Sky Diva - Diver

Last week, we took the kids to the Lake County Fair because, well, it was Kids’ Night.

Everyone else must’ve had the same idea though. The parking lots were all packed and we had to park at the very outskirts of the fairgrounds. This was fine with us because we got to ride the tractor-pulled wagon all the way up to the gate.

Before we even walked all the way inside, we were met with sensory overload:
•The smells of onions, popcorn, candy apples, peanuts and cotton candy, the diesel smoke from the tractors and the exhaust from the motorbikes, the smell of hay and horses and cows;
•The sights of the flashing lights, the blue ribbons, the rainbow of colors of stuffed animals and flags and quacking rubber ducks;
•The sounds of the screams, shouts, laughter and crying of little kids, the mooing of cows, the dinging of rides and calling of the game attendants, the sharp pops of balloons;
•The gritty feeling on our skin, the warmth of the setting sun, the wind in our faces – it was the perfect night to be outside at the fair.

After waiting in line to get our wristbands, our first stop was The Himalaya ride – the mini roller coaster that goes around in circle. Car 1 and Car 8 were out of order, so the girls chose to ride in Car 13 (of course.)

I always loved The Himalaya as a child – I remember riding it over and over while they played “Sweet Child of Mine” as loud as you could stand it over the loudspeakers. This time, however, all I could hear was Josie singing “All My Exes Live in Texas” and “I Wanna Rock and Roll All Night” to the top of her little lungs.

Then, as they bounded out of the little white car, they saw it: the piece de resistance – The Sky Diva.

Its glittering flashing beauty called to them from across the midway. Its giant wheel and many colored cars signaled the siren call of twinkling wonder. To them, it signified all that childhood is supposed to be – fun, adventure, thrills, beauty. To me, it looked like a 6-story rattletrap of death.

Josie and her dad (against my wishes) decided that they were going to ride it.

As we stood in line, I watched the faces of the poor souls that had gone on before us. I pointed one out to Josie: “That person looks terrified. Are you sure you want to get on that thing?” She shaded her eyes, squinted up and said, “You mean that girl who just grinned and waved at us?”

My husband said to me, “Let them learn to be afraid of their own things… just because you’re afraid of them doesn’t mean they have to be.” He has a point, but still! The thing was scary. (I did, however, make a mental note not to force my weird fears of bats, clowns, house centipedes, waterslides, Ferris wheels, spontaneous combustion and dragonflies onto their little psyches.)

The rest of us stood and watched as Josie and her dad climbed into the creaking, swinging cage. It didn’t make me feel any better when the attendant had to hammer it shut with his bare fist.

The cage proceeded to flip over pretty much immediately and then zoomed them straight up to the precipice of no return. For a few moments we observed the ghastly spectacle, but I couldn’t stand to hear my 7-year-old screaming and yelling while suspended by nothing more than a rusty old bolt, 75 feet up in the air and UPSIDE DOWN.

I finally dragged myself away from the giant wheel of destruction with the remainder of my family, and we headed over to the inflatable jumpy house to pass the time. Jedidiah couldn’t go in but he didn’t seem to care much. He liked looking through the mesh sides and watching his sisters jump. It was hard to keep my mind off Josie and the horrors at the booth next door, but when she met up with us a few minutes later, Josie was super-excited: “YES! That thing was AWESOME!”

I was just glad to see her in one piece.

They went down the giant pink slide three times each, rode the merry-go-round, the swan boats, the big pirate boat and the big spinny thing that holds you on by sheer gravity.

Jedidiah spent a great deal of time in the Metroparks tent, meeting the K-9 ranger dog and sitting on a tractor. They also met lots of mules and donkeys and watched one of the horse shows in the ring. They loved a new attraction called “Pony Petting Time,” where for $1.50 you could pet, brush, feed and groom a pony.

We ate pizza, cheese-on-a-stick (one of the great inventions of the 20th century,) lemonade and ranch and bacon fries. We tripped on power cords, got dust in our teeth, stood in giant lines at the bathrooms and spent $5 trying to win a thirteen cent goldfish. Inspired by some of the displays, we decided to enter some stuff next year to try and win our own blue ribbons.

Josie, coated in a mixture of sugar, dirt and mule germs, summed it up on the trek back to our car 5 hours later: “This was great. I wish we could stay here forever.”

Well, maybe not forever. But once a year at least, the fair really is a magical place when you’re a kid.

And maybe (except for The Sky Diva part) even when you’re a grown-up.


--from my 8/26/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Four-Year-Old Dropout

Last week my kids loved water.

I couldn’t keep them out of the pool. This week, I can’t get my daughter Adelaide into it.

Earlier this summer I signed up (and paid for) all three of my girls to go to swimming lessons. They started this week. The older two are learning different strokes, how to dive and things of that nature.

Adelaide, who is four, was all gung-ho to start lessons so she would no longer be shamed by the dreaded "wearing of the arm floaties.”

But something (I don't know what) happened between last week when we were in the South visiting family - and swimming - and this week when Adelaide made her big debut at the community pool.

Last week, we swam every single day and there were no tears at all. There was no “I’m scared. It’s too deep. Water will get in my eyes. Someone will splash me. I will go under!”

There was no “My head hurts. My belly hurts. I have to pee. My leg hurts. I need my towel. I’m hungry. I need my goggles. I think I have to poop. I hear thunder. Do you hear thunder? I think my arm doesn’t work anymore. Look at my arm!”

There was no “I can’t swim in there. I can only swim next to Sadie and Josie. I don’t like that teacher. He looks mean. He looks like someone I don’t think I like. He has scary sunglasses. I need a girl teacher.”

I told her she was being silly. The teacher was nice and I would be right there at the edge of the pool.

“I cannot get in.”

I showed her all the other kids who were having fun and how the water barely reached their belly buttons.

“I am not going to do it.”

I showed her the games, the plastic rings, the foam noodles.

“Uh-uh. I’m not getting in.”

I pointed out that the water was only one foot deep. ONE FOOT.

“I am NOT.”

I coaxed. I reasoned. I pleaded. I got mad. I threatened. I yelled.

I wasted $30.

Last week, Adelaide jumped right into the pool and swam around like a fish. Last week, she said she wanted to be a dolphin when she grows up. Last week, she didn't want to dry off.

This week, she threw herself down on the (dry) concrete and cried.

Kids are so weird.

--from my 8/12/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Jeddy-boo

I caught Jedidiah reading his little bible in his room in the rocking chair - be still my heart.

Yesterday, he climbed the ladder to Sadie's and Josie's bunk beds, climbed up in the kitchen window sill, broke a crystal platter into a million pieces, drove the little jeep through the neighbor's yard into street, and he was just getting started.

Now he's started leaning away when someone wants to hold him - like he's saying, "get away from me!"

He loves piggyback rides and being way up on his daddy's shoulders.

I love the rolling, chortling, "HEEEEeee" laughs when he gets tickled.

He says "Bebe" and shows his sisters the little plastic 'bebe' he has in his hand.

He likes to walk with his hands behind his back or while holding his belly with his little hands.

He says "Ooof" when he's trying to sit up, turns the water on in the bathtub when he thinks I'm not looking, playing "Peet boo" with his Pooh Bear when I hide it behind his crib and then poke its head out at him, reading "Goodnight Moon" and saying "shush" with his finger to his lips, brushing his teeth, growling like a dinosaur, pointing and saying "dat, dat, dat, DAT!" and getting his hair spiked. Well, Jesse and I like getting his hair spiked, anyway. :)

Little Things

Jedidiah is keeping me so busy I barely have time to write anything! Seriously, I turn my head for one second and he is up on the kitchen counter, in the shower, climbing on the top of the couch, digging through the tool drawer for his favorite 8 inch screwdriver, sneaking into the driver's seat of the van, or headed up the stairs to pillage his big sisters' room.

My favorite things these days: Jed's figuring out that he can make us laugh, and then he laughs along with us. It's the cutest. He likes to shrug his shoulders and squinch his eyes up at the same time (usually while we're eating dinner, so he has a captive audience). It always gets a laugh, and then he goes, "hahahahaha!" like a big boy.

He likes to give hugs (and the sweetest little pats on the back along with them) and big, open mouth kisses. He comes at you fast, so look out. He also feels sorry for his sisters when they cry (even if it's his fault - he bit Josie AND Adelaide yesterday, then said "boo-boo" very sadly and hugged and patted them.

He says boo-boo a LOT, as a matter of fact, since he's getting them pretty much on a daily (hourly) basis. He falls down a lot, since he's always running at warp speed to get everywhere. The girls guard him as much as they can. I love to watch Josie and Sadie helping him around and making sure he doesn't fall off the big rock, off the swing, the couch, the ottoman, or out of the jeep. Adelaide usually just pulls him around when he's messing with her stuff, but once in a while she saves him from danger and yells "NO JEDDY! YOU CAN NO DO THAT! IT IS DANGEWOUS!"

Josie and I have started playing tag where you just stand still and poke each other and say "tag." It cracks me up every time. When she has a "lucky day," she always ends up being UNlucky - tripping, falling, hurting herself, getting into trouble... she's decided she's going to start calling her turn at having a Lucky Day "Josie's UNlucky Day" and see if that helps anything.

Adelaide has stopped asking for Jingle Bells to be her bedtime song and now she wants me to make one up every night about Fairy Dust or Princess Crowns or Barbies or whatever she happens to be thinking about at the moment.

Sadie and I are having some head butting at the moment, it seems. She's really growing up - she's so tall and acts so mature sometimes that I tend to forget that she's only an 8 year old little girl. MY little girl. The moments that she wants to snuggle with me or cuddle or hold hands are getting less frequent - and more cherished.

Softie

My Josie is such a tenderheart... she found a dead bird outside and started crying over it. She asked if she could bury it (how could I say no?) and then she had a funeral for it AND gave it a little headstone. She also Aunt Sharon (aka Aunt Golfcart) not to kill spiders, since they are God's creatures. She's certain that sharks are NOT mean... that they are only doing what comes naturally to them - even if they bite your leg off, it's not their fault.

Don't go in the water...

My girls love anything that pertains to water: buckets, squirt guns, ladybug raincoats, rainbow-patterned rubber boots and umbrellas with handles shaped like My Little Ponies.

They love to ride their bikes around in the rain, squirt each other (and me) with the water hose, run through the sprinkler and play on the Slip-n-Slide.

No, it doesn’t matter how big or small the pool (or puddle) is. If there is enough to splash in, it’s enough for them. I guess this is good news, since our "beach fund" is pitifully insufficient this year.

Take the tiny pool in the photos, for instance. It was the main attraction at Adelaide’s birthday party, and it’s barely big enough to hold one toddler. Once the partygoers saw it, however, they crammed themselves in like clowns into a clown car.

We have a little blue baby pool with a built-in slide that makes its debut from the shed every year in May. The kids clean it out themselves with dish soap and rags and then they reward themselves by splashing in the frigid water.

They also like to splash at the spray parks and swim at the YMCA or the Civic Center. They love to stay in hotels just for the indoor pools. They beg to go to waterparks.

When we go south to visit there are 3 giant in-ground pools within a 5 minute radius – my dad’s, my aunt’s, and my uncle’s. The kids pretend to be sharks (Adelaide informs me that she is a nice baby shark named Miss Rose) and mermaids and dolphins and killer whales. Sadie says there are crayfish in the filter; maybe we should have them for lunch. They shoot their water guns at the bees. They straddle the pool floats which magically transform into seahorses.

Adelaide goes under “without even crying.” Josie learns to do a forward flip. Sadie learns to dive without bending her knees. They all yell CANNONBALL and jump as high as they can over the pool before they splash as much as they can out of the pool. Good times.

But I've noticed that swimming (and slipping and sliding and going down waterslides) was a lot more fun for me before I had kids.

All of this splishy splashyness makes me extremely nervous. Water makes kids crazy. Sometimes they forget and run while on the slippery cement. Sometimes they get excited and jump in too early or flip too late.

Sometimes the little brother doesn’t think the water is as deep as it looks so he hops right in and sinks. Everybody snorts water up their nose, gets water in their ears and blinds their eyes with chlorine. They get bee-stung, they get goggle straps stuck in their hair, they fall down the pool stairs and they scrape their elbows when they get out to get the ball.

They trip when they come back from a potty break, they miss the edge of the pool and fall face first into the deep end and then they accidentally kick each other in the stomach as they paddle away.

Sounds fun, right?

Spending the day by the pool used to be so relaxing for me! Now, I’m in a constant state of high alert whenever we are near the water. My dreaded fear of waterslides notwithstanding, I’m still afraid they will slip, fall in, crack their heads on the side of the pool, whack their necks on the springboard or come up too near the wall and knock their teeth out.

Hey, you never know.

The more we're around water this summer, the more I think that maybe I should cash in that beach fund and stick to the hose. That's just as much fun anyway.

-from my 8/5/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Hands full

Time is going by fast.

Remember when you were a kid and it seemed like summer lasted forever? And Christmas seemed like it would never come?

These days it seems like my birthday is every other week and that my kids are somehow growing through time-lapse photography.

Sometimes when I’m out with my kids, an elderly person will chuckle at my harried expression and stained shirt and say, “You’ve got your hands full!”

They’re right. I do.

And sometimes I feel like I’m not enjoying my life enough. Like I’m not grateful enough or happy enough. It bothers me that I am not always experiencing an “attitude of gratitude.” I try to be happy. I try to find the joy in cleaning up applesauce and throw up and scraping poop out from under my fingernails.

But raising little kids is hard. And people who say things like, “I loved every minute of it when my kids were little!” obviously never had a child pee in the floor in the Sears fitting room or eat a bowl of dog food for a morning snack.

There are moments when you WANT time to go fast. Like when you’re trying to get a diaper fastened before the monsoons begin or when you want someone to finish their temper tantrum and let go of your leg so you can finish lunch.

Yes, the days are long, but the years are short.

I constantly wonder if I’m doing a good job at parenting my kids, and I worry that I’m not enjoying it enough. Maybe I’m not making the most of every moment. Can I make up for “quality time” with all of this “quantity time?”

I’m with my children almost constantly and yet I still feel guilty if I leave them at home while go out for an hour alone. How can I not? They stand in the doorway and wave and blow kisses to me as I back out of the driveway!

I admit it: I look forward to bedtime. But sometimes at the end of the day I wonder what exactly I did with my kids all day. Did I luxuriate in the feel of their hugs? Did I look into their eyes and study the beauty of their precious faces? Did I make them feel special? Did I feed them healthy food and nourish their minds with a good book? Did I really hear them laughing (or crying) so that I can remember the sound of it? Did I do a good job, or did I just barely scrape by with my hands full?

Sometimes, I don’t WANT to tuck my kids in. I want their dad to do it while I go lay in bed and watch Say Yes to the Dress. But in the back of my mind, I worry about the day when I’ll be wishing that I still had my hands full. When they wanted me to tuck them in and snuggle them and sing them lullaby songs.

Parenting fluctuates between being a challenge and being a blessing.

Some days the only thing that keeps me from going off the deep end is reminding myself that those blessings will come. Those lightbulb moments when you teach them something and they get it. Those catch-your-breath-because-that-is-the-sweetest-thing-you’ve-ever-seen moments will come again and I need to be here to witness them – not running in the opposite direction.

Yes, sometimes I wish I was somewhere else. If I didn’t admit it, then I’d be lying. (If you don’t admit it, you are probably lying, too.) But knowing that my babies and my toddlers and my little kids are mine for such a tiny span of time is what keeps me from going over the edge. It’s what helps get me through the hard days (and nights.)

How many times have you spent a sleepless night with a sick baby? How many times have you rocked them or swayed them to sleep on your hip? Sometimes I stop and think – this moment – this is it. This is living.

My baby, his chubby baby cheeks, his long eyelashes, his wispy baby hair, his safeness and tiny hands and his snuggliness and sweet baby smell – this is it. One day soon his snorty little crying pouty face is going to be the face of a teenager. He will be the one backing out of the driveway while I’m the one waving and blowing kisses out the door.

I need to remind myself to slow down and be. Be here in this moment.

Fast-forwarding through the tough poop-under-the fingernails moments will rob me of some precious moments. These times will never be here again. When I’m holding a crying toddler in one arm and trying to change the laundry with the other or when I’m overscheduled and underslept, or when I’m mediating a sibling conflict or praying for direction or healing and I would give anything for a quiet hour to myself – I know that even though it’s hard, it is what it is.

And it goes too fast. Way too fast. And the worst thing in the world would be for me to one day wake up in a clean, empty, quiet house and realize that I have somehow missed it all.

And isn’t the big picture just a whole lot of little pictures put together?

Yes, my hands are full, but all too soon, they won’t be.

-from my article for www.mentorpatch.com from July 29, 2012

Garage Smell

I haven’t had a garage sale in about five years.

Since my two older girls were at camp last week, I seized the opportunity to purge my entire house of clutter. You wouldn’t believe the pile of stuff that I ended up with.

Usually I sell at the Kids’ Stuff Sale at Garfield Park, so I had lots of kids' clothes and toys and books saved up. When I brought all that up from the basement and added it to the “purge pile,” I ended up with a virtual mountain of stuff. There was so much of it that I decided to have a garage sale.

When the kids got home, the first thing Sadie (the packrat) said was, “Why do you always clean out when we aren’t home?”

Hmm. I looked at her and said, “Why do you think? Don’t you dare get anything out of this pile!”

I spent the rest of the week cleaning out the garage, sorting, borrowing tables, setting up tables, making signs, making price tags, making lemonade and making cookies.

Unfortunately, I managed to choose the weekend when it was hotter than a two-dollar pistol. Yes, I actually saw two trees fighting over a dog. As I sweated my butt off and got a sunburn, I watched as people parked in my yard and hauled off my stuff for 1/50th of what I paid for it.

That plus the heat kind of put me in a bad mood.

My kids, however, set up their lemonade stand (well, I set it up for them) in the shade and proceeded to ooze their cuteness and rake in the quarters. They even got TIPS. I couldn’t even get $1 for a pair of Tommy Hilfiger jeans!

Don’t get me wrong. Most of the people who patronized my sale were super nice and friendly – they are my fellow “garage-salers,” just out looking for a deal. There were a couple of meanies though. I’d rather just give my stuff to charity than sell it to meanies.

Here’s my three day schedule:

Put signs up. Pull tables out. Set up stuff. Sort out kids’ clothes. Set up lemonade stand. Make lemonade. Get change. Trip over skis that won't sell for $5. Sweat butt off. Get sunburn. Bicker over 50 cents. Watch yard get turfed. Listen to dog bark head off. Take back pain medicine. Put more ice in lemonade. Pick up everything that fell off table. Take signs down. Pull tables in. Collapse in A/C.

I finally gave up and called Purple Heart to come and pick up about 20 bags of leftovers. I never want to see any of that stuff again!

Nope, I hadn’t had a garage sale in over 5 years.

And now I remember why.

-from my 7-22-12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Sadie's Prayers

A mother robin built a nest in the candelabra on our front porch and the girls checked on the nest every single day to check the progress of the eggs. Unfortunately, on the day they found it, they TOUCHED it before they asked about it and so we were all worried that the mother bird would abandon the nest. Sadie was SO upset and worried and she prayed and asked God to please please PLEASE make the mother bird come back - she would feel responsible if the eggs didn't hatch. The next morning, she SAW the mama bird fly back into the nest and she was so excited... she came running into the house to tell me that "This is my very first answered prayer!!"

Later that week, Sadie lied to me about putting clean clothes into the laundry hamper (of all things). I called her on it and we finally ended up snuggling on the bed in the guest room with her crying. We talked about God and liars vs. lying. It was a hard night of parenting. She ended up with "no screens for a week" and that was hard for her. She has to learn to pay the consequences for her actions. Not that the lie was big, it was over nothing practically - but we have to nip it in the bud. She wasn't allowed to watch a movie when Grammie came over so she went upstairs to read her Bible!

On the day she started her summer dance camp she realized that she had no tutu or leotard that fit. So with 45 minutes to spare, we went on the fastest shopping trip in history to Gabe's and then to Burlington - and we prayed for God to please help us find tights, a leotard, and a tutu. And we did! Sadie made up a rhyme as we pulled in the parking lot: "We made it there with 4 minutes to spare!" It's amazing that God listens to the little things.

However, when I picked her up five hours later, she had had a terrible day and came out crying and just miserable. She said everything went wrong - she tripped over her own feet, she already knew everything, none of the girls would talk to her and they thought she was weird, it was too hot in there and she was sweaty, she ran out of water and she was thirsty...she went on and on about how awful it was. I was so upset... I kept trying to tell her how great she is, and how if nobody wanted to talk to her it was their problem, not hers... and that sort of thing. The truth, but it still hurts when you're a little girl. So the next day she decided she was going to try it again, but when we got there, she got really nervous and didn't want to go in so I asked her if she wanted to say a prayer, and so on the sidewalk in front of the ballet school, we prayed for her to have fun and not be scared and for her to make a friend. (Not to mention all of the praying I did the night before for her).... When I picked her up, she came out with a GIANT smile on her face and said "It was great! I loved it! I won the jumping leaping contest and I made friends and everyone was jealous because I had gummy bears for lunch! Our prayers worked, Mom! God even listens to little things too!"

Favorite Stati - June/July

Grammie tries to take Josie's picture. Josie throws her arms up in front of her face and says, "No geography, please!" Grammie: "Don't you mean PHOTOgraphy?" Josie: Whatever.

My 3 girls are having a "sleepover" in Adelaide's bedroom floor. I went in to kiss them goodnight and I stepped on Sadie's leg. She said, "Ohhh! That's my bad hip!" She's 8.

Today, for homeschooling physics class, we learned that when Jedidiah lifts a super heavy crystal cake tray in the air and throws it on the ground, it shatters into a billion pieces!

Adelaide is working on a Wizard of Oz puzzle. She said, "Hey! Here is part of the Ella Fa Krode!"

Josie: "Baton Camp makes me feel happy and joyous. And also less grumpy."

After reminding my two oldest daughters that they need to be nice to their sister even when she's a pest, Sadie informs me, "But Mom! She keeps persecuting us!"

More Rules for Raising Daughters

Raising girls is a mystery sometimes. That’s pretty bad news for me, since I am one (or at least I used to be several years ago… now I'm getting kinda old.)

There are so many things I need to teach my three girls about life and about being women! It’s intimidating, since sometimes I feel like I haven't really grown up myself.

They are growing up fast. Though I look for helpful hints everywhere I go, I'm still happy to accept new advice into my parenting arsenal. Here is the second installment of tips that I've collected (see numbers 1-4 from last week here), just in case you need some help with your girls.

5. Be polite. In a world where rudeness abounds, it’s a refreshing change to come across someone who holds the door for you or helps you pick up all the stuff you just dumped out of your purse.

Teach your daughter to do those things. Teach her that she’s not the center of the universe and that other people are out there and that they deserve respect. Teach her that good manners are not just boring old rules – they become part of who you are.

You’re her parent. You are not her friend (at least, not yet.) She has friends. She only has one mom (and dad.) Make the world a better place by teaching her to be polite, whether she likes it or not. You can be her friend when she’s grown. For now, be her parent.

6. Teach her independence. Show her that women can do anything.

By following your beliefs and passions, show her that women can be strong. Define yourself and don't be ashamed of it. Be an individual – don't just define yourself as her mom or as her dad’s wife. Be yourself, too, so that she'll see it’s okay to be herself.

Don't teach her to cater to what everyone else might expect her to be. If she's going to lead the orchestra, she has to turn her back on the crowd. Help your daughter figure out who she is, and then be supportive.

7. Share secrets. Talk with your daughter. Most girls love to talk, so talk. Talk about anything and everything. Books, clothes, school, nature, boys, friends, church, dreams, fears – anything.

Communicate. Listen. Your relationship is the most important thing that you can nurture during her years at home with you. Other things may fall by the wayside. Let them. But don't let your relationship be one of those things.

8. Let her be. Your daughter may want to stay home and read (like one of mine) or she may want to go jump out of helicopters (like another one of mine.) Whether she wants to travel or write or play sports or be a ballerina, let her.

Let her be wild sometimes. Let her be sad sometimes. Let her be who she is and love her through all of it. I have a tendency to try to fix things when something is wrong with one of my girls, but I guess I should let go sometimes and let them figure out things for themselves.

If I'm going to train them to be strong, independent adults, then I need to just let them be. Even if that means letting them make their own mistakes sometimes.

9. Let her pick flowers. Girls love to pick flowers. Sometimes to a fault. (I never have flowers growing in my yard for more than a couple of days. Someone always finds them and makes a bouquet to bring inside.)

Just give up. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, right? Pick flowers with her. Put them in her hair. Put them in your hair! Make daisy chains with her and fill your house with flowers… what are you saving them for, anyway?

Well, that's all the advice I’ve got for now. Scary, huh? I'm only 8 years in, though. I'll come up with some new material soon.

In the meantime, if you have any good advice for me or other moms out there, please share it. We need all the help we can get.

-from my 7/15/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Rules for Raising Daughters

Lately I’ve been thinking about all of the things that I need to teach my daughters.

I have three of them, and they are growing up at the speed of light.

I read parenting articles, books, magazines and the Bible. I listen to sermons, go to conferences, attend a small group book study and visit any other place I think I might be able to glean a bit of mothering wisdom that I may have missed along the way.

Don’t get me wrong – in no way am I claiming to be all-knowing – I’m stumbling along the road of motherhood just like you are. But just in case you’re always looking for a second (or 22nd) opinion like I am, here is the first installment of some tips for raising daughters that I’ve collected over the past eight years. I hope they help you like they are helping me.

1. Read to her. Read everything you can get your hands on – Dr. Seuss, Mother Goose, Eric Carle, Steven Kellogg, Laura Ingalls Wilder and Tomie dePaola. Don’t forget about classical literature, either. My daughter loves things I once thought she was too young for – things like Greek mythology, Cleopatra and the Bible. Fill her mind with the beauty that her imagination can conjure up and let her see you reading for pleasure too. Show her that there is power in the written word.

2. Let her play dress up. Little girls seem to inherently love to wear pretty dresses and paint their nails. Let her. Who cares if she wears a fairy princess dress, a Superman cape and a Pocahontas wig to the grocery store? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so let her figure out what beauty is to her. Remind her that it’s what on the inside that counts, anyway.

3. Teach her how to love. Love her wildly and fiercely. Show her how to love without restraint, without conditions and without remorse. Love her dad, her brothers and sisters, her grandparents, her aunts and uncles and cousins. Don’t just say that you love them – let her see you loving them actively. Help people, do good deeds, pray for others in front of her. If she gets hurt or her heart gets broken, show her how to dust herself off and try again. She’s going to love the same way you do. Let her learn from your mistakes and your strengths. Teach her how to do it right.

4. Encourage her creativity. If she wants you to dance with her, dance. Dance, even if you’re like me and have no rhythm or even if you always have to be “the prince.” Twirl her around in your arms and let her dance on your feet. Let her sing to the top of her lungs and put on “a show,” whether it’s with an off-key ukulele or a whole bunch of magic tricks. Drag out the dreaded art supplies and let her make messes all over your kitchen table and grind Play-doh all over your floor. Give her Legos and popsicle sticks and a bunch of rocks and string and let her inner engineer take over. Let her try out your makeup, even if she ends up with bright red lips (and cheeks). Teach her that it’s fun to create – and that we all have creativity of some sort inside of us. You can have a clean kitchen when she’s gone off to college. Don’t be the way I struggle not to be. I sometimes obsess so much about messes that I miss great opportunities to bond and make memories (not to mention Sculpey clay figures.)

Next week, we’ll talk about politeness, independence, secrets and manners. If you have any tips for mothering a daughter, I’d love to hear them – and add them to my list.

-from my 7/8/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Scary Mermaids

Around here, someone is always in the bathtub pretending to be Ariel.

My girls have always loved the Disney version of The Little Mermaid. We have Barbie mermaids, Playmobil mermaids, My Little Pony mermaids (perhaps those are classified as sea-horses), mermaid shirts, mermaid books … you get the idea.

Now, my girls don’t scare very easily. They love to play outside in the dark, run through the woods and go fishing with creepy crawly things. They love to watch shows like River Monsters, Man vs. Wild and Shark Week. They don’t blink an eye when learning about mummification or Medusa or the Chimera.

So the other night when my husband let them watch Mermaids: The Body Found, a “pseudo-documentary,” he figured it was a pretty safe bet because it was on Animal Planet, for Pete’s sake. Come to find out, he should’ve boycotted the whole show. We are not talking Sebastian and Flounder stuff here.

Josie, my second oldest, is very matter-of-fact, logical and practically fearless. She watched the show and said, “Humph. Weird.” Then she went to sleep.

My oldest child, however, tends to let her imagination run away with her (I think it's hereditary.) Here is her running commentary during the show:

“This is kinda stupid. How can anybody believe that mermaids came from monkeys? Okay, mermaids do not do THAT. Who the heck would believe this? Okay, that is NOT what mermaids look like. This can NOT be for real. They are horrible! Oh, come on. What a dumb show. This isn't real. Daddy - is this real? Um… this isn't real, is it?”

No matter how stupid it was -- and it was pretty stupid -- the mermaids were still pretty scary, and Sadie couldn't get the picture of them out of her little head. She totally freaked herself out. She couldn't sleep for three nights. She turned on all the lights in the house (even the one in her closet) and she slept with a flashlight.

(She gets it from me. I did the same thing after watching Paranormal Activity.)

She came to my room over and over, nearly in tears and worrying herself sick. I didn't know what to do, since this sort of thing isn't usually an issue at our house.

So we read some nice, happy stories. We said prayers. We thought happy thoughts and sang happy songs. And still she couldn't sleep. As I sent her back to her room a third time she protested, “But Daddy says they're real!” (He didn't.) “Daddy is trying to scare me!” (He wasn't.)

Josie finally tromped downstairs and said, “Mommy. Something has got to be done. Sadie keeps poking me and saying, ‘Hey! Are you awake?’ and I say, ‘Well, I am NOW because you will not leave me alone!’ I have to get some sleep here!”

Since nothing else seemed to be working, I dug deep into my stockpile of parenting expertise and decided to tell Sadie a story about a nightmare I had when I was her age. I had to do something - she was starting to freak me out too! So I snuggled with her on my bed and rubbed her back and began in a soothing voice, “I know how you feel. Once I had a dream about these three creepy little green guys with horns that were hiding behind my bed….”

She smacked her forehead, covered her eyes with her hand and said, “MOM. You are not helping. AT ALL.”

So much for my parenting skills.

Finally, her very reasonable younger sister came up with a solution that my less logical (chicken) brain hadn’t thought of:

“Sadie, just THINK about it. We are a thousand miles from the ocean. Even if those creepy mermaids were real, which they are NOT, they could not get to our house. They do not have feet and they cannot possibly swim up our stairs.”

Sadie thought about this for a second, nodded slowly and went to bed.

Problem solved. Whew. Now we can both sleep.

-

from my 7/1/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Adelaide's prayer this morning sounded a lot like mine do sometimes. She simply said, "God, help me!"

As we were going around the table in Sunday School class on Father's Day, I asked each child what they called their dad. "Do you call your dad 'Dad, Daddy, Papa, or what?'" I asked them. Most of them said, "I call my daddy Daddy." When I got to Adelaide she said, "I call my daddy Rufus."

While putting together a Wizard of Oz puzzle, Adelaide said, "hey! Here is a piece of the Ella Fa Krode!"

Josie (age 6) to a lady who was having a garage sale: "Well, have a good day! I hope your sale goes really well for you. We'll see ya later!"

Josie, in response to me saying that she was a big girl: "I am not a big girl. I am a tiny woman."

Adelaide's weird song while playing with the Little People nativity set: "Baby Jesus, goin to the market, dooley, dooley, doo!"

What Did I DO all day?

“What did you do all day?” my husband asked.

It’s an innocent enough question – I don’t think he was implying that I didn’t do anything. The emphasis was not on the word “do,” as in “What did you DO all day?”

But as I thought back about my day, I found it hard to remember exactly what I did do. How did the entire day slip past without me being able to get anything done at all?

This was food for thought. I decided (as often is the case with me) to make a list. The next day I put a pen and some paper next to my planner and as the day went along, I wrote down the things I did.

Well, I wrote them down when I could remember them, at least. And when no one had stolen my pen.

So here, for your reading pleasure, is a glimpse into the life of a stay-at-home, home-schooling, ordinary mom of four little kids. Read it if you dare (or if you just happen to enjoy the mundane.)

7:31am – Wake up to the sound of dog whining and Jedidiah banging the side of his crib with the palms of his hands. Notice that husband does not (or pretends to not) hear either of these things.

7:40am – Make up my side of the bed. Get dressed, brush teeth, half-heartedly comb hair. (What’s the point, really?) Grab dirty clothes from hamper in bathroom. Get dog out of cage and let him outside. Turn on coffee-maker. Trudge down hallway, prepare to throw laundry in washing machine only to see that it’s still full of the load that I forgot about last night. Throw laundry into sink instead. Try to close Adelaide’s door quietly so her brother won’t wake her up. Open Jed’s door and walk into a wall of what I like to call “the aura of poop.” Sigh, then laugh when Jed’s head pops up over the side of his crib and he yells “MA-MA!” then points at his diaper and grins. Change poopy diaper. Dress wiggly baby. Nurse wiggly baby. Read story to wiggly baby.

8:15am – Bag up poopy diaper and throw it away outside. Take Adelaide’s “breftast” order. Make eggs and turkey bacon while cleaning out dishwasher. Pull Jed out of dishwasher. Head to the laundry room to clear out the dryer and hang clothes on hangers and fool myself into thinking that they won’t look wrinkled later. Switch wet laundry over and put in new load. Help Adelaide get dressed, make her bed and brush her teeth and hair. Check eggs and bacon. Slice up strawberries. Pull Jed out of refrigerator. Make coffee. Get out plates and cups and forks. Answer phone. Give Jed Cheerios to snack on while waiting for the main course. Wash out sippy cup and fill it with water.

8:45am – Yell upstairs to Sadie and Josie to tell them breakfast is ready. Clean up mess that Jed has somehow made all over the floor using only cereal and water (the child has talent.) Fix Adelaide’s doll. Fix Adelaide’s hangnail on her finger. Put ointment and a new bandaid on Adelaide’s knee. Wash hands. Serve up breakfast. Ask Sadie to say a morning prayer. Read the story of Jonah from the Bible. Answer 17 questions from Adelaide. Warm up coffee that I forgot to drink. Clean up breakfast dishes. Wipe Jed’s hands while girls sweep up and wipe the table.

9:00am – Start “school.” Help Josie with her reading. Help Sadie with her writing. Show Adelaide how to stay in the lines and cut out the turtle she colored. Rescue Jed from the top of the couch. Read 8 books from library bag. Break up a fight over a hairbow. Start the dishwasher. Check email. Take out trash. Pick up blocks. Dance to bluegrass music (Josie's choice.)

10:30am – Go outside with kids. Chase butterflies. Chase Jedidiah. Check mail. Push kids on swing. Sweep front walk. Pick up dog poop. Draw pictures with sidewalk chalk. Take sidewalk chalk out of Jed’s mouth. Investigate newest bird’s nest. Kiss Adelaide's boo-boo when she trips and falls on the driveway. Catch a moth, a butterfly, a toad, a frog and some kind of scary beetle.

11:30am – Release today's captures. Go inside, listen to history lesson and do math. Laugh at girls’ new knock-knock jokes. Make two doctor appointments and one dentist appointment. Start lunch. Remember coffee is still in microwave and warm it up again. Answer phone. Wonder where Jed went. Find Jed in my room, drawing all over my list (and his leg) with a permanent marker.

12:14pm – Realize that I don’t have time to keep a list.

7:30pm – Give husband dirty look when he asks me what I did all day.

-from my 6/24/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Happy Father's Day (Grandpa's too)

"A grandpa is someone you never outgrow your need for."

I don't know who said that first but isn’t that true?

I still miss my grandpa and he’s been gone for more than eight years.

My children, though, are blessed to still have three grandfathers in their lives.

There’s Grandpa, their dad’s dad, who lives on the other side of town.

There’s Papaw, my daddy, who lives in North Carolina.

And there’s Grampie, my stepfather, who lives about 20 minutes from us here in Ohio.

Grandpa is at our house pretty much on a daily basis. He is a tall, imposing guy with a quick wit and a whacky sense of humor. He makes up goofy stories for the kids about an aardvark and a pink gorilla that drives a bus.

He also calls them pet names like “whippersnapper” and “little creep.” One of my baby Jedidiah’s first words was “Gam-pa!”

Grandpa likes to steal food off their plates when they aren’t looking.

He reads them Bible stories and lets them climb all over him.

He takes them out to look at Christmas lights every year (and then out for ice cream.)

He teaches them jokes and pretends that the ones they make up are funny.

They see their Papaw less frequently since he lives in another state but we visit and talk with him regularly.

He is a strong, hardworking, quiet man who grew up on a farm. The kids know all the stories about when he was growing up because I’ve recounted them all.

When we visit he lets them ride on the farm tractor with him. He sits in the back seat of the van and has tickle fights with them while they all sing “The Battle of New Orleans.”

He lets them steal his cap and then he snatches it back and whacks them on top of the head with it and tells them they’re “oofy.” He fixes things, builds things and lets them “help” when he works outside. Jed calls him “Pap-ow Tact-tor.”

Papaw takes them for walks through the woods.

He takes them to feed the ducks.

He shows them how to make scarecrows and kites.

He laughs at their silly stories.

Grampie lives about 20 minutes away and though he doesn’t come over very much, the kids don’t mind because they would much rather go to his house anyway.

They love to spend the weekend there, snuggling with Grampie Don on the couch while they watch cartoons. They love to play ambulance with him (they fall down and he picks them up, spinning around and wailing like an ambulance.)

They like to have “Donfires” in the back yard (he roasts a great marshmallow.) When the girls play dress up, he pretends to be the prince and he twirls them around and calls them his little sweethearts. Jed calls him “Pop Pop.”

Grampie calls the kids just to say hello.

He buys them candy at the store.

He pushes them on the swing in the backyard.

He takes them on “shopping sprees” for their birthdays.

Three very different men. Three very different types of grandfathers.

Three of the most important people in my children’s lives.

Happy (Grand)father’s Day to all of you Grandpas, Papaws and Pop Pops out there. We will never outgrow you.

-from my 6/17/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

More Stuff

Reading Adelaide's ABC book to her at bedtime -- "Mommy, do not tell me the letters. I can do them. That's A. That's B. That's C. And that one - don't tell me. That one is 2."

Me to a crying Jed, after he fell off the couch and bonked himself: "Oh, Jeddy, what did you hit?" Adelaide to me: "I think it was the ground, Mommy! I think the ground."

Adelaide asked for MORE ice cream after already having a whole big bowl. I said, "MORE ice cream? Are you kidding me?" She said, "Ha ha, yeah Mom. No, actually, I'm not."

Josie, having recently learned the term "birthday suit," jumped around after her bath and informed me that she was going to sleep in her "party suit."

Adelaide wants Apple Jacks cereal for breakfast. She asks for "Hunchbacks."

Jedidiah, freshly bathed and in a new diaper and cozy PJ's, climbed into the (full) bathtub and sat right down when Grandma Beth turned her head for TWO seconds. The kid is FAST.

Jedidiah does such cute things at dinner - we all watch him as the evening entertainment. Recently he added to his repertoire - when we all looked at him and laughed, he looked around behind him to see what was so funny... "Who, me?"

Josie, after hearing her dad's Weird Al song in the car: "Mom, I don't WANT to celebrate Weasel-Stomping Day."

Closet Packrat

“Mommy, sometimes you are allergic to fun.”

This is what my child tells me when I’m on a cleaning binge and can’t think of anything but getting rid of junk. You might not know it these days but I am actually a closet packrat. Not with everything – I have no problem getting rid of Tupperware containers or magazines or old clothes. No, I mainly want to keep sentimental stuff that pertains to my children.

I keep the usual things: the hats they wore at the hospital, the first lock of hair, the baby footprints, the first drawing – but I have a hard time getting rid of the not so usual things. Things like their first tooth. Or their first toothbrush. Or the tissue from the first time they blew their own nose. Or the crust from the first time they ate a sandwich.

That’s why I’m so glad that someone gave me a scrapbook at my first baby shower. I’ve discovered that if I keep tiny pieces of things – things like gift wrap, cards, baby band-aids, doctor visit notes, drawings, etc. – that I don’t feel like I need to keep the entire thing.

As you can probably imagine, this frees up a lot of space around here. If I didn’t do it this way, I probably wouldn’t be able to walk around for all of the traced hand artwork, Sunday School pages, dried flowers and notes to Santa that would be residing in my house because I couldn’t bear to part with them. While my scrapbooks are growing thicker and thicker every year, I have somehow managed (up to now, anyway) to keep them contained to one book per year. It’s getting harder with each additional child, though. It’s much more difficult to chronicle the events of four lives than two or three!

Now that I have my sentimentality issues contained between the (strained) covers of a scrapbook, I am free to deal with the rest of my house. How do extra toys and books and shoes and random things find their way into my house on such a regular basis? Stuff breeds more stuff. I completely clean off the kitchen counter. Then a kid leaves a juice cup and a pencil on it and the next thing I know, the counter is covered with junk again! It multiplies. Whenever there is stuff out of place in my house, I have low-level anxiety. The older I get, the worse it bothers me (just ask my mom – this was NOT the case when I was a teenager.)

These days, I am constantly looking for stuff to throw out, donate or otherwise get rid of. I have a “Goodwill box” in my laundry room to collect stuff that can go. Move it along, I always say. Maybe I’m a little bit allergic to fun, but I prefer to think that I’m allergic to clutter. Unless the clutter happens to be a tooth or an important sandwich.

--from my June 10 article for www.mentorpatch.com

The Promised Land

My grandma’s house isn’t the fanciest place in the world. Nor is it the most comfortable. There are potted plants everywhere. Knickknacks cover every available surface. Family photos are on every wall and a Bible is on every table. It’s definitely a grandma house. But according to my kids, you would think it was the Promised Land. On their calendars, they mark off the days until we leave on our trip for North Carolina. They give me an update every single morning until the day finally comes when they can “pack.” I handle the clothes – otherwise we’d show up for our 2-week stint at my grandmother’s house with three swimsuits, a scarf, some mismatched socks and a tutu. But the girls are in charge of their own “car trip bags” (curtailed by a 6 toy/book limit since things got out of control on our last trip and there was nowhere in our van to put feet.) Once we hit the open road, the girls practice their “southern.” They start saying things they aren’t normally allowed to say, like: “Hey, ya’ll ain’t gonna eat the last potata che-ip. Now pass ‘at bag back 'ere right now. You wutn' sposed to eat ‘em all! If I’da knowed ‘at, I’da popped ya one!” (Sometimes I don’t realize what my accent must sound like to non-southerners – then I hear my own voice being channeled and I can barely understand myself!) After a long trip (tunnels and bridges and rest stops, oh my), we pull across the county line and the girls yell, “We are here! We are in North Carolina!” Their excitement is contagious. My homecoming, though, is made complete only by the smell that greets us: chicken litter (also known as chicken poop.) A great fertilizer, it’s spread over the fields of the farming communities of my home county. I’ve seen many a farmer take a deep whiff of that awful smell and then say, “Ahhh… smells like money to me!” Funny, it smells like home to me. Once we drive through town (four stoplights and take a right), we descend upon my grandma (known as Great Grandma to my kids and pronounced “Great Gramaw.” To her delight we proceed to cram ourselves (all six of us) into her little 3-bedroom house. She likes to sleep in her recliner, so that leaves us with one on the couch, one on the double bed in the main bedroom, two in the double bed in the guest room, one on a pallet (a big piece of foam topped with lots of blankets and pillows) in the extra room and one in the pack-in-play in the master bathroom. Yes, my child sleeps in the bathroom. Hey, it’s better than a closet. Sort of. And anyway, they wouldn’t care if they had to sleep in the bathtub. They are finally here and they are surrounded by cousins, swimming pools, pots of pinto beans, golf cart rides, cornbread, BoBerry biscuits, uncles, aunts, and grandparents. They are surrounded by hugs and kisses and stories and memories – old ones and new ones. I am proud that they are proud to be half southern – right down to their deep-fried roots. At Great Grandma’s house, we are sheltered by the Blue Ridge Mountains, by the mimosas and magnolias, by the red dirt banks on the sides of the road. But we are sheltered here by something more. Somehow, no matter where you’re from or how old you get, you always feel safe, loved and at home when you’re at your grandma’s house. No wonder they count the days until we get here. -from my June 3 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Adelaide is 4

Today was Adelaide-y-hoo's 4th birthday. We had her party on Sunday in Grandma's backyard and Grammie bought her a Dorothy cake. We had a mixed theme going on - blue and princess balloons, red table cloths, Dorothy decorations on the cake, a little swimming pool, lemonade, and blankets in the yard. It was HOT. The kids had a fabulous time eating cake, opening presents, running around like crazy, and stuffing themselves into the tiny wading pool all at once. I was a bit sad that Adelaide wore her little pink "Birthday Girl" shirt for probably the last year - though it's lasted through 12 birthdays now - 4 for each girl. Sigh. I can't believe she's growing up so fast... my baby girl. This morning she had a candle in her pancake and then I brought her some surprises (a paint with water book and some LalaLoopsy mini toys) and Grammie called her birthday in to 3WC and they announced "A happy 4th birthday to Adelaide" on the radio. Then this afternoon we went to Shatley Springs with Papaw and Mamaw and she had another cake there AND they sang to her and she got to feed the ducks. Tonight she's spending the night along with Sadie and Josie at Cameron and Caleb's house. Throughout the day she continued to be her "own self," even though now she is "four years old actually and for real." She repeatedly asked to hear our new favorite song by the Darlings on the Andy Griffith show, which she consistently called "Doodley" instead of "Dooley." She informed me while in the bathroom at Shatley Springs that "there is a fly in here." "A fly?" I said. "Yes. And it is distinctly alive." "Distinctly?" I asked. "I didn't know you knew that word." "Well, I do know it." On the way home she was playing with Papaw in the back seat and he said something about a pick. Adelaide, who takes "nothing off no one" said, "Hey! I am not a pig! You are da pig!" And then when I was getting ready to leave Angela's after dropping them all off, Adelaide ran upstairs and into the bathroom. Then she yelled for me and informed me that "I tried to pee in the potty but I missed and then all the pee squirted out into the floor!" After I cleaned it up and changed her clothes, I said to the cowboy hat wearing girl, "You do know there is a bathroom in the basement." Silence. And a dirty look. And "No. I did not know dat." Happy birthday to my sweet goofball, laugh a minute girl. You are my girl (and I am your mom :).

Heaven help us, Jedidiah has learned to climb out of his crib.

Blech.

In the middle of the night, I hear a thump upstairs, then a pair of bare feet clomping down the steps as fast as they can clomp. “Mom! Mommy! Josie threw up all over her bed and she needs you!” And so it begins. My husband and I divide and conquer (and yawn.) “Which one do you want?” I ask him. “Laundry or hard surfaces and the kid?” He chooses laundry and we both sleepily traipse upstairs. We find poor Josie sitting on her bed in a mass of puke-covered Tinkerbell sheets, her hair sticking out wildly in all directions. I chalk the hair up to regular bed-head until her big sister knowingly informs me, “She threw up in her sleep. While she was STILL asleep. And she didn’t even KNOW it. Weird! So she pulled the covers up over her head after she threw up on them, and that’s why she has throw-up in her hair.” Oh. I banish the non-thrower-upper to the bed in the guest room. Then I grab the cleaning supplies: plastic bags, antibacterial wipes, Lysol spray, rags, etc. It’s at this point I realize that I could also use a nose plug. Meanwhile, my husband hauls the air purifier up the stairs and starts yanking off the sheets. Poor Josie, shivering and covered in throw-up, waits patiently in the bathroom while I start the shower for her. I ask her if she’s okay and she shakes her head pitifully, then smiles a little and looks up at me. “Well, actually, Mommy,” she proclaims, “I feel a lot better now that I threw up.” Hmm. I wash her off in the shower, cover her up in a towel, get her some clean PJs and settle her on the couch downstairs by our room (in this house, any throwing-up activity warrants a night on the couch) with a just-in-case bowl, a cup full of ginger ale and some saltine crackers. Unfortunately, her beloved blankie is a casualty of the preceding events and it is spending the night in the washing machine. As a replacement, she clutches a pot holder her sister made for her on the Loop and Loom. Since she’s wide awake, we talk for a few minutes and this otherwise yucky situation turns into a bit of a (gross) learning opportunity. We talk about how when there’s something that you’re afraid of doing or something that you really dread there’s really only one thing that ever makes you feel any better. Josie grins as she sips her fizzy drink. “Yep. Just throw up and get it over with.” Words to live by! I trudge back up the stairs with my rag and my cleaning spray, and I know that she’s right. --from my May 27 article for www.mentorpatch.com

The World of Jedididah

As an 18-month-old, the world stretches out before my son Jedidiah, beckoning him to all of its wonders. Here are a few of the things that he’s learned in his short (but exciting) life. When it’s time to eat, EAT. Don’t let anything stop you. Also, any kind of fruit is worth squealing over. Whipped cream, however, is worth crying over. Books have multiple uses: reading, chewing and throwing. Sisters are funny. Sisters who dance around and then fall down accidentally are hilarious. Moms are the best thing ever. Potential friends are everywhere. Most are in the form of dogs. The human body is very interesting. Especially your own teeth, your feet, your ears, your hair and (dare I say it?) your weenie. Don’t miss your window of opportunity for napping. Hooking your bare toes up underneath the tray on your high chair helps with digestion. Bibs are overrated. Wipe your hands on your shirt – or better yet, on your head. Grass is tickly and also good for throwing. Peek-a-boo is a great game. Grown-ups don’t know what they’re missing. Buttons are for pushing. If you weren’t supposed to push it, it wouldn’t be there. The great outdoors is just that – great. Dogs are entertaining, and eating dog food is a special treat. If you shove it in your mouth quick enough, your mom can’t get it out of there. If at all possible, wear your PJs all day long. Toilets are good for washing your hands in. I don't know why, but you have to wash them again in the sink afterward. Dads are great for giving piggy-back rides, but watch your head. Dads are also tall. If the gate is open, get your butt up the stairs as fast as you can! Something wonderful must be up there! Brushing your teeth is incredibly exciting. Get your hands on a toothbrush at every opportunity. Cars are for driving. Remote control cars are for stealing from your sister and breaking. If it’s closed, open it. This goes for cabinets, boxes, doors and drawers. Putting your pants on your head is always sure to get a laugh. Climb up on whatever is available. Don’t waste time on pointless safety checks. If your grandma is babysitting and she turns her back for a second, jump in the tub – even if you’ve already had your bath and have on a clean diaper and your pajamas. Swinging in a baby swing is awesome. Even if you have to sit in your sister’s old pink one. Whatever you do, don’t cooperate when someone is changing your diaper. If possible, stick your hand in poop. It makes people act crazy! Cooking with plastic toy food is fun, even for a boy. If you follow your sisters around long enough, they WILL put their snack down. And then you WILL be able to get it. Getting pushed around the house in an empty laundry basket is pretty much as good as riding in a limo. It’s fun to poke your mom in the eye. It’s even more fun to stick your finger up her nose. Balls are for bouncing. If you see a ball somewhere, for Pete’s sake, go and bounce it! Sticks are for hitting things. Sweeping the floor must be a lot of fun, otherwise, why would mom do it all the time? Someone get me a broom. If you don’t want to do something, just go limp. It’s impossible for anyone to pick you up off the floor if you’re limp. Trust me on this one. Life is good when you're little - especially when you're little and cute. --from my May 20 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Dandelions

I remember the very first time Sadie, my oldest daughter, picked a flower to give to me. It was, of course, a dandelion. In her chubby little childish fist, though, it was special to my “mother’s heart.” As a matter of fact, it is currently pressed and dried and residing in her baby book. Back then, her newfound flower-picking ability was especially noteworthy. (Her usual toddler behavior was eating sand out of the sandbox.) A fistful of wilting daisies, a gloppy mess of congealed finger-paint on construction paper, notes with a scribbled “I (heart) Mom,” a wide baby grin, a slobbery good night kiss right on the lips, a sticky hug, a whispered, “you are my best Mommy, Mommy!” or “I never want to let go of this hug!” These are priceless treasures. My kitchen cabinets are covered with crayon drawings, and my counter is usually overgrown with some sort of a floral masterpiece: daffodils in the spring (and sometimes my tulips if I forget to say “Don’t pick those!”), peonies in the summer, leaf bouquets in the fall and sprigs of snow-covered greenery – usually with berries of some sort – in the winter. My demonstrative daughters also love to give me the occasional four-leaf clover, clumsily-strung wildflower chain, pinecone, piece of moss, pretty rock, especially nice piece of grass… you name it. I’ve noticed that when our children are small, we tend to take those acts of love for granted. I’ll admit that I’ve been known to actually (gasp) throw away a note, a drawing or a crumbly dried-out flower. At this point in life, I take for granted that others will take their place in the next day or two. In my heart, though, I know that there will come a day when those childish gifts of love will stop coming - when my kids are too cool, too sophisticated for their dorky old mom. Like the growing season in our part of the country, these childhood days are too soon past us – too soon a memory. In an old country song that I’ve always liked, a man asks his mother what he could possibly give her to repay her for everything that she’s given him. Her reply? “All the treasures in the world will never be enough but I won’t take less than your love.” In the end, when our kids are all grown up, isn’t that what all of us really want? The same sweet, unabashed, unashamed love that they give us when they are little? In this season of being thankful for our mothers – the ones who love us when we’re unlovable, the ones who clean us up when we’re dirty, the ones who make us smile when we’re sad – I will go and pick up a mushy card and maybe a potted plant for my own mom. I will probably even get a gift and a card from my husband. But I will be thinking about how not even the rarest orchid could ever be as precious to me as one droopy-headed dandelion, handed to me by my child. --from my May 13 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Cinderella & Off-roading

Today, my mom bought tickets for us and the girls to see Cinderella onstage. Dummy me thought it was at the same theater we saw a play in last time, and so when we pulled into the parking lot and it was EMPTY, I was surprised. Then I looked at our tickets (duh) and saw that it was at THE OTHER THEATER 25 minutes away!!! And we only had 12 minutes to get there! Let me just say that I put. it. in. the. wind. We got there in about 14 minutes WITHOUT getting a ticket. The girls and Grammie jumped out and went in while I parked and they got into their seats RIGHT when the first act started. Whew. It was a good show - the wicked stepsisters were my and Grammie's favorites - Sadie liked the fairy godmother and Josie and Adelaide (of course) liked Cinderella the best. I love watching the girls watch a play... it's so CUTE. Adelaide was spellbound the whole time, and all of them got the funniest looks on their faces when the Prince and Cinderella KISSED. EW. Sadie said, "Well, they must be married in real life if they are going around kissing like that." I like how she thinks. :) While we were at the play, Jesse took Jedidiah to meet Grandma Beth, Aunt Cindy, and the cousins to go on a Bald Eagle Hike over at the marsh. He took the stroller so Jed wouldn't get tired, but apparently that was a mistake. Jesse said that they went "stroller off-roading" and had to bounce over gullies and hike up steep hills and that Jed laughed and waved his arms around like he was on a roller coaster. Jesse, however, got blisters and sore legs. Hahah!

Rolls of Squishy Deliciousness :)

Every once in a while, I try to have Special Mommy Night with each of my children. One-on-one time is a rare commodity in a busy house with four children. The parents are outnumbered. But last week, Josie and I went out for a special date. Josie is six years old and she is my adventurous eater. She will try (and like) pretty much anything. This is a great change from her early beginnings, when she would only eat strawberry-apple fruit poofs, watermelon, yellow cheese, graham crackers, yogurt and the occasional meatball. Now she loves things that most kids would turn their noses up at: livermush, pinto beans, couscous, prunes, spinach, any kind of Chinese or Mexican food, and now, to my delight, sushi. When she was little she used to say, “Shoo-shi. I no like shooshi!” Well, now she does. Once in a while we have “sushi night” at our house. If you don’t count the huge mess and inevitable grains of rice everywhere, it’s always a major success. The girls love to get out the bamboo mats, the sheets of seaweed (aka “mermaid food”), the chopsticks and the piece de resistance: the soy sauce. Soy sauce. If I put it on a rock, they would eat the rock and then ask for seconds. But on Josie’s Special Mommy Night we decided to go out for sushi. Just the two of us. Of course, while we were on the way to the mall, she got to play a game on my phone (an oft-made request around here.) We held hands in the parking lot and I savored the feel of her little pink-nail-polished hand in mine. In the restaurant after we ordered, we decided to sit on the same side of the booth so we could snuggle. As we waited for our food, Josie poured herself a big ole serving of soy sauce in preparation of her main dish. When it finally came, she chowed down on vegetable maki, shrimp tempura and our new found favorite: Las Vegas roll. The only problem is the humongous pieces of crab, avocado, cucumber, cream cheese and spicy mayo rolled into one are so big that Josie had a hard time shoving them into her mouth. She did it, though, with her chopsticks. I was so proud. She decided that Las Vegas roll is “the best sushi of ever” and called it “yummy squishy deliciousness.” When we were done, she paid the bill herself (with my money, of course). Then she got to ride one of the kiddie rides out in the mall, questionably named The Magic Mushroom. Weird. Next, we checked out the shoe store and she tried on as many shoes as she wanted. She is a girl, after all. She got a pretzel with not one, but two sweet glaze dips, which she polished off while riding up and down the escalator several times while peeking at me from over the railing and waving. On the way home, I “interviewed” her and recorded her answers on my cell phone. Here is what she had to say about me: “Well, my mom likes to takes her kids out to dates. Especially Josie. Thank you, thank you. She’s my mom so of course I like her. She’s good. She spoils us in a spoiling kind of way – with fruits and vegetables. She sings me a good song at bedtime, but she doesn’t teach me to chew with my mouth closed.” I did pretty well right up until the end. All things considered, Special Mommy Night was pretty special. It was for me, anyway. --from my May 6 article for www.mentorpatch.com

A bunch of unrelated stuff

Adelaide, in the bathtub: "It's raining, it's pouring, the dinosaur is snoring." About her mermaid, "Hi, my name is Jewelerina." (I found a note written by Josie that said "Joolarina" and "Adulade") Jed has started sticking his face in the water every time he gets in the bath. He is so goofy. He scootches down as close as he can, sticks his nose in, and then yanks his head up really fast and shakes it around (and cries if water gets up his nose) then does it all over again. When I got home from the Women's Retreat, Josie ran out of the house as fast as she could, barefoot, to run up to me and throw her little arms around me. I love that little girl in her little pink shirt and her jeans and bare feet - with her ever present smile and her rosy cheeks. When Melanie called my house the other night, she was shocked to find that I have children old enough to answer the phone. Sadie likes to say, "Lansing residence, this is Sadie speaking." She DOES sound grown up - and a lot like me, I've been told. I love snuggling with my girls, and tonight I snuggled with Sadie in my red chair while we watched some weird leprechaun movie. She snuggles her little butt down next to me and we cover up under our blanket and I just love it. She's getting so big but I love to sit with her and hold her hand and tickle her back (she loves that :) It's also nice that we like the same books now! Well, some of them, anyway - I'm really enjoying the Penderwicks - and it's fun to be able to have conversations with her about them. When my friend Sandie and her daughter babysat for us, Josie and Sadie were showing Abby their room. Trying to get Adelaide out of the way so I could give Sandie some information, Sandie said, "Why don't you go upstairs with Abby? Sadie and Josie are showing her their room." Adelaide, nonplussed, said, "Nah... I've already seen their room before." Later she asked Sandie at bedtime, "Hey, do you know any songs about fairies? No? Well, I guess Jesus loves the little children will be okay." Last week the girls got out the Science box and played Science. There were medicine droppers, scales, and all kinds of things all over Adelaide's room, but then they found the rubber gloves. Sadie hooked one up to a medicine dropper and then used it like a bicycle pump to blow it up into a huge balloon hand/rooster comb. Next thing I knew, Sadie had become the mama cow and Adelaide and Josie were both lying on the floor, each one sucking on an udder. Ayeayaye. I told Jesse that eventually our son is going to have to stop playing with mermaids and teacups. He said, "I'm not worried about it. He has already developed a definite affinity for balls, trucks, dirt, and his weiner."

First Big Boy Haircut

I put it off as long as I could. But when 17-month-old Jedidiah sported butterfly hairbows and a pony tail last weekend, I finally gave up and decided to let his dad do what he’s been begging to do for months: Cut my baby’s hair. Now, as a mother with three other children who are older than my “baby” is, I’ve been through this before. I know that once you get that wispy baby hair cut, your baby does NOT look like a baby anymore. It’s that simple. So it’s easy to see why I wanted to put it off as long as possible. Though I was in denial about him growing up, I couldn’t help but notice the resemblance between my little cutie and a miniscule Billy Ray Cyrus. Minus the tight jeans, of course. Jedidiah is your basic wiggle worm. I knew it would be a challenge to try and cut his hair ourselves – without cutting his ears, too, anyway. So we loaded everyone up in the car and headed to what the girls like to call “The Haircut Store” to leave the job up to a professional. My girls have always LOVED to get their hair cut. They actually even asked if they could get theirs done the night we took Jedidiah. Three-year-old Adelaide informed the stylist, “I want you to cut mine long.” In the end, however, we decided to let this be Jedidiah’s special night. Because there was no way to tie him to the chair, he ended up on his dad’s lap, covered with a teal blue cape printed with penguins and surfboards. The look on his face was pure misery (because he was trapped and forced to be still for more than three seconds), followed by a “what the heck do you think you’re doing?” look at the lady with the spray bottle. He sat remarkably, uncharacteristically still (possibly because his dad had a death grip on him underneath the cape), only turning his head once in a while to get a good look at those scissors as they snipped his golden baby wisps away. His sisters and I kept him entertained with funny faces, little yogurt poofs and finally – the holy grail of toddlers – a watermelon-flavored sucker. He proceeded to savor every sweet taste of it. Since he’d never had one before though, he didn’t realize that at some point he was supposed to swallow, also. Therefore, all of the yummy stickiness (aka juicy baby slobber) ended up dribbling out of his mouth, down his hand, all over his dad’s arm and eventually down his dad’s leg and into his shoe. I was glad that I was stationed as the picture-taker and not as the drool-catcher. His dad didn’t like it very much; but it was, after all, Jedidiah’s very first sucker. He was not disappointed. He didn’t even cry. But I did. --from my April 29th article for www.mentorpatch.com

The Force

I was one of those strange kids who never cared about Star Wars. I never even watched it until a few years after I graduated from college; even then, I couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. It’s strange how this has come back to haunt me now that I have kids. Against my (better) judgment, my husband (a self-proclaimed Star Wars aficionado from the time it came out in 1977 when he was a year old) let my girls watch the trilogy with him. It was kind of a big deal for him – he wanted them to like it. Let’s just say he was not disappointed. There has been an on-again, off-again (mostly on-again) Star Wars marathon at our house for months now. The music at the beginning gets them every time. They read (parts) of the intro as it scrolls over the star-filled sky and they say in loud, booming voices, “A looooog time agooooo in a galaxy far, far awaaaaayyyy, STAR WARS APPEARED!” And then they are sucked in. I’m not sure if it’s because their dad likes it or because it is not animated, but Star Wars is deemed a very grown-up pastime among my children. This is no cartoon, people! I’ve been privy to several (hundred) conversations and/or demonstrations regarding the cultural significance and play-time importance of Star Wars. Here are a few examples: From Sadie, age 8: “I want an outfit just like Leia’s when she’s chained up to Jabba the Hut. It’s not very modest but it’s still awesome.” “I’m Amidala. And Josie’s Leia. Adelaide is Luke – yeah, she likes to be Luke. I don’t know why, but hey. Let her.” “I would like to live in Cloud City. Think of it – a city… in the clouds!” And from Josie, age 6: “I really wish I could have a baby Ewok. And also a gold chain on a collar around my neck. And some handcuffs.” Oye. And let’s not forget three-year-old Adelaide, not to be outdone: “Hmm. Naboo, huh? Well, that is a strange place to be.” “That Jabba the Hut is like a giant slug! And then and then and then Leia YANKS on the chain and he goes “’ECCCCKKKKK!’” (tongue sticking out the side of her mouth, eyes rolled back for effect). “And Yogurt is a good guy, but he has pointy ears and he is green. And Qui-Gon Jim is a good guy too. But Dark Vader is from the Dark Side and he is a very bad guy. And also he is dark.” It doesn’t help matters that their baby brother is named Jedidiah, which happens to be extremely conducive to the nickname “Jedi.” Yes, the force is strong in this one. In his debut, The Brother Strikes Back, he can be seen fiercely protecting his Cheerios with a toy light saber. When asked to keep an eye on her brother for a minute, Sadie proclaims, “We’ve gotta keep an eye on the Sand People. Person. That would be Jedidiah. Sand People are tricky like he is tricky. It’s a Sand Person! Run!” Yes, Star Wars terminology seems to find its way into our everyday lives. While riding scooters outside, Sadie christens hers as a speeder bike. Josie tells Adelaide, who still has training wheels, “Well, you are not a Podracer like me or a speeder bike like Sadie. You are a Fodracer because you aren’t too good yet.” We even got a Star Wars craft book. Before I knew it, they showed up with a handmade Imperial Walker and a Star Destroyer. And just when I thought we were finished with the re-enactments, Sadie held out her arms in front of the automatic door at the grocery store and said, “Stand back, everyone! I’m going to use The Force!” Sheesh. I guess Josie said it best when I asked her why she likes Star Wars so much: “I like cool things. And it’s cool. That’s why.” Okay, I give up. Maybe it is. ---from my April 22 post for www.mentorpatch.com

Ouch

Yesterday, Jedidiah and I were having a rare moment of play time where I was NOT chasing him. We were sitting on a blanket in the yard and he was climbing up his little red and yellow plastic slide and having a grand old time sliding back down onto the blanket. Somewhere along the way, he found a golf ball, which he delighted in rolling down the slide and catching in his chubby little hand. Well, I look away for two seconds and in that two seconds, he has gone down the slide, flipped forward, landed ON HIS FACE on the blanket and of all places for his open mouth to land, it landed - you guessed it - right on the golf ball. The impact of his face on the blanket shoved the golf ball into his mouth BEHIND HIS TEETH and there he was, looking for all the world like a little pig with an apple in his mouth. I had to pull his lower jaw down with one hand and work my pinky finger back into his mouth to pop it back out of his mouth!

Humph

Adelaide to her sisters: "Oh YES you WILL or I will CRACK your butt open!" Sheesh... the violence!

Sadie, in regards to my new silver high heels: "Well, I LIKE them, I just don't think they will look good on YOU."

Pink Milk Blues

When I became pregnant with my first child at the ripe old age of 26, I was all about going “all natural.” We signed up for Bradley Childbirth Classes. I read a book about natural births, one about breastfeeding and all of the parenting magazines I could get my hands on.

Since I planned to forego any pain medications, I was a bit concerned when we asked the doctor if he could tell how big she would be from looking at the ultrasound.

He looked at me (tall, big-boned and gigantically pregnant) and then at my husband (6’2” and 230 pounds) and dead-panned, “Well, you are not small people.”

Just what you want to hear when you’re nine months along and swollen to twice your normal size.

I should also mention that I have severe scoliosis (spinal curvature) and therefore my pelvic bones are all goofed up and asymmetrical.

That, along with gigantic babies (turns out none of us are small people), earned me 4 c-section scars.

That’s right, after wasting almost six months on natural childbirth classes, I ended up having to have an emergency c-section. So much for no drugs!

This leads me to what happened after the surgery. I felt cheated somehow. I had wanted to give birth. I wanted that rite of passage into motherhood. I was mad but determined to make up for the “non-naturalness” of the actual birth with what happened afterward.

Yes, I’m talking about the all natural, selfless act of breastfeeding.

I was all set to make up for that unplanned c-section with my brand new lacy flip-down bras, my endless supply of nursing pads, my fancy-schmancy breast pump in its stylish leather case and my two nursing cover-ups – one in brown polka dot and one in lavender paisley.

Nothing is more beautiful, more tender, more natural than breastfeeding. Breast is best. Best for the baby. Healthier for the mom. More convenient than bottles. Cheaper than formula. There’s no question about it. Right?

WRONG!

My first baby had a bit of an overbite. Her cute little upper lip stuck out over her lower one from the moment she was born. I swear I think she was ready to start teething as soon as she came out of me. Her little gums felt like razors. Razors, I tell you!

Ack.

Not only that, but I was very insecure. As a first-time mother, I was totally intimidated by this tiny creature who was constantly hungry. I alone was supposed to provide her with all of this nourishment that was supposed to come so easily. My only question, as I cried, screamed and grit my teeth in agony while she nursed, was this:

How has mankind possibly survived for thousands of years with this madness as our primary means of sustenance?

Oh my gosh. THE PAIN. I cannot even begin to describe it.

For weeks, I cried. I howled. I banged my fist against the table. I held my breath. I used up enough Lansinoh to sacrifice a whole herd of sheep.

I wanted to quit, but I felt so guilty! The mommy guilt was tremendous. I wanted to do what was best for my baby.

My bathtub-birthing, non-immunizing, thoroughly holistic sister-in-law encouraged me as she squirted her own magical breast milk into her baby’s eye to ward off an infection: “Keep trying! You just have to get over the hump! You can do it! You NEED to do it!” Here, drink this organic tea! Take some Fenugreek! Suck it up!”

I decided to persevere. Reluctantly.

And then, THEN, I got mastitis.

Any mother who has had mastitis will tell you about it in these three little words: fever, pain, misery. I honestly thought I was going to die. I woke up ice cold, my teeth chattering and my entire body shaking.

I could barely walk to the bathroom mirror to see the bright red-streaked, burning hot skin that was showing through my beautiful (albeit worthless) nursing bra. Then I noticed the huge knot that had popped up there overnight. I immediately freaked out and called the doctor.

While I was on hold, my husband, thoroughly stressed out from two months of a crazed, sleep-deprived, hormonal wife and a starving, razor-gummed baby, made this pronouncement: “I think our daughter would be better off eating formula than growing up with a whacko mom who cries all the time.”

I realized that, in his own insensitive-male way, he was right. Then and there I decided to quit. The mastitis had effectively pushed me over the edge to Similac-land.

Then the doctor came to the phone and informed me that, no, I was not dying but that the only way to get rid of the infection and clear the plugged duct (what am I? some sort of plumbing device?!) was to – you guessed it – keep right on nursing.

I bought some kind of aqua gel soother things to put in the freezer and then stick in my bra. I smashed the “knot” in a vise-like grip between the edge of the bathtub and the palm of my hand (just writing about that pain makes me feel sick to my stomach, even now.)

I bought giant heads of cabbage and peeled the leaves off to make weird Tarzan-esque lingerie that would supposedly leech out the pain (hey, I was desperate.) My husband mentioned that he never knew having a baby would cause him to live in a pseudo-primitive village where his wife would constantly go topless.

In the mean time, I was pumping, pumping, pumping. And getting (this is gross) pink milk. Pumping is a whole other story. Expressed breast milk is like liquid gold, I tell you! And whoever said “don’t cry over spilled milk” obviously never pumped 4 ounces and then accidentally dumped it out on the carpet.

Anyway, to make a long story short, I ended up nursing Sadie for about 12 weeks, Josie for about 5 months, Adelaide for 2 ½ years, and I’m still nursing Jedidiah (and dreading the day he decides that he’s done.) If you’re a nursing mom, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

It’s not all rainbows and roses. I'm not going to encourage you one way or the other. If it's your thing, go for it! If you struggle, give it a chance - you will eventually get over the hump (probably.) If you need a pep talk/guilt trip, let me know and I’ll have my sister-in-law call you.

If it's AWFUL and you HATE it, feed your baby a bottle. It doesn't mean you love her any less.

No, it's not all fabulous and it certainly doesn’t feel all "natural" sometimes (unless being a miserable, cabbage-covered milk cow comes naturally to you.) But once you get the hang of it, it can be wonderful.

If you can just get the hang of it.

from my 4/15/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Easter Eggcitement

My kids love spring.

One of the best things about living in Northeast Ohio is the very prominent change of the seasons. In the south, where I grew up, winter turns to summer almost immediately. First you have on your winter coat, then suddenly you’re sweating and you have to turn on the A/C. Living here -- where the seasons change gradually -- is nice.

When the first crocuses burst awake from their winter sleep, my girls get so excited. They run inside, grab my hand and haul me out to the flower bed to see what they call “an amazing, wonderful surprise!” I love the way they are thrilled by such small things. I could take a lesson.

Putting away the gloves, scarves, hats and mittens is a welcome chore. We clean out and clean up.

We get out new clothes. We sort. We buy new flip flops. We get out all of the summer stuff that’s been hiding in the garage.

We hang little plastic eggs on the cherry tree in our front yard.

We anxiously await the first tulips to poke their heads through the mulch, then we spray them with “Rabbit Scoot” to protect them from those furry little nibblers that invade us every year.

We go to sleep listening to the deafening chorus of spring peepers in the pond behind our house.

We get dressed in our Sunday finest and take pictures in our Easter dresses and hats next to the bright yellow daffodils (the kids and I do, anyway… my husband loathes both wearing suits and taking pictures. Men.)

We break out the white vinegar and food coloring and proceed to decorate (in other words, waste) two dozen eggs purely for aesthetic and recreational purposes.

In the process, we end up talking about Jesus, his death and his resurrection.

My 6 and 8 year olds are somehow able to relate the Easter story to spring itself. They talk about new life. About how seeds die – how things sleep through the “death” of winter, then get raised up again in the spring. How things come back to life. They say what a wonderful hope it is for all of us - even for the animals and the trees and the flowers.

I am once again reminded how much smarter they are than I am!

Spring truly is a new beginning. How refreshing it is to know that everything can be made new again.

Happy spring to you and your family.


from my 4/8/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

The cuteness

Jedidiah has learned to blow kisses. It's pretty much the cutest thing ever. Once he gets started, it's hard to get him to stop, though. He KNOWS he's cute. The other thing he's doing now is whispering. Adelaide taught him how, apparently. I caught the two of them hiding behind the bathroom door, and they were WHISPERING back and forth to each other. The cuteness! I die.

The Great Leprechaun Hunt

Last weekend we almost caught a leprechaun.

Almost.

When Sadie went to take care of her morning chores -- it’s her responsibility to keep the downstairs bathroom clean -- on Friday morning, she found suspicious little green footprints all over the bathroom counter. Next to the footprints was a tiny pair of shoes!

Once her super-imaginative 7-year-old brain had a moment to digest this information, she went wild. She was so excited she could barely contain herself. “JO-SIE!” she yelled to her sister, running down the hallway. “ADELAIDE! Get ine here! There are feetprints – I mean footprints! Green… feet… AAAAAHHHH!”

Her sisters ran in to get a closer look. Together, they found even more “clues.” A ribbon tied to a drawer handle and draped all the way to the floor. Drawers that had been pulled open. A squished clover on the bathroom floor. Green scissors. Things out of place. Hmmm.

Their three little minds deduced that this could mean only one thing:

We had a leprechaun in the house!

From that moment on, Friday consisted of research into Ireland, the history of Saint Patrick and an intensive study of leprechauns.

We made a chart labeled who, what, when, where, why and how (they are studying interrogative words) and filled them in. They drew pictures. They used a map to find Ireland. They looked in books to find out more about the country, the landscapes, the castles, the foliage, the history and the folklore. They looked at hundreds of pictures of leprechauns and studied their dress, habits and personality traits.

Did you know that traditionally, leprachauns had 7 rows of 7 buttons sewn on to their coats? Yep, a leprechaun does love his buttons.

The kids searched for clues all over place – both inside and outside. Adelaide thought she was hot on his trail when, out by the basketball hoop, she said “I found a frog! He is green! Just like a lep-wa-conned! He musta rode on him here, Mommy! Jumping!”

Later on in the day when Sadie was working on a picture of a shamrock, she stopped writing and looked at me with her eyes narrowed. She said, “Mommy, are you doing all of this just so we’ll have fun?”

“Fun?” I asked innocently. “Do you call this fun? All this work is fun for you?!”

“Um, yeah!” Josie answered for her. “Actually, I think this is the most fun I have EVER HAD! Now, let’s build a trap!”

Along with their dad, they spent the evening constructing a trap, complete with a rainbow, a pretend campfire, a fake ladder so the leprechaun would think he could get out, lots of sparkly things and of course, a goldfish cracker for bait.

Then they walked around outside and in loud voices, proclaimed to each other, “Hey, didya hear about that great leprechaun house they have in there? I heard it was amazing! Hey, I think they have a lot of GOLD in this house! I’m just saying!”

As St. Patrick’s Day dawned, they were disappointed to only find a teasing note from Darby the leprechaun instead of the little guy himself (and his three wishes).

But they’re already planning a new and improved trap for next year.

And as far as learning something new goes, I think it was the most fun I ever had too.

From my article for www.mentorpatch.com on 3/25/12