Quiet

I don't know the worry that closes her mouth tight.
I don't know how she feels to have words trapped inside her like a fly buzz, buzz, buzzing against window glass.
I don't  know the suffocation of experiencing life with all of its wonder but keeping it locked within.
but...

 I know how to be her advocate.

I know how to be her cheerleader.

and...

I know how to love her as she is.

Thanksgiving in January

Things I am Thankful For 

by Ethan

3rd grade

Thanksgiving reminds me of all the things I am thankful for.  I appreciate family, doctors and my home.

I'm especially thankful for my family because they sing with me.  They ride bikes with me.  They even share with me.  They also talk to me, they give me company.  They share with me. They help me and they even stand up for me.

I also appreciate my doctor because they keep me healthy by giving me different kinds of shots so I won't get diseases.  They also give me appointments.  They help me by telling me information of how good or bad I am doing or other types of information.

Finally, I am grateful for my home because it's very warm inside.  There's electricity and it keeps us alive.  There's a friderator to keep leftovers cool and there's a microwave to warm things up such as popcorn and vegetables. 

As I enjoy this holiday season I realize I have many reasons to be thankful.  My family, my home and the doctor are very important to me. 

I'm so grateful for my sweet boy who reminds me everyday how blessed I am.

How Lowe Can You Go?

Lowe's has become one of my regular haunts.  Lately I've been there a couple times a week.  So, when I told my boys we were heading to the hardware store again, their groans of disappointment didn't surprise me in the least.

As I walked to the the back of the warehouse I was stopped by a big, middle-aged man in a red apron. 

"Can I help you?" he asked politely.

"Yeah, actually I am going to need some wood cut," I smiled back.

Accompanied by this helpful employee, I walked to the woodcutting area and carefully picked out the board that I needed.

The saw buzzed loudly with anticipation while the stout man positioned the wood carefully.  As he slowly bent way over to operate the huge machine, his denim pants slipped down low on his bum.  This unintentional loss of modesty went completely unnoticed by this poor man.

My eyebrows raised in surprise, and my hand shot up to stifle the uncomfortable laugh that threatened to escape from my mouth.  I shifted my position and averted my gaze.  Just then, Ethan caught my eye.  He was curious about the saw and  had been watching in amazement as the saw sliced through the thick board as effortlessly as a scissors cutting through paper.  I saw Ethan's eyes take in the large saw and the area surrounding it, they came to rest where the red-aproned-man's pants had been just moments earlier.  His brown eyes widened and a mischievous grin bisected his face.

The next moment Ethan was at my side pulling at my sleeve.

In a split second several images rushed past my mind's eye.  Memories that embarrassment had permanently etched in my brain.  Moments where my children, in their innocence, had inadvertently made mortifying comments. Years ago, Conner's finger pointing at a woman just feet away loudly asking, "Mama, why is her bum so BIG!"  Ethan, chubby cheeked and only four years old, shouting secretively behind a cupped hand, "Her breath STINKS!"  More recently, Aubrey stage whispering, "His teeth are YELLOW, huh mom?"

This time, I wasn't sure exactly what Ethan wanted to say, but I was sure I did not want him to say it.  At least not in our present company.

"MOM!" my eight year old whispered urgently.

I pointedly ignored him.

"Mom, mom, mom!"

Ignoring him wasn't working, I tried another approach.

"Ethan, not right now.  Will you go find your brother? " I begged through a forced smile.

"But Mmmm-om, I have to tell you SOMETHING!" the pulling at my sleeve had a new intensity.

I just had to keep him quiet until the wood was done and we were out of earshot.  

"Just a second, okay?" I leaned closer to my little boy and looked deeply into his eyes, willing him to understand.

His finger started pointing at the employee in a poking motion, "Mom! Puh-lease, can I tell you something?"

I gave in.  There was no ignoring, no distracting and no pleading that was going to dissuade him, so I leaned in close to minimize the volume and hopefully the embarrassment.

Ethan was thrilled to finally have my full attention.  He stood close to me and took a deep breath, I closed my eyes, bracing for the worst.

"Mom!  He's not wearing any safety glasses!"

My eyes blinked open in surprise.  I looked at my son's face.  The relief of finally saying what he needed to was written onto every feature.

"You're right," I said with a huge sense of relief, "he should definitely be wearing safety glasses."

Sponges

I stood at the kitchen sink this morning, catching up on the dishes I didn't get to last night.  I held a green sponge in my right hand and scoured the melty cheese from a saucepan.  Aubrey, my four year old, sat on a stool at the bar.  She was busily coloring in her favorite coloring book.  When she finished the picture she'd been working on she proudly held it up for me to see.  A cow.  A cow that had been meticulously colored brown and red.

"That looks great!" I told her as I brought my sudsy left hand out of the water to give her a big thumbs-up.

"I need to learn about cows," she said earnestly, "maybe we should go to cow-dot-com."

Cow-dot-com.

Obviously, the green sponge in my hand isn't the only thing in the house soaking up everything around it.

Hot Dogs for Breakfast

Last night the kids had a "late night" with some friends.  They played soccer and built Legos and around 9:20 we decided to put in a movie.  The plan was that the kids could watch a few minutes of the movie then around ten we'd send the neighbor kids home and we'd get to bed. 

The kids were loving the movie, I thought it was pretty lame.  It featured jumpy, awkward camera shots, an antagonist who never materialized into anything more than a burst of wind and some intense music, and a story line that left me scratching my head.  (My punishment for borrowing from the library rather than spending a dollar to get a "real" movie from the Red Box). 

At about 10:15 the plan backfired.  I got the neighbor kids out the door without a hitch.  I watched them cross the street and get into their house safely.  But back inside the house my kids were disappointed that they weren't going to be able to see the rest of the movie.  Normally, I can hold my ground without a problem but there were three factors working against me last night. 

The first is that the boys are off track. When we don't have to worry about school the next day, bedtime becomes a lot less black and white and slides into the gray area. 

The next is that Kedar is out of town.  If he has to be gone for work, I try to do some "fun things" with the kids to make the time go by more quickly for all of us.  Staying up late and finishing the movie seemed to fit into the "fun thing" category.

And the final factor, that ultimately caused me to cave, was the way that they asked.  There was no whining and crying or pleading.  My three children looked up at me with angelic faces and spoke to me to me in loving and polite tones.

So, we were up late last night. 

This morning the kids were unfazed but I was still bushed.  I sat up in bed trying to pull myself out of my sleepy stupor.  Aubrey came tumbling down the stairs and into my room.  Her hair was a curly, early-morning mess and the smile on her face said that she was ready face the day.

"Mom, stay in bed!  I'm gonna get you some food," she said and was in the kitchen slamming cupboards in a blink.

Sitting in my bed this morning, I had an internal struggle.  I could hear the kitchen being summarily trashed and my first thought was to rush in and intervene.  But then I thought about what my daughter was trying to do, how excited she had been to do something nice for me and I resolved to stay put.

She came back into my room holding in one hand, a plate full of irregular slices of hot dog and in the other, two forks.  She clambered up onto the bed with me.  Together we enjoyed a breakfast of cold hot dogs and lots of giggles.

Not a bad way to start the day.     

Happy Mother's Day!

To all of the wonderful mothers that I am blessed to associate with,
but especially the one who raised me.

All that I am or ever hope to be, I owe to my angel mother.

-Abraham Lincoln

Me and Mom

Inquiring Minds Want to Know

Ethan: "Mom, were there leprachauns when Jesus was alive?"

Turnabout is Fair Play

There are some traits that I don't mind passing on to my kids;  My brown hair?  Fine.  My brown eyes?  No problem.  My second toe is longer than my big toe.  Not a big deal if my kids end up with that either. 

However, there are other traits that I'm not as sure that I want my kids to have;  My fingernails bend when they grow.  I have always disliked this and don't want them to have my deformed fingernails.  My toes creak and pop all the time.  This bugs me whenever I walk down the stairs, I hope they don't have this either (mostly because of the aches that go along with noisy toes).

Then there are some traits I have that it scares me to think that my kids might end up having too.  Recently, I recognized a trait in Conner that has me shaking in my parental boots.

It started as Conner and I sat at the piano together. We had just finished playing a duet of "She'll Be Comin' Around the Mountain" when we had the following conversation.

Me: "Conner, that was really good!  Make sure that you count out loud this time, okay?"

Conner:  Silence.     

Me:  "Conner?  Will you count out loud while we play it again?"

Conner:  Silence.

Me: Deciding to ignore being ignored and move on.  "Okay let's start at the beginning of the song, counting out loud."

We play the first few measures of the song, meanwhile Conner sits silently on the bench next to me.

Me:  "Okay.  Let's stop there and start at the beginning again.  We have to make sure to count out loud so we can stay together and get the timing right.  Okay?"

Conner:  Silence.

Me:  "Conner, do you understand why it's important to count out loud?

Conner:  "Yes."

Me:  "Alright, then, let's start at the beginning and we can count together."

We play the beginning of the song again.

Me:  "One, two, three, four.  One, two, three, four.  One, two, three, four...."

Conner:  Silence.

Me:  "Conner, are you counting?"

Conner:  "No."

Me:  "Why not?"

Conner:  Silence.

At this point, I had a vision of myself, sitting at the same piano in my childhood home.  When I was about 13 I decided that I was done taking piano lessons.  My mom tried her best to convince me to reconsider.

"Kari, you need to practice the piano now," my mom reminded me from the other room.  I put my fingers on the keys and played a stirring rendition of "Chopsticks."   

"Kari, that's not practicing.  Play your scales, okay?"

I said nothing.  Instead, I got up and went to the bathroom.

When I got back to the piano, my mom was waiting for me.  "You need to practice the piano.  Please sit down and play your scales."

I silently sat down and waited for my mom to leave the room.  When she was out of sight I plunked at the keys randomly until I heard her walk into the room again.

"Kari!  What are you doing?"

Silence.

"Please, practice your lesson!" my mom pleaded with me.

Without a word I diligently began practicing my scales... for five minutes, then I left the piano again and went into the kitchen for a drink.

This went on for several months.  My mom tried everything she could think of to get me to practice.  She grounded me, she bribed me, she hid money in the pages of my piano books, nothing worked.  After awhile she gave up and let me quit taking piano lessons.

Generally, I think that I was a pretty good kid.  I was usually very obedient but there were somethings that I would get very stubborn about.  I knew talking back would get me into trouble so instead I said nothing at all.  When my mind was made up my parents knew it because I became unusually quite, and no amount of convincing would change my mind.

My mind returned to the scene in front of me.  I looked over at my son who was staring silently ahead at the blank wall above the piano and I felt a bead of cold sweat run down the back of my neck.


What traits, good or bad, have you passed on to your children?  Tell me about it.

It Started with a Phone Call

This afternoon when the phone rang I was tempted to let it go to my voicemail, on the last ring I changed my mind. 

"Hello?"

"Hi.  This is Susan from the elementary school, is this Ethan's mom?" asked the woman on the other end.

"Yes..." I answered slowly, a call from the school during the middle of the day is never a good thing.

"Ummm. Ethan is going to need you to bring him a whole new set of clothes, he bonked his lip and he's got blood all over these ones."

"Blood?  Is he okay?"

"Well, he's calmed down now but you might want to just come and judge for yourself."

I had a feeling that I wasn't getting the whole story.

I pulled up to the school a few minutes later and ran to the front door, that's when I realized that in my rush I had forgotten the change of clothes.  Well, I'm not going home now, I thought as I pushed through the double doors.

I hurried into the front office and scanned the blue chairs for my son, they were all empty so I turned my attention to the woman behind the desk. "Is Ethan here?"  My face must have been a reflection of the anxiety I was feeling.  As she quickly stood up and escorted me to a small room she spoke to me in a soothing voice saying meaningless phrases like, "We're not completely sure what happened.  He won't really say much."  Honestly, I was barely listening to what she was saying, I just wanted to see my son.  Ethan wears his emotions on his sleeve, seeing his face would answer all of the questions jangling in my head; How badly is he hurt?  Is he scared?  Is he upset?  Does he need to come home? 

She opened the door and there he was holding a bloody paper towel to his mouth.  The front of his blue sweatshirt was a dark inky color that doesn't have a name.  He looked up at my face and that's when I melted.  He was trying so hard to be brave but his little chin quivered and his eyes brimmed with tears.  I sat next to my little boy and held him close.  I didn't notice his blood dripping onto my pants, "It's okay," I said over and over while he cried.

After a minute I tried to figure out where the blood was coming from.  First, I looked at his lips,  Hadn't somebody said his lip was bleeding?  There were no cuts on his lips.  Nothing on his nose either.  While I looked him over I asked him what had happened.  With a mouth that barely opened he mumbled, "Well... I don't remember...ummm... actually I ran into to someone."  His answer was less than satisfactory, I could see he wasn't ready to talk about it.  But when he spoke I got a better idea of where he was bleeding; inside his mouth.  I had him open up and saw that the gums above his front teeth were the source of all the bleeding and his teeth were both pushed further back into his mouth than their natural position.  Oh, boy.  I need to call the dentist. 

I signed the bright pink paper to get him out of school for the rest of the day. 

As soon as I got into the car I picked up my cell phone and dialed the dentist's office.  When they answered I explained the situation as well as I could (despite my asking again Ethan still wasn't saying much about what happened).  The friendly receptionist asked how quickly I could be to their office.

After a quick stop off at our house to change Ethan into some clean clothes, we were on our way to the dentist's.  When we got there Dr. DeHart saw Ethan right away.  He was kind and reassuring, just what Ethan needed.  When the dentist asked him what had happened, Ethan didn't say a word.  Dr. D didn't press the issue but looked at me with a raised eyebrow, I could only shrug my shoulders.  As it turns out Ethan's 4 front teeth (all of them permanent) are loose and were moved back by the "bonk" he received.  The good news?  None of his teeth were chipped or cracked.

The next week or so will be full of soft foods, ice cream (all he wants the dentist reassured) and lots of very mellow activities (wrestling was expressly forbidden).  Other than that, there's really nothing to be done but wait and watch.  Hopefully his teeth will heal nicely and move themselves back to where they should be.

So, what happened?  On the way home from the dentist's office Ethan was finally ready to talk about it.  At recess Ethan was playing freeze-tag with a group of kids.  He was being chased by the person who was "it."  While he ran at full speed he looked over his shoulder and hit mouth to head with a girl who was running toward him at her top speed.  When I asked how the little girl was Ethan replied.  "She cried for awhile but I think she's okay.  But mom, just so you know, I was running faster than her."  Several times during the ride home he reiterated, "Mom, I was running just a bit faster than her," or,"She was running pretty fast, mom, but not as fast as me."

It's important, in situations like this, that you know the most critical facts like who the faster runner is.

The Job Chart

Aubrey's five year old friend was at the house playing a few days ago.  While they played happily with the Barbies in the next room I scrubbed the toilet in the bathrrom.  A few minutes later, while cleaning the mirror, I saw Aubrey's friend's little reflection watching me.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"That's so nice of you, but you don't want to help me clean the bathroom.  It's kind of a yucky job."  I was impressed she would even offer.

"I know how to clean the bathroom.  That's one of my jobs," was her proud response.

"Really?"  I was getting more impressed with each word she spoke.

"Oh yeah," like it was no big deal, "I scrub the toilet from top to bottom and use some cleaning wipes to wash the counters and I can even clean the sinks!  I'm not tall enough to clean all of the mirror though."

My jaw hit the floor.  Apparently, I need to give my kids more opportunities to help around the house.

So, tonight after I put the kids to bed, I sat down at the computer to make a "Job Chart."  The kids are dreading its completion and I really can't blame them.  Growing up I'm not sure that there were words that could strike fear into my young heart like those two.

"Time to rotate the job chart!" mom would say cheerily. 

To me it sounded more like, "Time to switch from Chinese Water Torture to the Rack!" 

"Can I go play?" I'd ask on a Saturday morning.

"Have you done all of your jobs on the job chart yet, Kari?" was mom's sunny response.

But what I heard was, "Have you worked your fingers to the bone yet, Cinderella?" 

Jobs such as loading the dishwasher, dusting the living room and cleaning the bathroom felt like insurmountable obstacles that were invented for two purposes:

1- To torture me and
2- To keep me from having any fun.

I am quite sure that my own children have a similar attitude about jobs, but a mom's gotta do what a mom's gotta do and this mom needs a little more help.  So, starting tomorrow the job chart comes out. 



What have you done to teach your children to work?  Do you use a job chart or another method?  Do you give an allowance?  Do tell, I'm curious to hear what others have tried and how it went.

Past Bedtime

Last night we got home late, too late.  Aubrey was tried and cranky, even the smallest inconveniences threw her into a tantrum. 

We got jammies on.  She cried because she didn't want to change.

We brushed teeth.  She cried because she couldn't find her blankie.

We quickly read scriptures.  She cried because she didn't want to hear us talking.

While we had our family prayer she was still crying.  We said the final "Amen" and I opened my eyes, with tears still flooding down her red cheeks and sobs choking her voice she said, "Mom!  Now I can't remember why I'm crying!"

Definitely time for bed.

Torn Pages

I gave Ethan a journal about a year ago.  Just a simple spiral bound notebook to get him in the habit of writing down his thoughts. 

While we were in Texas he wrote in it everyday.  He would write and become completely engrossed.  His tongue would slide out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, he would complain that his little hand was achy but still he kept writing.  Sometimes he read to me what he had written.   His phonetic spelling, which was illegible to me but was perfectly logical to him, made it necessary for him to translate.  He read pages and pages of his six-year-old-feelings to me.  When he grew tired of writing he resorted to drawing.

His drawings were detailed pictures of himself and our family.  They were simple and beautifully transparent.  When he was angry with his brother his pictures were a reflection of that emotion, when he was sad you could see that in his drawings too.

I walked into my room two nights ago, across my beige carpet the white pages of his journal were scattered haphazardly.  I knelt down and hurriedly scooped the torn pages into a neat pile. 

"What happened to these?" I questioned Kedar.

"Oh, Ethan tore them out.  He decided he didn't want them in his journal anymore."

As I knelt there on the floor, I think I felt my heart break a little.

I hated seeing those pages torn so carelessly from their simple time capsule.  I scanned through each page slowly and wondered why this was making me upset.  Why didn't he want them anymore?  The answer to this one question was at the root of how I was feeling.  Was Ethan's seven-year-old-self judging his abilities from a year ago?  Did he think that his best effort from then wasn't any good now?  Didn't he see the value in them and the feelings they reflected anymore? 

What I saw clearly, as I looked at the mess on my bedroom floor, is that my little boy is growing up and that's a hard reality for this mom to face.  For one reason or another those pages aren't important to him anymore.  So, instead of throwing that pile of torn papers into the garbage I tucked them safely away because even if he's ready to let them go, I'm not.

Mother's Memory

Years ago, I was visiting with a friend of mine who had five small children.  She told me how terrible her ability to remember things had become since having her kids.

She explained it to me this way, "With every child, women give birth to a part of their brains too."

I thought that was the weirdest thing that I had ever heard.  Delivering part of my brain along with my babies sounded like one of the least appealing things I could imagine.

Fast forward nine years and three babies.  In the last week I have lost the following items:

- my check book
- my keys
- the book that I am re-reading
- and my camera.

The last week is not the first time my "mother's memory" has become an issue.  In the past few years I have been known to:

-realize I have forgotten my debit card after all of my groceries have been wrung up. (I wish that I could say this has only happened once.  Saying it has happened three times would be more accurate.)

-wander aimlessly around the house trying to remember what I am supposed to be looking for.

- turn on the water to fill up the sink to do the dishes, then get distracted and forget that I turned on the water, then let the water run until it floods the kitchen floor and drips out of the light fixtures in the basement.  (Thank goodness, I can say that this one has only happened once.)

After reviewing all of this evidence, I have come to two conclusions:

Conclusion number one: I would have to agree with my friend that, indeed, women do give birth to a part of their brains with each child. 

Conclusion number two: maybe I should consider carefully before deciding to have any more babies.  Apparently there isn't much of my brain left at this point.

Life's Plain, Common Work

I am not a woman who finds joy in doing the laundry. I am not a stay-at-home-mom who derives great pleasure from scrubbing toilets or mopping the kitchen floor. I'm not now, but I'd like to be. I'd like to be able to look at a sink-full of dishes and see a way to express my love to my family. I want to see the need for vacuuming and when it's done feel a real sense of accomplishment.

Recently, I have had glimpses of how important these seemingly simple things really are, and I want to embrace that. I find a lot of joy in creating, in finding ways to make things more beautiful. In my heart I know that creating an orderly home can fulfill my need for creativity too. I know it, but with a pile of laundry staring me in the face, in that moment, it's hard to realize it.

I found this poem over at Clover Lane and immediately loved it.

The best things in life are nearest:
Breath in your nostrils,
light in your eyes,
flowers at your feet,
duties at your hand,
the path of right just before you.
Then do not grasp at the stars,
but do life's plain, common work
as it comes,
certain that daily duties and daily bread are the sweetest things in life.
-Robert Louis Stevenson

This "plain, common work" that I am doing for my family is the most important work that I can be doing. Creating a place where my family feels safe, creating a home where Kedar and I can teach our children the things that we feel are the most important; this is my most important work.

Surely, laundry will never be my favorite thing to do but I am working on looking at my day-to-day tasks with a different perpective. The perspective that the simple things that I do everyday make a difference in my own corner of the world. I am trying to build a sancutary and a refuge for my family. Nothing could be more important for me to do than that.

The Gift of an Ordinary Day Video

My sweet sister-in-law, Kathy introduced me to this beautiful video.



Check it out. You'll be glad you did!

Go ahead, click on it!

A Story in Pictures

The Weapon of Choice and The Projectile

The Damage to the Ceiling

Collateral Damage to the Wall


The Unrepentant Culprit