The first time I met my husband, was on our first date. We had been matched online, and I hadn’t wanted to go on a date with any of my other matches — and found some of them a little stalkerish (one man I never met, but spoke on the phone with once seemed to be planning his wedding to me), but I decided to take a chance with Chris.
Chris seemed really normal, and like he might be a lovely person. The first few minutes of our conversation reinforced my online impression that he was a stable, likable guy. Then, very fair skinned, clearly American Chris told me he was from the Congo, and it registered that I was on a blind date with a man who was likely mentally ill.
Further explanation revealed that Chris’ parents had been missionaries, and he did spend his early childhood in Africa (I even learned he has a scar on his foot from the day his 5 year-old self thought it a good idea to wield a machete). It was good to know the person I was with didn’t belong at the funny farm. A successful first date.
Fast forward a few years…
Our daughter, Lainey, likes to climb things. She’s smart, curious and high spirited. Chris blames my — snowboarding, soccer playing, fun loving — self for Lainey’s all encompassing need of adventure. Recently, our daughter discovered this wonderful enterprise…
“She’s her mother’s daughter,” Chris smirked.
“Says the five year-old running around with a machete.” I retorted.
We looked at each other and the realization hit… Lainey has this in her genes from both sides… we’re doomed!!!
Most little kids have some sort of blanket or stuffed animal, or toy they love — their “security”. Security blanket, security teddy bear, security toy truck, etc…
My first two children had blankets and/or stuffed animals they HAD to have. Especially at bed time.
My only daughter (3rd child) has about 17 toys and animals she takes to bed with her every night. God help you if you don’t know which animals go where. You will not get her to sleep this century.
I knew my 4th child would no doubt have something he attached to as well, but I didn’t expect this…
Tristan — the one whom I call my “food piggy” — has security eating utensils. Wherever he goes, pretend silverware goes with him. He takes a spoon to bed. He crawls around the play room with a toy fork in a death grip. In the massive piles of kid paraphernalia throughout our home, he can always find his pretend utensils. Don’t try to take one from him — you will hear the scream of a banshee. His big sister has had her hair pulled more than once as she tried to move in on his plastic knife. About his stuffed toys and blanket, he cares naught. But put him to bed without the spoon, and you’ll have Ivan the Terrible on your hands.
I’ve tried to give him other things to love… Daddy’s childhood teddy bear… a blanket Mommy made… a soft, squishy baby book. But love is reserved for his eating utensils only. Finally, I gave up. My food piggy loves his meals, and if carrying around a fork, and sleeping with a spoon, makes him feel happy and safe… great! I wonder if he’ll take his fork to Kindergarten with him…
Officiating soccer at the club, high school and college level, is something I’ve done for the past almost 10 years (when I’m not pregnant, chasing my kids around, or writing).
I don’t really like being yelled at, so I might be in the wrong profession… but being yelled at is a definite motivator to do a good job and (hopefully) be yelled at less.
That being said… I’ve become pretty aware of my strengths and weaknesses as a referee.
Things that make me a good soccer referee…
1. I know the game. I’ve played the game at a high level for most of my life. (Most people don’t know I was headed to Drake University to play Division I soccer. I decided to attend Loras College — a little closer to home — and raise my son instead. When he was 2 and a half, I was offered a full scholarship to play Division II soccer for Salem International University. I turned it down. I was still raising my son.)
2. I can run for pretty much forever. (Except when I’m pregnant… I can run to the bathroom when I’m pregnant.) I’ll probably end up with knee replacements at a young age, but I love to run. I’ve been told by referee assessors that I run too much. (Maybe this should go under weaknesses?) I particularly love doing all the sprints required of a line referee (I know… I’m a little bit this side of crazy).
3. I am the mother of boys. I have a “mom voice” and I’m not afraid to use it. Enough said.
Things that challenge me as a soccer referee…
1. I am five foot two and a half. Most of the players at the high school and college level are taller than me. My vision is easily blocked by a player running in front of me. Good thing I run a lot and can change my vantage point!
2. I have a baby voice (when I’m not using my Mom voice). When I answer my phone, and the person on the other end has never met me, they usually ask if they can speak to my mother. This is not a once or twice thing. It happens at least monthly. Combine that baby voice, with my height and my long blonde hair… I don’t sound or look the part of the stereotypical authority figure. I’ve had to learn how to use my cards and my whistle to direct players (my impressive stature and voice haven’t been so great at getting the job done).
3. I’m a female in a profession where the majority are males. Sometimes I’m yelled at more because I’m female. Sometimes I think I’m yelled at less because I’m female — depending on who’s doing the yelling. There are things I have to adjust for (like my voice, as depicted above). There are things that work for male referees that don’t work for me — and vice versa. It’s not a bad thing… just a thing where I have to be aware of the differences so I learn what works best for me… Like when I introduce myself and the coach replies, “Hello, Sweetie.” Okay… I’m “Sweetie” today. We’ll roll with that. He’s probably one of the coaches who’ll yell at me less 😉
I’ve heard and seen a lot, so it’s difficult for a coach, player, or spectator to surprise me with a new complaint. But a couple weeks ago I heard one I’ve never heard before. I was officiating club games at a tournament all day. During a game where I was the assistant referee (running the line), a coach started going ballistic about me. Can I just say — before we go any further — that this coach ended up losing the game eleven to one?
In the first five minutes of the game, coach decided the mismatch between teams was due to my misunderstanding of Law 11 (Offside). Then he started screaming at the other line referee that I was on my phone and not even paying attention to the game. Huh??? I was bewildered. I didn’t even have a phone on me… and if I did, I certainly wouldn’t do something so idiotic as to pull it out and use it during a game. (Did I mention I don’t like being yelled at? Such an action would put a giant target on my back.) Another goal was scored. I took my referee book out of my pocket to write down the goal, and the number of the player who scored it.
“Look! She’s on her phone again!” screamed the coach. “She’s on her phone after every goal!!!” The coach was so convinced of my wrong doing, that he called the field marshall over, who watched me for a few minutes, and then informed the coach I was writing down the score in my referee book — NOT on my phone.
Phew! At least the field marshall knew referees write down the goals since the club level coach didn’t 😉
I guess when you ref soccer, you’ve never seen and heard it all…
We moved to another city, closer to my husband’s job, this summer. It was very difficult to leave our old house (I’d lived there 10 years and brought 3 of 4 babies home to it). Moving 4 children and the enormous amount of stuff in our house was not fun. But we made it. And we’re — mostly — unpacked. I say mostly because we’ve been here 3 months, and I don’t know when the last boxes in our garage and basement will get sorted through…
We were going to buy a home here… but last year, my husband was almost transferred to Portland, Oregon for his job. There’s a chance he might get transferred in the next few years… and where we really want to be is in the mountains of Colorado or Utah, so — though we looked at many homes, and intended to purchase one — it didn’t seem like the right decision for us in the end.
As we looked for homes to purchase, we had also been watching the rental home market. It was a little depressing. The rental homes with enough bedrooms for our big family seemed to be either older, falling apart houses, in sketchy neighborhoods… or mansions. There was not a lot in between. I was kind of losing hope that we would find a place where we would all fit.
Then, just at the right time, a perfect rental home came along. Plenty of space, good neighborhood, and a really nice yard (I’m crazy about having a nice yard. I love backyards, and probably put more weight on them than houses. Be it because I grew up in the country with acres and acres to roam, or because I love watching my kids play outside… backyards are important!)
As difficult as it was to say goodbye to the first house I called my own… it was time. We were running out of bedrooms… because of the age and genders of our children, having only 3 bedrooms quickly became a logistics nightmare. The two babies woke each other up if they shared (which meant they woke their parents up, too). The two older boys did not want to share. Our 12 year-old became so annoyed about sharing a room with his then 7 year-old brother, that he moved his bed onto the back (unheated) porch in the middle of winter. I thought it was a one night thing for him, but he insisted he would stay out there. So we decided that, if living on a back porch, in the heart of the coldest winter in the Midwest in years — all in the name of having some space — was what he wanted… who were we to stop him? (We didn’t stop him, but we did put a heater out there, and some warm blankets). We now have plenty of bedrooms, and our eldest has his own bedroom/bathroom in the basement. He loves this and calls it his “lair”. He’s so happy to have his own space that he doesn’t even mind cleaning his bathroom.
Our first house had no garage and no off street parking. It was a lovely home with high ceilings and the gorgeous trim and moldings of another era — albeit an era without automobiles. This is the first time we’ve had a garage. I didn’t realize how convenient garages could be!
My car is not IN the garage because many boxes are. But I still love having a garage!
The next really cool thing about this house, is this big room on the back. It was at one time a screened porch, but someone enclosed it and put a separate thermostat in… it makes one heck of a toy room… that’s conveniently close to the kitchen/dining area — SO easy to keep an eye on the kids while I’m cooking.
The kitchen is open to the family room and dining area… also nice for keeping an eye on everybody 😉
The formal living room has become a reading nook for my kids… they all fight over who gets to sit in the comfy Papasan chair… a housewarming gift from my husband’s aunt and cousin. The white walls of a rental home drive me a little crazy, as I’m used to painting the walls of a home in bright colors, but I’m doing my best to get some interesting things up on the walls to break up the monotony. Pretty curtains help. And soon I’ll put up canvases of the kids and our wedding. Did I mention I love pictures?
The formal dining room looked nice when I took these pictures… but presently the table is covered with papers. I guess we need to get the boxes in the basement cleaned up so we have an office area to hide all those papers!
This is the master and our daughter’s room (the bedrooms I’m responsible for cleaning). My boys’ rooms did not, and will not, make it onto here. I don’t want to advertise the state their rooms are perpetually in… okay, okay… they don’t do that bad taking care of their rooms 😉
And my very very favorite part… the backyard!
We have a lot of planning and saving to do until we make it to the mountains someday… but we are so thankful to have found such a wonderful place for our family to call home until then!
We married in a civil ceremony a few years ago, and recently had a wedding in our church, with all four of our kids in the ceremony. In the months leading up to the wedding, life was a little hectic. We took a family snowboarding trip to the mountains, moved to another house in another city, and parented four children. If you’ve ever tried to put together a wedding ceremony and reception while parenting four children (come on, who hasn’t done that?), you quickly find that you have no time for planning. Just two weeks before the wedding, we still hadn’t chosen our music. It was after 12am on a weeknight. We couldn’t agree about which song I should walk down the aisle to.
“How about I sashay down the aisle to ‘In the Hall of the Mountain King’ by Edvard Grieg?” Chris looked at me as though I was half insane. I pulled the song up on my computer and hit play. “It would be kind of perfect. I could turn into a whirling dervish at the end, and you know… my dress is so perfect for whirling.” I twirled around in the kitchen a few times so he would get the full effect.
“You do remember our ceremony is in a Catholic Church, right?” Chris reminded me.
“I can walk down the aisle to any song my heart desires,” I stubbornly replied. “It’s my wedding. I can even walk down the aisle to ‘Hit Me With Your Best Shot’ if I want to.”
Chris could only imagine the horror of standing at the front of the church waiting, while his bride made her entrance to, “Well you’re a real tough cookie with a long history… of breaking little hearts like the one in me… that’s OK, let’s see how you do it… put up your dukes, let’s get down to it. Hit me with your best shot!”
“Our deacon will not approve that song,” Chris stated. He was beginning to worry that I really might walk down the aisle to one of the aforementioned tunes. We settled on “1000 Years” by Christina Perry, and Chris breathed a sigh of relief.
Another evening shortly before the wedding, Chris was practicing lifting me into the air for part of our Grand March. We were really going to make an entrance at our reception. I figured either Chris would lift me – giant marshmallow poof dress and all – making ours the coolest bride and groom entrance to a reception ever… or he would drop me on my head, making ours the most unfortunate bride and groom entrance ever. I was kind of afraid of the latter. He was doing pretty good lifting me in our living room… but that was without the marshmallow poof dress. I was also only getting half my practice time, as our two year-old daughter insisted upon having every other turn to be lifted and twirled by daddy to herself. Chris was delighted to lift something lighter than a woman who’s given birth to four children, and did not mind our daughter hogging half the practice time. Okay… it was pretty cute seeing him lift Lainey into the air as she yelled, “Lainey’s a princess, too!” But I needed my practice time.
After she went to bed, I again prepared to run at my husband. He told me I looked like a bull about to charge. I told him it was very important to practice getting enough speed to launch all layers of my wedding dress airborne. One, two, three – CHARGE! And the phoenix takes flight!
I couldn’t stop smiling at how great we had pulled off the lift on that last practice run. I reached up to give my partner a hug. Very far up. Chris is six foot four and I am five foot two. “Do you think you’ll still be able to lift me when we’re sixty?” I giggled at him.
“Yeah… if you haven’t killed yourself in a snowboarding accident by then.” Touche.
Our big day came. It started out kind of rough. The vocalist began the music before my bridesmaids and I were ready, so we climbed the steps from the church basement – where we’d been dressing – in a mad dash. We forgot the ring pillow in the process, but our 8 year-old son, Wesley, remembered to carry his baby brother (and fellow ring bearer) down the aisle… Wesley even remembered to put baby Tristan’s binky in his mouth, which was much more important than the ring pillow!
Devin, 12, was a proud groomsman, and 2 year-old Lainey – our flower girl – made it down the very long church aisle all by herself. She only stopped a few times to inspect carvings on the sides of the wooden pews and specs of dust on the floor.
Chris recited his entire wedding vow perfectly from memory. I recited my entire wedding vow – minus a few words I forgot – from memory. My excuse is that it was a plain old wedding vow. If I had written my own vow, I wouldn’t have forgotten it. I wanted to stand up there and promise to Chris that his life would never be boring.
“I, Danelle, take you, Christopher, to be my husband. I promise to be true to you (words I forgot… words I forgot) in good times and bad. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life,” was what I said instead. I have to admit it was beautiful. I don’t think anyone but Chris noticed that I messed up my vow. His eyes were twinkling down at me. He had told me all along that I didn’t spend enough time memorizing my vow and I was going to forget it.
At the reception, Chris managed not to drop me during our lift, despite my many layers of petticoats. My little sister toasted to me and my keen sense of adventure. My dad toasted to me and called me a rule breaker… then said maybe Chris would straighten me out. Chris’ brother toasted to him, and told everyone the story of how Chris swore up and down the entire time he was growing up that he was never going to marry or have kids.
I suppose every child makes a runaway attempt once or twice (and comes back when they get hungry). Except mine didn’t have any intention of coming back. Ever. They were caught and forced back against their will. I’m not sure they put a lot of thought into what they were doing.
Oh… I’m talking about my “littles” — Lainey (2) and Tristan (12 months). My older boys (Devin, 12, and Wesley, 8) did not run away today. At least I kept track of half my kids. Well… only one of the two older kids made it home on the bus this afternoon. So I can proudly say that I kept track of one quarter of my kids today. Hey — don’t judge. It’s not horrible as far as batting averages go…
Mornings are really rough on me. I mean really rough. I stay up pretty late working on writing projects (3:30am a couple nights ago). It’s the only time my house is quiet. Try to get something done during the day around here and you will type two words before you hear, “Mom! Mom! Mom!” or a small person climbs onto your lap. So nighttime is work time, and I love mornings like I love getting thrown up on (hey, that happened today, too!!!).
It had been a morning of cleaning up poop messes. One small child is potty training and the other small child decided to rip his diaper off in his bed this morning (Wake up, Mom! I have a poop surprise for you!). My youngest (Tristan) had also been screaming NON-STOP all morning. It was 11am and I hadn’t had a chance to dress or even brush my hair. If you have ever listened to a baby scream for hours on end, you know how it can fry your brain. (That’s if you feel you have any brain left after becoming a mother. I often question where mine is.) My children don’t normally scream like this, so I guess I’ve gotten off lucky so far. But Tristan was making up for lost time today.
Finally, I could take the screaming no longer. I covered my ears and ran upstairs to my room. I started to cry. Please stop screaming. But I could hear that Tristan had followed me as far as he could and was now standing at the bottom of the stairs screaming through the baby gate. Lainey must have thought it looked like a fun game because a moment later I heard her screams echoing up the stairs as well. The two of them seemed to be in a contest now over who could scream louder and longer. Ahhhhh! I can’t take it anymore, I thought, and buried my tear-stained face in my pillow.
Suddenly, it was quiet. Praise God!
And then it was too quiet. Suspiciously quiet. I opened the door of my room and ran down the stairs. I ran through every room. My toddler and baby were nowhere to be found. Oh my GOD! Someone came in my house and kidnapped my babies! I was in full blown panic mode. I was going to chase that kidnapper down. He would regret the day he walked into MY home. What kind of kidnapper waits for a mom to run upstairs and have a 60 second meltdown so he can steal her kids??? You picked the wrong house, mister. You picked the wrong kids, mister. They may be screaming kids, but they’re MY screaming kids… and I WANT THEM BACK! This mama is going to whoop your — and then I noticed the front door was unlocked and halfway open. Now how did the kidnapper unlock the front door? Oh no! My kids weren’t kidnapped — they escaped! Well… wait. That’s probably better than kidnapped. But still bad!
I ran out my front door in time to see my half naked babies (Tristan in a diaper and t-shirt, Lainey in only a diaper) across the street being corralled by my neighbor. Thankfully, my neighbor is very kind and said she completely understood. I’m sure she noticed that I had been crying — but on the off chance she didn’t, it surely did not escape her that I looked like the bride of Frankenstein, with my long hair sticking out all over the place and wearing the pajamas my kids had deposited various bodily fluids on all morning. She handed my babies to me and went back across the street to retrieve my jogging shoes from her front yard (at least Lainey had put a pair of shoes on before she let herself and Tristan out the front door). I was mortified. But my kind neighbor is also a mother, so I will take her at her word that she understood.
Seems like a little adventure is all Tristan needed to subdue his horrible screaming, and the rest of the day went much smoother. I even found my 3rd lost child (the one who didn’t arrive home on the bus)… or rather, my husband found him at his elementary school. Wesley was packing his things in his backpack and didn’t realize how slow he was going until he walked outside and saw the bus pulling away. I guess that kind of thing happens when you’re 8 and you… don’t notice everyone else leaving? Hmmmm.
There are now two ottomans barricading the front door. Lainey, the escape artist, was able to push one ottoman out of the way and still open the front door… she has yet to figure out how to move two.
I did not lose Devin, my oldest child, at any time during this day. Batting averages. Think batting averages. All good.
Pretty sure that a few years ago, my (then bachelor) husband had no idea just what he was in for… that soon he would be clipping butterflies and flowers into blonde hair and reading fairy tales… that he would know just how to construct a high ponytail and the words to the Disney Princess songs… that he would buy the more expensive bike at Target instead of the cheap, no frills bike because it has pink streamers, a pink princess carriage basket, and most importantly… “Punzel” (Rapunzel) is on it. He’s gotta have “Punzel”. Or rather… SHE does.
A few years ago, this man didn’t know just how much he could love a little person. Then along came Lainey…
It was 10 pm, I had just finished putting the last kid to bed (and hopefully he stayed that way!), and was on my way downstairs to finish folding the last two out of four loads of laundry I’d done earlier. I had driven four children to six different events throughout the day, including one where I had to chase my toddler, with my infant in a stroller, while trying to watch a baseball game, so that when my 8 year-old asked me if I saw his awesome catch, I could say, “Of course I did. It was AWESOME!”
It had been the kind of crazy day that makes me wonder how people raise this many kids and both work full time outside the house? (Respect, respect!) Like… how do they even function? On coffee? Redbull? A drug habit on the side? I was exhausted. And only one of us works full time outside the home.
My husband, who — to be fair — was having his own exhaustion meltdown with all the extra hours he’s been working, decided it was the moment to start critiquing my method of putting the kids to bed. Since I thought he should just be happy that someone was putting them to bed, I got pretty irritated and we quickly found ourselves in a full blown argument. Then he took things to a whole other level for the finale… “Well, you do NOTHING all day and you’re the most selfish person in the world!”
What?! I do nothing?! NOTHING?! Was that statement supposed to win him the argument? I didn’t care about being called selfish (Lord knows I’ve called him selfish on occasion), but… I do NOTHING?! Wait just a minute there, pal. (This is actually the finale.)
Yes. Yes, I did walk over to his pile of neatly folded laundry (that I had just washed), pour a bottle of iced tea on it, and say, “Oops. I guess you’re going to have to wash those since I do nothing.”
#loveiswar
#marriageproblems
#parentingishardwork
Next, I emailed him Twisted Sister’s “We’re Not Gonna Take It”…
Then I had to wash the sticky iced tea off the floor and he (rewashed) his laundry.
Ah… the things we say and do, during arguments with the people we love, that we don’t really mean. Sigh.
I’ve actually read that arguing can lead to a happier marriage.
For the record, I’m madly in love with my dragon on most days. And he loves his dragoness 😉
Devin’s baseball season is over and I’m sad. I look forward to attending his games. This past season, I wanted to hold a sign that said “My heart belongs to #10!” Except that Devin is 12 and a half — and I’m pretty much the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to him these days… with all my “Mom” cheering and encouragement and hugs and telling him I love him. Not that he doesn’t like my encouragement — he does — but in front of his teammates is too embarrassing. I guess it’s a phase. Sigh.
So I watch intently, try not to cheer too loudly, try not to give him tips on how to swing his bat — even though I KNOW how to bat and I JUST want to help — and try to blend in with everyone else (I’ve been informed that standing behind the backstop to make sure the strikes and balls are in accordance with my personal strike zone does not qualify as “blending in”).
I really do enjoy watching his games. So much so that I may have told a teeny tiny fib in order to be able to watch.
Lainey, Devin’s two year-old sister, had a habit of running toward the road next to the field during games (which meant I would spend the game chasing her down instead of watching Devin play)… so Lainey got the idea — no speculation on where she got it, please — that monsters lived in the tall grass between the baseball field and the road. It worked well for a while… game after game, Lainey played vigilante… pacing up and down the line of tall grass, scanning for monsters, telling the fans, “Shhhh!… Monsters sleeping!” If any monster dared climb out of that grass, Lainey would be on him….can’t blame the monsters for not coming out. Lainey is intimidating. I know…
She may not look like much, but she can boss her three brothers like nobody’s business 😉
Nary a monster was spotted on Lainey’s watch, I could pay attention to Devin’s baseball games, and all was right with the world.
Then one day, baby Tristan crawled toward the grass. Shrieks suddenly erupted from Lainey. “Tristy! NO! Monsters! No, Tristy! Stop! STOP! MONSTERS, TRISTY!” She was in disbelief that her baby brother would continue to crawl toward the “monsters”, despite her warnings, and was becoming hysterical. She shifted her focus from warning Tristan to menacing the monsters… “Monsters! GO AWAY! Not get Tristy! Monsters! Bye! No monsters! Bad! Not get Tristy!”
Every parent watching the baseball game was now turning to see why my daughter was screaming furiously at invisible monsters. I ran to rescue Tristan and Lainey from the “monsters” and hoped Devin wouldn’t notice his Mom not blending in yet again. Fortunately, Devin has a wonderful sense of humor, and got a kick out of his sister running around the spectator area yelling at “monsters” as I ran around after her. By this time, Tristan had found something much more entertaining to watch than the tall grass he wanted to crawl into (I’ll give you three guesses and the first two don’t count).
The good news is that Lainey likes to boss her brothers, but she’s ALSO willing to take on every “monster” in the ballpark to defend the smallest of her siblings. So much for his family staying incognito at Devin’s baseball games… but must be raising this girl right 😉
End note: My heart still belongs to #10, and I don’t want to miss a minute of any of his games; however, I’ve since told Lainey that it’s Cookie Monster that lives in the tall grass… and she’s more interested in meeting HIM than in beating him up.
I was going to be a perfect mom. I was never going to get angry or upset, I was never going to yell, and of course I would never be frustrated. Because I was going to be perfect at being a mom. Then I had Devin, my first child, and found out I really was a perfect mom. He rarely cried. He slept through the night at 1 month old. He took lots of naps. I taught him to read easily. He was really smart. Wow! I was so good at being a parent! I didn’t know what everyone else was talking about when their babies cried and wouldn’t sleep.
Then Devin got older. And he was too smart. He argued about everything. He was so smart he was convinced that he always knew more than I did.
Then along came his brother, Wesley. I expected — awesome parent that I am — he would be the same easy baby Devin had been. I had the baby stuff down… After waking up every hour of every night with a screaming Wesley for 12 months (he had chronic ear infections) I decided that I was a much worse parent than I used to be. And I was a caffeine addict on top of it.
As Wesley grew, I decided he could have been the inspiration for the book, “Where the Wild Things Are” with his daredevil stunts and need to keep up with Devin, who had a four-and-a-half year head start on him. It really wasn’t fair. They double teamed me… one was a cross between Einstein and Voltaire (“I do not agree with what you have to say, but I’ll defend to the death your right to say it”), and one was an Evel Knievel reincarnate who was going to cause my hair to turn gray and my death by a heart attack.
I got upset. I got frustrated. I tried not to yell and failed…
“No, you may NOT jump off the retaining wall on your skateboard!”
“Why are you digging my yard up with a shovel?! No! No BMX dirt tracks will be built in this yard!!!”
“Because I said so! That’s why! I’m the mom! I don’t need a reason!”
“Absolutely NO backflips on your snowboard! Oh it looks cool, huh?! It won’t look cool when you have another cast on your arm!” (Yes, another… he’s had them before. Sigh.)
I had no choice but to become a perfectly imperfect mother… but one whose kids know that she loves them. I always love them. In fact, when I’m really frustrated, I tell myself, “Be loving, be loving, be loving.”
Like when Devin is pushing my cart full of flowers across the parking lot with the purposefulness of a NASCAR driver, my Marigolds fly off the end, and he runs them over. “Oops. I didn’t mean to do that, Mom.”
Be loving. Be loving. Be loving.
Like when Wesley decided to see what would happen if he stuck the spinning wheel of his remote control car into his shoulder length hair and I spent an evening untangling hair from an axle. (I thought when I banned him from chewing gum I would be done getting things out of his hair.)
Be loving. Be loving. Be loving.
Like when we’re snowboarding on the back bowls of a mountain, and Devin starts screaming hysterically that he is freezing. The rest of us are confused because we’re warm as could be. I discover that — under his outerwear — Devin is wearing a t-shirt. And ankle socks. And nothing else. How does my 12 year-old Einstein not make the connection between mountains and cold and the need to wear warm layers?
Be loving. Be loving. Be loving.
Like when Wesley knew the gas fireplace was hot, but he really wanted to see just HOW hot, so he put his arm against it and watched his clothing melt. Fascinating!
Be loving. Be loving. Be loving.
In these years of being a mother, I may not have been perfect, but I’m quite sure I’ve developed the patience of a saint. Especially after number 3 and 4 were born!
Maybe I had my idea of a perfect parent all wrong. Maybe, to be a perfect parent, the most important thing we can do is to really really LOVE our kids.
Devin, Wesley, Lainey and Tristan… Mom and Dad love you, and we always will!
