There are some days that I love being a mom, really love it -- not just say I love it because I'm overwhelmed and exhausted and need to say it to remind myself that I do. I wrap my entire being around my life, infused with energy and goodwill from my children, knowing that, at least for this one moment, I am doing it right.
There is so much uncertainty that goes with parenting, so much second guessing. I have never felt less sure of myself than I do now, when instinct and intelligence battle daily. My instinct is always, first and foremost, to show my children love. My intellect riots when, instead of demanding an over-tired toddler sit in time-out, I cradle the child close, rocking and soothing, instantly forgetting and forgiving the transgression because I just ache from places I didn't know existed when they cry.
Today I had one of those moments of clarity when I felt sure, felt competent, felt that what I am doing and how I approach my children is right.
Milo's first bit of homework is an "All About Me" project. Scott helped him complete a worksheet on Sunday night and I helped him decorate a paper-wrapped shoe box with markers and an odd assortment of stickers (Halloween, Batman,Chocolate Labs, and dots). He had to place three objects in the box which give insight into who he is.
His first selection is a small figure of a Chocolate Lab. His second selection is one of his Star Wars guys -- he waffled for a while about whether or not he wanted to put one in, but ultimately decided that they really are his favorite toys. His third selection? I suggested a Wii game, a book, his favorite food, a plastic egg (because of the chickens), a tractor, a car and numerous items. He refused all of them.
Finally he said, "Mom, why can't I just put in a picture of my family? They are the most important thing to me and I want to share that. I'm me because of my family."
Talk about blown away...
Of course I immediately printed a picture for him and let him tuck it safely into his box.
The other part of the assignment is a "Meaning of My Name" note. So I quickly typed up an explanation of how he got his name. When I read it aloud to him, his eyes filled with tears and he squeezed me more tightly than he's ever squeezed me before. He whispered, "Mom, that's the most beautiful story I have ever heard. Thank you and I love you."
Naturally, this turned on my waterworks, too. And we both sniffled sweetly at each other for a moment, that moment when I felt like the best mom in the world.
Showing posts with label mama lesson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mama lesson. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Jeckyll and Hideous...
Oh, my sweet girl,
Why didst thou transform from sweet toddler to loud preschooler,
convinced that your narrow opinion matters when it comes to
eating your supper,
getting dressed,
washing your hands,
using the toilet,
going to bed,
picking up toys,
setting the table,
walking into the road,
eating too many Oreos,
hitting your brother,
feeding the chickens,
brushing your teeth,
or kissing me goodnight?
And, to myself, please, oh, please may my recent insanity be due to hormonal supplementation.
Please? Please? Please?
and more Please?
I have gotten a peek at my future, and I think that the world just might end of your puberty and my menopause align like an eclipse. Poor Daddy. Poor Milo. I think they might want to consider building a shelter in the back yard. They don't really need that much space, do they?
Maybe you and I should get more sleep, huh, babe?
Disclaimer: No children were hurt during the making of this post, nor the events that led to the making of this post. There was just a mommy with low blood sugar and a child pushed way past tired. And mushrooms, a potty, and pajamas. Don't ask, it wasn't pretty -- not sure if it was her tears or mine on my shirt. She did, however, wake up this morning sunny and cheerful and full of hugs. So did I.
Why didst thou transform from sweet toddler to loud preschooler,
convinced that your narrow opinion matters when it comes to
eating your supper,
getting dressed,
washing your hands,
using the toilet,
going to bed,
picking up toys,
setting the table,
walking into the road,
eating too many Oreos,
hitting your brother,
feeding the chickens,
brushing your teeth,
or kissing me goodnight?
And, to myself, please, oh, please may my recent insanity be due to hormonal supplementation.
Please? Please? Please?
and more Please?
I have gotten a peek at my future, and I think that the world just might end of your puberty and my menopause align like an eclipse. Poor Daddy. Poor Milo. I think they might want to consider building a shelter in the back yard. They don't really need that much space, do they?
Maybe you and I should get more sleep, huh, babe?
Disclaimer: No children were hurt during the making of this post, nor the events that led to the making of this post. There was just a mommy with low blood sugar and a child pushed way past tired. And mushrooms, a potty, and pajamas. Don't ask, it wasn't pretty -- not sure if it was her tears or mine on my shirt. She did, however, wake up this morning sunny and cheerful and full of hugs. So did I.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Rebirth
Five years ago today, the most beautiful baby boy ever born slipped into the world with his umbilical cord looped gently around his neck and his little hand holding my heart, bringing it with him into the room, beating the song of motherhood.
I don't know what he thought as he looked around for the first time, as he heard the nurses cheering and the doctor teasing his father about his adrenaline-clumsy fingers that fumbled the scissors which cut the physical tie that bound us, as he felt the air pricking the fine hairs on his body and hands turning him, wrapping him, laying him on my chest.
I believe that I do know what he thought in that moment when his skin grazed mine, his eyes turned toward my face, toward my hiccuped, choked call, "Oh, my baby! Hello, my baby! Oh, my boy!" When he sensed my voice, his panicked wail ceased, his face bright and alert as his gaze was drawn into mine. I saw the recognition, saw him react, saw him think, "Mommy. My mommy." I was drowning and I let go, let myself sink.
Oh, my sweet, sweet boy... I love you fiercely. I react to your joy and pain viscerally, my heart far more exposed in your life than it ever was in mine. If ever I thought that growing up was hard when I was the one growing, I now know that difficulty is dwarfed by the insecurity of growing another. There are so many decisions, so many implications, so many choices second-guessed as I try to guide you into the being you will become. Do I stand too close? Let you wander too far? Give you enough or too much?
As I tucked you in last night, I kissed your cheek and you grasped my head, pulling me nearly into the bed. I held you and, for a moment, smelled a sliver of your newborn scent -- a scent which makes me drunk with love. I held you, my baby, and you, my child, in that heartbeat; time swelled so that I could step into memory, swimming again in emotion, reborn as a mother.
Happy birthday, Milo. I can only hope that one day you will get a gift as perfect as I did when you were born.
I don't know what he thought as he looked around for the first time, as he heard the nurses cheering and the doctor teasing his father about his adrenaline-clumsy fingers that fumbled the scissors which cut the physical tie that bound us, as he felt the air pricking the fine hairs on his body and hands turning him, wrapping him, laying him on my chest.
I believe that I do know what he thought in that moment when his skin grazed mine, his eyes turned toward my face, toward my hiccuped, choked call, "Oh, my baby! Hello, my baby! Oh, my boy!" When he sensed my voice, his panicked wail ceased, his face bright and alert as his gaze was drawn into mine. I saw the recognition, saw him react, saw him think, "Mommy. My mommy." I was drowning and I let go, let myself sink.
Oh, my sweet, sweet boy... I love you fiercely. I react to your joy and pain viscerally, my heart far more exposed in your life than it ever was in mine. If ever I thought that growing up was hard when I was the one growing, I now know that difficulty is dwarfed by the insecurity of growing another. There are so many decisions, so many implications, so many choices second-guessed as I try to guide you into the being you will become. Do I stand too close? Let you wander too far? Give you enough or too much?
As I tucked you in last night, I kissed your cheek and you grasped my head, pulling me nearly into the bed. I held you and, for a moment, smelled a sliver of your newborn scent -- a scent which makes me drunk with love. I held you, my baby, and you, my child, in that heartbeat; time swelled so that I could step into memory, swimming again in emotion, reborn as a mother.
Happy birthday, Milo. I can only hope that one day you will get a gift as perfect as I did when you were born.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Lessons
It seems that, of late, this blog has been mostly about my clumsiness or our stress, so here's an entry about something heart-warming!
Last night, after bath and snack and teeth-brushing, we settled in for our nightly reading time. Milo had gotten his book order from school, and the books he most wanted to read were the Scooby-Do phonics books. He has flat-out said that he wants to learn to read, so this seemed like a good opportunity.
Book 1 from the Scooby set features short "a" and short "i". I decided to focus on the short a words, so I pointed to each word on the list inside the cover, telling Milo that a-t makes the "at" sound. I read each of the keywords (at, cat, mat, and sat), then we started in on the story.
As I read, I stopped at each of the keywords and let Milo fill in the word. Most of them were "cat" as the title of the reader was "The Cat Came Back." He correctly identified cat each time, paused for a moment for "mat", and needed to be asked, "What sound does S make?" before "sat". We triumphantly reached the end of the book.
Then I pointed to the keywords on the inside of the cover and Milo read at, cat, mat, and sat correctly. He was overjoyed! And a light went off in his little head. He looked at me and said, "Hat is h-a-t, right? And bat is b-a-t?"
I beamed and said, "Yes! That's right! How would you spell 'fat'?"
He thought for a second and said, "F-f-f... F says f. So F-a-t!"
By this point, he was so excited he was squeaking and his whole body was charged, ready to fly. He hopped off his bed, came around and hugged me tightly, his sweet round face barely able to contain his pride.
"I'm so proud of you, buddy! You just read four words! And then you spelled three more!" I squeezed him tightly and kissed his hair. Violet clapped and smiled.
"I'm so proud of you, mommy, for teaching me to read at, cat, mat and sat!"
My big-hearted little boy was sharing the spotlight I'd shone on his accomplishment. Without a second though, he was expressing his gratitude and love, unabashedly affectionate and sincere. I melted. Who wouldn't?
Violet was in awe. She held the book and turned the pages reverently. "Cat, cat, cat. Cat, cat, cat. My read, too, like Milo!"
Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I hope that Milo has learned how to express gratitude and show love from us. I hope that he'll continue to show his generosity to the people he loves. he asked last night, during the kids' bath, "Mom, why does Violet always give me the Mickey Mouse when we take a bath?"
"When you love someone, you always give them the things they like!" He was thoughtful and digested that for a moment. It is true, Violet is a sharer by nature -- she always asks for two of everything and takes one to Milo. I can see that it makes her happy to give to him. He usually remembers to thank her, which tickles her, too.
I don't know if that lesson was in play when Milo so quickly shared his accomplishment with me. I'd like to think that he's learning good things from the people who love him the most -- I know that I'm always learning from him. I do know that this lesson is far more important in the long run than at, cat, mat and sat. He will learn to read when he learns to read. But learning to love is a lesson that is always being taught to any willing soul.
Last night, after bath and snack and teeth-brushing, we settled in for our nightly reading time. Milo had gotten his book order from school, and the books he most wanted to read were the Scooby-Do phonics books. He has flat-out said that he wants to learn to read, so this seemed like a good opportunity.
Book 1 from the Scooby set features short "a" and short "i". I decided to focus on the short a words, so I pointed to each word on the list inside the cover, telling Milo that a-t makes the "at" sound. I read each of the keywords (at, cat, mat, and sat), then we started in on the story.
As I read, I stopped at each of the keywords and let Milo fill in the word. Most of them were "cat" as the title of the reader was "The Cat Came Back." He correctly identified cat each time, paused for a moment for "mat", and needed to be asked, "What sound does S make?" before "sat". We triumphantly reached the end of the book.
Then I pointed to the keywords on the inside of the cover and Milo read at, cat, mat, and sat correctly. He was overjoyed! And a light went off in his little head. He looked at me and said, "Hat is h-a-t, right? And bat is b-a-t?"
I beamed and said, "Yes! That's right! How would you spell 'fat'?"
He thought for a second and said, "F-f-f... F says f. So F-a-t!"
By this point, he was so excited he was squeaking and his whole body was charged, ready to fly. He hopped off his bed, came around and hugged me tightly, his sweet round face barely able to contain his pride.
"I'm so proud of you, buddy! You just read four words! And then you spelled three more!" I squeezed him tightly and kissed his hair. Violet clapped and smiled.
"I'm so proud of you, mommy, for teaching me to read at, cat, mat and sat!"
My big-hearted little boy was sharing the spotlight I'd shone on his accomplishment. Without a second though, he was expressing his gratitude and love, unabashedly affectionate and sincere. I melted. Who wouldn't?
Violet was in awe. She held the book and turned the pages reverently. "Cat, cat, cat. Cat, cat, cat. My read, too, like Milo!"
Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I hope that Milo has learned how to express gratitude and show love from us. I hope that he'll continue to show his generosity to the people he loves. he asked last night, during the kids' bath, "Mom, why does Violet always give me the Mickey Mouse when we take a bath?"
"When you love someone, you always give them the things they like!" He was thoughtful and digested that for a moment. It is true, Violet is a sharer by nature -- she always asks for two of everything and takes one to Milo. I can see that it makes her happy to give to him. He usually remembers to thank her, which tickles her, too.
I don't know if that lesson was in play when Milo so quickly shared his accomplishment with me. I'd like to think that he's learning good things from the people who love him the most -- I know that I'm always learning from him. I do know that this lesson is far more important in the long run than at, cat, mat and sat. He will learn to read when he learns to read. But learning to love is a lesson that is always being taught to any willing soul.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Brontophobia: Fear of Storms
My little Violet is hitting that age. That age when a toddler develops fear. And I can say that I think I hate this more than any other thing a toddler does. While the protesting, arguing, hitting, and willfulness are annoying, I know that they are happening because my children are growing up and thinking for themselves. I get that, and while I might not really enjoy it, I understand the necessity of this to their intellectual and emotional development.
I don't understand the cloud of fear, though. In the last few weeks, poor Miss V has started becoming afraid of several things. Like sudden loud noises. And lying down on a changing table -- though sitting, standing, and climbing on the same changing table seem to be fine.
At first it seemed to be the hair clippers -- when Scott gave Milo a recent shearing, Violet hid in the bathroom, peering around the door frame with her eyes wide, ducking inside the room if Scott so much as motioned in her direction with the clippers. OK, that's fine -- I'm not planning to let her get a clipper cut, anyway -- in other words, this is just a spring rain.
The fear was contagious, though, and it spread to the vacuum cleaner. It's much more difficult to avoid a vacuum cleaner, particularly during shedding season as our beloved mutts drop fur in hunks. I cannot abide by furry clothing or furniture, so I vacuum daily during summer shedding season.
Next up was the fan Scott used to inflate the air mattress in the tent. Again, this isn't an instrument used regularly, so avoiding it shouldn't be difficult.
Now we include power tools. Poor little babe ran screaming to me when we were out at Scott's parents' helping with their new siding. She did it every time grandpa cut a new piece of siding. We eventually went inside the house where she was less affected.
After being in Chicago, or 'Cago as she says, the noisy item at the top of the list is hand driers. Since she's not using a toilet, she was only in and out of public restrooms for diaper changes. This created the Perfect Storm of terror for my poor baby: screaming hand driers and changing tables.
Trying to get her diaper changed was painful for both of us. The minute we approached a restroom, she would tense. Washing her hands was fine and fun, provided we chose to air-dry, which I generally do. But if we walked past the sinks and she noticed me looking around for a Koala Care station, she started whining. If I dropped the changing table into position, she cried outright, "No! no! no! No, mama, I 'cared!"
The final diaper change of the weekend had both of us in tears as I just couldn't make it any better for her and simply refused to change her on the floor of a freeway exit McDonald's. I had refused one other diaper change at Shedd Aquarium -- after I'd watched not one, but two mothers change poop blow-outs with an inadequate number of wipes and was thoroughly disgusted. Thankfully, Scott jumped to the rescue and was in and out of the men's room in no time.
As I pushed the door into the restroom, she tried to vault over my shoulder for Scott as if she thought he would save her from the hurricane of whirring hand-driers. I set her gently on the changing table and she quickly scooted nearly off the end of it. "No, mommy! No! No diaper! Its 'cary! I 'cared!" She was flinging her little arms about, reaching for anything she could use to haul herself off of her back and back into my arms. Talk about heartbreaking... She cried, I cried...
As soon as she noticed me crying, though, she subdued quickly and swiped at my tears as I was wiping hers. "Okay, mommy... Okay. I luh loo..."
She was trying to comfort me they way I comfort her, by holding her tightly and saying, "It's okay, baby... it's okay... I love you..." Not surprisingly, this had the opposite effect of what she'd intended and blinked faster, trying to hold back more tears.
And maybe that's why there is this kind of developmentally appropriate fear -- to teach a child compassion. To help her recognize when someone is giving her everything they have in a moment to help her stay intact. For that moment when she was concerned for me, her fear subsided. Even if the fear wasn't quelled, clearly the love is getting through and touching her, keeping her light shining brightly through the storm, a lighthouse in a dark port.
So maybe I get it. It doesn't mean that I like sailing in this weather.
I don't understand the cloud of fear, though. In the last few weeks, poor Miss V has started becoming afraid of several things. Like sudden loud noises. And lying down on a changing table -- though sitting, standing, and climbing on the same changing table seem to be fine.
At first it seemed to be the hair clippers -- when Scott gave Milo a recent shearing, Violet hid in the bathroom, peering around the door frame with her eyes wide, ducking inside the room if Scott so much as motioned in her direction with the clippers. OK, that's fine -- I'm not planning to let her get a clipper cut, anyway -- in other words, this is just a spring rain.
The fear was contagious, though, and it spread to the vacuum cleaner. It's much more difficult to avoid a vacuum cleaner, particularly during shedding season as our beloved mutts drop fur in hunks. I cannot abide by furry clothing or furniture, so I vacuum daily during summer shedding season.
Next up was the fan Scott used to inflate the air mattress in the tent. Again, this isn't an instrument used regularly, so avoiding it shouldn't be difficult.
Now we include power tools. Poor little babe ran screaming to me when we were out at Scott's parents' helping with their new siding. She did it every time grandpa cut a new piece of siding. We eventually went inside the house where she was less affected.
After being in Chicago, or 'Cago as she says, the noisy item at the top of the list is hand driers. Since she's not using a toilet, she was only in and out of public restrooms for diaper changes. This created the Perfect Storm of terror for my poor baby: screaming hand driers and changing tables.
Trying to get her diaper changed was painful for both of us. The minute we approached a restroom, she would tense. Washing her hands was fine and fun, provided we chose to air-dry, which I generally do. But if we walked past the sinks and she noticed me looking around for a Koala Care station, she started whining. If I dropped the changing table into position, she cried outright, "No! no! no! No, mama, I 'cared!"
The final diaper change of the weekend had both of us in tears as I just couldn't make it any better for her and simply refused to change her on the floor of a freeway exit McDonald's. I had refused one other diaper change at Shedd Aquarium -- after I'd watched not one, but two mothers change poop blow-outs with an inadequate number of wipes and was thoroughly disgusted. Thankfully, Scott jumped to the rescue and was in and out of the men's room in no time.
As I pushed the door into the restroom, she tried to vault over my shoulder for Scott as if she thought he would save her from the hurricane of whirring hand-driers. I set her gently on the changing table and she quickly scooted nearly off the end of it. "No, mommy! No! No diaper! Its 'cary! I 'cared!" She was flinging her little arms about, reaching for anything she could use to haul herself off of her back and back into my arms. Talk about heartbreaking... She cried, I cried...
As soon as she noticed me crying, though, she subdued quickly and swiped at my tears as I was wiping hers. "Okay, mommy... Okay. I luh loo..."
She was trying to comfort me they way I comfort her, by holding her tightly and saying, "It's okay, baby... it's okay... I love you..." Not surprisingly, this had the opposite effect of what she'd intended and blinked faster, trying to hold back more tears.
And maybe that's why there is this kind of developmentally appropriate fear -- to teach a child compassion. To help her recognize when someone is giving her everything they have in a moment to help her stay intact. For that moment when she was concerned for me, her fear subsided. Even if the fear wasn't quelled, clearly the love is getting through and touching her, keeping her light shining brightly through the storm, a lighthouse in a dark port.
So maybe I get it. It doesn't mean that I like sailing in this weather.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Sleep
I have a confession to make:
I love sleeping with my kids. I love feeling them as they turn towards me in slumber, their shallow breath puffing gently on my face. I love curling around them as they rest and grow, tucked safely under my arm.
I also love my husband and marriage, so the kids sleep in their own beds. Most of the time. Ever since we let Mocha in the bed when she was a pup, poor Scott has always been on the business end of whatever creature was in the bed. I get all the nice, cuddly parts and he gets kicked. Or, in the case of when Mo was little and she'd sleep around my head like a halo, he'd roll over to spoon me and get a face full of dog butt.
I think that Violet and I were crazy spoiled on vacation -- the days we weren't out and about during naptime, she and I nursed and snuggled to sleep on Milo's opened sleeping bag, like a couple of pickles on a hamburger bun. It was so nice to nod off with her little hand on my neck or her cheek pressed into my shoulder.
I love the little twitchy dance the kids do as they let the last bit of their consciousness slide away. I love how malleable their faces look. I love that moment when they start sleep breathing.
I remember coming home from Epcot Center after fireworks the last time we were in Florida -- Milo had fallen asleep in the lap of my dad's wife Robin and when it came time to load the bus for the ride back to the hotel, I eagerly volunteered to take his weight. Clutching him to my chest as the gears on the bus groaned and the brakes hissed, I held him there, his sweaty little face against the pulse on my neck. The bus was crowded and everyone was volunteering to hold him to "give me a break," not understanding that that WAS the break -- that when he was sacked out on me I was recharging my batteries in the sleepy glow of adoration.
It's not that kids are hard to love when they're awake, it's just that it's impossible NOT to love them when they are asleep. There's no bad behavior or wrong choice that can withstand the forgiving visage of a sleeping child. I can feel mind-numbing frustration with them when they're awake and pushing all of my buttons at once, but the minute sleep settles them, my heart melts and I'm falling in love all over again, my breath stolen.
Perhaps it is their utter vulnerability.
Perhaps it is mine.
I love sleeping with my kids. I love feeling them as they turn towards me in slumber, their shallow breath puffing gently on my face. I love curling around them as they rest and grow, tucked safely under my arm.
I also love my husband and marriage, so the kids sleep in their own beds. Most of the time. Ever since we let Mocha in the bed when she was a pup, poor Scott has always been on the business end of whatever creature was in the bed. I get all the nice, cuddly parts and he gets kicked. Or, in the case of when Mo was little and she'd sleep around my head like a halo, he'd roll over to spoon me and get a face full of dog butt.
I think that Violet and I were crazy spoiled on vacation -- the days we weren't out and about during naptime, she and I nursed and snuggled to sleep on Milo's opened sleeping bag, like a couple of pickles on a hamburger bun. It was so nice to nod off with her little hand on my neck or her cheek pressed into my shoulder.
I love the little twitchy dance the kids do as they let the last bit of their consciousness slide away. I love how malleable their faces look. I love that moment when they start sleep breathing.
I remember coming home from Epcot Center after fireworks the last time we were in Florida -- Milo had fallen asleep in the lap of my dad's wife Robin and when it came time to load the bus for the ride back to the hotel, I eagerly volunteered to take his weight. Clutching him to my chest as the gears on the bus groaned and the brakes hissed, I held him there, his sweaty little face against the pulse on my neck. The bus was crowded and everyone was volunteering to hold him to "give me a break," not understanding that that WAS the break -- that when he was sacked out on me I was recharging my batteries in the sleepy glow of adoration.
It's not that kids are hard to love when they're awake, it's just that it's impossible NOT to love them when they are asleep. There's no bad behavior or wrong choice that can withstand the forgiving visage of a sleeping child. I can feel mind-numbing frustration with them when they're awake and pushing all of my buttons at once, but the minute sleep settles them, my heart melts and I'm falling in love all over again, my breath stolen.
Perhaps it is their utter vulnerability.
Perhaps it is mine.
Monday, July 6, 2009
The Jedi Academy Doesn't Allow Moms
While on vacation, Milo told me this little gem:
"Mom! The moon says it loves me!"
The moon was, in fact, smiling down on us brightly, hanging in the sky like a slice of ripe melon. The cosmos was celebrating with us.
My little buddy had a fantastic fourth birthday in California. It was pretty much any kid's dream birthday as we went to Disneyland to take advantage of the "Free admission on your birthday" promotion. Because Violet is not yet two, the four of us got in for the price of two tickets! Not bad!
There were two things which we were interested in doing at the Happiest Place on Earth -- meeting Cinderella and watching and maybe participating in the Jedi Academy show. Well, the line to meet Cinderella was 90 minutes all three times we checked on it, so we decided that since Violet didn't know she was going to miss seeing Cinderella, we would skip it and save the princess meet-and-greet for the next trip. After our first attempt at seeing the royalty, we checked the show schedule and determined that one of the presentations for the Jedi Academy was concluding and that if we bustled over to Tomorrowland, we could score some prime real estate at the front of the crowd for the next presentation.
Milo and I sat down on the terrazzo floor in front of the stage while Scott, Violet and our dear friends Carol, Alex and Hannah grabbed some lunch. While we waited the 45 minutes for the next show, Milo and I talked about what we were going to watch and I told him that they would pick some kids from the audience (aged 4-11) to participate and learn how to be a Jedi.
"You mean like learning how to use a light saver? And the Force?"
Yes, exactly that. Milo's eyes widened.
Now, as I've blogged before, he's been struggling with some social anxiety for the last 15 months or so; I really thought that he would balk if I suggested that he volunteer to be a Jedi. I asked him, "Would you like to learn how to be a Jedi?"
"You mean go up there and use a light saver? We could do that!"
"No, buddy, I mean YOU would go up there and do that -- they don't let mommies come to the Jedi Academy."
"No! I couldn't do that if you won't come." He paused, "But I can already use a light saver and the Force."
"Yes, you can. I think you could do a great job if you wanted to be a Jedi!"
"I do want to be a Jedi! I think they should pick me!"
He was coming around to the idea of volunteering. Just then, Scott brought him some lunch and a little sign that said "It's my 4th birthday!" Milo asked what the sign said and why he had it. I told him that it might help him get picked to be a Padawan. He considered it, then propped it in front of him, leaning it against his scuffed green shoe. Scott returned for a third time, this time bearing Milo's clone trooper baseball cap -- or, in Milo-ese, his "clome stooper" hat.
The sound guys made their way back to the booth and the familiar strains of the Star Wars theme pierced through the crowd noise -- the Jedis were arriving! First up were two assistant Jedi instructors that warmed the crowd and offered the advice that if a kid wanted to be picked for the Jedi Academy, he/she needed to show lots of enthusiasm. Suddenly, from the back of the house, the Jedi Master came running! Milo squealed and cheered!
The Jedi Master took the stage and said something that I can't remember -- I think both Milo and I were getting excited about the selection process. He started picking kids from house left to house right and we were sitting just right of center. As his gaze moved towards us, I grabbed Milo's hands and the sign, started cheering loudly, yanking him off his feet with my excitement. The Jedi Master looked our direction and I bellowed, "It's his BIRTHDAY!"
"How old is he?" inquired the Master.
"Four!"
"Yes, we'll take him!"
Milo couldnt' believe it -- he balked for just a moment when the assistant tried to bring him to the group, but I knelt quickly and said, "You can do it! You can be a Jedi!" He nodded and went with the assistant, slipping his hands in his mouth with anxiety.
It is in the best interest of the entertainer to put a cute little kid front and center, so naturally Milo was the Padawan closest to the Master. They had slipped a brown robe over his shoulders as he ascended the stairs to the stage, his white hat was pulled low over his eyes until the Master looked at him, smiled, adjusted the hat so we could all see his face and said, "Let's get started, Milo!"
I think Milo had forgotten that he was wearing a button with his name on it, but he was completely impressed that the Jedi Master knew his name. So impressed, in fact, that he wasn't aware that they were repeating a Jedi oath. He chewed his fingers, peering through the crowd to find first me, then daddy, to whom he gave a thumb's up smile.
The assistants gave each child a light saber, then Milo focused on the task at hand -- learning a light saber combination of attacks. It proved a little funny that he could engage his light saber, but not necessarily disengage it -- he couldn't do that as fast as the other kids, so for a while, he was JUST getting the light saber disengaged when it was time to engage for the next kata. So cute! In fact, that's what I overheard a woman saying about him, the littlest Padawan.
Suddenly, just as the lesson was finishing, the ominous Darth Vader theme boomed through the speakers and the Jedi Master sent all of the kids stage left. Storm troopers marched down the center aisle with Darth Maul. Darth Vader emerged from under a lift in the stage, shrouded in fog. They were under attack!
Thank goodness all of those kids had light sabers and had just learned a choreographed attack! The Jedi Master indicated that the kids on the stage, including Milo, were to take on Darth Vader and the kids on the floor were to battle Darth Maul. Milo was second in line for Vader.
The Jedi Master called him forward by name, he scooted quickly to his side, light saber drawn prematurely. Once again, he had just managed to get it disengaged when the master called for him to engage. Indicating where Milo was to attack, he ran Milo through the set of blows they had practiced, Milo did an especially good "Duck!" maneuver. As he finished his combination, he got a "Good job!" and was escorted to the floor, where he took a seat along with the other finishing Padawan.
He searched for me, beaming with pride, and gave me a thumb's up smile. Then he said, "I want to battle Darth Maul, too!" I laughed. Eventually, battling 25 kids proved to be too much for the baddies and they retreated -- the Jedi had saved the day!! The kids were all marched up onstage where they were presented with a certificate of achievement and disrobed (they were disarmed after the solo fights).
Milo came running back to me, thrilled that on his birthday he had beaten Darth Vader in a light saber battle! Thankfully, I had been snapping pictures like a sports photographer on speed, so I did capture his battle in between the cheering and tearing up.
I can't say how proud of him I was for participating -- both Scott and I thought there was a real chance of him bolting from the stage, paralyzed by anxiety, but Milo did it! He conquered not only Darth Vader, but a tiny bit of that anxiety that has been his dark side for the past year...
And me? Well, I got the exquisite experience of watching my little man taking a big step forward right in front of my eyes -- and the entire crowd.
"Mom! The moon says it loves me!"
The moon was, in fact, smiling down on us brightly, hanging in the sky like a slice of ripe melon. The cosmos was celebrating with us.
My little buddy had a fantastic fourth birthday in California. It was pretty much any kid's dream birthday as we went to Disneyland to take advantage of the "Free admission on your birthday" promotion. Because Violet is not yet two, the four of us got in for the price of two tickets! Not bad!
There were two things which we were interested in doing at the Happiest Place on Earth -- meeting Cinderella and watching and maybe participating in the Jedi Academy show. Well, the line to meet Cinderella was 90 minutes all three times we checked on it, so we decided that since Violet didn't know she was going to miss seeing Cinderella, we would skip it and save the princess meet-and-greet for the next trip. After our first attempt at seeing the royalty, we checked the show schedule and determined that one of the presentations for the Jedi Academy was concluding and that if we bustled over to Tomorrowland, we could score some prime real estate at the front of the crowd for the next presentation.
Milo and I sat down on the terrazzo floor in front of the stage while Scott, Violet and our dear friends Carol, Alex and Hannah grabbed some lunch. While we waited the 45 minutes for the next show, Milo and I talked about what we were going to watch and I told him that they would pick some kids from the audience (aged 4-11) to participate and learn how to be a Jedi.
"You mean like learning how to use a light saver? And the Force?"
Yes, exactly that. Milo's eyes widened.
Now, as I've blogged before, he's been struggling with some social anxiety for the last 15 months or so; I really thought that he would balk if I suggested that he volunteer to be a Jedi. I asked him, "Would you like to learn how to be a Jedi?"
"You mean go up there and use a light saver? We could do that!"
"No, buddy, I mean YOU would go up there and do that -- they don't let mommies come to the Jedi Academy."
"No! I couldn't do that if you won't come." He paused, "But I can already use a light saver and the Force."
"Yes, you can. I think you could do a great job if you wanted to be a Jedi!"
"I do want to be a Jedi! I think they should pick me!"
He was coming around to the idea of volunteering. Just then, Scott brought him some lunch and a little sign that said "It's my 4th birthday!" Milo asked what the sign said and why he had it. I told him that it might help him get picked to be a Padawan. He considered it, then propped it in front of him, leaning it against his scuffed green shoe. Scott returned for a third time, this time bearing Milo's clone trooper baseball cap -- or, in Milo-ese, his "clome stooper" hat.
The sound guys made their way back to the booth and the familiar strains of the Star Wars theme pierced through the crowd noise -- the Jedis were arriving! First up were two assistant Jedi instructors that warmed the crowd and offered the advice that if a kid wanted to be picked for the Jedi Academy, he/she needed to show lots of enthusiasm. Suddenly, from the back of the house, the Jedi Master came running! Milo squealed and cheered!
The Jedi Master took the stage and said something that I can't remember -- I think both Milo and I were getting excited about the selection process. He started picking kids from house left to house right and we were sitting just right of center. As his gaze moved towards us, I grabbed Milo's hands and the sign, started cheering loudly, yanking him off his feet with my excitement. The Jedi Master looked our direction and I bellowed, "It's his BIRTHDAY!"
"How old is he?" inquired the Master.
"Four!"
"Yes, we'll take him!"
Milo couldnt' believe it -- he balked for just a moment when the assistant tried to bring him to the group, but I knelt quickly and said, "You can do it! You can be a Jedi!" He nodded and went with the assistant, slipping his hands in his mouth with anxiety.
It is in the best interest of the entertainer to put a cute little kid front and center, so naturally Milo was the Padawan closest to the Master. They had slipped a brown robe over his shoulders as he ascended the stairs to the stage, his white hat was pulled low over his eyes until the Master looked at him, smiled, adjusted the hat so we could all see his face and said, "Let's get started, Milo!"
I think Milo had forgotten that he was wearing a button with his name on it, but he was completely impressed that the Jedi Master knew his name. So impressed, in fact, that he wasn't aware that they were repeating a Jedi oath. He chewed his fingers, peering through the crowd to find first me, then daddy, to whom he gave a thumb's up smile.
The assistants gave each child a light saber, then Milo focused on the task at hand -- learning a light saber combination of attacks. It proved a little funny that he could engage his light saber, but not necessarily disengage it -- he couldn't do that as fast as the other kids, so for a while, he was JUST getting the light saber disengaged when it was time to engage for the next kata. So cute! In fact, that's what I overheard a woman saying about him, the littlest Padawan.
Suddenly, just as the lesson was finishing, the ominous Darth Vader theme boomed through the speakers and the Jedi Master sent all of the kids stage left. Storm troopers marched down the center aisle with Darth Maul. Darth Vader emerged from under a lift in the stage, shrouded in fog. They were under attack!
Thank goodness all of those kids had light sabers and had just learned a choreographed attack! The Jedi Master indicated that the kids on the stage, including Milo, were to take on Darth Vader and the kids on the floor were to battle Darth Maul. Milo was second in line for Vader.
The Jedi Master called him forward by name, he scooted quickly to his side, light saber drawn prematurely. Once again, he had just managed to get it disengaged when the master called for him to engage. Indicating where Milo was to attack, he ran Milo through the set of blows they had practiced, Milo did an especially good "Duck!" maneuver. As he finished his combination, he got a "Good job!" and was escorted to the floor, where he took a seat along with the other finishing Padawan.
He searched for me, beaming with pride, and gave me a thumb's up smile. Then he said, "I want to battle Darth Maul, too!" I laughed. Eventually, battling 25 kids proved to be too much for the baddies and they retreated -- the Jedi had saved the day!! The kids were all marched up onstage where they were presented with a certificate of achievement and disrobed (they were disarmed after the solo fights).
Milo came running back to me, thrilled that on his birthday he had beaten Darth Vader in a light saber battle! Thankfully, I had been snapping pictures like a sports photographer on speed, so I did capture his battle in between the cheering and tearing up.
I can't say how proud of him I was for participating -- both Scott and I thought there was a real chance of him bolting from the stage, paralyzed by anxiety, but Milo did it! He conquered not only Darth Vader, but a tiny bit of that anxiety that has been his dark side for the past year...
And me? Well, I got the exquisite experience of watching my little man taking a big step forward right in front of my eyes -- and the entire crowd.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Violet Love
Last week, I got to hold my daughter. I know that this sounds silly, because I regularly hold my daughter, but last week I simply held her without nursing her. For quite some time, too - this wasn't a stolen hug or a rushed squeeze, but clearly an intentional snuggle on her part. She's been letting me do this every day since then. Oh she's still nursing, but I am thrilled to have some physical interaction with her that doesn't require me being naked to the waist.
I got to kiss the top of her head and smell the sweetness of her hair. She played with my earrings, touching them gently with much wonder, cooing, "Oooh! Pwebby!" This moment of stillness seemed jarringly vaporous -- almost as if the very molecules of her soul stopped pinging around in a toddler frenzy and began vibrating with the same frequency my heart emits. Time stretched and the world narrowed in to my shoulders. This instant her soft, shallow breath barely dented the atmosphere, yet her gravity pulled every joy into the space between us.
I love that merely being with her is enough to fill her soul -- she demands so little from us, so easy has her infanthood been. She is steadfast in her curiosity and unrelenting in her quest for independence, but she clearly enjoys being with us. When she wakes in the morning, her first thought and first glance seek her brother. She peers anxiously over my shoulder, asking, "Milo?" as I pluck her from the crib.
"He's downstairs with Daddy."
Her face lights up, "Da-dee? 'stairs?"
"Yes, Daddy is downstairs with Milo. Do you want to go downstairs?"
Grin, "Yep!" Her first affirmation "huh-huh" has been replaced with the colloquial, "Yep!" This tickles me to no end. Milo was a "Yes" man and Violet is a "Yep" girl...
She gasps, "My bake-et! Pee-Bear bake-et!" She asks to bring her Winnie-the-Pooh blanket downstairs and squeals with delight when I scoop it up. She clutches it under her chin and repeats, "My bake-et!"
Little Miss loves it when we're all together, she'll grab my hand and drag me to the couch, saying, "Mere, mommy! Sit dere!" so that I'll sit next to Scott, then she scrambles up and wiggles in between us, beckoning Milo, "Miiiii-lo! Miiiii-lo!" Nothing makes this child happier than a family snuggle.
I can't say that I blame her -- that's pretty much my favorite time of the day, too.
I got to kiss the top of her head and smell the sweetness of her hair. She played with my earrings, touching them gently with much wonder, cooing, "Oooh! Pwebby!" This moment of stillness seemed jarringly vaporous -- almost as if the very molecules of her soul stopped pinging around in a toddler frenzy and began vibrating with the same frequency my heart emits. Time stretched and the world narrowed in to my shoulders. This instant her soft, shallow breath barely dented the atmosphere, yet her gravity pulled every joy into the space between us.
I love that merely being with her is enough to fill her soul -- she demands so little from us, so easy has her infanthood been. She is steadfast in her curiosity and unrelenting in her quest for independence, but she clearly enjoys being with us. When she wakes in the morning, her first thought and first glance seek her brother. She peers anxiously over my shoulder, asking, "Milo?" as I pluck her from the crib.
"He's downstairs with Daddy."
Her face lights up, "Da-dee? 'stairs?"
"Yes, Daddy is downstairs with Milo. Do you want to go downstairs?"
Grin, "Yep!" Her first affirmation "huh-huh" has been replaced with the colloquial, "Yep!" This tickles me to no end. Milo was a "Yes" man and Violet is a "Yep" girl...
She gasps, "My bake-et! Pee-Bear bake-et!" She asks to bring her Winnie-the-Pooh blanket downstairs and squeals with delight when I scoop it up. She clutches it under her chin and repeats, "My bake-et!"
Little Miss loves it when we're all together, she'll grab my hand and drag me to the couch, saying, "Mere, mommy! Sit dere!" so that I'll sit next to Scott, then she scrambles up and wiggles in between us, beckoning Milo, "Miiiii-lo! Miiiii-lo!" Nothing makes this child happier than a family snuggle.
I can't say that I blame her -- that's pretty much my favorite time of the day, too.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Homecoming
I have returned from a much-deserved break to Denver to visit my baby sister and her baby boy. Luke is a cutie-pie and a sweet little snuggler. And lil sis is doing a great job as a new mom.
I missed my kids like mad, though. As in craved the smell of their hair and the tickle of their laughter. There is nothing better to me than my morning snuggle. I do not look forward to the day that begins with an empty lap.
The longest minutes of my journey were the ones after my plane had landed in Cedar Rapids as it was pulling ever so slowly toward the gate, cautious in its approach like an inexperienced tightrope walker climbing an endless ladder. I knew that Scott and the kids were waiting for me in the airport. I imagined them: Scott trying to entertain a curious Violet, Milo tugging at his hand asking if my plane had landed yet and where was I and would I see him. It is winter here in Iowa, but in my imagination they were without coats, dressed as only a daddy can dress a kid – basically in the stuff that looks comfortable, regardless of wear or fit. I imagined their sweet round faces lighting up as they ran to me, music swelling in the background – clearly a very cinematic moment.
After an eternity, the plane stopped inching and I could hear the alarm of the moving gate as it was reeled out to kiss the plane. The plane rumbled as the baggage handlers cracked its shell; it shrieked like an injured monkey as the cargo hold door descended. The small craft rocked gently as its belly was boarded and the luggage was unceremoniously extracted.
Finally the flight attendant opened the door. The first class passengers stood, stretched, and casually reached for their carry-on luggage. As they ambled off the plane, I wished silently that the coach class passengers would steamroll a path through them. I wanted off the plane – I could practically hear my family, so strong was the pull on my heart.
I snatched my purse from the storage compartment at my feet and saw an opening in the column of people deplaning. I pulled my arms into my jacket; they slid against the lining as I shrugged the coat up. My carry-on was waiting on the rack with the other over-sized carry-ons that were towed through the Minneapolis airport and then tossed into the plane. The handle responded quickly to my tug, but the balance was off and the bag listed for a moment as I sped up to the gate, then it tipped over on its side, anchoring me to the spot. I cursed, righted it and nearly skipped away in my anticipation.
Naturally, every person walking in front of me wasn’t walking as fast as I was – obviously they didn’t have my babies waiting for them at the end of their journey or they would have been nearly running. I came to the top of the escalator, ready to bounce down it with my bag, when, as it crested, I caught sight of Scott. I began waving like a star-struck teen at a Hannah Montana concert. He returned the wave with warmth, though he did not mirror my own spastic excitement. As I got to the bottom of the wobbling escalator, Milo saw me and waved, too.
I dashed through the security door – an imaginary gate separating passengers from spectators – and as I did, the tears that had been welling in my eyes since I boarded the plane in Minneapolis spilled over. Scott was beaming, Milo had gone shy in his excitement, and Violet, who hadn’t seen me yet, was scanning the other deplaned passengers looking for me.
Kneeling by Milo, I opened my arms and he quickly tucked himself into my right arm, nearly tipping me backwards with the power of his hug. Violet then realized that I was right in front of her, she gave a quick squeal, then launched herself into my other arm. I was a goner… I sobbed, “I missed you! I missed you so so so so much!”
Milo, sensing that this was an unusually emotional reaction from me, held on tighter and whispered, “I love you mommy!” Violet alternated between putting her head on my shoulder and picking it up to look at me, as if I was an apparition and she wasn’t sure if I was real. I am real; I am home.
Yes, getting away was nice, but coming home was better.
I missed my kids like mad, though. As in craved the smell of their hair and the tickle of their laughter. There is nothing better to me than my morning snuggle. I do not look forward to the day that begins with an empty lap.
The longest minutes of my journey were the ones after my plane had landed in Cedar Rapids as it was pulling ever so slowly toward the gate, cautious in its approach like an inexperienced tightrope walker climbing an endless ladder. I knew that Scott and the kids were waiting for me in the airport. I imagined them: Scott trying to entertain a curious Violet, Milo tugging at his hand asking if my plane had landed yet and where was I and would I see him. It is winter here in Iowa, but in my imagination they were without coats, dressed as only a daddy can dress a kid – basically in the stuff that looks comfortable, regardless of wear or fit. I imagined their sweet round faces lighting up as they ran to me, music swelling in the background – clearly a very cinematic moment.
After an eternity, the plane stopped inching and I could hear the alarm of the moving gate as it was reeled out to kiss the plane. The plane rumbled as the baggage handlers cracked its shell; it shrieked like an injured monkey as the cargo hold door descended. The small craft rocked gently as its belly was boarded and the luggage was unceremoniously extracted.
Finally the flight attendant opened the door. The first class passengers stood, stretched, and casually reached for their carry-on luggage. As they ambled off the plane, I wished silently that the coach class passengers would steamroll a path through them. I wanted off the plane – I could practically hear my family, so strong was the pull on my heart.
I snatched my purse from the storage compartment at my feet and saw an opening in the column of people deplaning. I pulled my arms into my jacket; they slid against the lining as I shrugged the coat up. My carry-on was waiting on the rack with the other over-sized carry-ons that were towed through the Minneapolis airport and then tossed into the plane. The handle responded quickly to my tug, but the balance was off and the bag listed for a moment as I sped up to the gate, then it tipped over on its side, anchoring me to the spot. I cursed, righted it and nearly skipped away in my anticipation.
Naturally, every person walking in front of me wasn’t walking as fast as I was – obviously they didn’t have my babies waiting for them at the end of their journey or they would have been nearly running. I came to the top of the escalator, ready to bounce down it with my bag, when, as it crested, I caught sight of Scott. I began waving like a star-struck teen at a Hannah Montana concert. He returned the wave with warmth, though he did not mirror my own spastic excitement. As I got to the bottom of the wobbling escalator, Milo saw me and waved, too.
I dashed through the security door – an imaginary gate separating passengers from spectators – and as I did, the tears that had been welling in my eyes since I boarded the plane in Minneapolis spilled over. Scott was beaming, Milo had gone shy in his excitement, and Violet, who hadn’t seen me yet, was scanning the other deplaned passengers looking for me.
Kneeling by Milo, I opened my arms and he quickly tucked himself into my right arm, nearly tipping me backwards with the power of his hug. Violet then realized that I was right in front of her, she gave a quick squeal, then launched herself into my other arm. I was a goner… I sobbed, “I missed you! I missed you so so so so much!”
Milo, sensing that this was an unusually emotional reaction from me, held on tighter and whispered, “I love you mommy!” Violet alternated between putting her head on my shoulder and picking it up to look at me, as if I was an apparition and she wasn’t sure if I was real. I am real; I am home.
Yes, getting away was nice, but coming home was better.
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