My girl

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

You may have noticed that in my recent posts, Jacob has been the star. Annalise sometimes appears, but she is generally a by-stander during the hilarious antics of her brother. In some posts, she has been completely absent. There is a reason for this. And that reason is NOT that Jacob is my favorite. It is also NOT that he is funnier or cuter. It is also NOT that she is naughtier or boring.

Ok, maybe Jacob is funnier right now. But mainly because he is two and it’s part of his job. It’s funny when the two-year-old escapes and runs to the back yard buck naked and says to you as you finally discover him outside going down the slide on a sunny day, “Ooooh… My BUNS are HOT, Mama!” If the 4 year old did that, it wouldn’t be quite as funny. It would be just be naughty. And also inappropriate. And it may be funny – although not in the moment – that he stuck his hands in his diaper at the dinner table and showed us the “dirt” he found inside that was now on his fingers, but I would not be laughing and posting it for all to read if his big sister had done so. So as a two-year-old, his opportunities for hilarious entertainment are really less restrictive than with the four year old. TWO is funny. It just is.

And that isn’t to say that FOUR isn’t funny. It’s just different. I did laugh when Annalise said to me, “Mommy, what’s that kind of poo-poo called when it comes out really smoove? (smooth) Because I think I have that.” I also laughed when she believed Grandpa Kitchen when he told her there was a little man inside the red Staples button on his desk, so that each time you push the button, the little man says, “That was easy.” She ran to show me the red button and told me all about the little man that lived inside, but then she dropped it and it landed upside-down. “Oh. Never mind. Grandpa was just teasin’. I see where the battery goes.”

So yes, she makes us laugh too. But the real reason I haven’t written much about Annalise is because, well…. I can’t. Not without crying. Lately, we have watched our little girl change so much. Mature, grow, and think deeply. She is still funny. She is still naughty. She is still 4.

But in some moments, she seems 12. Or even 16. Sometimes, she asks deep questions, and we have a conversation that I didn’t know I could even have with her.

Like the other day, when she asked Matt if the people that live on the bottom of the earth are upside-down since we’re “by the top” and we’re right-side-up. Too bad Mama wasn’t around when she asked that one, because I’m fairly certain she has some major misconceptions now about the world being “round but still sorta flat at the same time.” Thank you, Daddy. Annalise now thinks the world is a pancake.

Or yesterday when she asked me, “Mommy, what does ‘evicted’ mean?” I have no idea where she even heard the word. You could insert a thousand different words there that she has asked me about after overhearing strangers’ conversations, something on the radio, or in a song.

Or like the other day when she asked me how the message I type to daddy on my phone gets to him wherever he is. And how do they know where he is? And how do the words go up in the sky and land on his phone? And why – if we pray really hard, and if God loves us really much – do sometimes our prayers not get answered with a yes, “like when I pray about that I really want to see my cousin I miss so bad. Other people get to LIVE BY their cousins and see them EVERY DAY. I don’t even get to see mine AT ALL.“ And…

My girl is growing up. I love to watch it so much, and at the same time, I want it to stop now. This growing up thing, it’s so emotional. On the parents, I mean. I’m scared to blink.

This weekend, we watched her perform at her ballet recital. She was beautiful. She did amazing. She remembered all her steps. Then at one point, she lost her footing and stumbled – just for a moment. My heart jumped into my throat, my stomach fell. Matt gasped. She continued her dance and I waited for her to turn so I could see her face. It seemed like an eternity as I watched, expecting to see tears or a face I knew was holding them back. I was ready to run backstage to meet her and hold her while she cried and to tell her it was okay and that I was so so proud of her. Instead, she turned, and I saw my girl. On her feet, on her own. Beaming with a smile.

Part of me shouted inside, “ATTA GIRL! THAT’S MY GIRL!” Another part of me cried inside, knowing she was brave and strong… all on her own. She didn’t need me standing next to her or holding her hand or telling her to get back up. Because she was big enough and brave enough and confident enough to do it without me.

The show was over, and all the performers came out with their classes for the final bow. First the oldest girls, then the next oldest, on down to the youngest little darlings in their adorable tutus. Annalise’s class was third to last – third to youngest –  led out by their teacher, as all the little girls’ classes were. She curtsied and took her place on the stage. My heart swelled with pride.

There are two things we realized that night.

1) Our girl is growing up. She is really such a big girl.

2) Our girl is still very very little.

I am so so proud of my big-little girl.

a

Just another Saturday…

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

Please tell me I’m not the only mother who lets her children run around in just their undies and diaper on a Saturday while trashing the living room with every toy and kitchen utensil imaginable and waving at strangers from the window with the blinds wide open. Because the nice Jehovah’s Witness lady and little girl that came to the door today seemed a bit uncomfortable. I’m pretty sure she was reconsidering giving me the invitation to their event, but felt bad because we already knew they were already there witnessing the chaos of our home, so she gave it anyway. Her discomfort may have had less to do with the nearly naked children with their faces smashed to the window and more to do with the frazzled mother, still in her PJs with messy hair, standing on toys because no floor was in sight… at 11:30 in the “morning.”

Normally, I wouldn’t answer the door at 11:30 when I am still in my pajamas and a tornado has run through my house, but the naked children in the window waving at the lady and hollering, “MOM! SOMEONE IS AT THE DOOR!!!!!!” was a bit of a giveaway that I was home.

In any case, I think the nice lady realized (to her relief, I’m sure) that we probably wouldn’t attend the event they invited us to, because as she was making a (quick) escape, Jacob loudly informed her, “HEY! MY Past-oh Phil has an owie on his neck. Only it’s not on da outside, so we can’t put a band-age on it. Dat’s why I’m pwayin’ foh Jesus to put a band-age on da inside. We pwayin’ foh him.”

Translation and Summary: Our pastor had some odd symptoms last week that led to an MRI that showed he had a dissection in his carotid artery. He is taking medication and cutting out strenuous physical activity and should be fine in 3 months. But Jacob was highly concerned when he heard me reading Matt an email that was sent out to our church explaining what happened. He asked all sorts of questions and finally suggested we put a bandage on it. I told him we couldn’t, because it was on the inside of his neck. So he said he would pray for Jesus to put a bandage on the inside. And he has.  Every day. “Dank you, Jesus, foh Past-oh Phil’s owie to be all better. You gonna put a bandage on da inside. Dank you.”  And he tells lots of people about it, too. Our door visitor this morning wasn’t the first person he’s told, and she wasn’t the last person he told today. Jacob also informed Mrs. Burkhart at Doris Jean’s Donuts in Lynden. Mrs. Burkhart knew exactly what he was talking about and told Jacob she’s praying for him, too.

Later that sweet boy sat at the dinner table eating his apples. When he put his hand in the air and said, “Momma. I got dirt on my fingers,” I didn’t think much of it. He said it a few more times before it hit me… he hadn’t been outside playing in the dirt since last night, and he had a bath afterward. Panic set in as I saw the “dirt” covered finger heading towards his face. “STOP! DON’T. TOUCH. ANYTHING!!!!” He lifted his other hand. It, too, was covered.

Turns out his entire diaper was FULL of “dirt.”

After a thorough washing, we headed back to the table, where Jacob continued to refuse to eat his dinner but had no problem eating his boogers and telling us about it. Matt thought it would be humorous to point out the irony and said, “You can’t feel too good about your cooking when he’ll eat his boogers and ate a bunch of dirt last night, but he won’t touch dinner.”

Thank you, Husband. I look forward to eating the wonderful meals you’ll be preparing from now on.

In other news, I have decided to post a weekly self-pity story like my last post – even if I have to make one up. Because all you ladies that ignored me and commented anyway sure know how to make a girl feel good. Your kind words were good for my soul. Loves.

Care to join the club?

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

Admittedly, I am an ultra-paranoid, over-sensitive, don’t want to ruffle feathers kind of girl. I don’t easily get over it when someone doesn’t like me. Or even if they like me but have just one teeny-tiny slightly-negative thought about me. Not that everyone loves me, or anything. It’s just that I – thankfully – don’t know who doesn’t like me. Ignorance is bliss.

Then recently, I was told that I brag about my kids. Although it was added “I don’t mean that in a bad way. But you do brag about them.” Not in a bad way? Ummm…. okay. That clarifying sentence didn’t do much to ease my mind about the bragging part.

Before I go on, just know there is no need to fill the comment section here with “Please keep posting! I love to read the funny things your kids do!” Or other such ego-boosters. You have all been very kind and have already shared the love plenty. It’s just one comment from one person that has weaseled its way into my psyche and slowly pecks at the loving comments from others. You know how it goes… It just takes one drop of blood to taint the whole batch. No, that’s not it. But anyway…

I don’t like braggers. I avoid them. And I’ve tried to be very conscientious about not bragging. Not that I have to work hard at it or anything… it isn’t like I actually have many accomplishments, skills, talents, belongings, or other good-enough-to-brag-about things.

It’s just that Matt and I decided from the very beginning – when I was first pregnant – that we didn’t want to be one of those parents. You know, the ones that tell everyone each and every awe-inspiring accomplishment of their child more than twice because they forget they’ve told you already, or the ones that genius-ize every basic skill their child has. “My 8-month-old breathed today. Isn’t he amazing? He is the smartest baby I know. Hands down.” Nope, that was not going to be us. Even if our kids learned to crawl at 3 months, walk at 5 months, and read at 2. (They didn’t.) And even if they received countless awards for their cuteness, were smart enough to solve quantum calculations, or could scale Mt. Everest – or even a flight of stairs – while jumping rope. (They haven’t, they aren’t, and they can’t.) Cute? Yes. But not a single award. Not even one. And while I don’t want to squelch their hopes and dreams to “be whatever they want to be” or “do whatever they want to do,” we’ve got to be realistic here… They do have Matt’s and my genes, after all. Quantum physics is not likely in their future (I don’t even know what it is.) And Annalise, my girl, you have many talents. Coordination while walking is not one of them. Mommy is sorry I passed that on to you, baby. Let’s just be thankful we’ve both managed to make it this far without sprained ankles or broken arms.

No, bragging is definitely not something I find appealing.

And so of course, my over-sensitivity and over-analyzing self quickly went into over-drive. I cried. I laid in bed awake re-playing every conversation I ever had with this person. I read every Facebook post and blog post I wrote since… well, pretty much since ever. I asked a few key people just a couple questions, like: Do you think I brag? If so, when? And how? And to whom? And about what, exactly? And if you don’t think so, what kinds of things do I say or write that could come across as bragging? And do you think I should stop writing about those things? Should I stop writing about my kids? Should I stop writing altogether? Do you think I’ve offended someone? Who? Did they say something? What did they say? Do they not like me? Do I talk too much about the kids? Do I talk too much in general?…  You know, just one or two questions like that.

And in all my thinking, analyzing, over-analyzing, and over-over-analyzing, I came to a few realizations.

1. Yes, I agree I talk about my kids. And I write about my kids more than I talk about them. And I take pictures of them even more than I write about them. But I don’t really think describing the countless ways Jacob decides to redecorate the house with marker, vaseline, peanut butter, eggs, and other medium counts as bragging. And sharing stories about how Jacob told his sister he is sorry she is stupid, or how Annalise was super-sassy and how I responded with horrible parenting doesn’t exactly scream, “Look at me! My kids are THE BEST. And I must be THE BEST for having them turn out so perfect!“ And sharing pictures of my kids – who just happen to be astoundingly cute – isn’t the same as telling everyone my kids are astoundingly cute. It’s just sharing pictures. Feel free to draw your own conclusions about their level of cuteness or lack-there-of. If, after seeing pictures, you decide on your own that they are cute, that was not me bragging. That was your own opinion. Right? Right????

2. I do write about and post pictures of Annalise and Jacob an awful lot. But you know what? Dang right, I do! And why shouldn’t I? They are hilarious. They bring us joy in countless ways. They are our gifts from God. Sharing that joy with others is like bragging about how awesome God is for making such studly little amazing creatures. They certainly aren’t so awesome because of me. In fact, they seem to be that way despite me. And NOT telling others of their hilarious escapades would feel a bit like hiding a light under a bushel. Hide it under a bushel? NO! I’M GONNA LET IT SHINE!

Only, here’s the thing… I really am a wuss. Now that I’ve been called out for bragging, I cringe when I want to post something public. And so I’ve decided that while I will keep writing all the antics that keep us in hysterics, I will do more so on my blog and less so – although not never – on Facebook. That way, if you don’t like the “bragging,” stay out of the kitchen, would ya? And also, I won’t be posting every blog link to Facebook so as to not be any more annoying on there than I already am. So if you are one who enjoys reading about our circus home and would like to continue, you might want to click “follow blog” on the right – at least while I deal with my overly-sensitive hurt feelings and bruised ego. And added bonus!… By clicking to follow, you’re increasing the chances that my ego will recover all the more quickly, because I will be so pleased with myself to have a few more blog followers.

ONE LAST THING…

While I did just write a lot about not wanting to be a bragger, here is something definitely worth bragging about: Mom and Dad.

Married 40 YEARS TODAY. A young love that wouldn’t likely last… Met in April, married two months later on June 9, 1972. Spent the first few years just getting to know each other, I’m sure. They had 5 years to do so before my older sister was born. And now, 3 kids, 8 grandchildren (counting almost-born-Mason and our twin girls in Heaven), and 4 decades later, they are a shining example of a how building your marriage on the firm foundation of Jesus is not only the secret to success but speaks volumes of the love of God. They have shown me what it means to love unconditionally, live sacrificially, and commit to one another fully. They are the most giving people I know. And as a recent guest to their house said, “When you step in their home, you know it is different. You feel it.” And I’m pretty sure she wasn’t referring to dad’s quirky sense of humor or our general dysfunction.

I love you, Mom and Dad. And I’ll brag about you any day.

Wedding Day. June 9, 1972

Easter. April 8, 2012  (That’s right. I slipped in a pic that included my two adorable kids. Get over it, people.)

And finally, the only real reason to boast:

~“Let the one who boasts, boast in the Lord.” 2 Corinthians 10:17

~Psalm 34:1-7 

I will bless the Lord at all times;
    his praise shall continually be in my mouth.
2 My soul makes its boast in the Lord;
    let the humble hear and be glad.
3 Oh, magnify the Lord with me,
    and let us exalt his name together!

4 I sought the Lord, and he answered me
    and delivered me from all my fears.
5 Those who look to him are radiant,
    and their faces shall never be ashamed.
6  This poor man cried, and the Lord heard him
    and saved him out of all his troubles.
7  The angel of the Lord encamps
    around those who fear him, and he delivers them.

Spaghetti: it’s what’s for dinner

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

Our dinner conversation:

Me: Jacob, eat your dinner please.

Jacob: (Looking away to his sister) Look, Sissy! Look at my cars!

Me: Jacob, EAT your dinner!

Jacob: (Still looking away) Sissy, did you see my cars?

Me: JACOB. LOOK at me. (He looks) EAT. YOUR. DINNER.

Jacob: (Nodding head) I heard you, mommy. I will. I will eat it.

Me: Thank you. Thank you very much.

Jacob: I will eat my dinner… (shaking head emphatically) …but I won’t eat dat. Not dat.

Me: Well, that is what’s for dinner. Eat your dinner.

Jacob: (Still shaking head) Nope. Not dat. I will not eat it.

Me: Eat it.

Jacob: (Shaking head “no” with each syllable) NOT DAT. NOT. DAT. NOT! DAT! I WILL NOT EAT DA NOODLES!

Me: Jacob, noodles are what’s for dinner. And peppers. And applesauce. Eat your dinner.

Jacob: (calmly) Noodles are for dinner. (He smiles) But not for me. Day are for sissy. SISSY will eat da noodles! I will eat my dinner. But I will not. EAT. DAT. (long pause) Dank you. Dank you VERY MUCH!

Annalise: Mommy, why are you hiding your face and laughing in your shirt? Is it because Jacob talks so much?

Pretty much, kiddo, pretty much.

That, and I’m just a little frightened for our future. Prayers appreciated.

Busted

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

So you think you know your kid, right? I mean, you’ve been with him 92% of his life. The other 8% was spent at a babysitter’s, the church nursery, and grandma’s. And 20% of that time, he spent sleeping. So really, only 6.4% of his life has been spent awake and away from you. Every other minute, he’s been with you. Awake, asleep, eating, playing, with you. You know him best.

You know his likes, his dislikes, and all his habits. And you can imagine that the 6.4% of his life that you’re away and he’s awake is very similar to the time when he’s with you. I mean, you know him. You really really do.

Then a day comes when you realize that you actually don’t. All this time, he’s been leading a double life. At least during part of that 6.4% of time, he has. Your 2-year-old boy has a whole other life that you know nothing about.

Let me explain…

Today when I got to Bev’s house to pick up the kids, Jacob was sitting on the ground drinking milk from a sippy cup. He looked up at me and said something about a ba-ba. I thought he was teasing and joked, “Is that your ba-ba?”

He smiled big and giggled. “Noooo…” he says.

“That’s right,” I say, “you’re a big boy. You don’t need a ba-ba.”

Bev looks at me. “You don’t give him a bottle?”

Surprised, I look at her. “No. Not for about a year now. Why? Do you?”

She smiles and starts to giggle. “Um, yeah… Then how do you put him down for a nap?”

“I just lay him in his crib. He plays and talks and goes to sleep. Why? What do you do?”

“I rock him. And give him a bottle. He cries for a ‘ba-ba’ if I don’t. And if I give him a bottle and don’t rock him, he cries to be rocked.”

“Really?? He cries for a ba-ba? And to be rocked???”

Bev nods.

I say, “So, he gets a bottle. Do you warm it up?”

She nods again.

We both look at Jacob, still sitting on the floor with a sippy cup. He’s been watching this whole conversation. I say to him, “So… Jacob… You get a bottle at Bev’s house before you’ll go to sleep?”

That kid, my kid, the one I know so well, looks up at us with the biggest accomplished (yet somewhat sheepish) grin, and I’m certain he let out a little “heh, heh.”

“Jacob,” I continue, “do you ask Bev to rock you when you go to sleep every day?”

Same big grin. Same knowing giggle.

Hello, wool. I see you’ve met eyes. My eyes. And Bev’s. Apparently, you’ve been pulled over them for some time now.

Last spring, just after he turned one, we stopped giving the boy bottles. All summer long with me, he didn’t get a bottle. Back to Bev’s in the fall, and he started getting them. Asking for them. Oh yeah, and he decided he didn’t know how to go to sleep on his own but needed to be rocked.

Not to mention, he has never asked for a ba-ba anywhere else. Not at church. Not at Gramma’s. Not to anyone. In fact, when playing with and feeding his sister’s dolls, he doesn’t even call them ba-bas. He gives the baby a “bottle.” Aaaannnnndd, he and I have even joked about baby-ish stuff. Like, I tip him back in my arms and say to him, “Go to sweep my wittle baby. Do you want your wittle ba-ba?” And he laughs and says in his baby-est voice, “Ma-ma. Ba-ba. Ba-ba.” And we laugh and laugh, because he’s really a big boy. A big boy that actually says “bottle,” talks in full sentences, and plays jokes. And hasn’t had a ba-ba for a year.

The boy led a double-life. Big boy at home, baby at Bev’s. He’s just two, but it worked for an entire school year.

Today, he was busted. Wish him luck tomorrow.

And then wish me luck for the next 16 years.