I can say, with all honesty, that my children are amazing, not perfect, but amazing. They are helpful, kind, thoughtful, and loving; and, with the exception of our occasional Jonah and the Whale type days, I hardly ever have to raise my voice at them.
However, I have recently learned that despite my compliments to my children, I have still been selling them short. They are even more brilliant than I realized. You see, at the young ages of 4 and 2 (almost 3) they have learned how to work the system, and Mommy has a system.
It's no secret, I like things done a certain way. I try to include the kids in work around the house, but it normally only creates more work for me while I have to undo all the "chores" they have done. About a year ago, I felt it was important that they begin learning how to make their own beds. I started with Elijah, the oldest, teaching him how to pull up his blankets, and put his pillows and animals all on the bed. He had seen me do it hundreds of times, and he seemed eager to learn. Great! Easy Peasy. He was eager for maybe the first week, but then he grew anxious to get to his toys and play with his sister. Plus there was an added bonus. He knew that on bath mornings, Mommy would make the beds while they splashed in the tub, just to save time, and he couldn't help but notice how quickly it got done when Mommy did it.
Then there was the matter of getting pajamas on. We began allowing the children to get themselves ready for bed, at least for the most part. At first they were both very excited about doing it themselves. Oh the buttons and zippers are endless fun! Then it occurred to them what exactly this little night time ritual meant. It meant bedtime. For the most part I would get them ready for bed, or do the prompting anyway, while Jelani had school work to finish up or studying to do. Occasionally though, there would be a night when Jelani would take over, and I couldn't help but notice how quickly things got done.
Similarly, the mornings that Jelani has tended to them, the beds have been made without hesitation.
It didn't make sense.
Dinners without Daddy usually meant me prompting every bite.
"Take a bite."
"Sit still."
"Don't play with your fork."
"Don't yell at the table!"
There are many times I just get sick of sitting at the table, and I begin shoveling the food into their mouths for them, just so we can all just leave the dining room for goodness sake!
But with Daddy, dinners always go much more smoothly. Less squirming and chatter; more chewing.
Last night, I told the kids to get ready for bed. They whined about it, but slowly headed off to their room to change. After half a dozen yells from them to me about one thing or another, I went in there to find Elijah with an unbuttoned pajama top, and Chastity with her arms in her one-piece, footie pajamas, but with the legs of the pjs flying behind her as she ran down the hall screaming, "I need help!" I had had enough! I looked right at them, and in my toughest mommy voice, yelled "Why is it that when I ask you to do something, you suddenly can't remember how to do it? Something Daddy has you do by yourselves in 5 minutes, won't get done without my help in less than 10!"
In a matter of seconds, I realized that they can make their own beds, and in a timely fashion. They can dress themselves; also in a timely fashion. They can feed themselves; again...in a timely fashion.
They just looked confused (or caught), and I had answered my own question.
When Mommy says "Jump," they whine that they don't know how to, until Mommy finally just jumps for them so that it gets done.
When Daddy says "Jump," they say "How high?" Daddy doesn't jump.
The trick is being more stubborn than the kids, and Mommy thinks she likes Daddy's system better.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Easter Break Through
So far this Easter has been unlike any other, and it doesn't make any sense except that Jesus has purposely made it that way.
First of all, we all know the story of Jesus dying on the cross for our sins. Even if you're not a Christian, chances are, you've heard it. It's an amazing story, but one which I've always distanced myself from.
Why?
I am the queen of the scaredy cats. I hate horror movies, anything graphic or gory, and basically anything that makes me uncomfortable. The story of that selfless act of Jesus is all of the above.
Many have seen The Passion of the Christ movie that came out around Easter in 2004. Many lives were forever changed because of that movie and it's graphic depiction of how Jesus laid down His life for us. I sat watching it and tried to force myself to cry. Grown men all around me were sobbing, people of all ages were having these incredible revelations and couldn't control their emotions, and I felt it was only appropriate that I squeeze out a few tears for this God that I love and serve. I had distanced myself from the story as if my dad were trying to read it to me on a road trip while I quietly slid on my headphones, which had become a reoccurring Easter tradition for us while I was playing travel basketball as a teen. I did not want to hear it. And in the years since Mel Gibson's hit, I have actually refused to watch The Passion again on every occasion offered.
How uncomfortable a thought it is think that some stranger, seemingly, would go through so much pain for the likes of me? Would I do that for my children? I love them more than anything in this world. I would die for them, but I would exhaust every and all other options before I would willingly submit myself to that kind of pain, torture, and suffering to save them. I would organize an elaborate escape, complete with disguises and deception, and we would make a run for it to some deserted island somewhere. I would likely kill anyone who tried to harm us along the way. It would make a wonderful, and thrilling "based on a true story" book, which would later be turned into a movie staring the beautiful daughter of Meryl Streep, Mamie Gummer, but I digress. What does all of that make me? Human. Jesus did not run, He did not kill anyone who tried to harm him. He didn't even squirm or fight them as they nailed his wrists to the cross. Biblical historians believe that even Gibson's theatrical depiction of Christ's suffering still didn't come close to the true horror which was His death. It could have rivaled anything you've seen in any horror movie, and likely (I know in my case) would have induced vomit.
This Easter, God has opened my eyes and allowed me to fully understand and receive this blessing; this incredible gift that I have the choice to refuse, but that which I can never, ever repay. How do I know that? Well, if I just told you how emotional I've been just thinking about it, or how nauseous I became after listening to a radio broadcast about it, you might say, "Of course! You're pregnant!" And I would laugh and somewhat agree. However, I have been pregnant at Easter two other times. This is my third hormone raging Easter, and it is still like no other. Yesterday, in the car, I heard men talking about Christ's crucifixion on the radio. They talked about how it's believed the nails were actually hammered through the wrists and not the hands. The major arteries and nerves there would have caused shattering pain that I didn't think I was even capable of imagining. But while I was listening to this description I became nauseous...very nauseous. I imagined, for an instant, that kind of pain. My weak flesh would have passed out and died with the first wrist! I thought I was going to have to ask Jelani to pull the car over, I was feeling so sick. He asked what was wrong, and when I told him, he promptly changed the radio station.
He meant well, and that was a very husbandly, sensitive thing to do for his pregnant wife, but something in me, nauseous as I was, did not want to run from the discomfort. I replied with as much strength as I could muster, and a somewhat embarrassed chuckle, "It is a very small discomfort to bear, Jelani."
He laughed and we imagined that Jesus was watching me, saying, "Really? A little nauseous? REALLY?"
Through the emotions and the nausea and the chaos of the holiday, Jesus is showing me what it's about, and guiding me in what to really care about. I did not go shopping to fill Easter baskets this year. I bought some candy, but other than that, the kids are getting one homemade gift each. I made catastrophic mistakes and messes in the kitchen today in preparation for Easter dinner tomorrow that stressed me out, nearly to tears. The bread wouldn't rise, and then wouldn't bake. It tasted like hot, raw dough. The chocolate frosting would not get thick enough, and kept dripping down my cake. The counters were covered in dirty dishes, flour, powdered sugar, and splatterings of chocolate frosting from a mixing accident. To top it all off, I gave myself mild food poisoning with one lick of cake batter, and wasn't feeling up to the challenge of the mess. My incredible husband didn't bat an eye. He told me to sit down while he cleaned it up.
How blessed am I? Jesus cleanses me from sin. He went through pain that I can't even fully comprehend so that I may enter into Heaven.
Then, after He'd done it all; given the gift that can never be topped, He had it in mind to give me a husband who spends two hours in the kitchen cleaning up after me...cleansing me from my own disasters.
I will stop coasting and step out of my comfort zone any time to see how I have been blessed. The view is much clearer on this side. :)
I am very blessed indeed.
Happy Easter, everyone!
First of all, we all know the story of Jesus dying on the cross for our sins. Even if you're not a Christian, chances are, you've heard it. It's an amazing story, but one which I've always distanced myself from.
Why?
I am the queen of the scaredy cats. I hate horror movies, anything graphic or gory, and basically anything that makes me uncomfortable. The story of that selfless act of Jesus is all of the above.
Many have seen The Passion of the Christ movie that came out around Easter in 2004. Many lives were forever changed because of that movie and it's graphic depiction of how Jesus laid down His life for us. I sat watching it and tried to force myself to cry. Grown men all around me were sobbing, people of all ages were having these incredible revelations and couldn't control their emotions, and I felt it was only appropriate that I squeeze out a few tears for this God that I love and serve. I had distanced myself from the story as if my dad were trying to read it to me on a road trip while I quietly slid on my headphones, which had become a reoccurring Easter tradition for us while I was playing travel basketball as a teen. I did not want to hear it. And in the years since Mel Gibson's hit, I have actually refused to watch The Passion again on every occasion offered.
How uncomfortable a thought it is think that some stranger, seemingly, would go through so much pain for the likes of me? Would I do that for my children? I love them more than anything in this world. I would die for them, but I would exhaust every and all other options before I would willingly submit myself to that kind of pain, torture, and suffering to save them. I would organize an elaborate escape, complete with disguises and deception, and we would make a run for it to some deserted island somewhere. I would likely kill anyone who tried to harm us along the way. It would make a wonderful, and thrilling "based on a true story" book, which would later be turned into a movie staring the beautiful daughter of Meryl Streep, Mamie Gummer, but I digress. What does all of that make me? Human. Jesus did not run, He did not kill anyone who tried to harm him. He didn't even squirm or fight them as they nailed his wrists to the cross. Biblical historians believe that even Gibson's theatrical depiction of Christ's suffering still didn't come close to the true horror which was His death. It could have rivaled anything you've seen in any horror movie, and likely (I know in my case) would have induced vomit.
This Easter, God has opened my eyes and allowed me to fully understand and receive this blessing; this incredible gift that I have the choice to refuse, but that which I can never, ever repay. How do I know that? Well, if I just told you how emotional I've been just thinking about it, or how nauseous I became after listening to a radio broadcast about it, you might say, "Of course! You're pregnant!" And I would laugh and somewhat agree. However, I have been pregnant at Easter two other times. This is my third hormone raging Easter, and it is still like no other. Yesterday, in the car, I heard men talking about Christ's crucifixion on the radio. They talked about how it's believed the nails were actually hammered through the wrists and not the hands. The major arteries and nerves there would have caused shattering pain that I didn't think I was even capable of imagining. But while I was listening to this description I became nauseous...very nauseous. I imagined, for an instant, that kind of pain. My weak flesh would have passed out and died with the first wrist! I thought I was going to have to ask Jelani to pull the car over, I was feeling so sick. He asked what was wrong, and when I told him, he promptly changed the radio station.
He meant well, and that was a very husbandly, sensitive thing to do for his pregnant wife, but something in me, nauseous as I was, did not want to run from the discomfort. I replied with as much strength as I could muster, and a somewhat embarrassed chuckle, "It is a very small discomfort to bear, Jelani."
He laughed and we imagined that Jesus was watching me, saying, "Really? A little nauseous? REALLY?"
Through the emotions and the nausea and the chaos of the holiday, Jesus is showing me what it's about, and guiding me in what to really care about. I did not go shopping to fill Easter baskets this year. I bought some candy, but other than that, the kids are getting one homemade gift each. I made catastrophic mistakes and messes in the kitchen today in preparation for Easter dinner tomorrow that stressed me out, nearly to tears. The bread wouldn't rise, and then wouldn't bake. It tasted like hot, raw dough. The chocolate frosting would not get thick enough, and kept dripping down my cake. The counters were covered in dirty dishes, flour, powdered sugar, and splatterings of chocolate frosting from a mixing accident. To top it all off, I gave myself mild food poisoning with one lick of cake batter, and wasn't feeling up to the challenge of the mess. My incredible husband didn't bat an eye. He told me to sit down while he cleaned it up.
How blessed am I? Jesus cleanses me from sin. He went through pain that I can't even fully comprehend so that I may enter into Heaven.
Then, after He'd done it all; given the gift that can never be topped, He had it in mind to give me a husband who spends two hours in the kitchen cleaning up after me...cleansing me from my own disasters.
I will stop coasting and step out of my comfort zone any time to see how I have been blessed. The view is much clearer on this side. :)
I am very blessed indeed.
Happy Easter, everyone!
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Fashion Train Wrecked Pregnancy
It is my personal opinion that the designers of all maternity clothes have never worn their own clothes, never been pregnant at all, or possibly don't have the right parts to ever get pregnant. Thus, my month long writer's block has been lifted by my crabby, mommy complaints.
I'm not even sure where to begin here, but let's start with the sizes, shall we? Everything you've ever read will tell you that you should stick to the same sizes you wear normally, but apply them to maternity clothes. Sure, that might work for some gals, for thelucky, blessed, not-quite-human, gals who don't get bigger anywhere but the mid-section. Good for them. The special gals, like myself, get bigger everywhere from head to toe. My socks don't even fit me normally right now, and I'm only 21 weeks along. So no, the same size rule does not apply to me. I'm normally a 10/12 or M/L. During pregnancy I become a 14/16 and a L/XL. Next.
To piggy back on that just a bit, do clothing companies realize that when an XL shirt is needed it is not needed for the neckline or the sleeves? Just because I need an XL does not mean I need the neckline to go halfway down my back and front, and the sleeves to go halfway down my sides, causing me to showcase more of my extra large self. Next.
I am on my third pregnancy and I have yet to find a pair of maternity jeans that don't slide down. I don't want to be that mom who goes everywhere in sweats. It makes me feel sloppy and lazy, but sweatpants are the only pants that I don't have to pull up every two minutes. Maternity pants don't just slide down either. Noooo. Maternity pants will take your underwear with them. So, congratulations. You're not the sloppy mom in sweatpants. You are the disgusting mom who has to reach down her pants to pull everything back up. I've tried them all; the pants you wear below the belly, and the pants with the belly band sewn into them to cover the belly. The latter are the absolute worst. They'll slide down, taking your underwear too of course, and then you can't pull them up without going under your shirt too. Now you've graduated to the mom who has to go under her shirt and down her pants to keep her clothes on. Isn't that a beautiful thing? What is so hard about putting the waistband of sweatpants on maternity pants? Maybe it looks weird, and maybe the protruding drawstring is an eye sore, but at least you're not digging down your pants for your underwear. Next.
Who in the world thinks that horizontal stripes are perfect for pregnant women???? I had this issue last summer when I went shopping after I had lost weight. I think very few people can pull off horizontal stripes, pregnant or not, but they were apparently the trend then, and I guess they still are. Last week my mom took me shopping for new maternity clothes. Nearly ever rack had horizontal stripes on it, because that's exactly what I'm looking for. I was hoping to have stripes stretched out over my growing belly like an ill advised tattoo.
We don't all have the money of celebrities to have our maternity clothes tailored to fit our bodies, so I guess I will suffer through. In the meantime, just turn away if you see me reach for my pants, but by all means, let me know if my neckline has fallen down to my belly. Thanks.
I'm not even sure where to begin here, but let's start with the sizes, shall we? Everything you've ever read will tell you that you should stick to the same sizes you wear normally, but apply them to maternity clothes. Sure, that might work for some gals, for the
To piggy back on that just a bit, do clothing companies realize that when an XL shirt is needed it is not needed for the neckline or the sleeves? Just because I need an XL does not mean I need the neckline to go halfway down my back and front, and the sleeves to go halfway down my sides, causing me to showcase more of my extra large self. Next.
I am on my third pregnancy and I have yet to find a pair of maternity jeans that don't slide down. I don't want to be that mom who goes everywhere in sweats. It makes me feel sloppy and lazy, but sweatpants are the only pants that I don't have to pull up every two minutes. Maternity pants don't just slide down either. Noooo. Maternity pants will take your underwear with them. So, congratulations. You're not the sloppy mom in sweatpants. You are the disgusting mom who has to reach down her pants to pull everything back up. I've tried them all; the pants you wear below the belly, and the pants with the belly band sewn into them to cover the belly. The latter are the absolute worst. They'll slide down, taking your underwear too of course, and then you can't pull them up without going under your shirt too. Now you've graduated to the mom who has to go under her shirt and down her pants to keep her clothes on. Isn't that a beautiful thing? What is so hard about putting the waistband of sweatpants on maternity pants? Maybe it looks weird, and maybe the protruding drawstring is an eye sore, but at least you're not digging down your pants for your underwear. Next.
Who in the world thinks that horizontal stripes are perfect for pregnant women???? I had this issue last summer when I went shopping after I had lost weight. I think very few people can pull off horizontal stripes, pregnant or not, but they were apparently the trend then, and I guess they still are. Last week my mom took me shopping for new maternity clothes. Nearly ever rack had horizontal stripes on it, because that's exactly what I'm looking for. I was hoping to have stripes stretched out over my growing belly like an ill advised tattoo.
We don't all have the money of celebrities to have our maternity clothes tailored to fit our bodies, so I guess I will suffer through. In the meantime, just turn away if you see me reach for my pants, but by all means, let me know if my neckline has fallen down to my belly. Thanks.
Friday, March 2, 2012
A Blessing Worth the Burden
Most women have some sort of unpleasant story to tell about pregnancy and/or labor. At the same time, I believe most women would tell you just how worth it, it is. Every woman has a different pregnancy, but most have one thing or another to complain about.
I am no different. Because my complaint is so visible, I have a hard time keeping my mouth shut about it...as if it needs an explanation for inquisitive, shocked looks, or so I perceive them.
Allow me to preface this with just how grateful I am to be able to have children, and to be blessed in such a way as to feel motherhood from deep within me. Often times, I think women who go through pregnancy struggles and dare to complain about them are labeled as ungrateful and unappreciative, and that is just not true. However, my burden seems so insignificant...laughable really, that the mere mention of it makes me feel like the biggest jerk on the planet. However, I would be lying if I told you that I am a joyful pregnant woman.
I do not enjoy pregnancy. In fact, it makes me feel miserably unhappy with myself. I am grateful for it, the outcome is an amazing blessing, but I am not one of those glowing, joyful beyond all reason, loving every minute of it, pregnant women. I am excited the moment I see the plus sign, and then, once I've put on the first 10 pounds in 10 weeks, I have my "oh crap" moment. Then, I'm joyful and excited again when I'm holding my baby. That is the way each of my pregnancies has gone so far, and with each one I hope, believe, pray it will be different. But it's not.
I know what you're thinking, and stop it with the, "You're supposed to gain weight! You're PREGNANT!" No. No one is supposed to gain weight this rapidly. I gained 70 lbs with Elijah, and it took a year to lose it. I worked out more during my pregnancy with Chastity, hoping things would be different, and I still gained 70 lbs. It took me 2.5 years to lose that, and now I'm gaining again at the same rate, if not more. I'm pretty much on a schedule where the very week I hit my goal weight, I get knocked up again (possibly Jelani's conspiracy to keep me unattractive to anyone else). I go from the high of being skinny again, to the high of being pregnant again, to the low of getting fat again. It's a vicious cycle.
I am only 16 weeks pregnant, and have already put on over 20 lbs. AND I've been exercising even more with this one than the first two, and still playing basketball once a week. I am expanding at such a rate, that I can actually feel the pain and discomfort of my skin stretching out. I'm not even halfway through and playing with the children is exhausting and I feel like I'm missing nine months of their lives, I can feel it in my joints, and I'm swelling up like a balloon. Basically, the only difference between me and the Michelin man is that I am slightly less white.
It's humiliating to put on weight this quickly, especially when you can see the shock in someone's eyes who hasn't seen you in several weeks or more. I don't feel like myself, and I don't like going out in public. So the easiest thing for me to do is make light of it, make fun of myself, and laugh, and I'd appreciate it if you'd just laugh with me, rather than try to argue with me.
Because, I don't write about this for pity. I don't want to see a bunch of supportive comments about how beautiful I am, or that you can't even tell I've gained weight (lock that nonsense down), because while you're heart may be in the right place, and I love you, that's just patronizing.
No, I write this, because maybe, just maybe, there's someone out there who has suffered the same humiliation, who feels like a completely different person during pregnancy, who hates the way they feel, but loves the child they carry with all their heart, and maybe they just need to know they're not alone in this seemingly insignificant struggle to be happy during what should be a very joyous time.
And maybe, if you think to, you could just say a little prayer for me, that God would allow me to embrace my Michelin man image with joy for the next five months.
Thanks for listening. :)
I am no different. Because my complaint is so visible, I have a hard time keeping my mouth shut about it...as if it needs an explanation for inquisitive, shocked looks, or so I perceive them.
Allow me to preface this with just how grateful I am to be able to have children, and to be blessed in such a way as to feel motherhood from deep within me. Often times, I think women who go through pregnancy struggles and dare to complain about them are labeled as ungrateful and unappreciative, and that is just not true. However, my burden seems so insignificant...laughable really, that the mere mention of it makes me feel like the biggest jerk on the planet. However, I would be lying if I told you that I am a joyful pregnant woman.
I do not enjoy pregnancy. In fact, it makes me feel miserably unhappy with myself. I am grateful for it, the outcome is an amazing blessing, but I am not one of those glowing, joyful beyond all reason, loving every minute of it, pregnant women. I am excited the moment I see the plus sign, and then, once I've put on the first 10 pounds in 10 weeks, I have my "oh crap" moment. Then, I'm joyful and excited again when I'm holding my baby. That is the way each of my pregnancies has gone so far, and with each one I hope, believe, pray it will be different. But it's not.
I know what you're thinking, and stop it with the, "You're supposed to gain weight! You're PREGNANT!" No. No one is supposed to gain weight this rapidly. I gained 70 lbs with Elijah, and it took a year to lose it. I worked out more during my pregnancy with Chastity, hoping things would be different, and I still gained 70 lbs. It took me 2.5 years to lose that, and now I'm gaining again at the same rate, if not more. I'm pretty much on a schedule where the very week I hit my goal weight, I get knocked up again (possibly Jelani's conspiracy to keep me unattractive to anyone else). I go from the high of being skinny again, to the high of being pregnant again, to the low of getting fat again. It's a vicious cycle.
I am only 16 weeks pregnant, and have already put on over 20 lbs. AND I've been exercising even more with this one than the first two, and still playing basketball once a week. I am expanding at such a rate, that I can actually feel the pain and discomfort of my skin stretching out. I'm not even halfway through and playing with the children is exhausting and I feel like I'm missing nine months of their lives, I can feel it in my joints, and I'm swelling up like a balloon. Basically, the only difference between me and the Michelin man is that I am slightly less white.
It's humiliating to put on weight this quickly, especially when you can see the shock in someone's eyes who hasn't seen you in several weeks or more. I don't feel like myself, and I don't like going out in public. So the easiest thing for me to do is make light of it, make fun of myself, and laugh, and I'd appreciate it if you'd just laugh with me, rather than try to argue with me.
Because, I don't write about this for pity. I don't want to see a bunch of supportive comments about how beautiful I am, or that you can't even tell I've gained weight (lock that nonsense down), because while you're heart may be in the right place, and I love you, that's just patronizing.
No, I write this, because maybe, just maybe, there's someone out there who has suffered the same humiliation, who feels like a completely different person during pregnancy, who hates the way they feel, but loves the child they carry with all their heart, and maybe they just need to know they're not alone in this seemingly insignificant struggle to be happy during what should be a very joyous time.
And maybe, if you think to, you could just say a little prayer for me, that God would allow me to embrace my Michelin man image with joy for the next five months.
Thanks for listening. :)
Thursday, February 23, 2012
My Sister, My Friend
When I was a child, about 7 years old, I'm guessing, I had a swing set in the back yard that I shared with my younger sister, Kristin. My dad had put it in the ground with his own two hands, and sanded, painted, and attached the swings himself. It was a special place for us. There were two swings so that Kristin and I could both swing independently, but when it was first put in, she was too young to swing very well by herself. She hadn't gotten the pumping down. There were times when I didn't hesitate to help her with a push, while looking longingly at the swing next to her where I should be having my own fun. It was just expected of me, the big sister, to sacrifice anything to help her. Sometimes I embraced that role, but then there were times I resented it, and, mind you, times when she wasn't all that grateful. We were sisters after all. We had the ability to "hate" each other but still love each other in the same instant.
One afternoon, we were outside playing on the swings. We were particularly grumpy with each other that day for reasons I no longer remember. She wanted to be pushed. Oh, I gave her a push alright. And while she wasn't quite old enough to pump very well herself, she knew good and darn well how to hold on. But for some mysterious reason, my much rougher than average push sent her flying off the swing, screaming. Of course she was fine, and I knew this because when she got up she ran screaming into the house. I was called in, not long after, and sat down on the piano bench.
"Erin, did you push your sister off the swing?" my mom asked.
I've always found it odd that whenever questions like this were posed it was always, "your sister," as though using her name would make it easy for me to forget that she's still, in fact, my sister.
"No," I answered, looking at the floor.
"Erin, did you push your sister off the swing?" This time each word was dragged out a little bit longer.
"No," I replied again.
"Erin, I'm going to ask you one more time," and there it is...my not so subtle cue, telling me they already know the answer to the question, but they just want to hear it from me, though I've never been convinced that the punishment would have been any different regardless.
"No." I was only 7 for goodness sakes. Such cues were lost on me, and may I remind you, she let go?! In my mind, she committed swing set suicide, and my violent push should not be blamed. Like the basketball player who flops to the floor when their jerseys brush, demanding a foul, she was pleased with herself, and I was left standing, wondering why the whistle blew.
My dad then grabbed me by the arm and walked me over to the giant picture window that just happened to be facing the swing set. Oops. Light bulb moment. He didn't have to say it, but he did, "Erin, we saw the whole thing!"
And then, no reasoning or logic as to how she actually fell, was any good at all.
"She's smaller than you!"
"You're the BIG sister!"
"You're old enough to know better!"
I can't remember what my punishment was, but I do remember that before the day was over, Kristin and I were playing Crayon People (another day, another blog) together as though nothing had happened. My sister, my friend. I will never have a relationship with anyone like I have with her.
So now, I try not to become discouraged when I have days when Elijah and Chastity are just tattling on each other all day.
"She hit me!"
"He pushed me!"
"That's mine!"
They have normal moments like these, but more often than not, I am hearing them giggle and laugh together, and take turns without being prompted.
Yesterday I heard Chastity begin to cry. I looked up from my crocheting to see her hold her hand up. Her fingers had gotten pinched during their rough play with some cars. I remained quiet while Elijah calmly said, "Shhhhh, what hurts Chastity?"
She whimpered which finger it was, and he promptly kissed it. "There, is it all better?" She still came to me for some magic mommy kisses, but I was just so tickled. I let Elijah know how wonderful that was. He was already over it, and they were back at the cars again, laughing at each other, and the moment was over.
They normally play very well together, but this has also brought up a small concern. I had taken them to McDonald's play place to play with a bunch of other kids a few weeks ago, and I noticed that they didn't really interact with anyone else. They followed each other around the whole hour we were there. It was a madhouse there, but I never had to worry about losing them. Elijah looked for Chastity at every turn, and she followed him like a giddy shadow, just excited to be in his presence. But now, after really thinking about it, I figure they will gradually learn how to interact with others. They will, one day, develop their own separate friendships, but right now, they are nurturing the most important friendship of all, and they will never have that with anyone else.
Today, I had some crackers out on the counter. Elijah ran into the kitchen. "May I have a cracker, please?"
"Sure," I told him.
He grabbed one, and then another, saying, "And one for my sister, my friend," and he ran to share it with her.
Melt. My. Heart.
One afternoon, we were outside playing on the swings. We were particularly grumpy with each other that day for reasons I no longer remember. She wanted to be pushed. Oh, I gave her a push alright. And while she wasn't quite old enough to pump very well herself, she knew good and darn well how to hold on. But for some mysterious reason, my much rougher than average push sent her flying off the swing, screaming. Of course she was fine, and I knew this because when she got up she ran screaming into the house. I was called in, not long after, and sat down on the piano bench.
"Erin, did you push your sister off the swing?" my mom asked.
I've always found it odd that whenever questions like this were posed it was always, "your sister," as though using her name would make it easy for me to forget that she's still, in fact, my sister.
"Did you push Kristin off the swing?"
"Who's Kristin?"
"No," I answered, looking at the floor.
"Erin, did you push your sister off the swing?" This time each word was dragged out a little bit longer.
"No," I replied again.
"Erin, I'm going to ask you one more time," and there it is...my not so subtle cue, telling me they already know the answer to the question, but they just want to hear it from me, though I've never been convinced that the punishment would have been any different regardless.
"No." I was only 7 for goodness sakes. Such cues were lost on me, and may I remind you, she let go?! In my mind, she committed swing set suicide, and my violent push should not be blamed. Like the basketball player who flops to the floor when their jerseys brush, demanding a foul, she was pleased with herself, and I was left standing, wondering why the whistle blew.
My dad then grabbed me by the arm and walked me over to the giant picture window that just happened to be facing the swing set. Oops. Light bulb moment. He didn't have to say it, but he did, "Erin, we saw the whole thing!"
And then, no reasoning or logic as to how she actually fell, was any good at all.
"She's smaller than you!"
"You're the BIG sister!"
"You're old enough to know better!"
I can't remember what my punishment was, but I do remember that before the day was over, Kristin and I were playing Crayon People (another day, another blog) together as though nothing had happened. My sister, my friend. I will never have a relationship with anyone like I have with her.
So now, I try not to become discouraged when I have days when Elijah and Chastity are just tattling on each other all day.
"She hit me!"
"He pushed me!"
"That's mine!"
They have normal moments like these, but more often than not, I am hearing them giggle and laugh together, and take turns without being prompted.
Yesterday I heard Chastity begin to cry. I looked up from my crocheting to see her hold her hand up. Her fingers had gotten pinched during their rough play with some cars. I remained quiet while Elijah calmly said, "Shhhhh, what hurts Chastity?"
She whimpered which finger it was, and he promptly kissed it. "There, is it all better?" She still came to me for some magic mommy kisses, but I was just so tickled. I let Elijah know how wonderful that was. He was already over it, and they were back at the cars again, laughing at each other, and the moment was over.
They normally play very well together, but this has also brought up a small concern. I had taken them to McDonald's play place to play with a bunch of other kids a few weeks ago, and I noticed that they didn't really interact with anyone else. They followed each other around the whole hour we were there. It was a madhouse there, but I never had to worry about losing them. Elijah looked for Chastity at every turn, and she followed him like a giddy shadow, just excited to be in his presence. But now, after really thinking about it, I figure they will gradually learn how to interact with others. They will, one day, develop their own separate friendships, but right now, they are nurturing the most important friendship of all, and they will never have that with anyone else.
Today, I had some crackers out on the counter. Elijah ran into the kitchen. "May I have a cracker, please?"
"Sure," I told him.
He grabbed one, and then another, saying, "And one for my sister, my friend," and he ran to share it with her.
Melt. My. Heart.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
The True Star of the Super Bowl
This story is coming a little late, but better late than never, I say! This year's Super Bowl was exciting for me, but not because of the teams playing, the commercials, or even the half time show. Nope. This year was the year of the food.
I planned out an entire buffalo chicken theme for our big Sunday. I made Buffalo Chicken Dip, Buffalo Chicken Taquitos, and the Buffalo Chicken Macaroni and Cheese stole the show. Alas, I have yet to find a buffalo chicken dessert, so instead, I made Baked S'Mores. The one mistake I made: I didn't invite anyone over (until the last minute) to eat it all with us.
In the weeks (yes, weeks...this was important) leading up to the Super Bowl, as I was planning my meal, I became very nervous about the dessert, because my hand mixer had broken just before Christmas while making the best carrot cake I've ever made. May it rest in peace knowing it did not die in vain. The Baked S'more recipe didn't say a mixer was necessary, but it did recommend it. Thankfully, and right on time, my parents informed me that they had a standing mixer for me. It had been one of the things found while cleaning out my grandmother's items after her passing last January, and it had yet to find a home. No one really had a need for it. Well, we did, and my parents promptly brought it up with them on a visit a week before the Super Bowl.
I have always wanted a standing mixer. I have been jealous of everyone I've known who's had a Kitchenaid. They look like regal kitchen appliances, standing up on the counters, free from cupboards, looking down on all the other lowly appliances, "Look at me. I'm shiny, and more expensive, and I come with my own fancy mixing bowls." I don't know. Maybe it's just me. Anyway, I was so excited to have one in my kitchen. It is not a Kichenaid, but I don't care. It is a Sunbeam Mixmaster, and I have no idea how old or new it is, but it's in mint condition. The manual is copyrighted 1975, but this doesn't look any older than late 90s I'm guessing. Either way, I'm so excited to have it! Having been in storage for a year, it had a few smudges, a little dust, and some tiny food particles, but it was in very good shape, and the smudges reminded me that my grandmother had used it not all that long ago.
Since it had been in storage, I decided to clean it off before using it. I washed the bowls and the mixers, and then I, someone who is not at all that concerned with the outward appearance of her appliances, scrubbed the mixmaster from top to bottom. I smiled to myself while I scrubbed it until I found my reflection, reminding me of my grandmother. She was known for her cleanliness. I couldn't tell you much about her. I never got to know her very well, unfortunately, but I knew every corner of that house, and I had watched her scrub, dust, and vacuum every inch of it. She was the epitome of the June Cleaver, 1950s housewife. She could make a five course meal and the kitchen would be sparkling before the food hit the table. In that moment, as I scrubbed, I couldn't help but think she would have been proud of the way I polished up her Sunbeam.
After I had finished the Sunbeam's opening ceremonies, I began pouring in the ingredients. What needed mixing was some crushed graham crackers with flour and eggs. My ordinary hand mixer broke down while creaming frosting. Crumbled up graham cracker would have caused it to start smoking and explode. But the Sunbeam handled it gracefully. I couldn't believe how easily the graham cracker mixed with the flour and eggs, making an easy to smooth out dough. It was amazing, the Baked S'Mores were amazing, and the Sunbeam was super easy to clean back up.
We ate and were merry.
And I smiled, knowing that the MixMaster's first use was a huge success, and that Grandma would have been pleased.
I planned out an entire buffalo chicken theme for our big Sunday. I made Buffalo Chicken Dip, Buffalo Chicken Taquitos, and the Buffalo Chicken Macaroni and Cheese stole the show. Alas, I have yet to find a buffalo chicken dessert, so instead, I made Baked S'Mores. The one mistake I made: I didn't invite anyone over (until the last minute) to eat it all with us.
In the weeks (yes, weeks...this was important) leading up to the Super Bowl, as I was planning my meal, I became very nervous about the dessert, because my hand mixer had broken just before Christmas while making the best carrot cake I've ever made. May it rest in peace knowing it did not die in vain. The Baked S'more recipe didn't say a mixer was necessary, but it did recommend it. Thankfully, and right on time, my parents informed me that they had a standing mixer for me. It had been one of the things found while cleaning out my grandmother's items after her passing last January, and it had yet to find a home. No one really had a need for it. Well, we did, and my parents promptly brought it up with them on a visit a week before the Super Bowl.
I have always wanted a standing mixer. I have been jealous of everyone I've known who's had a Kitchenaid. They look like regal kitchen appliances, standing up on the counters, free from cupboards, looking down on all the other lowly appliances, "Look at me. I'm shiny, and more expensive, and I come with my own fancy mixing bowls." I don't know. Maybe it's just me. Anyway, I was so excited to have one in my kitchen. It is not a Kichenaid, but I don't care. It is a Sunbeam Mixmaster, and I have no idea how old or new it is, but it's in mint condition. The manual is copyrighted 1975, but this doesn't look any older than late 90s I'm guessing. Either way, I'm so excited to have it! Having been in storage for a year, it had a few smudges, a little dust, and some tiny food particles, but it was in very good shape, and the smudges reminded me that my grandmother had used it not all that long ago.
Since it had been in storage, I decided to clean it off before using it. I washed the bowls and the mixers, and then I, someone who is not at all that concerned with the outward appearance of her appliances, scrubbed the mixmaster from top to bottom. I smiled to myself while I scrubbed it until I found my reflection, reminding me of my grandmother. She was known for her cleanliness. I couldn't tell you much about her. I never got to know her very well, unfortunately, but I knew every corner of that house, and I had watched her scrub, dust, and vacuum every inch of it. She was the epitome of the June Cleaver, 1950s housewife. She could make a five course meal and the kitchen would be sparkling before the food hit the table. In that moment, as I scrubbed, I couldn't help but think she would have been proud of the way I polished up her Sunbeam.
After I had finished the Sunbeam's opening ceremonies, I began pouring in the ingredients. What needed mixing was some crushed graham crackers with flour and eggs. My ordinary hand mixer broke down while creaming frosting. Crumbled up graham cracker would have caused it to start smoking and explode. But the Sunbeam handled it gracefully. I couldn't believe how easily the graham cracker mixed with the flour and eggs, making an easy to smooth out dough. It was amazing, the Baked S'Mores were amazing, and the Sunbeam was super easy to clean back up.
We ate and were merry.
And I smiled, knowing that the MixMaster's first use was a huge success, and that Grandma would have been pleased.
And the Sunbeam took it's rightful place, regally, on our counter top.
~In loving memory of Elizabeth Rae Lawrenson~
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Mommy's Red Solo Cup
Most everyone is familiar with the phrase, "my cup runneth over." Well my cup is this cheap little red solo cup that has been used, and reused. It's been filled with family, and good friends, with basketball, and traveling. Just as it has been filled, it has been emptied with drama, injury, and cabin fever, and after all that it's been through, it has a tiny little hole.
I tend to run hot and cold with most things. Like the days, maybe weeks, where I pretend to be an adult who has it all together. During those brief hot streaks I am a mom on a mission, with lists, and organized meal plans and activities. I keep the calendar up to date, and the check book balanced daily, and stay routine with my chores. It's an exciting time really; filled with moments where I just want to pat my multitasking self on the back, and say, "Nice job!"And most importantly, red solo cup is brimming over.
Then some disastrous monstrosity strikes causing me to slip. Such disasters can be anything from one of us being sick, to having an appointment of some sort throw a monkey wrench into my routine for that day. Just like that one bite of chocolate ruins my diet for weeks, that one day off from my routine pushes me into a lazy, dreary streak, and turns my tap to a drip.
It makes sense I guess. I've always had a "go big or go home" mentality, so when I go after something I "go big," just as well as when I don't, I "go home." Every routine I've ever managed to work hard for; exercise, diet, household duties, and even my prayer and Bible time spent with God, all crumble in an instant if I falter even the tiniest bit.
I am a huge creature of habit, so without fail, I always feel much better, happier, and more content amidst my routines, and many of them go hand in hand. If I have one of them together, the rest fall into place. One of my biggest flubs is allowing myself to succumb to exhaustion. I am tired...a LOT, and when I let it take over, it screws up every single routine that I have, effecting one of my favorites: activities with the kids.
I go through spurts where I am a very active, energetic mommy. These spurts take place when I am at the top of my game. With all my ducks in a row, my I's dotted and my T's crossed, and red solo cup filled, I'll have laundry going downstairs, all dishes will be done, and the living room will have been vacuumed before the kids even have lunch. Then, between lunch and nap, we play, and boy, do we play hard. It's usually either basketball, or dancing, or sometimes a strange combination of both. I come from a family where I was allowed to play basketball in the kitchen, so nope...don't frown on sports in the house here! After we've played as hard as we can, we read, color, mold play dough, and practice writing our letters. Nap soon follows, and I retire to my chair a very happy and fulfilled mommy. But when I slip into exhaustion, sadly, I find myself sitting, and watching them play. They do play very well together, and sometimes it is fun just to observe, but I've never been happy warming the bench, and neither is red solo cup.
See, these habits, the good ones, the routines that I so easily fall out of; they fill my cup. I am happy when the house is clean, and happier still when it's all done before noon. I am happy when I exercise; happiest when it's done and out of the way before 7 am. I am happy when I spend time in God's Word; happiest when it begins my day. I am happy when I spend time with my kids; happiest when it is doing something they really love and enjoy.
When I fall into my ruts, allowing myself to be tired and get lazy, that hole in red solo cup slowly drains. It drains so slowly, that I don't even notice it at first. I sometimes don't notice it until it's completely empty. But...but when I allow these simple routines to take over my everyday life, infiltrating every possible moment, life pours into me like a waterfall! It makes that tiny little hole seem very insignificant while the happy just overflows and spews out in the form of a smiling, well-organized, fun-loving, mommy and wife.
I guess what I am saying is that maybe, just maybe, the common isn't so bad. Maybe it is the common that fills us up.
So I'm going to slap some duct tape on my seasoned, red solo cup, and kick that tap into high gear!
I tend to run hot and cold with most things. Like the days, maybe weeks, where I pretend to be an adult who has it all together. During those brief hot streaks I am a mom on a mission, with lists, and organized meal plans and activities. I keep the calendar up to date, and the check book balanced daily, and stay routine with my chores. It's an exciting time really; filled with moments where I just want to pat my multitasking self on the back, and say, "Nice job!"And most importantly, red solo cup is brimming over.
Then some disastrous monstrosity strikes causing me to slip. Such disasters can be anything from one of us being sick, to having an appointment of some sort throw a monkey wrench into my routine for that day. Just like that one bite of chocolate ruins my diet for weeks, that one day off from my routine pushes me into a lazy, dreary streak, and turns my tap to a drip.
It makes sense I guess. I've always had a "go big or go home" mentality, so when I go after something I "go big," just as well as when I don't, I "go home." Every routine I've ever managed to work hard for; exercise, diet, household duties, and even my prayer and Bible time spent with God, all crumble in an instant if I falter even the tiniest bit.
I am a huge creature of habit, so without fail, I always feel much better, happier, and more content amidst my routines, and many of them go hand in hand. If I have one of them together, the rest fall into place. One of my biggest flubs is allowing myself to succumb to exhaustion. I am tired...a LOT, and when I let it take over, it screws up every single routine that I have, effecting one of my favorites: activities with the kids.
I go through spurts where I am a very active, energetic mommy. These spurts take place when I am at the top of my game. With all my ducks in a row, my I's dotted and my T's crossed, and red solo cup filled, I'll have laundry going downstairs, all dishes will be done, and the living room will have been vacuumed before the kids even have lunch. Then, between lunch and nap, we play, and boy, do we play hard. It's usually either basketball, or dancing, or sometimes a strange combination of both. I come from a family where I was allowed to play basketball in the kitchen, so nope...don't frown on sports in the house here! After we've played as hard as we can, we read, color, mold play dough, and practice writing our letters. Nap soon follows, and I retire to my chair a very happy and fulfilled mommy. But when I slip into exhaustion, sadly, I find myself sitting, and watching them play. They do play very well together, and sometimes it is fun just to observe, but I've never been happy warming the bench, and neither is red solo cup.
See, these habits, the good ones, the routines that I so easily fall out of; they fill my cup. I am happy when the house is clean, and happier still when it's all done before noon. I am happy when I exercise; happiest when it's done and out of the way before 7 am. I am happy when I spend time in God's Word; happiest when it begins my day. I am happy when I spend time with my kids; happiest when it is doing something they really love and enjoy.
When I fall into my ruts, allowing myself to be tired and get lazy, that hole in red solo cup slowly drains. It drains so slowly, that I don't even notice it at first. I sometimes don't notice it until it's completely empty. But...but when I allow these simple routines to take over my everyday life, infiltrating every possible moment, life pours into me like a waterfall! It makes that tiny little hole seem very insignificant while the happy just overflows and spews out in the form of a smiling, well-organized, fun-loving, mommy and wife.
I guess what I am saying is that maybe, just maybe, the common isn't so bad. Maybe it is the common that fills us up.
So I'm going to slap some duct tape on my seasoned, red solo cup, and kick that tap into high gear!
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