By Kelly
I earned a new badge today.
I am now, officially, a soccer mom.
My five-year-old son started practicing with a bunch of fellow pre-kindergarteners this morning. I don’t know who was more excited, him or me. Because this isn’t just his first venture into team sports – it’s also mine.
The way my parents tell it, back in the 1970s when I grew up, children weren’t automatically enrolled in sports as soon as they started to walk. In fact, the female children weren’t generally signed up for sports at all. (Especially in the South, where my Mom was raised. In those parts, a girl playing sports was sighed over, seeing as she was a bit confused about obvious gender roles.)
Thus, I grew up without ever playing a sport. And looking back, that might have been God’s first blessing over my life. Because my eyes are disparate, I have almost no depth perception. In practical terms, I can’t tell that the ball barreling toward my face is six inches from breaking my nose.
Which is a liability on the field.
Also? I throw like a girl.
By the time I got to high school, and it was acceptable and even encouraged for girls to play sports, I was way past the time period where I would risk my self-esteem by learning something new. So I left the sports playing to my brother – who is an incredible athlete – and I stuck to things that were easy for me, like writing and getting good grades and drama and talking on the phone.
Since God has a profound sense of humor, I married a jock. My husband has played and excelled at every sport known to man. When we were dating, it was a bit of game.
“Tennis?”
“Junior high.”
“Swimming?”
“Swim club.”
“Martial arts?”
“Black belt in four styles.”
”Tiddlywinks?”
“Never turned professional, but could have.”
You name it, he did it. To my amusement, his lifestyle preference continued even after the wedding. Suddenly, I was immersed in competitive softball and flag football. I learned to keep a scorebook (to earn my keep), and I spent many balmy evenings at the batting cage and driving range.
I didn’t play. But I started to see the value in sports. The teamwork. The camaraderie. The exercise. The discipline. The broken bones.
Deep in my soul, a nugget of regret took root. I wished I could go back and do it over. Chances are, I would never have excelled at t-ball or soccer. But maybe I would have been a great swimmer or diver or skater.
Maybe.
So when my son said he wanted to learn to play soccer this summer, I eagerly agreed. This is uncharted territory for both of us. But I’m excited to watch him try. I hope he learns to work hard, have fun and show grace in victory and defeat. I’m looking forward to sitting on the sidelines, marveling at his growth and cheering his every kick.
I just hope he doesn’t kick the ball toward me. Because soccer mom badge or not, I still won’t be able to duck before it smacks me in the face.
Kelly’s preferred sport these days is blogging, which she does at her personal blog, Love Well.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
An A+ Family
By Kelly
I tried not to eavesdrop, but it was hard not to listen.
“Some families are just out of control,” said one of the voices. “I mean, seriously.”
I glanced sideways at the table next to ours. We were sitting in the dining room of a nice hotel, enjoying the final moments of the breakfast buffet, along with a few other families and some late-rising stragglers.
The table next to us was in the second category. Three young men sat around it, looking like they’d just rolled out of bed. Wrinkled t-shirts, grungy jeans, unshaven faces, they nursed cups of coffee and toasted bagels as they winced at the noises surrounding them.
“I know,” said another young man at the table. “It’s like, can’t you control your kids? Who’s in charge here, anyway?”
I knew immediately who they were talking about.
At the other end of the dining room, a family was at Def-Con 1. A baby, probably around eight months old, was screaming – and I mean SCREAMING – in his high chair. His older sister, probably three, was doing laps around the table, incensed that her parents wouldn’t get her another bowl of Lucky Charms from the buffet. “But I want it! I WANT IT!” she shrieked.
Her parents, equal parts exasperated and mortified, were trying their best not to escalate the situation. “Honey, you need to sit down,” they hissed, attempting to ignore the dark looks shooting their way. “You’ve got to finish the Lucky Charms you have before you get more.”
“Noooooo! I don’t want to! I want more NOW!” countered the girl, as she squirmed out of her dad’s reach.
The commotion made it harder to snoop on the band members. (Note: I don’t really know if they were part of a band. But that’s how I had them pegged at this point.)
“They should give grades to parents,” suggested one of the men.
“I know! Like, I’d give them a D-,” said another, gesturing toward the meltdown underway.
Snickers all around.
“And this family?” said another, jerking his head toward our table. (My ears pricked.) “I’d give this family an A+. These parents know what they’re doing.”
An A+?!?!
I looked at my tablemates. My kids were sitting nicely on their seats. Natalie was adding yet another packet of butter to her English muffin. Connor was eating his Raisin Bran silently, his eyes fixed on the situation at the other end of the dining room. Teyla was thoughtfully mashing a banana. Corey was stirring his coffee.
My heart and my head swelled to three times their normal size.
“Well,” I thought to myself. “Yes. Obviously, my children are angels. And we're not perfect, but Corey and I are pretty good parents. We try to have fun with our kids but still enforce boundaries. We would never let them….”
And then I started laughing to myself. Because as much as I wanted to pretend, I knew with every cell in my body that this A+ moment was just that – a moment. No family looks good all the time, and I doubted the family at the other end of the dining room was really as big of a disaster as they appeared.
Thankfully, we were at a different hotel the next morning, so the band wasn’t at breakfast when my older two decided to crawl on the carpet like miniature commandos because they were bored. They didn’t see the baby discover a piece of petrified bacon under one of the tables and pop it into her mouth before I could grab it. (Building her immunity. Building her immunity.) They didn’t see the sugar packets that were hastily stuffed back into the holder after the baby spilled them out for the third time, or the coffee that was sloshed, or the food that was wasted because “it doesn’t taste good anymore.”
Because the truth is, we can go from an A+ to a D- in 20 minutes flat.
My only hope is that we're eventually graded on a curve.
Kelly grades herself on a daily basis at her personal blog, Love Well.
I tried not to eavesdrop, but it was hard not to listen.
“Some families are just out of control,” said one of the voices. “I mean, seriously.”
I glanced sideways at the table next to ours. We were sitting in the dining room of a nice hotel, enjoying the final moments of the breakfast buffet, along with a few other families and some late-rising stragglers.
The table next to us was in the second category. Three young men sat around it, looking like they’d just rolled out of bed. Wrinkled t-shirts, grungy jeans, unshaven faces, they nursed cups of coffee and toasted bagels as they winced at the noises surrounding them.
“I know,” said another young man at the table. “It’s like, can’t you control your kids? Who’s in charge here, anyway?”
I knew immediately who they were talking about.
At the other end of the dining room, a family was at Def-Con 1. A baby, probably around eight months old, was screaming – and I mean SCREAMING – in his high chair. His older sister, probably three, was doing laps around the table, incensed that her parents wouldn’t get her another bowl of Lucky Charms from the buffet. “But I want it! I WANT IT!” she shrieked.
Her parents, equal parts exasperated and mortified, were trying their best not to escalate the situation. “Honey, you need to sit down,” they hissed, attempting to ignore the dark looks shooting their way. “You’ve got to finish the Lucky Charms you have before you get more.”
“Noooooo! I don’t want to! I want more NOW!” countered the girl, as she squirmed out of her dad’s reach.
The commotion made it harder to snoop on the band members. (Note: I don’t really know if they were part of a band. But that’s how I had them pegged at this point.)
“They should give grades to parents,” suggested one of the men.
“I know! Like, I’d give them a D-,” said another, gesturing toward the meltdown underway.
Snickers all around.
“And this family?” said another, jerking his head toward our table. (My ears pricked.) “I’d give this family an A+. These parents know what they’re doing.”
An A+?!?!
I looked at my tablemates. My kids were sitting nicely on their seats. Natalie was adding yet another packet of butter to her English muffin. Connor was eating his Raisin Bran silently, his eyes fixed on the situation at the other end of the dining room. Teyla was thoughtfully mashing a banana. Corey was stirring his coffee.
My heart and my head swelled to three times their normal size.
“Well,” I thought to myself. “Yes. Obviously, my children are angels. And we're not perfect, but Corey and I are pretty good parents. We try to have fun with our kids but still enforce boundaries. We would never let them….”
And then I started laughing to myself. Because as much as I wanted to pretend, I knew with every cell in my body that this A+ moment was just that – a moment. No family looks good all the time, and I doubted the family at the other end of the dining room was really as big of a disaster as they appeared.
Thankfully, we were at a different hotel the next morning, so the band wasn’t at breakfast when my older two decided to crawl on the carpet like miniature commandos because they were bored. They didn’t see the baby discover a piece of petrified bacon under one of the tables and pop it into her mouth before I could grab it. (Building her immunity. Building her immunity.) They didn’t see the sugar packets that were hastily stuffed back into the holder after the baby spilled them out for the third time, or the coffee that was sloshed, or the food that was wasted because “it doesn’t taste good anymore.”
Because the truth is, we can go from an A+ to a D- in 20 minutes flat.
My only hope is that we're eventually graded on a curve.
Kelly grades herself on a daily basis at her personal blog, Love Well.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
The Lilacs
By Kelly
The lilacs are blooming.
Nothing says early summer to me quite like a bush rich with amethyst blossoms. They are ubiquitous right now, strewn willy-nilly around the neighborhood, equally at home on a freeway overpass as they are in the front yard of a much-loved cottage. The air is perfumed with their innocent sweetness.
Next week, they’ll be gone. I’ve been furtively gathering small bouquets when I can – I keep clippers in my car – so I can savor the lilacs’ fleeting luxury.
But the best part about the lilacs this year is the realization that my children share this joy with me. They’ve been helping me spot neglected lilac bushes on public property, where we might stop to snag a few blossoms. They’ve buried their noses deep into the purple flowers and closed their eyes to sniff. “Mmmmm, Mom. That does smell good.” And just today, I heard my oldest daughter sigh and say, “The lilacs on that bush are already fading, Mom.”
It satisfies a longing in my heart that I didn’t even know I had until now – a longing for my children to share the sensory cues of “home” with me.
I spent most of my growing up years in Minnesota, and they were happy, carefree, innocent years. To me, home is the croaking of tree frogs on a summer’s night, the sight of sunlight sparkling on a crisp blue lake, ice skates slicing across a frozen pond, abundant green leaves changing to auburn and pumpkin and gold. It’s hockey and snow days and the fevered anticipation of spring and the joyride of summer and the State Fair and pine forests and water everywhere you look.
But since my husband and I moved to Southern California shortly after we got married, with the intent to stay in San Diego until The Big Earthquake carried us into the Pacific, I thought all those markers of home would be mine alone. I ventured that our future children would associate home with sunny days and cool nights, the sound of fighter jets roaring overhead and the smell of salt breezes off the ocean.
And while I accepted my future, I also secretly mourned the shared legacy of home. I knew that a trip back to the Midwest once a year wouldn’t be enough to put Minnesota into their DNA.
I never imagined that someday, my children would come to love the lilacs as much as I.
It is a gift as lovely and as delightful as the flower itself.
Kelly makes her home in the blogosphere at Love Well.
The lilacs are blooming.
Nothing says early summer to me quite like a bush rich with amethyst blossoms. They are ubiquitous right now, strewn willy-nilly around the neighborhood, equally at home on a freeway overpass as they are in the front yard of a much-loved cottage. The air is perfumed with their innocent sweetness.
Next week, they’ll be gone. I’ve been furtively gathering small bouquets when I can – I keep clippers in my car – so I can savor the lilacs’ fleeting luxury.
But the best part about the lilacs this year is the realization that my children share this joy with me. They’ve been helping me spot neglected lilac bushes on public property, where we might stop to snag a few blossoms. They’ve buried their noses deep into the purple flowers and closed their eyes to sniff. “Mmmmm, Mom. That does smell good.” And just today, I heard my oldest daughter sigh and say, “The lilacs on that bush are already fading, Mom.”
It satisfies a longing in my heart that I didn’t even know I had until now – a longing for my children to share the sensory cues of “home” with me.
I spent most of my growing up years in Minnesota, and they were happy, carefree, innocent years. To me, home is the croaking of tree frogs on a summer’s night, the sight of sunlight sparkling on a crisp blue lake, ice skates slicing across a frozen pond, abundant green leaves changing to auburn and pumpkin and gold. It’s hockey and snow days and the fevered anticipation of spring and the joyride of summer and the State Fair and pine forests and water everywhere you look.
But since my husband and I moved to Southern California shortly after we got married, with the intent to stay in San Diego until The Big Earthquake carried us into the Pacific, I thought all those markers of home would be mine alone. I ventured that our future children would associate home with sunny days and cool nights, the sound of fighter jets roaring overhead and the smell of salt breezes off the ocean.
And while I accepted my future, I also secretly mourned the shared legacy of home. I knew that a trip back to the Midwest once a year wouldn’t be enough to put Minnesota into their DNA.
I never imagined that someday, my children would come to love the lilacs as much as I.
It is a gift as lovely and as delightful as the flower itself.
Kelly makes her home in the blogosphere at Love Well.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Lessons Learned
By Kelly
To parent successfully, one must be both teacher and student.
Here is what I’ve learned from my children this past week. Note: This is an abridged version.
Dialing 911 even in the middle of sequence still calls 911.
Guess which 16-month-old doesn’t get to play with the phone anymore?
Personal aside to the weary but kind 911 operator who called me back two separate times to make sure I was really OK: Bless you. And yes, I'd tell you if something was wrong.
I have boogers hidden all over my house.
This lesson comes courtesy of my seven-year-old daughter, who recently picked up (ahem) the habit of picking her nose. When I asked her how she might cope with a successful digging expedition, she replied with startling nonchalance, “Oh, if I get boogers, I just hide them somewhere you can’t find them. I’ve got boogers hidden all over the house.”
Good to know.
Blueberries make a great snack for toddlers.
I never tried them out on my older two kids, thinking their little palates wouldn’t approve. But Teyla eats them like they are candy.
Blueberries make for some dark diapers.
Black as the blackest midnight on a stormy night.
It’s possible to be full of dinner yet still have room for dessert.
This is a lesson I should have learned when I was a child, seeing as I used it on my parents all the time. I clearly remember picturing my stomach as a large bag with pockets lining the inside; each pocket was labeled with the food it was designed to contain. Thus, I could be full of chicken but not full of ice cream.
Apparently, I passed on that freaky stomach to my children.
I am more refreshed after my children nap than after I nap.
My 16-month-old took a three-hour nap today. I cleaned my whole house, started the laundry, watered the plants and sewed up a hole in one of Natalie’s stuffed horses. Apparently, the Nap Fairy also carries some mini-Martha Stewart dust in her pouch.
Whole milk + sippy cup + day at the beach = sippy cup in the garbage.
Memorial Day indeed. The smell alone will ensure it stays with me forever.
Luke Skywalker has a brother.
My five-year-old son insists this is true. Also? Indiana Jones is his father.
Harrison Ford gets around, apparently.
What did you learn this week?
You can find more life lessons about boogers and the familal lines of Lego minifigures at Kelly's personal blog, Love Well.
To parent successfully, one must be both teacher and student.
Here is what I’ve learned from my children this past week. Note: This is an abridged version.
Dialing 911 even in the middle of sequence still calls 911.
Guess which 16-month-old doesn’t get to play with the phone anymore?
Personal aside to the weary but kind 911 operator who called me back two separate times to make sure I was really OK: Bless you. And yes, I'd tell you if something was wrong.
I have boogers hidden all over my house.
This lesson comes courtesy of my seven-year-old daughter, who recently picked up (ahem) the habit of picking her nose. When I asked her how she might cope with a successful digging expedition, she replied with startling nonchalance, “Oh, if I get boogers, I just hide them somewhere you can’t find them. I’ve got boogers hidden all over the house.”
Good to know.
Blueberries make a great snack for toddlers.
I never tried them out on my older two kids, thinking their little palates wouldn’t approve. But Teyla eats them like they are candy.
Blueberries make for some dark diapers.
Black as the blackest midnight on a stormy night.
It’s possible to be full of dinner yet still have room for dessert.
This is a lesson I should have learned when I was a child, seeing as I used it on my parents all the time. I clearly remember picturing my stomach as a large bag with pockets lining the inside; each pocket was labeled with the food it was designed to contain. Thus, I could be full of chicken but not full of ice cream.
Apparently, I passed on that freaky stomach to my children.
I am more refreshed after my children nap than after I nap.
My 16-month-old took a three-hour nap today. I cleaned my whole house, started the laundry, watered the plants and sewed up a hole in one of Natalie’s stuffed horses. Apparently, the Nap Fairy also carries some mini-Martha Stewart dust in her pouch.
Whole milk + sippy cup + day at the beach = sippy cup in the garbage.
Memorial Day indeed. The smell alone will ensure it stays with me forever.
Luke Skywalker has a brother.
My five-year-old son insists this is true. Also? Indiana Jones is his father.
Harrison Ford gets around, apparently.
What did you learn this week?
You can find more life lessons about boogers and the familal lines of Lego minifigures at Kelly's personal blog, Love Well.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Year-End Project
By Kelly
The state of Minnesota apparently took an Instant Summer pill today. It’s so beautiful outside, it hurts. (Or maybe that’s just the 97-degree sunshine hitting my arms.) The kids in our neighborhood are riding bikes, shouting greetings, begging for another popsicle. According to one little girl, her whole body is boiling! As if we live on the sun or in Houston or something.
But my daughter, my seven-year-old who loves to draw with sidewalk chalk and pet the dogs and ride her bike to the pond on the corner, isn’t outside. Rather, she’s restricted to the kitchen table this fine afternoon, working on a year-end project assigned by her second grade teacher.
Lest I be misunderstood, let me say up front: I revere teachers. I taught high school for a year and a half – a media class, which isn’t even a real subject – and every morning, I woke up and prayed for the flu. It was that miserable. Teaching is a calling, a gift, a ministry. I’m in awe that there are people who love this job and love my kids and pass on knowledge with creativity and wit and patience.
But the homework. Oy. The homework. And in the spring, no less.
This is new territory for me, since Natalie is my oldest. I’m still a guppy in the school of school. But I’ve heard the grumbling about homework for years. What does it really accomplish? Isn’t it just busy work? Wouldn’t it be better for kids to have that time for their family? What happens when projects are assigned that are clearly beyond the ability of the child to handle?
And then, the biggest irritant of all – the year-end project. Seems teachers just can’t resist assigning one last, comprehensive project a mere feet before the student cross the finish line – and that project is almost always something that involves the whole family.
It’s like those college professors who pile on the paperwork near the end of the semester, right before finals, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they aren’t the only professor in the world.
Doubling the pain for us in the Upper Midwest is that, by the middle of May, it’s finally nice enough for the kids to play outside. I don’t mind gigantic projects in January, when there is nothing else to do but watch the snow fall and the thermometer break. But when it’s 85 and sunny and the lilacs are blooming and the gardens are being planted? Homework seems downright malicious.
But what can a guppy parent do? Nothing, I think.
So tonight, we’ll eat ice cream indoors, while we fill her covered wagon with things a typical pioneer family might have taken on their trip out west. (I’m not sure the Ingalls’ horses were as glittery or as purple as the Polly Pocket horse pulling our wagon. Clearly, our wagon is headed for Vegas.) (Come to think of it, Natalie did add a small deck of cards a few minutes ago. Double-down, Pa. Double-down.)
Then we’ll pack it carefully for the trip to school tomorrow and turn it in with a flourish.
Because nothing says Instant Summer like no homework for three months. Hallelujah and amen.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well -- once she's done with her homework, of course.
The state of Minnesota apparently took an Instant Summer pill today. It’s so beautiful outside, it hurts. (Or maybe that’s just the 97-degree sunshine hitting my arms.) The kids in our neighborhood are riding bikes, shouting greetings, begging for another popsicle. According to one little girl, her whole body is boiling! As if we live on the sun or in Houston or something.
But my daughter, my seven-year-old who loves to draw with sidewalk chalk and pet the dogs and ride her bike to the pond on the corner, isn’t outside. Rather, she’s restricted to the kitchen table this fine afternoon, working on a year-end project assigned by her second grade teacher.
Lest I be misunderstood, let me say up front: I revere teachers. I taught high school for a year and a half – a media class, which isn’t even a real subject – and every morning, I woke up and prayed for the flu. It was that miserable. Teaching is a calling, a gift, a ministry. I’m in awe that there are people who love this job and love my kids and pass on knowledge with creativity and wit and patience.
But the homework. Oy. The homework. And in the spring, no less.
This is new territory for me, since Natalie is my oldest. I’m still a guppy in the school of school. But I’ve heard the grumbling about homework for years. What does it really accomplish? Isn’t it just busy work? Wouldn’t it be better for kids to have that time for their family? What happens when projects are assigned that are clearly beyond the ability of the child to handle?
And then, the biggest irritant of all – the year-end project. Seems teachers just can’t resist assigning one last, comprehensive project a mere feet before the student cross the finish line – and that project is almost always something that involves the whole family.
It’s like those college professors who pile on the paperwork near the end of the semester, right before finals, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they aren’t the only professor in the world.
Doubling the pain for us in the Upper Midwest is that, by the middle of May, it’s finally nice enough for the kids to play outside. I don’t mind gigantic projects in January, when there is nothing else to do but watch the snow fall and the thermometer break. But when it’s 85 and sunny and the lilacs are blooming and the gardens are being planted? Homework seems downright malicious.
But what can a guppy parent do? Nothing, I think.
So tonight, we’ll eat ice cream indoors, while we fill her covered wagon with things a typical pioneer family might have taken on their trip out west. (I’m not sure the Ingalls’ horses were as glittery or as purple as the Polly Pocket horse pulling our wagon. Clearly, our wagon is headed for Vegas.) (Come to think of it, Natalie did add a small deck of cards a few minutes ago. Double-down, Pa. Double-down.)
Then we’ll pack it carefully for the trip to school tomorrow and turn it in with a flourish.
Because nothing says Instant Summer like no homework for three months. Hallelujah and amen.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well -- once she's done with her homework, of course.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Do Over
By Kelly
The morning has not gone well.
I had hoped to get up early and write, something I rarely do, but hold as an option of last resort when my brain is too mushy to be creative after the kids go to bed. (And last night, my brain was mushy by 9:00 PM; I almost fell asleep reading “Amelia Bedelia.” Do you have any idea how hard it is to say Amelia Bedelia when your jaw is going slack? Try it. Amelia Bedelia. Amelia Bedelia. Amelia Bedelia. That’s almost impossible for me to say on the best of days.)
So. I set my alarm for 6:00 AM and hoped for a few blessed moments alone. To think. To maybe drink some coffee in peace. To hear the quiet.
But ‘twas not to be. The baby got up at 5:30, irritable and scowling, obviously not even sure she wanted to be awake yet. (“You and me both, kid,” I sighed to myself.) I spent the next hour trying to get her back to sleep. But she never settled. At 6:30, I gave up. I carried the cranky baby downstairs, the better not to wake her older siblings, and turned on the TV. Maybe “Blue’s Clues” could buy me a few minutes of peace.
But ‘twas not to be. The older kids, who are tuned in to such things, heard the quiet blip of the TV turning on and quickly joined me on the couch, rubbing their eyes and pleading for an early morning showing of “Special Agent Oso,” their new favorite show. Too tired and annoyed to stick with the household rule of “no TV on school mornings,” I flipped the channel and decided to take a shower before writing. Surely, in the shower, I could find a few moments alone to think and create and generally pull myself out of the Forest of Frustration.
But ‘twas not to be. No sooner had I gotten into the shower than the baby started playing Peek-A-Boo with the curtain. Then, sensing a weakness, she ransacked the cabinets, spilling all the Q-Tips on the floor and shredding the toilet paper, which I had neglected to remove from the holder before I got into the shower.
And on it went. The kids started fighting as soon as the TV went off. “He hit me! He kicked me and hit me and spit at me and he doesn’t even care!” I couldn’t decide what to wear. The dog sat in her kennel and looked at me with weary eyes, wondering if I was every going to get around to taking her for a walk. The baby picked up a bag of small balloons from the game Balloon Lagoon, spilled them on the kitchen floor and proceeded to throw handfuls of them down the air vent. (Better than eating Polly Pocket’s shoes, though. I think.) Connor refused to brush his teeth unless I helped him. Natalie pouted because I wouldn’t hear her case for “why brothers should get a spanking every time they hit me.” And because my husband, the barista in our family, is out of town, I had no coffee.
I was snarky and exasperated. Like the weather outside my window, I felt gray and hazy and heavy with irritation.
We drove to school – after I ran up three flights of stairs to get a pair of socks for the baby since I couldn’t find her second sandal. The older kids, feeling the tension, ate pretzels (also known as “breakfast” on mornings like today) and tried to make small talk during the drive.
More than anything, I wanted a do over.
Outside Natalie’s classroom, I knelt down and gave her a big hug and said, “You know I’m not mad at you, right?”
She smiled in a knowing sort of way. “I know.”
“And you know I love you, right? More than anything in the world.”
“I know.”
I put on the baby’s socks and shoes, and we continued down the school hallways to take Connor to his preschool class. I was deep in my thoughts, brooding really, when a parent going the other way said, “Wow, someone’s sure happy this morning.”
Ummmm. Excuse me? Happy?!?
Then I realized she was pointing to the baby. The baby, who had woken up grumpy and whiny, was now toddling the hallways, swinging her arms in front of her in a lighthearted fashion. Her eyes were twinkling and inquisitive. Every few feet, she would stop to gaze at the colorful pictures on the wall, remnants of the recent school art show. And at each stop, she would loudly sigh, “Ooooooo!” with a musical, deep voice, then shriek loudly, swing her arms some more and move on to the next attraction.
Yes. Happy. That’s what she was. She was happy. She was in the moment, not weighed down by a morning gone awry. She was awash in the joy of discovery, eager to see what might be around the next corner.
Happy.
And in that instant, she did magic.
She gave me a perfect do over.
This post is dedicated to the box of Dora the Explorer Band-Aids that were destroyed while I wrote it. Because even happy babies need entertaining.
Kelly also writes at her personal blog, Love Well. That is, if she has enough Band-Aids.
The morning has not gone well.
I had hoped to get up early and write, something I rarely do, but hold as an option of last resort when my brain is too mushy to be creative after the kids go to bed. (And last night, my brain was mushy by 9:00 PM; I almost fell asleep reading “Amelia Bedelia.” Do you have any idea how hard it is to say Amelia Bedelia when your jaw is going slack? Try it. Amelia Bedelia. Amelia Bedelia. Amelia Bedelia. That’s almost impossible for me to say on the best of days.)
So. I set my alarm for 6:00 AM and hoped for a few blessed moments alone. To think. To maybe drink some coffee in peace. To hear the quiet.
But ‘twas not to be. The baby got up at 5:30, irritable and scowling, obviously not even sure she wanted to be awake yet. (“You and me both, kid,” I sighed to myself.) I spent the next hour trying to get her back to sleep. But she never settled. At 6:30, I gave up. I carried the cranky baby downstairs, the better not to wake her older siblings, and turned on the TV. Maybe “Blue’s Clues” could buy me a few minutes of peace.
But ‘twas not to be. The older kids, who are tuned in to such things, heard the quiet blip of the TV turning on and quickly joined me on the couch, rubbing their eyes and pleading for an early morning showing of “Special Agent Oso,” their new favorite show. Too tired and annoyed to stick with the household rule of “no TV on school mornings,” I flipped the channel and decided to take a shower before writing. Surely, in the shower, I could find a few moments alone to think and create and generally pull myself out of the Forest of Frustration.
But ‘twas not to be. No sooner had I gotten into the shower than the baby started playing Peek-A-Boo with the curtain. Then, sensing a weakness, she ransacked the cabinets, spilling all the Q-Tips on the floor and shredding the toilet paper, which I had neglected to remove from the holder before I got into the shower.
And on it went. The kids started fighting as soon as the TV went off. “He hit me! He kicked me and hit me and spit at me and he doesn’t even care!” I couldn’t decide what to wear. The dog sat in her kennel and looked at me with weary eyes, wondering if I was every going to get around to taking her for a walk. The baby picked up a bag of small balloons from the game Balloon Lagoon, spilled them on the kitchen floor and proceeded to throw handfuls of them down the air vent. (Better than eating Polly Pocket’s shoes, though. I think.) Connor refused to brush his teeth unless I helped him. Natalie pouted because I wouldn’t hear her case for “why brothers should get a spanking every time they hit me.” And because my husband, the barista in our family, is out of town, I had no coffee.
I was snarky and exasperated. Like the weather outside my window, I felt gray and hazy and heavy with irritation.
We drove to school – after I ran up three flights of stairs to get a pair of socks for the baby since I couldn’t find her second sandal. The older kids, feeling the tension, ate pretzels (also known as “breakfast” on mornings like today) and tried to make small talk during the drive.
More than anything, I wanted a do over.
Outside Natalie’s classroom, I knelt down and gave her a big hug and said, “You know I’m not mad at you, right?”
She smiled in a knowing sort of way. “I know.”
“And you know I love you, right? More than anything in the world.”
“I know.”
I put on the baby’s socks and shoes, and we continued down the school hallways to take Connor to his preschool class. I was deep in my thoughts, brooding really, when a parent going the other way said, “Wow, someone’s sure happy this morning.”
Ummmm. Excuse me? Happy?!?
Then I realized she was pointing to the baby. The baby, who had woken up grumpy and whiny, was now toddling the hallways, swinging her arms in front of her in a lighthearted fashion. Her eyes were twinkling and inquisitive. Every few feet, she would stop to gaze at the colorful pictures on the wall, remnants of the recent school art show. And at each stop, she would loudly sigh, “Ooooooo!” with a musical, deep voice, then shriek loudly, swing her arms some more and move on to the next attraction.
Yes. Happy. That’s what she was. She was happy. She was in the moment, not weighed down by a morning gone awry. She was awash in the joy of discovery, eager to see what might be around the next corner.
Happy.
And in that instant, she did magic.
She gave me a perfect do over.
This post is dedicated to the box of Dora the Explorer Band-Aids that were destroyed while I wrote it. Because even happy babies need entertaining.
Kelly also writes at her personal blog, Love Well. That is, if she has enough Band-Aids.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
The Shower
By Kelly
It’s dusk.
I sit in the rocking chair and read a book to the freshly bathed baby, who smells like the breath of heaven. On the other side of the wall, the shower runs. I can hear the rush of water, the splattering noise it makes on the curtain liner. But louder than either of those sounds is the contented off-key humming of my older daughter, seven-year-old Natalie.
It was just last week that she stunned my husband and me by announcing, “I think I’d like to take a shower tonight.” Surprised, we agreed she could try.
Up to this point, we, the parents, have been in charge of the nightly anti-germ ritual for all three of our children, and it has always taken the form of a bath. In fact, we sometimes used the shower as a threat when faced with bath time belligerence.
“Fine, if you don’t want a bath tonight, would you rather take a shower?”
“NOOOO! No showers!” the children would wail in return. Because, after all, what kid wants to stand alone in a semi-dark space and fight to keep shampoo from running into their eyes?
But Natalie’s determined yet nonchalant request last week didn’t betray fear. In fact, her voice was excited.
She was ready to move on.
The first night, my husband stood near the shower and told her what to do. “You need to lean your head way back to get out all the shampoo. … Just shut your eyes. … You’re going great!”
By the second night, she was mostly alone, with just a few check-in sessions from one of us.
By the third night, she was showering like a pro, completely unassisted. She took to singing in the stall, humming and dancing and spinning under the falling water.
She’s so proud of herself.
Even now, I can hear her new self-confidence in the lilting notes, the gentle harmony of water and delight.
Then, suddenly, the shower turns off. The curtain screeches like fingernails on a chalkboard as its pulled aside.
And I hear the water, just like the years, drain away faster than I can comprehend.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well.
It’s dusk.
I sit in the rocking chair and read a book to the freshly bathed baby, who smells like the breath of heaven. On the other side of the wall, the shower runs. I can hear the rush of water, the splattering noise it makes on the curtain liner. But louder than either of those sounds is the contented off-key humming of my older daughter, seven-year-old Natalie.
It was just last week that she stunned my husband and me by announcing, “I think I’d like to take a shower tonight.” Surprised, we agreed she could try.
Up to this point, we, the parents, have been in charge of the nightly anti-germ ritual for all three of our children, and it has always taken the form of a bath. In fact, we sometimes used the shower as a threat when faced with bath time belligerence.
“Fine, if you don’t want a bath tonight, would you rather take a shower?”
“NOOOO! No showers!” the children would wail in return. Because, after all, what kid wants to stand alone in a semi-dark space and fight to keep shampoo from running into their eyes?
But Natalie’s determined yet nonchalant request last week didn’t betray fear. In fact, her voice was excited.
She was ready to move on.
The first night, my husband stood near the shower and told her what to do. “You need to lean your head way back to get out all the shampoo. … Just shut your eyes. … You’re going great!”
By the second night, she was mostly alone, with just a few check-in sessions from one of us.
By the third night, she was showering like a pro, completely unassisted. She took to singing in the stall, humming and dancing and spinning under the falling water.
She’s so proud of herself.
Even now, I can hear her new self-confidence in the lilting notes, the gentle harmony of water and delight.
Then, suddenly, the shower turns off. The curtain screeches like fingernails on a chalkboard as its pulled aside.
And I hear the water, just like the years, drain away faster than I can comprehend.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well.
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