Category Archives: my girl

Forever 22

Posted in my girl by

So I wrote this post about feeling old…

I’m only 34. I know that isn’t old. My point was, when will I EVER feel like my age? I still consider myself “just out of high school” and am shocked nearly every time I realize just how long I’ve been just out of high school.

Annalise recently attended a birthday party/tea party for her dear friend. It was her first “drop off” party…the kind where parents don’t stay. On the way, she asked if I was going to come in. “Because you don’t need to, Mom. I’m just fine going in, you know.”

After the party, she – with as much of a mature voice and cool-as-a-cucumber attitude as she could muster – was telling me all about the party. They got their hair done, nails done, and did fancy tea-party things. I listened to her relay all the details that she was clearly so excited about with as little visible emotion as possible. I assume because she wanted to appear as grown-up as she could.

And apparently us grown-ups aren’t too excitable.

Details now all shared, we sat quiet while heading to our next destination. Suddenly, she breaks the silence, “Mommy? I mean, Mom? Am I an adult yet? Because after going to Abbi’s party and with my nails done like this, I feel like an adult.”

I refrained from reminding her of an earlier fit over a My Little Pony or her stomping episode over having to share, neither of which seemed very grown-upish. Instead I decided to not crush her spirits and gently told her that no, she wasn’t yet an adult.  Her response: “But I probably will be soon, right? Because it sure feels like I already am.”

Today, I had an epiphany: All through childhood, we think we’re older, we feel older, and CAN’T WAIT to be older. Then we get past the early 20s and we think we’re younger, feel younger, and sometimes WISH WE WERE younger. It’s like our whole life, from 5 to 85, we think we’re 22.

Apparently, 22 is where it’s at. Although, I seriously hope not.

I Googled 22-year-old celebrities and found lists of them. Know how many names I knew? NONE. I’m too old to know 22. But as a friend pointed out in her FB post, I’m also too immature for wrinkles and grey hair.

And therein lies the irony of my life… I’m too old, but yet too immature.

Update: My friend Polly read this and said it even better: “I’m too old to be immature and yet too immature to be old.” Perfect. Who’s with us?

Feeling old

Posted in family outings, my boy, my girl, parenting (aint for sissies), the parents by

Some days, the reality of how old I am hits me.

Well, once I can remember how old I am, it does.

This morning was one of those mornings. Today was a family day. No work. No computers. No cameras. Just me, the Hubs, and the kids. We were headed to the Pacific Science Center.

I remember going there as a kid. I remember some of the same exhibits (Touching the sea life? Oh yes. Loved it.) I remember family days and car games and all the stuff we were going to be doing today.

And as I was getting ready and remembering all these things, I started to feel old. The kind of old that starts with this thinking, Who allows young people like me to be a parent??? Don’t they know I’m not ready for that? Then changes to, Oh wait. I’m not young. I’m in my thirties. I remember my parents being in their thirties.

Am I the only one? The only one that remembers things from their childhood and feels O-L-D when observing said things being repeated in their kids’ lives? The only one that has these moments of panic where I realize I’m not just out of high school? But then begins to do the math and suddenly realizes I’ve been out of high school longer than all the years I was ever in school… including pre-school, but excluding college – or at least some of college.

Then this conversation happens in my head EVERY. SINGLE. TIME: Ok. So I’m 33… No wait… I’m not 33…I’m thirty – …34… No wait… I was born in ’78. It’s 199-… NO WAIT, it’s 20–… what year is it, dangit??? Am I that old?… Calm down, old fogey…It’s 2013… That makes me… 33… no wait… I’m 35… no wait… I’ll be 35 when my birthday comes this year… HOLY CRAP. I’M ALMOST 35… I remember when my parents were 35!”

(Funny thing is, I’ve had that same conversation in my head for a few years now. And I went an entire year believing I was 33, only to discover at my birthday that I, in fact, was turning 33. Which was a great birthday present to myself – to not grow another year older. And now, I still think I’m 33. That would make me 33 for 3 years and running…)

Anyway, this conversation that I have regularly in my head gets me thinking (once I figure out exactly how old I am) about what time I have (or don’t have) left. It usually goes something like this:

So, I’m 34. If I live this long 2 more times, I’ll be 112. Not gonna happen. So my life is more than 1/3 over. If I live this long just one more time, I’ll be 68. That’s likely and doesn’t actually sound too old. So hopefully, my life isn’t yet 1/2 over. Which means, my life is more than 1/3 over, but not quite 1/2 over. 2/5 over? That would mean I’d live to be 85. Maybe. Give or take a few (but not too many.) So I still have 3/5 of my life to live. Not too late to make some changes…

This morning, this thought was interrupted right about then by the sounds of children fighting, reminding me that however long I live, I have a job to do now. Which makes me feel just a little bit younger.

The family day was great. The science center was the most crowded I’ve ever seen, but it was still enjoyable. Look at me! I’m not a grumpy old lady! We stopped for dinner on the way home. At the noisy restaurant, we saw a man about in his 60s working with the hostess at finding the perfect table for himself. He apparently requested a quieter area, to which she replied, “I’m sorry. We don’t have an area designated for quiet dining.” And then she sat him directly behind our booth. A recipe for disaster, if you ask me. (Maybe she planned it that way. Just to annoy him for his snooty request.) And despite Annalise’s bumping the back of the booth (also his back of booth), he never once asked us to quiet down or stop jiggling his seat. So even though the waitress spilled Matt’s coffee and dropped a knife on Jacob and brought Matt the wrong entree (he ate it anyway, also a very “not-old” thing to do), and even though Jacob dropped the ice cream right off his spoon six times – three of those times right onto my lap – I’d consider the dinner a success. And I left feeling sorta young again. And sticky. Young and sticky.

Now home, I was no longer thinking about age but was just enjoying reflecting on the moments of quality family time that filled my heart throughout the day. I overheard Jacob talking to his daddy, who was helping him get his PJs on…

“Daddy, I’m starting to get bigger! Den I’m gonna get big… and big… and Big.. and BIG… and BIG. And den, I’m gonna be bigger den Mommy one day! And den I’m gonna pick her up, and put her to bed, and get her all tuckied in. Wight, Daddy? Wight?”

Which, of course, made me teary, and also reminded me of this book:

love you bookWhich also makes me cry.

And I remember this book making my mom and my Auntie Jill and Trish cry.

Another childhood memory I’m now living out as an adult…

…And so now I feel old again.

Spring Fever

Posted in Eucharisteo, family outings, grace, holidays, my boy, my girl by

Lovin’ this sunshine. After a frustrating morning of multiple time-outs and tantrums, laundry and changing bedding, I had enough.

It’s amazing how quickly the sun can melt away 3 very bad attitudes. 

The kids and I enjoyed a nice walk to the library then continued our walk on two quick errands. Then, just one more stop to take a “break”:

photo(53)We just couldn’t wait until we got home to dive into our books. Plus, the scent of coffee and sun shining on the outdoor tables was too enticing to pass up.

On our way home, we gathered rocks and sticks so we could make this:

photo(57)
We decided to add a few finishing touches to improve on our last year’s version.

photo(56)Jesus the Nazarene, King of the Jews in Latin, “Iēsus Nazarēnus, Rēx Iūdaeōrum”

photo(58)Now we just wait for the grass to sprout.

And like last year, with our leftover peat pots and soil, we planted some herbs, veggies, and flower seeds:

photo(54)Bring on the peppers, zucchini, and cilantro!

Other improvements from last year: All this was done outside. No dirt on the table or dining room floor. No one cried due to mud in their eyes. No tantrums, and no arguing. I’m telling ya, that sun produces miracles.

So when we were finished, we headed inside only long enough to clean up our dirty hands, then back outside for another bike ride. It’s just hard to stay indoors with this kind of weather. Plus, all this walking and riding was a great way to tucker out the kids for an hour early bedtime… (Which means I actually got them to bed at the time I dream of doing so – the time I claim is their actual bedtime, despite the fact that they’ve been in bed at that time exactly never. Except tonight, that is.)

And next on the Spring to-do list: SPRING CLEANING.

Caution: HOT

Posted in laughter, my girl, parenting (aint for sissies) by

Annalise has some fancy rolls of tape, each with a different design or picture on them. It is really a nice addition to the mounds of oh-so-adorable paper/glitter glue/tape creations. A mom just can’t get enough of those, you know. The fancy tape also comes in handy when hanging, say, artwork you’ve created just especially for your doggy’s kennel decor. “So she has something pretty to look at while she’s locked up.” How very thoughtful, wouldn’t you say? I’m sure the hours locked in the box are worth it, now that she has beautiful drawings to eat view.

One of Annalise’s tape rolls doubles as a “Caution” sticker. It reads: CAUTION HOT!

After asking her dad what it said, she realized how useful this tape could be. So, she began sticking it in appropriate places as a clear warning to all.

The oven door:

photo(50)(And yes, that is the reflection of Jacob in his undies in the background. Undies and a shirt is an improvement. Lately, he’s preferred no clothing at all.)

My curling iron:

photo(51)Useful stuff.

Before taping up her warnings, Annalise was curious about the message. “Daddy, what does ‘Caution Hot’ actually mean?”

Matt explained it was like a warning that something was hot, so people won’t get burned.

“So, what’s hot?” she wondered out loud.

His reply, “Well, whatever you put the tape on.”

And so with a look of panic, she quickly ripped her “Caution Hot” tape off her finger.

 

 

And also… this:

photo(49)

Yeah. I couldn’t believe it either. Not sure I’m ready for this.

But, for those especially bad hair days, or when you have a massive zit in the middle of your forehead, or when you feel like crying because your “baby” is looking like she’s just aged a few years just because her hair got shorter and now it’s time to register her for kindergarten, or all of the above, that fancy tape can really come in handy…

photo(52)So there’s that.

Parenting Ain’t for Sissies

Posted in joy found, laughter, my boy, my girl, parenting (aint for sissies) by

People always say parenting is hard.

Mom always said, “Parenting ain’t for sissies, Baby.”

There never were truer statements. But I don’t think they mean the same thing…

Hard: Raising teens (I’m sure.) Watching your child hurt. Watching your child fail. All the excruciating times you have to step back and let go. Loving unconditionally. Yes, fully and unconditionally. Hearts full of that much love leave room for lots of heartache. It just does. Hard.

Then there are the times that aren’t necessarily hard, but they require you to step-up. To buck-up. To actually parent when you feel like not. It’s not for sissies… Right, Mom?

There are the obvious times… Most of which stem from the selfishness of kids that are 2 (and 5/6) and 5 (and 1/3). There’s the fighting over toys, who gets to do what first, not wanting to obey because they’d rather be doing anything else. These daily trials can be challenging, but mainly because it requires tons of patience to deal with the same issue 17 million times a day while still remaining calm. It’s seriously exhausting. If I have to referee another battle over which toothbrush someone may or may not have just touched, or if I have to hear one. more. argument. over who gets to pray first, I might just lose it. 

Do you have these same parenting frustrations? Do you also feel like not parenting, but instead snapping, “Seriously? SERIOUSLY?? You’re going to fight over praying??? Do you not see the irony, children???” I’m making myself buck-up here. I’m doing my best to not lose it. But I’m feeling a bit sissy-ish. You, too? How ’bout let’s all pray about it? K? Just ME FIRST.

Parenting is also hard because of the tricky life-balances we parents try to manage. Independence vs. protection. Doing things that have to get done (or we want to get done) vs. doing things with them that help them grow/learn. Teaching/helping vs. letting them figure it out on their own. Finding the right balance is hard. Making the choices you feel are best and not carrying guilt is hard. And definitely not for sissies.

Then there are the once-in-a-while situations that come up that I’d never thought of before. The things that suddenly smack you in the face and make you think, “Oh, crap. How am I supposed to handle this? WHERE IS MY PARENTING HANDBOOK???” These are the things that may or may not be hard, but they are the reasons “sissies” can’t exist in parenting.

I don’t know about your kids, but my kids are good at coming up with these situations. It’s like they enjoy testing my parenting creativity. I wonder if mom can keep her cool when we do this. She’ll never expect it! Or, I can’t wait to see mom’s face when she hears what we’re saying! I bet she’ll have no clue what to do! They’re testing my level of sissy-ness…

I’m certain that last one is what my two cherubs were saying just the other morning. It started when they asked permission to get out the watercolor paint brushes to play with, without the paint. There were 14 brushes, so they divided them up evenly. Each of their 7 brushes then received a made-up name so they could play as though the brushes were people. I heard the naming begin, “This one’s Bumble. This is Mxtrah. That one will be Peetose…” and headed out of the room to blow-dry my hair.

Several minutes went by, the sounds of their playing with the paintbrush people drowned out by the hum of the hairdryer.

And then I turned the dryer off.

What I heard next was bad. I can’t even write it, it’s that bad. But in order to tell the story, I have to sorta-kinda write it. What I heard next was my darling female child say something I’ve never said, Matt’s never said, and I’m absolutely certain her babysitters and Bible class teachers have never said. She said the inappropriate phrase – appropriately – with a tone of anger and frustration. Directed to whom, I was not sure. When I turned the dryer off, what I heard my darling say was, “Come HERE, Witch!” Only not witch. Only she said that same word but with a different beginning letter.

That’s right. My sweet girl just called someone – and I was not sure who – the “B word.” And she had said it with attitude.

Yeah. I was shocked, too. So much so that I was certain she couldn’t have actually said it. I didn’t move. But then I heard it again.“I said, COME HERE, WITCH!” Oh no. she. didn’t.

I headed to where they were playing. Wanting to run, but actually going much slower because I wasn’t sure what I was going to say once I got there. It was one of those tricky parenting moments not made for sissies. There is not handbook for these. My goal was to 1) Stop the use of the word. Immediately. 2) Figure out where she learned it. 3) Not draw too much attention to it so as to increase curiosity of said bad word, causing it to be used when mom is not around. You know, to inform other kids that “Witch” is a never-to-be-said-bad-word .

My brain snapped to attention when I heard it again. “Witch! You’re not listening to me! Go to time out, Witch!”

“Annalise! What are you saying???” I gasped. Probably not the right approach, because it brought out the word again.

“I was telling Witch to come here. She didn’t listen, so I sent her to time out.”

“Stop saying that word!”

“What word? Witch?”

“Yes! That word! That is very bad word! Where did you hear it?”

“Witch is not a bad word! I didn’t hear it anywhere. I just made it up! (Pointing to the brushes.) This is Bumble. This is Peetose. This is WITCH!”

“Annalise, PLEASE stop saying that word! It is very naughty!”

“Why? What does Witch mean? And how can it be naughty when I just made it up?”

Cringing every time it slips off her tongue. “Oh dear. STOP saying it. It doesn’t matter what it means. It’s naughty. And you maybe just made it up, but it’s a real word. A very naughty word.” Not doing so good at goal #3. Lots of attention to the word here. LOTS.

“Mommy, I didn’t know Witch was naughty. I just made it up. I didn’t know I was making up a naughty word.  So I can’t say Witch even though I just made it up?”

Goal #1 FAIL. It’s now been said WAY too many times. “NO. I already said not to. STOP. NOW. Don’t say it again. Ever.”

“Ok. I won’t. I just didn’t know it was bad. I just made it up. I promise.”

“I know. You didn’t know. Just stop.”

“Ok, Mom. What can I name it then. Is Pitch a bad word? Can I call it Pitch?”

“No. Pitch isn’t bad. Call it that. It’s a real word, but it’s not bad.”

I headed back to the bathroom, thinking about the odd chances here. 14 paint brushes named random made-up names. And the one that is being naughty and getting talked to sternly just happened to be named “Witch.” Nope, they don’t make a handbook for moments like these.

And then… yes the story doesn’t end there… I was snapped to attention once again as I heard my two littles singing a song to one of the paint brushes I hadn’t yet met. This one named “Axs.” (When spoken by Jacob, this word is remarkably similar to a word that means “butt.”) And no, I’m not even joking. You just can’t make this stuff up. The song they were singing, sung to the tune of Jingle Bells, caused the paintbrush’s name to slur together, sounding like a string of swear words. “Axs-axs-axs. Axs-axs-axs. Axs-axs-axs-axs-aaaxss….” And so I headed back in to tell them again. Axs’ name must change. It doesn’t matter what it means. Yes, I know you just made it up. Yes, Max is more appropriate. Thank you.

14 made-up names. 2 swear words. 58 times I cringed hearing my angels swear. What are the chances?

Yes. Parenting ain’t for sissies. Because there is just no way you can plan for moments like this. Moments where you’re caught completely off guard, trying to figure out how to handle any given situation the best way. And most of the time, the best way doesn’t even seem to exist.

Another tricky parenting moment: Jacob sat on the toilet for five minutes the other day. Refusing to let me wipe his bum because… he didn’t like the softness of the toilet paper. Um, yeah. 2 years old. Only been using a toilet for about two months. And he has opinions about the toilet paper.

“Not for sissies” parenting moment because: 1) You are TWO and don’t get that much control. 2) The fact that you have such strong opinions about your toilet paper’s softness – after just two months of using it – is highly concerning to me and our future. So what happens next in this conversation needs to be thought-through and planned out carefully. 3) And this is the biggest reason this was a tricky moment… This is just. plain. sad. You have no idea how easy you have it. Some kids don’t get choices of toilet paper. Or have toilet paper at all. Or toilets. Or baths. Or food. Or love. And how do you teach a 2 year old to appreciate how blessed we are without making their little innocent minds aware of the injustices and cruelty of this world?

You don’t. You can’t. He is innocent. Innocent with a spoiled little American “axs.” But he is too young to know the pain of this world.

And so he sat. For five minutes. After I calmly told him that in this house, we are thankful for what we have. Even if we don’t like the too-soft-TP, we are thankful. And when he was ready to be thankful and have a happy heart, I would wipe his dirty little bum with the t00-soft-TP. His stubborn heart held out for 5 minutes before he was willing to give in to the fluffy softness.

Those innocent little hearts. But they so make mine melt.

Mom is right. It ain’t for sissies. Heart-pounding. Heart-racing. Heart-breaking. Heart-wrenching.

And heart-meltingly-wonderful.