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.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
The Children's Museum That Wasn't
By Kelly
Imagine with me, if you will, a children’s museum built out of steel, concrete and hard lines. Almost everything is gray, so as not to intrude on a child’s sense of imagination, and the sparse displays are abstract, so as not to dictate to the child what to think or see.
Oh. Wait. You don’t have to imagine. It’s in San Diego.
Before I continue with my rant, let me say unequivocally: I love San Diego. My husband and I lived there for almost a decade, and in many ways, I left my heart there. (I considered leaving it in San Francisco, but it’s too foggy for my sensitivities.) San Diego is a wonderful spot to raise a family (if you can afford a house, which is getting easier all the time), thanks to its you-can-always-go-outside weather, its stay-and-play-in-the-sand beaches and its hey-dude-no-problem people.
But its children’s museum? Pleh.
We visited on a rainy Tuesday in February. Thanks to a reciprocal agreement with our beloved Minnesota Children’s Museum (which I wrote about here), we got in free. We figured we’d spend a couple hours exploring and playing, then hit up Phil’s BBQ or Miguel’s Cocina in Point Loma for lunch.
We were shocked to walk in and discover a mostly empty steel warehouse with concrete floors, odd-angled windows and very little for kids to do. There were a few art stations, with scraps of recycled paper and glue sticks to make cards, or maybe popsicle sticks and felt for shadow puppets. There was a climbing wall covered in graffiti. (Of course.) There was a cavernous room in the basement flashing larger-than-life-sized videos on the concrete walls, while techno music played in the background. (A rave for the toddler set, I guess.) There was a pillow fight room (sounded fun), but you had to wait in line for roughly 30-45 minutes to get in.
Our kids kept running a little ahead of us, looking around the corner, hoping for something fun – not hip.
They left disappointed. And a little annoyed, to be honest. (“I thought you said this was a fun place?!?”)
My husband and I left flabbergasted. And more than a little happy that we didn’t just spend $50 on admission for 30 minutes of bewilderment.
To me, it’s the perfect example of what happens when adults design a place (or a toy or a bedroom) for the way they want kids to be, not the way kids actually are.
As I walked around the New Children's Museum that day (yes, that's really its name), I could almost hear the team of earnest designers, fresh out of grad school, discussing how the building would be “industrial” and “modern” and filled with “clean lines” and “space for unstructured play" and (the kiss of death) “urban.”
But when seen through my kids’ eyes, it was just gray and empty and unfriendly and (the kiss of death) boring.
I understand the designers’ dilemma, to a degree. Before I had kids, I envisioned how my life would look as a parent. Rarely did it involve a living room with more brightly colored plastic than comfy chairs or a kitchen where my best whisks were commandeered to be “bad guys.”
But I’ve learned that kids are who they are, not who I want them to be. Real kids like comfort, not elegance. Real kids are energetic, not contained. Real kids get dirty and spill milk and put back the honey bear when he’s sticky and track Moon Sand into every room of my house.
The best part? Those real kids are teaching me to be a real, too.
It’s messy and loud and slobbery and I tend to fall into bed each night, exhausted.
But I’m also smiling. Because there’s nothing gray or boring or clean about this kind of life.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well, as long as the keys on her computer aren't stuck together with peanut butter.
Imagine with me, if you will, a children’s museum built out of steel, concrete and hard lines. Almost everything is gray, so as not to intrude on a child’s sense of imagination, and the sparse displays are abstract, so as not to dictate to the child what to think or see.
Oh. Wait. You don’t have to imagine. It’s in San Diego.
Before I continue with my rant, let me say unequivocally: I love San Diego. My husband and I lived there for almost a decade, and in many ways, I left my heart there. (I considered leaving it in San Francisco, but it’s too foggy for my sensitivities.) San Diego is a wonderful spot to raise a family (if you can afford a house, which is getting easier all the time), thanks to its you-can-always-go-outside weather, its stay-and-play-in-the-sand beaches and its hey-dude-no-problem people.
But its children’s museum? Pleh.
We visited on a rainy Tuesday in February. Thanks to a reciprocal agreement with our beloved Minnesota Children’s Museum (which I wrote about here), we got in free. We figured we’d spend a couple hours exploring and playing, then hit up Phil’s BBQ or Miguel’s Cocina in Point Loma for lunch.
We were shocked to walk in and discover a mostly empty steel warehouse with concrete floors, odd-angled windows and very little for kids to do. There were a few art stations, with scraps of recycled paper and glue sticks to make cards, or maybe popsicle sticks and felt for shadow puppets. There was a climbing wall covered in graffiti. (Of course.) There was a cavernous room in the basement flashing larger-than-life-sized videos on the concrete walls, while techno music played in the background. (A rave for the toddler set, I guess.) There was a pillow fight room (sounded fun), but you had to wait in line for roughly 30-45 minutes to get in.
Our kids kept running a little ahead of us, looking around the corner, hoping for something fun – not hip.
They left disappointed. And a little annoyed, to be honest. (“I thought you said this was a fun place?!?”)
My husband and I left flabbergasted. And more than a little happy that we didn’t just spend $50 on admission for 30 minutes of bewilderment.
To me, it’s the perfect example of what happens when adults design a place (or a toy or a bedroom) for the way they want kids to be, not the way kids actually are.
As I walked around the New Children's Museum that day (yes, that's really its name), I could almost hear the team of earnest designers, fresh out of grad school, discussing how the building would be “industrial” and “modern” and filled with “clean lines” and “space for unstructured play" and (the kiss of death) “urban.”
But when seen through my kids’ eyes, it was just gray and empty and unfriendly and (the kiss of death) boring.
I understand the designers’ dilemma, to a degree. Before I had kids, I envisioned how my life would look as a parent. Rarely did it involve a living room with more brightly colored plastic than comfy chairs or a kitchen where my best whisks were commandeered to be “bad guys.”
But I’ve learned that kids are who they are, not who I want them to be. Real kids like comfort, not elegance. Real kids are energetic, not contained. Real kids get dirty and spill milk and put back the honey bear when he’s sticky and track Moon Sand into every room of my house.
The best part? Those real kids are teaching me to be a real, too.
It’s messy and loud and slobbery and I tend to fall into bed each night, exhausted.
But I’m also smiling. Because there’s nothing gray or boring or clean about this kind of life.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well, as long as the keys on her computer aren't stuck together with peanut butter.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Happy Winds-Day
By Kelly
It's an afternoon worthy of Pooh -- blustery and wild.
The clouds, puffs of translucent white, scuttle across the sky.
They seem to be in a rush, racing across the turquoise canvas, casting a swirl of shadows on the baby grass outside my window. (Grasslets?)
I wonder if they see the glory surrounding them.
I wonder if the frenzied pace they are keeping distracts them from the sunlight which makes them sparkle as golden as the sand.
Hurry does that, you know. The destination is the prize, not the journey. There is no room for purposefulness when you are pushed along at the whims of the wind.
The clouds, these vaporous whispers, these creations of God, they don’t know that I’m studying them through the glass. They aren’t aware that I’m watching their breakneck tumble.
But I do.
And I am not unaware of the urgent winds which push and pull me.
I wonder how much glory I miss.
Oh bother.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well.
It's an afternoon worthy of Pooh -- blustery and wild.
The clouds, puffs of translucent white, scuttle across the sky.
They seem to be in a rush, racing across the turquoise canvas, casting a swirl of shadows on the baby grass outside my window. (Grasslets?)
I wonder if they see the glory surrounding them.
I wonder if the frenzied pace they are keeping distracts them from the sunlight which makes them sparkle as golden as the sand.
Hurry does that, you know. The destination is the prize, not the journey. There is no room for purposefulness when you are pushed along at the whims of the wind.
The clouds, these vaporous whispers, these creations of God, they don’t know that I’m studying them through the glass. They aren’t aware that I’m watching their breakneck tumble.
But I do.
And I am not unaware of the urgent winds which push and pull me.
I wonder how much glory I miss.
Oh bother.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Great Expectations
By Kelly
If you want to know what kind of day I’m having, you need ask only one simple question: Has the baby napped?
If yes, then I’m having a glorious day, abounding in productivity and sprinkled with sunshine and rainbows.
If no, then I’m having a frustrating day, thick with clouds and whining. Of course, it goes without saying that I’m not getting anything done with a cranky toddler grasping my knees, so you might as well expect leftovers for dinner, because who can cook with Her High Grumpiness at the helm?
At least, that’s how it used to be. But after months of living at the whim of a baby, I decided to take back control.
I acknowledged I couldn’t control Teyla’s sleep – but I could control my attitude. I decided to make peace with my inefficient life and forget about having a chunk of “me” time each afternoon. I downsized my To Do list. I slowly learned to expect less from my day and much, much less from myself. And with my attitude thusly adjusted, I found life to be joyful again. When the baby woke up after another 20-minute nap, I would sigh, shelve the frustration and resolve to enjoy the baby.
Behold, the power of expectations.
When Corey and I were newly married, most of our fights would end on the battlefield of expectations. Seems I had them for our relationship, and I held him responsible for meeting them. Problem was, I never communicated them. Or so he claimed. My response tended to be: How can I communicate something that is so ingrained I don’t even know it’s there? My expectations only materialize to me when they aren’t met.
Still, it’s not a fair thing to do to another person, expect them to meet an expectation you can’t even verbalize. Ever since, I’ve tried to do a lot of introspection when I get frustrated or hurt or angry. Is it truly someone else? Or are my expectations slightly out of whack?
Thankfully, I had a few years to practice this before we had kids. It’s proven invaluable in parenting. Thus, when the baby makes it a practice to avoid taking naps, I try to adjust my expectations and hopefully, reap a happier mental state.
But darn it if those initial expectations don’t just keep coming back. Which is why I was annoyed this weekend when Teyla didn’t nap, even though she’d only been consistently taking real naps – which are defined by baby sleep experts as naps that are at least an hour in length; any less, and the baby’s brain doesn’t have time to reboot and renew – for a week. A week! And already my expectations about what my life should look like have reformed.
This parenting stuff. It’s hard work. Especially when the baby doesn’t nap.
I’d love to write more, but my husband’s home, and he expects dinner.
Kelly always expects to blog daily at her personal blog Love Well. But if the baby doens't nap, she expects to put the writing off for a day or two.
If you want to know what kind of day I’m having, you need ask only one simple question: Has the baby napped?
If yes, then I’m having a glorious day, abounding in productivity and sprinkled with sunshine and rainbows.
If no, then I’m having a frustrating day, thick with clouds and whining. Of course, it goes without saying that I’m not getting anything done with a cranky toddler grasping my knees, so you might as well expect leftovers for dinner, because who can cook with Her High Grumpiness at the helm?
At least, that’s how it used to be. But after months of living at the whim of a baby, I decided to take back control.
I acknowledged I couldn’t control Teyla’s sleep – but I could control my attitude. I decided to make peace with my inefficient life and forget about having a chunk of “me” time each afternoon. I downsized my To Do list. I slowly learned to expect less from my day and much, much less from myself. And with my attitude thusly adjusted, I found life to be joyful again. When the baby woke up after another 20-minute nap, I would sigh, shelve the frustration and resolve to enjoy the baby.
Behold, the power of expectations.
When Corey and I were newly married, most of our fights would end on the battlefield of expectations. Seems I had them for our relationship, and I held him responsible for meeting them. Problem was, I never communicated them. Or so he claimed. My response tended to be: How can I communicate something that is so ingrained I don’t even know it’s there? My expectations only materialize to me when they aren’t met.
Still, it’s not a fair thing to do to another person, expect them to meet an expectation you can’t even verbalize. Ever since, I’ve tried to do a lot of introspection when I get frustrated or hurt or angry. Is it truly someone else? Or are my expectations slightly out of whack?
Thankfully, I had a few years to practice this before we had kids. It’s proven invaluable in parenting. Thus, when the baby makes it a practice to avoid taking naps, I try to adjust my expectations and hopefully, reap a happier mental state.
But darn it if those initial expectations don’t just keep coming back. Which is why I was annoyed this weekend when Teyla didn’t nap, even though she’d only been consistently taking real naps – which are defined by baby sleep experts as naps that are at least an hour in length; any less, and the baby’s brain doesn’t have time to reboot and renew – for a week. A week! And already my expectations about what my life should look like have reformed.
This parenting stuff. It’s hard work. Especially when the baby doesn’t nap.
I’d love to write more, but my husband’s home, and he expects dinner.
Kelly always expects to blog daily at her personal blog Love Well. But if the baby doens't nap, she expects to put the writing off for a day or two.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Eating Out, Minus the Eating
By Kelly
I distinctly remember my birthday last year.
Teyla was just four days old. We had only gotten home from the hospital the day before. But since it was my birthday, and a Sunday, my husband bundled everyone up and took us to a fabulous brunch at a quaint, old inn near our house.
It was a perfect morning. Teyla slept in a cocoon of fleece. The older kids colored quietly on their menus and ate more caramel rolls than usually allowed. Corey and I drank coffee and sipped mimosas and shelled jumbo shrimp while we talked. (We also ate more caramel rolls than usually allowed, but it seems more romantic to leave that part out.)
When babies are young, eating out is simple. You eat, they sleep, end of story.
But now that Teyla is 15 months old, eating out is akin to torture. Or maybe sumo wrestling, if sumo wrestlers were 20 pounds of twisting, contorting muscle who defy all attempts by normal high chairs to restrain them.
I should have remembered this phase, but it always seems to sneak up on me. Just a few months ago, we were able to spontaneously take the kids to a nearby restaurant and make it through a meal with nothing more than a bottle and a few Cheerios. Then, overnight and without warning, our formerly tame infant, who used to sit contentedly in the sticky high chairs and bang on the table with a spoon while we would eat our salads, morphed into an irascible toddler, who will not sit still in a restaurant even when tempted with M&Ms.
The last time we ate out, Corey and I took turns following Teyla around the tiny lobby of The Roman Market, snatching jars of marinated olives out of her hands, making chit-chat with the grandparents who were casting us sympathetic smiles. Occasionally, we would try to sit again, but Teyla would magically make all the bones in her body disappear while simultaneously twisting like a candy cane.
I took my margherita pizza to go. It was cold. And my abs were bruised.
For now, we’re eating in. So I can actually eat.
I estimate we'll be out and about again by 2011. Maybe we'll go to brunch for my birthday.
Kelly also writes about her family, her life and her eating habits at her personal blog, Love Well.
I distinctly remember my birthday last year.
Teyla was just four days old. We had only gotten home from the hospital the day before. But since it was my birthday, and a Sunday, my husband bundled everyone up and took us to a fabulous brunch at a quaint, old inn near our house.
It was a perfect morning. Teyla slept in a cocoon of fleece. The older kids colored quietly on their menus and ate more caramel rolls than usually allowed. Corey and I drank coffee and sipped mimosas and shelled jumbo shrimp while we talked. (We also ate more caramel rolls than usually allowed, but it seems more romantic to leave that part out.)
When babies are young, eating out is simple. You eat, they sleep, end of story.
But now that Teyla is 15 months old, eating out is akin to torture. Or maybe sumo wrestling, if sumo wrestlers were 20 pounds of twisting, contorting muscle who defy all attempts by normal high chairs to restrain them.
I should have remembered this phase, but it always seems to sneak up on me. Just a few months ago, we were able to spontaneously take the kids to a nearby restaurant and make it through a meal with nothing more than a bottle and a few Cheerios. Then, overnight and without warning, our formerly tame infant, who used to sit contentedly in the sticky high chairs and bang on the table with a spoon while we would eat our salads, morphed into an irascible toddler, who will not sit still in a restaurant even when tempted with M&Ms.
The last time we ate out, Corey and I took turns following Teyla around the tiny lobby of The Roman Market, snatching jars of marinated olives out of her hands, making chit-chat with the grandparents who were casting us sympathetic smiles. Occasionally, we would try to sit again, but Teyla would magically make all the bones in her body disappear while simultaneously twisting like a candy cane.
I took my margherita pizza to go. It was cold. And my abs were bruised.
For now, we’re eating in. So I can actually eat.
I estimate we'll be out and about again by 2011. Maybe we'll go to brunch for my birthday.
Kelly also writes about her family, her life and her eating habits at her personal blog, Love Well.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
I Can't Believe I'm Having Triplets
By Kelly
I really want to write a crazy lead paragraph for this post -- I found a toenail in my Jamba Juice today! I'm moving to Morocco! I drove my car off the side of a mountain and was buried in snow for days! -- but I suspect you're aware of the date already.
Or if you weren't before, you are now.
April Fool's Day is something of a tradition in our house. It's a fun day, if not a day to watch your back (and not believe anything you hear on the telephone). When I was young, the day was marked by memorable meals, like the time my Mom made blue milk and green mashed potatoes. When I was in college, April Fool's legalized the pranks my friends and I were already plotting; the most interesting of which involved nails, super-glue, Saran Wrap, water and a fish. (Such are the days of our lives when one hangs out with those studying to become youth pastors.)
Now that I'm a mom myself, I'm looking forward to pulling a few innocent, no-harm-done type of pranks. Family Fun has a collection of brilliant fake food recipes. Personally, I'm hoping to try the Faux Fish Sticks (rectangular cookies smeared with PB then rolled in crushed corn flakes) with a side of Faux Peas (pieces of green taffy rolled into tiny balls) and Faux French Fries (bread sticks cleverly shaped and dusted with sugar instead of salt) served with Faux Ketchup (seedless strawberry jam stirred into a runny consistency). I might also try a few of these lunchbox gags.
If my kids were old enough to shower by themselves, I would sneak into the bathroom tonight and screw a tiny piece of plastic wrap under their shampoo lids. (And if they were old enough to clean the bathroom themselves, I might consider using some on the toilet. But something tells me, that one would backfire. The old lady bladder, she ain't what she used to be.) If I wanted to keep it clean, both figuratively and literally, I could write some potty humor quips ("What are poo doing?") on strips of toilet paper and float them in the bowl.
Or, I might try one of these other simple practical jokes:
For more inspiration -- and some great laughs -- check out this list of the Top 100 April Fool's Day Pranks.
And have fun. You only get to be a parent for today.
April Fool's!
Kelly also blogs at Adventures in Babywearing.
I really want to write a crazy lead paragraph for this post -- I found a toenail in my Jamba Juice today! I'm moving to Morocco! I drove my car off the side of a mountain and was buried in snow for days! -- but I suspect you're aware of the date already.
Or if you weren't before, you are now.
April Fool's Day is something of a tradition in our house. It's a fun day, if not a day to watch your back (and not believe anything you hear on the telephone). When I was young, the day was marked by memorable meals, like the time my Mom made blue milk and green mashed potatoes. When I was in college, April Fool's legalized the pranks my friends and I were already plotting; the most interesting of which involved nails, super-glue, Saran Wrap, water and a fish. (Such are the days of our lives when one hangs out with those studying to become youth pastors.)
Now that I'm a mom myself, I'm looking forward to pulling a few innocent, no-harm-done type of pranks. Family Fun has a collection of brilliant fake food recipes. Personally, I'm hoping to try the Faux Fish Sticks (rectangular cookies smeared with PB then rolled in crushed corn flakes) with a side of Faux Peas (pieces of green taffy rolled into tiny balls) and Faux French Fries (bread sticks cleverly shaped and dusted with sugar instead of salt) served with Faux Ketchup (seedless strawberry jam stirred into a runny consistency). I might also try a few of these lunchbox gags.
If my kids were old enough to shower by themselves, I would sneak into the bathroom tonight and screw a tiny piece of plastic wrap under their shampoo lids. (And if they were old enough to clean the bathroom themselves, I might consider using some on the toilet. But something tells me, that one would backfire. The old lady bladder, she ain't what she used to be.) If I wanted to keep it clean, both figuratively and literally, I could write some potty humor quips ("What are poo doing?") on strips of toilet paper and float them in the bowl.
Or, I might try one of these other simple practical jokes:
- Shake some baby powder in the hair dryer for a morning hair-do worthy of Barbara Bush.
- Remove all the bags of cereal from their boxes and play switch-a-roo.
- Paint some green spots on the inside of a sandwich bag to make a sandwich look moldy.
- Use a small corer to drill a tiny hole in a whole apple, which can then be filled with a gummy worm.
- Insert a small raisin into the end of the toothpaste tube for an eye-popping surprise.
- Tuck this April Fool's Day word search into a lunchbox or schoolbag; the only word they'll be able to find is April Fool's.
- An older child would appreciate the origami rock craft.
- Or (my personal favorite) tell your victim that you recently watched a show on the Discovery Channel that salt, when sprinkled liberally on a stick of butter, can make the butter get hot. Grab a stick of room temperature butter, sprinkle on some salt, hold your hand over and act like it's starting to heat up. Encourage your friend to do the thing. As soon as their hand is over the butter, smash it down.
For more inspiration -- and some great laughs -- check out this list of the Top 100 April Fool's Day Pranks.
And have fun. You only get to be a parent for today.
April Fool's!
Kelly also blogs at Adventures in Babywearing.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Is There a Word for Phobia of Children?
By Kelly
Good gravy, yesterday was tough.
My brain is still numb, my shoulders still clenched in an upright and locked position. I just now realized I forgot to call my sister back last night. And I do believe I didn't go to the bathroom yesterday until I was getting ready for bed. (I developed a bladder with camel-like properties when I was working in the newsroom. Because if there's breaking news and you're in the control booth calling the shots, potty breaks are not an option.) (Too much information, perhaps? I can't tell anymore.)
But as grueling as my day was, it was worse for my good friend Mindy.
While I was sleeping in Saturday morning, Mindy was driving across Wisconsin, with the plan to spend a week visiting friends and family in Minnesota.
Then, life turned. Her tires snagged on an uneven shoulder. She over-corrected. Her car rolled like a tumbleweed, eventually coming to rest in the highway median as a tangle of shattered steel and glass.
Miraculously, neither she nor her kids sustained life-threatening injuries. Her two-year-old walked away without a scratch. Her six-year-old only had scratches and abrasions from her seat belt and flying glass.
Mindy escaped without any broken bones or internal injuries. But it took about 60 stitches to close the gashes in her face and arm, and she's sporting more bruises than a peach shipped from Georgia to Wyoming by USPS.
Her sweet husband, who wasn't accompanying his family on this trip, rushed to the scene. I first heard about the accident from him. Rightly horrified, I offered to help any way I could.
Thus, I found myself parenting five children yesterday.
Let the chaos begin.
First, I want to say that Mindy's kids are absolute delights. They are sweet, creative and compliant. Her six-year-old and my six-year-old would be best friends if they lived closer. And her two-year-old boy is like a towheaded package of love; he's just a snuggle-monster with a smile to melt your heart.
But having them here yesterday reminded me -- with startling clarity -- that I would be the worst child-care provider in the history of mankind. When I'm responsible for other people's children, I'm a nervous wreck. I'm jumpy. I can't focus. I feel completely out of my comfort zone. I find myself stalking the clock, willing it to move faster so I can discharge my charges.
It's the reason I never babysat, why I'd rather clean the church bathrooms with a toothbrush than work in children's ministry and why I adore my sister. (I would say worship, because it's close to that. But it seems sacrilegious, somehow.) Emily is like a Pied Piper of children. Ever since she was in middle school, kids have followed her around the church hallways, vying for her attention. Cries of "Emmy! Emmy" echo off the walls. When I was 15 and she was 9, I passed off all (read: two) of my babysitting jobs to her. And I think the parents involved in those situations were more than grateful. Today, Emily works in the children's ministry department at our dad's church, a job which perfectly fits her skill set and passion.
And then there's me -- the woman who has to fight the urge to hide in the laundry room while other kids play like angels with her own kids in her own home.
Oy.
I've felt guilty about this for years, and the guilt only intensified when I had my own kids and was amazed to find that I actually enjoyed them and my new role as mother. Shouldn't I be able to deal with all kids now that I understand, on some level, what a gift they are?
But I've come to realize, we all have different gifts. Children aren't mine. I can certainly step up when I need to -- and watching Mindy's kids yesterday was a blessing to me, because it's what I could do to help her in a teeny-tiny way.
So I try not to dwell. But some days, I just can't fight the angst. Am I the only Mom in the history of the world who is kid-a-phobic?
Originally posted at Kelly's blog Love Well.
Good gravy, yesterday was tough.
My brain is still numb, my shoulders still clenched in an upright and locked position. I just now realized I forgot to call my sister back last night. And I do believe I didn't go to the bathroom yesterday until I was getting ready for bed. (I developed a bladder with camel-like properties when I was working in the newsroom. Because if there's breaking news and you're in the control booth calling the shots, potty breaks are not an option.) (Too much information, perhaps? I can't tell anymore.)
But as grueling as my day was, it was worse for my good friend Mindy.
While I was sleeping in Saturday morning, Mindy was driving across Wisconsin, with the plan to spend a week visiting friends and family in Minnesota.
Then, life turned. Her tires snagged on an uneven shoulder. She over-corrected. Her car rolled like a tumbleweed, eventually coming to rest in the highway median as a tangle of shattered steel and glass.
Miraculously, neither she nor her kids sustained life-threatening injuries. Her two-year-old walked away without a scratch. Her six-year-old only had scratches and abrasions from her seat belt and flying glass.
Mindy escaped without any broken bones or internal injuries. But it took about 60 stitches to close the gashes in her face and arm, and she's sporting more bruises than a peach shipped from Georgia to Wyoming by USPS.
Her sweet husband, who wasn't accompanying his family on this trip, rushed to the scene. I first heard about the accident from him. Rightly horrified, I offered to help any way I could.
Thus, I found myself parenting five children yesterday.
Let the chaos begin.
First, I want to say that Mindy's kids are absolute delights. They are sweet, creative and compliant. Her six-year-old and my six-year-old would be best friends if they lived closer. And her two-year-old boy is like a towheaded package of love; he's just a snuggle-monster with a smile to melt your heart.
But having them here yesterday reminded me -- with startling clarity -- that I would be the worst child-care provider in the history of mankind. When I'm responsible for other people's children, I'm a nervous wreck. I'm jumpy. I can't focus. I feel completely out of my comfort zone. I find myself stalking the clock, willing it to move faster so I can discharge my charges.
It's the reason I never babysat, why I'd rather clean the church bathrooms with a toothbrush than work in children's ministry and why I adore my sister. (I would say worship, because it's close to that. But it seems sacrilegious, somehow.) Emily is like a Pied Piper of children. Ever since she was in middle school, kids have followed her around the church hallways, vying for her attention. Cries of "Emmy! Emmy" echo off the walls. When I was 15 and she was 9, I passed off all (read: two) of my babysitting jobs to her. And I think the parents involved in those situations were more than grateful. Today, Emily works in the children's ministry department at our dad's church, a job which perfectly fits her skill set and passion.
And then there's me -- the woman who has to fight the urge to hide in the laundry room while other kids play like angels with her own kids in her own home.
Oy.
I've felt guilty about this for years, and the guilt only intensified when I had my own kids and was amazed to find that I actually enjoyed them and my new role as mother. Shouldn't I be able to deal with all kids now that I understand, on some level, what a gift they are?
But I've come to realize, we all have different gifts. Children aren't mine. I can certainly step up when I need to -- and watching Mindy's kids yesterday was a blessing to me, because it's what I could do to help her in a teeny-tiny way.
So I try not to dwell. But some days, I just can't fight the angst. Am I the only Mom in the history of the world who is kid-a-phobic?
Originally posted at Kelly's blog Love Well.
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