Cooper, my almost five year old, is starting summer school tomorrow. We have to be there at 7:25 a.m., but may not arrive until after 7:10 a.m. No supplies needed. Breakfast and lunch will be provided. It ends at 2 p.m.
That's it. That's all I got. No other details were sent, but yet I'll be dropping Cooper off there tomorrow and wishing him well. I'm nervous, really nervous. I would never admit that to my five-year-old, but I'm saying it to you. I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing!
I don't know what door to go in. I'm not even sure what classroom. No activities have been outlined. How many recesses? It there one class of kindergarten or two? No teacher name given. No credentials.
Will the kids be kind or kind of mean? Will Cooper be overwhelmed by a new school, a new classroom, a new teacher and new friends? Will he suck on his fingers? Will he find the bathroom? Will he be happy? Will he learn well? Will he fit in? Will he know what to do in an emergency? Will he listen?
I want so much for my children. As babies and toddlers, I just grab it for them and we keep moving. This is finally something only Cooper owns. It's where his journey takes a slight curve from mine. Exciting as it all may be for him, I'm scared what the world will be like for him without me controlling it. I'm hoping better. I'm hoping just as bright. I'm hoping for a grand adventure.
One foot in front of the other tomorrow. Big smile. No tears. A brief hug, if I'm lucky. I am, after all, the mother of a kindergartner now. It's time I started acting like one.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Irene's Story
My great-aunt Irene turns 81 tomorrow. I'm not sure what I'm going to be like at 81, or if I'll still be on this earth, but I hope I'll have some fire left in me when I get there. I've always wondered how Irene has stayed so youthful, so energetic, while others have aged more or passed away sooner. This is her story (as I've come to know it).
Irene is the oldest of five children, born to German parents on a farm in Freeburg. Two of her siblings are dead, including my grandmother. Growing up on a farm, you had to work hard to survive. She worked the fields, she helped with the kids, she cleaned. When her mother finally died, she left all the farm land and it's contents to the oldest male. The daughters got nothing.
When she finally married in her 20's, she moved into town with her husband and worked at a factory. She drank. She smoked. She caroused. At 26, the doctor's removed a tumor in her womb, but for a few months they weren't certain if it was a fast-growing tumor or a baby. She mourned for a long-time that this choice was taken away from her.
When the drinking got bad enough that it also turned into fighting, she quite drinking all together. She went to mass on Saturday nights. She decorated her home with trinkets and things not found in a farmhouse. She became a widow, twice, because of cancer.
She only washes her face with Dove soap. Her garden is the nicest in town. She cleans like crazy, drinks coffee day and night, smokes, and is the first to help out when people are in need. When I was born, and my mother was still undecided about adoption, Irene volunteered to keep me and love me. She bought all new baby clothes for me even after she knew I would never be her daughter, or live in her home.
She used to give me Wrigley's Spearmint gum, my own five-piece pack, when I would come to visit. You could drink soda or coffee in her house, no matter what your age. At the parish picnic, she's worked the BINGO stand for the last sixty years. But she stopped going to mass when the misconduct was rampant and it hit too close to home. You don't hurt kids, she'd say, end of story.
No matter what our story, I guess the secret might be the fire within us, the passion that keeps us moving forward instead of looking back. It's what keeps us young. She knew that. Still does.
Irene is the oldest of five children, born to German parents on a farm in Freeburg. Two of her siblings are dead, including my grandmother. Growing up on a farm, you had to work hard to survive. She worked the fields, she helped with the kids, she cleaned. When her mother finally died, she left all the farm land and it's contents to the oldest male. The daughters got nothing.
When she finally married in her 20's, she moved into town with her husband and worked at a factory. She drank. She smoked. She caroused. At 26, the doctor's removed a tumor in her womb, but for a few months they weren't certain if it was a fast-growing tumor or a baby. She mourned for a long-time that this choice was taken away from her.
When the drinking got bad enough that it also turned into fighting, she quite drinking all together. She went to mass on Saturday nights. She decorated her home with trinkets and things not found in a farmhouse. She became a widow, twice, because of cancer.
She only washes her face with Dove soap. Her garden is the nicest in town. She cleans like crazy, drinks coffee day and night, smokes, and is the first to help out when people are in need. When I was born, and my mother was still undecided about adoption, Irene volunteered to keep me and love me. She bought all new baby clothes for me even after she knew I would never be her daughter, or live in her home.
She used to give me Wrigley's Spearmint gum, my own five-piece pack, when I would come to visit. You could drink soda or coffee in her house, no matter what your age. At the parish picnic, she's worked the BINGO stand for the last sixty years. But she stopped going to mass when the misconduct was rampant and it hit too close to home. You don't hurt kids, she'd say, end of story.
No matter what our story, I guess the secret might be the fire within us, the passion that keeps us moving forward instead of looking back. It's what keeps us young. She knew that. Still does.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Inspiration
It's almost Mother's Day. I start drifting down memory lane about my own mother, and her mother, and, of course, the mother before her. I even ponder my own short stint in the motherhood arena, unseasoned as I may be.
On my desk, I have a bulletin board of photos -- all women in my family, all interesting photos that make me look at the world a little different. Here is what I see.
My Mother, 1965.
Black and white photo. She is standing in the front yard in her shorts, huge sombrero, ugly stuffed bear with a lei in her hands, and white loafers. She is entertaining the world. Her comical smile makes me laugh. Only six years old, she doesn't know yet how much hurt there is in the world. Happiness resides within her.
My Grandmother, 1972.
Wearing a flowered dress with pearls, she stands in the corner of a room. Body stiff, she is smiling. One light bulb hangs bare above her head. Her smile looks forced, her eyes look sad. I want to wrap my arms around her and hold her. Why is it so hard to let go of things that weigh us down, such as bitterness, hatred and regret?
My Mother and I, 2003.
We have our arms around each other, looking straight in the camera, on a sunny day. Our smiles are exactly the same. I'm squeezing her tight. It's hard to tell who is the mother and who is the daughter. For most of our lives, this identity crisis on traditional mother-daughter roles has been a barrier between us.
Me, 2005.
Only my head is above water. I am hanging on with one hand to a black inner-tube and the water is rippling around me. This was my first weekend away from our new baby. It was also my first dip back in the soothing water after motherhood. I have a ton more questions, but the photo is snapped in mid-sentence.
These are my inspiration photos -- the photos that remind me, I guess, that we're all human, including mothers. We make mistakes. We mess up our lives. We even mess up our kids' lives. Some of us put on sombreros and dance to survive, while others build walls that no one can penetrate. Some of us hold on tight with all our being and big ole' smiles, while others just barely have their head above water.
The only thing we have in common is God's unfailing love for us. Oh, and of course, the fact that we're all in this together....ready or not.
On my desk, I have a bulletin board of photos -- all women in my family, all interesting photos that make me look at the world a little different. Here is what I see.
My Mother, 1965.
Black and white photo. She is standing in the front yard in her shorts, huge sombrero, ugly stuffed bear with a lei in her hands, and white loafers. She is entertaining the world. Her comical smile makes me laugh. Only six years old, she doesn't know yet how much hurt there is in the world. Happiness resides within her.
My Grandmother, 1972.
Wearing a flowered dress with pearls, she stands in the corner of a room. Body stiff, she is smiling. One light bulb hangs bare above her head. Her smile looks forced, her eyes look sad. I want to wrap my arms around her and hold her. Why is it so hard to let go of things that weigh us down, such as bitterness, hatred and regret?
My Mother and I, 2003.
We have our arms around each other, looking straight in the camera, on a sunny day. Our smiles are exactly the same. I'm squeezing her tight. It's hard to tell who is the mother and who is the daughter. For most of our lives, this identity crisis on traditional mother-daughter roles has been a barrier between us.
Me, 2005.
Only my head is above water. I am hanging on with one hand to a black inner-tube and the water is rippling around me. This was my first weekend away from our new baby. It was also my first dip back in the soothing water after motherhood. I have a ton more questions, but the photo is snapped in mid-sentence.
These are my inspiration photos -- the photos that remind me, I guess, that we're all human, including mothers. We make mistakes. We mess up our lives. We even mess up our kids' lives. Some of us put on sombreros and dance to survive, while others build walls that no one can penetrate. Some of us hold on tight with all our being and big ole' smiles, while others just barely have their head above water.
The only thing we have in common is God's unfailing love for us. Oh, and of course, the fact that we're all in this together....ready or not.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Love Languages
When Jeff and I got married, we had to read The Five Love Languages in order to "pass" pre-marital counseling. We passed (thanks for asking!) and, as it turns out, learned a lot about each other. Even 10 years later, I often stop and marvel at the power of a love language.
The premise behind the book is that there are five love languages, or ways that people express and receive love. Each of us has a primary love language. When people in our lives -- spouses, family, friends -- speak the right love language to us, we feel loved. On the other hand, when they are focusing on the wrong love language, all their efforts may be in vain. They love us, but we don't feel it. They care deeply for us, but we don't know it.
So, what are the five love languages?
1. Words of affirmation -- words are powerful. Words of affection or endearment, words of praise or encouragement, words that give positive guidance all say, "I care about you."
2. Quality time -- the most important part of quality time is not the event itself but that you are doing something together, being together. Quality time is focused attention.
3. Gift Giving -- the giving and receiving of gifts can be a powerful expression of love. Meaningful and thoughtful gifts need not be big or expensive. It's the act of giving that counts.
4. Acts of service -- helping others in a selfless manner shows we care. Small task or big request, it doesn't matter. We respond and love happens.
5. Physical touch -- people who are hugged, kissed and held feel loved. The author says, "Physical touch is one of love's strongest voices." Only if it's your love language, however.
My love language is acts of service. When Jeff fixes something around the house or carries in the groceries before I can ask, it shows me he cares. When he gets the boys up and dressed in the morning so I can sleep for a few more minutes, it's pure love. Most are small things, but they add up in a huge way for me.
For Jeff, his love language is words of affirmation. Although I feel like I show him how much I love him, he needs to be told. It needs to be verbalized all the time. I'm always amazed at how his expression will change instantly when I thank him for loving us so much. He grins and I can tell immediately that little bits of love are just pouring in.
Along the way, I have been shown over and over again the power of focusing on that primary love language. Do not waste your time perfecting any others. It's been a hard lesson, but I've learned. Because no matter how hard you work, no matter how much love you give, no matter how much you bend over backwards to make someone happy, they usually only funnel love inward in one way. That's the only way you need to know about, my friends. The rest? Well, it's just fluff. Let it float away.
The premise behind the book is that there are five love languages, or ways that people express and receive love. Each of us has a primary love language. When people in our lives -- spouses, family, friends -- speak the right love language to us, we feel loved. On the other hand, when they are focusing on the wrong love language, all their efforts may be in vain. They love us, but we don't feel it. They care deeply for us, but we don't know it.
So, what are the five love languages?
1. Words of affirmation -- words are powerful. Words of affection or endearment, words of praise or encouragement, words that give positive guidance all say, "I care about you."
2. Quality time -- the most important part of quality time is not the event itself but that you are doing something together, being together. Quality time is focused attention.
3. Gift Giving -- the giving and receiving of gifts can be a powerful expression of love. Meaningful and thoughtful gifts need not be big or expensive. It's the act of giving that counts.
4. Acts of service -- helping others in a selfless manner shows we care. Small task or big request, it doesn't matter. We respond and love happens.
5. Physical touch -- people who are hugged, kissed and held feel loved. The author says, "Physical touch is one of love's strongest voices." Only if it's your love language, however.
My love language is acts of service. When Jeff fixes something around the house or carries in the groceries before I can ask, it shows me he cares. When he gets the boys up and dressed in the morning so I can sleep for a few more minutes, it's pure love. Most are small things, but they add up in a huge way for me.
For Jeff, his love language is words of affirmation. Although I feel like I show him how much I love him, he needs to be told. It needs to be verbalized all the time. I'm always amazed at how his expression will change instantly when I thank him for loving us so much. He grins and I can tell immediately that little bits of love are just pouring in.
Along the way, I have been shown over and over again the power of focusing on that primary love language. Do not waste your time perfecting any others. It's been a hard lesson, but I've learned. Because no matter how hard you work, no matter how much love you give, no matter how much you bend over backwards to make someone happy, they usually only funnel love inward in one way. That's the only way you need to know about, my friends. The rest? Well, it's just fluff. Let it float away.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Baby, I'm Moving On
I cleaned out the nursery tonight. Sold the crib. Packed away the baby clothes. Looked through the photos of when my boys were born. Swept up all the remnants of baby and brought in something new.
The truth is, I've been on the fence a long time about having another baby. Ever since we brought Tuck home from the hospital, I've wondered if we should do it all again. Jeff only wanted two. I always thought I wanted one, then I had two, and then I started thinking about number three. A girl would be lovely, no doubt, but even another boy sounded fine. I always felt like I had more love, but never enough time or energy.
I then questioned every mother I met. So, how did you know you were done? Did the baby fever ever go away? Do you wish you would have had more kids? No conclusive answers. Just confident women who seemed content with the number of kids they had.
Ironically, it was the pregnant women around me that finally provided the answer. An amazing friend at work is having baby number four. I actually woke up in a cold sweat one night thinking this was me, my life, and realizing I can't deal with that many kids. Another friend recently moved, took a new job and became pregnant. I was so thrilled for her, but not one bit envious at all these new adventures in her life. And then, when doling out advice to another friend about fertile times of the month, I almost had a heart attack when my period failed to show up on time. False alarm, thank goodness, but I fretted enough to know what side of the fence I had landed.
It was time to move on. Instead of a nursery, I now have a room of my own -- an office, a personal sanctuary to write, a rocker to read (instead of nurse a baby) and pictures of those I love all around me. I even dusted off my favorite poetry books and lined them up like proud, little soldiers in my new room. While I love the babies I've been blessed with, I feel confident tonight. Something new is about to begin. For the first time in a long time, I think I'm ready.
The truth is, I've been on the fence a long time about having another baby. Ever since we brought Tuck home from the hospital, I've wondered if we should do it all again. Jeff only wanted two. I always thought I wanted one, then I had two, and then I started thinking about number three. A girl would be lovely, no doubt, but even another boy sounded fine. I always felt like I had more love, but never enough time or energy.
I then questioned every mother I met. So, how did you know you were done? Did the baby fever ever go away? Do you wish you would have had more kids? No conclusive answers. Just confident women who seemed content with the number of kids they had.
Ironically, it was the pregnant women around me that finally provided the answer. An amazing friend at work is having baby number four. I actually woke up in a cold sweat one night thinking this was me, my life, and realizing I can't deal with that many kids. Another friend recently moved, took a new job and became pregnant. I was so thrilled for her, but not one bit envious at all these new adventures in her life. And then, when doling out advice to another friend about fertile times of the month, I almost had a heart attack when my period failed to show up on time. False alarm, thank goodness, but I fretted enough to know what side of the fence I had landed.
It was time to move on. Instead of a nursery, I now have a room of my own -- an office, a personal sanctuary to write, a rocker to read (instead of nurse a baby) and pictures of those I love all around me. I even dusted off my favorite poetry books and lined them up like proud, little soldiers in my new room. While I love the babies I've been blessed with, I feel confident tonight. Something new is about to begin. For the first time in a long time, I think I'm ready.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Dream On
Every spring, I go into a frenzy to get organized. I have this urge to get rid of clutter and re-arrange everything in my world. Give it away or sell, I don't care. I just need a new perspective.
In the midst of all this purging, I came across an old notebook from college and my early married years. The pages had random notes of inspiration, journal entries and even a few poems tucked in between pages. It was a time warp back to a girl I once knew. The poems were, at best, morose, somewhat psychotic and over-the-top dramatic.
The crazy part is that I fancied myself a poet. An undiscovered, eccentric, extremely talented creator of poems. That's me. Apparently, I even saved a bunch in case my poetry gift was discovered posthumous. But tonight, when I'm reading those poems, a moment of truth flickers in my mind. I only imagined myself a poet. These poems will never take flight, I can almost guarantee you.
It's hard to let go of what you've dreamed yourself to be. When I think of myself, it's not a vision of dirty laundry, screaming kids and soccer practice. It's sitting in a coffee shop, black coffee in hand, cigarette burning and poetic words laying themselves down in perfect form on the page. I wear my beret, reciting my poems with an accent and people love them. People love me. They want to take home these words I've written and place them somewhere important. I want that for them, too.
I then start to think of all the people I've sent these poems. I was so full of myself that I put them on Christmas cards, gave them as birthday gifts and made friends read each line while I stood there waiting for their accolades. I even mailed a poem to my sister-in-law in the midst of her long, lonely semester in the Philippines. I thought it would provide comfort. I realize now it may not have been comforting, but extremely funny. She said she lost the poem before she made it back home. Coincidence? I'm wondering.
When a dream is ash, I guess you just keep moving on. It also helps to be honest when you were just too proud, too confident, too full of yourself. We've all been there. I'm sure I'll even step through that door again like when I realize I might not be a professional blogger. It takes me awhile, but I'm learning.
In the midst of all this purging, I came across an old notebook from college and my early married years. The pages had random notes of inspiration, journal entries and even a few poems tucked in between pages. It was a time warp back to a girl I once knew. The poems were, at best, morose, somewhat psychotic and over-the-top dramatic.
The crazy part is that I fancied myself a poet. An undiscovered, eccentric, extremely talented creator of poems. That's me. Apparently, I even saved a bunch in case my poetry gift was discovered posthumous. But tonight, when I'm reading those poems, a moment of truth flickers in my mind. I only imagined myself a poet. These poems will never take flight, I can almost guarantee you.
It's hard to let go of what you've dreamed yourself to be. When I think of myself, it's not a vision of dirty laundry, screaming kids and soccer practice. It's sitting in a coffee shop, black coffee in hand, cigarette burning and poetic words laying themselves down in perfect form on the page. I wear my beret, reciting my poems with an accent and people love them. People love me. They want to take home these words I've written and place them somewhere important. I want that for them, too.
I then start to think of all the people I've sent these poems. I was so full of myself that I put them on Christmas cards, gave them as birthday gifts and made friends read each line while I stood there waiting for their accolades. I even mailed a poem to my sister-in-law in the midst of her long, lonely semester in the Philippines. I thought it would provide comfort. I realize now it may not have been comforting, but extremely funny. She said she lost the poem before she made it back home. Coincidence? I'm wondering.
When a dream is ash, I guess you just keep moving on. It also helps to be honest when you were just too proud, too confident, too full of yourself. We've all been there. I'm sure I'll even step through that door again like when I realize I might not be a professional blogger. It takes me awhile, but I'm learning.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
The Mother of Meltdowns
It's tough being a mother. It feels, most days, like I'm flying completely blind. I could be doing right. I could be doing wrong. You just don't know. Every day is a toss up.
What I do know is that I feel like I never truly have it under control. My two year old is having a melt down and trying to break down the door. My four year old is adamant, over and over again, that he washed his hands with soap, but I don't see it and I don't smell it. Even the dog, the youngest of my brood, can't seem to grasp the concept that pooping is an outside activity. It's utter chaos and I'm responsible for it all.
Because of my downward spiral weekend, I'm composing a list of crazy mommy things. It's things I don't understand, things that drive me crazy, things I wish I could change if I had any power at all over the universe.
1. Why melt downs happen over the smallest things, like being unable to take a teddy bear into Target. It's loud. It's disruptive. All I can thing about is being far away from the screaming.
2. Why I ever thought spanking was a bad thing. Let's not be judgmental, folks. Just get it done.
3. Why other mommies seem really put together and I can't even manage to find matching socks in the morning. It could be because there's a mountain of laundry in my basement that I have dreams of getting to one day. Laundry is the only thing in my life I'm really patient about.
4. Why one child can be an angel, but give birth to two or more, and things just get downright wild. This is why three children will probably never happen for us. I'm maxed out.
5. Why getting a cute puppy always seems like a grand idea right before Christmas.
6. Why everyone wants to fly in and help when daddy is all by himself with the kids. No one calls me when I'm stuck for days alone in the house with them. I could be dead or tied up, but no one would really know.
7. Why those plastic toys hurt so darn much when you step on them in your bare feet. Bad words form on your lips, but you know big ears and little lips are ready to start repeating anything you say while in pain.
8. Why, when you finally make the decision to stop checking on them every 15 minutes when they've gone to bed EVEN when you hear feet on the floor, the youngest decides to put diaper creme all over himself, the diapers, the clothes, the furniture and his bed. Never will you buy another tube of Desitin without feeling sick to your stomach.
9. Why I decided two years was plenty of time between kids.
10. Why I complain about the little things when the Lord has blessed us with so much, such as two healthy, somewhat happy boys, sleeping softly tonight all snug in their beds.
It's all about perspective, I guess. When it boils down to it, I never expected being a mother to be so hard. It takes everything I got, and then wants more. Deep breaths, deep breaths.
What I do know is that I feel like I never truly have it under control. My two year old is having a melt down and trying to break down the door. My four year old is adamant, over and over again, that he washed his hands with soap, but I don't see it and I don't smell it. Even the dog, the youngest of my brood, can't seem to grasp the concept that pooping is an outside activity. It's utter chaos and I'm responsible for it all.
Because of my downward spiral weekend, I'm composing a list of crazy mommy things. It's things I don't understand, things that drive me crazy, things I wish I could change if I had any power at all over the universe.
1. Why melt downs happen over the smallest things, like being unable to take a teddy bear into Target. It's loud. It's disruptive. All I can thing about is being far away from the screaming.
2. Why I ever thought spanking was a bad thing. Let's not be judgmental, folks. Just get it done.
3. Why other mommies seem really put together and I can't even manage to find matching socks in the morning. It could be because there's a mountain of laundry in my basement that I have dreams of getting to one day. Laundry is the only thing in my life I'm really patient about.
4. Why one child can be an angel, but give birth to two or more, and things just get downright wild. This is why three children will probably never happen for us. I'm maxed out.
5. Why getting a cute puppy always seems like a grand idea right before Christmas.
6. Why everyone wants to fly in and help when daddy is all by himself with the kids. No one calls me when I'm stuck for days alone in the house with them. I could be dead or tied up, but no one would really know.
7. Why those plastic toys hurt so darn much when you step on them in your bare feet. Bad words form on your lips, but you know big ears and little lips are ready to start repeating anything you say while in pain.
8. Why, when you finally make the decision to stop checking on them every 15 minutes when they've gone to bed EVEN when you hear feet on the floor, the youngest decides to put diaper creme all over himself, the diapers, the clothes, the furniture and his bed. Never will you buy another tube of Desitin without feeling sick to your stomach.
9. Why I decided two years was plenty of time between kids.
10. Why I complain about the little things when the Lord has blessed us with so much, such as two healthy, somewhat happy boys, sleeping softly tonight all snug in their beds.
It's all about perspective, I guess. When it boils down to it, I never expected being a mother to be so hard. It takes everything I got, and then wants more. Deep breaths, deep breaths.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)