I Hope They Remember the Good.

Sometimes at the end of a day, after I have tucked my boys soundly in bed, thoughts and memories of the day flood back into my mind. It can be sobering at times, often I just hope and pray that the good I tried to do for them, for my family, somehow outweigh the negative things I may have said or done. Because gosh! I really to try to do good by them, even though I know I don't at times.

Today I hope that they remember the sound of my kind voice singing them lullabies to sleep...rather than the sound of my harsh yelling voice pleading with them for the billionth time to get their jammies on and brush their teeth.

Today I hope that they remember drawing a bike track with chalk on front drive in the sunshine, and then racing together on our bikes/trikes...rather than how many times I said "no, not right now" when they asked me repeatedly to hang party lanterns all throughout the house in the middle of me trying to get a decent dinner cooked and into all of our grumbling bellies.

Today I hope that they remember that I read books to them in silly voices...rather than when I asked them to just let me close my eyes for bit and not jump on my bed.

Today I hope they remember the touch of my lips kissing them on their cheeks and the feel of my hand patting them on the head...rather than the firm grip of my arms as I whisked them angrily away to time outs.

Today I hope that they realize that I am trying everyday to be patient, kind, and calm. And that even though  those qualities don't always come naturally to me, I am trying to teach myself to be those things naturally.

And even though there was yelling, impatience, frustration, annoyance, lack of energy at times today. I hope that I showed them enough good too, through my actions and my words, that I love them. That all I want is the best for them. That I don't want to be anywhere else but with them. That I am trying hard to teach them, and that I am trying hard to be a better Mom for them. That I miss them when they are not with me. That I am not perfect, but that I am trying every day to be what they need. That I adore them and could never imagine my life without them.

Miracles of the Mom Purse

The purse of a Mom can often be a bag full of miracle working surprises.
For example; A plastic baggy, half filled with stale gold-fishies can calm the tyrannical, hysterical toddler in the back seat of the car. Three teeny dinosaurs, pulled from the depths of the bag can entertain the impatient, fidgety child during church meetings. A clean, fresh diaper uncovered from a zippered compartment can save "the rest of us" from the stench, and the child from the discomfort, of POOP.

Ah, but sometimes a miracle worker the purse of a Mom is not.

Sometimes inside the inner corridors of the "mom-purse," danger lurks quietly in the dark. We reach our hands in frantically searching for, hoping for, a miracle. But instead we pull out a once-upon-a-time miracle turned landmine. Landmines such as, the forgotten soiled and smelly diaper, the rotten bag of  fermented apple slices now nearing a liquid state, the tissue encrusted with month old kiddy boogers, or the icky-sticky stick of a tootsie-pop. These items that once served as our miracle workers, have come back to haunt us from the deep abyss of the bag.

On Tuesday I experienced a very rare "mom-purse" miracle gone super wrong. We were driving in the car, I was rummaging through a pocket of my purse for something, when suddenly I felt something thick and wet begin to cover my fingers.

"What the heck?" I gasped as I pulled out my hand. My fingers were covered in slimy, gooey, orangey-yellowy...egg yolk. I was confused so I shoved my hand back the pocket to investigate further. More egg yolk. Egg shell. More egg shell.

Disbelief. An egg? How?

Then the memory began to resurface. Weeks ago I put the chickens away after returning home one evening. I found the tiny everyday miracle our bantam silkie had left for us in the coop, a little egg. My hands were full with other items to take into the house, so I placed the egg in a front pocket of my purse for safe keeping untill I got to the kitchen. And then I promptly forgot that I had put it there, and went on with my life. Until this past Tuesday morning rolled around, and I stuck my hand into the landmine of that innocent little egg.

Reasons

There are lots of reasons why I love being Mom to my young kids.

Lots of reasons that make the butt-wiping, the bed-wetting, the 3 AM wake up calls, the tantrum throwing, etc. bearable. No, not just bearable, but worth it completely.

Reasons like:
How my hugs still calm their worries.
We still get to kiss on the lips and nobody feels weird about it.
They ask me to sing bedtimes songs with them, and they sing along with me.
How holding Angus' hand on car rides calms him and keeps him from screaming.
I can still carry/hold each of them in my arms, and they both still fit on my lap.
They want me around and miss me when I am gone.
How Oscar asks us to lay by him for a bit before he goes to sleep.
How they are completely uninhibited when it comes to running around naked.
How Angus holds on to my leg and pleads for me to "hode" (hold) him.
The way they giggle and play together.
How snuggling between Bryan and I bed, in the middle of the night, can take the fear of Oscars nightmares away.

I am in love with the simplicity of this age. Most of their worries and woes are not complex. I can help them find, or I can simply be, the answer to their problems.

A soft touch.
A warm hug.
A tickle fight.
A batch of cookies.
A kind word.
A hand held.
A tear wiped.
A "You're terrific."
An "I love you."
Oh, how wonderful it would be if all of life's predicaments could be solved in one of those ways.

Well? Maybe they can be.
It's sure worth a try.

Extra moments.

Angus wanted some special attention tonight at bedtime. So I nestled him in close to me and rocked him to sleep in the quiet room. Oscar was sleeping soundly just a couple feet away from us. As Angus' body relaxed in my arms, and he drifted off into dreams I felt really peaceful. Really content. It was so reassuring to listen to both of my boys breath. I knew where they both were, and I knew what they were doing. They were there with me in our home.

My mind skipped forward to the future for a moment, where they were much older. I realized that I won't always have the reassurance of knowing where they are, what they are doing, and who they are with at all times, and it really frightened me. I know part of this parenting gig is learning to let go, but man that seems like such a difficult thing to do.

So I sat in their room a little bit longer and I held Angus' hand. After I softly laid my baby down in his crib, I crept over to my bigger baby and kissed his head and held his hand for an extra moment too.

Maybe if I steal enough of these extra moments now, the letting go later might become a bit easier.

Maybe.

Lullabies.

Oh Oscar and Angus,

Thank you, thank you, for always letting me sing you to sleep. It makes my heart happy that this tradition I relished so much when I was little is being perpetuated.

I have such tender and fond memories of Papa singing your Aunt Lula and me to sleep. He often laid on the floor between our beds, both arms outstretched in opposite directions as he held each of our hand. He would sing the most beautiful renditions of Edelweiss, Oh What a Beautiful Morning (Oklahoma), There Were You and Try To Remember (The Fantasticks), and countless others. Nana also played a big part in this beloved bedtime routine. I remember how she would stroke my forehead with her soft hand and sing to me; I Often Go Walking, A Bushel and a Peck, and Spiders Web. (Thank you a thousand times over Mom and Dad.)

Every night that I get to sing these (and other) songs to you boys, I am able to joyfully relive a bit of my own childhood. My only apology is that my singing voice is more like listening to the croaking of a toad, rather than the warbling of a bird.

Sleep tight my love bugs,

Mom

Pipe down.

I did not grow up in a home where there was much (if any) yelling. To be honest, if any yelling did take place it was probably because I was the one doing it. I am loud. I just am. Before I was a parent, I always said I did not want our home to be a place were yelling occurred. But sometimes it is, and usually I am the one doing it. Recently I have seen Oscar adopting my bad behavior, and it scares me.

I decided yesterday to let yelling out of frustration become an action of my past. So that it does not become an action of my kid's future.

Today I did not yell, and that must mean there is hope for tomorrow too.

Playing house.

I never played house much growing up. However, sometimes I feel like I am just a little girl who is pretending to be a mom playing house.

Except for the house is not built with chairs and blankets. The babies can tell you "no", can hit, and can pee on you in the middle of the night as you try and rush them to the potty. You can't just clean up and put everything away when you don't feel like playing anymore. Nope, 'cause this ain't pretend folks.

There are days when motherhood feels surreal. As if I am really only a six year old in a twenty-six year old's body, doing things I don't quite feel old enough for. (In all honesty though, is there ever a "perfect" age for wiping another humans butt? I think not.)

If it were all pretend I would not be able to hear the sweetness in Oscar's voice as he tells me he loves me (even though earlier today Oscar stated, "Mom it makes me sick when I love you"). Or feel Angus' chubby, albeit at times sticky, fingers grab at my face. Or be able to enjoy countless other "real" moments with my children, that would surely be impossible to feel if I were just being a mother to dolls in a house made of blankets.

Sometimes it stinks.

Poop is my arch-enemy today...wait, make that everyday. Often it seems there is just too much of it (that isn't mine) to take care of.

Tidbits.

Sometimes when you happen across $90 designer (salt) jeans for only $20, that fit you like a glove, you might just have to buy TWO of the same pair. Maybe your mom will love them so much as well, that she will also buy herself two pair.

When you have gone shopping during your nine month old's nap time, substituting the misplaced binky with a Fruit Leather to appease your cranky child is not the best idea. Inevitably, you will both leave the store COVERED in fruity goo (but hey, I guess there are worse things you could be covered in).

Realizing you have an egg thief hiding somewhere in your back yard will fill you with an odd kind of rage. A rage that makes you feel tingly, sweaty, and perplexed. Damn you egg thief! I will get you...(and your little dog too.) Time for a major stake out.

Finding a vintage orange wool blanket to cover your child's bed simply rocks.

Stroking your little boys soft cheeks as he drifts off into dreams will be one of the most satisfying moments of your day.

Such is motherhood.

No one person can make this kid...

smile and laugh,

or frown and cry,

As much as this kid can.

That makes this mommy full of joy one moment,

and completely crazy the next.