A few days ago Sophie, Owen, James and Colleen received an e-mail from my mom—an I Spy game (can you spot the bumblebee?). I love that our children are able to play “I Spy” virtually, in my mom’s lavender garden. Now if only e-mail included scent.
“I spy with my little eye …”
I know, I know, I know Owen says “please” because we taught him to say “please” and that he says “bless you” after we cough or sneeze or clear our throats or make any noise that remotely sounds like it deserves a “bless you” because he thinks it’s funny.
But still.
When I refill Sophie’s glass of milk and his sippy cup of milk because both are empty, he says “James, milk, James, milk, James, milk!” until we prove to him that James’s sippy cup still has milk in it and that he doesn’t need a refill.
I know he’s only 2 but I think—I think—he really cares. I’ve told myself many times over that I will try so hard not to be a bragging mom. Maybe this is bragging, maybe this is not. But this kindness makes me so happy.
I had to take Sophie to the doctor last Friday. Andy’s parents stayed home with Owen and James, who were napping. Owen woke up first; James stayed asleep. When it was time for James to wake up, Andy’s mom said Owen walked upstairs, went to James’s crib and then said, “Isn’t he cute?”
And then. A couple days ago, while the kids were playing upstairs, I was staring at my closet realizing that half of what was in it no longer fits. And the boys are 2. The whole “9 months up, 9 months down” thing has long passed. So I began trying things on. Making piles. I began feeling really bad about myself. Owen came into the room, climbed up on my bed and flung himself on my pillows a few times. Then he looked at me. I was trying on a tunic—well, a dress, really, but I only ever wore it as a tunic. I was staring at myself in the mirror, biting my lower lip, not happy with the reflection. Now, I know, I know, I know Owen was reacting to the tunic—dress—only. It had a vivid design, bold colors. It was pretty. Still, when he said, “beautiful, Mama, you’re beautiful,” I froze.
Sometimes, when something beautiful happens, I stop. I try to engrave the moment in my mind. I try to remember everything, where I am, the time, my surroundings, the lighting in the room, everything. Because it’s that important. This was that important. To me. I stuffed his words into my heart, my being, even though I know he was reacting to the dress, not to me. Even though I know he had no idea that I so needed to hear those words, at that moment. Even though he’s only 2.
Women often receive compliments from loved ones when trying on clothes. I will forever remember this one as one of—if not the—best.
Owen, I hope you read this someday, when you’re older. Still a kind soul. Thank you for your kind soul that day. And may your soul remain that way, always.
“Wherever there is a human being, there is an opportunity for a kindness.” —Seneca
Recently Sophie has enjoyed playing upstairs in her bedroom or our teeny tiny playroom, by herself. This is both weird and wonderful for me, although I admit, when she’s up there for a couple hours, I find myself missing her. But I know I need to respect her alone time.
When I’m downstairs with the boys, I’ll often yell up, “Sophie! Are you OK?” And she’ll yell back “Yes!” If I do this too often, her “Yes!” becomes “Yes, Mom! I’m OK!” (in a completely different tone).
Owen has picked up on this. His favorite thing to do this week is stand at the bottom of the stairs and yell, as loud as he can, “Sophie! Are you OK?” Sophie humors him the first five times, by answering politely. Once tired of it, she yells, “Owen! I’m OK! Stop asking me if I’m OK!” A minute later Owen is yelling up the stairs, “Sophie, are you OK?”
I tell Sophie to ignore him. I reassure Owen that Sophie is, indeed, OK. Still, Sophie responds every time, more and more exasperated.
I know. This is my fault.
But I sort of love it.
“Always end the name of your child with a vowel, so that when you yell the name will carry.” —Bill Cosby
These are the placemats my children use every day, for every meal. My mom made them. They were Valentine’s Day gifts. Each is a laminated Eric Carle print. James gets the very hungry caterpillar (with the big sun) because he out-eats everyone, daily. Owen gets the moon. He loves the moon. And Sophie gets the butterfly, the same butterfly which is embroidered on her backpack.
They’re large, perfect for big messes. The back has rows and rows of the food Eric Carle painted for The Very Hungry Caterpillar. The boys love to point the items out, yelling “ice cream!” “cake!” “cheese!” over and over. Owen likes the colorful border, constantly asking “What’s that? What’s that?” After tiring of naming colors throughout dinner, we, for awhile, convinced Sophie to answer for us. She would patiently say “That’s blue, Owen.” Or “That’s pink, Owen.” But now, even Sophie, is tired of the constant questions. She’ll answer once or twice and then say, in a very mother-like tone, “That’s enough, Owen. Eat your dinner.” To which Owen replies, “Moon! Look, Sophie! Moon!”
It is a beautiful moon.
Thanks, Mom.
“We have eyes, and we’re looking at stuff all the time, all day long. And I just think that whatever our eyes touch should be beautiful, tasteful, appealing, and important.” —Eric Carle
“There are few things so pleasant as a picnic eaten in perfect comfort.” —W. Somerset Maugham
It’s cold tonight. This should feel normal—it’s March—but it’s not normal. Not this year. Sophie’s birthday is Friday. In my very first blog post, here, I wrote about spring. It arrived while I gave birth to Sophie. But this year, it came early.
It’s a gift I’ve gladly welcomed. I like winter. I like seasons. But this winter has been so mundane. Chilly. Rainy. Slushy dustings of snow nowhere near enough in volume for a snowman (this, despite Sophie decorating our front door with snow-themed stickers in an attempt to make it snow).
Early March I found myself in the attic, digging through bins for summer clothes. Fearing it would get chilly again I haven’t packed the winter clothes away. As such, every bedroom is filled with boxes and bins, and the closets are becoming a mis-match of seasons. The boys still wear different sizes. And both wear smaller pant sizes than they do shirts. So I’m dealing with four different sizes, lots of hand-me-downs (which I’m so grateful for) and numerous seasons. The task to sort it all out has become so daunting that I’m avoiding it, which is just making the entire situation worse.
The flowers that graced our backyard trees eventually fell. To there.
And here.
And everywhere. Some nights, at dusk, I watched my children play as a warm breeze blew petals around, as if soft pink were falling from the sky. It was so idyllic.
I mean, at one point they were sliding down the slide into a pile of petals.
A gift.
The previous owners must have loved birds for there are gorgeous birdhouses all over our backyard.
All three of my children love to feed the birds. They each take a turn with a small, metal bucket and spill seed all over the feeder, Tucker and grass. And laugh.
Lately Sophie has perched on top of our play set pretending to be a bird. She tweets, loudly, talking to them.
We found this lovely nest. There are two cardinals that swoop low while we play outside. I love that. The children love that. Tucker really loves that. Sophie recently found two red feathers in the yard, which I later discovered she decided to store in a plastic container full of M&Ms. “So the boys wouldn’t take it.”
Of course.
Today was chilly, though, as was tonight. The boys, however, played outside in their sandals. They had no choice. Last week I took all three children to Stride Rite for summer shoes. Another woman was there, with a daughter a little older than Sophie, twins a little older than my boys and a newborn. (I can’t imagine.) Every time the salesperson asked any one of the six children to run around the store to try out a pair of summer shoes, the five remaining children followed suit. It was loud. Totally chaotic. And there were boxes everywhere (in part because I asked the woman to kindly try several different sizes/widths for each child considering the boys will only have one pair of shoes each and they’re expensive and I want them to be exactly right). I know. They had to hate me. Anyhow, as I was rescuing tights hung on a wall from James while simultaneously stopping Owen from going into the back room, I noticed the salesperson collecting our boxes. I had assumed she put the boys’ winter tennis shoes in them. But that wasn’t her job. That wasn’t her responsibility. And frankly, she was probably exhausted from the 30-minute chaos before. So I paid for the shoes. Left the store. All three children rode home in their new sandals. Sophie’s winter shoes somehow made it into a box. The boys’ did not. And the boxes sat, in our entry, for two days before I opened them and realized what I had done. I called the store. They were there, with dirty socks still stuffed in them. And I still need to pick them up. But the idea is kind of exhausting to me. So I haven’t. But I should. I’m sure the boys had cold toes today. And I’m sure the people who work at Stride Rite don’t need two random pairs of shoes, and dirty socks, lying about. Tomorrow. I will tomorrow.
New sandals. The wisteria is blooming. I’m (slowly) cleaning out winter-ravaged leaves from beds. Open windows have allowed us to air out the house. The children are happier. Dirtier. And the inside of the house is cleaner. Calmer.
A gift.
“Science has never drummed up quite as effective a tranquilizing agent as a sunny spring day.” —W. Earl Hall
Several weeks ago was Parents’ Night at Sophie’s preschool. We took the boys with us. This was not smart. Sophie goes to a Montessori preschool, although I imagine any preschool has low-lying shelves with lots of little things on them. They boys’ eyes were big, their hands, everywhere. And Sophie was less than thrilled with their presence. Honestly, she’s pretty good about sharing. She has her toys that are hers only (as she should) and she keeps them in her bedroom, often playing with them by herself, while the boys nap. But she has her moments. We all do.
Still, her reaction at her preschool surprised me. It shouldn’t have. After the fact, it made sense. Her preschool time is her time. That night was for her to show us what she does—not what the boys can do with a tray full of beads. She was irritated and frustrated with the boys grabbing things, touching things, exploring things. Andy and I each took a boy, making sure things that were played with were put back exactly as they were found. And while doing this all-consuming task, we also tried to listen, watch and learn from Sophie.
We couldn’t.
She made that clear, in her own way. But I feel bad. We should have seen it, five minutes in, instead of 30.
So Andy took both boys outside, to walk around. And I sat on a rug with Sophie and finally got a taste of what she does every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, from 9am to 11:30am. I know she loves preschool. But watching her solidified my belief. And I’m sure that much of this has to do with the fact that it’s something for her, and only her. She spent so much of the boys’ first year stuck inside with me, listening to me say “wait,” “hold on,” “in a minute,” “just after I finish pumping,” “just after I change this diaper,” “shhh, the boys are sleeping.”
And then, preschool started. And she was free. Free to leave our house. Free to make friends her own age. Free to do “work” without the boys messing with it, free to do craft projects without the boys crinkling it, free to do her own things on her own time without having me say “wait,” constantly.
And she blossomed.
So I get her frustration Parents’ Night. This was not our night. And definitely not the boys’ night. But her night.
After some time Andy and I switched, and I took the boys outside and Andy sat with Sophie on a rug, watching, listening.
It’s funny. We went to Sophie’s school that night to learn about the things she’s learning about when in fact, we were the ones who were taught.
That said, having had children, I now believe children are the best teachers, no matter how much we try to reverse that sentiment.
“Children are human beings to whom respect is due, superior to us by reason of their innocent and of the greater possibilities of their future.” —Maria Montessori
I was cutting bananas, half-awake, bleary-eyed, while Owen and James, in their footed pajamas, clung to my legs pleading for “bana.” Sippy cups of whole milk. Glass of milk for Sophie. Yogurt for Sophie. Cut bread, made toast. Just butter for Sophie. A (little) cinnamon and sugar for the boys. Made coffee. Fed Tucker. Let Tucker out. Let Tucker in. Found outfit for Sophie. Dressed Sophie. Listened to Sophie insist on some modifications (aka red sparkle shoes instead of tennis shoes, bright orange ribbon tied to her wrist, barrettes halfway down her hair). Modified. Brushed Sophie’s hair. Listened to Sophie complain about the necessity of daily hair brushing. Another banana for James. Another piece of toast for Owen. Pleaded with Sophie to let me pin her bangs back, which are growing out so s l o w l y.
Throughout all this, Andy was getting ready for work. He noticed his keys (the only set we have) on the living room floor (why they were there, I don’t know). He only had to grab his coffee—he thought, he’d get them when he walked back through the living room.
Except, one of the boys got them first.
Gone. Completely gone.
We don’t have a garage. Both our station wagon and van were parked in the driveway, the station wagon (which Andy drives) blocking in the van. There’s no way we can get the van out, because of trees, without moving the station wagon.
Stuck. Totally, completely stuck.
Andy and I looked for an hour. Everywhere. We pulled cushions off of furniture. Crawled around on our hands and knees. Emptied every toy basket and bin. Looked inside the play kitchen’s cabinets, the fireplace, the china cabinet, under the piano, under the buffet, behind the couch, through the cat door which leads down the basement steps. I frisked the boys, thinking one of them may have dropped them down their footed pjs. We gave them the van’s keys and watched to see what they did with them. We asked them, over and over and over, “Keys? Where are the keys?” To which they responded, “Keys, Mama! Keys, Dada! Look! Keys!” They would then drop on all fours, look under furniture, pop up and say, “Keys!” Not helpful.
Andy called into work, saying he had to work from home. We had to tell Sophie we couldn’t take her to preschool (that went over well). Andy and I argued. I claimed he was mistaken, that he didn’t see them on the floor, that they were in a coat pocket or pants pocket or in our bedroom or in the fridge, next to the coffee creamer (I looked there). He went down to the basement (we have a finished room down there) to work. I continued looking. Off and on, while taking care of the boys.
For five hours.
I thought for sure I had found them when I discovered a half-full container of cinnamon in the kitchen trash can. That meant the boys had been throwing things away that morning. That meant the keys had to be in there. I pulled out the container of cinnamon and washed it. And then went through every piece of garbage, piece by piece, with plastic grocery bags wrapped around my hands.
Nothing.
I pulled everything out of the pantry and the pantry’s bottoms shelves.
Nothing.
I rechecked everything.
By this time, my mom had come over. She must have sensed my frustration. (Moms are good at sensing frustration.) She helped take care of the kids while I looked. She looked. Andy spent his at-home lunch break, looking.
It was parents’ night at Sophie’s preschool that night. We promised her we would go. “We’ll walk,” I said. My mom called my dad and he said he’d come after work, so we’d have another car. We promised Sophie, promised her, we’d be able to go.
“Should we call a tow truck?” I asked Andy. “To move the Subaru?”
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In our living room we have a set of French doors that open all the way, against our living room walls. I checked behind those doors several times. Andy did, too. They weren’t there. They weren’t on the floor behind the doors.
My mom was looking, in the crack between the French door and the living room wall.
She noticed something.
This.
Either Owen or James had tossed/shoved/put the keys between the door and the wall and they landed, looped around a hinge.
I squealed and hugged my mom. Andy gave me a I-told-you-they-were-on-the-floor-and-not-in-a-pocket look. Sophie, still upset about missing preschool, asked me if we could have a treat (aka candy) now that the keys had been found (in her mind, any celebration deserves a treat). The boys continued napping.
We have a key bowl. It’s in a cabinet, in our entry. We’re just so bad about using it.
Changing that. Changing that now.
“If you ever drop your keys into a river of molten lava, let ’em go, because man, they’re gone.” —Jack Handy
What have your children hidden from you?
“Winter came down to our home one night
Quietly pirouetting in on silvery-toed slippers of snow,
And we, we were children once again.” —Bill Morgan, Jr.
Owen loves the moon. Every single time we go outside, the first thing he does is look up in the sky. He’s so quick to spot it, even in daylight. Often, he finds it before we do. If he sees it, he shakes with excitement and says “Moon! Moon! Look! Moon!” And if he doesn’t see it, he looks at us with worry in his eyes and says “Moon?”
I love this. And I want to remember this. Which is why I’m writing about it here.
“I like to think that the moon is there even if I am not looking at it.” —Albert Einstein
