George's pre-dinner entertainment:
Battling rush hour traffic to take Scout to the vet for her check up.
Getting to the vet, only to find that Scout had thrown up in her crate.
Getting Scout's bedding out of the crate and shaking it off in the parking lot in an attempt to clean it.
Cleaning up Scout.
Cleaning up after Scout again when she pooped in the waiting room.
Battling rush hour traffic to get back home.
Stopping by Pita Inn to pick up an order.
Realizing that Zane had had a blow out while waiting for the order.
Getting home to find that Scout had thrown up in her crate for the second time.
Giving Scout a bath.
Giving the crate a bath.
He sounded great as I spoke with him on the phone about all this. How? "I'm CHOOSING joy" was his response.
And then, making it all worth it . . . we enjoyed a wonderful dinner together and then spent the remainder of the evening watching the kids sit and sift through all the scrapbooks I'd made and all the photo's of us prior to children. The time together was priceless, their comments were so very sweet ("When did I see Santa?" "That's me, Harper!" "I look just like YOU!") ("Mom! I'm so cute!" "Yes, Zane." "Mom, I'm not going back in your tummy." "No, Zane.") and thus, the evening, just seemed to fall into place.Although I'd already had a stellar evening.
Joline's pre-dinner entertainment:
Taking Harper shopping for clothes with the gift card from Uncle Chuck.
Picking shirts off the rack only to be told, "Mom, that is soooooo yesterday!" Thank you Hannah Montana.
Realizing, that my daughter has really distinct and funky tastes. I was FLOORED by what she chose to try on: bold patterns, leggings, very trendy designs. Um, who are you?
Watching Harper's face LIGHT UP when she looked at herself in the mirror in clothes other than jeans and a long sleeve tee. "Mom! I really like this. It goes great with my hair!"
Watching her try on the coolest dress, (an asian design which she just loved on the rack) only to comment on the arms . . . "I look like an Emporer. I like it, but not the sleeves. Look! I'm an emporer." I mean, who says this?
"Apparently, this will not work."
"Apparently, this will!"
Learning that my daughter is a fun shopping partner.
Watching Harper's confidence soar as she really looked at herself.
The conversation following our shopping outing:
"Harper, it's not the clothes that make you cool."
"No. There's nothing wrong with wanting to find clothes that kind of match your personality and make you feel like yourself. But, it's not as important as . . . well, look at your world map. What makes you cool is that God made this entire world and universe and loves YOU!"
"Really?" Pause. "It's weird."
"I don't think I'm great. My brain tells me that I can't do anything."
"Well, that's not God talking." This moved into a conversation about different kinds of doctors. One's who fix broken bones, one's who fix ears, and noses, and throats, and, even . . . thoughts inside our heads.
And then, at dinner, we talked about our personalities. When I asked Harper what my personality was, she answered with, "You are like the most famous singer! And, don't forget. There's also the Mary Kay." (She also added that I was famous like Ben Stiller. Huh?)
She then defined her personality as being good at handwriting and reading.
Hmmm . . . defining ourselves by what we wear and what we do. Now, isn't that a blog for another day?
Anyway, I had an incredible bonding evening with my daughter.
While George got to clean up a lot of waste.
But, so did I. Kind of. Although mine wasn't as messy and didn't really smell or make me want to gag and wash my hands a million times.
We're parents. We clean waste. With the help of God we attempt to clean the waste the best we can, whether that be diapers, dogs, or . . . the demeaning thoughts that seem to stack up in my daughter's head that tell her that she's not able to do anything well.
I did share with her that sometimes, I don't get it right as a Mom.
Harper: "Mom, mom, mom. That is so, so, so, not right!"
Zane: "Yeah, Mom. You have to believe." You too, kiddo's.