By Kelly
I know for many families in the United States, school is already underway.
Which leads me to ask, "Seriously? School on August 9? Who does that?"
Here in Minnesota, school doesn’t start until the day after Labor Day. (It’s the law.) And while I don’t want to sound all high and mighty, I’m pretty sure that’s the day God intended kids to go back to school. Memorial Day is the beginning of summer. Labor Day is the end. Those holidays are divinely appointed bookends to keep summer from being spirited away by miserly gremlins who worry more about "testing" and "brain drain" than giving our children a chance to actually relax and sit in the grass and watch the clouds dance across the sky.
(Sorry about the slobber. I’ll get off my soapbox now.)
I guess I'm also personally thankful to have some extra time to prepare. This will only be the second year I've been the parent of a school-aged child, and the whole school experience is a minefield for newbies to navigate.
Case in point:
Last year, my oldest child, Natalie, started first grade. The second week of school, Natalie brought home a list of 10 words and announced there would be spelling tests each Friday.
“Fabulous!” I smiled to myself. “My little girl is really growing up. We’re on Learning Lane now.”
I was a little concerned about the difficulty of the words, considering she was still struggling to grasp basic phonics. But I figured the teachers must know what they are doing. After all, they are the experts.
Imagine my shock when she came home that first Friday, carrying a test with a big +3 on the top in red ink. She, being blissfully naïve, was thrilled. “I only got seven wrong, Mom! That’s three right!”
I, however, was horrified. How did my daughter end up with such a low score?
I inquired of her teacher. She gently pointed out that it might help if Natalie studied her spelling words at home during the week.
Apparently, it’s called homework (insert air quotes here), and I, being a Mom, am now responsible for such matters.
Humbling? Yes. But it was a good lesson. I'm a rookie in the Big Leagues now. I should keep my eyes open and my mouth shut.
Through trial and error, I learned that I'm responsible for spelling words and the "suggested" reading that is sent home each week.
But overall, I'm still really green.
I don't know if it's OK to request the second-grade teacher I'd like Natalie to have. (Is that obnoxious? Or normal?) I don't know if I should continue to walk her to her classroom each morning. (Overbearing? Or caring?) I don't know how much I should help her when she's doing her homework, or how often I should remind her to clean out her folder, or if I should make excuses for the days she'll miss school for family trips.
It's just a whole lot of new -- for both of us.
Any suggestions from veteran Moms? I have six days until Labor Day.
Unless I can find a state that believes school shouldn't start until Columbus Day. Sounds educational to me.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well, although she's currently taking a short hiatus to enjoy the last full week of summer. She'll return after Labor Day. Of course.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Margin
By Kelly
Last night, as I waited for my brain to turn off and the drowsiness to descend, I read through my journal from last year.
I was sad and slightly startled to see how much depth my writing had 12 months ago. These days, my writing tends toward the surface and the amusing. Nothing wrong with that, inherently. It’s a large part of who I am. I’m always thrilled when good friends tell me my blog is exactly like the real-life me. That’s a compliment.
Yet, I’m not a shallow person. At least, I didn’t use to be.
“I’m forlorn,” I thought to myself as I snuggled under the comforter, drowsiness padding my brain. “Yes, that’s it exactly. I’m forlorn.”
Waking up this morning to sunshine and cereal with blueberries and “Diego’s Moonlight Rescue,” I didn’t feel quite so melancholy. (My sanguine personality wastes little time throwing pity parties. They aren’t fun.)
But the basic premise remains: This year, I’m living. But I’m not delighting. At least, not enough.
I know much of this can be chalked up to the changes of the last year. New house, new city, new baby, new school, new church, new friends, new schedule. New, new, new. Who has time to reflect and ponder and wonder when the dishwasher needs to be unloaded and the dinner needs to be made and the kids need lunch and the baby needs to be held? Oh, and did I mention my husband has been gone at least a week each month on business trips?
Thus, I have been consumed by the urgent, day-to-day details of life. It takes a lot of energy to keep this many plates spinning.
And while I truly love the adventure of the new and the delight of new discoveries – and yes, a part of me even delights in the challenge of keeping the plates spinning – I also miss the old me.
The old me was better at balancing the surface, urgent life with the deep, important life. I was better at playing with my children, instead of excusing myself under the guise of getting another task accomplished. I was better at noticing the simple gifts in my path each day, instead of rushing about, like a chicken desperate to get its fill of grain before the wind blows it away.
I had more margin in my soul. More space. More room to breathe.
How do I get it back?
Kelly also blogs at Love Well.
Last night, as I waited for my brain to turn off and the drowsiness to descend, I read through my journal from last year.
I was sad and slightly startled to see how much depth my writing had 12 months ago. These days, my writing tends toward the surface and the amusing. Nothing wrong with that, inherently. It’s a large part of who I am. I’m always thrilled when good friends tell me my blog is exactly like the real-life me. That’s a compliment.
Yet, I’m not a shallow person. At least, I didn’t use to be.
“I’m forlorn,” I thought to myself as I snuggled under the comforter, drowsiness padding my brain. “Yes, that’s it exactly. I’m forlorn.”
Waking up this morning to sunshine and cereal with blueberries and “Diego’s Moonlight Rescue,” I didn’t feel quite so melancholy. (My sanguine personality wastes little time throwing pity parties. They aren’t fun.)
But the basic premise remains: This year, I’m living. But I’m not delighting. At least, not enough.
I know much of this can be chalked up to the changes of the last year. New house, new city, new baby, new school, new church, new friends, new schedule. New, new, new. Who has time to reflect and ponder and wonder when the dishwasher needs to be unloaded and the dinner needs to be made and the kids need lunch and the baby needs to be held? Oh, and did I mention my husband has been gone at least a week each month on business trips?
Thus, I have been consumed by the urgent, day-to-day details of life. It takes a lot of energy to keep this many plates spinning.
And while I truly love the adventure of the new and the delight of new discoveries – and yes, a part of me even delights in the challenge of keeping the plates spinning – I also miss the old me.
The old me was better at balancing the surface, urgent life with the deep, important life. I was better at playing with my children, instead of excusing myself under the guise of getting another task accomplished. I was better at noticing the simple gifts in my path each day, instead of rushing about, like a chicken desperate to get its fill of grain before the wind blows it away.
I had more margin in my soul. More space. More room to breathe.
How do I get it back?
Kelly also blogs at Love Well.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
The Hallway of Pew-Pew
By Kelly
Warning: This post is not for the weak of stomach or the faint of heart. Or for those eating breakfast. Especially if you're eating Cocoa Puffs.
Connor, my three-year-old, is currently potty-training. He's not all that thrilled about it, since he's just fine with diapers -- even if they are sagging to his knees. And it seems like whole lot of aggravation to him to stop playing just so he can go into the bathroom and do something he used to do while playing. But he's mildly excited about his new "big-boy" Diego underwear, and he likes putting yellow stars on his Potty Chart. And he's already met all the signs of potty training readiness. So -- onward and upward.
But, as I've come to understand, potty training a child is also potty training a Mom. (Can I get an Amen?!?) It means Mom now has to stop what she's doing and attend to a child who's wearing Pull-Ups or (help us Lord) "big-boy" underwear even though he isn't tuned in to the siren call of the nether-regions.
Which brings us to the moment last week, when my husband and I were lounging at the table after dinner. (Lounging is not common in our house, so when the moment presents itself, we wallow in it.) The kids were busy in the bathroom -- Natalie was splashing in the tub, and Connor was playing with some bath toys in the sink.
After five minutes of blissful adult conversation, Connor peaked around a corner of our kitchen, and caught my eye. I smiled. He smiled back. And then -- OH MY WORD! The odor. The nose-scalding, fumigatious odor! I practically knocked the chair over in my haste to get up. "Connor's got a really stinky diaper," I said to my husband in my never-ending quest to state the obvious. "It's bad!"
Connor heard me utter the words "stinky diaper" -- which is code for "get the heck out of here" in the Official Toddler Handbook -- and took off running. I rounded the corner to chase him and stopped dead because I found -- to my horror -- that there were little dots of what Natalie delicately calls "pew-pew" every few inches stretching the 15 feet from the kitchen to the bathroom. Connor, still fleeing, was wearing a Pull-Up that was mostly Pulled-Down from the weight of the load he was carrying. Seems someone hadn't remembered soon enough that Pull-Ups don't hold the amount of bodily fluids that diapers do.
Thankfully, I'm good in a crisis. "STOP!" I screamed at Connor. "STAY!" (Did I mention we used to have two dogs?) I grabbed a beach towel, wrapped up the boy and disintegrating Pull-Up and hauled the whole thing to his bedroom for a change that involved two adults, 58 diaper wipes and about a dozen dry heaves from Mom thanks to the unholy smell.
And the carpet? Let's not talk about it.
I've learned my lesson: Pull-Ups and other such potty-training paraphernalia should only be used under adult supervision. And by adult, I mean someone who's actually paying attention.
If my pain can help someone else avoid this misery, it will have all been worth it.
This public service announcement was originally published on Kelly's blog, Love Well, in March 2007. Thankfully, Connor finished potty training just in time for his little sister to be born in January. Thus, Kelly continues to be up to her elbows in pew-pew daily.
Warning: This post is not for the weak of stomach or the faint of heart. Or for those eating breakfast. Especially if you're eating Cocoa Puffs.
Connor, my three-year-old, is currently potty-training. He's not all that thrilled about it, since he's just fine with diapers -- even if they are sagging to his knees. And it seems like whole lot of aggravation to him to stop playing just so he can go into the bathroom and do something he used to do while playing. But he's mildly excited about his new "big-boy" Diego underwear, and he likes putting yellow stars on his Potty Chart. And he's already met all the signs of potty training readiness. So -- onward and upward.
But, as I've come to understand, potty training a child is also potty training a Mom. (Can I get an Amen?!?) It means Mom now has to stop what she's doing and attend to a child who's wearing Pull-Ups or (help us Lord) "big-boy" underwear even though he isn't tuned in to the siren call of the nether-regions.
Which brings us to the moment last week, when my husband and I were lounging at the table after dinner. (Lounging is not common in our house, so when the moment presents itself, we wallow in it.) The kids were busy in the bathroom -- Natalie was splashing in the tub, and Connor was playing with some bath toys in the sink.
After five minutes of blissful adult conversation, Connor peaked around a corner of our kitchen, and caught my eye. I smiled. He smiled back. And then -- OH MY WORD! The odor. The nose-scalding, fumigatious odor! I practically knocked the chair over in my haste to get up. "Connor's got a really stinky diaper," I said to my husband in my never-ending quest to state the obvious. "It's bad!"
Connor heard me utter the words "stinky diaper" -- which is code for "get the heck out of here" in the Official Toddler Handbook -- and took off running. I rounded the corner to chase him and stopped dead because I found -- to my horror -- that there were little dots of what Natalie delicately calls "pew-pew" every few inches stretching the 15 feet from the kitchen to the bathroom. Connor, still fleeing, was wearing a Pull-Up that was mostly Pulled-Down from the weight of the load he was carrying. Seems someone hadn't remembered soon enough that Pull-Ups don't hold the amount of bodily fluids that diapers do.
Thankfully, I'm good in a crisis. "STOP!" I screamed at Connor. "STAY!" (Did I mention we used to have two dogs?) I grabbed a beach towel, wrapped up the boy and disintegrating Pull-Up and hauled the whole thing to his bedroom for a change that involved two adults, 58 diaper wipes and about a dozen dry heaves from Mom thanks to the unholy smell.
And the carpet? Let's not talk about it.
I've learned my lesson: Pull-Ups and other such potty-training paraphernalia should only be used under adult supervision. And by adult, I mean someone who's actually paying attention.
If my pain can help someone else avoid this misery, it will have all been worth it.
This public service announcement was originally published on Kelly's blog, Love Well, in March 2007. Thankfully, Connor finished potty training just in time for his little sister to be born in January. Thus, Kelly continues to be up to her elbows in pew-pew daily.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Memories in a Flash
By Kelly
I finished Connor's baby book last month.
Don't be impressed.
He'll be five in October.
The books -- that's right, I'm confessing, he has baby books, plural, as in more than one -- are so mammoth, they really deserve their own birth announcement.
"Kelly @ Love Well is thrilled to introduce her newest addition, 'Connor: the First Year.' The books weigh approximately 20 pounds and stand 8 inches tall when stacked. 'Connor: The First Year' joins 'Natalie: The First Year' in the storage hutch, where they will hopefully be kept safe from the elements and all acid-tinged papers."
It's scrapbooking gone wild, people. It's INSANITY. And while I can certainly change my form of scrapbooking -- I'm currently switching to digital, and I love it -- I can't walk away from the idea of scrapbooking. Partly because my children are adorable, and partly because I want them to record my memories for them. But mostly because I have to do SOMETHING with the thousands upon thousands of pictures I take of them each year.
I wish that were an exaggeration. But it's not. And I bet you have a similar problem. In the olden days, when we had to buy film (remember that?) and then take our 36 snapshots and wait for the film to get developed (remember that?) before we got our prints back, we took considerably fewer photos. At least, I did. We didn't even own a camera (besides my pitiful 110, which hardly counts) the first five years of our marriage.
But now? My camera is digital. Pictures are free and immediate. Therefore, I have become the most annoying of paparazzi to my children. I take pictures all day, every day -- especially if we are doing something special like leaving the house or eating breakfast or playing at the park.
Don't believe me? I spent the weekend sorting through the pictures I took last week. I had to pick through almost 700.
(In my defense, we did all sorts of fun things last week, like visit the the county fair and celebrate Natalie's birthday and go to the beach. But still. It's the principle.)
I've been thinking about this digital photo addiction. Surely, some of it can be chalked up to the freedom granted by the digital era. We can see instantly if our shot was in focus or if someone blinked at the flash. We get instant gratification if our photos turn out well. (How many times have you told your husband to come look at the cute picture you just took -- even though he was standing next to you two seconds ago while you took the picture?) Plus, it's free. Why not take 150 pictures of kindergarten graduation? We don't have to print any of them if we don't want to.
But I wonder if something deeper is at play.
As a mom, I am increasingly aware of the passing of time. My children are growing up. My baby, whom I brought home from the hospital about a month ago, it seems, will be seven months old by the end of this week. My daughter just learned to ride her bike without training wheels. My son is playing with Legos -- the small ones, not the big ones -- and he doesn't need my help to get the pieces apart.
I can't stop time. Heck, I can't even slow it down.
But when I take a picture, ahhh. Then that moment is frozen. It's captured. It's mine. I can control time, even if the results are only in kilobytes.
It's a small way of keeping my children one or four or seven forever. Those chubby cheeks. That little hand. That quirky grin. In a picture, time stands still.
Which explains why I take a few pictures almost every day. I want to keep a few of those grains of sand that slip through my fingers.
Time marches on. But pictures are forever.
Kelly also blogs and shares her photos at Love Well.
I finished Connor's baby book last month.
Don't be impressed.
He'll be five in October.
The books -- that's right, I'm confessing, he has baby books, plural, as in more than one -- are so mammoth, they really deserve their own birth announcement.
"Kelly @ Love Well is thrilled to introduce her newest addition, 'Connor: the First Year.' The books weigh approximately 20 pounds and stand 8 inches tall when stacked. 'Connor: The First Year' joins 'Natalie: The First Year' in the storage hutch, where they will hopefully be kept safe from the elements and all acid-tinged papers."
It's scrapbooking gone wild, people. It's INSANITY. And while I can certainly change my form of scrapbooking -- I'm currently switching to digital, and I love it -- I can't walk away from the idea of scrapbooking. Partly because my children are adorable, and partly because I want them to record my memories for them. But mostly because I have to do SOMETHING with the thousands upon thousands of pictures I take of them each year.
I wish that were an exaggeration. But it's not. And I bet you have a similar problem. In the olden days, when we had to buy film (remember that?) and then take our 36 snapshots and wait for the film to get developed (remember that?) before we got our prints back, we took considerably fewer photos. At least, I did. We didn't even own a camera (besides my pitiful 110, which hardly counts) the first five years of our marriage.
But now? My camera is digital. Pictures are free and immediate. Therefore, I have become the most annoying of paparazzi to my children. I take pictures all day, every day -- especially if we are doing something special like leaving the house or eating breakfast or playing at the park.
Don't believe me? I spent the weekend sorting through the pictures I took last week. I had to pick through almost 700.
(In my defense, we did all sorts of fun things last week, like visit the the county fair and celebrate Natalie's birthday and go to the beach. But still. It's the principle.)
I've been thinking about this digital photo addiction. Surely, some of it can be chalked up to the freedom granted by the digital era. We can see instantly if our shot was in focus or if someone blinked at the flash. We get instant gratification if our photos turn out well. (How many times have you told your husband to come look at the cute picture you just took -- even though he was standing next to you two seconds ago while you took the picture?) Plus, it's free. Why not take 150 pictures of kindergarten graduation? We don't have to print any of them if we don't want to.
But I wonder if something deeper is at play.
As a mom, I am increasingly aware of the passing of time. My children are growing up. My baby, whom I brought home from the hospital about a month ago, it seems, will be seven months old by the end of this week. My daughter just learned to ride her bike without training wheels. My son is playing with Legos -- the small ones, not the big ones -- and he doesn't need my help to get the pieces apart.
I can't stop time. Heck, I can't even slow it down.
But when I take a picture, ahhh. Then that moment is frozen. It's captured. It's mine. I can control time, even if the results are only in kilobytes.
It's a small way of keeping my children one or four or seven forever. Those chubby cheeks. That little hand. That quirky grin. In a picture, time stands still.
Which explains why I take a few pictures almost every day. I want to keep a few of those grains of sand that slip through my fingers.
Time marches on. But pictures are forever.
Kelly also blogs and shares her photos at Love Well.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Ho, Ho, It's Magic, You Know
By Kelly
Around 6:00 every evening, something magical happens at my house.
Doesn’t matter if the children have been playing happily while I make dinner or if they are crabbier than Dr. Cox on a busy day.
When that garage door goes up, the very air around us electrifies. (In a good way. Not in a horror movie, we all scream and fall to the ground contorting kind of way.)
”Dad’s home! Dad’s home! Mom, Dad’s home!”
If the evening is typical, Natalie will rush to the door and throw herself on Corey as soon as he steps inside. “Daddy!” she squeals.
Connor, meanwhile, scurries to hide behind the red chair in the corner of the living room, and waits for Corey to walk by. As soon as he hears footsteps, we hear a little voice. “Dad, come sit in the red chair!”
”I wonder where Connor is,” Corey monotones amicably, playing along with the nightly ritual. “I sure wish I could find my buddy. I guess I’ll just sit in the red chair and wait.”
“Boo!” screams Connor, jumping out from behind the chair. “Did I get you, Dad?”
A wrestling match ensues.
These days, even the baby is getting into the act.
Last night, Corey walked into the kitchen. Our six-month-old was sitting in her exersaucer, banging on the warbling piano keys.
“Hi Teyla!” Corey said.
She looked into his face, with her huge blue eyes, and grinned as wide as she could. Her arms and legs pumped and she uttered the sweetest cooooo I’ve ever heard.
My goodness. We are so in love with her.
Corey pulled her out of the exersaucer, to indulge in a real hug. Then he lifted her overhead to say a proper good evening, when the most amazing thing happened.
(Choose your ending.)
Either:
a. the baby started to speak Spanish due to an excessive amount of "Dora" in utero
b. Connor tackled him from behind with a maniacal laugh
c. he flicked a wolf spider off his stomach
d. the baby spit up right into his opened and upturned mouth.
The correct answer would be d.
And for the record, this wasn't a little spit-up. It was a hunk of spit-up. Corey had to put his head under the faucet to wash out his mouth.
Magic, I tell you.
I never said it wasn't dark.
Kelly, who would give anything to go back in time and have a video of her husband at that very magic moment, also blogs at Love Well .
Around 6:00 every evening, something magical happens at my house.
Doesn’t matter if the children have been playing happily while I make dinner or if they are crabbier than Dr. Cox on a busy day.
When that garage door goes up, the very air around us electrifies. (In a good way. Not in a horror movie, we all scream and fall to the ground contorting kind of way.)
”Dad’s home! Dad’s home! Mom, Dad’s home!”
If the evening is typical, Natalie will rush to the door and throw herself on Corey as soon as he steps inside. “Daddy!” she squeals.
Connor, meanwhile, scurries to hide behind the red chair in the corner of the living room, and waits for Corey to walk by. As soon as he hears footsteps, we hear a little voice. “Dad, come sit in the red chair!”
”I wonder where Connor is,” Corey monotones amicably, playing along with the nightly ritual. “I sure wish I could find my buddy. I guess I’ll just sit in the red chair and wait.”
“Boo!” screams Connor, jumping out from behind the chair. “Did I get you, Dad?”
A wrestling match ensues.
These days, even the baby is getting into the act.
Last night, Corey walked into the kitchen. Our six-month-old was sitting in her exersaucer, banging on the warbling piano keys.
“Hi Teyla!” Corey said.
She looked into his face, with her huge blue eyes, and grinned as wide as she could. Her arms and legs pumped and she uttered the sweetest cooooo I’ve ever heard.
My goodness. We are so in love with her.
Corey pulled her out of the exersaucer, to indulge in a real hug. Then he lifted her overhead to say a proper good evening, when the most amazing thing happened.
(Choose your ending.)
Either:
a. the baby started to speak Spanish due to an excessive amount of "Dora" in utero
b. Connor tackled him from behind with a maniacal laugh
c. he flicked a wolf spider off his stomach
d. the baby spit up right into his opened and upturned mouth.
The correct answer would be d.
And for the record, this wasn't a little spit-up. It was a hunk of spit-up. Corey had to put his head under the faucet to wash out his mouth.
Magic, I tell you.
I never said it wasn't dark.
Kelly, who would give anything to go back in time and have a video of her husband at that very magic moment, also blogs at Love Well .
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
The Trade-Off of Being a Stay-At-Home Mom
By Kelly
So I heard another Batman movie just hit the theaters.
Anyone know anything about it?
I’m kidding, of course. “Dark Knight” set a new record its opening weekend, raking in an astounding $158.3 million. To compare: The number two movie for last weekend, the chick-flick “Mama Mia,” only managed to pull in $27.6 million. And according to one poll, more than 60% of the people who saw “Dark Knight” last weekend plan to see it at again in the theaters.
This astounds me for several reasons.
First, I can’t remember the last movie I saw in the theater. Truly. Can’t remember. Maybe "Ratatouille"?
Second, if my sources are correct, it costs approximately half my monthly mortgage payment to see a movie in the theaters these days. And that doesn’t include popcorn, which is more than half the fun. Yet people are spending that kind of money to see a movie, not once, but twice? Wow.
Third ... "Dark Knight" is out already?!? How did I miss this? I consider myself to be a bit of a sci-fi geek. But my first clue that the next Batman had hit the big screen came when I read this fascinating blog critique on Monday.
I am officially out of touch.
A few years ago, before kids, I worked in the news business. I knew something about everything – and I thrived on it. I knew the basic facts of every regional and national news story to hit the wires. (In fact, I discontinued my "Newsweek" subscription because it felt like old news.) I knew gossip about the Presidential candidates. I knew the latest foibles of the movie stars. (Living close to Los Angeles made that easy.) I knew what foods you should avoid if you have breast cancer, which police union charity call was a scam, how to keep your child safe in the bathtub with six easy steps and which salmonella-tainted food had been recalled that week.
But now? I’m a stay-at-home Mom. And while I’m still a bit of a news junkie, I no longer follow every story the way I used to. I’ve fallen off the radar.
My pre-child self would be aghast. "Have you no brain cells, woman?" she would berate. "How do you expect to participate in intelligent and witty repartee if you don't know something about everything? How will you impress the crowd with your keen insight into What's Happening In The World? Have you become the very thing you despise? Have you no self-respect? Have you no pride?"
Well, no. I have self-respect and pride. I just have no time.
Besides, my crowd -- all three of them, ages 6, 4 and 6 months -- probably wouldn't care if I espoused my opinion on "Dark Knight" being a symbol of the emptiness of our culture. (Or a shining example of the depravity of man. Take your pick. I haven't seen it, so I have no basis to enter the fray.)
But really -- and here's where it gets even more freaky -- I don't even care anymore that I'm not in the know about everything.
These days, my life is filled with everyday holiness. I do a puzzle with Connor. I play restaurant with Natalie. I change the baby’s diaper and kiss her belly and make her smile. I make dinner and savor the smell of garlic and onion in olive oil. I bake cookies and eat them fresh out of the oven with a huge glass of milk.
I feel like my eyes are opening to wonder, to simplicity, to the beauty in the small.
And if I do my job right, I have little time or energy left over to keep up with the 24/7 pace of the rest of the world.
It's a trade-off. But it's one I'm willing to make.
So, world, you can have your “Dark Knight.” I have my bright morning -- and it's usually spent eating Cheerios with an crowd of three who cares more about whether I'm actually listening to their silly knock-knock jokes than whether I think Heath Ledger will win a posthumous Oscar.
And I'm more content with that than I ever thought I'd be.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well, which means she probably stayed up too late last night writing. But oh well.
So I heard another Batman movie just hit the theaters.
Anyone know anything about it?
I’m kidding, of course. “Dark Knight” set a new record its opening weekend, raking in an astounding $158.3 million. To compare: The number two movie for last weekend, the chick-flick “Mama Mia,” only managed to pull in $27.6 million. And according to one poll, more than 60% of the people who saw “Dark Knight” last weekend plan to see it at again in the theaters.
This astounds me for several reasons.
First, I can’t remember the last movie I saw in the theater. Truly. Can’t remember. Maybe "Ratatouille"?
Second, if my sources are correct, it costs approximately half my monthly mortgage payment to see a movie in the theaters these days. And that doesn’t include popcorn, which is more than half the fun. Yet people are spending that kind of money to see a movie, not once, but twice? Wow.
Third ... "Dark Knight" is out already?!? How did I miss this? I consider myself to be a bit of a sci-fi geek. But my first clue that the next Batman had hit the big screen came when I read this fascinating blog critique on Monday.
I am officially out of touch.
A few years ago, before kids, I worked in the news business. I knew something about everything – and I thrived on it. I knew the basic facts of every regional and national news story to hit the wires. (In fact, I discontinued my "Newsweek" subscription because it felt like old news.) I knew gossip about the Presidential candidates. I knew the latest foibles of the movie stars. (Living close to Los Angeles made that easy.) I knew what foods you should avoid if you have breast cancer, which police union charity call was a scam, how to keep your child safe in the bathtub with six easy steps and which salmonella-tainted food had been recalled that week.
But now? I’m a stay-at-home Mom. And while I’m still a bit of a news junkie, I no longer follow every story the way I used to. I’ve fallen off the radar.
My pre-child self would be aghast. "Have you no brain cells, woman?" she would berate. "How do you expect to participate in intelligent and witty repartee if you don't know something about everything? How will you impress the crowd with your keen insight into What's Happening In The World? Have you become the very thing you despise? Have you no self-respect? Have you no pride?"
Well, no. I have self-respect and pride. I just have no time.
Besides, my crowd -- all three of them, ages 6, 4 and 6 months -- probably wouldn't care if I espoused my opinion on "Dark Knight" being a symbol of the emptiness of our culture. (Or a shining example of the depravity of man. Take your pick. I haven't seen it, so I have no basis to enter the fray.)
But really -- and here's where it gets even more freaky -- I don't even care anymore that I'm not in the know about everything.
These days, my life is filled with everyday holiness. I do a puzzle with Connor. I play restaurant with Natalie. I change the baby’s diaper and kiss her belly and make her smile. I make dinner and savor the smell of garlic and onion in olive oil. I bake cookies and eat them fresh out of the oven with a huge glass of milk.
I feel like my eyes are opening to wonder, to simplicity, to the beauty in the small.
And if I do my job right, I have little time or energy left over to keep up with the 24/7 pace of the rest of the world.
It's a trade-off. But it's one I'm willing to make.
So, world, you can have your “Dark Knight.” I have my bright morning -- and it's usually spent eating Cheerios with an crowd of three who cares more about whether I'm actually listening to their silly knock-knock jokes than whether I think Heath Ledger will win a posthumous Oscar.
And I'm more content with that than I ever thought I'd be.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well, which means she probably stayed up too late last night writing. But oh well.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
How to make a birthday special - without hiring Hannah Montana
By Kelly
When Natalie turned one, we threw a huge party.
We didn’t have flame throwers or a Ferris wheel or limo rides. No one got a gift bag, and I made her cake myself.
But we did host a BBQ for our family and friends in our backyard. We invited all the young families in our Sunday school class, and we hired a balloon artist to entertain the masses of children ages three and under. (His rates were impressively reasonable.) Since we lived in San Diego at the time, we busted open a piñata.And because Natalie was the first grandchild on both sides of the family, the grandparents and out-of-town aunts and uncles flew in for the festivities.
We weren’t trying to jump on the over-the-top birthday treadmill.
We were just deliriously in love with our daughter and so very proud. We wanted to share our joy with everyone we knew.
It was a magical evening, brimming with laughter and delight.
Fast-forward almost six years to today. (An apt description of the parental time warp where my children age eight times faster than me.) Natalie is again approaching a birthday – this time, her seventh. I still love throwing parties for her, but now that we have three kids, we’re trying to keep parties in perspective.
(Of course, at times, you have no choice. Take, for example, Connor’s first birthday. He was just two years behind Natalie, and he was the second grandchild on both sides. But because we had just moved to a small town in the middle of nowhere, very few family members could make it, and we didn’t really have any friends at that point. Thus, his first birthday party consisted of a few balloons and cake at the dining room table. I’m already saving for his therapy.)
Natalie’s party this year will be at a indoor water park. Her guests will be the other girls from her first grade class; no more mixed birthday parties for a while. It will be a pretty simple affair -- just sugar, singing and swimming.
I feel good about that. Hopefully, it will be a fun afternoon for everyone – without having to morph into an occasion that rivals the Presidential Inaugural Ball.
But because this party will be a couple of days before her actual birthday, I’m left wondering how I can make the date of her birth special. I don’t want to skip over that day on the calendar. It’s important to me. It changed my life.
We still don’t have much family in the area, so it will probably be just our immediate family celebrating that day. Traditionally, the birthday person gets to request their favorite meal for dinner that night – and of course, we have more cake.
But that doesn’t seem fun enough. (I’m a bit of a fun addict.) I want more – without having to go all out for a second party. Maybe a silly wake-up song? A special card at breakfast? What traditions do you have in your family to make birthdays special? I'm looking for ideas.
Find Kelly also blogging at Love Well.
When Natalie turned one, we threw a huge party.
We didn’t have flame throwers or a Ferris wheel or limo rides. No one got a gift bag, and I made her cake myself.
But we did host a BBQ for our family and friends in our backyard. We invited all the young families in our Sunday school class, and we hired a balloon artist to entertain the masses of children ages three and under. (His rates were impressively reasonable.) Since we lived in San Diego at the time, we busted open a piñata.And because Natalie was the first grandchild on both sides of the family, the grandparents and out-of-town aunts and uncles flew in for the festivities.
We weren’t trying to jump on the over-the-top birthday treadmill.
We were just deliriously in love with our daughter and so very proud. We wanted to share our joy with everyone we knew.
It was a magical evening, brimming with laughter and delight.
Fast-forward almost six years to today. (An apt description of the parental time warp where my children age eight times faster than me.) Natalie is again approaching a birthday – this time, her seventh. I still love throwing parties for her, but now that we have three kids, we’re trying to keep parties in perspective.
(Of course, at times, you have no choice. Take, for example, Connor’s first birthday. He was just two years behind Natalie, and he was the second grandchild on both sides. But because we had just moved to a small town in the middle of nowhere, very few family members could make it, and we didn’t really have any friends at that point. Thus, his first birthday party consisted of a few balloons and cake at the dining room table. I’m already saving for his therapy.)
Natalie’s party this year will be at a indoor water park. Her guests will be the other girls from her first grade class; no more mixed birthday parties for a while. It will be a pretty simple affair -- just sugar, singing and swimming.
I feel good about that. Hopefully, it will be a fun afternoon for everyone – without having to morph into an occasion that rivals the Presidential Inaugural Ball.
But because this party will be a couple of days before her actual birthday, I’m left wondering how I can make the date of her birth special. I don’t want to skip over that day on the calendar. It’s important to me. It changed my life.
We still don’t have much family in the area, so it will probably be just our immediate family celebrating that day. Traditionally, the birthday person gets to request their favorite meal for dinner that night – and of course, we have more cake.
But that doesn’t seem fun enough. (I’m a bit of a fun addict.) I want more – without having to go all out for a second party. Maybe a silly wake-up song? A special card at breakfast? What traditions do you have in your family to make birthdays special? I'm looking for ideas.
Find Kelly also blogging at Love Well.
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