In a recent intellectual discussion with this birthday girl, I was lead to conduct the following Google search: “Can donkeys be female?” We were talking about milk, and where it comes from. No, I was not enlightening my daughter on the joys of breastfeeding. Think, 2% Milk found in the dairy section of the grocery store. Understanding that our milk comes from a cow didn’t seem particularly difficult, but then Eliott asked, “If our milk comes from cows, then where does Daddy’s milk come from?”
I told her, “Well, beans.”
“Beans!? No. That is not right. I think it comes from donkeys.”
It might as well, Eliott.
Happy birthday to the brightest five-year old in my universe.
Two weeks ago my thoughts and prayers were selfishly centered around my desire to expand our family and subsequent need for a minivan to accomplish that. I try not to be one of those people who believes that God cares about my minivan situation as much as He cares about starving children, but I’ve been in a 25 year habit of talking to Him about everything, and lately, I’ve had minivan on my brain.
Then, my Facebook newsfeed alerted me of this update: “OVERWHELMED. That describes the last 2 days of my life on all different levels. My youngest diagnosed with leukemia, seemingly, out of the blue; tearing me apart inside in a way I never imagined…”
This more-than-acquaintance but not-yet-good-friend took her three year old daughter, Leah, to the pediatrician for a cold that wouldn’t seem to go away. Less than twenty four hours later, the little girl was being set up for chemotherapy.
Suddenly, my minivan didn’t seem quite so important.
I sat in a room full of women last Thursday morning, crying, with everyone, as we were more fully updated on the story. Every woman in that room was a mother (hence the reason for the gathering) and for many, this story contained a name without a face. It didn’t matter. None of us could absorb this news with anything less than the feeling of, “What if this was my child?”
Weirdly, this isn’t the first time such news has reached me from a nearly identical relationship connection. A little over two years ago, a couple from our small group at church, who’s daughter is a few months younger than Eliott, announced what might as well have been the exact same scenario. Meet Lexie Grace. For almost two years, her picture has been on my refrigerator.
So what happens when bad things happen to good people? Well, by the power of the World Wide Interwebs, stories are told, connections are made, and support begins to organize. In Lexie’s case, “Love 4 Lexie” signs began popping up all around Alamance County. Money was raised. Prayers were raised. A community rallied.
After last Thursday’s full disclosure to my MOMS group, we were sent an email with the beginning notes of “How you can help.” In the newness of the situation, the family is taking things one day at a time. Not wanting to add to what I can only imagine could quickly become a smothering amount of support, I clicked the link to sign up for a meal delivery. I was ten minutes too late. Meals have already been arranged every other day from now until April. Women have booked Saturday mornings to vacuum someone else’s house. Gas cards have been shoved into envelopes. And of course, people are praying.
Obviously I do not pretend to understand even a fraction of how this family must feel. Yet, there are so many people who do. Like birth and death, I imagine this situation is one of those that is exactly as unique as it is common. Throughout my first pregnancy and into those first moments of motherhood, I remember trying not to allow myself to think that no one could possibly understand how I felt, yet constantly feeling like no one could possibly understand how I felt. An emotional oxymoron. It does not make the experience any less unique. In the case of cancer, it does not make the experience any less difficult.
The last time we spoke to Lexie’s parents face-to-face, we were celebrating solid foods, sitting up, and the prospect of walking, while Eliott and Lexie drooled near each other on the floor. John and I moved out of the area and have not kept in close contact with the family, but have been regularly updated on her status, and reminded to pray. Somehow, I’ve never taken down her picture. I am excited to report that Lexie’s last chemo treatment was in June of 2010, and she’s currently in remission. Those of us non-medical praying-type people like to say healed.
I have gone to bed every night this week with the thought on my lips, “Thank you for my children. Thank you for our health.” Admittedly, I feel guilty using one person’s tragedy as a reminder to count my blessings. But I’m human. How else can I respond?
I believe in the power of healing. I believe in the power of prayer. And so I also commit to offering this belief for Leah, daily, hourly, as often as I am reminded, because I know that this would be the response of my community if it was my child.
* Names and pictures have been included with full disclosure to and permission of the parents.
Even before we were married John and I talked about the high probability of the two of us spawning a child (children) who would be picked on in school. It seems inevitable. John and I currently would be considered above average when it comes to social classifiers such as athleticism, brains, wit, and appearance. Yet, we were both ostracized in school, from very young ages until, well, perhaps until some magical day in high school or college when we decided to just fully stop caring. When I say “ostracized,” weirdly, I don’t mean we were ignored or labeled “dorks,” and that was that.
I mean singled out.
Picked on.
Relentlessly teased, purposefully left out, and made to wonder, for most of our lives, what was wrong with us.
The magical happy ending of this story is that I really did get over it, and even believe I am better for it today. I can’t imagine who I would have turned out to be if I had been–gulp–popular in Jr. High. John agrees.
Okay so we aren’t like the richest most successful people we currently know. And truth be told, we probably have far fewer friends than average 30 somethings. But neither of us would have it any other way.
That is not to say, however, that I would wish the same fate on my own children.
But I don’t have to. It seems it has started.
Remember Kelsey? Well, she’s back. Please understand that my rendition of Eliott’s experience is built from the comments of a teacher who did not actually witness any of the following and translation of the perception of an almost five year old.
Facts may skewed.
I can hardly do the entire thing justice, except to invite you into the scene and allow you to hear things as I heard them.
The adult version:
Teacher: Well, we had a rough day.
Me: Is Eliott still having an issue with following directions?
Teacher: No. This was more a problem with getting along with the other kids in class. It seems she’s being picked on, and I think today it just really got to her.
Me: Ah. Is this the whole, “You’re not my best friend anymore,” thing? We’ve talked about it.
Teacher: Yes. I think it is that and also an issue with toys and sharing, and you how kids can be… we’re working on it. Please just keep talking to her about how she feels.
Eliott’s version:
Eliott: Well, first Kelsey said, “No Eliott. You are not my best friend. And Lucy is not your best friend either. She’s my best friend.
Me: Well, Eliott, did you tell Kelsey and Lucy, ‘That’s okay. You can still be my friends?’ I mean, what did you say?
Eliott: I said (in a voice that I can only assume is mine, mimicked): That is not nice, Kelsey. You are not being nice to me, and you need to be nice to me.
Me: Wow. That was probably the best thing you could have said. What did she say?
Eliott: Well, she started singing, “Eliott is a poopy pants, Eliott is a poopy pants,” and everyone else was just singing it too.
I have to admit. From my eyes of experience, how do I explain to Eliott that this little song means she won? The story continued before bed, when Eliott confessed to John that all the kids were taking away her toy, and no one was being her friend. Part of me wonders if she simply felt so alone that she perceived the entire class to be ganging up on her.
I’m not surprised, and I’m not angry, and actually, in my all to pragmatic sense of reality, I’m sort of comforted in the ever so expectedness of this situation. I just really didn’t think it would start so soon. And like any other parent, I feel pretty confident that no matter what I say or do, ultimately this is something that might not get better, and might not have a solution.
For example, I didn’t immediately get on the phone and call Kelsey’s mom, so we could have a conflict-resolution session. I didn’t even push things with the teacher to make sure whatever strategy should be in place is being implemented properly. I didn’t suggest Eliott fight back, or anything like that. I know these are all things that people do, but somehow, none of them feel like the right step. Right now.
I am actually taking comfort in exactly two things Eliott has said, as a result of this recent issue. Amazingly, I’m not sure I distinctly taught her either of them, but her naturally keen sense of self seems to be protecting her just fine right now.
First, I wanted her to know the reality of the situation, because if I recall, my mother did the same thing with me. Granted, I was more likely in 4th grade at the time I was dealing with this, and not four, but it’s never really been my parenting technique to treat my children according to their height. I said to Eliott, “Listen. There’s something you need to know. Most girls are mean. I don’t know why, but they just are. In your life, you might only have a couple of really good girl friends, and probably one of them will be your sister. You need to be nice to Carter, because most girls don’t like people like you and me.” When she asked me why, I might have blurted a little too quickly, “Well, because we’re smart, and we’re pretty, and we don’t even care.” To this her face lit up and she exclaimed, “Yeah! Let’s just keep being pretty!” and then high-fived me. I took it as a success.
Then, today at breakfast, I was preparing her for her field trip today, explaining that she was going to be riding with somebody’s mom, and how fun it would be and blah blah blah. When she asked who was driving I said, “Actually, probably Adam’s mom and Kelsey’s mom. They drive for everything. And your teachers will drive too.” At the inclusion of ‘Kelsey’s mom’ Eliott said, again, in a voice that was far more grown up than I usually hear, “Kelsey’s mom? Well. I’m going to tell her that Kelsey was being mean to me on the other day. Yeah. And I’m going to say that she makes the other kids be mean to me too, and they taunt me, and take things from me.” To this, I threw in, “And exclude me, say that.”
I love that she recognizes taunting from her experience with doing it to her own sister. I also love her dork-level vocabulary.
It turns out, when I dropped her off at school, the plan had changed a bit and I ended up attending the field trip today. All the girls rode together in one car and all of them got along swimmingly. I didn’t seek vengeance and I didn’t even feel the need to discuss any of this with the other moms in attendance. I do actually like most of these kids and weirdly, I actually like most of their mothers. And deep down, I really do think Eliott is going to be okay. (All right, I admit to one or two vivid thoughts of accidentally kicking little Kelsey right in the head, but truly, that was my Mama Bear instinct more than any personal vendetta against a five year old.)
I realize I might be creating a monster here. I also realize there are plenty of things I could or should be doing and not doing. But the fact is, I’m not looking for advice, or sympathy, or even approval. Again. I really try not to be that annoying mom who praises and raises my children to unreachable pedestals of greatness. At least not publicly, anyway. (I said I try gimme a break here.) But this has been one of those weeks where I was unexpectedly transported back to a time in my life that, no matter how long ago it was or how much I’ve changed, the feeling of insecurity and loneliness is unmistakeable and universal.
And I just can’t explain how proud I am, that my daughter, who is three weeks away from her fifth birthday, has a very keen sense inside of her, of just how to say, “Go to hell,” to her adversaries in an appropriate way.
I try very hard not to use this blog as an outlet for anything more than silliness and story telling. I’m not trying to impart wisdom. I’m not trying to convert anyone to a new sense of self, nor am I really looking for support and agreement in everything I write. This is why there are a number of topics I generally avoid. But I’ve been sort of chewing on something for about a week now that I’ve been reluctant to blog about because it encompasses neither of my two intended purposes for blogging, and frankly, I still haven’t really worked out exactly how I feel or what I think. I just can’t stop thinking about it.
John and I wake up to a clock-radio alarm every morning. For most of our marriage, it was tuned in to the only channel it would pick up in our basement apartment, which was the conservative talk radio show, “Brad and Britt.” To be honest, I liked getting my news and weather report sometime before leaving the house, and I didn’t really mind the rest. But then one day, we just decided we were tired of Brad and Britt. John didn’t have a preference, so I changed our wake-up call to K-Love.
Of all things.
I don’t love contemporary Christian music. In junior high and high school, I’ve confessed, it was all I listened to. But now, I find myself listening and thinking that all of it must be written and performed by the exact same band. Many times, I feel like I’m listening to the same seventeen-minute long song, which has just been interrupted a few times by some Focus on the Family commercials.
Today, however, I am admitting, it isn’t the music on K-Love that has me annoyed. It is the DJ’s. And the callers. And the topics of conversation. And the general sense of sameness when it comes to these topics. But even when I thought I was at the peak of my annoyance a couple of weeks ago, I was still able to admit that K-Love has a very specific targeted audience, and for this audience, it really is a decent outlet on the advice, encouragement, and ministry scales.
Sometime mid-last week, one of the male DJ’s was hosting the show alone, and I woke up to the topic of the hour, which was apparently a quote. I didn’t hear who said the quote (and maybe the DJ didn’t say), but here it is:
Being realistic is the most commonly traveled road to mediocrity.
My first reaction was to question whether I actually agreed. Maybe this is because I fancy myself a pretty realistic person, but by no means, would I say I suffer from mediocrity. As caller after caller chimed in to sing the praises of the wisdom and profoundness in this quote, I laid in bed growing more and more agitated, when finally, a woman called in to disagree.
At last.
Unfortunately, by the end of her ninety second air-time, the DJ had her convinced of the facts that, (1) Jesus’ministry was anything but realistic, if you think about it (and thank God for that or where would we be right now?), and (2) the quote really has two sides, and she could see the value in each side.
Today I finally Googled the quote.
It was spoken by Will Smith.
The context of Will Smith wisdom is unsurprisingly similar to the context of Oprah Winfrey wisdom. It is a classic rags-to-riches and mama-didn’t-raise-no-fool story. Honestly, this advice is really no different from that Thought-For-The-Day Calendar proverb:
Shoot for the moon, even if you miss, you might end up among the stars.
Let’s be realistic.
If you miss the moon, what are the odds you went far enough to reach the stars? I mean, the moon is entire light years closer to Earth than any of the stars. Let’s not even get into the fact that, realistically, average humans who have landed among the stars were probably only shooting for the top of the Sears Tower in the first place, and either by a stroke of luck, or multiple strokes of hard work and discipline, they worked their way a little further than the rest.
Whatever happened to setting attainable goals, and then, by putting one foot in front of the other, actually reaching those goals?
And don’t tell me Jesus Christ wasn’t realistic. As a mere human, he was one of the few religious leaders of his time (who am I kidding, of all time) who was able to command the attention of an audience of common people and actually get them to understand what he was saying. Usually in a reasonable amount of time. But then again, he was also God. I think that means it was pretty realistic for the guy to be turning water into wine, healing lepers, and rising from the dead. I mean, God, as I know Him, made humans out of dirt. But first, He had to make the dirt. Anyone who has ever attempted to teach high school freshmen how to write essays can appreciate the difficulty of creating something out of nothing.
I think I understand what Will was thinking when he made this comment, I’m just not sure he was talking to people like me. I happen to enjoy my above-average, not mediocre, realistic thinking. On the other hand, John says I have a slightly delusional view of reality, and perhaps even upon publication of this post, I’m only further announcing my disconnection from others, due to my rose-colored Claire Wait glasses that I natuarlly assume everyone else is simultaneously wearing.
Come on. It doesn’t matter what I say. People know what I mean.
So I was just thinking about how my former thirty-minute commute to and from work used to be the best hour of my day. Exactly two stoplights and two stop signs, me and my coffee, whittling down my reading list one audio-book at a time. Or there were the days of reconnecting with my ex-boyfriend, NPR. I feel bad that I seem to have ended things without much closure. Now, when I tune in, usually right after dropping off the girls at school, I just feel like we’re strangers. I’ve been gone for so long I have absolutely no idea what’s going on in Africa right now.
Sigh.
Though I might be in the car the same amount of time every day, it is anything but relaxing or enlightening. Between fielding one hundred and one questions a minute, retrieving whatever garbage toy has once again landed outside the grasp of the 5-point harness, or quelching the inevitable Mom, she’s breathing my air argument, I’ve found that it is just easier to drown everything out with music. Unfortunately, because iPods have basically replaced CDs and my 2004 Hyundai is not equipped with a universal Apple jack, we do a lot of listening to the radio.
And at the risk of exposing myself to ridicule from high school friends and shame-shame eyes from the church moms, I make the following confession: Katy Perry has fully replaced K-Love and conservative talk radio on my list of acceptable car listening. In fact, dare I say it, I’ve never been a fan of Top-40 radio until now. It’s like in the past two years, pop has actually become auditorally digestible. And delicious.
Unfortunately, the result might be the creation of two teeny-bopper-monsters. Both of my children now request songs and artists by name, and sing and dance in the backseat like little thirteen year olds. Sometimes it is cute. Sometimes I have to suppress a shudder. But generally, I’m fully in favor of impromptu Lady Gaga inspired dance parties, even if they are from the backseat of the car.
Right now, Carter’s favorite song is “Oh-Ah Kisses.” Some of you might know it by its more common name, Pumped Up Kicks, by Foster the People. Here’s a little sampling of Eliott/Carter song lyric translation:
All the other kids with oh-ah kisses, and around and around, faster than my solen.
All the other kids who want that kisses, and around and around, faster than my father.
Yesterday Eliott announced from the backseat, “Turn it up Mommy, it’s the whistling part. I like this part. Oh, now they’re whistling and singing at the same time, so I get to choose.” And what did she choose, you ask? Well, because Eliott cannot yet whistle, she formed her own version of “whistling and singing at the same time,” which is one of those adorable sounds that will probably make me run the car off a cliff one day.
The price of gas is once again on the rise, the gym is full of New-Year’s-Resolution-targeted-weight-losers, every health insurance premium rose (and benefits declined) in America eight days ago, and somebody else just got diagnosed with cancer, just now.
And what are we freaking out about this morning? Red leggings and a Highlight’s calendar. Stickers, to be more specific.
No. Not my four-year old. Me.
Last Thursday was the first meeting of the MOMS group I sporadically attend for the year. Much like last year, the focus for the lesson that day was about reaching into our inner passions and setting goals for what we can be doing with our lives right now, using our gifts, blessing others, blah, blah, blah. So at the very end, the speaker posed this question (to a room full of mothers): “If you didn’t have children (or a husband, ha ha) to take care of right now, what would you be doing with your time?”
It was supposed to be an exercise in self-reflection, so I was honest when I wrote on my 3X5 card: “I’m 30. If I didn’t have a husband in my life right now, let’s face it, I’d probably be out looking for one. And if I didn’t have kids to take care of right now, I’d be trying to get pregnant.”
Okay, so this wasn’t the popular passion of the room that day. But when I stripped away everything else, and really thought about what I’ve always wanted in my life, I can tell you that the answer has never been something about a career, or a level of wealth, or a position of success. When I was about 15, I’m pretty sure I still enjoyed playing house. Most of my daydreams (and many of my night dreams) from high school included sitting around a big table eating a meal with a family that was all mine. A big one. Lots of noise. Lots of good food. And a pervading feeling of contentment.
While most women I know are making goals to lose weight and de-clutter their lives, I’m using my gym membership to get free babysitting and wondering how in the world we’re ever going to be able to afford the furniture we could really use in this house. (Clutter is currently the least of our worries.) I realize that by comparing myself to most women my age, it often appears that I’m trying to paint myself in a corner of superiority. I don’t necessarily do this to make others feel worse about their situations, but in my super secret inner vault of insecurity, it is the easiest way to remind myself to stop waiting for the next best thing.
I’m not exactly sure what any of this has to do with stop-with-the-stickers-already and no-you-can’t-wear-red-and-pink-together-not-today-not-ever. But I’m feeling an overwhelming urge to stop making passion-based plans for my future, stop complaining about how certain pairs of pants make my butt look too small, and stop freaking out about when we’re finally going to arrive at some magical place and moment of contentment.
Did anyone else jump on The Happiness Project bandwagon last year? *Guilty. My word of the year?
Joy.
In hindsight, it might have been a little lofty, but somehow I still understand exactly what I was thinking when I chose it. I haven’t actually decided on a word for 2012, or even whether to chose one at all.
Instead, this year I’m starting off by summoning my 15 year old self and yelling at her: “We have arrived!”
The title pretty much says it all, and as I haven’t finished baby books for either of my children I’ll consider this the next best thing. I promise, quotes have been recorded as delivered, likely within minutes of actual origination.
“Eliott, did you have any friends in your class this morning?”
“Yeah! There was the boogery one and the not-boogery one.”
Oh how I wish I could use such description in my personal life without offending anyone.
February 3
Eliott is learning to rhyme: “Napkin. Mapkin. Slap him.” February 28
“Hey mom, you know what I’m feeding Lamby Lamb? Apple juice, green grass, and beer.”
Lucky Lamby Lamb.
March 3
M (losing patience): Eliott, are you brushing your teeth?! E: No. I’m figuring. M: Figuring WHAT?! E: I’m trying to figure out how Jesus had a son named God. March 4
“We got to have the ABC’s cereal, with the little marshmallows. But no milk.”
I can’t decide if it’s cute that my child has no idea what Lucky Charms are, or just sad.
March 16
Eliott’s version of Twisted Sister (a non-conformist in the making): “YES. We’re gonna take it! YES, we’re gonna take it! Anymore…” March 21
Every time we get in the car my 4-year old requests Amy Macdonald on the radio, to which her sister always replies (singing), “E-I-E-I-O.”
March 22
M: Eliott, if we make chocolate pudding tonight, there won’t be any more milk for breakfast tomorrow. E: Mommy, I would like to have water with my breakfast. Does that sound fine? That sounds fine with me. March 26
Carter’s official first sentence: “I want this.” Let it be said, she knew before she was 2.
March 29
Elmo is making cupcakes on Dr. Oz. Carter’s head is exploding. March 30
Despite my pseudo death-lessons through balloons and refrigerator pictures, I’m just not ready to explain Bambi’s mom to Eliott.
April 5
Introspective Eliott: “If Carter dies, we might have to get a dog or a kitty cat.” April 13
E: Anji’s skinny, Dragon’s skinny, Uncle Daniel’s skinny…
M: Am I skinny?
E: No. You are not skinny. Daddy’s skinny.
M: What does skinny mean, Eliott?
E: It means you have hair on your back.
April 17
“Hey Mom, you are fat as Jesus.” -Eliott Wait for president- April 22
“I did not steal Carter’s money. I’m sharing all the money.” Eliott understands Socialism.
April 24
My neighbors are outside putting together a new basketball hoop as a family. Eliott just came in the front door and announced (unprompted), “Mom, that’s the Evil Stepmother out there.” April 30
E: In one month it will be summer?
M: Yes.
E: That means, no more Clemmons house?
M: No. That means no more pre-school.
E: No more PRE-SCHOOL!? Oh no! I’m gonna die!
That makes two of us.
May 5
Eliott: But I don’t like being good, Mommy. I like being naughty. Me: Why do you like being naughty? Eliott (eyebrows shooting up and a crazy smile crossing her face): Because it’s fun! Being good is not fun. And we have no fun toys. June 13
E: Well, then I smelled this one bathroom and it wasn’t even stinky. It smelled like princess.
M: What does princess smell like?
E: It smells like, good. It smells like steak.
June 23
Coming home from a week at Grandma’s house = “All my toys! I missed these so much!” (Not going anywhere in a hurry today. More coffee? Sure, would love some…) June 24
Sisterly love or Jr. High dance pose? You decide. June 26
When I walked into her room this morning, Carter’s exclamation could be interpreted in one of two ways: “I toot!” or “I two!” Given that today is July 7th, I’m going with the latter. Happy Birthday Big Girl. July 7
Made it to Knoxville despite the 4 going on 74 year old in the seat behind me announcing through every downpour, “We never should have left our house tonight.”
July 9
Watching Robinhood or “Robin Neighborhood,” according to Eliott, who can’t understand how Prince John is a “boy queen.” July 13
Discipline Tactic #14: “Child. DO you want a beating?!”
Carter Translation: “Bandaid? I need Bandaid.”
Fair enough.
July 26
This is what I call a successful morning. August 2
Child pooped on my foot this morning. That was a first.
August 17
Had to change my directions to the ever specific: Stop. Touching. People. Period. August 19
Eliott at CVS: “Hey mommy, are these ear drops?” (Holding up a value pack of enema kits.) “It says you can either do them with your bottom up, or your bottom down.”
August 31
As Eliott brags to the older neighborhood kids about her new ability to ride a two-wheeler, she seems blissfully unaware that her shoes are on the wrong feet. September 6
Eliott’s teacher when I picked her up at preschool this morning: “So, did Eliott dress herself today?”
Wondering what’s wrong with the Hawaiian dress and jean jacket I mumble a tentative yes, question-mark.
Teacher: “It seems she forgot to wear her panties to school.”
September 12
Things you might find yourself doing as a mother: reaching a gloved hand into the toilet because your 4 year old has informed you she thinks a toy just came out of her bottom. September 13
Eliott's list of important people. September 29
You know you’re a good parent when your children fight over who gets to pray at dinner.
October 1
“I’m a grown up. I’m practicing being a grown up,” Eliott said as she worked with her plastic fork and knife. Then, with that ever smug glaze in her eyes (knowing she was doing something so grown up) she started belting out a tune from Yo Gabba Gabba.
October 2
Dinner table wedding discussion: “I can’t believe at Erica’s party that Dragon took Erica’s underwear off and just threw it. To all the people. Yeah. I can’t believe that he did that.” – Eliott Wait October 5
When she’s wearing jeans, Carter frequently experiences moments of frustration confusing her fly for a 3rd pocket.
October 6
How’s this for honesty?
“I bite Diego nipple.” -Carter Wait, after church. October 11
Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face” comes on the radio and Carter starts cracking up. Then, from the backseat she starts singing, “Ba Ba- Booger Face.”
October 28
You have not known frustration, until you have attempted to put mittens on a 2 year old and gloves on a 4 year old, and actually get all the fingers in their correct places. November 17
At the drive-thru to get my buy one get one Starbucks special and Carter yells from the backseat to the window (with authority): “I want chicken-uggets and chock-it milk!” She then repeated chocolate milk at least four times, emphasis on “chock-it” each time.
November 18
My genius 2 year old: Last night at dinner, Carter looked at Grandma Wait and said, “Grandma. You not boss!” She then smacked Grandma’s hand like a mommy disciplining a child. It took her point two seconds to realize her mistake and immediately recovered by smiling and announcing, “High five?” November 23
Eliott: Mommy, I need to send Peyton a message tomorrow.
Me: Oh. You want to write him a letter?
Eliott: Yes, and do you know what the letter will be?
Me: What?
Eliott: E. But I need to send Peyton a message tomorrow too.
November 26
Before soccer practice: Daddy: Okay, when you take their ball away, then what do you do? Eliott: Say sorry. It seems my daughter has inherited her father’s body and her mother’s brain. December 12
Carter finishes singing in her pre-school Christmas program, comes back to sit with me and announces to a silent congregation from the second row: “Mommy. Let me see your nipples.”
December 14
Yes that is play dough, hot chocolate, and dress up. Proof that fun does happen on my watch, despite my reputation for the contrary. December 16
On Christmas: The most fought over toy of the year has to be the Dirt Devil Jr I found on Craigslist last summer for about $5. Eliott was found down on her hands and knees just before church yesterday, “cleaning” under the stove with the hose attachment. Santa-mom wins again.
December 26
Dad: Eliott, you are getting so tall. You have to stop growing.
Eliott: No! I need to keep growing. That’s how life works.
Dad: But I like you small. Will you stay small for me?
Eliott: Well, no, I want to be tall. I want to be able to reach things without using stools all the time.
January 1
I used to create elaborate lists of resolutions, typical mundane things like exercise my heart, mind, and body in new and exciting ways, on a more consistent basis or be kinder to my family, friends, strangers, humanity in general (I’ve maybe accomplished a quarter of that one and it is an ongoing struggle), and, according to my high school and college journals, this one seemed to be a particular favorite: make time every day to read my Bible and pray. (*God, does it bother you that we Christians have to write you into our daily and yearly to-do lists to remember to talk to you?) Continue reading “New Year’s Resolutions”→
*Disclaimers: The awards below reflect the opinion of the author and are not paid endorsements of any kind, though if you are interested in receiving paid endorsements for your business or your product, feel free to comment below. Also, please understand these titles may not reflect a 2011 release date (but likely reflect thinkgs which can be found on Netflix), as I’m often years behind on my pop-cultural trends.
The Books that Made Me Cry Award:
The Help by Katharyn Stockett
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith
Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand
The Book Thief by Marcus Zusak
The Welcome To The Club Award :
Mad Men
Dexter
The Wait a Minute, Maybe My Style In High School Was Both Socially Appropriate and Hip Award:
Dawson’s Creek Seasons 1-4
The You Are the Only Thing Ruining this Show for Me Award:
Aubrey Plaza as April Ludgate, on Parks and Rec
The Please Do a 2015 Reunion Season of this Show, NBC Award:
Friday Night Lights
The TV Personalities I Just Can’t Hate, No Matter How Hard I Try Award:
Donald Trump
Gordon Ramsay
The TV Personalities I Couldn’t Hate More Award:
Alison Sweeney, as herself, on The Biggest Loser (not Sami from Days)
The I Actually Hate Facebook Less Because of this Movie Award:
The Social Network
The You are the Only Thing that Redeemed this Movie for Me Award:
Melissa McCarthy (as Megan) and Jon Hamm, in Bridesmaids
The Artists Most Likely to be Heard Pumping in my Future Mini-Van as Per the Request of My Children and Husband Award:
Lady Gaga
Katy Perry
Rhianna
The Public Place John and I are Most Likely to be Hit on By the Same Number of Men & Favorite Restaurant of the Year Awards:
6th and Vine
The Enough With the Wordy Creativity, Just Get to the Deal Already Award:
In a recent intellectual discussion with this birthday girl, I was lead to conduct the following Google search: “Can donkeys be female?” We were talking about milk, and where it comes from. No, I was not enlightening my daughter on the joys of breastfeeding. Think, 2% Milk found in the dairy section of the grocery store. Understanding that our milk comes from a cow didn’t seem particularly difficult, but then Eliott asked, “If our milk comes from cows, then where does Daddy’s milk come from?”
The UnderToad 