At dinner.
Owen: “Knock knock.”
Me: “Who’s there?”
Owen: “Joke.”
Sophie: “Did Owen just say, ‘Knock knock who’s there joke?'”
Me: “Yes.”
Sophie, laughing: “That’s funny.”
“Family jokes, through rightly cursed by strangers, are the bond that keeps most families alive.” —Stella Benson
Andy left for Gen Con with friends Wednesday night. He’s due back in an hour or so. I’m ready for him to come back.
The kids woke up at 6:30 this morning. By 10am we needed to get out of the house. The weather’s beautiful today, so we went to the park. Not yet ready to go home, we had lunch at Skyline Chili. Still not ready to go home and remembering how all three children were squinting in the sunlight at the park, I suggested we go to Crestview Hills Town Center and buy sunglasses (their old ones had all broken, which, I suppose is to be expected when you spend $2.50 on a pair of sunglasses).
Anyhow, we were able to park right in front of The Children’s Place. So I decided to forgo the stroller. The kids did remarkably well in the store, sticking together and not touching (too many) things, while I discovered that the sunglasses display had been taken over by a winter hat display (in August). The only other store at Crestview that sells children’s clothes is a department store, Dillard’s. So off we went. Sans stroller.
After walking past the large glass perfume displays, I found a map. The children’s department was upstairs.
“Does this mean we get to ride the escalator?” Sophie said.
“Yes,” I said.
She was thrilled.
All of my children have ridden the escalator—but usually, more adults are present. Owen was nervous (he’s often nervous) so I picked him up. James was ready to go running up it by himself, so I slowed him down and grabbed his hand. Seeing that my hands were full Sophie was delighted with the fact that she was going to be able to get on it by herself.
I’m not sure what, exactly, happened next. I just know that Sophie started screaming and doing the splits and while I tried to help her James fell down, on his back, his head toward the first floor and his feet toward the second. I pulled James up and then realized we were going up while Sophie was still struggling at the bottom, falling, yelling for me to stop. At this point a crowd has formed and just as I was trying to work my way back down the escalator to help (now screaming) Sophie with two (now screaming) boys in my arms a Dillard’s employee ran over and pushed the emergency stop button.
I got everyone off. No one (thankfully, luckily, inexplicably) was hurt. I kneeled down next to the Clinique counter hugging my children while two women walked past me, looked me in the eye, disapprovingly shook their heads and started whispering to each other about what had happened. Part of me wanted to scream at those women, telling them they had no right to judge, that we had done the escalator before without issue. Part of me wanted to admit I had made a mistake. But the biggest part of me just wanted to cry.
I thanked the Dillard’s employee, who was very kind, but insisted I stick around to fill out an accident report. The accident report required a manager of some sorts and a very long length of time when you’re in a very public place with three very upset children. The man who pushed the emergency stop button found three peppermints and gave one to each child. This helped. Sort of.
At this point, I just wanted to go home. But I had promised the kids sunglasses and Sophie is very good at remembering promises given. So we found the elevator and we rode it upstairs and walked through a salon into the children’s department—where of course, they had no sunglasses.
We took the elevator back downstairs. The doors opened and I saw a huge blue sign blocking the bottom of the escalator that said “closed for maintenance.” Two bright yellow signs had been posted at the top. Every Dillard’s customer was now having to use the small elevator at the back of the store if they wanted to go upstairs.
We left.
It was a long walk back to the car. Sophie made a point to squint and continually comment about how bright the sun was shining. It was nap time. I unlocked the van. I opened the doors. I strapped everyone in. I was shaky, finally letting myself acknowledge how very lucky we all were, how the entire situation could have been much, much worse. As I was trying to stop my brain from thinking those awful thoughts no parent should think but every parent thinks, I ran into a curb—hard.
And my hub cap flew off.
I pulled into a restaurant parking lot and just parked for a minute, doing the silent cry behind sunglasses I imagine most mothers do at some point—the cry you can’t stop from happening at the moment but the cry you try to keep secret, so that your children remain oblivious.
I was tired. I was ready for Andy to be home. I had made a bad decision. I had almost brought harm to my children. I had caused a scene. A department store’s escalator had been shut down because of my family. And now people were having to swerve when exiting Crestview because of my now-terribly-scratched-up hub cap, which was in the middle of the street.
I took a deep breath. I let the cool air from the air conditioner blow on my face. I turned the van around and I retrieved the hub cap. I explained to Sophie that we’d have to go shopping for sunglasses another time, that it was past the boys’ nap time, that we needed to go home.
Normally, this would be cause for debate but she must have sensed something was up because she simply said, “OK.”
And now, we’re home.
I put the boys to bed. I called my parents, told them what happened, ended up crying some more. I popped popcorn for Sophie and added real butter for her, which she loves. Andy called from the road.
If I close my eyes I can still see the look of absolute panic on Sophie’s face, the odd angle James fell as he was looking at me, more surprised than anything, upside down. If I close my eyes too long I begin to picture things happening that didn’t happen and then I just want to cry some more.
But tomorrow I’ll feel better. And the next day, I’ll feel better some more. And on and on and on until something else goes wrong and there’s a moment of a panic, a hurt something, a scene, feelings of failure, another what if.
Most days, being a parent is amazing. But some days, it’s hard. Really, really hard.
“There is no such thing as a perfect parent so just be a real one.” —Sue Atkins
Kudos to the person who came up with the idea of renting baby equipment to vacationing families. We rented two pack-n-plays and a big bin of toys from Visiting Baby and it was worth every penny. In fact, we saved money not having to check two pack-n-plays and the new-to-the-kids bin of toys was most welcome on rainy days.
All of our kids were in one bedroom. Sophie was in a twin bed; Owen and James slept in their own pack-n-plays. The first time I put the boys down for a nap they giggled—for an hour. I thought it was the novelty of vacation, of having flown on a plane, of a new place, of a new sleep environment.
No.
Turns out I left their airplane backpacks within reaching distance. They not only reached them, but they dumped the contents into their pack-n-plays, passed items back and forth and then, after a good hour of this, finally fell asleep on top of everything, covered in stickers, having eaten snacks and dumped out flash cards.
“Yawns are not the only infectious things out there besides germs. Giggles can spread from person to person. So can blushing.” —Vera Nazarian
scene: Owen and Nini, sitting on the front porch swing
Nini: “I like your toes.”
Owen: “I like your head.”
“Conversation should touch everything, but should concentrate itself on nothing.” —Oscar Wilde
(a belated Father’s Day post)
“The father who would taste the essence of his fatherhood must turn back from the plane of his experience, take with him the fruits of his journey and begin again beside his child, marching step by step over the same old road.” —Angelo Patri
his week, Sophie and I have had a tough week. Every “no” has been met with a “but.” Every request has come out as a demand. “Please” and “thank you” have all been but forgotten. One day she was whining so much I truly wondered if her whine voice was her new normal voice. I posted on Facebook, “Sophie had her moments when she was 2 and 3. But 4. Ohmygoodness 4. No one warned me about 4.”
Many people responded to my post. Some were dismayed to learn that it doesn’t, necessarily, get easier. Others warned me that, for them, the so-called difficult years were still to come. And then there’s my friend Aaron. He said, “Someday, we’ll get to an age when we look back on when our kids were young and we won’t be able to remember the stuff they did that made us age early. Until then, keep on keeping on! This is life.”
He’s right. Already, in my four short years of parenting, I can tell that it’s not years that are difficult. But phases.
Like the I-want-to-nurse-every-hour-and-I-will-scream-bloody-murder-if-I’m-not-attached-to-your-boob phase.
Or the I’m-going-to-pee-on-you-every-time-you-change-me phase.
Or the I’m-going-to-poop-12-times-a-day-in-a-rainbow-of-colors-to-totally-freak-you-out phase.
Or the I’m-not-going-to-poop-for-a-week-to-totally-freak-you-out phase.
Or the I-want-to-be-bounced-until-your-arms-are-burning-with-pain phase.
Or the I-want-to-be-wide-awake-between-2am-and-4am phase.
Or the I’m-going-to-put-everything-in-my-mouth-including-dead-bugs-and-stale-Cheerios-buried-in-my-car seat phase.
Or the I’m-going-to-pull-at-your-shirt-in-public-exposing-your-bra-to-everyone phase.
Or the I’m-going-to-take-away-all-your-“me”-time-by-requiring-your-assistance-for–three–hours-to-go-to-sleep-every-night-for-a-month phase.
Or the I’m-only-going-to-eat-cheese phase.
Or the I-will-totally-and-completely-freak-out-when-you-leave-my-sight phase.
Or the I’m-going-to-insist-on-doing-everything-myself-even-though-I-can’t-quite-do-everything-myself-and-I’m-going-to-get-unreasonably-frustrated-when-you-try-to-help-me-or-you-don’t-try-to-help-me-and-I-fail phase.
Or the I-will-beg-you-to-read-the-same-book-to-me-12-times-a-day phase.
Or the I-will-beg-you-to-sing-“Old-MacDonald-Had-a-Farm”-to-me-12-times-a-day phase.
Or the I-will-run-into-everything-covering-myself-with-bruises-making-you-worry-that-someone-is-going-to-call-Child-Services-on-you phase.
Or the I-will-climb-everything phase.
Or the I-will-refuse-to-hold-your-hand-in-parking-lots phase.
Or the I-will-laugh-and-enjoy-it-when-you-put-me-in-time-out phase.
Or the I-will-draw-all-over-myself-with-non-washable-markers-that-you-can-only-blame-yourself-for-buying phase.
Or the I-will-take-off-my-socks-and-shoes-the-second-you-put-me-in-the-car-seat phase.
Or the I-will-suddenly-for-no-reasonable-explanation-become-terrified-of-the-dark phase.
Or the I-will-insist-on-picking-out-every-item-of-clothing-I-wear-every-day-and-I-will-make-sure-your-eyes-will-hurt-when-you-look-at-me phase.
Or the I-will-ask-“why”-over-and-over-and-over-and-over-and-over phase.
Or the I-will-stand-against-the-wall-screaming-refusing-to-get-in-the-pool-for-any-of-the-expensive-swim-lessons-you-bought phase.
Or the I-will-stick-my-hand-down-my-diaper-even-when-it’s-dirty phase.
Or the my-nose-will-run-all-day-for-a-week-straight-requiring-you-to-chase-me-down-and-wipe-it-clean-while-I-scream-72-times-a-day phase.
Or the I-will-open-doors-I’m-not-supposed-to phase.
Or the I-will-push-things-into-the-pantry-so-I-can-climb-on-top-of-them-to-get-treats-I’m-not-supposed-to-have-at-9:30-in-the-morning phase.
Or the-I-will-yell-for-you-to-come-upstairs-threatening-to-wake-up-my-brothers-with-my-screams-22-times-over-two-hours-until-I-finally-fall-asleep phase.
Or the I-will-wake-up-at-6am-demanding-oatmeal-even-though-I-didn’t-fall-asleep-until-11pm phase.
Or the I-will-argue-every-time-you-say-no phase, which we are in, now.
And here’s the thing. They’re just phases. They end. They always end. Even when they feel like they will never end, they always end. And … a new one comes along.
But if that sounds depressing, here’s another thing. Interspersed between all the phases are moments. These incredible make-you-want-to-cry-with-joy-beam-with-pride-thank-God-or-the-universe-or-whatever-that-you-do-or-don’t-believe-in-that-you’re-alive moments.
Kicks from within.
Birth.
Falling asleep on my chest.
Unprompted smiles.
Unprompted kisses.
Unprompted hugs.
Unprompted I love yous.
A hand-drawn “family portrait.”
The first lone trip down the slide.
The first lone scooter ride.
The first walk into preschool.
Concern, for me.
Concern, for others.
Concern, for plants and animals.
A song sung quietly, completely, simply for the joy of it.
Holding hands without a fight.
Snuggles.
Conversations, real conversations.
Firsts. All the firsts.
Lasts. All the lasts.
Seemingly-insignificant-but actually-quite-significant betweens. All those catch-you-off-guard betweens.
And the many, many, many, oh-so many more.
The moments make it all worth it. And in a way, the phases do, too. Because it all intertwines, wraps itself around each other and weaves in and out creating the tapestry we call life. Some of it’s good. Really good. Some of it’s bad. Really bad. But it is what it is and even though I had a column in my college newspaper called “Beautiful, Isn’t It?” I’m not going to lie here and say that it’s all beautiful. Because it’s not. In fact, some of it is downright ugly. But then, there are these beautiful, incredible, make-it-totally-worth-it moments. Moments that make us have more children. Moments that make us love when other people have children. Moments that make the human race continue on.
So Sophie and I are in a phase. The two of us sat down and talked about it. I had a glass of wine after she went to bed. We had a better day today. Tonight I got an unprompted I love you.
I hate the phases, while in them. I think, when I’m in a phase, I have to be the only person going through such a phase and I ask, over and over, Why is this so hard? And then I look back at the phases and think, That wasn’t so hard. I forget phases. I live for moments. I love moments. I remember moments. I look forward to moments, engrave moments in my brain, wish moments didn’t pass by so quickly.
Phases.
Moments.
Moments.
Phases.
It’s all just life. All my children will have phases this year, next year, 10 years from now, into adulthood. And yet, they will all have moments. These incredible, life-changing moments this year, next year, 10 years from now, into adulthood.
And I want them. I want the phases. I want the moments. I want them all. Because it’s a package deal with kids. You can’t pick and choose. The bad makes the good seem better. They’re human. I’m human. It’s life.
This is life.
And although I may not always be happy in it, I’m happy for it. So happy for it.
“Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid.” —Frederick Buechner
asked Sophie to put her markers away before the boys got up from their nap.
She forgot one.
“All of us have moments in out lives that test our courage. Taking children into a house with a white carpet is one of them.” —Erma Bombeck
very spring I look forward to the small field of daisies in my parents’ yard. Early May Nini brought out three Mason jars and the kids delighted in walking in the field, picking flowers and making bouquets. James struggled with the picking. He’d find a daisy, grasp it, pull and then yell (so loudly) “Help, Nini! HELP!” until my mom would come over and pick it for him. For more than a week our house was filled with the white and yellow flowers, a flower that always reminds me of home.
“The splendor of the rose and the whiteness of the lily do not rob the little violet of its scent nor the daisy of its simple charm. If every tiny flower wanted to be a rose, spring would lose its loveliness.” —Therese of Lisieux
Dear Owen and James,
On your birthday you woke up to find …
a new train table from Mommy and Daddy in our living room (it’s now in your bedroom). You both love it but Owen, you, especially do. (James, you’re more into taking the track apart right now.)
Nini, Pop Pop, Grandma and Paw Paw were all at our house to celebrate with you. Daddy made his homemade spaghetti sauce, salad and garlic bread. I made you, James, a vanilla cake and you, Owen, a chocolate cake (Sophie helped decorate them).
There was a lot of crying after dinner, so we put off blowing out the candles on your cake and went straight to presents.
You received so many wonderful presents, including …
a beautiful Goodnight Moon quilt, handmade for you, Owen, by Nini (you sleep with it every night) and
a car-themed play mat, handmade for you, James, by Nini, too.
Owen, you loved the fire and construction trucks Grandma and Paw Paw gave you, and James, you loved the Thomas the Train toy Sophie picked out for both of you.
Nini and Pop Pop also gave you a wonderful set of wooden building blocks, which you’ve now begun using to build (wobbly) towers with daily.
After presents we took turns throwing you up in the air to catch the balloons taped to the ceiling (because this is the type of thing you love when you are 2).
James, you kept climbing up the kitchen island, eyeballing the cake. So, we decided it was time for cake.
We sang “Happy Birthday” to each of you, and helped you blow out your candles.
Owen, you didn’t even wait for a bib—or a fork.
James, you were much more civilized.
You both are my two handsome little men, even when covered with cake.
Owen,
Your language has exploded. After an intense interest in the foam ABC letters we’d put in your bath, and the colors on your placemat, you now know all your letters, most of your colors (purple is your favorite) and you can count to 12. You talk. And talk and talk and talk. Your favorite word? “Why.” “Why? Why? Why?” Although my tone may hint at frustration at times, I love your curiosity. While recently quite independent, you still love to be carried. But when you ask, you mix up your pronouns and say, “I take? I take?” You’re obsessed with trains and trucks. Every day you play with your train table. Every day you take all your cars and push them down the sloping arm of our wooden Mission chair, where they then fall off, dinging the French door and hardwood floor. You’re fickle about baths. You love “Thomas the Train.” You’re loving, so loving. You show legitimate concern for James when he cries. You make sure he gets whatever you get. You love to ask Sophie if she’s OK. If you don’t see someone, and you think about that someone, you always ask where they are—even if you haven’t seen them for several weeks. You’re still in therapy for torticollis, but you’ve improved, even though Mommy and Daddy aren’t so great about making you wear your TOT collar as much as we should. You handle your collar, and exercises, about as well as I would expect for a 2 year old. But you’ve been a real trooper, these past 2 years, going to therapy almost every week. I’m proud of you. I’m proud of everything you do. And I love the way you say the word “beautiful.”
James,
You are our gymnast. Our climber. You love to explore, disconnect, take apart, fit into everything. You have yet to meet an outlet cover you can’t pry off. You have yet to meet a piece of furniture you haven’t tried to climb. You fall, a lot, but you’re so brave about it. You hold your head, with a perplexed look, and when I say, “Are you OK?” you give me the biggest grin and say, “OK, Mama, I OK.” You have curly hair and I absolutely love it. We all love it and the longer it gets, the curlier it gets so we’re just letting you grow it out, which is fine with you, I’m sure, because you don’t like having your hair cut. You don’t like to be left alone. You often have to check in with someone—you run, sit on their lap for just a moment, and then jump off, back to what you were doing. It’s almost as if you’re telling yourself, They’re still here, I can still feel them, they still love me. (We always love you, James.) When you’re excited about something, anything, you scream, oh you scream! and you say “Mommy! Daddy! Look! LOOK! LOOOOKKKK!!!” Never lose that enthusiasm. You love books. You find one and ask me to read to you every day. I love that. You’re still working on your language skills, but every day I feel like you learn a new word. Some we’ve had to figure out. But some are so cute (a boat, for example, is a boot when you say it). At Owen’s last therapy session, we were in the waiting room and you heard Owen cry, behind a closed door. You stopped. Listened. Went to the door with the most concerned little-boy look on your face, pointed and said “Owen.” You, too, are so loving.
You both are very much brothers. Yes, you take toys from each other, sippy cups from each other, food from each other. You grab each other’s shirts while you’re running, push each other out of the way on the stairs (which scares me to no end) and even (already) wrestle. But you also constantly ask about each other. I don’t think we could get you to sleep without the other one even if we tried … you each scream if you’re in your crib and your brother is not. You love to give each other hugs. And kisses. And when I split a banana in half and ask one of you to take one and give the other half to your brother, you always, always do. I love that. Thank you for that.
I can’t wait for what’s to come.
Happy, happy birthday, my loves.
“We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.” —Anais Nin
James, May 19, 2010
James, May 19, 2011
James, May 19, 2012
Owen, May 19, 2010
Owen, May 19, 2011
Owen, May 19, 2012
“The years teach much which the days never knew.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson
