Showing posts with label Motherhood Reflections. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Motherhood Reflections. Show all posts

One Way to Look at Mother's Day

The other evening I dropped off a small gift at a friend's house. Her whole family, including her 15-year-old son, came to the door during my visit. Later that evening she shared that when an electrician had come to fix their stove earlier, her son anxiously had locked himself in his room, but he stayed the whole time to talk with me. When she asked him why, he replied, "I just love Mrs. Kramer. I'd risk coronavirus to see her."

I texted back immediately, "That might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said about me!"

Then I read her text aloud to my kids, not just once, but twice, because I wanted to remind them that some people actually like me.

Moms, on this Mother's Day if you're locked in a house with your kids who may or may not be welcoming your continual presence, rest assured. Some other kid living in some other house still likes to talk with you.

Happy Mother's Day!


0

Not Cashing In the Coupon Book

Many years ago when I visited my parents' house, I discovered a small coupon book that I must have made for my mother when I was a child.  In printed handwriting I didn't recognize as my own, I had offered my services to fold laundry, do dishes, vacuum the family room, and take out the trash.  From the looks of the booklet, my mom never had cashed in her coupons.

Back then, I didn't understand this.  Surely, she would have appreciated if my seven-year-old self had pitched in with a few extra household chores, right?

In my current stage of life, however, I've now received a few coupon books on Mother's Day like the one I once made, but I doubt that I'll ever cash in my own children's coupons, either.


These books document heartfelt and helpful intentions, even if they're misaligned and stapled crookedly.  They capture a time when my kids can't spell the word table, yet they confidently proclaim that I'm the World's Greatest Mom.

Obviously, this tender phase won't last forever.  (I mean, the World's Greatest Mom title clearly will stick, but at some point these kids are going to have to learn to spell.)

Mom, I get it now.  Years later, I understand not cashing in the coupon book.

0

Question: How Do You Do It All Well? Answer: I Don't.


Last week I received a message from a friend.  She and I both work full time.  We're both raising three daughters.  We're both married to men whose jobs require late or nontraditional hours, so we navigate many dinners, evenings, and bedtimes with our kids alone.

She's several years younger than me, though, and her children are several years younger than mine.

On that premise, she asked: "How do you do it all well?  I know I'm where I'm supposed to be, but I'm in the thick of it.  I need to look to women a bit ahead of me who haven't shrunk back in spite of motherhood, but have stepped up, so to speak."

I wish that a picture could have been taken of me the exact moment I read her message.  I was standing in my kitchen, stress-eating a handful of crackers because I couldn't find any chocolate to stress-eat.  I was nowhere near finished with my work for the day.  Dinnertime was near, yet I had no meal planned and limited groceries.  One daughter needed to be picked up from swimming intramurals.  Another daughter needed help with math homework.  We had an event at church that evening, plus I had entirely forgotten about a Girl Scout ceremony (conveniently scheduled at the exact same time as church) even though I had received multiple reminders about the ceremony, all of which I had forgotten to RSVP.

How do you do it all well?

The answer to that question was straightforward: You don't.  You just don't.  You learn to do most of it well enough, but you never quite do all of it to your high expectations.

Because "it" is huge.  The "it" in "how do you do it all well?" is mammoth.  It's comprised of unwieldy to-do lists for work, home, and, if you have kids, each individual child.  The "it" represents hundreds of daily decisions, both small and large, from what to serve for dinner, to how to proceed with a conflict at work, to how to discipline a difficult child's behavior while still showing love.  "It" stands for the dishwasher that needs to be emptied, the school picture order form that needs to be returned, and the class that needs to be taught the next morning.  "It" means that you have answers to all possible questions, like you're a human Google who can provide detailed weather reports so your kids know exactly how to dress each morning, or identify the species of a native deciduous tree by its leaves so you're poised to assist your middle schooler who's completing a science project.

Inherent in the "it" is that you take care of yourself (obviously!) and prioritize your marriage (so important!), while also spending quality time with each child to invest in their academic, social, spiritual, physical, and emotional well-being.  And, in those cozy spare moments as you ease into bath time and approach the sweet bedtime hours, "it" nudges that, while you're at it, you ought to read with your children for 20 minutes (keeping a log of book titles, of course) because, friends, reading is good and educational and fun!

So, as I paused at my kitchen counter reading her message and processing how I do it all, I laughed aloud -- one of those slightly manic laughs that, if witnessed by an outside observer, would make them question whether I was entirely balanced.

But clearly I was not balanced, because if I had been, I would have remembered the hidden stash of chocolate chips in the freezer, and I would have been stress-eating those instead of crackers.  Regardless, I formulated a response:

Dear friend, you don't do it all.  Somehow, you learn to live comfortably in that realization. Not throwing in the towel, not giving up, but also not holding yourself to impossible standards.

I poured out words that I wanted her to hear, not just in her head, but also in her heart:

You have amazing capacity. You've established a diligent work ethic that sets you apart, and your high level of competence has been rewarded by getting entrusted with more work. On top of that, God's blessed you with three spirited children who bring such joy, yet require such time, energy, and effort. And you have a husband and a marriage to cultivate! And there's church and ministry! And there is laundry -- so much laundry! -- and dishes and meal prep. And you still need to shower and groom!  There's no wonder why you feel as if you can't do it all -- there is only one of you.  And even in your amazingness, it's not feasible to always have all of these plates spinning well. There's going to be some wobble.

When we're feeling especially overwhelmed, don't we all need someone to tell us that the wobble is normal and inevitable?  That wobbling is not an indicator that we're failing, but rather, that we're somehow keeping worlds in motion?

I was reminded of a scene a few semesters ago when I had an undergraduate teaching assistant who handled some instructional and clerical tasks for a course I was teaching.  After our students had taken an exam, he emailed to ask if he could grade the exams by the end of the week, not the very next class session.  He was a terrific student and TA -- always diligent, always helpful, always on top of things.  He simply needed more time.  I immediately accepted his request: Of course you can have an extra few days to grade the exams.  It won't hurt anyone.  Your week is hectic; I know you'll get it done as soon as you're able.

Even as I responded, I realized that I was being more gracious with him than I would have been with myself.  I would have expected myself to grade the exams that night, regardless of my schedule.

In both of these situations -- my friend's challenge to balance work and motherhood, and my TA's challenge to meet a deadline -- I could easily understand their struggles.  They're remarkably competent people, both of whom have a lot on their plates.  It's natural for me to offer them encouragement and leeway.  How could I not empathize?

My responses made me wonder: If I can do this so readily for others, why can't I also give myself the benefit of the doubt when I face challenges?  Why can't I easily let go of my self-imposed expectations, especially when those expectations are arbitrary or unreasonable?

I think it's because, deep in my heart, I still want to do it all well.  I want my all plates to spin perpetually, not to wobble.

Sometimes I wish that we had audible cheerleaders who partnered with us, calling our attention to the many things we're doing well:

Remember that time you crawled out of bed at night to change the wet laundry from the washer into the dryer?  Remember that?  That was impressive.  How about the morning when you knew the exact location of your son's missing homework folder?  Not everyone would have remembered it was on the third step, sitting next to the pile of socks that you had gathered from the family room floor.  And what about that evening when you desperately wanted to watch an episode of Worst Cooks in America: Celebrity Edition, but instead you laid in bed beside your children, rubbing their backs and listening to them talk about their days?  You. Are. Amazing.

I don't think we celebrate or notice the many things we're doing well, though, because we're already rattling off the next set of expectations, like how we now ought to fold the clothes we had put the dryer, or wash the dirty socks sitting on the steps, or hold off viewing Worst Cooks in favor of checking email once more.

Let's break that perpetual cycle.  Let's notice the things we're accomplishing, not just what we aren't.

You might not be doing it all well, whatever "it" looks like for you.  Neither am I.  Nobody is.  We all have plates that are wobbling, falling, or shattering at our feet.  We mostly see our own messes up close, not everyone else's, which makes us feel more isolated.  Truth is, we're all in the thick of life.  Mess and struggle is inevitable.

So, let this post be a reminder to you -- just like it's a reminder to me -- that we can be kind to ourselves.  If you can't hear your own voice telling you this, then let mine resonate through the screen today:  Have you noticed how much you're doing?  You're killing it in so many areas.  You're doing it, my friend.

Maybe not all, and maybe not entirely well, but you're doing it.  And today, that's entirely a victory.

2

To the Next Crop of Young Mothers


Early yesterday evening I saw a teenage neighbor and her friend drive down our street, windows down, radio playing, friend in the passenger seat laughing, wind blowing through their hair.  It was the picture of freedom.

I watched with admiration.  It's been a while since I've looked like that.  I no longer leave the house at 7:00 in the evening, windows down, by myself or with a friend.  When I'm pulling away on our street, it's now in a minivan with three school-aged kids in tow.  I'm the mom shuffling kids to the pool with a tote bag for towels and sunscreen, or to the library with a tote bag for books, or to the grocery store where I forget our reusable tote bags and exit with too many plastic bags instead.  I always seem to be carrying things, like a Sherpa.

I'm the opposite of my teenage neighbor and her friend with the wind blowing through their hair.

Yet, as I watched their car disappear down my street, I remembered that years ago, when my children were babies, I often felt undeniably trapped during the evening hours.  I could get through mornings and afternoons, but evenings sapped my resolve.  My girls were most fussy after dinner, and I'd spend those languid evening hours rocking and pacing with a baby crying in my ear, feeling as if the walls of my house were closing in on me, that I might never make it through.

There were some desperate nights then.

Now, with school-aged kids, even though my days still brim with activity, shuffling, whining, correction, meal preparation, and cleaning up after messes, it's not quite as hard as those early years.  When I watched my teenage neighbor drive away, I experienced a small surge of wistfulness at her freedom -- just enough to remind me of how powerful that urge had been years ago, how I had felt that I needed to get out or I'd suffocate.

I don't feel that intensity any longer.  It's easier now.

But I know that some moms, especially you dear young moms who can't even slip out to Wal-Mart by yourselves for twenty minutes because babies need to nurse and toddlers are clingy, do feel this way.  The baby keeps crying, the walls are closing in, and you feel -- even though you love your children -- that you're losing a part of your mind or yourself.

It's real.

And, as I learn mostly in hindsight, it's a stage that passes.  You get yourself back. 

One day we were the teenagers driving away, carefree.  At some point, we might be the mom rocking the baby, watching the teenagers in the car and wishing it could be us.  And maybe, just maybe, someone older watches us when we're with our young children, reminiscing wistfully about those earlier years because their own children have grown and are now gone.  Life is funny.  The cycles keep cycling.

But, today, if you're going through a hard part of the cycle, give yourself grace and keep going.  It will pass soon enough.  Somehow it always does.

0

What I want for Mother's Day. Really.

Happy Mother's Day!  Since the dawn of this holiday, I daresay there's never been a mom who's refused those precious illegible cards written on construction paper with blunt crayons, or the yarn necklace strung with elbow macaroni, or the iconic painted Dollar Store wooden picture frame that gets propped up with a wooden stick.  Homemade gifts are part and parcel of motherhood.

But I also think that each mom secretly harbors a list of what she really would like.  If you're like me, they really don't cost much at all.

1) Take a nap.  This one is obvious.  I want to take the type of nap where I wake up and can't remember my name, much less what day or time it is.  I don't even care if my splayed posture makes me resemble a crime scene victim, or whether my kids poke me and wonder if I'm still breathing.  I just want a little extra sleep.

 
2) Drink sweet tea.  Is drinking a vat of sweet tea good for me?  Certainly not.  Do I care today?  Not one bit.  I need something to rouse me from my lingering nap-induced haze, after all, and I can't think of anything better than 32 fluid ounces of tried-and-true refreshment to make that happen.  Today there are free passes all around.  Sweet tea for everyone!


3) Make no decisions.  What's for lunch?  I don't know.  What's for dinner?  I don't know.  What should I do?  I don't care, as long as it's legal and doesn't involve setting things on fire, and I might even be loose on that last stipulation if you leave me alone and don't require me to form an opinion because I can't.  As in, I am physically and mentally unable to evaluate options, weight consequences, arbitrate between conflicting factions, or arrive at any conclusions today.

You see, today I have no vested interest in deciding what anyone eats or does, myself included, except that I've already laid claim to my sweet tea and nap.  (Those are non-negotiable.  I have already decided upon them wholeheartedly, like following Jesus.  No turning back.)  Everything else must be decided by someone else.  I have no capacity for decisiveness today.

4)  Have backpacks empty on their own accord.  There have been roughly 32 weeks this school year alone, and scientifically speaking, 32 weeks is plenty of time to have formed a productive habit.  Plenty of time.  Despite this, I still cannot remember to start the backpack-emptying-routine before bedtime on Sunday night -- a time that's already fraught with increased chaos, diminished patience, and the distressing epiphany that my children may not have bathed for the past three days.

5) Take one picture of my children where every single person is looking at the camera.  And nobody is snarling, or elbowing someone, or making a strange gesture that resembles jazz hands.

Because, you know, something's got to fill that hand-painted wooden picture frame, right?



Happy Mother's Day to all the moms out there!

2

When You Can't Adult Anymore

Sometimes, you reach the threshold of your adulting capacity.  I hit it on Thursday night.  All week long, I had adulted like a champion.  I woke early to exercise.  I taught my classes and graded 26 essays and 22 speeches.  I kept three children alive, fed, and homeworked.  I came up with creative strategies for Halloween costume malfunctions.  I served vegetables with dinner. 

Each evening when I went to bed, I felt chronically tired yet unmistakably wired.  This is a lethal combination, like when you observe a frenetic toddler who's missed his nap and is hyped up on sugar or the general thrill of toddler life, and you wait for the crash.  (The crash is never pretty.)

My crash occurred on Thursday evening when I announced to my children that they'd be in charge of making dinner.  They looked at me as if I had spoken in Serbo-Croation, and I, borrowing my father's strategy for communicating with non-native English speakers, repeated myself more slowly and loudly: "I am unable to function.  You will be responsible for preparing and cleaning up dinner tonight." 

Twenty minutes later my oldest daughter handed me a plate with a slice of lunch meat, half of a rolled up tortilla, and a small scoop of mashed avocado that had been heavily salted and squirted with lime juice.  "We made guacamole, but our recipe didn't go very far," she said.

I ate, dropped my plate into the crowd of dirty dishes in the sink, and then retreated to my bedroom to avoid listening to my kids argue over the division of cleaning responsibilities.  I didn't even make it onto my bed; I sank straight to the floor, where I spent the next two hours eating chocolate and grading more essays.


Of course, the funny thing about adulthood is that even if you fail at it one day, you get the chance to do it again the next, hopefully a little better.  And if that next day is equally trying, adulthood will still be waiting for you around the corner on the following day, too.

It's persistent like that.  Some days were just meant for survival, and eating chocolate, and lying despondently on your bedroom floor.  We live to adult another day.

0

I've been there, too. Oh, I've been there.

On Saturday morning I took my daughter to her gymnastics practice at the local YMCA.  Since she's a kid who primarily moves through the house by flinging herself over furniture, the prospect of having a legitimate tumbling opportunity thrilled her so much that she counted down the days during the weeks leading up to her first practice.

Let me tell you, the girl was ready to roll.  (And cartwheel.  And flip.)  As we left the gym after her initial practice, she showed me the participation stamp her instructor had marked on her hand and offered an excited play-by-play of every apparatus she had used, even though I had watched the whole time.

So, the next week when it was time for practice, I was caught off guard when she declared that she wouldn't do gymnastics, dug in her heels, and refused to get out of the car.

I could tell you that I handled the outburst gracefully, demonstrating an admirable blend of patience and savviness that deftly showcased the wisdom I've gleaned from ten years of parenting, but that would be a lie.  By the time we entered the gym, fellow YMCA patrons, both parents and children alike, were staring at our spectacle, awkwardly observing an unexpected showdown between my daughter, who had morphed, Hulk-like, from a pleasant seven-year-old into an unmovable object, and myself, who symbiotically escalated into an unstoppable force who spat out mono-syllabic utterances like: You. WILL. Go. To. Your. Class. NOW.

Periodically, when I noticed a mother warily eyeing me while using her cell phone (checking the local Child and Youth Services, I was certain), I tried a different angle.  See? This. Is. FUN.  Those kids out there? They're having FUN.

In other words, the exact opposite of what we were having at the moment.

Twenty-four long minutes later, my daughter joined her group, took her turn on the uneven parallel bars, turned toward me, and said -- of all things -- I love gymnastics, Mom!

You don't say.

I would have smiled, but I was still too occupied being ticked.  Besides, I had carved out a nice little corner of the floor so I could isolate myself from the other parents sitting respectably on the benches.  Scowling a bit longer from my corner somehow felt right.

I made eye contact with no one as we exited the gym.  Although my daughter was happily chattering about her passes across the balance beam and demonstrating childlike amnesia of all earlier drama, I still was agitated from its sting.

Right then, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see a woman offer a sympathetic smile.  "I just wanted to let you know that I've been there, too," she said.  "Oh, I've been there."  As she momentarily commiserated over painful drop-offs, strong wills, and limited patience, she patted my shoulder again.  "I was praying for you the whole time."

Oh, dear fellow YMCA gymnastics mother, your prayers were well appreciated.  In fact, they likely reached heaven right when I was hoping that the scuffed gym floor would swallow me whole.

It's a gift to others when we acknowledge, without a trace of judgement, that we've been there.  Carry on, we say.  We freely admit that we've been there, too, and despite ourselves, we've lived to parent another day.  So will you.

4

Same Love. Different Expression.

Today, I'd simply like to record a small ritual -- a moment that ends every day in our household.  Each night when I tuck my younger daughters into bed, I sing a special I Love You song, one that I remember my parents singing to me.  And each night, my youngest cups her hands on my face while I sing, and she sings along with me.

We sing this nightly duet, the two of us, her sweet face just inches from my own, her sweet voice offering the daily reminder, "You're my mommy, You're my mommy, and I love you," and those sweet little sticky hands searching my face, touching my hair, and otherwise wheedling into my personal space.

We won't always sing this song to each other.  I already see it as I sit on the edge of my ten-year-old's bed each night.  She talks about friends and school and life.  I listen and ask questions and let her share anything that's on her heart before I brush her hair away from her forehead, give a gentle hug and kiss, and quietly close the door behind me so she can read for another twenty minutes before she turns off her own light.

Same deep love, just a different expression of it.

I now know how quickly these years pass.  When my youngest finished preschool yesterday, tears stung my eyes.  You can't stop time.  You can't keep your baby a baby.  You can't forget that your entire job as a parent is to prepare your children to leave you, to prepare them to step into adulthood able to handle themselves with grace and maturity and kindness and faith and competence and good humor.

But today, I simply want to record that before this great leap takes place when my children somehow morph into adults and I'm reflecting back not merely on a decade of parenting, but a lifetime, there once was a daily ritual when I tucked my babies into bed, settled down beside them, and sang from the deepest place in my heart.

And this little one sang back to me.


5

Parenting On the Side

It's 7:05 and my three children are playing with the neighbors in our backyard.  Their voices carry through the screen door while I sit in another room, occupied with reading -- and now writing this post.

I'm here if I'm needed, out of sight if I'm not, and within hearing range just in case.

It's a new development, this in-the-next-room parenting, one that is ushering a phase of life I couldn't even envision when I was changing diapers and hoisting toddlers onto my hip.  When I feel adrift, like I'm not pulling my weight, I remind myself that my children are doing exactly what they're supposed to be doing at these ages: growing into greater responsibility, social maturity, and independence. 

I'm trying to do exactly what I'm supposed to be doing at this age, too: watching, guiding, praying, and incrementally letting go.

Parenting on the side.  I'm enjoying this development.

4

What Murphy's Oil Soap Smells Like

The other day I cleaned my kitchen cabinets with Murphy's Oil Soap, a rarely considered household chore.  As I dipped my wash rag into the sudsy bucket and breathed the mild soap scent, it reminded me of an afternoon years ago when my parents had been visiting.

I don't recall many details of that particular visit -- when it took place, why they had come -- except that my mother had noticed that my kitchen cabinets were badly in need of attention.  I came downstairs and found her washing the last cabinet, a bucket beside her and a bottle of Murphy's Oil Soap on the kitchen counter.

My mom had observed a need, and because she's my mother, she met that need.  This is what mothers do.

Want to know what Murphy's Oil Soap smells like to me?  It smells like a mother's thoughtfulness and love.

0

Don't Apologize for the Life You're Living

Before I left for work last Friday morning, my husband casually mentioned that two of our friends, a young couple who had attended our church before graduating and moving to Baltimore, would be arriving that evening and visiting for the weekend.

He thought this was a reminder.  I thought, "Wait, we have house guests coming tonight?"

Then there was a slew of other thoughts: how I'd need to move the massive heap of winter clothes that I had piled on our guest bed and haven't had time to sort, how I should change the sheets and set out fresh towels, how I probably should vacuum and make some effort to tame the tangles of Legos and Barbies and balls and stuffed animals and crayons and craft projects and crumbs that had overtaken the kitchen and family room.

Fourteen hours later when our guests arrived with hugs and bags and greetings, the house was in a worse state than it had been in the morning.  Our friends didn't seem to notice or care.

I'm ten years into parenting, and I'm still learning that I don't need to apologize for the life that I'm living.  That mess?  It's simply proof that we live here, that life takes place within these walls.

I think back to my younger professional days before we had children, when our house was habitually organized and quiet, and my neighbor, a mom of three, walked in, glanced around, and blurted out, "It's so clean in here!"

That's the type of reaction I now have (at least internally) when I witness glimpses of this orderly lifestyle, like when I watched my friend the next morning chop vegetables for a veggie tray that she was prepping for a picnic of college students, noticing how carefully she sliced the carrots and peppers and broccoli, how she gave legitimate thought to the presentation, how she took time to core half of a red cabbage to create a bowl for the ranch dressing. 

If you can call a vegetable tray as beautiful, it was.  It was as if Pinterest came to life in my kitchen.  That doesn't happen with me at the helm right now.

And that's okay.  Because my hands needed to be occupied with other things that morning, like tying laces of cleats, driving kids to soccer practices, and carrying portable chairs to the sidelines of a field.

We don't need to apologize for the lives we're living or the phases we're in.  I'm still learning this.
2

Good Moms Don't Feel Like This (and other lies we tell ourselves)


In the span of time it took me to shower this past Sunday morning, my children erected a village of paper plates, red Solo cups, strips of paper, and Elmer's glue on our kitchen table.  The village had distinct rooms, walkways, and an elevator system.  By the time my hair was dry, my children had scripted a backstory for the small plastic figurines who populated the scene.

It's the same kitchen table that's marred with scratches from years of use, Sharpie marker scribbles from the four year old, and a piece of Scotch tape that's become one with the tabletop and remains affixed no matter how often I scratch at it with my fingernail.  This particular day the table also was crusted with Play-Doh and a dried white streak that, when in its more viscous state, had probably been yogurt.

My family ate lunch after church around this very table, our plates and cups precariously close to the edges so we didn't crowd and collapse the village which, according to my children, was ready for expansion.


As I chewed my food with my plate nearly on my lap, I had one thought:

I won't miss this.  I really won't miss this -- not a table that looks like this, not the urban sprawl of plastic cups and paper plates, not this mess that spontaneously crops up every single day.

When I'm confronted with these honest thoughts as a mother, it somehow seems wrong.  Shouldn't I be thinking about the benefit of creative expression?  Savoring these brief years of imaginative play?  Shouldn't I be putting my kids before my desire to eat lunch on a clean kitchen table?

But, to be perfectly honest, there are days when I just want a clean table.

Like me, whether you've consciously articulated it or not, perhaps you don't think that good moms should feel like this about their offspring and their kitchen tables.  Good moms shouldn't dislike byproducts of motherhood.  Good moms should be able to take their kids' childhoods in stride. 

These are troubling thoughts, especially when you are feeling this way, and you do dislike the messy kitchen table, and you aren't exactly taking things in stride.  Guilt and shame well up, muffling any inclination to acknowledge these matters, and you don't say a thing.  You just beat yourself up a bit internally.

This is precisely why I'm writing this post.  I'm hardwired to assume that I shouldn't ever think or feel this way.  But sometimes I do.  I don't think I'm alone.

When we wrestle with parenting silently and privately, it's easy to become tangled in the warped thinking that if we don't savor or appreciate every detail of motherhood then we must not sufficiently love our kids.  If we loved them enough, after all, sequential years of noise, mess, and tiredness  wouldn't grate at us.  If we were better at mothering, we wouldn't feel moments of relief when our kids headed off to school.  If we were truly selfless, as mothers ought to be, we'd stop experiencing the desire to have our own lives.

When I dare to harness these thoughts -- lasso them, drag them to the ground, look them squarely in the face, and then describe them in words -- I realize something, and it's a freeing realization:

I love my children.  I also want a clean kitchen table.  These aren't mutually exclusive sentences.  Wanting a clean kitchen table doesn't negate the love I have for my children.

We shouldn't confuse our children with motherhood.  We can love our kids daily without loving all aspects of motherhood daily.

I can consider my children the most important beings in my world besides God and my husband, and still want a break from them.  I can revere motherhood as sacred and holy and fulfilling, while simultaneously recognizing that there's a call on my life that partially will be answered outside the walls of my home, separate from a direct connection with my three children's individual lives.

Fellow moms, today if you want an entire night's sleep, or a small purse instead of a diaper bag, or a lacy bra instead of a breast pump, or an uninterrupted afternoon to read or sleep or walk through Target without nearing the toy department, or a bathroom sink that isn't streaked with globs of semi-gelatinous toothpaste, or a thriving career or ministry that requires you to periodically leave your children so you can invest in yourself and others, you are not alone. 

And you are not a bad mother.


17

When You're THAT Mother. (And when your kids are THOSE kids.)


I've been that mother.  The mother who carries a bag of McDonald's food as she drags a crying child across the sidelines while running late to soccer practice.  The one who forgets to play the role of the tooth fairy, or return the library books, or RSVP to donate napkins for the class party.  The one who sends her kid to school in shorts and a tee shirt because it was warm yesterday without once considering that it might be cool today.  The one who loses her patience and raises her voice because her children are losing their patience and raising their voices. 

I've been that mother who pretends she doesn't hear her children wake up so she can lie in bed for a few extra moments, clinging desperately to grogginess.  The mother who says, "I'll be there in a minute," when she actually means ten.  Maybe twenty.

I've been that mother whose last nerve has been rubbed raw.  The mother who wonders if she actually has more than one nerve to rub, or if she suffers from a nerve shortage and her kids keep aggravating the same one. 

I've been the mother who's thought that parenting wasn't supposed to be this way, who's suspected that she's not cut out for this role.

My kids have been those kids.  The ones crying in Target.  The ones yelling in the grocery store.  The ones balking at homework at the kitchen table.  The ones lying on the floor and angrily kicking their feet against the air in protest.  The ones you fear might be feral.

My kids have been those kids who hit their siblings.  Those kids who slam the door, who complain, who disobey, who don't share.  Those kids who respond to the instruction "Please don't touch that..." with a metaphorical throwing of the gauntlet in the form of one enormously strong will and one tiny extended index finger reaching directly toward whatever's off limits.

Yes, I've been that mother.  The one who rubs her daughter's back and holds her hair away from her face as she throws up in the middle of the night.  The one who lays on the floor and plays six successive rounds of Candy Land.  The one who's worn tracks in the hallway carpeting while rocking babies and pages in storybooks from reading aloud. 

I've been that mother who lets a child spit used chewing gum into her open palm when a trash can isn't available.  The one who slips into bedrooms at night to peek at her children's sleeping forms one last time in the dim glow of the nightlight.  The one answering, "Who's there?" when a voice from the back of the minivan prompts, "Knock, knock."  The one who bites her tongue and holds back the anger when she'd rather explode. The one on her knees praying, or on her feet clapping, or at their sides encouraging. 

I've been that mother who responds, "You can tell me anything.  Always."

Yes, my kids have been those kids.  They've been those kids who remember to say I'm sorry when they step on the back of my shoe while they're following too closely behind me.  The ones who bring tears to my eyes when they nail their one line in the Christmas pageant.  The ones who yank flowers from my landscaping and offer them a gift.  The ones who help me find my car keys, remind me that I need to pick up eggs before leaving the grocery store, or spontaneously lavish me with a kiss.

They've been those kids who delight and impress and surprise me with how big, how smart, how kind they're becoming.  The ones who cause me to realize that even in the midst of this chaos and daily minutia, my heart overflows with fullness.

We've all been that mother.  Both of them.

We've all had those kids.  Both sets.

Let's give grace to that mother when she's having one of those days, offering empathy or a word of encouragement that she'll make it, that she'll live to parent another day, that it will get better.  Let's give the benefit of the doubt to those kids we can hear in aisle five when we're in aisle eight. 

Let's extend this grace even if we are that mother and those kids are our kids.  Perhaps especially if we're that mother and those kids are ours.  After all, it's in our worst moments -- those moments when we feel we deserve love the least -- when we need it the most. 

On those days, let's remember that this parental narrative we're writing isn't one-sided.  We're not just THAT mother.  Our kids aren't just THOSE kids.
 
13

When Your Kids Remind You of Chickens

Time stands still for a moment as I'm in the kitchen wearing oven mitts and pulling dinner out of a 350 degree oven.

Against the consistent beeping of the oven's timer, two children are yelling.  The third child is cartwheeling in the narrow space between the kitchen table and the island where I'm trying to set down my hot dish, even though she's been encouraged (repeatedly) to curb her inordinate desire to use the cartwheel as her primary method of locomotion throughout our house.

Each child is louder than the next (which seems to be a technical impossibility except that it's true), and each is simultaneously needy, resulting in a ungodly spiral of noise and demands for my immediate attention and response. 

They repeat themselves with increasing volume as if I can't hear, as if I don't notice the small person standing directly in front of me who's yelling about the coloring page that was torn crookedly from the coloring book.  And the other small person who's yelling that it was her coloring book in the first place.  And the slightly larger person who kicks the kitchen table, mid-cartwheel, and crumples to the ground in a hysteric wail.

I set my dish down.  I regard the children warily and notice a certain crazed beadiness of their eyes.  Time stands still, and in that frozen moment I'm utterly convinced that these children would be entirely capable of systematically pecking me to death like aggressive chickens.  One deliberate peck at a time.

If at any point today you feared that your children just might be feral (despite having spent more than enough time with them during their early childhoods to know for certain that they weren't raised in the wild), recognize that you're not alone.  I've visited that dark place more than once.  This afternoon, in fact.

Considering that I've reached the day's end with enough coherence to still be writing, let me encourage you with this:

The chickens won't win.  I tucked mine into bed, kissed their little heads, and watched their beady eyes close.  Tomorrow is another day.  (And, hopefully, a peck-free one.)
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Photo compliments of Ami Bunker from Bunkers Down, a special blogging partner in crime.  Those are her actual chickens.  To my best knowledge, they would never systematically peck anyone to death, but I'd still keep my eye on the one on the right.

5

The New Schedule: When Moments Open Up Again

The second week of school is coming to a close, which means that we're slowly getting accustomed to our new family schedule. 

On the home front, I'm seventy percent certain that I'd answer correctly if you quizzed me on what days my two older daughters have library and what days they need to wear sneakers for gym class.  (Okay.  Maybe sixty-five percent.)  I'm settling into the routine of emptying backpacks, signing permission forms, and checking the lunch menu to determine which days the girls will pack lunch and which days they'll buy.

I'm learning what days my husband can return home for dinner (Thursdays are looking good!) and what evenings he needs to stay on campus past the girls' bedtime (all but Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday).

On the work front, I've learned my students' names, set up my course websites, prepared my grade spreadsheets, finalized the first assignment handouts, and committed my Monday-Wednesday-Friday schedule versus my Tuesday-Thursday schedule to memory.  Daily, the feeling of newness, that sensation of unfamiliarity, that subtle start-of-the-semester unsettledness is lessening. 

Give us one more week, and we should have the routine down cold.

But I'm not writing this post to tell you that.  I'm writing this post to tell you this: my youngest daughter has begun a preschool program that runs for two and a half hours each morning.  When I factor in my teaching schedule, this boils down to one key fact:

Each week this semester, I will have exactly four hours and twenty minutes to myself. 

For those four hours and twenty minutes, I won't be teaching.  I won't be holding office hours.  I won't be responsible for childcare.

This is monumental.

I should acknowledge that my first two-hour-and-ten-minute stint of freedom yesterday morning was spent in my office preparing lecture materials and making photocopies.  As the semester progresses, I imagine that the time will be allotted for grading that I'd normally tuck into the late evening hours.

But.  BUT.  BUT!  The beauty is that, if I truly wanted or absolutely needed to, I could use the hours for anything.  I could go on a run.  I could take a nap.  I could stroll the aisles of Target.  I could eat an entire movie theatre sized box of Dots while staring out the window. 

Frankly, I'm dizzy with the possibilities.

I recall reading The Unlikely Missionary, a beautiful novel written by my friend Elizabeth Brady.  In one of the scenes, a character reflects on the fullness of her days before her children had grown up.  I had cried after I read the passage. 

At that point, I had a newborn and two very young children underfoot.  Every moment of my day felt crowded.  I rushed home as soon as I finished teaching in the morning, never even bothering to stop at the restroom, so Joel could pass me the on-duty parent baton and start his work on campus.  I pumped late at night so the baby would have milk when I was gone.  I frequently saved my two-year-old from imminent disaster because she was determined to climb everything -- everything! -- that could be climbed (and some things that could not.)  I grappled with my five-year-old whose strong will clashed with my own.

There sometimes weren't moments to shower in peace, much less to think.

But here I am, several years later, and I have moments to myself.  Four hours and twenty minutes of moments each week, in fact.

Dear friends, if your days are so filled to the brim that they drip over the edge, splashing and puddling at your feet, take heart.  The road eventually opens up.  Your moments, even if they are just a few, will come again.


Image compliments of cpj79 (Flicker.com)

11

Recovering from the Birthday Season

Our family of five celebrates four birthdays in the span of twenty-eight days.  Three of those birthdays occur within just eleven days, like some rapid-fire observance of aging where I keep announcing, "Let them eat cake!" and the children rejoice.

I never thought that I'd need a recovery period after a birthday season.  It's not like it's physically draining, like a lengthy hockey season where bodies get worn down from being slammed into the boards and teeth are knocked out by ricocheting pucks, mind you, but I'll admit that it feels good to close the celebratory window and resume normal life.

This past wave of birthdays moved my children one rung higher on the ladder, as birthdays do.  The girls are now nine, six, and four.

What surprised me is not that I have a daughter who is nine (a factor that lands me squarely in the "mother of an emerging tween" category, which is a topic for another post), but rather that my youngest is four.

FOUR years old.


All shreds of babyhood are gone.  In its place, is more freedom (for me) and comprehension (for her) and ease of daily life tasks (for all of us).  These are wonderful strides, but sometimes a mom needs to grieve a little over the stage that has passed and never will return.

I should tell you that the night before her fourth birthday, Kerrington repeatedly bounced out of bed and harassed her sister who was trying to sleep.  I should share that I patiently climbed the stairs three separate times and calmly said, "Lights out.  Simmer down."  I should admit that on the fourth time, I wasn't so patient.

My voice struck that frightening low yet loud pitch that parents on the brink can readily conjure, and the words spilled out through clenched teeth: "I don't want to see you until tomorrow. In. Bed. NOW!"

And it was a true sentiment.  I wanted that little kid to go to sleep, not repeatedly pop up like an overzealous whack-a-mole, and I didn't want to see her until tomorrow...

... which was her birthday.

Oh, man.  My last act as a mother of a three-year-old was to yell at her.

That wouldn't do.

When I slipped back into her bedroom she already was asleep.  I claimed the spot beside her in bed, stretched out, and examined her face.  She still instinctively draws her thumb to her mouth when she's tired.  I brushed her bangs off her forehead.  I whispered that the moon -- her moon, as she likes to call it -- was glowing brightly.

Her eyes momentarily flickered, and in a manner that showed a remarkable lack of surprise to find me lying beside her just inches from her face, she smiled and murmured, "Hi mama," before closing her eyes and drifting off to sleep again.

I'll savor that final moment of her three-year-oldness.

I had been wrong, and I hadn't even known it.  I had wanted to see her before we reached tomorrow. 

9

Nobody Ever Said This Was Easy

I was yelled at last week.  Not just a singular shout.  No, I was on the receiving end of a draining, largely inarticulate, and extended chew-out session that criticized my fairness, questioned my judgment, and insulted my culinary skills.  (Apparently, I don't make good peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.)

It was launched by my three-year-old.  The reason?  I had the audacity (the lunacy!) to announce that we were going home for lunch when I picked her up from pre-school.  She wanted McDonalds.

After nine years on the job, I'm deep enough into motherhood to avoid blowing this episode out of proportion and descending into the futile thinking that I've irrevocably failed as a mother, or that my children will never grow up to be productive, sensible, and thoughtful members of society who won't kick the back of a driver's seat and scream when they're tired and disgruntled.  I've endured tantrums before, and I'll witness more in the future.

But that's not to say that the experience didn't take something out of me. We moms are hardwired to want our households to run smoothly.  I want my children to grasp and appreciate my logic when I'm making wise decisions about their nutrition and sleep and behaviors to help them, not ruin their lives forever.

But here's the rub: a three-year-old is not hardwired to grasp and appreciate logic.  A three-year-old is hardwired to believe that her mother is ruining her life forever by not taking her to McDonalds.

Whether they're toddlers or teenagers, we're going to ruffle our children's feathers.  We're going to make decisions that they'll hate -- no, you can't have a smartphone; no, you can't go to that party; no, you can't eat however many cookies you'd like -- because we love them.  We love our kids enough to take the brunt of their frustration and displeasure because we know it's more important to give our children what they need, not what they want, even when they can't see the distinction between the two.

It's not easy, but nobody ever said motherhood would be easy.  Glorious and exhausting and rewarding and challenging -- yes, those descriptions are all apt.  But easy?  Not so much.

After taking care of sick children for the bulk of last week, I finally succumbed to a nasty illness yesterday and remained bedridden, unable to stand without crumpling to the ground with dizziness and nausea.  This morning, Mother's Day, my daughters poked their heads into my room to deliver the special gifts they had painstakingly crafted: a pipe cleaner necklace with felt cut-out beads, a painted canvas, and a picture frame made out of popsicle sticks.

I see the love behind these gifts, despite the rough edges and crude craftsmanship.  I see how they poured out their time and energy to bless me.  Their gifts are precious to me.

One day, our children will look back over their childhoods and they'll discern the deep love behind our gifts, too -- those gifts of consistent love as we parent out of principle, not merely out of convenience.

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Enjoy humor, hope, and encouragement for moms: Then I Became a Mother.  Available in Kindle and paperback editions.

7

What I Would Have Told Myself When I Became a Mother

I wish that I could step back in time to those early moments of motherhood when normal seemed so far off, to those days when I feared that the crying would never stop, or that the baby would never wake up to eat, or that the baby would never stop waking up to eat.  I'd gently place my hands on my own tense shoulders and whisper into my ear, "Robin, everything will turn out just fine."

As a new mother, that's all that I had needed to hear.  Whether new or not, that's what most every mother needs to hear.


This post is my way of cheering you on.  It's my way of celebrating everything that we mothers do -- both seen and unseen.  It's a reminder that we're all going to make it.  So, dear moms, take heart, and take these words to heart.  They're what I would have told myself when I became a mother.

1) It Gets Easier

Admitting that the transition into motherhood -- or the transition into mothering more children -- can feel overwhelming doesn't reveal weakness or indicate that you're unfit to mother.  It doesn't imply a lack of faith.  And it certainly doesn't suggest that you don't love your child.

Rarely do new mothers allow themselves the grace to be new.  Our normal lives are suspended, yet we don't permit ourselves to be real and raw and messy. As a new mother, I longed to be swaddled as well -- to have the loose ends tightened, to settle and soothe my uneasy reflexes, to admit, without shame, that I didn't automatically have the new role figured out.

No new mother feels as if she does.  It takes time.  You'll find your footing.

2) Learn As You Go

Having a new baby is like having an alarm set on full volume without knowing when it will sound next.  During my first week home from the hospital, I took copious amounts of pictures, wrote semi-coherent thank you notes, and hovered a great deal.  Waiting on my daughter's every call, I operated under the perpetual sensation of always needing to go somewhere fifteen minutes from now, a feeling that allows too little time to actually be productive but just enough time to feel inefficient and out of sorts.

How do you navigate a day when you've never encountered its likeness before?

As much as we long to prepare for the upcoming stages in our children's lives, warding off the discomfort of the unknown in advance, we ultimately learn to mother by mothering.  Even if we take parenting classes, even if we interview friends with children older than ours, we'll still need to learn certain lessons on our own through experience.

3) Say Goodbye to Personal Space 

Personal space -- or any sense of entitlement to it -- is an illusion for those with young children.  Children don't adhere to spatial boundaries.  They reach out and touch your face while you're talking with them.  They twirl their sticky fingers through your hair.  They open doors to occupied bathrooms.  They weasel their way onto your lap when you're paying bills or working at the computer.  They sidle up beside you as you're removing scalding dishes from the oven.  They're compelled to be close while you're sorting laundry, wriggling their little selves nearer in a way that undoes all the folding that you've just done.

Yet, one day my girls won't immediately run in our direction when my husband and I enter a room.  They won't climb onto our laps when we sit down, wheedle their way between us when we hug, or fall asleep with their thumb absentmindedly slung in their mouths as they rest their heads on our shoulders.  My clothes no longer will be marked by stains from little fingers, and sticky hands will no longer make their way into my own.

And when we exit this stage, I'll miss it acutely.

One day our children will need their distance.  For now, at least, we say goodbye to personal space.

4) Remember Your Former Self

I've never yet met a woman who wasn't a better mother for remembering who she was before she became a mother.

Motherhood is an all-encompassing life alteration, a deeply-seated shift in priorities, an invitation to live with your heart outside of your body.  Decisions, both large and small, are weighed from the lens of what is best for someone else rather than what is most convenient for you.  As it should be.

Yet, it's wise for a mother to remember that she was a woman before she was a mother.  Create time to care for your needs, sustain a complete thought, and stay acquainted with your dreams and desires.  And when you're in the midst of changing diapers, fastening car seat buckles, and laying yards of Thomas the Tank Engine tracks along your living room floor, remind yourself that you're made even better by the presence of your children, not diminished by them.

We're living the lives that we're meant to be living right now.  Our children aren't holding us back.  They're helping us become who we're meant to be.

5) Redefine Accomplishment

What if we moms could see all that we're doing -- all the creating and training and coaching and supporting and loving -- rather than dwelling on all that we're not?  What if we could realize that we only need to fill our daily twenty-four hours with what we're called to do, not what we impose upon ourselves?

What if we gave ourselves grace and redefined accomplishment? 

This starts by accepting that a productive day with children will look quite different from a productive day before having children.  Accomplishments in motherhood come in many forms, and rarely are they tidy and obvious.  Redefine accomplishment. You'll discover that you're accomplishing an impressive amount.

6) Build a Support Network

The hustle of life with kids can snuff out opportunities to gather with friends or have lengthy conversations.  Isolation can break a mother down.  You begin to operate within your own thoughts, convinced that you're the only one who's struggling, the only one who's lost her temper, the only one who seems to be failing.

As uncomfortable as it initially might be, airing out our concerns and admitting our flaws brings freedom -- not only to us, but also to others.  I've never surprised another mother when I've been transparent about my worst moments in parenting.  In fact, my disclosure paves the way for her to open up in return.  Turns out, her kids are fighting, too.  She's also pretended not to hear the baby wake up and has lingered in bed for an extra twenty minutes.  She's wanted to give up and run away, as well.

Nobody is helped when we pretend as if we've always got our act together.  When we receive from and reach out to others outside the walls of our own homes, we're strengthened.  Build a support network.  You'll be a healthier person -- and a better mother -- for it.

7) Avoid Comparison
In motherhood, we often only witness our own messes.  We compare our inner weaknesses -- those ugly parts we know so well -- with other people's external strengths. 

It's inevitable.  There will be days when other mothers have it more together than you.  They'll remember to return library books, send their child to school with a treasure for show and tell, and put a dollar under the pillow in exchange for a lost tooth.  You'll forget.

Other people's children will meet milestones faster than your children will.  Facebook status updates will showcase another family's amazing activities while you're living a boring day with your messy and uncooperative children.  Neighbors and friends might point out that they've done things differently while parenting, and whether intentional or not, those comments might carry the implication that you've done things wrong.

In spite of it all, avoid comparison.  It's a trap.  Without a doubt, you are the best mother for your children.  You're not supposed to be anyone else.

8) Partially Dirty is the New Clean

The reality of life with children isn't captured in the glossy pages of Potter Barn catalogs.  Life with children means that you no longer can perfectly control your environment.  You're in the pool.  You're going to get wet.

When I see hand prints on the wall, I need reminders that it's normal for a house to churn with noise and brim with stuff when young children live there.  That it's understandable to get tired of it.  That it's natural to long for peace and quite.  That it's possible to love your kids while also wanting to take a break from them.

We all know that one day, our houses will be quiet.  One day, our houses will be clean.  This knowledge shouldn't cast guilt on us now, as if it were selfish to wish for a moment's peace or self-seeking to desire an afternoon without little hands undoing all the work that we've just done.  It's not selfish to feel these ways.  It's human.

Knowing that a stage is temporary doesn't make it less crazy.  Hopefully, though, it does give us some stamina when we're weary.  Eventually, our days will open up.

9) Just Love Them

It doesn't matter how a child enters your family -- whether he's adopted or born into it, whether she's a complete surprise or yearned for month after month with dare-I-even hope? pregnancy tests.  They're yours, and you love them.  From the first moment you lay eyes on them, you know you always will.  Without even saying it, you know that you'd die for them.

We love them enough that on many days we do die for them -- unnoticed and miniscule deaths-to-self when we place their needs and interests before our own, when we bite our tongues, when we give them the last bite of chocolate cake that we wanted to eat, when we drag our weary bodies out of our warm beds to comfort them when they're frightened in the middle of the night.

Because this is what mothers do.  We love our kids, even in our imperfection.  Even in their imperfection.  We always will.
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All text in this post is excerpted and adapted from Robin Kramer's Then I Became a Mother.  Available in both Kindle and paperback editions.  Get your copy today!

"Hilarious and spot on!" (Mosaic of Moms)

"I loved every single chapter. This is by far the best book on motherhood I have ever read." (Chris Carter, The Mom Café)

20

The Adventure Waiting to Happen Right In Our Neighborhood

I have a suspicion that spring has tricked us.  Last week, we were graced with two promising days of sunshine, but since then we've descended to temperatures in the upper 30's and low 40's coupled with dreary rain and wind.  (Even as I type, I wear a blanket wrapped around my shoulders.  I can't shake the chill.)

That being said, my family recently has discovered something, or more aptly, somewhere.  It's a small path just a few minute's walk from our house that leads through woods along a shallow creek bed. 

I can't divulge more information regarding its location, though.  It's a secret.  My oldest daughter is intent on keeping it this way, with the exception of sharing its whereabouts with a select few neighborhood friends who have either proven themselves trustworthy or who appear sufficiently directionally-impaired, and thus, would be unable to accurately convey directions if interrogated.

As for me, I'm just amazed that this place exists.  It's less than five minutes from the house where I've lived for nearly eight years.  What else don't I know about my neighborhood?


I hadn't known that braided vines dangle from the trees, creating an ethereal vibe like I've wandered into a Tolkein forest.


I didn't expect that the make-shift bridge my husband erected with a single board would draw out calm, encouraging leadership from my eight-year-old as she coached her younger sisters to watch their steps.


I hadn't remembered how kids could be enthralled with being outside: touching moss, inspecting spiky jaggers on a bush, listening to a bird's call, or overturning rocks in a stream bed in hopes of finding a fossil.

I feel like Mary in The Secret Garden, as if we've discovered something that's been locked away.  I'm not the only one; yesterday, my oldest stood at the window as rain dripped down the screen and said, "I want to go back to our path."

I understand.  So does my husband, who was the first to discover the trail and since has returned multiple times with pruning shears to carefully clear a walkable route.  "This is what childhood should be about," he noted.

Explore on, kids.  Explore on.


7

What's Trending: Pinpointing Those Little Things You Love

As I type, my two younger daughters are in the bathtub, splashing and singing the Frozen soundtrack.  It's such a common sound in our house (the Frozen soundtrack more than the splashing) that it's easy to tune out, just like banal elevator music.

But something makes me listen intently for a moment.  A few years from now, I won't be hearing these sounds.  I like these sounds.

I wonder, what else is trending in my household?  What other actions and noises and sights are so common that I too easily overlook them?

Well, each time either my husband or I come home, the kids instantly freeze when they hear the garage door opening, shout HIDE!, and scurry into hiding spots as if they were cockroaches and a light had been turned on.  Then, while Joel or I set down our bags and hang up our jackets, the other parent nonchalantly announces, "I lost the kids again," to start the seeking process.  Nobody ever seems to tire of this.

My three-year-old cannot articulate consonant blends.  "Pre-school" becomes "p-cool."  "Star" becomes "tar."  "Sparkly" becomes "parky."  Given this, it's not uncommon for her to say, "Mommy, I made a parky tar at p-cool today!"  (I don't want her to grow out of this yet.)

Whenever we're in a public restroom with one of those high-octane, excessively loud hand dryers, this same child shrieks in crazed delight and stands underneath, her hair whipping across her face, like it's a shower of hot air raining down.

My two younger daughters arrange food on their plates according to size and then assign the individual pieces names and identities.  "This one is daddy, this one is mommy, this one is me..."  Then, they bite off the heads, but never with malice.

Eventually, I'll forget many of these small details once they fade from daily life.  They'll be replaced with new behaviors and practices, but today I wanted to capture a few for posterity.

What's trending in your household?  What do you want to remember long after it's gone?  Is a child adorably mispronouncing a word or phrase?  Do you have a silly ritual?  I'd love to hear!
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