Category: From the Trenches

Her Kids Make

I discovered not too long ago that a dear friend (who makes amazing creations in the kitchen and is always trying something new) is blogging about her kids adventures in creating.  We’re talking food, crafts, homemade paper - all kinds of making going on!  She records their adventures in pictures & video on her super-pretty blog. I think my favorite might be this one. (“Look at the ah-vivs, Si-wis, look at the ah-vivs!”) I’m partially obsessed with these videos because I love these kids, but seriously, they could host their own show. I also love the heart of what Becky’s doing (without actually saying it…) – reminding parents that kids can crack eggs, and the messes that incur are worth the lessons learned and memories made.  I love it!

So, if you’re looking for some summer time activities with your kids (like a smores cake that you cook on your grill!) or some scrumptious recipes check it out! You’ll find it all at mykidsmake.com. Enjoy!

The Everything Virus

This picture doesn’t really do justice to the mess and chaos in our house right now.  I snapped it last night, as I sat nursing Ellie, chuckling out loud at the mess. We’ve been hit with what I call the “everything virus.” Those of you from New York know the everything bagel: sesame seeds – check, poppy seeds – check, coarse salt -check, onion – check: it’s got it all.  I hate them.  Well, that’s pretty much how this virus works too, only substitute sesame seeds, salt and onion with fevers, croupy coughs, vomiting, and diarrhea (Can you write that on a blog?)

I was considering writing a Top 100 Things to Be Thankful For When Your Kids are Sick list, to keep myself from going down the path of utter self-pity, but I only got to #2 (the ripe avocado I had with lunch) before I had a total meltdown about a couple things I needed from the grocery store, and my inability to get them without dragging the kids out.  It wasn’t really the rice cereal, though.  It was the battle with the insurance carrier, and the stress of waiting to hear about the house, and the exhaustion that comes with sick kids.  The rice cereal was just the straw that broke the camel’s back.  So, I don’t have words enough to thank my dear, dear friend Jean Ellen rescued me (despite her busy day) with the rice cereal and Pedialyte (and threw in some chocolate dipped-chocolate chip cookies and a dinner to boot!)

So, today, I’m thankful for:

1. Jean Ellen – her act of kindness & the hope she instills in me by her example
2. modern medicine
3. running water
4. disposable diapers (I know, I know…)
5. those avocados
6. conversations with Laura
7. cuddles with Ellie
8. the warm(er) weather & open windows to get some fresh air
9. Ted not working tonight
10. both kids napping simultaneously

And that’ll have to do for today. Baby’s waking up.

On Doll Houses & Real Houses

I’ve only purchased a few items via Craigslist: my glider, our stroller, and this doll house.  We got it for Laura (and eventually Ellie) this Christmas, from the sweetest lady.  She lived well over an hour away, but met us minutes from our house during a snow storm.  She mailed us extra furniture she came across. It’s been a feast for Laura’s imagination, and she plays with it daily.  Along with these sweet wooden dolls, several other playmates inhabit the house: figurines, stuffed animals, anything that can squeeze through that little front door.

Little did I know, that night when I stayed up well past 4am re-wallpapering and sanding, that in a matter of weeks we would be looking for our first home, and eventually settle on one not unlike the little Victorian Laura’s playthings live in.  We’ve embarked on the, how shall I say,  adventure of purchasing a short sale, and this week we heard that things are moving in the right direction.  Still, I like to say we’re cautiously hopeful.

It can seem like a big deal, a house.  And in some ways it is.  I have moments of total meltdown where I wonder what we’re doing, and if this decision falls into line with the goals and dreams that have fueled our marriage, and my sense of identity. Thankfully, Ted’s usually able to keep his cool during these glorious rants, and we grow through the process. (I  like to think I do the same for him, too.)  So today, with all the unknowns and questions, I’m comforted by the companionship I have on the journey and I’m challenged to remember where my real identity and home is found.  And instantly I’m at home.

Breakfast of [very sensible] Champions

Funny little story today… We live on the late side of life at our house.  (Those of you who know me are either rolling your eyes or laughing, depending on where you fall on the early to late continuum.) So, when my girls roll out of their little beds around 9:30 (don’t be too jealous, we pay for it with our late nights…), I usually have a simple breakfast ready: toast or cereal, some fruit, maybe some previously made & frozen waffles, if they’re lucky.  But recently, I gave my ever increasingly opinionated three year old an open ended “What would you like for breakfast?” … just for fun!

I was ready for her best shot: candy hearts with hot chocolate, leftover apple cake, pizza. I wanted to see what her little imagination could dream up.  She thought for a minute, and with all the seriousness someone in pigtails can muster said, “I think I’ll have something that won’t make a mess and that has lots of fiber.” All I can say, is that she most certainly did not get that good sense from me!

We’ve have, however, had lots of talk of fiber lately, as we’ve been pureeing plenty of mangoes for her baby sister’s, how shall we say, irregularities? (Better than prunes, according to our pediatrician!) But, you never realize how much they pick up on and incorporate into their little brains, until these little gems pop out, just when you least expect it.

Here’s a shot of our favorite way to slice a Mango – cut lengthwise, sliced into a grid, and popped inside out. Yum!

A Lesson from Laura

I was driving with the girls this week, listening to the news to find out just how much snow was expected (a foot, it turns out), when a report came over the airwaves regarding an explosion at a gas plant in Connecticut.  As I reached for the dial I glanced in the rear view mirror, hoping to see Laura spaced out or tuned into to something other than the words streaming over the radio.   “What does it mean that two people were killed, Mommy?” Of course.

I try to be straight forward and simple in my answers about the tough things: honest, but age appropriate.  After a fairly simple explanation, only slightly complicated by 37 “Why, Mommy-ies” I asked if she wanted to pray for the families of the men who had died.  I often pray about things as they come up throughout my day, and recently I’ve been making it a practice to do so aloud, and inviting Laura to join me if she wants. It seems like a simple way to show her my faith lived out. And as she usually does, Laura said she wanted to pray with me, “but with just [me] talking.”  So I prayed a simple prayer, asking God to comfort the families of those men, and with amen, thought I had ended our little conversation.

“So what did God say?” Laura asked after a few seconds. It hit me like a ton of bricks.  All this time I’ve been praying with her, she expects that I am hearing answers back, that prayer is a two way street. And she was right! Scripture says that God’s Word, written throughout history, is living and active (Hebrews 4:12)- it applies to our little lives and questions and requests.  And it also says that Jesus’ sheep know His voice (John 10:4). Perhaps the question is if we’re listening.

That moment, those words, that brutal innocence, is exactly why when some of Jesus’ followers tried to prevent a bunch of kids from bothering their master teacher, he chided them:

But Jesus called the children to him and said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it” Luke 18.16-18

Perhaps the single, greatest gift of motherhood is the opportunity to see life through the eyes of your child.  For me, rediscovering faith, through Laura’s perspective has caused me to confront the places in my faith that have become routine or stale, instead of the beautiful, life giving relationship He offers. So today, I am praying, and I’m listening.  Thanks, kiddo.

Chocolately Goodness

With a thousand apologies to all of you who are successfully finishing your second week of New Year dieting, I fear simply glancing at the picture above may cost you 200 calories.  Yesterday I ran solo to the grocery store at 7am, knowing that I had less than half an hour to fill our almost bare pantry with groceries, but that the supermarket sweep was worth not bundling two stuffy-nosed kids up to shop, to say nothing of the fact that very few groceries actually fit into your cart when you have an infant car seat in the rear and a toddler in the front.  But, there was a hidden cost to this early morning, child-free grocery blitz.  A seductively delicious hidden cost!  I found my normal sense of stringent list abiding reason flew out the window in the excitement of rushing down aisles, and  I threw in several items that were not on my list, not necessary, and not in the best interest of the pre-maternity jeans lurking the farthest corner of my closet suffering from an abandonment complex.

I’m aware that Nutella is not exactly gourmet fare.  The decadency is more emotional: it warms my heart to think of my Pops who first introduced me to the delicacy, and the wonder that filled my little heart at the concept of chocolate spread on crackers.  Amazingly, the taste lived up to my memory (which has a tendency to exaggerate the positive).  I was happily surprised to find that not only the taste, but the look & label of Nutella remain unchanged.  In an aisle of bright colored, cartoon endorsed, bubbly fonted peanut butters, Nutella stands like a time capsule. I love the simple lettering, and  of course the image, from a day when hazelnut chocolate spread on a piece of bread was a suitable snack.  Here at this home, that day is today! Mmmm…

Lessons about Reality from the World of Make Believe

My two year old, Laura, is very into make believe.  It all started just before Christmas time last winter.  She quickly identified the main character of any story as herself, and assigned my husband and I supporting roles.  When Ellie was born earlier this summer, Laura began incorporating her into most of these play games by making her a pet.  Poor little puppy!

So these days, Laura is Karen from Frosty the Snowman, I am Frosty, and my husband, Ted,  plays Santa.  She is Annie from Little Einstiens, I’m Leo (after all I drive our rocket & wear glasses) and my husband is Quincy.  Random friends and grandparents rotate in and out as June, the fourth member of the gang. She is Bob the Tomato and I am the taller, sillier Larry.  Somehow Ted ended up as Mr. Lunt, the squinty eyed gourd with a Mexican accent.   She is Cinderella, I am Sleeping Beauty, and Ted is our (shared) prince. She is Spot, I am Sally, and Ted is Spot’s Daddy.  There is no scenario she cannot adapt.

When she was younger, she would slip in and out of character.  But now, in her mature almost three land of imagination, she announces with pomp & circumstance when she is donning a new role.  Recently, when she is finished playing, and wants to return to just being herself, she says so by telling us: “Now I just want to be my Momma’s child.”

I was struck today, when she said this to my mother-in-law, that she is summing up her identity in this statement.  She sees herself first and foremost as belonging to me, being my child. She knows who I am, and she finds her own identity in relationship to that understanding.  What a beautiful picture.  It’s so easy to see myself as wife, mother, teacher, artist, diaper changer. But my true identity lies in knowing the One who loves me, the One I’m at home with, and knowing I am His.  Sigh.

public restroom glory

I didn’t plan on being an early potty-trainer. I’m not sure I can even take credit for the feat.  Laura basically potty trained herself last August, a few months shy of her second birthday.  To be fair, my sister would clarify that Laura is not actually potty trained, but rather I am potty trained, as she is not tall enough to climb onto the seat herself, and needs assistance in the “paper wiper” department, as she calls it.

For better or for worse, though, we’ve been diaper free (although, I regret to inform you, not accident free) for almost a year now. Aside from the chorus of praise from a generation whose children were all perfectly potty trained by eighteen months (“and what’s wrong with mothers these days anyway?”), there have been several perks to kissing diapers goodbye: so long, diaper bag slouch; adios, $40 giant box of Huggies every month; ciao, landfill guilt; see ya, scrapping poop off the cloth diapers I invested in to assuage the wallet crunch and landfill guilt…  The list goes on.  But, honestly, there is one experience that has tempted me to put my perfectly potty trained big girl back into pampers.  I have become convinced that no perk can outweigh the trauma of public restrooms with a toddler.

The worst of it came during a trip to the mall.  I secretly wonder if my husband actually suggested this tactic to Laura, as it has so deeply affected my psyche that I rarely set foot in the den of materialism, so scarred am I by the thought of using a public restroom with her.  We were there, the two of us, in the tiny stall (the more spacious handicapped stall having been examined and deemed too dirty).  Everything was fine and dandy.  We lined the seat, she held onto me, and not the seat, as I squatted down in front of her, face nearer to the toilet than anyone should have to suffer.  We even avoided the automatic flush, which sometimes causes a lightning speed lift and pivot of the urinating toddler to avoid the plagued germ-filled back-splash attacking her innocent bottom and my already suffering face.

I thought we were in the clear when I pulled her pants up and instructed her to wait while Mommy went potty.  All I had to do now was take care of my business while constantly engaging her in conversation to distract her from all the interesting little doors and mailboxes and scum to see and touch in a public restroom.  “Laura, keep your hands down, don’t touch anything!” my mother’s voice chided from my mouth.  And she did keep her hands down. I looked away for a second, as is sometimes required in the business I was simultaneously attending too, and lifted my eyes just in time to see her lick the tiled wall.  I repeat: just in time to see her lick the tiled wall.

All of a sudden, touching the door handle, even the God-forbidden sticking of the hand into the sanitary napkin box, didn’t seem so awful.  At least I could sanitize her hands.  The best part was that she looked up at me, beaming with pride, as if she had figured out a riddle:  “See, Mom, I accomplished my mission and didn’t touch the icky bathroom with my hands!” And that, she had.