You Scream, I Scream

My mother may never serve my children ice cream again. Dessert seemed like a good idea at the time. The day had been relatively stressful (imagine that) and the kids had eaten the better part of their dinner. As my mother and I gathered around the table eating our ice cream, it became apparent that table manners had gone out the window. After much slurping and smacking, I reached my breaking point and asked "Should anyone else be able to hear you eating or drinking?" Asking an open ended question was my first mistake. Rebecca, delight that she is, chimed in with the dreaded "Yeah, you should never . . ." and then proceeded to put on a "When Harry Met Sally" worthy performance of the noises you should never make while eating ice cream. As I watched in a combination of fascination and horror, I quietly said a prayer that those were simply enthusiastic yummy sounds heard on an age appropriate movie / TV show. Sadly, that is not the end of my tale. After putting an end to the show, I looked at my mother and said "The next time you ask if your grandchildren can have dessert, my answer will be no." To which she quickly replied "Don't worry I won't be asking again." Leading up to the wondrous joy that raising a nine year old boy brings. Daniel, being oh so clever, rejoins with "Grandma, you know what you can do with your ice cream . . ." At this point my mother, who is a Donovan and a school teacher and should really know better, loses it. I, who am a Donovan and the mother of these delightful creatures and should really know better, lose it too. By the by, the answer to Daniel's question was actually something that only like minded nine year-old boys find funny "you should burn all of it." By this time the damage was done and much work was needed to maintain bladder control. You know, I keep trying to "train them up in the way they should go" but the Donovan genes (force) are strong in them and may not be able to be overcome.

Consider Their Mothers

 As a child I loved Beverly Cleary’s Ramona books.  As a slightly older child, I delighted in reading about the adventures of Junie B. Jones to my little sister.  I reveled in their spunk and outrageousness.  I laughed out loud at their antics and high jinks.  I cheered on their irrepressible spirit.  I did not consider their mothers.  The mothers of these extroverted young ladies were secondary characters.  They were a necessary foil to the exuberance of youthful mischief.  I did not consider their mothers until I had “one of those” children.  Yes, one of those children who were loud in the stores, were outspoken, and had personality in spades.  Ah, the reason for the gray streaks in my hair and the twitch of my left eye.  The kind of child who causes all who meet her to say, “You really have your hands full with that one.”  I cannot pinpoint the exact hour and moment that I began to consider the mothers of Junie B. and Ramona, but I believe it was somewhere between “Oh cool, a penis!” and “cat restriction.”

These mothers of spirited children do not deserve to be relegated to the forgotten realm of secondary stock characters.  They should be celebrated, revered, or at the very least, developed as dispensers of wisdom to all of us who are mothers of "those children" too.  How do you cope through the kindergarten and now first grade years?  With each new age comes a new onslaught of parental challenges (and I don't even want to touch the teenage years beyond knowing that I want a flask for Rebecca's 13th birthday).  I want practical advice from the front lines!  Instead we end up with an exasperated "Oh Junie B." and an all's wells that ends well attitude.

I think the only real solution is to stay "prayed up."  In everything with prayerful supplication and thanksgiving, I can give these trials over to God.  I may not understand how Rebecca's Lenny routine with the cat or artistic bent with her sister are all going to turn out, but I do know that she is fearfully and wonderfully made and created for a divine purpose.  I do know that God works all things for the good, even when it's hard or exasperating.  So I can choose to be beaten down by the craziness and the chaos that is my household, or I can choose to laugh and share.  Because seriously, What is the alternative?!

P.S. I'm back y'all and am going to try to be better about this whole blog thing!

When I Grow Up

Lately my children have been fixated on what they are going to be when they grow up. They are at the best age for this because for them, the possibilities are infinite. No one has yet told them that their dreams are unrealistic or too hard or just plain impossible. Their aspirations are ever changing and often reflective of what they are watching, wearing, or doing at that moment.

For the entire summer Madeline wanted to be a doctor. She was staunch and unwavering in this, no matter who asked her the question. It became such common knowledge in our family, that at one point Rebecca's career path ( a nurse for Maddie's doctor office) was directly related to her sister's chosen profession. Fast forward a couple of months and the new dream is to be a ballerina. Never mind the fact that she is built short and round like her mother and is completely without rhythm. She is going to be a ballet girl and that is it. Rebecca has been fairly consistent in that she wants to be a cheerleader. Cute outfits and getting to jump and yell? Sign her up! Occasionally she wants to be a cowgirl . . . I wonder what she will think when she discovers that she could by a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. Daniel's imagination has been the most active, which I'm sure is a credit to his age. This week he has wanted to be a robot designer, soldier (because his dad got to eat donuts in the army), and a rock star who plays the piano.

Listening to the kids and their hopes and dreams for the future, I cannot help but reminisce about what mine were as a child. The earliest desire that I can remember was to be a writer. I wrote everything from poems to short stories, and even attempted a book in elementary school. Later, as life happened, and writing became less creative and more analytical, the dream was forgotten. How wonderful to have rediscovered that desire! I could not ask for better fodder than my children, whose imagination is alive, tangible and inspirational.

Privacy Lost

My grandmother loves to tell the story of the successful business woman who was telling women that she came up with all of her best ideas while she relaxed in her bathroom with the door closed. As soon as she uttered this statement, the rest of the women in the room knew that she did not have any kids. Grandma has a tendency to repeat her stories often, but this one definitely resonated with me. Any mother with children of a certain age knows that a shut door does nothing except beckon their children in. The bathroom is no exception, and in fact seems to be my children's Mecca. Rebecca once pulled up a stool directly in front of me and sat down with a bowl of cereal and just watched me. Seriously?! She acted like she was at the movies. Conveniently for Maddie, my bathtub has a step which she has claimed as her own personal seat. Naturally, the company alone is not the problem. But watching turns in to The Questions and The Comments. Yes, many of life's lessons are learned in the bathrooms of our house.
The girls have also taken things a step further and have continued their invasion on all bastions of privacy on my body. Rebecca has recently, yes recently, developed the habit of shaking one of my boobs while talking to me. Maddie thought that looked like so much fun that she shook the other one. Obviously this leads to talks about why this isn't okay and the eventual shriek of "Let go of my boobies," but just the fact that it needed to be said is beyond me. Madeline keeps running her hands all over my face, which would be cute and loving if it didn't happen with such frequency. And trying to sit down without someone climbing all over me? Impossible!
I know the day will come all to soon when my children are too wrapped up in their own lives to be so intimately involved in mine. These are times to swallow my frustration in the moment and thank God for children who are so secure in their love for me that they still see me as extensions of themselves. Times to thank Him for His blessings and just enjoy the closeness that we share with our little ones when they are this young.

Bedtime Battles

"Put that chain down and go to bed," is what I just heard my husband tell our 4 year old. Seriously?! Is this something that needs to be said? Now, I realize that some might ask why she has a chain in the first place; to which I respond, I was not aware that she removed it from the garage until 5 minutes ago. As strange as her bed-mate might be, the fact that she has a random object and is playing with it while she should be sleeping is just par for the course. Bedtime has been battle ground zero for Miss Rebecca for as long as I can remember. When she was first learning to sleep in a "big girl bed," she would climb out and peer at us from under the door. When the creepy stare and nonstop screaming failed to get a response, she would resort to sticking as much of her hand as possible under the door. Needless to say, this display would occasionally freak out dinner guests. Now the door stays open, but we are constantly bombarded by requests for hugs, tuck-ins, and potty breaks which occur with such frequency that we have begun speculating that she may be part camel. I realize that her natural body rhythm would be to stay up late and sleep in, but reality is that doesn't mesh with things like going to school. And, to be completely candid, I enjoy having a couple of adult only hours with my husband. So, it is the quest for these few child-free hours which will keep us fighting the bedtime battle and saying things like, "Put down the chain and go to sleep."

Halloween Costumes

As I watch my kids run around in their new (to them) Halloween costumes, I reflect on Halloween's past. Over the past 6 years, their dad and I have made some cool and not so cool choices. All of the kids have been an animal of some sort; cows, lady bugs and bunnies, oh my! Then there were the traditional years: a pumpkin, a witch, and a pirate (who was very ghetto and kept taking off his homemade peg leg, hook and pirate hat and really just ended up looking like one of those punk kids who don't dress up and walk around expecting candy anyway). We have had character years, SpongeBob (Becca) and a Care Bear (Daniel). I'm still getting flak from Jeff about the Care Bear. I maintain that since he was blue and only two, he was cute not gay. And that distinction brings us to our most cautionary of costume genres. If you have a son, then chances are great that you will have a number of Halloweens as various super heroes. Spend the extra money for the costumes with padding, because long after the mask is gone, the tight fitting unitard remains and the Incredible Hulk becomes a not so masculine Peter Pan. Hmm . . . my Barbie cheerleader is about to nail the Blue Ranger with a Tinkerbell chair, so I better conclude my Halloween ruminations. Hope everyone has a safe and happy Halloween.

Cold Coffee, Warm Beer and other Truths About Motherhood

Some things about becoming a mom are a given, or at least common place enough that we don't question them - - stretch marks, wider hips, and a certain amount of sleep deprivation to name a few. Other things can come as a shock (or at least they did to me). Like the fact that at least for the first few years it will become a luxury to drink a beverage at the proper temperature. I cannot begin to calculate the number of times that I have poured myself a cup of coffee, only to have some sort of emergency arise that only Mommy can solve. By the time I am able to sit down again and raise that glorious caffeine to my lips the coffee has become stone cold. And if you dare to treat yourself to an icy brew, be prepared because you have one to two sips to take before the same thing happens, only you return to a lukewarm beverage - - the very antithesis of a "cold one."

Another thing that came as a shock were the physical changes. Not the aforementioned ones, but rather things that I never dreamed that would happen, like the changes to my hair and boobs. Okay, I know it's shallow, but the hair thing just made me mad. Where my hair was once sleek and shiny, it is now dull and frizzy. If a woman's hair is her crowning glory, then mine has abdicated her throne. The thing with hair is a good cut and color can help a lot, unlike the extremes you must go to if you want to salvage your ta tas. All of the literature and books that tell you that breastfeeding does not ruin your boobs lie. Now, I was happy to nurse my babies, and I would not trade that experience for all of the perky C's in the world, but I would be lying if I said that I was not bothered by the deflated balloons that I see in the mirror. Seriously, I could handle a smaller cup size, but this new shape (or lack there of) is a real downer. Short of plastic surgery, the best you can hope for is a decent padded bra.

Of course it is the benefits of motherhood that make the sacrifices worth while. Like the absolute peace that I felt nursing my babies (after the sore nipples, latching on, and engorgement issues), or the thrill of watching a two year old develop in to a talking, thinking, independent little person. I still stare at my first grader in amazement as I hear him read words like "sumptuous," and delight in my four year old who has a steadier hand with a paintbrush than I do. For me, the most awesome thing about motherhood has been getting a glimpse of the love that God has for His children. Just feeling what must be a fraction of what unconditional love is has been humbling. In all the ups and downs, trials and triumphs, I am delighted to be on this journey called motherhood.