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

Baby Boy Bathtime

Tonight I gave my baby boy a bath.

There’s nothing unusual about that. I’ve given hundreds, maybe even thousands, of baths during my tenure as a mom. Tonight I didn’t really do anything different with Jedidiah, but somehow it felt different. We felt more connected somehow.

As all moms are, I’m an expert multi-tasker. My brain always seems to be going a mile a minute, and these days I find it hard to concentrate on any one thing for long.

When bathing the kids, most of the time I catch myself thinking of all the other things that I need to get finished before I go to bed: brush four sets of teeth (no wait – make that five if I remember to do my own), put baby lotion on the baby, put on a clean diaper (not on me, on the baby), put on a clean Pull-up (again, not me), fill up three water bottles, find Blankie, Snoopy, Adelaide’s Dorothy doll, nurse Jed, check the laundry, feed the fish, call my mom, finish my (cold) dinner, put the dishes in the dishwasher, return some e-mails, exercise (well, I might put that one off till tomorrow), put a stamp on the letter that’s been sitting on the counter all week, etc.

I usually sit on the floor and spend Jedidiah’s bath-time making a mental list (which will eventually make it onto paper if I can find a pen in this house that writes.) Tonight, though, I actually just sat on the side of the tub and watched him play.

I noticed some things that normally I would miss:
•the sheer joy on his little face, the glee in his eyes as he smacks the bubbles with the palm of his hand.
•the drool on his chin, the happy splutters and raspberries he blows, the “googie-googie-googies” he yells out, just to hear his own voice echo off the walls.
•the pudgy little hands grasping for his little yellow rubber ducky, almost, almost… oh, not quite. Try again, buddy.
•the teeny pink feet, churning the water like tiny pink pistons on chubby legs.

He is not a bit concerned about his round little belly, his roly-poly thighs, or his gorgeous baby fat rolls.

His hair sticks up all over in a mini-Mohawk. It somehow always gravitates to the middle of his head.

He is absolutely perfect.

I think about how it must feel to him – the warm water, the bubbles, the splashing sounds all around him, the way the water drips down his little back. What an interesting experience bathtime must be for a one year old.

And what a wonderful experience to see the everyday things in our lives through the eyes of a sweet baby.

I guess I should give him my full attention more often.

from my article for www.mentorpatch.com on 3/18/12

Christian Passover

Last night we went to Brian and Laura's house to celebrate Christian Passover, Ross-style. Laura had transformed her entire house into Egypt and Israel. It was a great hands-on way for the kids to learn about the Passover and the sacrifice of Jesus before the Easter season. Plus it was fun to hang around with lots of friends and eat a great meal (rack of lamb, thanks to Brian for some great cooking), dates, figs, olives, artichokes, carrots, green and purple grapes, unleavened bread... lots
of things to help us remember the original passover meal. The kids got to go inside cardboard "houses" in the land of Egypt after they painted blood (red crayons) over the doorposts. Then the angel of the Lord came by (parent volunteers) to shake the buildings... the children, even the firstborn, came through unscathed. :) Then they became fishers of men AND caught fish in the Sea of Galilee (the downstairs bath tub). Next they got to pet some newborn baby goats and learn about sacrifice, they saw the paralyzed man lowered through the roof, they learned about yeast and how sin is like yeast and they searched for the yeast in the house and swept it all out (and threw it as far as they could get it!). Then they went up to the Garden of Gethsemane and nailed their sins (written on a scrap of paper) to a cross and they prayed just like Jesus did. Then they saw a reenactment of the resurrection! It was great and a wonderful way to spend an evening.

This n That

Adelaide had to go see the dermatologist because she had these weird little red bumps on her lower back and her little butt. So once we were in the office, I laid her across my lap, face down, so he could put the medicine on the bumps to get them to go away. Of course, while he was concentrating to get the liquid-dipped q-tip in just the right spot, Adelaide TOOTS A GIANT TOOT RIGHT IN HIS FACE. He laughed. I could've just died. Job hazard, I told him.


I have the bible verse "Do not be afraid for I am with you" written and taped to the utility room door. On the way out to the dark garage to get something out of the car at night, Josie took Adelaide's hand and said, "Don't be afraid, Adelaide, for I am with you!"

Sadie has been wearing little pink foam hair curlers to curl her hair (she's the only one who will sleep with them in her hair). It brings back so many memories of me and Angela in the orange vinyl rocking chair in our den when we were little! She looks so cute in them!

Sadie: "God is like a genie, but better."

Adelaide: "Mommy, sometimes you are allergic to fun."

15 month old boys do not like books. They do like digging through the trash, drinking leftover drinks (and dumping them on their heads), climbing on top of the kitchen table to steal cookies and stand up and eat them, brushing their teeth with their sisters' toothbrushes, and sticking their hands in mustard, only to sling them back and forth through the air.

They don't know how good they've got it

I have long been puzzled by the way most children hate the things that we adults love most.

Sitting down to eat dinner, for instance. If someone bought food for me, cooked it for me and served it to me, I would be more than willing to sit there and eat it. As a matter of fact, I would be just as happy as a clam. Even if it was clams!

Kids, though, act like it’s pure torture to have to sit their little butts in a chair for twenty minutes. They chew the same bite interminably. They spill things. They crumble. They whine. They scootch around. The bang their forks on their water glasses. They fall out of their chairs.

They say, “How many more bites?” and “Do I HAVE to eat my salad?” and “What exactly did you say is in here?” Seriously, if it were me, I would eat it AND I’d like it.

(One of my favorite quotes says that you spend the first two years of your children’s lives trying to get them to walk and talk, but then you spend the next 16 years trying to get them to sit down and be quiet.)

Taking a long shower is another thing. You know how good it feels to get in the shower, turn it on just as hot as you can stand it, breathe in the steam and let all your troubles swirl away down the drain? Ahhh. Ecstasy.

Kids, though, if you try to get them into the shower, they yell. They “go limp” and end up on the bathroom floor. They say, “I hate the shower! It gets water in my eyes! It gets water up my nose! I need my goggles! I don’t wanna take a shower! I don’t wanna!”

Well, first of all, I don’t really understand how you can physically get water up your nose in the shower. That seems like a feat of unnatural contortions. Secondly, it’s funny to see your child coming out of the shower wearing steamed-up goggles.

While we’re on the subject of relaxing, let’s talk about naps. Have you ever met a kid who consciously wanted to take a nap? Neither have I. Most afternoons, though, if you offered me the choice between a bag of gold or a 45 minute nap, I would take the nap hands down!

Why doesn’t anyone force you to take a nap when you’re a grown-up? Just about every day, I have the same conversation with my three-year-old. She doesn’t know that one of my biggest fantasies involves hearing the same words coming from her dad’s mouth, but aimed at me: “Devone! Get back in your room and close your eyes right now! I don’t want to hear another peep out of you until naptime is over. Do you understand me?”

On a related note, kids never want to go to be, either. I spend most of the day waiting to go to bed! I love my bed! By the end of a long day, all I want to do is put on my cozy pjs and my fuzzy socks and snuggle under the covers with my Side-Sleeper Pro pillow.

Kids want to stay up until they either crash (face first into a bowl of late-night cereal) or flip out, screaming and crying themselves to sleep in a tiredness-induced delirium. Not me. I WANT to go to bed. Right now, as a matter of fact.

Kids spend their time wanting to grow up, get bigger and be older.

We spend our time wishing we could be kids again, get smaller and be younger.

They aren’t really just tiny adults like I once thought – they are really our total opposites!

from my 3/11/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Funniest assignment ever, by Sadie

What Scares Me

What am I afraid of?

I guess the more pertinent question, in my case, is what am I NOT afraid of?

I am afraid of everything.

You name it, I worry about it. Especially when it comes to my children.

I worry about sickness, drugs, child molesters, hit-and-runs, tornadoes, fires, car accidents, drugs, cigarettes, alcohol, broken legs, broken necks, swallowed teeth, concussions, dog bites, snake bites, bug bites, killer bees, wild animals, bird poop (it has disease-carrying spores in it!), drownings, electrocutions, home invasions, fingers getting cut off in car doors, peer pressure, abductions, lightning strikes, running with sticks, bullies, hurt feelings, falling down stairs and a myriad of other things that are beyond my control.

Because of the recent terrifying school shooting in our area, I now feel like I have something else to worry about: random violence.

I’ve spent the last few days wondering what on earth possesses people to do these horrible things? What evil lurks in the hearts of men? And how can we, as parents, combat it?

The feeling of being out of control is a terrible one – for me, anyway. I’m guessing it is for you too.

I like to have a plan. I’m a list-maker. I want both my hands on the wheel. My plans help me deal with my fears. I like for life to go according to plan – MY plan.

But plans are notorious for one thing, right? Getting messed up!

As parents, we all struggle with fear. My family homeschools, but don’t think for a second that I’m under the delusion that my kids are safe from all harm just because they aren’t inside a school building every day. And fellow homeschoolers – don’t think that if you were sending your kids to school that you wouldn’t have the insecurities and fears that you have, either.

Nope, no matter what our circumstances may be, we are all just living with our own fears.

Different fears, maybe, but in essence they are exactly the same.

We want to be in control, but how can that be? Is it even possible?

Don’t get me wrong – I am very glad that I have the ability, means and freedom to school my children at home, but I recognize that not everyone does. It's scary to be a mom and know that the choices we make today will shape our children's futures for the rest of their lives and beyond. It's scary for ALL of us - whether or not our kids are in public school. Things like school shootings can happen anytime, anywhere.

And one of the biggest challenges moms have is the struggle to not give in to fear.

I know. I struggle with that challenge. Heck, I lose on a daily basis.

So, moms – you love your children just as much as I love mine. What do we do? What can we do?

We are never going to be in control the way we want to be. I thank God that He gives us wisdom for the present, forgiveness for the past, and hope for the future. No, we will never be able to wrap our kids in protective bubble wrap and keep them safe from the outside world forever. I guess fear isn’t something we can ever get rid of completely. But there are some things we can do.

We can pray just a little bit longer tonight.

We can encourage each other just a little bit more tomorrow.

And every day, EVERY day, we can hug our kids just a little bit tighter.

from my 3/4/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Reflection

Reflecting on a lot of things tonight, mainly because of the school shootings this morning. Very glad that I have the ability, means, and choice to school my children at home, but recognize that not everyone does. It's scary to be a mom and know that the choices we make today will shape our children's futures for the rest of their lives and beyond. It's scary for ALL of us - whether our kids are in public schools or not. Things like this can happen any time, anywhere. Thank God that He is here to give us wisdom for the present, forgiveness for the past, and hope for the future. We all need to hug our kids just a little bit tighter, pray a little more, and encourage each other.

Mommy Crimes

A list of crimes we mothers sometimes commit:

Purge-ery: Cleaning out your kids’ rooms and throwing out all of their broken toys while they spend the weekend at Grandma’s.

Assault and Battery: Throwing the stupid See-N-Say against the wall after you break a nail while stripping out the screws in its ridiculously tight battery compartment.

No-contest: When you’re ready to scream because your 3-year-old got out of bed again and then says, “I just wanted to tell you how much I love you, Mom.”

Ar-son: When you and your husband admit to the moms at the mall play area that yes, it was your son who dumped out all of those goldfish crackers, smashed them into the carpet and then left an orange trail down the slide.

Loitering: When you stay in the bathroom with the door locked a full three minutes longer than necessary just so you can have some time to yourself.

Possession of stolen property: When you take the last red Starburst from the Valentine candy and you pretend you don’t know what happened to it when your child says “What’s that in your mouth?”

Forgery: When you sign notes for The Tooth Fairy, even though you know very well she can write her own darn notes.

Bond jumping: When you quickly dodge your child’s jelly-covered goodbye embrace because you’re all dressed up and on your way out to dinner.

Counter-fitting: When you have to sit your child up next to the cash register at the shoe store to see if you picked the correct size because you can’t manage to corral her in the aisle.

Gross negligence: When you forget to close the bathroom door and the baby crawls in and plays “cleaning lady” with the toilet brush.

Play-giary: When you have absolutely no idea what to do with your kids for the next two hours so you look at your friends’ Facebook pages so you can steal all of their good ideas.

Disorderly conduct: When you see the enormous mess in your daughter’s room and instead of helping her clean it up, you join her in throwing confetti into the air and grinding Play-doh into the carpet.

Bribery: If you're a mom, you don't need a definition for this one!

from my 2/26/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

The Game of Love

Money was even tighter than usual for us on Valentine’s Day this year.

Receiving flowers or jewelry can definitely make a person feel special, but those things just weren’t in our budget this year. So our family did something that we don’t normally do – we played a special family game together around the kitchen table. We ended up calling it “The Love Game.”

The object of “The Love Game” is to make each member of your family feel valued and special. Each person says one thing that they love about every other member of the family.

It was interesting to find out what the girls had to say about each other, their dad, me and their baby brother. They also thought it was fun to speak for the baby in a squeaky, high-pitched voice: “I am baby Jeddy, and I love it when Sadie helps me learn to walk! Googie! And when Josie snuggles me! Goo! And when Adelaide climbs into my crib! Ticka-ticka!”

We learned that we actually do appreciate each other for little things – hugs from each other when we are sad, how Dad fixes things around the house, how Josie has a goofy laugh that makes us all smile, how Mommy does the laundry, how Sadie takes care of her little sisters, how Jed makes everyone laugh and how Adelaide is a really good hider during Hide and Seek.

We also touched on something else: how my kids love having “Special Time.” Special Mommy Time, Daddy Time, Grammie Time, Grandpa/Grandma Time, or Aunt/Uncle Time – it doesn’t matter. They thrive on it.

When there’s lots of kids in the family, even five short minutes of one-on-one time with each of them (without being interrupted by the phone or a sibling) shows them that they are special. (I guess this would apply to spouses, too, now that I think about it.)

And when you’re used to hearing “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom” a million times a day like I am, it gets increasingly difficult to care about everything your kids say. I tend to tune them out sometimes (or a lot of the time – especially certain three year olds who talk incessantly.) I know that cannot possibly make them feel like they are high on my scale of importance.

Strangely enough, though, simply noticing them usually seems to do the trick: “I HEAR you saying that your toe hurts.” Most of the time, the injured party will sniff dramatically and wander away after boo-boo acknowledgement has occurred. Noticing them makes them feel special. It makes them feel validated.

When someone is upset or sad (e.g., “She closed the door in my face!” or “They won’t play with me, Mommy!”) they naturally keep going until someone stops them. One trick I’ve learned to use when they start repeating themselves is for me to repeat it instead. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, right? They seem to automatically feel better when they know I get it. (This would apply to spouses, also, wouldn’t it?)

Though every kid loves a trip to the toy store, I suddenly realized after playing “The Love Game” that it’s the little things that make these little people feel loved. Not one of them said a word about material things during “The Love Game.”

Snuggling, getting an unexpected hug, being listened to, being acknowledged, reading a story on Mommy’s lap, a goofy dance with Daddy in the middle of the family room – things like these take precedence over new toys or fancy boxes of Valentine candy.

We moms love our children so much. Telling them what they mean to us, spending special time with them, acknowledging them, respecting them – all of these things make them feel special and show them how we feel about them.

Our whole Valentine’s Day experience was really very sweet – maybe even sweeter than an expensive box of chocolates. It made all of us feel important.

And it taught me that showing my children they are special is simpler than I thought – and cheaper, too!

from my 2/19/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Jed's favorites

Jedidiah's favorite things to do lately:

Play in the refrigerator (yesterday he helped himself to a leftover pancake and was standing there holding it in both hands, shoving it in his mouth as fast as he could when I caught him).

Pat himself on the tummy and laugh at the hollow drum sound it makes. He looks like a mini version of some jolly little elf holding his jolly fat belly.

Peek between the bars on his crib. For some reason, it's funny when he's standing there holding on and I bed down and look at him through the slats.

Humming, especially when he's supposed to be taking a nap. I can hear him through the baby monitor, saying things like Hmmmmm, oh-gi-ho, yahha, mammamamamama, ma, goggi,googi,goggi, haha.

Climbing, everywhere. On top of the little kid table I had when I was little (and leaning up flat against the wall), the stairs, on top of the coffee table (he doesn't care that it's glass), on top of the bathroom stool so he can play in the sink, on top of the bathtub... everywhere.

Banging things. Banging is fun, whether it's a spoon, a bat, his wooden hammer, or just his fist.

Leaning WAaaaayyyy over to the side when I'm holding him, so he can catch my eye, get a good look at me, and grin!

Tickling my feet. I don't know why he thinks this is so funny, but he LOVES to go after my toes and try to tickle them. He's so silly :)

Bad Day

This morning I woke up after a terrible night’s sleep with two deadlines looming, a filthy house, five overflowing laundry baskets, ants sneaking in through a crack in the floor, an empty milk carton in the fridge, kids who needed to be fed (and bathed and given a math lesson), dog poop on my front walk, a crying baby and a terribly achy back.

I just wanted to hide in the bathroom and cry.

As soon as I locked the door, though, someone (make that two someones) knocked, jiggled the knob and then proceeded to stick their little fingers through the crack under the door.

I looked in the mirror. Big mistake. That did not make me feel better at all. I need a haircut. I need a facial. I need to go to the gym. Let’s face it; I need a complete makeover. But who has time (or money) for all of that stuff? Certainly not me – sometimes I don’t even have time to take a shower, much less spend a day at the spa.

Every mom can relate to this, right?

I know I’ve felt this way before, and I’m sure I’ll feel it again.

What I really don’t understand is why people – moms especially – feel like they need to put on a show so that the rest of the world will think that their life is perfect and that they have it all together.

We’ve all seen them – the moms straight from the cover of Parenting magazine with their pointy high heels and their fabulous figures. In tow are their perfectly dressed, perfectly behaved children.

Not ONE of those kids has magic marker staining the front of their shirt or mismatched socks or even “static hair.” They look perfect. Those kids don’t lick the glass door at the mall, toot on their dermatologist or pull two dozen books off the shelf at the library as the stroller goes by. (I’m not admitting to any of these things, mind you.)

But I know it’s a charade! My question is, what makes us, as moms, care what other moms think? Why are we so competitive? I would rather know that there are other women out there in the trenches with me. Others feeling isolated and freaked out and just a teensy bit crazy. That would make me feel better.

And honestly, sometimes I feel so overwhelmed that it’s hard to even get a breath.

So I’m going out on a limb here to say this:

Moms! I am here to tell you that you are not alone out there! Everyone feels like hopping a plane to Tahiti once in a while and leaving it all behind! It doesn’t mean you are a bad mom!

I, for one, want everyone to know that sometimes my life can really stink. I’m not trying to complain; I just want to be honest with all of you other moms out there - even the "Perfect-o Moms." You know who you are.

Don’t get me wrong – I love my husband. I love my children, my house, my job. I love my life.

But right now, I just want to go sit in a hot tub and listen to some Ray Lamontagne and cry until I feel better.

Some chocolate probably wouldn’t hurt, either.

-from my 2/12/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Beach in February?

Last week, we went to the BEACH in February! Unheard of where we live, right? It was such a beautiful sunny day, and relatively warm, that we wrapped up in coats and scarves and headed to the beach at the end of our road and just hung out for an hour (after Sadie and Josie finished their Math, of course :).

It was too steep for Jedidiah and the stroller and me to get down to the water's edge, so the three girls tiptoed down the hill by themselves (Sadie helping Adelaide) with their rock-collecting buckets. I loved sitting there watching them by the water, wind in their hair, checking stuff out. Sadie gathered a a bunch of rocks - her very favorite thing - and Adelaide, learning at the feet of the master, got a bucketful of her own! At one point, Josie sat down on a log and just watched the waves for a full 15 minutes. That's one of the best things about homeschooling - being able to do science outside, where REAL science is!

On the ride home, the girls were so excited about our little trip. I guess they were very glad to be out of the house. Sadie said, "This was great! it was just absolutely beautiful out there!" and Josie and Adelaide said, "Hey, yeah! It was the BEST DAY EVER!"

Umm...

For the past month, we have been learning about Egypt and reading Cleopatra VII. Throughout the book, the word "vineyard" has come up over and over. Josie has a mental block on this word and every time she hears it, she says, "What's a vineyard?" I finally made her say it over and over and over and I asked her and asked her for DAYs afterward to make sure she knew it. The next day, there it was in yet another passage. I said, "Josie, what's a vineyard?" She looked at me and said, "Um... well,um..." I said, "EVERY DAY I ask you what a vineyard is!" She said, "Well, why don't you just ask somebody else, then?"

Sadie had a hard day the other day. It was difficult to get her to sit down and concentrate, and she had a fight with her sister (she stepped on Josie's EYE, don't ask me how that happened) and so at bedtime, she was all weepy. I was talking to her and trying to help her feel better when Miss Drama said, "There is only ONE thing that would make me feel better, and that is to sleep downstairs with YOU and I know that THAT is simply IMPOSSIBLE!" Huff, flop onto her pillow... crying. I gave up. :)

Today, I let Adelaide watch Sesame Street while S and J did their math. She came running up to me afterward, singing a LOUD song about the Bert and Ernie segment on the show, which she informed me in no uncertain terms, was called NOT Bert and Ernie's Great Adventures, but BERNIE's Great Adventures.

The Toot Dance

Three-year-old Adelaide has started her very first dance class.

Actually, it’s her first class of any kind at all (other than Sunday School.) Naturally, I was somewhat apprehensive about her impending behavior.

Oh, the excitement on her first day! Her little cousin (and best friend) Caroline had signed up too, which made it even more exciting. Adelaide donned her tights and borrowed a sparkly outfit from Josie. She was ready a whole hour early.

Along with her sisters (there was no way they were going to miss out on this spectacle), we made our way to the classroom and met the teacher.

A dozen other six-and-under giggly little girls squirmed around while pretending to listen to instructions. All of the moms tied lengths of yarn to their ballerinas’ right hands and right feet (for their girls to reference during the hokey pokey).

Then Adelaide ceremoniously put her nametag (on a yarn necklace) around her neck. She was READY TO DANCE.

Unbeknownst to the teacher on that first day, Adelaide and Caroline like to talk. And laugh. And goof around. As soon as they stepped onto the hardwood floor, they paired up and proceeded to dance in the opposite direction of the rest of the class.

Besides the fact that they are the youngest (and shortest) girls in the class, they are apparently also the most uninhibited. In fact, it was like they were the only two there – two mini prima ballerinas on their own private stage.

They laughed. They squealed. They galloped. They pranced. They raised their left hands instead of their right ones. They put their right foot in instead of their left. They hokied when they should have pokied.

In short, they did shake it all about but not exactly at the appropriate time. They were dancers of distraction.

The only times Adelaide acknowledged anyone besides Caroline was when she sneakily cut her eyes toward me, grining a huge goofy grin and waving her entire arm at me.

At one point, another little girl wanted to hold Caroline’s hand, but Adelaide was having none of that. She intercepted that little problem and gave her a dirty look. The interloper took the hint and pirouetted away to safety.

Caroline took this opportunity to assault the teacher with questions: “Who are you? What is your name? I know, but what is your first name? And what are we doing? And what is this dance called?”

From our seats in the back of the room, Caroline’s mom and I enjoyed the question and answer session. Well, I enjoyed it. Her mom just shook her head and hissed, “Pssst! Caroline! No more questions! No more questions!”

Little did we know that what was coming up next would make all those questions seem a lot less, um, questionable.

During what started out as a cute routine set to Disney’s Under the Sea, Adelaide decided that instead of following the current, so to speak, she would make some waves and launch into her own version of “The Toot Dance.”

“The Toot Dance” is the dance where you twirl and then you toot. Then you kick your leg up, you toot, you bend over, you toot, you raise your arms gracefully, you toot, you curtsy (like a lady) and then you toot (not so much like a lady.)

I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard.

The funniest part was that she never even acknowledged any of those toots during the dance. No matter how loud the toots got (and in the cavernous, hardwood-floored room, they carried quite an echo, believe me), she maintained a straight face.

I could barely contain myself. For the first time in years, I actually laughed so hard I snorted.

On the way home, I asked Adelaide what she thought about her very first dance class.

She sighed, smiled wistfully, and smoothed down her tutu. “I like my class. And I like my dwess. And, well, Mom, I danced very nicely today, didn’t I, Mom? I was just like a real lady. All except for the tooting part.”

-from my 2/5/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Jed's first steps

Today, Jedidiah and I were playing with his Noah's Ark rubber ball on the rug in the kitchen floor. He was rolling the ball and sometimes kicking at it with his foot. Then he stood up and scootched his little toes around so he was facing me. And THEN, he came toward me, arms held out, and he STEPPED toward me! Two whole steps! Then he threw himself at me, his arms around my neck, and I scooped him up and he laughed. It was a beautiful moment. I love that little boy SO MUCH that I can't stand it. I can't believe he's already walking... my baby.