This morning was gorgeous. We left the windows open overnight and as such, our house was filled with outdoor morning sweetness—chirping birds and cool breezes.
The children’s attitudes, however, were less than gorgeous. There was whining and crying, and fit-throwing when Andy left for work.
In my mind, I couldn’t understand how they could be so cranky when so much outside beauty was pouring through the tiny holes in our window screens. I knew this line of thought was unreasonable but still, I was irritated.
So, I decided to immerse them into the beauty of the day in way I haven’t yet attempted with all three of them by myself.
“We’re going hiking,” I said.
Their moods instantly improved.
We went to Tower Park, only a couple minutes from our house. I knew they had trails there as we, as a family, had walked some of them during Fort Thomas’s annual jack-o-lantern walks. But we had never hiked them on our own.
The kids loved it. They pointed out everything—mud, sticks, different leaves, bugs, squirrels, the sound of an owl.
And then, we spotted them—two beautiful deer watching us, perched on a ridge just above us. (I failed to bring my camera and was only able to capture sunlight with my phone.) The kids were quietly ecstatic, trying their hardest to be quiet so as not to scare the deer away.
We continued hiking and like something out of a children’s book, the deer followed us, we down below, they on the ridge above.
We walked through the woods for a good half hour, which was about the time I started to wonder if my assumption that the trail would loop was, perhaps, incorrect. I called Andy. He tried to figure out where we were on the trail map. I told him where we started. He said that was impossible, according to the map. So the four of us turned around, walking back the way we came.
Sophie led the way, yelling back to us every time she encountered something we might want to know about.
“Here’s a rock bridge!”
or
“Balance on this tree root!”
or
“Don’t step in that mud puddle!”
James fell on a rock once. Owen forgot to watch out for that mud puddle and ended up with a mud-soaked sandal. Sophie loved to lean precariously over edges while I fretted.
It was perfect.
Parenting ruts are so easy to fall into—especially in later summer when there is no school and vacation has come and gone. But then, a morning like this morning happens. A morning when you discover a treasure in your own backyard, in your own little town, in our own little world, previously unknown.
“In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks.” —John Muir
My bone-tired thought process: Letting them paint by themselves will give me at least 5 minutes of alone time on this couch.
Five minutes later:
“No matter how calmly you try to referee, parenting will eventually produce bizarre behavior, and I’m not talking about the kids. Their behavior is always normal.” —Bill Cosby
Owen: “Why do we have to get butter at the store?”
Andy: “Because we don’t have butter.”
Owen: “But we do have butter!”
Andy: “No. We don’t. We have margarine.”
Me: “Daddy doesn’t like margarine.”
Owen: “What’s margarine?”
Me: “Fake butter.”
Owen: “But I like margarine!”
Andy (jokingly, I think): “You are not my son!”
James (singing): “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me haaapppy, when skies are graaayyy.”
Owen: “I want to play I Spy!”
Andy: “OK, you can go first.”
Sophie: “I want to go first!”
Andy: “It was Owen’s idea, so he gets to go first.”
(Complaints from Sophie. Stern words from me.)
Owen: “I spy with my little eye something pink.”
Me: “My nails?”
Owen: “No! That cup!”
(He’s still learning the rules of the game.)
Everyone: “Yay!”
Sophie: “My turn! I spy with my little eye something red and white.”
Andy: “That’s pink.”
Sophie: “No. A lot white and just a little red.”
(We guess a million things.)
Sophie (beyond frustrated): “It’s a lollipop stick with just a little bit of cherry lollipop still stuck on it!”
Me: “Where did you find that?”
Sophie: “In the holder!”
(The holder is a little compartment next to her seat in the van.)
Me: “Um, what else is your holder?”
Sophie: “Old Oreo cookies, old pita chips, a pinecone and a rock. Oh! And a barrette!”
James: “It’s my turn!”
Me, to Andy: “We have to clean out the van.”
James: “I spy with my little eye something green.”
Andy: “The trees.”
James: “No.”
Andy: “The grass.”
James: “Yes!”
And so on.
“A suburban mother’s role is to deliver children obstetrically once, and by car forever after.” —Peter De Vries
For months Sophie has been begging to have a sleepover. She’s still so young, though—I feared no one her age would be allowed to spend the night or that if she spent the night at a friend’s house, we’d be called around 2am to come and get her.
Then my new friend Sarah had a fantastic idea. Andy often games on Friday nights. As such, every once in awhile I’ll have girlfriends over for tea/wine after the kids are in bed. Sarah suggested we get together on a Friday night and let the girls have a sleepover in Sophie’s room—just until it was time for Sarah to go home.
So we did!
Sophie was so excited. They wore their pjs and cuddled up in their sleeping bags on the floor of Sophie’s room. Madeleine brought two kinds of popcorn and I made pink milk. They played board games and watched a Barbie movie and “The Last Unicorn” on the little portable DVD player we set up in Sophie’s bedroom. Eventually, around 10:30pm, they both fell asleep.
Sarah gathered Madeleine up in her sleeping bag, and took her home. Sophie crawled up in her bed, and fell asleep.
It was the perfect 4- and 5-year-old sleepover.
“The older you get, the few slumber parties there are, and I hate that. I liked slumber parties. What happened to them?” —Drew Barrymore
It’s summer. Not technically, but the pool at the Y is now open so really, it’s summer.
We’ve been twice. The first time I took all three kids by myself, to meet my friend Angel and her daughters, Zoey and Mya.
It was so much easier than last year. The kids played in the children’s pool for more than an hour. I sat for much of the time. And talked to Angel. James went down the water slide over and over and over. Sophie dipped her naked Barbie in and out of the pool. Owen, well Owen spent much of the time on my lap but still, when he did get in the water, he had fun.
I envisioned a glorious summer made up of afternoons at the pool, in the sun, happy.
So naturally our next visit to the Y was a disaster.
Andy and I took all three kids Sunday. Everything was great—until we had to leave.
All three lost it. We immediately stopped, got down on our knees at their level and sternly told them how inappropriate their behavior was and how there were going to be consequences as soon as we got home.
James listened to us and stopped.
Sophie (Sophie! Who is 5!) and Owen drew stares.
It was if their bodies had been taken over by demons. They screamed and kicked and carried on in a way we have never seen before. I took Owen. Andy took Sophie. There was no talking to them at this point. We carried them, our heads down and lips tight.
The walk to gather our towels and then exit the Y was so long. So very long. It’s not an exaggeration to say that everyone took notice. Some people had half-smiles on their faces, with I’ve-been-there looks. Some had frowns, with why-can’t-you-control-your-children looks. Some were bewildered, with dear-God-is-that-what-it’s-like-to-have-kids looks.
I wanted to disappear. I still get red-faced thinking about.
Once home, once calm, we had a long discussion about leaving, kicking, hitting, screaming and appropriate behavior. Owen and Sophie lost all dessert and treats for three days (which, for them, is a very. big. deal.). And we’ve told them that from now on we’re not going to put up with even a hint of whining when it’s time to leave—and that if something even close to that happens again, stricter consequences will occur.
So far, everyone has been incredibly well-behaved today. Sweet, even. So much so that I’m half-tempted to drag them all to the pool just to say, “See! They’re not always possessed by demons! Most of the time they’re actually wonderful, kind, incredibly-pleasant-to-be-with children!”
Tell me: Worst public tantrum (if only to make me feel better).
“Temper tantrums, however fun they may be to throw, rarely solve whatever problem is causing them.” —Lemony Snicket
This morning Andy woke up to find James staring at him, little chocolate fingerprints staining the sheets. Turns out we forgot to close the gate at the top of the stairs. Again. And instead of waking us up, James went downstairs, got into the candy basket and ate half a chocolate Easter bunny. Not only did he eat the bunny, though, he tried to hide the fact that he did. In the bathroom we found bits of chocolate stained toilet paper on the wooden stool and chocolate fingerprints covering the toilet paper roll. He did a fairly good job of cleaning himself up, honestly—except for his chocolate-covered nose.
And then.
Today is Sophie’s last day of preschool. She attends Fort Thomas’s Country Hills Montessori school and loves it. This morning she was a mix of emotions—giddy with the idea of starting kindergarten and upset knowing today was her last day at this place, with these people, who have meant so very much to her (and to all of us). But she was also excited because the boys, who will be attending CHM next year, were invited to spend the morning at her school.
All three were excited.
The boys insisted on wearing their backpacks. They skipped to the car and ran into the school, smiling.
Sophie showed them where to put their backpacks and then led them to the small sink to wash their hands. Then they spotted the gerbil. They were supposed to be sitting on the blue line, criss-cross applesauce. I let them check the gerbil out, thinking a quick peek would quiet them. It did not quiet them.
“I want to see the gerbil!”
whining, wriggling and running off the line
“I want to do the puzzles!”
whining, wriggling and running off the line
“I want water from the water fountain!”
whining, wriggling and running off the line
“I WANT A COOKIE!” (Note, it’s 9:20am.)
whining, wriggling and running off the line
I was so embarrassed.
At this point, Owen was doing better than James. So I pulled James aside (and by pulling aside I mean I had to, literally, chase him down) and explained the importance of the line, of criss-cross applesauce, of being quiet and listening to the teachers.
Once group work started I apologized to the teachers. I promised I would work with them. The teachers were so kind and assuring, promising me this was normal. I’m sure it’s normal, the first week or so. But for everyone else, it was their last week. Everyone else was sitting on the line, criss-cross applesauce—including Sophie, who kept hissing “Boys! Sit down!”
And now we’re home. And they’re fighting over oven mitts.
A confession: I’m already dreaming of fall, when, for 2-1/2 hours three days a week, I’ll have three kids in school.
That is, if they’re allowed to stay …
“Children are a great comfort in your old age—and they help you reach it faster, too.” —Lionel Kauffman
Sophie and I went for long overdue haircuts tonight. I love our haircut nights. It’s a night out, just the two of us. I get to see my friend Nicholena. Sophie gets to inform Nicholena how I have no idea how to do her hair (picture Sophie piling all her hair onto the back of head, as in a messy bun) in the mornings before preschool, so Nicholena teaches me. Sophie is happy. I’m happy. My hair feels good again.
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On the way home, we passed a carnival. On a Thursday night. On Colerain Ave.
Sophie was wide-eyed, looking at the ferris wheel while we sat at a stop light.
It was 9pm. On a school night.
I looked at her. I looked at the ferris wheel. I looked at the clock. I looked at the red light.
I could give her a bit of magic, I thought. Or we could go home.
I turned in. We parked directly behind a large trailer. The entire rather large carnival seemed open—the rides were running, the people in charge of games were yelling—but there were only a couple people milling about. I found the ticket booth.
“Is she old enough to ride the ferris wheel?” I asked. There were two older women in the booth, hair piled on top of their head, all thick makeup and bright red lipstick—I swear it was if we had walked onto a movie set. They peered over the glass. And mumbled something. After several attempts I heard “38.” Sophie had to be more than 38″ tall. I pushed Sophie up against a stick with heights marked on it. She passed. And she was thrilled.
$7.50 and six tickets later, we walked over to the ferris wheel. There was no one on it. We passed no one while walking to it. I looked at Sophie, expecting her to be nervous. She was clutching my hand, giddy with excitement. She kept looking up at it, the pure lighted beauty of it.
We got on.
A man strapped us in, put down a metal bar and took all six of our tickets. And off we went.
It was higher than I expected.
And faster than I expected.
Sophie and I held hands tight. As we neared the top and started to go down, my stomach did a flip-flop. I closed my eyes.
What had I been thinking?
While I clutched Sophie’s hand tighter, she opened her eyes and mouth wider. And squealed with delight.
We went around.
And around.
And around.
And around.
I suppose, because there was no one at this strange Thursday-night-on-the-side-of-a-road carnival the man in charge of operating the ferris wheel was giving us an extra long ride.
For 10 minutes we went around. And then he stopped us.
At the very top.
We just sat there, slowly swinging.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
Sophie was thrilled with this development. While she was reaching her free hand up above her head (I was still tightly clinging to the other one) screaming “I’m touching the skkkyyy!!!” I began to question my parenting. Who has a carnival in a deserted store parking lot on the side of the road on a Thursday night? Do carnivals like this have licenses to operate? Permits? Does someone do a safety check? How often? How is it possible that I can spend hours researching car seats and plugging electrical outlets and cutting up blueberries but then put my daughter on this?
We started moving again. “I want to let go, Mama!” Sophie said. And she let go of my hand. I turned and looked at her.
Every once in awhile I know that a moment I’m seeing, hearing, feeling, smelling, will be with me always—in every tiny little detail. I felt that, knew that, when I saw her face, the ferris wheel lights backdropped against it. It was the look in her eyes, in particular. It was pure joy.
And that’s just it. As parents we worry and plan and prepare and analyze, agonize, all so we can get on the ferris wheel, hold tight and then just let go.
And so I did. I let go of her hand, and I let go of my worry, and for a small moment I let life be.
And then the operator stopped us at the top, again.
I grabbed Sophie’s hand. She looked at me. “Just because,” I said, trying to smile. “Just because.”
Because that’s just it, too. As much as we have to let go, sometimes, even when they may not want us to, we also have to hold on tight.
The next time we passed the operator I said, “Sir? Sir? Thank you sir but I think we’re done!”
Sophie looked at me. “I don’t think he heard you,” she said, as we went around again. (I’m pretty sure he did hear me by the way he was laughing as we passed him.)
The next time around he stopped the ride. We thanked him. Sophie was high on excitement, high on the thrill of her first ferris wheel ride, high on the idea that sometimes an ordinary Thursday night can become extraordinary.
I was simply thankful to be back on solid ground, on the way to our Subaru that held the well-researched car seat, on the way to the house where I cut blueberries for much longer than needed.
I was thankful for the feel of Sophie’s hand in my hand, and thankful for the moment she, we both, let go.
I was thankful for tonight’s view from up high.
“I see nothing in space as promising as the view from a Ferris wheel.” —E.B. White
