With Astonishing Poise

The waiting is almost over.

For months we've sat with our hands clenched in our laps, holding our collective breath.  Way back in May, this day seemed ages away...and that was a good thing.  The challenges seemed overwhelming and the barriers unsurmountable.  There were hot, stinging tears and not a few moments of desperation.  (For both Norah and me.)

The desire and dedication were clearly present, but there is no way to simply determine your way through to conquering a new skill, especially that pesky kip.  Fighting gravity and your physical limits is a nefarious combination that can threaten to bring you to your knees, waving a white flag.

"I can't do it."  Resignation threatens with a groan.  "I quit."

But she hasn't quit.  Day after day, she stares at that chalk-covered bar and faces her foe.  Up on the bleachers I sit, helplessly willing her with every ounce of my own body to get it this time.  Sometimes she is still left dangling under the bar, pointed toes brushing the mat.  But more and more often, she finds herself up and over the bar, an infectious smile on her face and a growing confidence.  (I confess to having uncharacteristically whooped a few times, much to her embarrassment and delight.)

This weekend she has her first meet and the anticipation hangs heavy in our house, a painful mixture of hope and release.  She will still be my favorite gymnast whether she makes it through her routine or not,  but my stomach knots with anxiety, preparing myself for a potentially disappointed little girl who misses her own mark.

Knowing my Norah, she will walk out to the bars on Sunday, back straight and head held high with confidence.  She will salute the judges and leap from the springboard to the bar and defy her doubts, maybe making it through the flips and maybe not.  Regardless of the outcome, I am excited to see my girl finish just as she typically does, with astonishing poise.

And I'll learn a life lesson from one of my kids.  Again.

That's my girl on the middle beam, arms spread wide.

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Inspired by the words "anticipation" and "leap".  And the sweet girl in the picture above.

The Longest-Shortest Days

I sit on the floor with my little person who is not so little anymore.   She's four now -- make that four and half -- and she does big girl things, like rolling all five Yahtzee dice with her five chubby fingers and counting all the way to firfteen.  Her little piggies have grown, too, and instead of being baby-scented and pudgy, they sparkle with left-over patches of silver nail polish and smell a bit tangy.  Phew!  She dresses herself, choosing her own eclectic wardrobe of sequins and stripes, and gets her shoes on the correct feet fifty-percent of the time.  Before my very eyes, she is transforming from a "Mommy-help-me" baby to a "me-do" girl; the speed of life rockets past me.

And yet...

How can it be that it is only 3 o'clock in the afternoon?!?  Surely there must be some mistake as I'm quite certain that we've been playing CandyLand for hours!  Isn't time supposed to fly when you're having fun?  It would appear that there is a fracture in the time-space-continuum resulting in this curious and crazy longest-shortest day of my life.

Tick, tock...

She's getting better and better at shuffling the cards, but we're only half-way to the Candy Castle.  And according to the kitchen clock, it's only been nine minutes.  Mommy might need a stop off at the dark chocolate forest to make it through this afternoon!

_________________________

Linking up with Trifecta:  33-333 words inspired by the word fly.

3a : to move, pass, or spread quickly <rumors were flying>  

  b : to be moved with sudden extreme emotion <flew into a rage>  

  c : to seem to pass quickly <the time simply flew>

Oh, My Heart

Ella sits with her back to the window, nestled in the overstuffed cushions.  Sunlight casts her shadow over the paper in her lap, she scribbles frantically, pouring out her heart.  A tear drops, momentarily magnifying a word - Love - before soaking into the parchment, leaving a bleary stain.  Ella sniffs loudly, looks at the ceiling and blinks back tears before returning to her literary lament.

A light tap at the door startles her.  Scrambling, she stuffs the paper under an opulent pillow, dabs at her eyes and calls, "Come in."  She stiffens, watching her mother sweep into the room.  Ella looks to where she hid the missive, careful to keep her eyes averted.

"Have you been crying again?"  her mother demands.  "Surely not."

"Mother, you know how my heart breaks.  You have been cruel, too cruel in this declaration.  Do you not care that my heart is rent?"

"Of course, I care.  But, what's done is done.  You'll live."

"O my heart, Mother, my heart.  La Douleur Exquise," Ella sobs.  "I'll never forget him.  You may believe that you have managed to blot him out, to erase him, but true love endures, Mother!  We will be together ... someday."

"Please don't be so dramatic, Ella.  You're only fourteen and there will be other dances," her mother sighs, rubbing her brow.  "The pizza will be ready in five minutes."  She treads to the door, pausing by the poster of One Direction.  "You have your whole life to fall in love, you know."

Overcome with grief, Ella snatches a pillow and flings it at the door as it closes.  "How, Mother?  How will I ever find true love, when you have me held captive, like Rapunzel, imprisoned and walled in?  How?" she wails.

The first notes of "What Makes You Beautiful" chirp from Ella's back pocket.  She snatches her phone, glances at the screen and answers it.  "No way!  You, too?  Ugh, we're prisoners of our parents."  She sighs and slips back into the cushions.  "Wanna watch a movie?"

Bancroft Tower, Worcester, MA,
courtesy of Hillarie Jason via Esty.

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Linking up with Write at the Merge this week - inspired by the picture above and the word:  La Douleur Exquise (French): The heart-wrenching pain of wanting someone you can’t have.  Word limit: 500.

The Pending

A silver mesh tray holds half-a-tree worth of school pages.  Spelling tests with stars above the bonus words.  Math sheets pondering the universal question, "How many apples will Max have all together?" Homework packets stapled together with happy faces and proud percentages.  

What to keep and what to toss?

A green enamel bucket filled with mementos of moments passed.  Thank you cards for thoughtfulness lived out in tangible actions.  Olympic rings, wired and super-glued together, plucked from a birthday cake.  An original watercolor, complete with pink globs, silver blobs and mysterious lime green smudges.

What to toss and what to keep?

One level up, nestled behind a sliding closet door, a plastic tub sits, filled to overflowing with memories.  The lid lays propped against the wall, no match for the trove of treasures.  Old calendars filled with unforgettable dates.  Baby blankets rubbed to smithereens.  T-shirts from their first days of kindergarten, well-worn and well-faded.  Snippets and snapshots, captured and secreted away to protect against the relentless passage of time.

Time that marches with both alacrity and sluggishness.  Some stages and seasons are over in the blink of an eye leaving me to reel and marvel, holding my head and wondering how my baby boy came to look me straight in the eye.  While at other times, I find myself entrenched in days that drag by with painful slowness, each tick of the clock one step closer to the bliss of bedtime.  

My mother's words resonate within my mothering heart, "The fastest, slowest days of your life."

Each essay written in hesitant cursive, each book report complete with crayon renderings of climactic scenes, each handmade card covered with crooked hearts and shimmering stickers is proof that my children are growing from little people into big people.  (Or at least bigger than they were.)  And each fragment packed away in plastic bags and manila envelopes is my mommy-attempt to hold on to them, just as they are at this exact moment - ages 4, 6, 9 and 10.

Those remnants, however, are only shadows.  And life is not lived in the shadows.  As much as I wish I could hold on to my babies, capture their smallness and remember their littleness, I wish even more to celebrate their shining lives!  Revel in the gloriousness of young lives overflowing with sparkling hopes, extraordinary promises and dazzling dreams!

And so stumbling and bumbling, I learn unfamiliar steps to a new and challenging dance, holding to the past, while being freshly aware of the pending.  Of the undiscovered.  Of the yet to be experienced.  Of the unknown.

And I make room in my closet for another bin ... for all their trophies and triumphs and trinkets.  

Or perhaps wish for a magic wand to reducio these treasures, shrinking them small enough to keep them all in a locket, close to my heart.

_______________________________

Linking up with Red Writing Hood this week - 500 word-limit with the inspiration of the word Wish and this song, Past and Pending.  One line in particular stood out to me, "Held to the past too aware of the pending".

Liddy-isms

My sweet Lydia has become quite the conversationalist.  She loves to chat, sitting at the table with her cute, dimpled chin in her pudgy little hand, sharing with me about all the bests and leasts of her day.  And as if that isn't all adorable enough, she sprinkles her conversations with all sorts of garbly-gook.

She has a wide vocabulary of almost-right words.  Words that are close to what she means, but not quite.  Here are a few that come to mind:

We have all had the sniffles for the past several weeks.  Not a cold that really slows you down, but an annoyingly drippy nose that keeps us close to the kleenex box.  Lydia frequently runs to the kitchen, grabs a tissue and declares, "My nose is coming out!"

Lydia is slowly fazing out of napping in the afternoon.  Sometimes she falls asleep, but usually she lays and reads in her bed and then gets up and plays quietly.  (No problem here ... I still get my mommy-time!)  A few days ago I asked her if she had slept to which she replied, "Yes.  I close my eyes and I open my eyes and I close my eyes and I open my eyes."  Ah-ha.  Kinda like blinking slowly.  And, no, that's not really sleeping.

My baby girl is infatuated with Shaun the Sheep.  Or, "Saun da Seep" as she likes to call him.  She has one episode in particular that she loves where the sheep sell all of the farmer's belongings in a yard sale.  "Everything must go" ... and all of it went.  Unfortunately, it took poor Lydia about three minutes of constant repeating, "Seep sellet, seep sellet, seep sellet" for me to understand what she wanted to watch.

And then yesterday, Lydia had her second ever dentist appointment.  Her first visit was a teary and sad affair and so she was a little anxious upon our arrival at the office.  She summoned up her courage and bravely climbed into the moving chair alongside Ashley and Aaron.  At one point, the hygienist was dabbing her eyes with a tissue and Liddy was wearing her "I'm trying to be brave, but my chin won't quit quivering" face.  I let the hygienist comfort her and before long her checkup was finished and she proudly strutted over to me with her new toothbrush and bag of goodies.  I told how proud I was of her and how brave she was to which she responded, "I didn't cry, but my eyes drooled a little bit."  Oh.  I hate it when that happens.

Someday she'll have all the right words ... until then, I'll enjoy deciphering her Liddy-isms.

a self-portrait

small things {progress}

small things #69 ... progress

Date:  April, 2012
Location:  MOPS meeting (correction:  on the way to MOPS meeting)

"Mommy?  Where we going?  Where kids going?"

"The big kids are off to school.  Say, bye-bye!  And we are off to MOPS."

... silence from the back seat ...

"Are you all buckled up?  Here we go."

"Mommy?  I, I, I don't want, want to go to MOPS!"  Her explosive sobbing makes her stutter.

"I know, Honey.  But you are going to have a great time, okay?  You get to play with Nancy and the other kids ..."

"I. Don't. Want. To. Go. MOPS!  I stay with you.  I stay with you, Mommy!"

We pull into the parking lot of the church.  Lydia's passionate sobs have progressed into hopeless sniffles.  Her protests have a touch of resignation to them.

"Mommy?  You stay with me?  I go to big church with you?"

"You can come with me for a little bit while I put my purse at my seat and then we'll go to your class.  Got it?"

Liddy blows her nose, grips my hand and shuffles to the church.  A few minutes later, her grip tightens as I check her into her four-year old class.

"I'll be back in just a bit.  You're going to have so much fun.  Look!  They have puzzles!  You are a good puzzler.  Here ... I'll get you started and then you can finish it."

"Mommy ..."

smooch ... "I love you!  Have fun!"

I successfully disentangle myself, but her pouty lower lip breaks my heart.

Fast forward six months ...

Date:  September, 2012
Location:  Kayla's House (correction:  Kayla's driveway)

"You are going to have such fun with Kayla!  I think you girls are going to go to the park."

"You no have to come in Mommy.  I go in myself."

"Uh.  I think I will get out with you and say hi to Miss Kim."

"I don't need your help.  I'm big."

She hops out of the van, grabs her water bottle and giggles with Kayla all the way to the garage.

"I love you ... have fun."

She didn't even turn around.

Progress ... the bittersweet and inevitable journey our babies make from "Don't go, Mommy!" to "See ya."

small things {lullabies}

small things #37 ... lullabies

It's supposed to be a special time of the day.  

My older girls are snuggled into their beds smelling like toothpaste and the sweet sweatiness of a fun-filled day.  We've shared our bests and our leasts.  We've read our bedtime books and stopped off at the potty "one more time".  It's time to pray and sing and drift off to sleep.

But ...

They aren't tired yet.  Ugh.

And so moments that have the potential to be precious and sacred turn into wrestling matches and stern whispers.  

As I stand in the big girls's room, I lean my head leaning against the top rail of the bunk bed.  My feet hurt and I would love sit down, but Norah wants me to rub her back.  I start my song (again) only to be interrupted by yet another random question.

"Mommy?  In the morning can you pack me my granola bar?"

"Yes.  Shhh..."

I start again, "Little girl, tie on your angel wings and fly, fly, fly ..."

"Mommy?  Why does my teacher use that pointer thing instead of her finger?"

"I don't know.  Lay quietly, please."

I finally come to the last stanza, "Fly until you come to the love I am sending.  Tomorrow will be on the other side.  So ... fly..."

"Mommy?  Here are my dirty socks."  Lovely.

I walk out the door and remind my girls to head right to sleep.  No talking tonight.  Before I make it to the stairs, I hear an explosion of giggles and Norah walks out of the room for a quick drink.  

Why do I bother??

.............................

I settle down on the edge of Aaron's bed.  We sit in the dark and talk for a few minutes about how he "slammed it out of the park" during kickball and how excited he is for the weekend.  I turn his radio down and he turns to rest his back.  Resting with my hand on his chest, I start his song.

"Little boy ..."

"Mom.  I don't think I need a song anymore."

My heart clenches and my throat closes tightly.  I clench my jaw against sudden tears.  I choke out a strangled, "Okay.  Good night, Buddy," and head for the stairs.

Ten years of lullabies and now we're done.   It was bound to happen, but I'm still caught off guard.  This is the same boy who will be a fifth grader next year, but who made repeated excuses for the laziness of the tooth-fairy last month ... "Maybe he was in Timbuktu, Mom."  I know that in the midst of his growing up we will see many of these traditions reach their maturity and fade away leaving a wonderful young man in their place, but it's bittersweet.  Sometimes more bitter than sweet.

.................................

I make one more stop at the bedsides of my baby girls ... holding on to a few more years of lullabies.

Lullabies ... the end of the day.  And for my boy, the end of an era.

____________________________________

The song in this post is one of Sara Groves' sweet lullabies.  Read all the lines here ... and I challenge you not to sniffle or shed a tear!

small things {backpacks}

small things #32 ... backpacks

Four kids, four backpacks.  

Aaron totes his sky blue Jansport pack.  He lets it slouch off his shoulders a bit - looking cool.  Earlier he filled it with library books, his lunch bag and a black plastic recorder that has taken up residence in his bag.  Most likely I would also find granola bar wrappers, a broken pencil or two and an important note from his school wadded up in the bottom.  If I cared to peek.

His buddy walks beside him, our neighbor boy and surrogate brother.  He pulls his weighty, navy blue backpack along behind him.  The wheels roll along the rocks and asphalt - rattle, rattle, rattle, sliiiiiiide - when the bag catches up with him, he flicks it back a few feet - rattle, rattle, rattle, sliiiiiide.  They talk and laugh over the noise of the rocking and rolling.

Norah moans next to me about the weight of her bag.  I have refused to carry it today saying, "I'm already pushing the stroller and kids.  You can carry the bag.  What do you have in there anyway?"  She rattles off a list of must-haves:  reading folder, homework folder, two library books, lunch bag and two water bottles.  I remind her that she could dump out the water and fill them up at school and she responds with a huff and runs off.  That's easier, I guess.

Ashley chats as she saunters along with her messenger bag slung over her shoulder.  As a Kindergartener, she doesn't have all the homework (or weight of the world) to carry.  She steps lightly around a puddle and jogs in an effort to catch Norah.  She slows and lets me catch up, "Mommy?  Can you bring my scooter up after school?"

Four backpacks carried by four kids.

No.  Make that five kids and five backpacks.

Today Lydia has decided to be big and pack her pink and white polka-dotted bag for our trek to school.  As she trots along, her backpack bounces off of her pj'ed little hiney.  And from within that terry cloth pack we can hear a little jingle, jangle, rattle.

"Whatcha got in there, Liddy?"

"Stuff."

A quick peek at the crosswalk reveals that she, too, has packed her essentials:  a half-dozen Easter egg maracas and her baby-pink leather slippers.  Perfect.

Backpacks ... bags of burden, but also a badge of being BIG.

small things {zig zag}

small things #24 ... zig zag

I took the wrong road.  Not the wrong road in the sense that we were lost, but in the sense that I shouldn't have turned left into all the construction.  I should have turned at the next light.  Oops.

As I merged into the long line of slow moving cars, all waiting their turn to navigate the orange cones, flashing lights, excaGRATEors (as my baby boy used to call them) and workers in reflective vests and neon hard hats, Lydia piped up from the back.

"What's this?!" she said with great awe and astonishment.

"Oh.  It's construction.  They are fixing something with the road.  What a mess, huh?"

My blinker clicked as we waited for our turn in the next lane.

"How are we ever going to get outta here?"

"Well ... we're just going to zig zag our way through this silliness."

The man with the stop sign turned toward our line of cars and began to wave us through the intersection.

"Zig.  Zag.  Zig.  Zag.", she whispered from her seat in the back, "Zig.  Zag."

I smiled as she let the zzzz's and gggg's roll around in her mouth.  Feeling for the first time how that little phrase felt on her toddler tongue.

"Zig.  Zag.  I like that."

Zig Zag ... another reminder of all that Lydia has to learn and the wonder of the world of words that gently beckons her.  

small things {two left feet}

small things #15 ... two left feet

Lydia ran all the way home from school.  On the trip down the hill, she jogged, ran, skipped, twirled and pranced.  I watched her hair fly out to the sides as she trotted a few feet ahead of me.  Every few moments she would pause and turn around, just to make sure I was still there.  Her bright grin told me she loved the freedom of being out of the stroller.

Only babies ride in the stroller.

As we walked along, I took in this little girl who is growing into a kid.

Her brown hair was tousled in the back.  The zebra print pillow on her bed had left her a lively cowlick right there in the back.  Three different parts headed in three different directions.  Her attempts at combing had been in vain.

Her hot pink shirt sported a sparkly zebra wearing turquoise sunglasses.  Her new favorite shirt.  The shirt that never quite makes it into the dresser drawers.  She is more prone to stash it on the dresser top as she carries her clothes to put away - marking it to wear tomorrow.

Her sweet capris were already dusty on her bottom.  In less than 30 minutes, she had managed to find a dirty little spot to stop and inspect a treasure trove of stones and pebbles.  The little elastic bands that help to adjust her pants curled up out of the waist band and poked her in the belly.  Big girl pants that almost fit.

Her hot pink socks matched her t-shirt.  They were slouchy.  The elastic gave out years ago when Norah's little tootsies wore them, but they are the perfect color and so they stay.  One was tugged up toward her knee.  The other wass sneaking down into her shoe.

Her shoes.  Oh, her shoes.  She had chosen her hot pink tennis shoes.  They matched her shirt and they matched her socks.  She picked them out herself.  But one look reminded me that she is still little.  She may have dressed herself this morning and she may be big enough to run alongside the stroller, but she's still little enough to need help with her shoes.

Apparently she woke up this morning with two left feet.

Two left feet ... her shoes are mixed up, but she's still big.  And fast.

small things {girl time}

small things #13 ... girl time

We load up in Dad’s gray car.  Just us girls.  No boys today for this trip.  We each have our purses.  Or at least two of us do.  The third little girly is planning to get one today.

As we back out of the driveway, I peek in the rearview mirror and see two smiles shining back at me.  Excitement is bubbling over in the backseat.

“What are you girls shopping for?”

“Earrings and an earring holder.  The one I saw at Claire’s that one time.”

“I don’t know. But I want a purse.  And other stuff.”

As we pull into the mall parking lot, we find a parking place.  Right near the door.

“They must have what we want!”

The girls grab their sweatshirts.  It’s a little chilly.  We have a quick discussion about the need for wraps since we are headed indoors.  They decide to tie their hoodies around their waists.  Just in case.  I lock the car doors and we head across the parking lot.  Looking both ways.  The girls have happy feet.  They skip and twirl along the sidewalk.  Chatting and giggling about getting to go shopping.  Just us.

This is our first ever trip to the mall.  Solely for the purpose of buying fun stuff.  They each have their own cash.  Money saved up from birthdays and weekly allowances.  Money dumped from piggy banks and wadded up into wallets before we left the house.

We enter the jewelry store.  A “candy” store of bling and sparkle.  Norah heads over to the spinning displays of earrings.  Literally thousands to choose from.  Dangly, sparkly, simple hoops and even fruit with eyes.

“Who would wear something like this?”

“Somebody with funny ears?”

Ashley is in the hunt for a purse.  Something with pockets.  And nooks.  And crannies to fill with treasures and tidbits.  She peers at the wall of bags and points to a pink one.  She unzips the purse and peeks in, digging past the tissue paper to see if there are enough zippers and pouches within.  Nope.

We wander throughout the store, examining purses and clutches.  Some are adorable from the outside, but lack the necessary cubby holes.  Some have plenty of pockets, but are big enough for my little six year old to climb into.

Norah returns to us with her treasures.  Earrings and a black lace-looking earring holder.  She’s smiling and impatient to check out.

Ashley agrees to keep looking.  To check out Target for more options.  But if she can’t find anything else, we’ll come back for the bright blue purse with the two zippered pouches.  The polka-dots on the fabric inside made her smile and the pockets and pouches would hold her goodies.  Maybe it was the one.

As it turns out, Target wins Ashley over with a purple purse, complete with zippers and pockets and a little strap that fits her little shoulder perfectly.  It would go great hanging from my wrist.  She declares that it also matches her owl wallet and there’s enough room for her chap stick, too.

She got to use her gift card for her purse and other purchases, which left her with actual money to have in her purse as we left the store.  As we sat on the bench in the mall corridor, we organized her purse.  This pocket for receipts.  This zipper for chap stick.  This little spot would be perfect for her gum.

We stood and picked up our purchases.  With bags in each hand and each of us with our purses slung over our shoulders, we headed off toward the end of the mall.  


Girl time ... a rite of passage.  First shopping trip, first purse ... what's next?

small things {tiny tootsies}

small things #1 ... Tiny Tootsies

I recently discovered that my baby boy has man-feet.

A few weeks back, we had our first (and only) true snow of the season.  On this particular school day, the kids had the added challenge of finding mittens, winter coats and appropriate footwear.  Seeing as we hadn't yet had a need for boots, they were still stored away.

With a few minutes to spare until the mass exodus to school, I stood up on my tiptoes and snagged the dusty, Huggies box off the top shelf in the laundry room.  Opening the flaps revealed several snow boots in a variety of sizes.  Last year's sizes.

Each kid grabbed their appropriate boots and tried them on.  It was like a scene from Goldilocks and the Three Bears.  Only this time they all declared, "This one's too small!"

I did a quick shuffle ... Aaron's to Norah, Norah's to Ashley and Ashley's to Lydia.  Aaron looked at his feet and shrugged.

"No problem.  I can just wear my tennies."

The same tennies with the potentially leaky toe.

"Hang on a minute.  Let me check upstairs."

Diving head-first into my closet, I located my old hiking boots.  Brown leather, water-proof, mildly dusty.  And too big.

"Can I try them on?"

"Buddy, I don't think they'll fit.  I can't have you tripping over your shoes all day."

"Lemme see 'em."

He slipped the boots on and laced them up.

"They fit."

"Well, of course your foot fits in them.  But do they actually fit?"

I then proceeded to perform the tested and true shoe-size-evaluation:  my thumb pressed against the toe of the boot.

They fit.  Perfectly.

My boots fit his feet.  His used-to-be-tiny feet.

"I'm just glad they're not pink."

"Me, too, Dude."

.............................

The snapshot for this Small Things series is of my little Lydia's tootsies.  Her tiny, cutie-patootie toes.  Her "I just want to nibble and smooch all over them" feetsies ... which will one day be big.  

Before I know it, this little missy will come walking into my room and say, "Mom?  Can I borrow your brown sandals?  They would go perfectly with this outfit."

In my mind's eye I will see my little girl with her pudgy, little feet scrunched down into the toes of my shoes, clomping around my room - being a big girl.

In reality, she will slide her feet into my size 7's, turn once in front of the mirror and walk off down the hall.  An actual big girl.

Tiny tootsies ... small things with a big place in my heart. 

Snapshots of the Heart ~ Responsibility

We seem to be experiencing a bit of a Bossy Pants Invasion here in our home.

At any given moment of the day, you can hear a chorus of, "You should's", "You better's" or "You have to's" as my children attempt to boss each other.  It would appear that each of my kiddos are determined to be in charge of everybody and everything ... except for their own bodies and their own things.

Here are a few examples ... I'm sure they will be familiar to you:

Ashley standing with her hands on her hips reprimanding Aaron for using too much milk for his cereal ... mainly because she is overly worried that he might possibly use the last of the 3/4 gallon of milk.  Oh my head.

Or Norah correcting Lydia's use of the gymnastic mat ... but only because she wants to use the mat and her not-quite-cartwheeling sissy isn't moving off to the side quickly enough.  It makes my ears hurt.

Or Aaron informing Ashley that she needs to get her shoes on and go to the van, but he's lounging on the ottoman with his newest Bionicle in his hands and nary a shoe to be found on his foot.  My right eye starts twitching.

Or Lydia declaring with all her might that Ashley's choice to sit in her chosen spot on the couch is, "That not awesome!"  That passionate proclamation is accompanied by a thump on Ashley's back with a giant Curious George.  My shoulders tense up.

Because of this propensity to of my kids to pull on their bossy pants in the morning, we have a new saying in our home.

"Who are you the boss of?"

The correct answer, of course, is "Me."

As you can imagine we've been hearing this new chorus a lot.  That's what happens when you start a new training regimen with kids ... you have to be prepared to see it through until they get it.  Even if you flirt with a little insanity from the broken record effects of repeating the same phrase over and over and over ... and over and over again.

This gentle reminder of self-control is coupled with a few encouraging words to please allow Mommy to boss that other little person.  In severe cases of bossy pants-itis, I have also been known to send the bossy one off to do a job from The Great Learning Box.

"It would appear that you have a lot of energy and time right now.  Let's put that to some good use.  It looks like you get to wipe down the bannisters.  Thanks!"


Then I can address the recipient of the bossiness ...

"Why do you think So-and-so felt the need to boss you?  Are you doing something that needs correcting?  What can you do to be responsible for yourself?"

And then perhaps there is a little activity (read: chore) that they can do while they think about their own actions.  Which results in some other part of my house getting clean as well!  Bonus!

The hope, of course, is that each of these little people will be responsible for their own sweet little selves and eliminate the need for anyone else to boss them, er ... remind them of what is expected of them.

We all struggle with issues of self-control and a persistent desire to control those around us.  And when I say "we" I, of course, mean "me".

But that's an entire post for another day!

"Grant that my children may learn responsibility, 

for each one should care his own load."  

Galatians 6:5

She Made It!

Our sweet Lydia is a late bloomer.  Much like Leo.



Last summer Brett and I made the commitment that if Lydia didn't start talking more by the Fall, we would look into checking in with a speech therapist.  Then the big kids went to school, Lydia was required to communicate her own needs for herself and now she won't stop talking!

Here are a few choice Weeda-isms to make your day:

When she is frustrated about a situation ... maybe her socks aren't on straight or her milk has escaped her cup ... she is known to declare, "That not awesome!"  She even adds a little pouty lip so you know just how not awesome it is.

"Dat match" is her favorite pronouncement.  As she goes about her day discovering similarities among other people's shoes, vans and scraggly baby dolls, she is quick to a announce, "dat match".  She's always on the look-out for more.

Recently I gave all the girls manicures and pedicures.  As you can imagine, in spite of my attempts to keep Lydia in one place, she's a wiggly one and before her polish had a chance to dry entirely, she ended up with a few smudges.  After finishing Norah's nails, I was admiring her long fingers and lovely  shaped, hot pink nails.  "Your nails are so pretty, Norah."  Lydia marched right up to me, shoved her little smeared thumbs in my face and declared in her grumpiest voice, "Dis not pretty.  Dis a mess."  She added a pouty lip for emphasis.

A few days ago we were running errands in the van when we saw a few people out walking their dogs.  She asked what they were doing.  (She has no reference of Gimli going for walks because he's a couch potato.)  I explained that they were out getting some exercise and that their dog needed a walk, too.  A few more blocks down the road and we spotted a gentleman walking along along the sidewalk.  From the back of the van I heard, "Oh no!  He lost his doggie!"  Hmmm ... not exactly.

In these post-Christmas days, we have been enjoying the many gifts that we received.  If you can imagine, a few of the items that Lydia opened that morning were so quickly unwrapped that I missed out on some of her gifts.  As a result, I have had to ask her a few times where a pair of socks or a head band came from.  Her response is, "I got dis Happy to You".  Ahhh ... this was in your stocking.  Got it.

Lydia is a super-duper helper with Baby S.  She spends much of the day reading to her, showing her how to play with her toys and "helping" her roll over.  Unfortunately, sometimes Baby S doesn't want to be read to, already knows how to chew on her teething ring and really, really doesn't want to roll over.  As you can imagine, this results in a few verbal protests from Baby S.  Lydia's response to her fussing is to immediately run for the paci.  As I explain to her that sometimes the baby needs some space and that sometimes she wants to talk, too, Lydia will inform me, "But BabyMantha crying really fast!"  Yes.  Yes, she is.  Let's give her some breathing room, okay?

Our Lydia has fallen head over heels in love with Diego.  Or as she likes to refer to him, "Eggo".  Whenever we are discussing what to watch for a few minutes, she insists on watching "Eggo, Eggo, Eggo", much to the despair of her older siblings.  I keep waiting to hear "Leggo my Eggo" ... but I don't think it's going to happen.

Our girl has also developed at three-syllable "No".  It goes a little something like, "Nooo-oooo-whah!" and is mainly used in response to a request for her to do something.  It's really great.  Of course, she does obey a lot of the time and I love that her response to my thanking her for obedience is an enthusiastic "Yelcome, Mommy!"

Lydia likes to use middle names when she is trying to get someone's attention.  Of course, that means that everybody has Ashley's middle name.  "Aaron Mae ... peas pass the bue berries.  Tank chew."

The season of independence has dawned in Lydia's life.  She is quite indignant whenever we attempt to help her with anything.  When we make the mistake of, say, pouring her milk or zipping up her sweatshirt, she will declare, "I do it myself!"  She will then demand that we go back in time in order to allow her to do the task from the beginning.  This is exhausting, but she is learning how to do a lot of jobs herself.  And helping her mommy grown in patience.

As you can see, Lydia has bloomed into quite a talker.

Now we're working on eating neatly ... and that's a whole new area of growth.

And a whole new challenge.

And a whole other need for prayer!

Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer. (Romans 12:12)


You know ... the usual trifecta of parenting!