C-O-L-D

Oh, my friends.  I have a cold.  And lest you imagine that to be as inane as it sounds, let me assure you:

it is not just a cold.

It is a COLD. 

An Eight-Months Pregnant, Can't Sleep Anyway, But Now Can Sleep Even Less For Lack Of Breathing COLD.  It is an I Already Look Hideously Puffy So Why Don't We Add Some Red Eyes and Drippy Nostrils Just For Kicks COLD.  It is a Do I Hold My Belly To Prevent Early Contractions Each Time I Cough or Cover My Mouth to Prevent Germy Spray COLD.  It is a Find a Place to Sit Down and Sneeze So I Don't Lose Control of My Bladder COLD.

Perhaps most irritatingly, it is a HOW CAN I HAVE A COLD WHEN IT'S A HUNDRED AND ONE DEGREES OUTSIDE COLD.

(And now the word 'cold' is starting to look all wrong and misspelled.  To you, too?)

Anyway, I'm going to finish my hot tea and take a nap while the girls are in school.  And more importantly, I'm going to throw away the pile of kleenex that's accumulated while I've been sitting here typing. 

Of course I took a picture of used Kleenex...blame it on the COLD.

Gross.

The Adventure List

Emily at Keeping Time has called for participants in her Adventure List project, and I'm trying to organize my thoughts enough to share!  For now, here's my list; I'll add to it when I remember something adventure-worthy, and THEN...

I'll take a peek here each Monday (or, as many Mondays as possible) to see what story I want to tell you guys.  You should join in, too!  Make a list of your adventures (big or small -- they don't have to qualify for their own reality tv show to be considered an adventure in your life!) and let Emily know that you'd like to participate.  She'll link to your blog and we'll all get to read each other's adventures. 

Now, come on -- let's get crackin!


Sarah The Heavenly's Adventure List
In this lifetime, I've....

1. Floated in a hot-air balloon.
2. Danced in a snowy gazebo.
3. Walked through a cloud in the Alps.
4. Gotten lost in my own backyard.
5. Cried while leaving a doctor's appointment.
6. Been laid flat for a surgical birth.
7. Given birth without medication.
8. Been the winner of a hula-hoop contest.
9. Harvested and canned my own garden's tomatoes.
10. Danced in a spring break outfit I sewed myself.
11. Tickled my toes in the Caribbean Sea.
12. Fallen asleep while driving through a North Dakota night.
13. French kissed on an island in a Canadian lake.
14. Been too afraid to speak.
15. Lodged a swiftly floating canoe under a jagged tree trunk.
16. Been harassed by a tropical bird in the zoo.
17. Prayed over the heads of my sleeping children.
18. Held the hand of a deceased loved-one.
19. Been inspired to write my own novel.
20. Watched the Aurora-Borealis.
21. Flown over the Atlantic ocean.
22. Decided to run away from home.
23. Escaped a party to walk on the silent docks of the Chesapeake Bay.
24. Thought my house was about to blow away.
25. Cried in front of a police officer.
26. Watched dolphins play in the Gulf of Mexico.
27. Held a baby mouse in the palm of my hand.
28. Drank local red wine on the banks of a lake in Italy.
29. Gotten a sunburn in Cancun.
30. Wondered if my husband would make it home in time for the baby's birth.
31. Picked wild blueberries on a hill in the Ozarks.
32. Been to a circus.
33. Played spin-the-bottle.
34. Won a show-choir competition.
35. Fallen in love.
36. Played the violin.
37. Talked back to sheep on a hillside in Switzerland.
38. Feared for my health on a train to Liechtenstein.
39. Been baptized.
40. Taken Holy Communion.
41. Stayed in a hotel -- alone -- for a week.
42. Been proposed to.
43. Broken up with a boy while already dating another boy.
44. Been to a Broadway play with my daughter.
45. Watched Dracula, the ballet.
46. Played racquetball with my husband.
47. Been dunked in the deep end.
48. Played peek-a-boo with sea lions on Catalina Island.
49. Gotten drenched at a water park.
50. Almost run an entire 5K.
51. Fit into a size zero.
52. Fit into a size eight.
53. Baked cinnamon rolls from scratch.
54. Stuck my foot in my mouth.
55. Smoked a cigarette.
56. Hiked at Mother Nature's Crack.
57. Driven a boat.
58. Climbed backwards down the high-dive ladder.
59. Shot gravel from the back of my tires.
60. Witnessed the birth of a baby.


More to come....

On Letting Kids' Opinions Matter

You know exactly how to order your favorite venti, half-caff, no-whip, iced vanilla soy latte.  And you know that you love your black leather boots better than any other footwear.  There are things about life that you try to maintain in order to keep yourself happy.  You have preferences and plans and ideas. 

What would it be like if someone decided, without your permission or input, to suddenly change your mind for you?  To choose a different favorite drink or shoes for your day and then implement that choice without consulting you?

You’d be irritated to say the least.  You might even throw a little fit in the middle of the coffee shop, shouting your displeasure at having your will taken away so carelessly.

And you’d know exactly what it feels like to be a normal toddler on a daily basis. 

Just as adults have strong opinions about their favorite things and how to go about their business, little ones do, too.  Their early years are so easily planned and executed by adults that we sometimes forget to take their choices – their autonomy – into consideration.  We veto their requests for juice, or old, worn sandals, or where to keep their favorite toy, and we do it without thinking twice.  We are the parents, after all: we know when they’ve had enough juice and when they need to wear nicer shoes.  We know when a toy shouldn’t be perched on the edge of the toilet, even if it is a superhero keeping a close eye on a dangerous volcano.

But just because we’re in charge doesn’t mean that we can’t exert our authority respectfully.  To toss out decisions without at least listening to our kids’ thoughts tells them that their feelings are useless.  How will that affect us later, when we expect them to open up to us about their adolescent lives?  Will they assume we don’t value their needs or opinions?  Will they talk to others about what’s really bothering them, or just do as they please behind our backs?

Instead of putting our foot down so forcefully as to crush our kids’ sense of independence, it can be helpful to go slowly.  To listen before acting.  To explain and soften the blow. 

To make it easier – and less tantrum-inducing – we can give our kids a chance to be involved in decisions that affect them. 

Giving them options we can live with is one way to allow opportunities for decision-making.  If you know they’ve already met their juice limit, for example, let them choose between milk or water as the only options.  If that’s met with resistance, it doesn’t mean an argument has to begin.  Let them express themselves and affirm that it’s okay to love juice.  Remind them of your family’s juice rules, and why they’re in place.  Let them know the next time juice will be available. 

And don’t be angry if they’re still upset: they’re people – with feelings. 

It’s also important to give up control, ourselves.  If we make all of their choices for them, they’re bound to resent it at some point and rebel with tantrums or defiance.  If the decision isn’t harmful or seriously against the rules, let the kids decide.  Giving them daily doses of independent choice goes a long way towards making them feel like they have some say in their own lives.

And that goes a long way towards them being more understanding when we must be the boss.

[Originally published here.] 

Some Quickety Quick Takes for August

1.  Mia, while playing with her dolls, had quite a world adventure yesterday.  She recounted them to me, and I, being the ever-loving tattler that I am, shall recount them for you:

We ran all the way from Africa, so our feet are very tired, and we were chased by lots of animals (because Africa is FULL of animals) on our way to China.  But when we got there!  We realized that we were ALLERGIC to Indians!  And you know China is FULL of Indians.

We apparently have some work to do in both geography and politically correct assumptions.




2.  I know it seems really inconsequential, but one of the things that keeps me all bottled up and self-contained on my island comes in the form of not knowing how to find something.  So...can you help me? 

I want a good baby carrier and have no idea which type or brand or style to look at -- it's all so overwhelming.  Neither is an expensive carrier in our budget right now.  I have a pouch sling type thing that I got for free (excellent!) and it seems like a good one...but I know I'd like another option or two.  I've heard great things about Angelpacks, but can't afford to go that route. 

What do you think?  What baby carriers have been your favorite?  And how affordable are they?




3. While we're on the topic of help, here's another one:

I need to make a bunch of freezer meals sometime soon so we'll not starve once the baby arrives and I am no longer in possession of brain-power.  I have a small repertoire of recipes that work well frozen, but was hoping for some inspiration.  What do you stock your freezer with in preparation for a new baby?



4.  One of the only TV shows Justin and I have been watching this summer was Expedition Impossible on ABC -- did you see it?  There was a lot of mountain climbing and hiking and swimming and mind-puzzling, all in exotic Morocco.  Anyway, one team that continually impressed me consisted of one able-bodied-guy, a blind man, and another able-bodied-guy-turned-gimp halfway through the competition.  They blew me away with their ability to follow through on difficult adventures even though they had less manpower than other teams.  They were brave and encouraging of one-another and intelligent.  They'd done a lot of adventure-race-type things together and knew each other and trusted each other.  Really an awesome team.  They ended up in second place, which is amazing; a blind man and a man with a broken ankle STILL made second place.

But that's not my point.  My point is this:

Justin and I are about to enter another baby adventure.  We're a little nervous.  Mostly about the lack of sleep headed our way.  Oh, and braving the terrible-twos again.  And just all the logistics of adding a child.  But we work well together and we trust each other and we've done adventures like this before, surviving intact. 

He counts as the one able-bodied man; I qualify myself as the blind and the lame all rolled into one.  But still!  We can do it!


5.  I'm curious: if you live on the East Coast, how are you feeling about the approaching hurricane?  How are you preparing?  Since living through the tornado, I find myself constantly wondering how others prepare for disasters.  Assuming this hurricane will be a disaster, which isn't a stretch of the imagination. 

What's your plan?



6.  Yesterday, Lauren made a very clinical observation about my burgeoning belly and its map of faint purple squiggles:

"Mama?  When the baby is ready to come out, I think those cracks on your belly will open up and that's how he'll be born.  Right?"

Sometimes it feels that way; I've never felt so stretched-out before, and I'm certain there are moments when I can actually feel my skin stretching.  Ouch.



7.  I was so excited about our first opportunity to take snacks to kindergarten this week!  I've been less-than pleased with all the sweet, crackery type of snacks the kids eat every day, so I brought bananas.  The teacher assured me that fruit always ends up being a big hit with the kids.  And I love to be loved...and healthy at the same time.  At the end of the day, Mia said everyone really liked the bananas, which made her happy!  They were a success!  And healthier than cookies, which made me happy!

The next day, she came home and told me that the snack for that day had been cupcakes and fruit snacks. 

Sigh.  No banana can compete with that.



I'm out!  Have a fabulous weekend!  Stop by Conversion Diary for more Quick Takes!

Bigger Picture Moment: The Island

I come here sometimes.  To my island. 

It's not usually a planned trip but I keep visiting regularly, showing up on the shores to watch a sunset or listen to the crashing surf.  It's gorgeous here, of course: lush and green and shady in the middle and sun-sparkled and jeweled on the edges.  I can get comfortable here.  Burrow down and be alone.  Forget the world. 

Or, try to forget the world.  But try as I may, the world infringes.  I bring my luggage with me and inside the leather flaps are stowaway pieces of world.  A worry.  A care.  A list or fear.  Somehow I forget to pack my joys.  The island is not about joy.  It's about fret.  It's about stew and ponder.  About pick and second-guess.

The pieces of world get stuck in the sand of my island, and I am forced to navigate them over and over on my circuits around the perimeter.  They trip me up when I have to flee from sea-storms, which crop up with surprising frequency; there's always a new, blustery problem blowing ashore.

And I hunker down -- by myself -- to figure it all out.  I have to survive alone, because that's what my island is: solitary.  Unknown and unapproachable.  Self-contained.  No outside help allowed.  Anyone else might mess up my system of fret and wallow and worry.  They might organize my pieces of world into 'donate' and 'trash' piles, and my beach would be clean. 

I like it just the way it is, messy and unwelcoming.  Pretty from afar but treacherous up close.

But I get lonely.

So when I notice that there's a salt-crusted bridge on the far side of my island, I'm intrigued.  It is mossy and weather-worn.  Old wood that used to be golden and supple is now splintered and gray.  I step on it and peer across the turquoise water to the horizon. 

There is something out there.  It glows.  It pulses.  It dances.  A sweet wind emanates from there to blow the hair from my furrowed brow.

But to step away from my brooding island, where all the problems are about to be solved by me alone....it feels like an anchor.  Still, the pulsing glow looks promising, and I could use a dance...

I can cross the bridge.  As soon as I give myself permission to.

------------

Probably, when I get to the other side of the bridge, abandoning the need to harbor my own worries and doubts instead of allowing a comforting word or piece of advice, you'll be there.  And you.  And you, too.  And my husband.  And some strangers.  And my God (who's been with me all along, waiting for me to notice).  You'll all be dancing and smiling, wondering what took me so long. 

And you'll have to help me burn down that old bridge so that the messy island -- which is like a beautifully tantalizing black hole -- will drift away across the ocean.  Until it no longer holds any pull on my heart.

We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us at Melissa's place today! Grab the button, link up, and then read a few others to encourage them as they walk this journey of intentional living.

Whoa, Here She Comes...

As long as we're spilling things (we are spilling things, right?), I have a confession to make.  It sounds odd, since I've known we were on this treacherous path for several years now, but...

the truth is...

I'm not a minivan fan.

Shocking, I know. 

It's just that these child-carting vehicles seem so laden with stereotypes, and even though I fit those stereotypes, I haven't wanted a minivan.  Like I could secretly buck the system and claim independence with  a big, fat SUV, instead.  But really, don't those come with their own set of stereotypes?  (And large loan payments?)

But here I am, 6 weeks away from having one child too many to fit in our other car, and I must tell you...

We now own a minivan.  Place me in whatever category you must, but let me assure you: This Thing is Awesome.  Really.  I've never been so pleased with a car purchase before!  Load me up with soccer balls, fill my storage area (which is surprisingly spacious!) with groceries, and hop on board for a ride in the best car ever.  Er, best minivan ever. 

The only problem so far seems to be that I can't park the thing.  I'm the one making three-point turns to maneuver us into a spot only to step out and notice that I'm still crooked.  What is it with this?  I have pretty good spatial relations and a near-flawless parking history, but the minivan, she's a conundrum to me.  This has led to some fairly embarrassing situations, in which an entire line of kindergarten-pick-up parents have probably snickered behind their tinted windows at the mom backing up...then pulling forward...then backing up...then pulling forward...

and still being catty-cornered across the last available parking space in the lot. 

No bother, I think.  Surely when I heave myself from the minivan and up the sidewalk to retrieve my daughter, they'll notice the belly that must be throwing off my center of parking gravity.  Maybe my off-balanced midsection will distract them from the parking debacle they just witnessed, or at least I'll be granted some forgiveness. 

And lest you think this belly is anything other than eye-catchingly huge, here's a fun anecdote from today: I made a Target cashier laugh spontaneously.

Just by walking past her.

Oh, she tried to cover it up by arranging her features into something polite and gracious.  She tried to stop her bubbling giggles from overflowing again by saying 'Well, don't you look adorable!'

Yes, yes I do look adorable.  Adorably odd and bulbous.  And as bad as I am at parking my new child-hauling minivan, I'm even worse at hiding my belly from view when it's the obvious subject of hilarity.  So try to avert your gaze if you see me coming.

It's probably for the best.

I Wonder While I Wander

Mia, tell me something about your Kindergarten day!

"Mmmm...I just...I don't want to!"

Well, how about this: did you get to go to the library today?  Or what was the lunch room like?  And did your teacher read you any books?

"Yeah.  And we had an assembly in the cafeteria.  That was our second one."

Second?!  I didn't even know about the first!  What did they talk to you about in the assembly?

"Well...they said...I don't want to tell you!"

------------

This is what I do all day: think of ways to draw Mia out in conversation about her day.  I want intricate, messy, specific details.  I want to be walking by her side as she makes a new friend.  I want to see her face when something excites her and hear her laugh at a new silly song.  I want to be in the middle of it.

She comes home, happy and glowing with another victorious day.  We only have a one-minute drive home, so my queries are limited.  Once in the house, she hugs and kisses on her sister and they run off to play in the bedroom with dress-ups or dolls or colored pencils.

I wander around the kitchen, wondering where the day went.  Or, more accurately, where the years have gone.


------------


Around the dinner table, we chatter.  With so few hours to have both of my girls together in the same space, I find myself less distracted.  More present and willing to go slowly.  More able to see how precious these girls are and how fleeting these moments will have seemed.  The moments where potatoes are smashed into the wood-grain of our dinner table and booty-jokes are passed like hot buns (heh) across the kitchen.  The moments where one girl needs more water and the other girl steals my next bite. 

So we linger.  Or, I linger.  They shoot forward without regard for my wist. 

Mia, did you get to see Laney today in the hallway?

"Yes!  That made the FOURTH time!  I've gotten to see her four times so far, and she smiles and waves EVERY time." 

I am happy with this morsel.  The moments are good.  They are normal, but I appreciate them better these days.  I hope to hold on to that feeling, not squandering it once we reach the middle of mundane.  I smile and watch my girls eat their dinner.  Then --

"Mom!"  Mia's head shoots up from her plate as if she's had an epiphany.  She's remembered something.  "What was your day like?" she asks. 

I'm taken aback.  She thought of me?  In the smash of new and fast and early, she thought of me.  Maybe once.  Maybe more. 

And so I tell her.  I tell her every last detail, in the hopes that opening the channels of conversation will feed her desire to tell me more.  I explain my shopping trip and the weirdly-shaped fruit I saw at the store and the way I had to step around a mom trying to calm her child's tantrum.  I tell her about how Lauren's preschool day happened.  About the brave way her little sister didn't even need her blankie.  I tell her about waiting in line at the after-school pick-up and being so excited to see my big-girl's pigtails bobbing as she waited.

------------

I forget to mention the way the house was so quiet that I couldn't understand what my next task should be.  I don't say that I wished I could come pick her up at lunchtime.  I leave out the part about seeing her blankie abandoned on the kitchen floor (right where every good blankie belongs, you know) and stopping in my tracks to gather it into my arms and press it to my face and breathe-in the still-there smell of Mia.

And those are forgotten, for a moment.  Because across the table from me, my daughter is reaching for my hand, and her sister is singing a new song. 

And I don't want to miss that, now do I?

Off To a Good Start?

If summer was the time for embracing spontaneity instead of routine, eating daily popsicles, and sleeping whenever our heads found a spare moment to touch a pillow, the beginning of the school year seems to be the opposite. 

We’re remembering what a regular bedtime looks like.  We recall the need for bathing that doesn’t happen in a giant, chlorinated pool.  Things have made a sudden shift back into ordinary time, requiring both graceful adaptation and errant bits of luck to see us through.   For example, we now have to remind ourselves that meals need structure in order to keep up with a normal day.  Whereas we could have gotten by with a skimpy breakfast or lunch on summer vacation because we’d be snacking all day, school days call for something more substantial. 

Educators around the world can probably attest to the truth behind a good meal’s ability to make a day more productive.  They see students crashing mid-morning after a sugary breakfast and getting juiced up with more short lived energy from an under-nourishing lunch.  Although I don’t have test scores handy to back up my theory, I’d guess that our students’ ability to learn is adversely affected when they aren’t properly fueled with healthful foods. 

To get our kids off to a good start this school year, here are some suggestions for breakfast and lunch that will keep them energetic and ready to learn: 

In the morning, offer fibers like oatmeal and berries.  Unlike a bowl of empty-caloried cereal, the oats and berries will keep kids satisfied longer.  And with plenty of instant or quick-cooking varieties available, the morning’s preparations can still be speedy. 

Make sure breakfast includes a bit of healthy fat and protein.  Think of ways to incorporate peanut butter (on toast, in smoothies, etc.) or whole-milk yogurt into the first meal of the day.  Scrambled eggs with shredded cheese are a quick option, and when paired with a bowl of fresh fruit, this meal can send your kids off with plenty of energy to start the day.

When faced with a rushed morning, it’s easy to grab a toaster waffle or pastry, both of which are full of tricky, energy-sapping ingredients.  Instead, try making a batch of breakfast burritos on the weekend and freezing them so they can be reheated on busy mornings. 

If you’ll be packing your child’s own lunch, it’s good to remember the same rules as with breakfast: fiber and protein will help keep them satisfied until the end of the day. 

Whole-grain pita pockets or tortilla wraps can be filled with leftover turkey or chicken, shredded vegetables, and slices of cheese for a switch from the traditional sandwich.  Kids might also like a bowl of salad or soup if it’s made with their favorite mix of healthy ingredients.

Instead of a whole apple (which is easy to pack but just as easy to throw away) try slicing fruits into a colorful salad for a bright alternative to a boring piece of fruit.  Another possibility for satisfying the dessert craving is to pack a bowl of frozen applesauce or yogurt; the textures are fun and the novelty may just be enough to stand up against any peer-pressured treats.

‘You are what you eat’ is as true now as it’s ever been.  And the new school year is a perfect time to embrace healthy habits that will grow our kids into energetic learners.

[Newspaper version here.] 

The Age-Old Classic, But Gigglier

Ring around the Rosie....

Pocket full of Posies....

Ashes, ashes....

We all fall DOWN!

We hope you find someplace cool and green to dance this weekend!  Happy Saturday, friends!

Bigger Picture Moment: Don't Blink

Once upon a time, there was a tiny baby girl.  She was born a bit early, and her mom couldn't quite understand how something that came in such a tiny package could consume all of her thoughts.  All of her time.  All of her love.

But the tiny baby girl grew, as babies are wont to do, and the mom got engulfed in life.  The living of it got all wrapped around the loving in it, and it became one, sweet, clumsy mess.  The mom prepared nutritious meals (for the most part...) and put away clean laundry (sometimes) and navigated tantrums and difficulties with grace (almost never).  The life was slow.  The naps were regulated.  The tiny baby girl was joined by a tiny baby sister, and they created double the life: more of everything.  Including the messy clumsiness of living. 

The days were stacked, one upon the other, and they blended together at times so that the mom could no longer see what the tiny baby girl used to look like.  She only saw right now. 

She saw: dancing and crying and dressing and pretending and reading and coloring and negotiating and mandating and singing and smiling and loving and screaming and laughing and learning and cooking and running and leaping and sledding and traveling and friending and sweeping and sistering and arguing and kissing. 

(She saw lots of kissing.)

Until one day, the mom woke up and found herself to be surrounded by a different now.  In this now, her belly was large with a growing baby brother and the tiny baby sister produced sentences and paragraphs of emotion and detail and conversation. 

And the tiny baby girl that started it all?  The tiny baby girl who set her mom into the motion of living and stacking and clumsy loving?

That tiny baby girl was nowhere to be found.  Overnight, in the middle of the living, the tiny baby girl sprouted and bloomed and stretched herself to the moonlight. 

So that when the sun rose, her skin glowed with knowledge and pride and readiness.  Her face shone with independence.  Her heart sang made-up songs that only she knew the words to, and which would carry her across the land of tomorrow.

And her legs -- those wee-tiny, squishy, flailing things that used to be bundled safely in a pink swaddling blanket -- carried her down the street to kindergarten.

And the mom cried at the time that had melted away.  But rejoiced that she'd lived it, and would keep on living it, until she wakes up another day to find...

What? 

Only time will tell.

We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join Hyacynth at Undercover Mother today! Grab the button, link up, and then read a few others to encourage them as they walk this journey of intentional living.

The First Day of School

I woke up this morning with a nosebleed.  Proof of overflowing nostalgia and dripping anxiety, perhaps. 

In any case, I plugged that stinker up, and moved on with my (crazy early) day.  (Seriously, I haven't had to wake up so early in AGES.  School starts at 7:45 -- the school district isn't fooling around.)  But despite the overflowing and dripping, the morning was a breeze.  Two excited girls, one fluttering mama, one supportive daddy...

And we were out the door.

Time: 7:32 AM
Temperature: 84F
Direction traveled: East
Blocks walked: 3
Hours of kindergarten: 7
Hours of preschool: 4
Photos taken: Less than 50
Kleenex consumed: I plead the fifth...

All of those statistical details added up to one thing: success.

The day was wonderful, really.  Lauren cried for about thirty seconds at preschool drop off, and could barely be dragged away from her toys at the morning's end. 

And Mia?  Well I'll sum it up this way:

"Mia, what was the very best part of your kindergarten day?!"

"EV-ER-Y-THING was, mom!"

So.  Kindergarten.  Preschool.

We got this.

Mind Control

Because tomorrow is the first day of school for both my kindergartner and my preschooler, you can probably just about imagine my state of mind at present.  Unless you're a normal, well-adjusted person.  In which case, I can inform you that my state of mind is chaotic and panicked and tear-drenched. 

It's partly because I'm worrying about all the wrong things: my mind is occupied in a thousand different unproductive directions that are totally out of my control.  From how we'll handle homework or social difficulties, to anxiety over the position of the baby (who is due to arrive in 7 weeks, give or take) and how that will affect my desired delivery, to how we'll handle two ballet lessons each week along with everything else that the new school-year and new baby require.

See?  It's harrowing and daunting and mind-blowing. 

At least it is for this mama.

(Oh -- one more thing: I feel like I need to get started on Halloween costumes RIGHT NOW, because our October is likely to be filled with all things baby and postpartum adjustment.)

But the truth is, if I'd just wipe the slate of my mind clean for a moment, I could focus on what actually needs to get done.  And for today, the day before school starts, that's not a lot.  I need to make sure my way-too-old daughters have their favorite dresses clean and ready for the morning.  I need to get everything laid out for tomorrow's breakfast and lunch so we'll have plenty of time to bask in the excitement of school-day preparations without feeling rushed.  I need to go to bed early. 

And really, most of that is negotiable.  Maybe the dresses are vital, because my girls are quite serious when it comes to choosing dresses.  But the rest?  We could be rushed.  I could be tired.  I hope for otherwise, but the day would still get accomplished if I had to scramble a bit. 

The thing is, in all of this anxiety and worry and teary-eyed joy/fear, the day is passing me by.  The chance to be with my girls fully in the moments that lead up to tomorrow morning is fleeting.  We only have the afternoon now.  And I want it to be fun.  Sweet.  Nothing necessarily memorable or huge, just calm and enjoyable. 

Without my own doubts clouding the skies, the sun has a chance to break through and light up the smiles on my girls' faces.  Without my winds of thought rushing around carelessly, the air can settle long enough that I may talk to my daughters about how they're feeling. 

Tomorrow is not about me, as much as it feels that way right now.  It is about them.  It's about their growth and excitement, and probably just a smattering of their own fears. 

I'm taking the afternoon off from mind-consuming circles of getting-nowhere contemplation.  High five me if you dare; my hands will probably be sweaty with repressed emotion.

But tomorrow morning when they're both snugged away in new classrooms?  I'll need your high-five to turn into a hug.  Seriously. 

A Dance in the Snow

I'm still working on my adventure list so I can join in with Emily's stories at Keeping Time, but until my list is ready, I thought I'd go ahead and share a story.  Something from my life that will grace my list of adventures.  Something I never want to forget.

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It had snowed all of Christmas Eve, covering the world in glittering white.  And it was deep snow.  Softly pillowing and muffling the sounds of a busy Christmas Day.

Near sunset, in the car with the heater blasting, Justin kept his surprise to himself.  We wove along quiet, white roads, hands laced together over the middle console.  I squinted against the brightness of the setting sun, trying to remain patient.  Where were we going? 

Slowly, he pulled the car alongside the curb of an empty road, and turned off the ignition.  We sat.  I swiveled my head, trying to understand why we were here: the park.  It was sprawling and gorgeous and lively...in the springtime.  But now, in winter?  All of the ancient sycamores and maples were draped in white and while that effect was stunning, I was stumped.  I'd already gotten a thoughtful gift from Justin earlier that morning: my star-sapphire ring; there was nothing more to give. 

Still, he came around to my door, hauled me from the warmth of the seat, and escorted me across the powder.  We stumbled and slipped, and it wasn't all accidental: I wanted to be caught in his strong arms.  He led me across the empty park to the large gazebo, up a dozen cement-and-snow steps, to the middle of the floor.  Snow drifted in around the edges of the outdoor room, frozen breezes picking up glittery flakes and swirling them around us. 

Off to one side, near a scooted-away picnic table, there was a portable stereo.  While I stood, confused, Justin stepped over to the machine, pressed a few buttons, and came back to me.  His arms encircled my waist, pulled me towards his chest, and as the music started, we began to dance. 

I shook my head at his stealth and romance, and placed my arms around his neck.  We were a bundle of coats and scarves, gloves and boots.  A puffed-up couple of lovebirds, fluffing our feathers to keep warm.  The sun pricked out bits of flying light on individual snowflakes.  They landed in our hair, on our red cheeks, and melted on our lips. 

Music floated with the snow.  My heart skipped two beats each time my face reached for the exposed part of Justin's neck.  He was warm and freezing, all at once.

The sun continued to fall as we danced, making the expanse of snow-covered park turn shades of pink and orange.  Then purple.  Then blue.

The truest colors of Christmas.

-----------

And this story needs to remain even more firmly rooted in my memory now, because after the tornado, this old, sprawling park is gone.  All of the grand, stately trees and the tall-stepped gazebo...the swells and dips of the rolling land are now bare.  The surface is scrubbed clean of any trace of memory. 

So I wrote it down.  Take THAT, F5. 

Transitioning into Kindergarten Gracefully (Or Tearfully...)

For some reason, back-to-school shopping will forever be associated in my mind with new jeans.  They’re a staple.  A cornerstone.  A requirement for a successful school year.

Of course, none of that is necessarily true, but the association still occupied my thoughts as I stood in a busy department store, searching for my daughter’s size.  Shades of dark and light denim blurred my vision; it was a moment before I realized that it wasn’t the stack    of denim causing me to see funny, but the tears that had begun to form.

Because I was shopping for my 5-year-old’s first pair of back-to-school jeans. 

Like many hundreds of 5 and 6-year-olds this year, my daughter is starting down the road of public education.  It’s so exciting, and at the same time, terribly nerve-wracking.  As the first of our children to hit this kindergarten milestone, I find myself waxing and waning between fits of sudden tearfulness and excited giddiness.  What will I do if she hates it?  How will we handle all the outside influences?  When will I know that she’s settled comfortably into the new workload and social life?

She’ll be on this road for the next 13 years, and it all begins in less than a week.

Many of my anxieties, I would guess, are also shared by other first-time parents of kindergartners, so I’ve asked a friend for help.  Holly Davis is a local kindergarten teacher, and has experienced her share of new students (and their emotional parents) long enough to have a few pointers that might help us weather the coming weeks of transition. 

One thing she heavily encourages is open-house attendance.  Because kindergarten is such a new venture for many kids, it’s helpful for them to not walk in blind on the first day.  If they can see where their desk will be, who their teacher is, and get a feel for the size of the building, their first days will be easier. 

Davis also suggests reading books together about the first day of school; the local library has lots of options, and many will illustrate the normal routines of school so your child feels prepared.

On that all-important first day, Davis encourages parents to feel completely comfortable sticking around for a few minutes to help get their child settled in.  In order to help the kids feel ready and assured, many parents will tour the room with the kids, making introductions and taking photos.

If the year progresses and your child is still clingy at drop-off (a common enough occurrence), Davis has found that a quicker approach to leaving is better than a long, drawn-out goodbye.  But that will come later – the first day can be much more comforting.

As for ensuring a good school year, Davis suggests keeping this in mind: many of the most successful students are those whose parents aren’t afraid to become involved.  Be active in parent-teacher organizations, be ready to communicate with your child’s teacher, and don’t be shy when it comes to asking questions.  Teachers want nothing more than for their students to succeed, and they won’t be able to answer your concerns if you never voice them.

Perhaps most encouragingly, Davis tells me that it’s not at all uncommon for parents to cry over such things as stacks of jeans or rows of backpacks. 

Good news, because I foresee many tearful outbursts in the coming week, none of them from my kindergarten-ready daughter.

[Newspaper version here.]

Snapshot: A Project

The morning is only half over, and already, the girls have switched wardrobes a half-dozen times.  As they dance through the living room -- ballerinas, now -- I call them to my side in the kitchen.

There is a project that needs doing.  A project!  There is nothing so welcome as a project on these long summer days, and we've been too long without one. Without a planned project specifically.  Because mama's well is dry.  On this day, the project is mostly unplanned as well, but it feels different and special because there are beads. 

In a crystal bowl, the colors blend so that if one were to squint, it would seem as if there were melted bits of crayon floating on melted bits of candy.  Beads. 

In a fit of squeals and praise, my own colorful children settle into their chairs.  Lauren's stripped her costume off, showing her pearly belly above the glowing table.  Mia's back in her every-day dress.  Their fingers plunge into the beaded piles, and they're in heaven. 

Outside, the sky is dark and gray -- gloomy, even.  Except, the lack of rain and cool, sheltering clouds this summer makes the gloom feel like adventure.  Or rest.  (Restful adventure?)  Soft rain is falling so that we forget it's there unless we look across the yard into the woods.  There, the drizzly, pale drops are in relief against the darkness of the trees, and we stare for minutes at a time.  Rain is falling down, falling down, falling down...

I pull out a skein of old, pink yarn.  Soft cotton.  I draw a length for each girl, and they clap: I am a magician, pulling yards of gleaming silk from my palms; I am a fairy, producing threads of anticipation.  A bit of tape on the ends will make the yarn threadable through our dollar-store beads, and the girls are off. 

Mia fills her yarn with perfect rainbow-ordered beads while singing to remind herself of the perfection for which she aims: Red, orange, yellow...and green, followed by blue!  Indigo and violet, that's a rainbow song for you!

Lauren is less particular, only enamored with the way her tiny fingers can manipulate a bead and a string into something beautiful:

A necklace.

If I could string moments on a length of magical, memory-recalling thread, this would be one of them.  With the damp air falling heavy through our open windows, the silent rain cushioning the day, the girls enthralled with color and purpose...

And both of them happy.  All of us happy.  Even the baby in my womb rolls and stretches like he's ready to be among us happy folk.  I rub the elbow or shoulder that forces a catch in my breath, and whisper to myself:

O, what a beautiful morning; O, what a beautiful day...

Bigger Picture Moment: Somebody Else's Snuggle

I hate to intrude upon somebody else's simple, beautiful moment, but since both of these people are my precious darling sweethearts, I'll just have to hope for forgiveness.

It was cloudy and hot and the humidity was swelling around us.  Since it was a good ten degrees cooler than it had been for weeks, though, we played outside.  The girls ran back and forth from the creek to the porch, flying over grandpa's lawn and creating their own cooling breezes.

Daddy found a better way to enjoy the evening: the hammock.

But racing with your sister on a hot summer evening can really take it out of you, y'know?  Sweaty brows, bright cheeks, worn-out legs...they all led her to daddy's side.

 And here is where I'm really intruding: daddy was quite grumpy this day, if I may say so.  Brooding and quiet, distracted and withdrawn.  Still, the beauty of a grumpy day...

is that it can all be turned around with a small snuggle.  It won't be cured, exactly, but it can be lightened.  Relieved.  Softened.   And I will submit, on daddy's behalf, of course, that a snuggle with his babyest girl is the perfect reason to not be grumpy at all. 

We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us at Alita Jewel's Treasures today! Grab the button, link up, and then read a few others to encourage those before you as they walk this journey of intentional living.

A Conundrum of Super-Inconsequential Proportions

One week from today is the day it all goes down. 

She'll walk into a classroom and the two of them -- classroom and girl -- will be the same: ready to be filled with ideas.  Kindergarten feels enormous, but I have a feeling each new year will feel enormous, right?  Because each push forward is like a pull away.  Stretching thin the lines of attachment but building anew the bridge of independence. 

She'll walk among big kids and strange kids and mean kids and shy kids.  Without a hand to hold.  I think that's my main emotional tug right now: the 'what if she's scared?' tug.  What if she's nervous or intimidated?  It makes the tears prick at the back of my eyes, thinking of little Mia in the big world.  Probably, I should be worried about more tangible things: how will she handle the work?  Will she learn to read well?  Will she hate math?  Are the friends she's about to make going to be good?

But I'll worry about those things later (undoubtedly).  For now, I'm just trying to hide any and all personal fears in the hopes that they won't bleed over into Mia's experience. 

Because she is quite truthfully elated!  Beyond excited, actually!  So ready!  Kindergarten will never have seen the likes of such an enthusiastic student!

Mia!  Can you believe that one week from today, you'll be starting kindergarten?!  My eyes are wide and encouraging to mask the bittersweetness of my joy.  (I am joyful.  So thrilled to see what this year of change brings into her personality and growth.  Excited to know Schoolgirl Mia.  I just need to be escorted through the murky puddles of worry first, to fully appreciate that joy.)

Is it one long week?  Or one short week from today? she asks.  I have no idea what she means, but I answer:

Today is Wednesday.  NEXT Wednesday is the first day of kindergarten.  Does that help?

Her eyebrows shoot skyward and her mouth pops open.  NEXT Wednesday?!  OOOooooohhhhhh YAY!!  Her feet do a sitting-down dance, and she claps to the rhythm of her shaking body.

Across the breakfast table, Lauren adds her tiny, sweet voice to the conversation:
And mama?  Wednesday I will start preschool?!  Yay!  I get to do preschool!

I sigh.  I smooth her hair away from her cheeks.  I nod and smile and begin a new conversation about how exciting preschool will be.

I keep forgetting, it seems, to remember all the important milestones and expectations of both children.  Kindergarten has felt so overshadowing, but here is my littlest girl, entering a new phase of her own, ready to be built-up and encouraged. 

There are too many new beginnings happening this year for my heart to understand: kindergarten, preschool, new baby...

I organize my schedule and my menu and my shopping list and my home.  I keep track of appointments and dates and times.

Now how, on earth, will I learn to organize my scattered emotions in the midst of so much change?

Writing Me: Where I'm From

Over at Bigger Picture Blogs today, we're kicking off a new feature to celebrate creativity and community!  The old project Where I'm From has been making the rounds lately, and we love the way it gives us a glimpse into a person's past and heart, all while being fun and inspiring, so we're using it as our current Writing Me prompt. 

My own attempt at showing you Where I'm From is up there now and I'd love it if you'd head over to read and respond...so here's a bit of a teaser...

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I am from a powder-blue bicycle with pink streamers, from Barbie and hand-cranked ice cream.  I am from the concrete house on the corner that was once a mid-century, valley-hidden gas station.  I am from autumn-pink azaleas, and broad-leafed redbuds.

I am from tracking Santa's flight on the 10 o'clock weather forecast; I am from rosy cheeks and blue eyes, from Grandma Nina's hands.  I'm from made-up recipes and splattered cookbooks; I am from Betty Crocker.....

Head over to Bigger Picture Blogs for the rest!

The Watering of Mia

When Nana asks for your help watering the flowers late one summer evening, you might oblige.  You might have to grip the hose tightly, because the fount of water is squirrely and forceful.

It will take all of your concentration to aim the hose where it needs to be aimed -- at the base of the flowering shrubs.  You will begin to wonder if you are up to the task after all.

Thankfully, you will decide that watering the flowers is neither as important nor as fun as beginning to play in the hose yourself.  This takes neither concentration nor aim, and is, therefore, highly entertaining.  Refreshing, too.

And once you begin playing in the hose, the evening's watering schedule will quickly be discarded in favor of more enjoyable pursuits. 

Like giving the hose back to Nana and making her shower you with cool water, drenching your dress and plastering your hair to your head.  You have growing to do, after all -- and you are as stunning as any flowering shrub.


How did you stay cool this weekend?  Were there any squirrely hoses in your arms?  And did you, perhaps, become drenched with joy?

The Add-a-Baby Plan

The most difficult part of adding a new baby to the family, if I remember correctly, was not the new baby, herself.  The true stress came from the toddler in the background. 

Her world was changed.  Though she was happy with the new baby, the addition caused some hidden anxieties.  They manifested themselves in clinging, fussing, whining, and altogether disruptive behavior.  It was quite obvious that the lack of normalcy was stressing her out, and when a toddler’s stressed out, life can be miserable for the entire family. 

Which is absolutely not helpful during a babymoon.

After a few weeks of adjusting to our new situation, she did calm down and get back to her normal two-year-old antics.  But this is all on my mind again because we’re expecting a new baby this fall, and I’m crossing my fingers that the transition will be gentle.  I have high hopes that because both of our older children are out of toddlerhood, they will be better able to understand and adjust to the baby’s presence. 

But I’m also worried that an increased sense of understanding will be joined by increased anxieties.  Our older kids won’t be easily distracted from sensing that they’re not getting as much attention from their parents.  They might find new and frightening ways of acting out their jealousy. 

Or, I could be overreacting (not an uncommon occurrence), and they’ll merely be thrilled to be big sisters and willing helpers. 

Either way, I’d like to help this go as peacefully as possible.  Here’s my massively technical two-pronged plan:

Build anticipation truthfully and maintain stability lovingly.

That’s it.  Pretty serious business, right? 

But it is!  The girls are over-the-moon excited about having a new baby in the house, but I think their enthusiastic views of new-baby-bliss are skewed to unnatural expectations.  I know they’re under the impression that babies are cute little bundles, and they’re right, but there’s so much more to it than that.  They’ll need to know about the crying.  The sleeping.  The extra care.  The changes in schedule. 

We’re been telling stories (which our big kids think are hilarious) of what life with a new baby was like when they were born.  They include vomit, poop, tears, and above all, honesty.  And it’s related in a way that expresses how good it all was in the midst of stress.

But for all the preparation that comes before baby arrives, there’s still a lot of work to be done after the fact. 

When visitors are showering the baby with attention and the parents with congratulations, siblings can get lost in the shuffle.  In the early days, it’ll be helpful to include our big girls in those blessings, but also remember to keep their days consistent.

Their lives will still include school and holidays and play-dates, and maintaining the pre-baby stability is crucial.  If others will be helping to care for the big kids, I’ll be stressing the importance of sticking to our routines and keeping mom or dad handy for snuggles on demand.

In the long-term, maintaining stability will include extra attention and conversation, as well as fun things planned just with the big kids in mind.  It will be about sensing their needs and accepting that they might not express how out-of-sorts they feel.

I trust that the new baby will fit seamlessly into our lives, but I also know that it’s up to us to make sure the stitches stay straight and true.

[Newspaper version here.]

Bigger Picture Moment: Waiting for Rainbows

Mia and Lauren are in the back seat.  I'm driving with the air conditioner on full-blast to combat the searing sliver of sunshine that slants onto my lap, and I'm still sweating.  I'm grumpy.  And I know you already know this if you've been reading my blog for any length of time this summer, but I'm just not handling this excessive heat well. 

I try to joke about it, but the truth is that when every day this week is forecast to be above 105?  I die a little.  (See?  Still with the jokes.)  It's absolutely sapping me.  I can think of nothing to do that doesn't involve misery, at least in small bursts.

So enters the boredom.  The grouchies.  The endless days of same-old, same-old. 

Buckled into their seats on our way to Target, the girls are deep in discussion.

Mia hems and haws over what her favorite color actually is.  Yesterday it was green.  Last week it was turquoise.  Last month it was blue.  She's busy wondering if she can have a favorite group of colors since the whole 'pick one' thing isn't working out for her.  "Lauren, I really like blue, green, and yellow now.  Those are definitely my favorites."  (Last week, she said the same thing of blue, silver, and white.)

Lauren isn't so scattered.  Her true favorite is simple and timeless: pink.   "That's fine if you want lots, Mia.  I just like pink for my favorite.  Pink bubblegum, pink kitties, pink flowers.  Pink is the beautifullest.  Is that fine if I just love pink, Mia?"

Her choice is graciously affirmed.  "Yeah, that's fine.  But...Ugh!  Why can't I just pick one favorite!"  She throws her hands in the air to emphasise her irritation.  "Alright, alright: I'm not picking one color.  I just love them all.  They're all my favorites."

They continue to chatter, distracting me from the wilted day.  My wilted mood.  I'm cheered up for seconds at a time.  Only a drop in the pond, but still...drips leave tiny wakes and spread to the shore eventually, right?  I cling to the simplicity of their words.  And of their conversation. 

They don't mind the endless days of heat.  They don't care if the car's interior steals their breath upon entrance.  There are other things to think about. 

So I let my mind wander.  What color do I love best?

I love the orange plaids on Mia's sundress that make her blue eyes burst into brilliance.  I love the white ruffle on Lauren's shirt that compliments her pink-flushed cheeks after a bit of outdoor play.  I love the blue of the pool-water's mellow waves.  I love the green of the resilient, old sycamore tree's leaves and their pale barked trunks.  I love the faint, shimmery purple of the marks that are beginning to decorate my belly.  I love the golden glow of my daughters' hair -- shadeless and indescribable.  I love the color of laughter -- bright and bouncy and lasting.  I love the rainbow that dances on the sprinkler's spray as I set it under our baby tree in the backyard....

Like a rubber-band snapping back into place, the glare of noontime sun off the car in front of me snaps me back from joyful contemplation.  I shift in my seat to avoid the blinding flash.  I switch lanes to pass the offender.

The clarity lasted but a moment.  If I can pause long enough throughout the day, I can maybe recapture its brilliance?

It will come again to me, in short bursts, and for today, that will have to be enough.  Sometimes the beauty in the mundane is vaporous and elusive; to forget that is to forget that the beauty itself is stunning and precious.

Some days, all we can do is wait it out.  And that's okay.  It will come around again.

We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join here today! Grab the button, link up, and then read a few others to encourage those before you as they walk this journey of intentional living.

A Birthday Wish

Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me....

Yes, yes, it's my birthday today!  I'm in the last year of my twenties now, and what that means to me is...well I'm not quite sure what.  It should probably mean something profound, right?  But more than anything, what I think it means is...

No cooking, no cleaning, no errands...I get the day off!

Maybe to do a little bit of this:

Maybe to eat a giant bowlful of watermelon:

Maybe to accept a sweet gift:

I'll just have to see what the day brings!
Have a good day, friends!  I'm outta here!

A Beastly Hot Picnic (What?)

Today is the kind of day that calls for an indoor picnic. 

We could go swimming, but the trek to the pool would see us melting into bubbly puddles and nobody likes it when that happens.  We could run errands, but each time I turn off the car, I cry little tears of desperation that we have to exit to a black-topped parking lot.  We could play in the sprinkler, but the needly grass is so sharp that to slip and fall would surely amount to severe trauma. 

So, we stay in.  Again.  Watching the thermometer rise.  Again.  (Yesterday, a friend informed me that her poor, beleaguered air conditioning unit actually caught on fire.  It just couldn't keep up.  Threw in the towel.  Assumed it would be cool on the other side of the A/C-unit veil, and bid adieu to this cruel, overheated world.)

(And this is why August is not my friend.)

But today, all of my reasoning leads me to believe an indoor picnic is just the thing.  Blanket spread on a cool floor, ceiling fan working like mad to keep the air moving, lights down and movie on.  Yes, indoor picnics around here require movies.  Today, it's Beauty and the Beast.  Mia gave her best brave, big-sister speech to Lauren before we began.

"Lauren, you know that if you get too scared, you can just close your eyes until the scary part goes away, okay?"

Lauren gave this some consideration as she crunched on a carrot stick.  "But I'm not really going to be scared, Mia."

Mia persisted, telling her all the different parts in which she might be tempted to cover her delicate eyes; the wolves in the forest; the Beast in the dungeon; the Beast catching Belle in the forbidden west wing...

Again: "That's okay, Mia -- I WON'T be scared."

This was met with sighs of disbelief, but what could a big, brave sister do, after all, but sit back and wait for the fear to assault her darling sister?  They watched and munched.  Asked for extra cheese and another peanut-butter sandwich.  Tipped their plates accidentally onto the picnic blanket. 

Scary parts number one and two passed with little ado; neither sister was openly afraid.  Then came scary part number three: The Beast roaring at Belle as she sneaks around the forbidden room.

Quick as a flash, brave, big sister darted behind the couch, covering her eyes redundantly to keep the fear at bay.  Little sister Lauren peeked over her shoulder as Mia abandoned ship.  She took a relaxed bite of sandwich.  She shook a wisp of hair from her brow, with totally calm nonchalance.

So the picnic was an excellent idea; it made me laugh.

A hard thing to do when I'm busy nursing a grudge against this insanely hot summer.