Happy Dramatic May Day

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

I posted this on Facebook this morning:

It’s 8AM. We’ve already had enough drama to fill several days. My children. They were not blessed with calm, unruffled, phlegmaticalness. (Yes, it’s a word.) Bless them.

Who am I kidding? Bless ME. And give us grace on this very dramatic average Wednesday. We could use a heap.

But oh how I love these dramatic littles. Their drama (sometimes) brings me much laughter… resulting in further drama. Apparently, I’m not allowed to laugh. Or at least not at them.

So just a couple examples of the average Wednesday drama:

Child 1, while discussing the possibility of doing May-Day flower deliveries, throws herself on the bed in a heap of tears. Because HOW DARE WE leave flowers WITHOUT SAYING HELLO. When I let her know that is just exactly the point – to surprise people who are expecting to see someONE, but just see flowers – she only cried harder. Because that just CAN. NOT. HAPPEN. Ever. “Mom! I can’t NOT say hello when I am at someone’s house that I just love so much! (sob) I mean, how COULD I???? (sob sob, loudly sob)”

Child 2, while getting his ginormous claws clipped after ripping holes in my skin by accident, announces in his most dramatic tone with dramatic facial expressions and dramatic one-handed-motions (the other was being clipped), “MOM. You HAFTA stop. dis. now. Because I am SO DONE getting my nails cut. I have stuff ta do.” Of course you do, 3 year old. Just cutting me to shreds isn’t on the to-do list today.

Child 1, while playing (dramatically, of course. Because all her play is like a stage production), suddenly bursts into tears again, “MOM! I just don’t understand… WHY would you want me to ring the doorbell and RUN AWAY from someone I love so much? (sobs and more sobs)” Oh dear. We’re still on this. It’s now a thing. Bless her.

Child 2, after I got him dressed and walked out of the room unintentionally leaving him alone, he sings – yes sings (and rather well, I might add) – this song from Les Miserables (“Castle on a Cloud”)… “Please do not leave me on my own. Not in da darkness by myself…”

– Let me pause here. Because what just-turned-three-year-old ON EARTH sings songs from Broadway productions to communicate to their mother just exactly what is happening? Mine. MY just-turned-three-year-old does this. Yes. We are dramatic in this house. –

So then I post my comment on Facebook. The one above. A few kind friends post encouraging words. And then this conversation happens:

  • Paul Kuzina Love you Holly–your honesty is refreshing, and you will glean much prayer support as a result of it. Holding you up in prayer—Dad
  • Holly Priestman ^And dad, were you not totally and completely PROUD that I used such a BIG word? Phlegmaticalness. That’s like a dozen syllables or something. I MUST be your child.
  • Paul Kuzina I was wondering if it actually IS a word!
  • Holly Priestman Ummmm…. YES. Although FB doesn’t seem to think so. Whatever. Look it up.
    (I have waited YEARS to be able to tell you that! YEARS!)
  • Holly Priestman ^Probably even decades. Because I am officially THAT old.
  • Paul Kuzina I don’t own a Funk and Wagnall’s. Sorry! (Mom did that to me! She mocked my predisposition to loquaciousness, and this is the result!)
  • Holly Priestman Funk and Wagnall’s? You might be dating yourself. I’m not certain of that, since I don’t know what it is, but I’m guessing so…. Try this new thing called GOOGLE, dad. It’s even better than old Funk.
    And you just trumped me. Because now I have to look up “loquaciousness.” Whatever.
  • Paul Kuzina Okay, I apologize for ever doubting my teacher daughter. “Phlegmaticalness” is, indeed, a word. (Loquaciousness” is also, I might add.)
  • Paul Kuzina Syn: verbosity, garrulous, logorrhea, prolixity, etc.
  • Paul Kuzina I personally think “logorrhea” is a good one. That sounds a lot like “diarrhea” of the mouth.
  • Marie Scanlon HAHAHAHAHAHA! I love this convo. I love words!
  • Paul Kuzina And one last thing…how dated do you honestly think I am, Holly? I just used Google to verify those words. So there! Your old man isn’t too archaic!
  • Paul Kuzina BUH-bye!
  • Holly Priestman I HATE it when dad says a big word that I don’t understand and ask him to define, only to get a string of words that I also mostly don’t know. Dad, you WOULD like logorrhea. (FB doesn’t think it’s a word either. Underlined in red.) I expect it to come up in conversation soon…
  • Holly Priestman My FAVORITE part of this entire conversation: The man who uses the word “loquaciousness” without having to look it up, then leaves the conversation with the “word” BUH-bye.
    I have absolutely NO IDEA where my kids get their dramatic flair.

Dramatic flair? Yes. And maybe also his flair for words. One of my favorite words they say is “butcept.” They use it regularly…

“I LOVE this doll, butcept it’s hard to change her clothes.”

“Mommy, you look really nice, butcept you should probably fix your hair!” Um, thanks.

And so I end with this:

My life is a bit dramatic. Of the 3 and 5 year old kind. It’s the best kind. I so love those dramatic littles (and their just-a-wee-bit-dramatic grandpa who makes me laugh in his wordy drama all the time.)

And maybe, just maybe, I inherited a bit of said drama. And maybe even dumped it by the bucketloads into these children I birthed.

We reap what we sow.

Butcept I am so thankful. Their drama brings so much joy and entertainment. I am blessed.

Now, on with this dramatic Wednesday…

The Helper

Posted in grace, grief and loss, joy found by

People say to look for the helpers.

I guess this originated from Mr. Rogers: “When I was a boy and would see scary things on the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’…”

Mr. Rogers was a wise man. A wise man who – it appears – was raised by a wise woman.

Find the helpers. Because we can’t let fear of one rob us of our faith in others.

There are so many helpers, supporters, sympathetic mourners.

Because people care. They grieve. They are there… to support, help, sacrifice. They are near to the broken-hearted, to comfort. They redeem this tragedy by bringing good from it, by restoring hope, joy, peace.

They LOVE.

 

And isn’t that just like our God? Just exactly what the Bible says about Him?

He cares.

“Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.” ~ 1 Peter 5:7

He grieves.

“In all their suffering he also suffered…” ~ Isaiah 63:9 NLT.

Because a Father grieves for the pain his child feels.

He is there.

“Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God is with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.” ~Deuteronomy 31:6

He is near to the broken-hearted. He comforts.

“The Lord is near to the broken-hearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” ~ Psalm 34:18

He redeems and restores.

“Israel, put your hope in the Lord, for with the Lord is unfailing love and with him is full redemption.” ~ Psalm 130:7 

He is the God of hope, who can fill you with all hope, peace, and joy… if you just trust in Him! (Romans 15:13)

And He loves. Oh, how He loves!

“For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” ~ Romans 8:38-39.

“I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with unfailing kindness…” ~ Jeremiah 31:3

 

And we were made in His image. (Genesis 1:27)

These people, the helpers. Look for them. In Boston, and all over. They are giving us a glimpse of our God, our Helper. “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in times of trouble.” ~ Psalm 46:1

Look for the helpers… And see an image of a living God, full of love.

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.

All this to say…

Posted in grace, parenting (aint for sissies) by

Whoever came up with the term “Terrible Twos” was dead wrong.

First, two is where it’s at. It rocks. Totally.

Secondly, they must have made up this term before they hit the threes. That is where the parenting challenges really kick in. (Says the mom of two kids under 6. Just shush. I don’t even want to hear it.)

On days like today, when the “threes” are rapidly approaching (we’re a mere 25 sleeps away), the “threes” make random appearances. I’m assuming to test the waters. And also to find our parenting weaknesses so they can be better equipped when they – the threes – are officially “a thing.”

Let me just give you a sneak peek into this very average day…

7 a.m. The boy awakes. This always happens simultaneously with, “The boy is raring to go” and “The boy’s mouth begins to move, not to stop until nap time… or much, much later.” I get to spend some quality time snuggling and reading with my sweet – and extremely chatty – two-year-old.

8:45 a.m. The girl awakes. This only happens because her brother and/or the dog has disrupted her sleep so much that she has no other choice but to drag out of bed to find a quieter location in which to continue her rest and – if absolutely necessary – wake up. S-L-O-W-L-Y.

9:15 a.m. Preparing Breakfast. (It’s Spring Break. I can serve it when I want. So what if we’ve been up over 2 hours already and are supposed to be somewhere at 10?) Greek yogurt, toast, carrot sticks, and an egg for the girl. She wants butter on her toast. He always gets peanut butter, because: 1) He’ll eat it. 2) It’s at least some protein. And 3) He’ll eat it. This time, he requests “the other butter.” I ask him 43 more times which butter he wants, just to be sure. Each and every time, he wants “the other butter.” Still not believing he actually wants regular butter, I carry the butter container and PB jar over and have him touch the one he wants. He picks regular butter. So be it.

9:18 a.m. Breakfast now in front of the kids, the “threes” make their first appearance. The boy looks at his plate and gasps. “But! But! I didn’t want that kind of butter!” Typically, this results in the removal of his plate, but I give him a second chance. (I was feeling particularly gracious, since he had to wait so long before I made breakfast. And also because we had to leave in exactly 32 minutes. No time to waste.) He eats his yogurt quietly (I assume to avoid losing it) then throws a fit about the kind of butter on his toast. While I know better – totally and completely know better – I engage in a discussion of “reason” with the boy about his toast, the butter, and why it is he got that kind and should eat it.

9:20 a.m. The “threes” are in full force. Demanding. Throwing fits. Refusing. Sassing. Stomping. Glaring. “Humph”ing.

It’s not even 9:30 and my patience is gone. So is, by the way, the rest of his breakfast. Not permanently, mind you. It will return when he is hungry again.

Which happened about 30 minutes later when we were supposed to be walking out the door. Thankfully, the “sweet twos” returned by then, and he ate his toast without complaint.

The rest of the day was fairly typical. Siblings playing nicely. Sibling rivalry. Some good parenting moments. Some parenting fails. Some random appearances of “irrational threes” mixed in with the sweet twos. And the “grown-up fives” (which are occurring ever more frequently) outnumbering the “selfish fives.”

And then a few situations came up that caused some stress for Matt and I. Don’t worry, all is well. But the added stress resulted in: a few extra parenting fails, arguments (which caused more stress), unkind tones (my own), and an overall down mood for me.

To avoid the downward spiral this “overall down mood” can often cause, the kids and I set out on a walk to the library. The boy rode his bike. The girl and I walked. I carried about 20 books (no joke) in a backpack.

The library is 1.5 miles away. I didn’t really think much of it, but that was probably a bit of a stretch for a 2 year old who just learned to ride. Yet, he was happy. And my girl, who had some heart-struggles today, too, was content the whole way.

It was nice, the walk. Quiet talk. Happy sounds. And a chance for me to reflect on the day…

This day. Not terrible. Not great. Slightly-below-average-with-no-major-life-stresses kind of day.

Yet, lots of mistakes. I made them. Matt made them. The kids made them. Avoidable and Regrettable.

But…

After today, (and every day), Thank you, Jesus.

Because all my mistakes? Yes, avoidable. And yes, regrettable. But also? Forgivable.

All this to say..

This day, and days like today… they make me realize just how much I need a Savior.

 

And Thank God for this:

“The LORD is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love…” ~ Psalm 103:8