, I nearly choked on the knife I was licking when my son said something about "a different virgin."

"What was that?" my voice squeaked.

"I'm doing a different virgin," he said.

As I forced back initial laughter and then a fainting spell, I asked my sweet just-turned-four-year-old, "You're doing a different (gulp) virgin?" My head raced. . . WHERE IN THE WORLD DID HE HEAR THAT WORD?!? WHAT DID MY HUSBAND LET THE KIDS WATCH?!? OH, NO! WILL I HAVE TO EXPLAIN WHAT IT IS RIGHT NOW?!?

"Yes, I'm telling a different virgin about the wolf," he piped up with a duh-mom look.

"Oooooohhhhhhh. Okay. (I am now breathing again.) You are telling a different v-e-r-s-i-o-n of the story," I sounded out.

"Yeah, veeeeeersion," he repeated.

"Oh, great. I love your veeeerrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiioooooooonnnnnnnnssssssssss of stories. Please tell me the rest." I paused for a huge sigh of relief.

I turned away to finish making lunch and listen intently to the rest of the story, very thankful that both the wolf and my son's innocence remained--at least until Cinderella shows up. And by then, I am hopeful that we will have told enough stories between us that he will pick the right version.

One Reflecting Running Mother

2010-02-22T08:40:00.000-08:00

I can hardly believe it. Our youngest is four years old today. To absorb that hard-to-believe fact (and to work off one of the four slices of double chocolate football birthday cake I devoured this weekend), I decided to go on a four-mile run--the longest my aging ankle has allowed in awhile. Hey, I figured it couldn't have hurt any worse than the five days of labor the docs were trying to hold off to keep my son from arriving too early exactly four years ago. A notion a bit funny in hindsight . . . a pack of health professionals and a tractor trailer full of drugs, both trying to tell 6.1 pounds of fury to wait a few more weeks, or c'mon, at least a couple of days, before making his official appearance. And I was stuck in the middle only to ref the futile fiasco. (Guess you know who won that uphill battle, huh?)

One of the thoughts I had while schlepping up the hill and dodging pickups was how similar the birthing process and the act of jogging can be. Both involve pain--obviously. Whether they use that large can opener to pop out your little cherub or you get the good fortune to push the little nipper out "down there," the pain is very present.

And when running if you choose to crank out your miles on the treadmill to avoid angry drivers or you select an outdoor route, the bubbling blisters, chafed nipples, torqued knees, and brutal butt sweat will always be your chummiest exercise buddies. Again with the pain.

But thankfully, as in most things in life where there is labor, there is reward. Of course, there's the initial look from your little one, precious cuddles, the smile, the cute yellow poop, all of those glorious firsts. The list of payoffs is way too long for one blog entry.

While the running benefits can't quite compare to the joy of your new child, there is something simply amazing, truly beautiful, completely incredible, absolutely awesome about getting to eat virtually as many Little Debbies as you want when you are on a regular running regimen.

So happy birthday, my sweet baby boy. This cupcake's for you!

Super Mom

2010-01-12T10:58:00.000-08:00

Since becoming a mother, I realize I've obtained special superpowers.

Like the amazing ability to leap over a child-created masterpiece Megablocks tower in a single bound.

Uncanny super hearing that rivals Lassie. I can detect the most minute toddler toot from anywhere in the house (and unfortunately due to my ridiculously good sense of smell, tell you what the tooter had for lunch).

I have such sinewy strength I've been known to hold both my kids (have you seen these two?!), one in each arm while navigating over our pup's massive pile of poop (have you seen this dog?!?!).

While I don't have X-ray vision, I've got something much better! My fierce and icy stare causes my daughter to stop in her tracks, sometimes tremble, and even cry before I've uttered a single sentence. My son, on the other hand, must wear special secret contacts, because my ghastly glance seems to have much less an effect on him.

But I do have a pretty original talent that even the Marvel heroes can't touch. I can still cut off my pee midstream faster than a speeding bullet. This is thanks to the kegel exercises recommended by my OB/GYN. He had scared me so bad into thinking after my kids were born I would not be able to walk without peeing on myself unless I performed a plethora of pelvic squeezes-like three million a day-seriously).

In fact, I saw him today for my annual exam. And I don't think it's a complete coincidence that my long of list heroic skills popped into my mind while I drove home from my doctor visit. I think I just needed a reminder of my superhuman abilities after another less-than-empowering trip to the gyno. (Perhaps I needed some affirmation after allowing a person I see just once a year poke me with ice-cold instruments in my private parts while I remain calm and try to distract us both with tales of my recent epic exploits . . . hey, I think I can add that to my superpower list too. Take that, Hulk.

Muffin Music

2010-01-08T04:25:00.000-08:00

I need my kids more than they need me. And here's proof. . .

The county had a two-hour school delay. You know, three icy puddles or even a few shiny oil spots that Cletus left behind keeps us off the roads in these parts. Since we had some extra A.M. time, I made semi-homemade muffins this morning. (You know the trick where you add one or two "healthy" ingredients to a pre-made mix likely heavenly-laden in extra sugar, fat or some other delicious delicacy, I mean, ingredient). So as I sprayed the nonstick oil in the little circles in the baking pan, wondering how in the world I'll be cleaning the Pam residue off my walls and counter, my daughter looked up from her drawing at the kitchen table and says, "What nice music!? I love it, Mom!"

I whirled around from my stovetop stupor expecting to find her listening to her dad's Itouch (off limits!) or to simply confirm that something else isn't working quite up to par on this nearly 39-year-old body, because I did not hear any tunes tinkling. "What music, honey?"

"The music you made in the pan, as you sprayed each little cup," she said looking very confused, as if she too was wondering about my hearing ability. And sure enough, I took the Pam out of the pantry, held the muffin pan in the air, and resprayed each circle. This time not even considering the oily mess left on the wall and floor. And it did make a sweet little noise, a slightly different tone in each of the tin cups. And it was nice.

"Oh, I like that. Thanks," I said. My daughter smiled and went back to her drawing, probably a little curious why I thanked her.

So you see that's why I need my children so much. They are constantly helping me notice the beauty that surrounds me every day. Much like the paint marks my son left on his big sister's dresser that bled through his art paper last week, well maybe that's not a great example . . .

'Tis the Season

2009-12-16T05:00:00.000-08:00

. . . for severe lack of slumber with an extra heap of vomit on top?!?

After coming off less than two hours of sleep (I had cuddled next to our daughter who spent the night coughing and trying her best for an early gift of holiday bronchitis), the dog began puking on the carpet. Of course, she had the great timing to wait till I was by myself with both kids, since my husband had just unknowingly(?) escaped out the garage as the first heave ensued. I cleaned up the dog barf, then trudged to the kitchen wondering what could happen next, as I had only been semi-awake for 10 minutes.

Thankfully I spotted some bananas that were seconds from a compost bin dive. And well, since I was out of lemons (and lemonade is not a classic cold weather drink), I got the sudden urge to whip up some chocolate-banana-nut bread instead.

In the time I got the bread prepared and in the oven, I had cleaned up more dog puke, washed my hands for the upteenth time, determined my daughter was staying home from school, laughed off the fact that my day's plan to tackle the ridiculous list of last-minute Christmas errands was just not going to happen, and had improved my attitude considerably. And from the warm, sweet aroma coming from the kitchen right now, seems like the day is looking up (did I mention the kids stayed asleep during my baking bliss?). God bless us, everyone--and a special shout-out for the cocoa bean.

FCS Friend

2009-12-10T13:39:00.000-08:00

Dear Flip,

Because of you I am reminded of these seemingly simple, everyday things . . .

- The "stuff" really does not matter.
- The sweetest sound in the world is your child's voice, especially laughter.
- Silly quibbles with our loved ones are just that.
- Time with family and friends is irreplaceable.
- Prayer is a powerful and uniting force.
- God is the source of hope and love.

And in this season of giving, I thank you, Flip, for these reflections. What a present from someone I have not seen in 20 years.

My hope, my prayer is that you are given the opportunity to experience these gifts on Earth again. Until then, thank you.

http://abclocal.go.com/wtvd/story?section=news/local&id=7156099

http://www.facebook.com/group.php?v=wall&ref=search&gid=190670274334

My Big Knockers

2009-11-23T15:34:00.000-08:00

I'm having an affair with the Tidy Bowl Man. Or at least my husband probably thinks so. I regularly find myself headed to the bathroom to get just a few minutes alone.

I've got vivid memories of my mom uttering various pleads for privacy to us, namely to me and my brother but sometimes my dad too. "May I at least go to the bathroom by myself?" or "I've been to the kitchen, den, and my sewing room. Are you guys going to follow me to the next room?" (Yep, we probably were.)

Moms are like magnets. There is this amazing, unstoppable draw to the matriarchs of most families. It seems as soon as a child is born to a woman, she is magically infused with some kind of fierce polar attraction, where those who are dependent upon her must be in close proximity. Panic ensues if she is not in obvious eyesight. And if one of the them finds himself near her, the other(s) are fixated on finding her too.

Sometimes when I'm hiding away for a little restroom retreat and hear the familiar knock at the door, followed by Mo-om? I try to be patient. I remind myself that when the kids are older, I'll be sitting in there, yearning for those tiny taps (that inevitably become insistent knocks). Until then, Mr. Clean and I are going to continue our private mini-meetings as long as necessary. You see, my husband is close, but every woman knows that you can't trust a sailor-particularly one who drives around in your toilet.

Battle of Wills and the Bulge

2009-11-20T08:22:00.000-08:00

Thought it was time to write the blog entry that inspired me to start this thing to begin with and also partially explain the blog title I chose.

I eat, therefore I run. Should also add that I enjoy drinking yummy beers, and the ones I'm partial to tend to contain the highest caloric count in each tantalizing sip. I've been "a runner" for over a decade. Many have asked me if I like running. Not especially. And although a fringe benefit to running is that it clears my cluttered mind, my main motivation for hitting the pavement is typically to work off a recently gobbled HoHo (or seven).

Months ago, I was running on my regular route, slowly sputtering up the hill I must climb on my return home. I was pushing my Chunkasaurus Rex in the jogging stroller, as he hummed and nibbled on crackers, oblivious to my pain. And I was struggling. I mean the kind of internal battle where I was actually talking to myself aloud, "Come on, you can do this. You've run further than this before. This is the same body that ran the fun and festive Rock 'n' Roll San Diego marathon, right? Just a slightly hilly three miles today. And you're on the home stretch. Let's go!"

Unfortunately my answer didn't come from my positive inner athlete but from my exhausted excuse-making slacker, "Oh yeah? Well, that was awhile ago. And I've had two kids since then. This body isn't quite the same, you know, a lot more mileage on these legs (which now that I am looking at the back of, am wondering if you don't need to cut out a few of those sugary coffee drinks, little missy."

Midway up the hill, I was able to quiet my feuding inner voices. I considered that maybe I don't often get to run as fast or as far as I'd like to, but this body of mine is just as amazing, maybe even more seven years after my one marathon run. Sure, this is the body that got me through a 26.1 mile trek. But to give it full credit, it's the same one that carried two babies, each followed by a pretty crazy emergency c-section, allowing me both of the most miraculous gifts-millions of times more precious than a race gold medal that is somewhere collecting dust.

By the time I reached the hill's peak, I had made a pretty long mental list of many other accomplishments both my body and mind have made since that hot June run in California. And I had finished yet another run, with the added benefit that my son was asleep and was able to take a long bath (the kind where I get to slowly shave my weary legs without later having to cover my cuts in a mix of Transformer and Hello Kitty band-aids as most my showers end these days).

I am one running mother.

Forgive AND Forget

2009-11-16T05:19:00.000-08:00

Last Friday I volunteered with a fellow kindergarten mom to watch our kids' class during the teachers' luncheon. That's right, 18 extremely excitable mini-minds for an hour all to ourselves. It's been a long time since I was a teacher, but when I walked into the room and saw those fresh faces light up (even though I knew it was just the novelty of having new "teachers" for a brief spell), it felt so good.

Until my eyes met his. All of the excitement and exhilaration of being back in the classroom flushed away like a stinky Kandoo wipe. It hadn't occurred to me weeks ago when I agreed to work with the class that we would meet face-to-face today. There he was. Ed-not his real name, but that's what I found myself calling him back in October. (You may remember him by his full alias, Edward Scissorhands.)

He did not smile when he saw me. Just looked me over and then went back to making his turkey puppet. On his table I spotted the sharp scissors lying next to his pencil box. What else was in there? I pondered briefly. A poky compass? Extra pointy markers? Heaven forbid, a metal paperclip which we all know could quickly transform into a wicked weapon with one tiny twist?!

Get a hold of yourself, Sabena! Fortunately it was just a fleeting moment that I had such suspect thoughts about Ed. I've coined these brief attacks as PMS (Protective Mom Syndrome). Since the cut capri incident, I've decided that occasional PMS is okay as long as you A) don't act on your momentary fantasies for revenge, B) remember that in most instances the immature offender is just that, a kid being a kid, and C) always be mindful that the he/she is someone else's whole world. Ed's mom (or dad, aunt, grandmother, etc.) probably has a raging case of PMS herself. She proudly displays every piece of artwork his chubby hands create. (Even the ones that require cutting.)

So as I walked around the room assisting the little turkeys in making their own, I made sure I stopped by his table several times. I wanted to know as much as I could about this little felon, I mean, fellow. The more I stopped by to check his progress, the more Ed seemed to warm up to me. At my fifth or so visit, he told me why he picked each color for the various puppet parts. When he was done, he proudly smiled at me and held up Tom the turkey. And it was terrific.

BTW, I looked. Just a few dull-tipped crayons and a nontoxic gluestick.

Back in the Saddle...

2009-11-14T12:43:00.001-08:00

. . . but just a little wobbly.

I've lived much of my life thinking about "what's next?!" Whether it's the big things like when do we have another child? To the smaller stuff, such as deciding on what color to paint the nursery, I often seem to have my mind on the next thing to be done. Well-intended as this approach is (as most of "what's next" normally concerns my family), with a bit of age, I mean wisdom, I've begun to realize, like most things, there is a downside to this kind of thinking if it's done all the time. I think I am getting it: if you are always looking ahead, it's easy to miss out on the enjoyment and wonder of what's going on right now.

Luckily I am married to someone who is more about dealing with the here and now and takes time for reflection. I admit at times this has driven me crazy. Me and my let's get it done (BTW, even in the county we should try to say it properly), let's not miss out on an opportunity, let's try to take some control of the situation kind of approach. I used to view his method as indecision (and occasionally even as slackerdom). But after over a decade together, I am learning that in some situations, there is much merit to what I used to consider madness. Why sit back and let things just happen to you? Shouldn't we try to influence and alter our fate, trying to put the odds in our favor? Come on! Let's go after (fill in the blank)! But I am recognizing that there are times, many times in fact, when not focusing on the future and simply living in the present is good.

Along with my thoughtful spouse, I also have two marvelous, miniature reminders of why it's important to let some things just happen. If I constantly continued my "what's next" approach as a parent, then I would have missed out on so many amazing moments. Lately, I am getting much better at sitting down with my children and molding things out of playdo and spending less time obsessing over whether or not we should take advantage of the currently low mortgage rates. I am a work in progress, trying to figure out when to play which card-living for the now or mildly manipulating what's in store.

In fact, a few weeks ago (on the night of October 20 to be exact) I had a particular full-on, sit-back-and-enjoy-life-right-now enlightening event while I was tucking our son in bed, while my more easygoing partner was reading a bedtime book to our daughter in the next room. I remember the date vividly because the next morning I was going to chaperone my daughter's school field trip, and at my son's bedside I couldn't help but think of all the things I NEEDED to be doing instead of scrambling around the zoo with 80 plus five- and six-year-olds (among many things, needing to write two FL articles due on Friday). And then I looked at the lowering eyelids of my little boy and was struck at how much I love him, and how blessed I was to be there at that moment. So instead of seeing this as an opportunity to run out of the room and go work on my articles, I intentionally took a deep breath, and tried to mimic the gentle rise and fall of his chest. I took a minute to admire the beautiful quilt that covered his little body. My mom had made it for him before he was born. After a little while, I tiptoed to my sleeping daughter's room, full of anticipation about spending some reflective time with her as well. I ended the evening by hanging out with my husband-intentionally minus talk of possible jobs, suggestions of future plans, or other potential changes. A great way to end the day.

And it's a good thing I did too. When I went upstairs to awaken the kids the next morning, I saw that the little guy had wet the bed. After scrambling to get them ready for school, I went to check my email real quick-like and found a horrible message-my computer had a virus. Ugh! Where was the natural high from the peace and satisfaction I had experienced just hours before?! Why could I already feel it deflating like a cheap grocery store balloon? Where was the beautiful inner harmony that sang in my soul as I was enjoying the present just last night? Oh well.

At the zoo, about halfway through a mostly fun field trip (inner peace slowly returning), we visited the gorillas, and I noticed my boy's warm forehead. By the time I collected both my kids, checked out with the teacher, and swiftly moved to the car, my son's violent vomiting spell had begun. Once I got them home and settled down for quiet time, I checked the mail and discovered my cell phone bill had almost tripled (my bad, honey). The next letter was a hospital bill from some more tests our normally healthy daughter had to undergo. How much?! (Ooohh! Christmas gifts are gonna be slim this year.) Minutes later I go check on my napping cherubs to find my son's temperature is 104.7. It takes two hours to get it to budge. I'm told that my pediatrician's office cannot see more any patients that day. ("The flu's going around, you know?") I get his fever under control and, of course, he sleeps next to me that night so I can watch him. I wake up at 2:00 a.m. as achy as a newbie taken Tracy's Turbokick class.

The next day at the doc's, my little boy is officially diagnosed with the flu. And yes, I have it too. I admit I fought the urge to run to my computer and check the day's mortgage rates-the future was surely looking brighter than the present (but remember my son and I were not the only ones with a bug). After quarantining ourselves upstairs for a few days, he bounces back, I don't. Doctor's diagnosis-probably a minor lung infection. Briefly I am better. A week later, I am worse. Diagnosis-pneumonia. Briefly I am better. A few days later, I wake up and cannot walk. Doctor and hospital visits later, I learn I have a blood clot in my leg. Are you serious?!

It's been over three weeks since my remarkable night of clarity, and I am well on the mend now. I don't know how I knew it, but somehow on October 20, somewhere deep inside my mind and soul, I knew that I needed that special gift of a few minutes of blissful acknowledgement and reflection of how life could be so wonderful right then and there. During my tri-sickness, I continuously returned to those moments with each of my children and husband. In those rather trying weeks, I rarely thought about what I needed to be doing next (heck, my computer and I were too sick). Honestly though, remembering those precious minutes was far better than any medicine (even the pain killers) that the doctors gave me. My latest awareness is that we must truly be plugged into the here and now to create the memories that make the past a pretty good place too.

(Oh and, yes, in case you are hiring a writer, I did get both articles done on time.)

My Thought for Today

2009-11-08T13:32:00.000-08:00

When it rains, it pours.
But don't the flowers turn out extra pretty?

Either that or the blossoms all drown quickly, their exquisite beauty never to be seen.
But at least you're left with a large, squishy puddle to stomp, splash, and squelch your frustrations.

However you view it, the rain can be a gift.

Words of Love

2009-10-25T10:45:00.000-07:00

There are certain words, specific phrases that make the world a better place (at least the one I live in).

Mommy!
-uttered at anytime by your child--even when it's said just to get something (and nothing replaces the first time)

I'm thinking of you.
-spoken by someone you know that loves you and is actually thinking of you

Here you go . . .
-offered by a dear friend who recognizes that you need help, knows that you do not want to owe anyone, but sees that you will likely implode if someone does not step in soon

I'll take care of it.
-said by your loving partner when he sees that you have given what you can, desperately need to recoup, and need him to be the strong one for a little while

These are the kind of words that are wonderful to hear, especially if you happen to come down with the flu which develops into a lung infection and you're out of commission for a week. At least I think they would be. :-)

The Tooth's Final Tale (blog followup)

2009-10-15T08:44:00.000-07:00

A few people have asked me, "So how did that terrible tooth end up coming out?"
So here goes. . .

When I picked up my daughter from school--the same day I was sure her teacher was going to do the final dirty work-- my daughter was smiling. As she flashed her pearly whites, you couldn't help but see that sucker was still hanging on. It defied gravity. Are you kidding me? I turned it over to you, teach! I was letting you sub in, remember?! As the she buckled my daughter in the backseat she smiled and said, "I told her to try biting into an apple when she gets home." WHAT?!?!?!? Like I hadn't tried that. For weeks I had already offered taffy, gum, steak, apples, oranges, kumquats, pomegranates, melting tar. That's the best you got?

Wait, wait. I couldn't be critical of this wonderful woman. She was trying to actually educate a group of blooming, busy beavers all day long. I am sure she tried to get the tooth out in her own way and with very limited time. Ball's back in my court.

When we got home from school I decided that I would not make the dangling tooth a big deal. Until after dinner. I announced that the tooth HAD to come out before bedtime. So there we were, teeth brushed, pjs on. Of course I had tried to assist with the teeth cleaning part. "The perfect time to loosen that sucker up just a little more," I reminded her. But she didn't want my help, of course.

My daughter had tried to postpone the event all evening. But it was here, nothing else left to do but read our bedtime books. "Sweetheart, I told you it's gonna come out tonight. So are you going to pull it or am I?"

With a touch of indignance and a lot of spunk and a hint of fear, she announced, "Okay, okay, I'll do it myself." And she grabbed ahold of the offending object and with one big tug, it was out. Squeals, jubilation, dancing, and hugs. I think we were both thinking the same thing Hhhmmm, now that wasn't so hard, was it?

Still of the Night

2009-10-14T13:38:00.000-07:00

It was 3:00 in the morning when I heard the first odd noise eeking from the monitor-my enemy, my best friend. I lied there listening, trying to convince myself that my son was just having a dream and must be talking to himself. Oh, he'll just put himself back to sleep, right? Please, oh please, put yourself back to sleep. Then the sounds turned to weird whimpers. What if he's having a BAD dream! He needs me! My eyes pop open, and I make the familiar nightly race up the stairs to my son's bedside. I snuggled next to him, rubbing his back and telling him to just go back to sleep. While I tried to comfort him, I stared up at the ceiling wondering when this would end. Not just my son's possible frightening dream, but me flying up the staircase during the night, pretty regularly for my three-year-old, but still not an unusual occurrence for our newly six-year-old. When will I sleep through the night?

Where did I do wrong? Did we co-sleep with our babies too long? I was warned by many: relatives, friends with children, friends without children, well-meaning comments from near strangers at the grocery store, park, gym, you name it. Did my kids nurse too much? Oh, don't get me started on the unsolicited advice on that topic. (Do you know where I live?!?) Why didn't I let them cry it out? I read the literature, heard the testimonials, watched the videos. Couldn't do it. But did I really have to be at their bedsides as soon as the first peep was made? Honestly, for me I had done pretty well to pause this evening and wait, oh, about 12 seconds before scrambling up to tend to my son. Perhaps that wasn't enough wait time, huh, Dr. Ferber?

So just as I was about to search my soul and figure out where I went wrong to have such night-dependent children. The exact second I was on the verge to come to terms with, analyze, and possibly solve one of my parenting shortcomings. . . my son's murmurings got even stranger. He's not talking in his sleep. It's not a nightmare. As I listened and watched he was sleeping fitfully. Then it hit me. He's getting sick. No fever--yet--but I knew it was coming. I scooped him up and headed downstairs and rocked him in a chair. As the minutes slipped by he was in fact burning up. He woke up and gave me a quizzical face. I'm no Nostradamus, but I recognized the look. I knew what was going to happen next. I yelled from the living room to my husband to come help. Then the puking began. The skyrocketing temperature, the chills, the aches, the coughing soon followed.

How is it that when your child gets sick the whole world stops? Nothing else matters. No previously scheduled appointments, no penciled-in commitments will take place. Most emails go unreturned. You're lucky to check voicemail, and you only answer phone calls from family and the doctor. And that To Do list in my daily planner that I check religiously throughout the day is no longer "really have to do" stuff anymore. Everything else becomes unimportant.

I am relieved to say that we found out later that morning at the pediatrician's office that our little boy did not have one of the hysteria-inducing flus going around, just a "regular, old virus." He slept much of the day and soon signs of returning health were evident. Fortunately it appears to have been a pretty quick, down and really dirty bug. My mommy mental freeze has almost melted, and I have mostly returned to my everyday life.

Last night when I was putting my son to bed, something struck me-maybe, just maybe my unpopular nighttime parenting method paid off the other night. After all, I was able to catch him before he was alone and sick and throwing up in bed. I even got the OTC meds in his system to start the relief a little sooner. Hey, perhaps it's okay that I am so quick to answer my children's nocturnal chirps echoing from the monitor. Maybe it's not completely terrible when I dash up to my kid's room at the slightest sound. Oh no! Stop! It's this kind of rationale that only encourages my enabling behavior! This thinking is precisely how I cycle back into our current nighttime routine! What am I doing?!

As things turn back to normal (whatever that is) and my son fully regains his health, I plan to use this time to figure out how to reduce my sundown sprints. Perhaps it will hit me next time I am cuddled next to his sister. . .

View from the Sidelines

2009-10-08T04:13:00.001-07:00

I admit it. I took the coward's way out this morning. Just dropped my daughter off at school . . . with a dangling top front tooth. It won't make it through the day-unless she refuses to eat her snack (but she won't deny her mid-morning granola bar), and there is no way she'll not eat her mini pack of candy corns that she'll be surprised to find in her lunch bag. That sucker's gonna pop out at school sometime today after she bites into one of her tasty treats, I know it! That's the last card I had left to play.

I asked myself, am I a wimp? Have I lost my mothering edge? Why did my mighty power of persuasion not work? Why did I fail to convince her to get that tooth out before she went to school today? I don't get sick at the sight of blood. I don't have an aversion to wobbly, tiny tooth roots. Okay, I admit it! I didn't want to make her her cry about it again. So I gave up at the first hint of a lip quiver at 7:oo a.m.

Last night I tried it all. First, the loving approach. "You can do it sweetheart. Just one little tug and the tooth fairy will come tonight." To the supportive method. "You are amazing and brave. Just one tug, and you can do it!" To the logic angle. "It's going to fall out soon. Why not just pull the tooth now?" To a matter-of-fact explanation. "Sometimes things that are worthwhile might cause a little pain." To mild fear tactics. "You better get it out so you don't swallow it tonight in your sleep." And then of course, the tough love approach. "Come on, suck it up. It's just a tooth! You've done this before!"

After having the first five teeth basically fall out on their own, my daughter thinks this is how it's supposed to happen. Before going to sleep, she tells me that the loose tooth DECIDES when it's ready. We should not MAKE IT come out. Maybe she's right.

When I called her teacher this morning (praying to get her voice mail, which of course I did NOT), I had to explain to her live that I just couldn't do it this morning. I asked her to keep an eye out and see what she could do about the flopping fang. I swear I heard her snicker. After teaching so many children over the years (including her own), she's gotten this call more than once, I could tell. "We'll see what we can do." I felt like such a loser right then. The WE meant her and my child. I was out of the equation. I couldn't pull the trigger, so now another tougher, better player was going to start in my parenting position. Oh well . . . maybe next time.

Why do we hate to see our children cry? In this particular case, even when it doesn't seem like a really big deal? The tears would have been brief. She would have gotten over it. I don't know. Maybe it's because as parents we know that there is sadness and suffering out there. We want to protect our kids from that, but we know we cannot shield them from the many disappointments and pain life brings. We know our kids are going to cry many, many times in their lives. Today I guess I just wanted to see it happen one less.

As the day has gone along, my feelings of failure and frustration have turned to hope and excitement. I can't wait to pick up my daughter from school today. I can already picture her happy, tear-free face, holding her tooth in a special baggy provided by her understanding teacher, my temporary replacement. I should just count myself blessed that there's another loving, experienced grown-up who is willing to help me dry my daughter's tears and take one for the team.

No More Ed Scissorhands, Please

2009-10-05T10:43:00.000-07:00

Thursday:
When I picked my daughter up from the car rider line she had her regular happy-to-see-you-smile. She buckled up and started immediately into her animated rundown of the day's activities. We were about halfway home when she nonchalantly mentioned the hole in her pants. The intro to this little anecdote particularly caught my attention. "What do you mean you have a hole in your pants? You didn't this morning, did you?" I questioned.

I looked up in the rear view mirror to catch her glance. "Oh," she realized this part of her day would need further clarification. She went on to tell me that one of her neighbors at the blue table used his scissors and cut her pants, but not her. I remained calm, assuming it had been a random accident by a fumble-fingered child during craft time, perhaps she was trying to hold something on her lap as he used those little, blunt scissors the kindergartners are allowed to have. But she went on to give me specifics, such as it happened during snack time, and the boy had sneaked out (the now in my mind sharp) sheers when the teacher wasn't looking. Okay, the full inquisition was on. Who was this kid? A boy. Did your teacher see any of this? No. Did you report it? Yes. Do you know his parents? No. Is this juvenile delinquent mean to you every day? Sometimes. Does this guy have a criminal record? Most likely. Are you going to end up dating this dude in 10 years? Duh, of course. (So, I didn't ask all of those questions, but I knew the answers.)

Soon we were home from school, and she and her little brother shared an afternoon snack. As the kids munched on milk and Teddy Grahams, I could see that my forgiving daughter was long over the incident, but I was still seething from the vision I had of this little scoundrel with huge hedge clippers slashing my angelic darling's Gap capris.

I called my level-headed neighbor who also has a kindergartner at the school. What would she do? Why wasn't there a note in my daughter's backpack detailing the incident? Why had the teacher not called? After all, school had been out for five minutes! As I spoke, I tried to disguise my mama bear, protective growl. My friend told me to calm down (guess I wasn't hiding my feelings so well), then we discussed the many explanations of how this could have happened.

After talking at length about the situation with my husband (and a little more to my daughter before bedtime), I couldn't help wondering Is my daughter safe at kindergarten? Should I have home-schooled? What's wrong with kids these days? Am I teaching my children to be assertive? The questioning went on through my mind all evening.

Friday:
Turns out, this boy did cut her pants, the teacher was not aware it happened (and profusely apologized and "dealt" with the him-who knows?), my daughter had mentioned that she had a hole in her pants but neglected to fully share how it happened. She was moved to the orange table which thrilled her since her newest friend sits there too (and "orange is prettier anyway"). I was so glad that I was relatively composed and well-rehearsed before I got the full explanation.

Then came the flashback to when I was a young teacher (long before I had been blessed with children of my own). I recalled a possibly-suppressed memory of the day a parent of a sweet seventh grader came into my classroom very calmly and asked, "Can you tell me how my daughter got a gluestick caught in her hair during social studies class yesterday?" Now I know just how lucky I am that she also had a merciful daughter, kind neighbor, and patient husband to talk to. Either that or she was just not fully in touch with her inner bear.

Laugh Lines

2009-09-22T17:46:00.001-07:00

Being half-naked in front of an audience is never easy. At least that's been my experience with my two young, insistent children who hang out in the bathroom and watch me when I get ready in the morning. As if this isn't enough, I also open myself to the beautiful and sometimes brutal honesty that comes from only a child's lips.

A few mornings ago we were getting ready for school (and of course I had already fed and dressed the kids, so now it was time for them to stare at me with the remaining three minutes I allow for myself to get ready before heading out to most places). I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror brushing my teeth with one hand and my hair with the other. My daughter looked up at me and asked, "Mommy, what are those lines?"

I sighed then drop my brushes on the counter and look into the extra large mirror surrounded by only slightly forgiving lighting, and pondered. Hhhhhmmm, the crow's feet that have made themselves visible nearly all the time, not just when I smile? Perhaps the deeper lines in my forehead that once simply enhanced my expressive face that now are a permanent fixture? Oh no! Tell me it isn't so . . . maybe she spotted another horrid wrinkle that I am not ready to acknowledge!

As I came to, I heard my daughter's sweet voice, "Mommy, I like your lines. They're pretty." And she pointed to the silvery, slightly faded stretch marks along my hips. I chuckled and told her "thanks" and meant it, because it hit me right then that without those "imperfections" my little bathroom buddies wouldn't be here. Guess that sort of makes those lines beauty marks.

Brave Girl Walking

2009-09-15T12:27:00.000-07:00

I met another mothering milestone today. I actually watched my beloved kindergartener walk into school by herself from the car rider line into the school building. She not only entered by herself, she also managed to open the huge, heavy door that is the entrance for the little students. It may sound like a simple accomplishment to some, but I was amazed and in awe of her.

For the first few weeks of school, I did what many other parents were doing. We entered the school parking lot, got our precious pupils fitted with their backpacks, walked them into their respective rooms, and exchanged kisses at the classroom doors. I couldn't help notice with each new school day there were fewer parents walking into the building with their children. Many had begun to drop their kids off in the car rider line at the sidewalk. The kindergarten teachers had recommended that by September 18, all children (yes, moms, even the five-year-olds) walk into school on their own. At first I thought that seemed a bit arbitrary, but I did want to follow the rules and more importantly, help my daughter build independence. My daughter's main concern was not the walk from the car to her classroom. "That's easy." But she expressed some concern over the humongous metal door. "What if I can't get it open by myself?" We discussed her options if that happened, although we took time to recognize that since she eats so many vegetables and protein, she really has gotten quite strong--probably enough to conquer the dreaded door.

So I have been talking this up for about two weeks now. And this morning on the drive to school we agreed that today would be a good day to give it a try. So why was I so surprised this morning that with no hesitation, she did it?!

As I pulled the car away slowly, craning my neck trying to watch her walk down the hall as long as I could till the mammoth door closed behind her, tears swelled up big and powerful, putting any crying crocodile to shame. I drove passed the many helpful teacher assistants who line up along the sidewalk to assist students exiting their cars. Each one smiled at me intently and kindly, in such a way to say that everything was going to be okay. Then I laughed and my tears turned to a giant and proud smile at the thought that my daughter only needed one reassuring look this morning to be brave . . . mine.

Tummy Trouble

2009-09-03T11:09:00.001-07:00

Long ago my big brother encouraged me to trust that feeling in my gut—you know the one you experience when something is just not right or something bad is on the horizon. Granted he was mostly warning his little sister about the guys out there with indecent intentions, but I have learned to rely on that weird feeling. How I wish I had been listening to my problem-prophesying belly today. My son and I had just returned from our late morning grocery trip and unloaded all the food. Of course he wanted to open the SpongeBob Cheez-Its immediately, but I advised him that we didn’t want to ruin our lunch. So instead we put up the groceries and went outside to play for a little while.

Our retired, friendly neighbor stopped by our house, and he and I were standing just inside my open garage door while he explained to me how to properly mix leaf blower oil. All the while I was watching my son ride up and down our sloped driveway into the garage, each time starting higher at the top. Trying not be rude, I would occasionally excuse myself and offer a parental warning, such as “Be careful” or “That’s as high as you should go” to my brave big wheel racer. A couple of times I noticed my belly felt a little funny—perhaps it was hunger pangs or maybe even the extra piece of cake I had for dessert last night calling to haunt me.

Mr. Helpful-but-takes-really-long-to-pass-along-his-wisdom was juuuuuuust about done going over the oil process, and I looked up noticing my son starting at the very top of the driveway. My gut let out a scream, but the drama was already it motion. My little speedster quickly transformed into a terrific tumbler and landed on his beautiful, perfectly soft, previously unblemished face, landing just inches from my feet.

As I quickly cradled my little man in my arms, cursing myself in my head and frantically searching over his sweet body making sure all the parts were still there (and thankfully they were), my eyes landed on a three-inch diameter scrape a half centimeter from his gorgeous green right eye. After realizing all would be okay, my oil informant walked back to his house, as I carried my now calm but slightly whimpering son.

After cleaning his wound, we decided it best to skip a regular, well-balanced lunch and went straight for the Cheez-Its, and yes, I allowed him to eat all of them that he wanted before naptime. As my son slumbers and I write this, my belly feels quite uneasy, but at least this time I can blame SpongeBob.

It's a Ride, Not a Race

2009-09-02T06:34:00.001-07:00

As a kid, my mom was the fastest walker I knew. No, she was not one of those amazingly fast Olympic speed walkers. She just did not stroll. Whether we were shopping at the mall or simply heading to our neighbor’s house, we were on the run—or so it seemed to my young little legs that were trying to keep up. Once in awhile, I had to remind her, “Mom, you’re going too fast.” She would catch herself and smile at me, and slow down so that I wasn’t left behind. Back then, I didn’t realize that she had a list of things to accomplish in a certain amount of time. At that age, I couldn’t understand that my mom carried a ton of responsibility as a mother and wife. She had limited time and sometimes limited money. She moved quickly because she was trying to make every minute count.

Now it’s my turn. Thirty years later I have two precious children and a loving husband. Like so many families, we find ourselves amidst this rush-and-hurry world—at a time even more busy than the one my parents guided me through. Sometimes I remember back to my mother’s fast gait and consciously try to slow myself down, especially when I look down and see my young ones trying to keep up. And it’s hard! I’ve got places to go, people to see! I have a lot to do! As a stay-at-home mom, a wife, and a freelance editor, it often seems that there are not enough minutes in the day for me to get it all done.

So as I rushed the kids around this morning, asking my daughter to brush her teeth for the third time instead of posing in the bathroom mirror, while chasing my three-year-old who really just wanted to go “commando” today, all the while reminding them that we needed to get moving so we wouldn’t be late for school, I caught myself. I heard the words that I often say to my children, It’s not a race, guys! I took a deep breath, and we finished getting ready calmly and together and happy—and even made it to school with a few minutes to spare.

And So It Begins

2009-08-27T09:05:00.000-07:00

While my daughter snuggled up with her fluffy white seal Marshmallow, literally with a smile on her precious face and dreaming of her first day of "big school" last night, I sat there on the edge of her bed with tears streaming down my face. I looked at her, our oldest, our first born, our sweet daughter. As I gently rubbed her soft cheek, careful not to wake her, I couldn't help but picture her first days on this earth. Her tiny fingers grasping mine as I rocked her in the NICU, awed, scared, amazed, overwhelmed, still slightly drugged, but mostly completely in love with this new little person. I opened my eyes and we were back in her room. Fast-forward five and a half years and here is my little love, just hours before she starts kindergarten.

I had tried to make the day feel special. Her favorite homemade breakfast, fun activities with me and her little brother, a trip to the library, followed by the delicious pastry shop in town. With her favorite pink frosted cupcake in hand, I watched enjoy her snack and smiled at her as she ran around the dessertery with one of her friends (also a new kindergartner). As the other mother and I commiserated over the idea of our daughters going off to kindergarten, I laughed inside at myself as I put up a brave front about how excited I was about the new teacher (which of course I was) but it was only a mask to cover my breaking heart. I know she felt the same way. We sort of smiled a knowing mommy smile at each other as she left with her kids and I exited with mine, quietly wishing each other good luck for the next day.

This morning we (of course Dad and little brother had to go too) all walked into the school hand-in-hand. I fought back the tears so hard my eyes hurt. The sweet little students grouped together for morning story time. Without much hesitation, my little kindergartner walked over and picked a seat on the colorful carpet, listening intently to the reader. A few minutes passed and each of the kindergarten teachers called her class to come join her and walk to the classroom, just 20 feet away from the reading area. Again with no qualms my little girl assembled with her new classmates and her teacher, eager to find her name tag at her table. I knew it was time to leave soon. So I tried to take a few quick pictures. She was so excited and ready to listen to the teacher's next request, she barely turned around for a shot. After a quick "I love you" we three scooted out the door, leaving one of us behind. But she did not seem to care a bit. And I knew that was how it was supposed to be.

And so begins a new chapter in our lives. Thankfully I have two years to prepare for our youngest's school entrance. It will probably take me that long to recoup from this one.