2008 is here. I'm 38 minutes into the new year and I am here wondering what lies ahead. Each year I make resolutions. I never seem to keep them - in part because I don't always remember what I resolve and in part because what I do remember seems to ambitious for this mother of four to accomplish. As each year comes to a close, I always feel a bit sad thinking about the days gone by and all that I have not been able to do. I always feel sad that I don't readily think of all I was able to do. It seems that as each day went by I somehow did not measure up to some loftier goals I had set - whether consciously or unconsciously. And yet, as I wonder what lies ahead for 2008, I do realize that 2007 was a year defined by moments that changed my life in ways that I have yet to understand, and moments that are defined by clarity.
Lucas John was born in May. His ability to go with the flow of this crazy family with a smile and laid back attitude along with his infectious laugh reminds me of how precious time is and that maybe I need to spend less time worrying about the "flow" and more time just going with it. Matthew started kindergarten and suddenly changed from my baby to this amazing little boy. As I watch him trying to navigate his new life, I am reminded how hard it is to accept changes in life, especially when you don't have the opportunity to make a different choice. Only once did Matthew ask to stay at Happi House - the "school" he grew up in since he was 6 weeks old. Emme has embraced her creative energy and girlish ways. She spends each day trying to find her place within a household of three brothers. She accessories herself with bracelets and necklaces and I remember my Yiayia Evangeline and her love of jewelry. Emme reminds me that the past always finds a way to live on in the present. Nicholas is coming into his own as he begins to understands how his actions and his words have consequences. It is a lesson that is always difficult to learn and one which many of us seem to be taught over and over again. As I watch my children grow, engage, and love each other I wonder what lies ahead for them - in this world in which we so desperately fight for peace while we become immune to its absence.
For me, I have decided to take another stab at resolutions to help me define in part what lies ahead. So - for me - in 2008, I have decided to gain weight, become less organized, and read less, but work more. And as 2009 rolls in, I can sit here writing and be happy that I yet again, was not able to keep a resolution.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Monday, December 24, 2007
Type A magic
I don't remember if I ever felt the magic of Christmas. I'm sure at some point I did. But, in talking with my friends, in seeing how my husband and mother-in-law get so excited about everything, I question whether or not I ever believed in the magic. The kids all tracked Santa's sleigh tonight through our telescope. And as the sleigh bells rang, Matthew assured me that he saw Donner on the rooftop of our neighbor's house. I am amazed at his belief in magic. There are times that I can't tell my own kids a apart, and yet Matthew from 100 yards away can tell Donner from Blitzen. My kids believe in the magic.
For me, I think I try too hard to believe or maybe it is that I spend so much of my life believing in the practical that it is hard for me to dream of the magic. I have fond memories of Christmas. The smells of a dinner -- the sounds of lots of family and friends gathering at our house - but, I never really considered that magical. I considered that just part of the holiday. It is what you do. I have my list for Christmas. I've taken the roast out to defrost, the bread, pumpkin pie and cheesecake are all ready to go - my tablecloth is on the dining room table - lots of things crossed off the list, but nothing magical. I "do" the holidays. It is who I am. Inherent to my definition is the fact that I am the functional person. I get things done. I make the plan. I make the lists. I make sure that everyone else believes in the magic.
And yet tonight as I sit waiting for my two year old to fall asleep, I so badly want to believe in the magic. For just one day, I'd like to not be my Type A. I'd settle for being a B+ - if it meant that I could believe for even one minute. And for those of you who know me well, Type B+ would be a monumental shift in my existence. But, I don't see myself as anything but Type A.
I see the glow of the small Christmas trees that are in each child's room. They are waiting to embrace a present, but only if sleep comes soon to the kids. As I look at the lights on Nick's tree, the melding of colors reflect just enough on each boy's face so that I can see the outline of Nick's sleepy eyes and Lucas in deep sleep. The magic covers them like their blankets. Emme and Matthew are already dreaming. I sit and think.
I think of all the people who are missing someone this Christmas. I think about the chance to look in someone's eyes - even just briefly, or hear for just one stolen moment the laughter that frames a random conversation. I think about the smell of Christmas bread that my Yiayia use to bake and I wonder if mine will be as good as hers. I think about how I love sharing the bread as if with each bite love fills your soul. I think about how strong a hug can be in lifting your spirit. I think about how the sound of a voice - first words of "MaMa" - can make your heart stop. I think about how a walk or a crawl down the hallway can bring such joy, if only you stop and take a look. I think about how no one should have to be alone this Christmas when their family is nearby.
I think about how grateful I am that my mother-in-law is here, and am grateful that I did not have to schedule visits among different sets of family members so that the "perfect" Christmas was achieved. I think about how I love the photo I took before church on Sunday when all the kids were wearing Christmas outfits and how fun it'll be tomorrow when Nicky stays in his pjs all day and Emme dons her dress from her Nouna. I think about how excited Matthew will be as he opens the presents he has wanted. I think about Lucas and the awe of a first Christmas. I think about my sister whose son William arrived early but will be spending his first Christmas at home and not in the hospital. I think about two things that I was once told never to forget ... and I realize that I do believe in the magic. But for me, my Type A magic - is more about the ordinary day and those moments that we learn not to forget. It is those moments that define my magic - my Type A magic - a magic that can't be put on any list, but one in which for me, allows me to be free, even for a moment.
For me, I think I try too hard to believe or maybe it is that I spend so much of my life believing in the practical that it is hard for me to dream of the magic. I have fond memories of Christmas. The smells of a dinner -- the sounds of lots of family and friends gathering at our house - but, I never really considered that magical. I considered that just part of the holiday. It is what you do. I have my list for Christmas. I've taken the roast out to defrost, the bread, pumpkin pie and cheesecake are all ready to go - my tablecloth is on the dining room table - lots of things crossed off the list, but nothing magical. I "do" the holidays. It is who I am. Inherent to my definition is the fact that I am the functional person. I get things done. I make the plan. I make the lists. I make sure that everyone else believes in the magic.
And yet tonight as I sit waiting for my two year old to fall asleep, I so badly want to believe in the magic. For just one day, I'd like to not be my Type A. I'd settle for being a B+ - if it meant that I could believe for even one minute. And for those of you who know me well, Type B+ would be a monumental shift in my existence. But, I don't see myself as anything but Type A.
I see the glow of the small Christmas trees that are in each child's room. They are waiting to embrace a present, but only if sleep comes soon to the kids. As I look at the lights on Nick's tree, the melding of colors reflect just enough on each boy's face so that I can see the outline of Nick's sleepy eyes and Lucas in deep sleep. The magic covers them like their blankets. Emme and Matthew are already dreaming. I sit and think.
I think of all the people who are missing someone this Christmas. I think about the chance to look in someone's eyes - even just briefly, or hear for just one stolen moment the laughter that frames a random conversation. I think about the smell of Christmas bread that my Yiayia use to bake and I wonder if mine will be as good as hers. I think about how I love sharing the bread as if with each bite love fills your soul. I think about how strong a hug can be in lifting your spirit. I think about how the sound of a voice - first words of "MaMa" - can make your heart stop. I think about how a walk or a crawl down the hallway can bring such joy, if only you stop and take a look. I think about how no one should have to be alone this Christmas when their family is nearby.
I think about how grateful I am that my mother-in-law is here, and am grateful that I did not have to schedule visits among different sets of family members so that the "perfect" Christmas was achieved. I think about how I love the photo I took before church on Sunday when all the kids were wearing Christmas outfits and how fun it'll be tomorrow when Nicky stays in his pjs all day and Emme dons her dress from her Nouna. I think about how excited Matthew will be as he opens the presents he has wanted. I think about Lucas and the awe of a first Christmas. I think about my sister whose son William arrived early but will be spending his first Christmas at home and not in the hospital. I think about two things that I was once told never to forget ... and I realize that I do believe in the magic. But for me, my Type A magic - is more about the ordinary day and those moments that we learn not to forget. It is those moments that define my magic - my Type A magic - a magic that can't be put on any list, but one in which for me, allows me to be free, even for a moment.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Do you believe in magic?
My son asked me if I believed in magic. He wanted to know if he should believe that something could exist that you may not be able to see. I knew what he was asking - he was asking if he should believe in the magic of Christmas. But, as I sit here typing I realize that maybe he was asking for more - maybe he was asking why as adults we seem so far removed from the magic of Christmas that sometimes it is hard for us to believe even what is right before our eyes.
I'm 37 years old and I'm not sure I ever believed in the magic of Christmas. My memories of Christmas are all good. I remember lots of family and friends coming for Christmas dinner. I remember the chaos of trying to figure out who would sit where and if we had enough chairs. I remember random presents - a doll, a bike, lots of nightgowns ... but nothing so monumental that it defined me. It was neither good nor bad - just a special day - that meant a lot of cooking and a lot of cleaning - but also a lot of being together. This Christmas I made the decision not tor travel anywhere. I wanted my kids to have Christmas in their own house. Wake up in their own beds - open presents under their own tree ... I wanted that moment. But when Matthew asked me about the magic - I was left wondering what would be magical about "that moment." In truth, once the Barbie Dreamhouse got on the wishlist - I knew we wouldn't be driving anywhere,
I'm 37 years old and I'm not sure I ever believed in the magic of Christmas. My memories of Christmas are all good. I remember lots of family and friends coming for Christmas dinner. I remember the chaos of trying to figure out who would sit where and if we had enough chairs. I remember random presents - a doll, a bike, lots of nightgowns ... but nothing so monumental that it defined me. It was neither good nor bad - just a special day - that meant a lot of cooking and a lot of cleaning - but also a lot of being together. This Christmas I made the decision not tor travel anywhere. I wanted my kids to have Christmas in their own house. Wake up in their own beds - open presents under their own tree ... I wanted that moment. But when Matthew asked me about the magic - I was left wondering what would be magical about "that moment." In truth, once the Barbie Dreamhouse got on the wishlist - I knew we wouldn't be driving anywhere,
Monday, December 3, 2007
One good shot
It's Monday night and typically Mondays mean Dancing with the Stars. But after several heartbreaks with Wayne and Cheryl and Cameron and Edynna getting knocked off, the show finally ended. With many cheers echoing through our house, the kids, Brian and I watched Helio and Julianna take possession of the mirror ball trophy. But, this Monday was different. It was the first Monday in weeks that the kids and I were left with no special program to watch while Brian was teaching. I thought I had a reprieve when I saw that Charlie Brown Christmas was on - but, somehow the kids didn't want to watch it again. Despite my best efforts to get them to sit calmly and watch the show as I folded laundry, the kids were just too restless. They reminded me of an addict going through withdrawl - they knew they needed their Dancing with the Stars fix, but there was no way for them to get it. In my desperation, I tasked Matthew with finding something for them to do.
I typically don't give Matthew a task like this because he becomes too structured in his "imaginative play" - and wants things to be a certain way. Typically, when he tries to pretend play with Nicholas and Emme, it ends up in tears as no one plays how he wants them to play and they don't want to play as he wants them to play. But tonight, I needed just fifteen minutes to finish folding laundry. For whatever reason, this seemed like a luxury to me as if by some strange connection in my brain, all would be right with the world if only I could fold the last basket of laundry.
The pretend play started out beautifully. Matthew decided that he would be a conductor and we would be the chorus, singing Christmas carols. We lasted through three songs: Jingle Bells, Deck the Halls, and Hark the Herald Angels Sing - and then the frustration set in as we weren't singing the songs Matthew wanted, or weren't singing loud enough, or fast enough, or ...
And then it happened, out of frustration Matthew picked up a pair of underwear I had just folded and tossed it at Nicholas' head. Now, Nicholas, who will walk that fine line between class clown and class bully, anticipates this move as only he could and picks up one of the decorative pillows and uses it as his shield. Angered by this action, Matthew picks up another pair of underwear and aims it at Nicholas. In my own frustration, fueled mostly by the fact that I would now have to refold two pairs of underwear, I grabbed Matthew's pants just as he started to lose his balance. You see, I was folding clothes on our bed and he was standing on the bed which had symbolized the conductor's "stage". Noticing him starting to fall, I tightened my grip on his pajama pants and pulled upwards, for some reason thinking this would stop him from falling. And thus began "the attack of the wedgie woman" ....
For the next hour, my kids transformed the bedroom into a royal battle field in which the two fair princes, were trying to save the princess from the evil wedgie woman. It did not take long for us all to figure out how best to slingshot underwear across the room and at each other. It did not take me long with my competitive nature to procure Brian's underwear as my weapon of choice - being the largest pairs in the house, they could serve as both shield and weapon.
You see, all it took is one good shot to the head, and you were under the control of wedgie woman. Not wanting to accept their fate, and probably moreso accepting of their competitive gene, the boys garnered Emme's support teaching her how to sling short her Dora panties.
She's a good shot - and after Matthew talked her out of using the underwear she was currently wearing, Emme became an excellent shot - hitting her target about 95% of the time. She was so good that she realized that she had control of the game and decided that the battle would be boys against the girls. Her shot was so accurate, that Nicholas decided it was just easier to wear the underwear on his head then to avoid being hit by it. Matthew donned Brian's underwear - as more body wear - similar to that of a wrestler's uniform - for more complete protection.
Tonight was the funniest night I had in a very long time. Somewhere admist flying underwear, mind control, and wedgies, I realized the my kids and I were actually having fun in a very insane, and potentially disturbing way as pretend poop and buggers somehow became additional weapons to the sling shot underwear. I knew I should be stopping this kind of play. I knew that I should be reading to them. Hell, it isn't like I don't see the PSA every morning on Channel Disney "just 15 minutes a day is all it takes" ...
And yet all I could think about as I watched Nicholas running around with underwear on his head jumping over crumpled laundry, Matthew strategically maneuvering his underwear body shield, and Emme taking her best shot was "Man, Emme would have no problem at a Wayne Newton concert ... and so I came to the conclusion that somehow my kids had managed to get their fix ... and all it took was one good shot.
I typically don't give Matthew a task like this because he becomes too structured in his "imaginative play" - and wants things to be a certain way. Typically, when he tries to pretend play with Nicholas and Emme, it ends up in tears as no one plays how he wants them to play and they don't want to play as he wants them to play. But tonight, I needed just fifteen minutes to finish folding laundry. For whatever reason, this seemed like a luxury to me as if by some strange connection in my brain, all would be right with the world if only I could fold the last basket of laundry.
The pretend play started out beautifully. Matthew decided that he would be a conductor and we would be the chorus, singing Christmas carols. We lasted through three songs: Jingle Bells, Deck the Halls, and Hark the Herald Angels Sing - and then the frustration set in as we weren't singing the songs Matthew wanted, or weren't singing loud enough, or fast enough, or ...
And then it happened, out of frustration Matthew picked up a pair of underwear I had just folded and tossed it at Nicholas' head. Now, Nicholas, who will walk that fine line between class clown and class bully, anticipates this move as only he could and picks up one of the decorative pillows and uses it as his shield. Angered by this action, Matthew picks up another pair of underwear and aims it at Nicholas. In my own frustration, fueled mostly by the fact that I would now have to refold two pairs of underwear, I grabbed Matthew's pants just as he started to lose his balance. You see, I was folding clothes on our bed and he was standing on the bed which had symbolized the conductor's "stage". Noticing him starting to fall, I tightened my grip on his pajama pants and pulled upwards, for some reason thinking this would stop him from falling. And thus began "the attack of the wedgie woman" ....
For the next hour, my kids transformed the bedroom into a royal battle field in which the two fair princes, were trying to save the princess from the evil wedgie woman. It did not take long for us all to figure out how best to slingshot underwear across the room and at each other. It did not take me long with my competitive nature to procure Brian's underwear as my weapon of choice - being the largest pairs in the house, they could serve as both shield and weapon.
You see, all it took is one good shot to the head, and you were under the control of wedgie woman. Not wanting to accept their fate, and probably moreso accepting of their competitive gene, the boys garnered Emme's support teaching her how to sling short her Dora panties.
She's a good shot - and after Matthew talked her out of using the underwear she was currently wearing, Emme became an excellent shot - hitting her target about 95% of the time. She was so good that she realized that she had control of the game and decided that the battle would be boys against the girls. Her shot was so accurate, that Nicholas decided it was just easier to wear the underwear on his head then to avoid being hit by it. Matthew donned Brian's underwear - as more body wear - similar to that of a wrestler's uniform - for more complete protection.
Tonight was the funniest night I had in a very long time. Somewhere admist flying underwear, mind control, and wedgies, I realized the my kids and I were actually having fun in a very insane, and potentially disturbing way as pretend poop and buggers somehow became additional weapons to the sling shot underwear. I knew I should be stopping this kind of play. I knew that I should be reading to them. Hell, it isn't like I don't see the PSA every morning on Channel Disney "just 15 minutes a day is all it takes" ...
And yet all I could think about as I watched Nicholas running around with underwear on his head jumping over crumpled laundry, Matthew strategically maneuvering his underwear body shield, and Emme taking her best shot was "Man, Emme would have no problem at a Wayne Newton concert ... and so I came to the conclusion that somehow my kids had managed to get their fix ... and all it took was one good shot.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Dream, Little Darling ... Dream
I had a date tonight. It was a special night. I took my four year old daughter to see the Nutcracker Ballet at the Krannert Center for Performing Arts. It was a night of first for us - our first time out together - just the two of us. The first time Emme was at Krannert. The first time she ever saw a ballet. The first time I went to see the Nutcracker after swearing at age 14 that I would never see it again.
You see - I hated it when I saw it. I didn't really understand it. I didn't understand why they were not talking. How was I suppose to follow a story without a narrative? And yet when the Nutcracker came to town, for some reason I felt compelled to take Emme. I'm not sure why? Perhaps it is because I feel like I don't do as much for or with Emme as I do for the boys. Or perhaps it is because I wanted Emme to know that there are different types of dancing, not just the sexy stuff you see on Dancing with the Stars. Or perhaps it was because I was wanting to see if I could sit through the Nutcracker one more time. I had a dream that maybe seeing it through the eyes of a child would make me understand it and why so many people flock to it each holiday season.
Tonight I was prepared. I did an extensive internet search to learn about the ballet. I told Emme at least three times the story about Nutcracker - emphasizing that the ballet was about a dream. I was prepared. Or so I thought. Emme understood the ballet. In fact, she brought to my attention that the story is not "told through words" but through the "instruments and the ballet dancers". What I hadn't counted on was Emme's fixation over the fact that the boys and men in the ballet wore tights. She just didn't understand. As she informed me during Act II, "Matthew would not like wearing tights" - and she right, he wouldn't. But, I wasn't prepared to explain the nature of male ballet costumes -- in part because I never quite understood why they wore tights. But, then as Emme sat snuggling in my lap, it dawns on her "it's a dream -- so really the boys aren't wearing the tights - it is just their costume in the little girl's dream. " But then - she sits straight up - concern on her face - "Mommy - does she want this dream to come true? Aren't dreams suppose to come true?" I didn't know what to say - not all dreams do come true, but does that mean you stop dreaming? Can parts of dreams come true? For Emme, she wanted the dream to come true - she wanted the ballerinas that were fairies to be real. But, she didn't want the boys in tights. In the car ride home, this perplexed her very much. She understood the dream, but she just wasn't sure that she liked it. It was then that I realized through her eyes that we could understand a dream, but not accept it. Or, we could accept a dream, but not understand it. I just wasn't sure which was better - I'm still not.
So, that best I could do for my Emme bear ... was to tuck her in, whispering dream little darling, dream ....
You see - I hated it when I saw it. I didn't really understand it. I didn't understand why they were not talking. How was I suppose to follow a story without a narrative? And yet when the Nutcracker came to town, for some reason I felt compelled to take Emme. I'm not sure why? Perhaps it is because I feel like I don't do as much for or with Emme as I do for the boys. Or perhaps it is because I wanted Emme to know that there are different types of dancing, not just the sexy stuff you see on Dancing with the Stars. Or perhaps it was because I was wanting to see if I could sit through the Nutcracker one more time. I had a dream that maybe seeing it through the eyes of a child would make me understand it and why so many people flock to it each holiday season.
Tonight I was prepared. I did an extensive internet search to learn about the ballet. I told Emme at least three times the story about Nutcracker - emphasizing that the ballet was about a dream. I was prepared. Or so I thought. Emme understood the ballet. In fact, she brought to my attention that the story is not "told through words" but through the "instruments and the ballet dancers". What I hadn't counted on was Emme's fixation over the fact that the boys and men in the ballet wore tights. She just didn't understand. As she informed me during Act II, "Matthew would not like wearing tights" - and she right, he wouldn't. But, I wasn't prepared to explain the nature of male ballet costumes -- in part because I never quite understood why they wore tights. But, then as Emme sat snuggling in my lap, it dawns on her "it's a dream -- so really the boys aren't wearing the tights - it is just their costume in the little girl's dream. " But then - she sits straight up - concern on her face - "Mommy - does she want this dream to come true? Aren't dreams suppose to come true?" I didn't know what to say - not all dreams do come true, but does that mean you stop dreaming? Can parts of dreams come true? For Emme, she wanted the dream to come true - she wanted the ballerinas that were fairies to be real. But, she didn't want the boys in tights. In the car ride home, this perplexed her very much. She understood the dream, but she just wasn't sure that she liked it. It was then that I realized through her eyes that we could understand a dream, but not accept it. Or, we could accept a dream, but not understand it. I just wasn't sure which was better - I'm still not.
So, that best I could do for my Emme bear ... was to tuck her in, whispering dream little darling, dream ....
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Shall We Dance?
My contribution to the Junior League is that I always sign up my husband and daughter to go to the Festival of Trees - Daddy/Daughter Dinner Dance. I'm not much of a Junior Leaguer. I know they do good work. I have many friends who are part of the Junior League. But, I can't seem to join an organization who makes their volunteers take training on how to volunteer. It seems contrary to me. I think if you want to give of your time - you give it. I feel like we have so many constraints put on us by society that volunteering was one of the last great freedoms we have - it is our opportunity to give back in a way that we can give back. So to me, being told how to "give back" goes against my belief of something coming genuinely from the heart. I'm sure this is a bad characterization of the Junior League and an unfair assessment - as I know they do very good work in the community. But, I still resist joining the Junior League - despite the fact that it might actually get me out of the house once in a while.
So, the Daddy/Daughter Dinner Dance is the closest I come to the Junior League. And like every year, I always wait until the last minute to get tickets to the dance and then keep praying that there is still room. Although, I've come to the conclusion that there will always be room - I think it is tradition now for me to panic a bit about getting Brian and Emme into the dance. My second area of panic has to do with the dress. I'm not much of a shopper - never have been - but, I feel compelled to get Emme a dress that would be comparable to all the other girls at the dance. A big, frufru dress that I hated as a child, but that I would insist that she wears. Yet, this year, I was sick prior to the dance and the thought of going to pick out a dress lacked any sort of excitement to me. Even the fact that the Dads at Matthew's basketball practice were talking about the "big event" of dress shopping couldn't convince me to go to the mall. My own guilt over dragging myself out of the house for basketball and not for a dress couldn't even get me to the store. And there it was the night before the dance and I stressed about a dress. I knew Walmart was open 24 hours and I could find something there - or Kohl's opened early - I could find something there. Might not be ideal - but, it would be a new dress. But Emme had a different idea.
She had found in her closet a very simple, velvety maroon dress with "sparkles on the bottom" - that was a hand-me-down from a friend of ours. "I'll wear this mom --- with tights" - and it was settled. The next night, she dressed, I did her hair, she ate her Ritz crackers with cheese, and took some photos with her Dad all in about 20 minutes. And they left for the dance. Emme in her simple maroon dress with sparkles, her hair barely combed and her Dad in his suit. They arrived home a couple hours later with ice cream.
Brian had taken some pictures of Emme while at the dance. And as I looked through them I see all the girls in these very nice, and yes, some very elaborate dresses. Emme looked beautiful, but her dress was clearly not like the other girls. I asked her if she had fun. I asked her if she liked her dress - because in the abyss of my mind I was convinced that somehow her lack of a fancy dress would put her in therapy at age 25 - yet she answers yes to all my questions. I asked them again when she got up this morning and she looked at me as only Emme could and she said, "Mom, the dress, the dance was okay - for real Mom - it was. But, really, I just like going out with Daddy". My Emme - my genuine little girl - she looked past it all and realized that what was important wasn't the dress or the music, but time with her Dad - time for a dance, time for some ice cream, and time for a hug.
I'm fairly certain that Emme is even less of a Junior Leaguer than I am ....
So, the Daddy/Daughter Dinner Dance is the closest I come to the Junior League. And like every year, I always wait until the last minute to get tickets to the dance and then keep praying that there is still room. Although, I've come to the conclusion that there will always be room - I think it is tradition now for me to panic a bit about getting Brian and Emme into the dance. My second area of panic has to do with the dress. I'm not much of a shopper - never have been - but, I feel compelled to get Emme a dress that would be comparable to all the other girls at the dance. A big, frufru dress that I hated as a child, but that I would insist that she wears. Yet, this year, I was sick prior to the dance and the thought of going to pick out a dress lacked any sort of excitement to me. Even the fact that the Dads at Matthew's basketball practice were talking about the "big event" of dress shopping couldn't convince me to go to the mall. My own guilt over dragging myself out of the house for basketball and not for a dress couldn't even get me to the store. And there it was the night before the dance and I stressed about a dress. I knew Walmart was open 24 hours and I could find something there - or Kohl's opened early - I could find something there. Might not be ideal - but, it would be a new dress. But Emme had a different idea.
She had found in her closet a very simple, velvety maroon dress with "sparkles on the bottom" - that was a hand-me-down from a friend of ours. "I'll wear this mom --- with tights" - and it was settled. The next night, she dressed, I did her hair, she ate her Ritz crackers with cheese, and took some photos with her Dad all in about 20 minutes. And they left for the dance. Emme in her simple maroon dress with sparkles, her hair barely combed and her Dad in his suit. They arrived home a couple hours later with ice cream.
Brian had taken some pictures of Emme while at the dance. And as I looked through them I see all the girls in these very nice, and yes, some very elaborate dresses. Emme looked beautiful, but her dress was clearly not like the other girls. I asked her if she had fun. I asked her if she liked her dress - because in the abyss of my mind I was convinced that somehow her lack of a fancy dress would put her in therapy at age 25 - yet she answers yes to all my questions. I asked them again when she got up this morning and she looked at me as only Emme could and she said, "Mom, the dress, the dance was okay - for real Mom - it was. But, really, I just like going out with Daddy". My Emme - my genuine little girl - she looked past it all and realized that what was important wasn't the dress or the music, but time with her Dad - time for a dance, time for some ice cream, and time for a hug.
I'm fairly certain that Emme is even less of a Junior Leaguer than I am ....
Monday, November 12, 2007
Three's Company
This past May was a memorable month for the Pianfetti family. Lucas was born - right on his due date, May 2 - and we closed on a new, bigger house a few days later. May was spent packing and then June was spent unpacking. But, I convinced myself it was well worth it. We needed more space. We had outgrown our Applewood home and need to be in a house that would let us grow and breathe. We needed a house that didn't have all the kids sleeping in one bedroom. In our old home, Matthew, Emme and Nicholas shared one bedroom, while Lucas had a room as the nursery. We wanted a house where at the very least Matthew and Emme could have their own room. And we found that home.
Emme couldn't wait to be in her own bedroom. A bedroom complete with new furniture thanks to Yiayia and Pappou and princess decorations. She LOVED her room. She would fall asleep amidst that princess covers with her stuffed animals positioned just so all around her - crowning our little princess. Nicholas, too, LOVED his new room. A room that he shared with Lucas. His furniture, again compliments of Yiayia and Pappou, was perfect for the boys - bunk beds that could separate in twin beds. Matthew of course was in heaven with a room to himself. He hung his "Camper of the Week" award on his wall along with his spiderman picture. It was his room to do as he wished .... with in reason, of course!
A few weeks ago, we had guest stay with us. We gave them Matthew's room with allowed for an extra bed from his trundle. It worked great for the guests and Matthew was fine sleeping on the floor in our bedroom. That was four weeks ago. And since then -
Emme couldn't wait to be in her own bedroom. A bedroom complete with new furniture thanks to Yiayia and Pappou and princess decorations. She LOVED her room. She would fall asleep amidst that princess covers with her stuffed animals positioned just so all around her - crowning our little princess. Nicholas, too, LOVED his new room. A room that he shared with Lucas. His furniture, again compliments of Yiayia and Pappou, was perfect for the boys - bunk beds that could separate in twin beds. Matthew of course was in heaven with a room to himself. He hung his "Camper of the Week" award on his wall along with his spiderman picture. It was his room to do as he wished .... with in reason, of course!
A few weeks ago, we had guest stay with us. We gave them Matthew's room with allowed for an extra bed from his trundle. It worked great for the guests and Matthew was fine sleeping on the floor in our bedroom. That was four weeks ago. And since then -
Friday, November 9, 2007
Lessons Learned
I stood there looking at my daughter - my Emme - through the hallway window at her preschool. I looked at all the other children at the table she was sitting at and wondered how was it that she was the only child with food still on her face from breakfast and her hair uncombed. We had, after all, done our morning routine of washing face and hands after breakfast. How had she missed her face? I know for a fact that I've taught her how to wash her face. I clearly didn't say - "take a washcloth on all the clean spots on your face" and yet somehow she always manages never to get her face completely clean. In fact, I'm fairly certain is was a great fear of my good friend, (Emme's Auntie Azeen) that Emme would walk down the isle as the flowergirl at her wedding with chocolate covering, albeit daintly, her face. Again - how is it that Emme can look into the mirror and miss the food on her face? Hadn't I taught her well enough? And then there's Matthew who no matter how many times I try to teach him to tie his shoes always seems to be running ... and then tripping ... over his laces. How is it that lessons like these are not learned quickly and accurately? After all - these are routine tasks, right? It took Nicholas no time at all to figure out how to scale the shelves of our pantry by using the box of garbage bags to give him more height. I certainly didn't teach him that. So why is it that simple tasks seem to take so long to master and then other things seem to come naturally?
There were only four fruit rollups left in the box. Matthew, Emme and Nicholas had asked for some for dessert and I told them it was alright for them to have some. A practice that somehow got started was the one fruit roll up was not enough - they needed two at each sitting. But, with three kids and only four fruit roll ups, I would need to change this practice. I would have better luck trying to change academics before trying to change this practice. So, I turned to Matthew and told him to pick another dessert because early that day he had taken two fruit rollups to the "Mad Science Club" for a snack. He lowered his head and agreed and in his ever so sensitive way settled on some whoppers from his Halloween bag. Emme and Nicholas sat there discussion the type of fruit roll ups they got - was it the Strawberry Burst or the Tropical Twist or the Grape Explosion? (or in Nicky terms: Red, Organge or Purple!). Trying to engage Matthew in the discussion, I asked what kinds he had for his snack. He said Tropical Twist. "What was the other one" Emme asked? And he says, "I don't know, I gave it to Jaxson. He didn't have snack." "Really, Matthew?" I asked. He says "yes, Jaxson's my friend and I didn't want him not to have anything." And at that moment, as I stood on the box of garbage bags to reach the very top shelf of the pantry for another box of fruit rollups so I could give Matthew his share, I realized we all learn lessons from each other. But it is those lessons that we don't think to teach, that are in fact learned by our hearts, and by our soul.
There were only four fruit rollups left in the box. Matthew, Emme and Nicholas had asked for some for dessert and I told them it was alright for them to have some. A practice that somehow got started was the one fruit roll up was not enough - they needed two at each sitting. But, with three kids and only four fruit roll ups, I would need to change this practice. I would have better luck trying to change academics before trying to change this practice. So, I turned to Matthew and told him to pick another dessert because early that day he had taken two fruit rollups to the "Mad Science Club" for a snack. He lowered his head and agreed and in his ever so sensitive way settled on some whoppers from his Halloween bag. Emme and Nicholas sat there discussion the type of fruit roll ups they got - was it the Strawberry Burst or the Tropical Twist or the Grape Explosion? (or in Nicky terms: Red, Organge or Purple!). Trying to engage Matthew in the discussion, I asked what kinds he had for his snack. He said Tropical Twist. "What was the other one" Emme asked? And he says, "I don't know, I gave it to Jaxson. He didn't have snack." "Really, Matthew?" I asked. He says "yes, Jaxson's my friend and I didn't want him not to have anything." And at that moment, as I stood on the box of garbage bags to reach the very top shelf of the pantry for another box of fruit rollups so I could give Matthew his share, I realized we all learn lessons from each other. But it is those lessons that we don't think to teach, that are in fact learned by our hearts, and by our soul.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Happy Birthday to You
The house is quiet tonight. The kids, thanks to daylight savings time, fell asleep early. Matthew and Nicholas in bed with their Dad, Emme on the floor draped in her princess blanket. Lucas in my arms. It was our night to watch Extreme Makeover Home Edition together. And as I was breathing in the peace that had filled our home, my eyes gazed upon my baby - no, not Lucas - my first born, my Matthew. He's six today. It is his birthday. And as Dr. Suess tells us, it's your day of all days - shout loud I am I, I begin to wonder how it happened that my baby has suddenly become a little boy. He's tall. He's thin. He's bright. He's sweet. He is my heart that breaks with his sensitive looks and the smile that fills my soul when I listen to him in amazement tell me about the world. My eyes dance between my 6 month old and my 6 year old and I wonder how is that my Matthew can now read and write and do math and laugh and cry and run races and hug and be a little person. How is it that we learn so much as we grow and yet as adults it seems that we still have so much to learn. And yet, what we can learn is all around us - but we fail to take advantage of what the world - what our children - can teach us.
Eight six year old boys were over yesterday to help celebrate Matthew's birthday. They were going to spend the afternoon with us as we played a video game tournament. About 20 minutes into the party, it was clear I had made a mistake. Three hours with 8 boys - who were into everything and into nothing. There were those boys who wanted to learn to race on the Playstation and those who wanted to explore the house and those who just wanted to catapult themselves over the sofa. And as voices were raised, amidst the chaos of the party - I realized that the boys were having fun. We went outside and we raced - we ran - we laughed - we played ball tag. We ate cake, we open presents which each one being "just what [Matthew] wanted" - each boy so proud of the gift he brought and how well he knew what Matthew would like. There were boys from his new Kindergarten class, and some from his former preschool, and then there were new friends from the neighborhood -- all laughing and running and just being who they are as five and six year old boys. Although at first, my husband and I thought the party was disastrous - they weren't doing what we planned - I suddenly realized - that life comes without a plan. Life is what happens in between the plans that we make. These boys seem to know this better than most adults and what we view as "difficult" behavior is really the challenge we all face in trying to find our place in the world.
I watched my Matthew - my first born - as he floated among all his friends - envious of his ability to be who he was among all the distinctive personalities. He didn't change who he was - instead his personality just added a harmony to the chorus of voices that were filling our home and our backyard. There were some tears, as to be expected with so many young children - feelings got hurt, wasps sting when you pick them up, races were not always won like they wanted. But at the end of the party - the kids were still friends. It didn't matter what had happened at any point during the party - what mattered was the moment at hand. They were real in their moment. And as Jaxson was walking out the door he turned and gave Matthew the biggest hug I've seen two six year olds give each other -- and then half way down the walkway he turns and yells "see ya Monday" - and Matthew gives him his patented two finger wave back. At that moment, I realized that we are all just longing for those days -- those Mondays - when we are surrounded by those who know us and love us for who we are -- the hugger, the wasp catcher, the race winner ... for those gifts that are not wrapped but given so freely each day to each other when we are young.
Happy Birthday to You, my dear Matthew ....
Eight six year old boys were over yesterday to help celebrate Matthew's birthday. They were going to spend the afternoon with us as we played a video game tournament. About 20 minutes into the party, it was clear I had made a mistake. Three hours with 8 boys - who were into everything and into nothing. There were those boys who wanted to learn to race on the Playstation and those who wanted to explore the house and those who just wanted to catapult themselves over the sofa. And as voices were raised, amidst the chaos of the party - I realized that the boys were having fun. We went outside and we raced - we ran - we laughed - we played ball tag. We ate cake, we open presents which each one being "just what [Matthew] wanted" - each boy so proud of the gift he brought and how well he knew what Matthew would like. There were boys from his new Kindergarten class, and some from his former preschool, and then there were new friends from the neighborhood -- all laughing and running and just being who they are as five and six year old boys. Although at first, my husband and I thought the party was disastrous - they weren't doing what we planned - I suddenly realized - that life comes without a plan. Life is what happens in between the plans that we make. These boys seem to know this better than most adults and what we view as "difficult" behavior is really the challenge we all face in trying to find our place in the world.
I watched my Matthew - my first born - as he floated among all his friends - envious of his ability to be who he was among all the distinctive personalities. He didn't change who he was - instead his personality just added a harmony to the chorus of voices that were filling our home and our backyard. There were some tears, as to be expected with so many young children - feelings got hurt, wasps sting when you pick them up, races were not always won like they wanted. But at the end of the party - the kids were still friends. It didn't matter what had happened at any point during the party - what mattered was the moment at hand. They were real in their moment. And as Jaxson was walking out the door he turned and gave Matthew the biggest hug I've seen two six year olds give each other -- and then half way down the walkway he turns and yells "see ya Monday" - and Matthew gives him his patented two finger wave back. At that moment, I realized that we are all just longing for those days -- those Mondays - when we are surrounded by those who know us and love us for who we are -- the hugger, the wasp catcher, the race winner ... for those gifts that are not wrapped but given so freely each day to each other when we are young.
Happy Birthday to You, my dear Matthew ....
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Dancing wonders
My kids and I have a ritual on Saturday mornings. We get up and make chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast. At first read, this sounds like the quintessential Rockwellian (as in Norman) image - a Mom and her kids baking together. But, in truth, the ritual started because my kids get up so early in the morning on the weekends that I was always looking for ways to engage them so that my husband could sleep in. The breakfast making idea stemmed in part from my oldest son's, Matthew's, keen interest in cooking and the teacher in me who figured that in baking there are several lessons of math and science (yes, electricity makes things hot - don't touch the griddle) to be learned. And so it has been for over two years now that most Saturdays, we get up and make chocolate chip pancakes.
But these past days have been very long for me - a lot to do, not enough time to do it all, and as a result, not a lot of sleep to be had. So on this particular morning, I dreaded the ritual. I dreaded it at 5 a.m. this morning when Anakin Skywalker, a fairy princess, and the boy wonder woke me as they were trying to fill water balloons in the bathroom. Yes, in their attempt to "let us sleep in", my kids had donned their Halloween costumes, and explored their bags of Halloween candy to find the balloons our neighbors had passed out. And despite their repeated pleas to let me let them finish filling the balloons, because "for real, Mom - we weren't going to throw them anywhere" - I decided it was time to take them downstairs, which meant the ritual would begin.
But, this Saturday was different - I was too tired for the pancakes. I didn't have the patience to make an extra batch of pancakes so that all three kids could crack an egg. I didn't have the patience to try and make sense of the fact that while I did not want them eating their Halloween candy first thing in the morning, I could put a cup of chocolate chips in the pancakes. And, I didn't see the logic in the fact that the bananas I put with the pancakes somehow offset the chocolateness of the pancakes. And so it was that this particular morning, I broke tradition. I sent the kids to the basement, turned on my iPod, and started making scrambled eggs.
I can't really tell you at what point in time the kids migrated back into the kitchen from the basement. But what I do remember is being asked to dance. My Nicky - at two - takes my hand and in four simple words "mommy dance with me" - made me realize that "in the end, we will only just remember how it feels ... that our lives our made in these small hours" with these little wonders. I had heard that song a hundred times - maybe more. My iPod was filled with music from children's movies. I was ever so grateful that movie producers were finally asking adult lyricists to compose music for children's movies because now both the kids and I could enjoy listening to the same songs. And we were - enjoying the music this morning - my fairy princess dancing while watching her reflection in the dishwasher as Jack Johnson asked "is this how its suppose to be?" - my jedi knight taking his turn on the makeshift dance floor as he and his sister pretended to be dancing with the stars -- and I twirled my two youngest - 2 years and 6 months - both in my arms, watching them gleefully try to make sense of the world as it spun by them.
The eggs got made, the bacon was done - and we danced and we ate. But soon my jedi knight, fairy princess, and boy wonder wanted to play outside trying to capture what will soon be fleeting moments of sunshine - and I needed to clean - both the dirty pan from the scrambled eggs and Lucas who was wearing just as much of his oatmeal and banana cereal as he had eaten. And as I sat contemplating whether or not it would be a good idea to clean both the pan and my 6 month old together in the kitchen sink - the soulful voice of Tracy Chapman came over my iPod asking "if you saw the face of God and love would you change?". I paused. Our Saturday morning ritual was less about food and about math and more about being together - finding that time amidst the twists and turns of fate - to feel real and to feel right with the world. And as my eyes glanced outside the window - I realized I had seen the face of God and love. Today - this day - they were in the form of a Jedi Knight, a fairy princess, and the boy wonder. And even at 5 a.m., water balloons and all, I would not change.
But these past days have been very long for me - a lot to do, not enough time to do it all, and as a result, not a lot of sleep to be had. So on this particular morning, I dreaded the ritual. I dreaded it at 5 a.m. this morning when Anakin Skywalker, a fairy princess, and the boy wonder woke me as they were trying to fill water balloons in the bathroom. Yes, in their attempt to "let us sleep in", my kids had donned their Halloween costumes, and explored their bags of Halloween candy to find the balloons our neighbors had passed out. And despite their repeated pleas to let me let them finish filling the balloons, because "for real, Mom - we weren't going to throw them anywhere" - I decided it was time to take them downstairs, which meant the ritual would begin.
But, this Saturday was different - I was too tired for the pancakes. I didn't have the patience to make an extra batch of pancakes so that all three kids could crack an egg. I didn't have the patience to try and make sense of the fact that while I did not want them eating their Halloween candy first thing in the morning, I could put a cup of chocolate chips in the pancakes. And, I didn't see the logic in the fact that the bananas I put with the pancakes somehow offset the chocolateness of the pancakes. And so it was that this particular morning, I broke tradition. I sent the kids to the basement, turned on my iPod, and started making scrambled eggs.
I can't really tell you at what point in time the kids migrated back into the kitchen from the basement. But what I do remember is being asked to dance. My Nicky - at two - takes my hand and in four simple words "mommy dance with me" - made me realize that "in the end, we will only just remember how it feels ... that our lives our made in these small hours" with these little wonders. I had heard that song a hundred times - maybe more. My iPod was filled with music from children's movies. I was ever so grateful that movie producers were finally asking adult lyricists to compose music for children's movies because now both the kids and I could enjoy listening to the same songs. And we were - enjoying the music this morning - my fairy princess dancing while watching her reflection in the dishwasher as Jack Johnson asked "is this how its suppose to be?" - my jedi knight taking his turn on the makeshift dance floor as he and his sister pretended to be dancing with the stars -- and I twirled my two youngest - 2 years and 6 months - both in my arms, watching them gleefully try to make sense of the world as it spun by them.
The eggs got made, the bacon was done - and we danced and we ate. But soon my jedi knight, fairy princess, and boy wonder wanted to play outside trying to capture what will soon be fleeting moments of sunshine - and I needed to clean - both the dirty pan from the scrambled eggs and Lucas who was wearing just as much of his oatmeal and banana cereal as he had eaten. And as I sat contemplating whether or not it would be a good idea to clean both the pan and my 6 month old together in the kitchen sink - the soulful voice of Tracy Chapman came over my iPod asking "if you saw the face of God and love would you change?". I paused. Our Saturday morning ritual was less about food and about math and more about being together - finding that time amidst the twists and turns of fate - to feel real and to feel right with the world. And as my eyes glanced outside the window - I realized I had seen the face of God and love. Today - this day - they were in the form of a Jedi Knight, a fairy princess, and the boy wonder. And even at 5 a.m., water balloons and all, I would not change.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
The Pirate Seat
Potty training is a fact of life for any parent. At some point, you are forced to spend hundreds of hours trying to get your child to use a toilet. You talk with other parents to get advice. You beg, and bribe your child to use the potty. Potty training consumes your existence. And for a working mother, you feel unusual pressure because at some point, your daycare provider will not let your child advance classrooms, if s/he is not potty trained. And so - you feel like you fail if your child can't advance with his classmates.
My husband and I were lucky with our first two - Matthew potty trained at 16 months thanks to the Sandra Broyton books which I can proudly say I can now recite without looking (I may not know a lick of Shakespeare, but I do a mean rendition of Snuggle Puppy...), Emme self-trained. One day she announced "no more diaper" and that was it. But, Nicholas was a different story. I have never had two kids in diapers at the same time, and so it was with that Nicholas had to be potty trained before Lucas was born. And so we began the routine with Nicholas like we had with Matthew - put the potty ring on the toilet, get a book, and let him do his business while we read to him.
But, Nicholas is not Matthew as I quickly learned the first time I had him on the toilet and he promptly throws his hands in the air and announces "tah dah" as he begins to pee ... promptly spraying me, the book and the wall. This was not going to be easy. And so it was for months as my husband and I tried to potty train Nicholas. He was willing to use the toilet - he just got overly impressed with himself anytime he did anything. But, one thing he picked up on early was the fact that when you are on the toilet, you always had company.
So - he took it upon himself to make sure that anytime I had to use the toilet, he would join me with a book in hand. Like most Moms, I thought this was unbelievably cute until I realized that I would never have a moment to myself if I didn't get him out of the bathroom. I started to tell him that I needed privacy. But that didn't deter Nicholas. No matter what I said or did, Nicholas would not give me privacy. He would acknowledge my privacy - "okay Mommy privacy" in his two year old speak - but, he would never leave me alone. And then it happened, one day Nicholas asked for privacy in the bathroom and while I would not have advocated for leaving a 2 year old alone on the toilet - I thought this was the only way to get him to leave me alone in the bathroom. I headed for the door. And as I was about to leave, Nicholas got upset. So, I stayed and we read. This cycle has continued for a couple weeks now - he would ask for privacy, I'd try to leave, he'd get upset, so I stay. I couldn't figure it out. But, I chalked it up to Nicky being 2 and not understanding what privacy meant --- until today - when I took him to the bathroom at church.
"Nicky go on the toilet" " "No". No? No? What does he mean "No?" - he's been wearing underwear now for almost four months - why was he refusing to get on the toilet? We've been in this bathroom dozens of times before - why he is acting up now? So I resort to begging and bribing Nicholas to get on the toilet. I stopped just shy of offering him a pony - when he
decided to get on the toilet. I was relieved, but also curious as to why he didn't want to get on it before when I asked. "Nicky, how come you didn't want to sit on the toilet before" - and he looks at me with his big, bold eyes and tells me "Nicky wanted to sit on the 'pirate seat' just like Mommy. Mommy says 'I need pirate seat' when she goes potty. Nicky wanted pirate seat, too." And so it was at that moment, that I realized that it wasn't the two year old that needed a definition of privacy but his Mom ... AARRGHHH.
My husband and I were lucky with our first two - Matthew potty trained at 16 months thanks to the Sandra Broyton books which I can proudly say I can now recite without looking (I may not know a lick of Shakespeare, but I do a mean rendition of Snuggle Puppy...), Emme self-trained. One day she announced "no more diaper" and that was it. But, Nicholas was a different story. I have never had two kids in diapers at the same time, and so it was with that Nicholas had to be potty trained before Lucas was born. And so we began the routine with Nicholas like we had with Matthew - put the potty ring on the toilet, get a book, and let him do his business while we read to him.
But, Nicholas is not Matthew as I quickly learned the first time I had him on the toilet and he promptly throws his hands in the air and announces "tah dah" as he begins to pee ... promptly spraying me, the book and the wall. This was not going to be easy. And so it was for months as my husband and I tried to potty train Nicholas. He was willing to use the toilet - he just got overly impressed with himself anytime he did anything. But, one thing he picked up on early was the fact that when you are on the toilet, you always had company.
So - he took it upon himself to make sure that anytime I had to use the toilet, he would join me with a book in hand. Like most Moms, I thought this was unbelievably cute until I realized that I would never have a moment to myself if I didn't get him out of the bathroom. I started to tell him that I needed privacy. But that didn't deter Nicholas. No matter what I said or did, Nicholas would not give me privacy. He would acknowledge my privacy - "okay Mommy privacy" in his two year old speak - but, he would never leave me alone. And then it happened, one day Nicholas asked for privacy in the bathroom and while I would not have advocated for leaving a 2 year old alone on the toilet - I thought this was the only way to get him to leave me alone in the bathroom. I headed for the door. And as I was about to leave, Nicholas got upset. So, I stayed and we read. This cycle has continued for a couple weeks now - he would ask for privacy, I'd try to leave, he'd get upset, so I stay. I couldn't figure it out. But, I chalked it up to Nicky being 2 and not understanding what privacy meant --- until today - when I took him to the bathroom at church.
"Nicky go on the toilet" " "No". No? No? What does he mean "No?" - he's been wearing underwear now for almost four months - why was he refusing to get on the toilet? We've been in this bathroom dozens of times before - why he is acting up now? So I resort to begging and bribing Nicholas to get on the toilet. I stopped just shy of offering him a pony - when he
decided to get on the toilet. I was relieved, but also curious as to why he didn't want to get on it before when I asked. "Nicky, how come you didn't want to sit on the toilet before" - and he looks at me with his big, bold eyes and tells me "Nicky wanted to sit on the 'pirate seat' just like Mommy. Mommy says 'I need pirate seat' when she goes potty. Nicky wanted pirate seat, too." And so it was at that moment, that I realized that it wasn't the two year old that needed a definition of privacy but his Mom ... AARRGHHH.
Say Cheese ...
People have days they dread. For a long time, I dreaded my birthday. I don't know why - I just never liked celebrating. It was never an issue of age - I am too practical to be bothered by aging - you are born, you age, and then you cease living. So - aging for me is not the issue. I guess I just don't like the attention. I have a good friend who loves birthdays - and I love celebrating with her. But, me - no - I never wanted anything special for my birthday. It is a day I dread. In fact, despite all the nice things that people - my family, my friends - have done for me for my birthday, there is probably just a small number of birthdays - maybe even just one - that stays in my soul. But, when I became a Mom, I quickly found a day I dreaded more than my birthday ... picture day!
Picture day honestly makes me break out in a cold sweat. I've given talks in front of large groups of people, I've interacted with influential individuals - all with grace and ease. But, picture day - is going to age me.
Each year for the past five years, whenever picture day rolls around, I would rather do anything but think about it. And yet, I always feel compelled to give it thought. Mostly, I think about all the Moms who somehow manage to get their kids matching outfits and who then get to hang a perfect picture in their foyer.
And so, as with other picture days, this picture day, I got the letter home informing me which clothing colors look best and asking me what background did I want and I begin to think. I think - I should get matching outfits - I never do. I think - I should braid Emme's hair or get a bow in it - I never do. I think - I should comb the boys hair, I never do. I think I should do something extraordinary because it is picture day. But, I never do. And so, when picture day morning comes around, I become a raving lunatic - trying to get my kids into clothes that are somewhat "cute" and perhaps matching - I at least try not to have uncomplimentary patterns on each child - and then I threaten the kids within an inch of their life not to get their outfits dirty. So, we eat breakfast amidst the tears and my paranoia - all as I try to ask them if they are going to smile for the camera.
And so I thought it would be again this picture day morning. But, instead, the night before as I was pulling glue out of Emme's hair and yogurt out of Nicholas' hair, I sat and wondered as I looked at my kids - why does this day make me crazy? My kids are cute - some of the cutest around - does it really matter what they wear? What is my real worry about this otherwise ordinary day?
Am I worried that the picture will somehow be less than perfect? .... that somehow the photographer's snapshot would define our life and everyone would know that our life wasn't perfect because the picture would hang in our foyer?
And then it dawned on me - as I looked over at five years of pictures --- there was the year that Matthew was 11 months old and didn't get to eat breakfast before his picture so he was pouting in his his picture, something he still does today when he's hungry, then there was the year that Emme had her eyes closed, but had the biggest, warmest smile on her face as if the smile was so big there wasn't enough room in the picture for her beautiful eyes, and then there was the year that it looked like Nicholas was trying to escape out of the picture, but his big brother and big sister gingerly had their hands on his shoulders guiding him back him - life isn't perfect.
What the photographer captures is who we are - with our imperfections. It is how we come not to love the perfect person, but to love perfectly the imperfect person. And so - on this picture day - I let Emme pick her outfit and do her own hair (by the way, she decided that morning that she no longer wanted bangs ...) - I didn't freak out over the chocolate muffin Nicholas got for breakfast - and I simply put a sweater over Lucas when he spit up on his initial outfit. These are the moments of my life - endlessly beautiful, always imperfect ... framing who we are through the memories that we cherish all because despite a lunatic mother, my kids were willing to say cheese ....
Picture day honestly makes me break out in a cold sweat. I've given talks in front of large groups of people, I've interacted with influential individuals - all with grace and ease. But, picture day - is going to age me.
Each year for the past five years, whenever picture day rolls around, I would rather do anything but think about it. And yet, I always feel compelled to give it thought. Mostly, I think about all the Moms who somehow manage to get their kids matching outfits and who then get to hang a perfect picture in their foyer.
And so, as with other picture days, this picture day, I got the letter home informing me which clothing colors look best and asking me what background did I want and I begin to think. I think - I should get matching outfits - I never do. I think - I should braid Emme's hair or get a bow in it - I never do. I think - I should comb the boys hair, I never do. I think I should do something extraordinary because it is picture day. But, I never do. And so, when picture day morning comes around, I become a raving lunatic - trying to get my kids into clothes that are somewhat "cute" and perhaps matching - I at least try not to have uncomplimentary patterns on each child - and then I threaten the kids within an inch of their life not to get their outfits dirty. So, we eat breakfast amidst the tears and my paranoia - all as I try to ask them if they are going to smile for the camera.
And so I thought it would be again this picture day morning. But, instead, the night before as I was pulling glue out of Emme's hair and yogurt out of Nicholas' hair, I sat and wondered as I looked at my kids - why does this day make me crazy? My kids are cute - some of the cutest around - does it really matter what they wear? What is my real worry about this otherwise ordinary day?
Am I worried that the picture will somehow be less than perfect? .... that somehow the photographer's snapshot would define our life and everyone would know that our life wasn't perfect because the picture would hang in our foyer?
And then it dawned on me - as I looked over at five years of pictures --- there was the year that Matthew was 11 months old and didn't get to eat breakfast before his picture so he was pouting in his his picture, something he still does today when he's hungry, then there was the year that Emme had her eyes closed, but had the biggest, warmest smile on her face as if the smile was so big there wasn't enough room in the picture for her beautiful eyes, and then there was the year that it looked like Nicholas was trying to escape out of the picture, but his big brother and big sister gingerly had their hands on his shoulders guiding him back him - life isn't perfect.
What the photographer captures is who we are - with our imperfections. It is how we come not to love the perfect person, but to love perfectly the imperfect person. And so - on this picture day - I let Emme pick her outfit and do her own hair (by the way, she decided that morning that she no longer wanted bangs ...) - I didn't freak out over the chocolate muffin Nicholas got for breakfast - and I simply put a sweater over Lucas when he spit up on his initial outfit. These are the moments of my life - endlessly beautiful, always imperfect ... framing who we are through the memories that we cherish all because despite a lunatic mother, my kids were willing to say cheese ....
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Wayne is gone
It is hard being four. Tonight was no exception for my Emme bear. Tonight she cried herself to sleep. It is one of those moments that tugs at a mother's heart. I taught tonight - my online class - EdPsy 556: Analysis of Advanced Instructional Technologies. It is the night where I keep myself hauled up in the basement in the 'study' to teach. My husband puts the kids to bed. And so it was to be tonight - except that the class ended early so I went upstairs to say good night to my babies. As I got to the first floor I could hear Emme sobbing - what was wrong? What was wrong with my Bear? And so I went up another flight to comfort my crying daughter. And so I tried as I wrapped my arms around her - telling her that things will be okay. And all she kept saying was "Wayne is gone". I didn't know what she was saying, but I stay to comfort her until I finally couldn't take it any more. "Wayne ? Who's Wayne" - "he's the one I loved best" - loved best, I thought? She's too young to love and now a broken heart? So - who was this Wayne. Was it someone at daycare? A new face, a new name I had somehow missed? It is always tough - thinking that you don't know exactly what is going on with your child's life in daycare. And so, I thought that Wayne was a new friend. I was convinced that I could help my child through this ordeal. And I planned my strategy. I was going to help her through this - the loss / moving of her friend Wayne. And so here I am tonight - as I write - determining how best to help my Emme mourn the loss of her "favorite friend" Wayne Newton - who was kicked off Dancing with the Stars. So what's a Mom to do? Well, I'm thinking of just having her send him some of her Dora undies ...
6 months and counting ...
Well, I've survived my first week and a half of training through I-Power Fitness. I'm proud of myself for what I've accomplished so far. Okay so maybe I haven't accomplished much, but I have stopped wincing every time I try to walk down the stairs due to my quad muscles and I didn't hyperventilate after they took my measurements and weight. In fact, I calmly got off the scale, quietly cursing the 20 pound new Nikes I had bought. Clearly, I needed to buy a much lighter pair of shoes.
It is humbling when you look at yourself in terms of numbers. I felt like I needed to make an excuse for why I wasn't built like Barbie. I could blame it on my kids - I mean - four pregnancies do take their toll on your body. And, in many ways I always thought I could use my kids as a shield .... That I could convince myself that each extra pound that I carried was a right of passage into motherhood... That my stretchmarks were simply a sign of how my children grew inside of me - how I was able to protect them and comfort them for 9 months and not a result of the Strawberry Cheesquake blizzards I would eat late a night. But as the numbers flash across a screen, you are humbled. Okay - and a bit perplexed - how exactly is my left arm a good half inch bigger than my right arm? And, wouldn't I have noticed this before? I mean - are my shirts that tight-fitting overall that I neglected to feel a little more tightness around my left bicep? Yes, the numbers do make you stop and think ... and wonder. Could I convince myself that I was really the "new Barbie"? I mean, we all know that her measurements are unrealistic - not to say that she wouldn't be able to stand without falling over, if she were real. But, I decided that to debate the merits of Barbie's dimensions were not a good use of my energy. Instead, I should pick a role model and embrace her beauty and her "measurements". And so I did. I decided that Denise, one of the managers and lead instructors at I-Power was a good role model for me.
My trainers are great. But, they are young and are not Moms. (Okay - Garin will never be a Mom, but he's still young ...). I was looking for someone who had a good body and who was a Mom. I wanted to know that it was possible to regain a healthy body - both internally and externally - after giving birth. And so, I picked Denise. I also loved how she made me laugh whenever I'm there - so I figured - I'd like to be like her. And so, quietly over the past week, I set a goal to have a body like Denise - fit and solid - within the next year.
And so it was on Monday as we walked out of I-Power together after my workout. She had complimented me on the outfit I as wearing. And I felt good - yes, maybe all this working out was doing something for me - maybe I could achieve a body like Denise. And then she said it - the words I dreaded to hear - "I miss being able to wear outfits like that" - hmmm, I thought - odd statement to make. But, really, I don't know Denise well - I only just met her. Perhaps despite having a fit body - she made odd statements. But, I couldn't leave well enough alone. I had to probe further. "why?" - Oh, well, you know I'm 6 months and counting ... Counting I thought - counting what? Oh - and then it hit me - like the 20 pound Nikes in my gym bag. She was pregnant! 6 months and counting until her delivery date ... I had selected the one pregnant woman at I-Power as my role model.
Suffice it to say - I've decided that maybe Barbie's measurements aren't all that unrealistic and maybe standing without falling over is highly overrated.
It is humbling when you look at yourself in terms of numbers. I felt like I needed to make an excuse for why I wasn't built like Barbie. I could blame it on my kids - I mean - four pregnancies do take their toll on your body. And, in many ways I always thought I could use my kids as a shield .... That I could convince myself that each extra pound that I carried was a right of passage into motherhood... That my stretchmarks were simply a sign of how my children grew inside of me - how I was able to protect them and comfort them for 9 months and not a result of the Strawberry Cheesquake blizzards I would eat late a night. But as the numbers flash across a screen, you are humbled. Okay - and a bit perplexed - how exactly is my left arm a good half inch bigger than my right arm? And, wouldn't I have noticed this before? I mean - are my shirts that tight-fitting overall that I neglected to feel a little more tightness around my left bicep? Yes, the numbers do make you stop and think ... and wonder. Could I convince myself that I was really the "new Barbie"? I mean, we all know that her measurements are unrealistic - not to say that she wouldn't be able to stand without falling over, if she were real. But, I decided that to debate the merits of Barbie's dimensions were not a good use of my energy. Instead, I should pick a role model and embrace her beauty and her "measurements". And so I did. I decided that Denise, one of the managers and lead instructors at I-Power was a good role model for me.
My trainers are great. But, they are young and are not Moms. (Okay - Garin will never be a Mom, but he's still young ...). I was looking for someone who had a good body and who was a Mom. I wanted to know that it was possible to regain a healthy body - both internally and externally - after giving birth. And so, I picked Denise. I also loved how she made me laugh whenever I'm there - so I figured - I'd like to be like her. And so, quietly over the past week, I set a goal to have a body like Denise - fit and solid - within the next year.
And so it was on Monday as we walked out of I-Power together after my workout. She had complimented me on the outfit I as wearing. And I felt good - yes, maybe all this working out was doing something for me - maybe I could achieve a body like Denise. And then she said it - the words I dreaded to hear - "I miss being able to wear outfits like that" - hmmm, I thought - odd statement to make. But, really, I don't know Denise well - I only just met her. Perhaps despite having a fit body - she made odd statements. But, I couldn't leave well enough alone. I had to probe further. "why?" - Oh, well, you know I'm 6 months and counting ... Counting I thought - counting what? Oh - and then it hit me - like the 20 pound Nikes in my gym bag. She was pregnant! 6 months and counting until her delivery date ... I had selected the one pregnant woman at I-Power as my role model.
Suffice it to say - I've decided that maybe Barbie's measurements aren't all that unrealistic and maybe standing without falling over is highly overrated.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
12 Feet Deep
Sundays are always a challenging day for working moms -- at least those working moms that I know. Sundays represent the end of one crazy week and the beginning of another. I often think to myself that even God rested on the seventh day, but that doesn't seem to comfort me nor does it make me not have a hundred things to do to finish off the week and to start another one. In fact, all it really did is make me fairly certain that God was not female and clearly was "our Father" because if he were "our Mother, " he'd never be resting on day seven.
So today, like most Sundays, the routine began with me getting four kids ready for church ... And then with me wondering about half way through the Lord's prayer why I bother to go to church because all I really do is wrangle in four wee ones. I never really find myself praying - unless you count when I pray that Nicholas doesn't decide to use his crayons on the Bible pages like he did the previous week, or that Emme stops talking to her imaginary friends, or that Matthew doesn't burn the boy next to him as he holds the candle on the altar, or that Lucas doesn't need his bottle made in the middle of church. No, it always seems to me that I was not praying. In fact, I would find myself on occasion having random thoughts that included my making a mental list of all that needed to be done after church.
Today was no different except for the fact that Matthew had his best buddy's birthday party at the Aquatic Center here in town. But - I had devised a plan in church - I would drop him off and then go to my office to work on a grant that needed to be submitted this week. It would be a couple of hours for me to focus without other distractions. I found myself smiling in the middle of church, even when Nicholas with his two-year old charm announced to the congregation that he needed to go poopies. I had a plan - a plan that would allow me to get work done and would give me a few moments of peace.
But then the party didn't go as planned. The Aquatic Center was late opening up and I found myself hanging out with about 10 five year olds and their Moms as we waited, not wanting to disappoint the birthday boy. It was one of those nightmares for Moms who had painstakingly planned out - weeks earlier every detail of the party, including several variations of whether to eat pizza and cupcakes before or after the swim. But then, something beyond your control happens - in this case - six life guards and not one with a key! The kids were troopers playing tag, opening presents, eating pizza - all in the unseasonably warm 90 degree October heat. After about the first 45 minutes of waiting, the Moms realized we were in for the long haul, in this swealtering heat - yet one more thing we do for our kids, who were seemingly unphased by the fact that they were not yet in the pool. And then Emma's mom offered to make a run to the gas station to get drinks for us Moms. Once you become a Mom, you are defined by your children not by your own first name ... in fact, I find myself not using my own name when I introduce myself, but rather saying that I'm Matthew P's Mom - making sure not to confuse myself with Matthew W's Mom. A cold beer would have been great, but I settled on a diet coke and really at that point in the heat - I probably would have offered Emma's Mom my first born, for just a sip of something cold. Instead - I gave her the few bucks in my pocket.
The key finally arrived. The kids were thrilled. Swimming time. And so - because all the other Moms stayed, I stayed, too. But, I was sitting there planning how I could make an exit - even for just a few minutes to have some peace. After making conversation with Dominic's Mom, I excused myself to go outside and call home. She was headed down towards the water slides where our kids were playing and I told her I would join her after my call. And so I walked to my van - slowly - trying to breathe a little peace - I called home and headed back into the Aquatics Center. I was greeted at the door with the birthday boy's Mom holding Matthew's hand. They calmly told me that he had almost drowned. But - the life guard got to him in time. He had tried going down the big slide into 12 feet of water. And when he realized he was neither taller than 12 feet or a good swimmer - he panicked. I stood there looking at my son - my first born - who just minutes earlier I had thought about giving to Emma's Mom just for some diet coke. My first born who changed me forever - like your one true love. Matthew made me a Mom - he inspires me, he amazes me, he frustrates me, he teaches me, and he loves me - unconditionally. And I stood looking at my little boy - who because I needed to breathe, because I wanted to find some peace - took the wrong slide and was scared. And I was not there to help him. ...
He's fine. He went back in the water and down the slide - the one that goes into 3 feet of water. If you ask him, he'd tell you he had the best time at his best buddy's birthday. But for me, I sat vigilantly and nervously watching him play in the water with his friends for the rest of the party. His smile - his laugh - his wave to me as he would get out of the water to go on the slide again - all those things that I had moments before taken for granted, now meant so much ... including why I go to church and why I was glad that God was a man, who knew it was okay - and necessary - to rest on Sunday ....
So today, like most Sundays, the routine began with me getting four kids ready for church ... And then with me wondering about half way through the Lord's prayer why I bother to go to church because all I really do is wrangle in four wee ones. I never really find myself praying - unless you count when I pray that Nicholas doesn't decide to use his crayons on the Bible pages like he did the previous week, or that Emme stops talking to her imaginary friends, or that Matthew doesn't burn the boy next to him as he holds the candle on the altar, or that Lucas doesn't need his bottle made in the middle of church. No, it always seems to me that I was not praying. In fact, I would find myself on occasion having random thoughts that included my making a mental list of all that needed to be done after church.
Today was no different except for the fact that Matthew had his best buddy's birthday party at the Aquatic Center here in town. But - I had devised a plan in church - I would drop him off and then go to my office to work on a grant that needed to be submitted this week. It would be a couple of hours for me to focus without other distractions. I found myself smiling in the middle of church, even when Nicholas with his two-year old charm announced to the congregation that he needed to go poopies. I had a plan - a plan that would allow me to get work done and would give me a few moments of peace.
But then the party didn't go as planned. The Aquatic Center was late opening up and I found myself hanging out with about 10 five year olds and their Moms as we waited, not wanting to disappoint the birthday boy. It was one of those nightmares for Moms who had painstakingly planned out - weeks earlier every detail of the party, including several variations of whether to eat pizza and cupcakes before or after the swim. But then, something beyond your control happens - in this case - six life guards and not one with a key! The kids were troopers playing tag, opening presents, eating pizza - all in the unseasonably warm 90 degree October heat. After about the first 45 minutes of waiting, the Moms realized we were in for the long haul, in this swealtering heat - yet one more thing we do for our kids, who were seemingly unphased by the fact that they were not yet in the pool. And then Emma's mom offered to make a run to the gas station to get drinks for us Moms. Once you become a Mom, you are defined by your children not by your own first name ... in fact, I find myself not using my own name when I introduce myself, but rather saying that I'm Matthew P's Mom - making sure not to confuse myself with Matthew W's Mom. A cold beer would have been great, but I settled on a diet coke and really at that point in the heat - I probably would have offered Emma's Mom my first born, for just a sip of something cold. Instead - I gave her the few bucks in my pocket.
The key finally arrived. The kids were thrilled. Swimming time. And so - because all the other Moms stayed, I stayed, too. But, I was sitting there planning how I could make an exit - even for just a few minutes to have some peace. After making conversation with Dominic's Mom, I excused myself to go outside and call home. She was headed down towards the water slides where our kids were playing and I told her I would join her after my call. And so I walked to my van - slowly - trying to breathe a little peace - I called home and headed back into the Aquatics Center. I was greeted at the door with the birthday boy's Mom holding Matthew's hand. They calmly told me that he had almost drowned. But - the life guard got to him in time. He had tried going down the big slide into 12 feet of water. And when he realized he was neither taller than 12 feet or a good swimmer - he panicked. I stood there looking at my son - my first born - who just minutes earlier I had thought about giving to Emma's Mom just for some diet coke. My first born who changed me forever - like your one true love. Matthew made me a Mom - he inspires me, he amazes me, he frustrates me, he teaches me, and he loves me - unconditionally. And I stood looking at my little boy - who because I needed to breathe, because I wanted to find some peace - took the wrong slide and was scared. And I was not there to help him. ...
He's fine. He went back in the water and down the slide - the one that goes into 3 feet of water. If you ask him, he'd tell you he had the best time at his best buddy's birthday. But for me, I sat vigilantly and nervously watching him play in the water with his friends for the rest of the party. His smile - his laugh - his wave to me as he would get out of the water to go on the slide again - all those things that I had moments before taken for granted, now meant so much ... including why I go to church and why I was glad that God was a man, who knew it was okay - and necessary - to rest on Sunday ....
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
I'm finally a Queen!
For the past four years, my home has had a princess. Mary Evangeline - our Emme Bear - was born in April of 2003. We thought we were having a boy, but to our surprise at 12:31 a.m. on April 15th - Emme was born. Since that time she has been our princess shadowed within a tomboy persona. But, despite her desire to play PowerRangers, she clearly reminds us that she is a princess. But, our home lacked a queen ... until two weeks ago when I became a queen. Okay - it's a "Jeans Queen" - but, a queen none the less. And these days, amidst the strep throats, sleepless nights, crying fits over Barbie costumes, goldfish crackers in my slippers - I will take what I can get!
So, what is a"Jeans Queen"? Well - it was my first attempt to regain a part of me. The local radio station here, Mix94.5, ran a competition for listeners to write in and tell them why they should be a "Jeans Queen." If selected, you would get the chance to workout with a personal trainer at IPower fitness and win a pair of jeans from Paris' Boutique, if you reached your weight loss/inches goal. I'd heard that the training was tough, but you'd get results. I was also told the jeans are amazing and have a price tag to match.
So - I decided to put in an entry. Why? Well - at first I thought it was to address a deep rooted angst I held against my Mom who never did buy me the pair of Guess jeans when I was in the fifth grade - I can still hear her "you want me to spend how much on blue jeans" - and then I thought it was because for the past six years I have shared my body with another human being for over 50 months and then I thought it was because if I didn't start taking care of my body, when I ran backwards (a cool new thing my 2-year old is into) I may actually start beeping for folks to get out of my way -- but, when I finally hit the submit button - it was because I wanted to do something for me ... something that I didn't have to share with anyone except for three other strangers and one DJ, Sarah, - who can't really qualify as a stranger since my kids think she lives in the "box" on my nightstand. And so, I "won" the chance to get some exercise and a pair of jeans. I was thrilled. And the fact that my doctor didn't laugh when I told him that I was really just undertall, not overweight, as he was giving me my cholesterol results, made me realize I needed to do something.
My first day of training was Monday. Today is Tuesday and I am pleased to report that I do have quad muscles. Apparently, for the past 37 years I have not used them because now all I can do is wince as I walk or try to get up from a chair. I do recall at some point today thinking, "if I had gotten this far in life without quad muscles ..." - but, I am determined to work through this program, which may include getting over my fear that when I go to the washroom and sit on the toliet - I may need to get the jaws of life to help me stand up again. (In case you're concerned, I did carry my cell phone with me today.) Yes, today I was constantly reminded that I was indeed a "queen." My trainer is great and if it weren't for this great pain in my quads, I'm sure I'd remember her name - but, right now I'm thinking it might be associated with a few expletives for all the lunges and squats she made me do - so probably best to wait for another posting to reveal her name. I didn't fashion myself to be that out of shape - but I truly don't think I ever worked this hard so quickly before. But alas, I survived. I'm doing something for me and about me. And, I can still hear my trainer's voice saying "you need to push your butt out towards the window" as I was trying to do a squat while raising a 10 pound weight above my head and all I kept thinking is "honey, I thought I was here because my butt already pushes out towards the window!"
So, what is a"Jeans Queen"? Well - it was my first attempt to regain a part of me. The local radio station here, Mix94.5, ran a competition for listeners to write in and tell them why they should be a "Jeans Queen." If selected, you would get the chance to workout with a personal trainer at IPower fitness and win a pair of jeans from Paris' Boutique, if you reached your weight loss/inches goal. I'd heard that the training was tough, but you'd get results. I was also told the jeans are amazing and have a price tag to match.
So - I decided to put in an entry. Why? Well - at first I thought it was to address a deep rooted angst I held against my Mom who never did buy me the pair of Guess jeans when I was in the fifth grade - I can still hear her "you want me to spend how much on blue jeans" - and then I thought it was because for the past six years I have shared my body with another human being for over 50 months and then I thought it was because if I didn't start taking care of my body, when I ran backwards (a cool new thing my 2-year old is into) I may actually start beeping for folks to get out of my way -- but, when I finally hit the submit button - it was because I wanted to do something for me ... something that I didn't have to share with anyone except for three other strangers and one DJ, Sarah, - who can't really qualify as a stranger since my kids think she lives in the "box" on my nightstand. And so, I "won" the chance to get some exercise and a pair of jeans. I was thrilled. And the fact that my doctor didn't laugh when I told him that I was really just undertall, not overweight, as he was giving me my cholesterol results, made me realize I needed to do something.
My first day of training was Monday. Today is Tuesday and I am pleased to report that I do have quad muscles. Apparently, for the past 37 years I have not used them because now all I can do is wince as I walk or try to get up from a chair. I do recall at some point today thinking, "if I had gotten this far in life without quad muscles ..." - but, I am determined to work through this program, which may include getting over my fear that when I go to the washroom and sit on the toliet - I may need to get the jaws of life to help me stand up again. (In case you're concerned, I did carry my cell phone with me today.) Yes, today I was constantly reminded that I was indeed a "queen." My trainer is great and if it weren't for this great pain in my quads, I'm sure I'd remember her name - but, right now I'm thinking it might be associated with a few expletives for all the lunges and squats she made me do - so probably best to wait for another posting to reveal her name. I didn't fashion myself to be that out of shape - but I truly don't think I ever worked this hard so quickly before. But alas, I survived. I'm doing something for me and about me. And, I can still hear my trainer's voice saying "you need to push your butt out towards the window" as I was trying to do a squat while raising a 10 pound weight above my head and all I kept thinking is "honey, I thought I was here because my butt already pushes out towards the window!"
Sunday, September 30, 2007
"You know Mom, 'inappropriate tv'"
I thought I'd always be the kind of Mom who didn't use the TV as a babysitter. I remember before having kids of my own thinking how Moms who let their kids watch TV just aren't creative or don't understand how TV can influence their kids. Yes, I was going to be the kind of Mom who would always be engaging my children in activities that make them think and ask questions. No - my kids wouldn't be watching TV.
Well, I think that lasted roughly about 5 months after my first son, Matthew, was born. It was about that time that a friend of mine hooked me up with the Baby Einstein DVDs. I say "hooked me up" because I truly believe that these DVDs are kiddie crack. From the minute I hit play, my son was hooked. He'd sit in his bouncy seat and just watch the images go by while listening to the classical music in the background. For a fleeting moment, I did consider that I could be sitting in front of my son with a hand puppet engaging him while Mozart played on my CD player, but the DVDs were so easy. And by 5 months in - the glory of being a new Mom has worn off - you still love your baby, but really, what you are craving is twenty minutes of peace - perhaps to eat a meal or send an email. And these DVDs give you that opportunity. And when you are a working Mom, you start looking at minutes as precious - you give up on thinking you'd ever have a day to yourself - so you begin to be excited when you get 5 minutes to yourself. A topic that I certainly will discuss in later blogs, especially since my two year old has taken to joining me in the bathroom because I sit with him when he is on the potty - at least that is what I think he was telling me in his two-year old speak.
So - fastforward now - I have four kids between the ages of 5 and 5 months. And they all watch the TV. But, given the age span, what was once kiddie crack for my now 5 year old son, now has become about 20 minutes of whining as he complains about having to watch the "baby videos". So - to compromise in this debate - which is clearly one-sided - I just don't want to listen to Matthew complain - I have decided to rely on the networks to provide entertainment for my kids. But, recently, I've realized that the individuals who are creating the shows for the many "kid-type" channels can't be parents themselves. If they were - they probably would be sitting on the couch going "huh?" as they watch their own shows. I just don't get it - how are these shows airing at times during the day when I most need a babysitter? So - I decided that inappropriate tv was unacceptable in my house, no matter how much I wanted my kids to sit numb in front of the TV so that I could get something done around the house. Yes, being a working Mom of four, you begin to lower your principles just for the opportunity to unload the dishwasher. But, even I knew that the dishes were not as important as my kids' minds. So - I lined up my three oldest children (Matthew - 5, Emme - 4, Nicholas - 2) on the couch and explained how some TV shows were inappropriate. I felt good about myself - I felt like I had taken a stand against bad TV and wasn't going to let it play in my house, no matter how much I wanted a break. And so, the days passed and we watched A LOT of Diego and Dora (with Matthew complaining again ...), but I would not give in to the inappropriate TV. And then it happened - I walk into the playroom and Emme and Nicholas were sitting on the couch watching one of the shows I despise. I couldn't believe it? Didn't they understand what I had told them about inappropriate TV - well, maybe not Nicholas, he's only 2, but Emme - she's four - and she had to get it, right? Didn't they appreciate that I went to bed at night with the theme to Dora the Explorer as a lullaby in my brain? Didn't they understand how much control it took for me not to feel bad about myself after realizing that my 2-year old could count to 10 in Spanish, but not in English? And so, in my exasperation, I looked at Emme and ask "Emme, what are you watching?" - and she replied promptly and assuredly, "You know Mom, that show you told us about, Inappropriate TV" .... and with that - they asked me to move because I was blocking the TV.
Well, I think that lasted roughly about 5 months after my first son, Matthew, was born. It was about that time that a friend of mine hooked me up with the Baby Einstein DVDs. I say "hooked me up" because I truly believe that these DVDs are kiddie crack. From the minute I hit play, my son was hooked. He'd sit in his bouncy seat and just watch the images go by while listening to the classical music in the background. For a fleeting moment, I did consider that I could be sitting in front of my son with a hand puppet engaging him while Mozart played on my CD player, but the DVDs were so easy. And by 5 months in - the glory of being a new Mom has worn off - you still love your baby, but really, what you are craving is twenty minutes of peace - perhaps to eat a meal or send an email. And these DVDs give you that opportunity. And when you are a working Mom, you start looking at minutes as precious - you give up on thinking you'd ever have a day to yourself - so you begin to be excited when you get 5 minutes to yourself. A topic that I certainly will discuss in later blogs, especially since my two year old has taken to joining me in the bathroom because I sit with him when he is on the potty - at least that is what I think he was telling me in his two-year old speak.
So - fastforward now - I have four kids between the ages of 5 and 5 months. And they all watch the TV. But, given the age span, what was once kiddie crack for my now 5 year old son, now has become about 20 minutes of whining as he complains about having to watch the "baby videos". So - to compromise in this debate - which is clearly one-sided - I just don't want to listen to Matthew complain - I have decided to rely on the networks to provide entertainment for my kids. But, recently, I've realized that the individuals who are creating the shows for the many "kid-type" channels can't be parents themselves. If they were - they probably would be sitting on the couch going "huh?" as they watch their own shows. I just don't get it - how are these shows airing at times during the day when I most need a babysitter? So - I decided that inappropriate tv was unacceptable in my house, no matter how much I wanted my kids to sit numb in front of the TV so that I could get something done around the house. Yes, being a working Mom of four, you begin to lower your principles just for the opportunity to unload the dishwasher. But, even I knew that the dishes were not as important as my kids' minds. So - I lined up my three oldest children (Matthew - 5, Emme - 4, Nicholas - 2) on the couch and explained how some TV shows were inappropriate. I felt good about myself - I felt like I had taken a stand against bad TV and wasn't going to let it play in my house, no matter how much I wanted a break. And so, the days passed and we watched A LOT of Diego and Dora (with Matthew complaining again ...), but I would not give in to the inappropriate TV. And then it happened - I walk into the playroom and Emme and Nicholas were sitting on the couch watching one of the shows I despise. I couldn't believe it? Didn't they understand what I had told them about inappropriate TV - well, maybe not Nicholas, he's only 2, but Emme - she's four - and she had to get it, right? Didn't they appreciate that I went to bed at night with the theme to Dora the Explorer as a lullaby in my brain? Didn't they understand how much control it took for me not to feel bad about myself after realizing that my 2-year old could count to 10 in Spanish, but not in English? And so, in my exasperation, I looked at Emme and ask "Emme, what are you watching?" - and she replied promptly and assuredly, "You know Mom, that show you told us about, Inappropriate TV" .... and with that - they asked me to move because I was blocking the TV.
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