Workin' 9 to 5

If ever there was a photo that had absolutely nothing to do with my blog post, this would be it.

Funny movie - and now a musical.

But, nope. It actually serves no real purpose here.

I now have a 9 year old and a 5 year old. OK, therein lies the only similarity between me and this promotional photo for the film.

Moving on.

I have a 9 year old and a 5 year old. Did I already mention that?

I know parents say this all the time as their children grow older, but "I can hardly believe it." Call me cliche. I'm stunned. When did this happen?

I can't stand cliches, so now this post is making me sick. Cliches are only uttered when one knows not what to say. They are pure conversation fillers for dead air. I find them mindless and thoughtless and I can't stand them. And yet, here I am, spitting them up all over the screen.

However, when it comes to my children, MY children, my sentiments aren't cliche. I really am shocked at their development. I look at photographs of Harper from only a year ago and still see the chubbiness in the cheeks of my little wisp of a girl. Now she's all pencil thin, with long legs (that are obviously not mine). She's got a style all her own, dressing all funky-chick-like with the jeans and the Ugg's (hand-me-down Ugg's. Please, like I'd really drop full-price coin on those) and we have even started experiencing, as the Supernanny phrases it, "backchat" from that sweet mouth. Which is far from lovely, I know. But, rest assured, she is disciplined without hesitation each time the words leave her mouth. Not sure when that girl will be allowed back on the Wii. Mom doesn't hand out idle threats. She'd be wise to learn this.

Zane is all, "I can do it myself", which is especially true in the bathroom - thanks to the good Lord and his Doc. I needed to enlist the help of his Doc at Zane's 5 year check-up to convince him that "all the doctor books" state that 5 year old boys can indeed wipe themselves. Doc completely played along with me, and thus, Zane is now set for Kindergarten. He still hasn't lost his love of snuggling, but he has told me, quite emphatically, that I may not kiss him in front of his friends. While I can still scoop him up into a little ball and kiss him all over while we're alone - which he relishes - I know that time isn't on my side anymore. For how is it, and why is it that Zane has learned various pieces of trivia, such as that one should never lift their middle finger?

Hey, I can't regulate everyone else's children. Or their parents.

So, I resort to cliches.

We are entering those years where we will be having to discuss foul language, sex, cheating, body image, drugs . . . you name it. It's coming. To this theater.

And while I boldly state here that I am not scared to engage in these conversations, I have some worry/fear that my kids won't come to me to discuss these topics. However, the difference between my childhood and Harper and Zane's is that I am surrounded by a "great cloud of witnesses" for Christ. My children are honored to have relationships with adult believer's, who, if need be, they can talk to during those moments when they despise their parents.

Yes, it will happen. I am fully confident that I will hit a hic-cup with my kids. I pray that this would not be the case, but, just in case, I am also working towards developing their trust of my friends - other mother's who they deem "cool". And more importantly, who walk with Jesus, and thus, are cool in my eyes as well.

So, while now, I am workin' 9 to 5, those ages will change. In a blink of an eye, (cliche - shudder), 9 and 5 will be 12 and 8. 15 and 11.

But, I don't work alone, people. Walking with Christ isn't a solo position. Nope. George and I may be the project managers of Team Atkins, but we're enlisting the help of our support staff. That doesn't mean that I'll ask M to do the sex talk. She'd faint (jajajajajaja). I won't delegate out the huge tasks. But I do think there is something to be said about working together to raise our children - especially when all of us (at least in my circle) desire to nurture and build up children who love God and love others.

So, you're hired. (You know who you are.)

Clock in.

I'll take a shift for you also.

Z-lion

My little Z-lion is a bundle of nerves these days. I've made mention that he is having a tougher time adjusting to our move than Harper, which has just completely shocked us. In the beginning, he was asking when we were going home, and most recently he has communicated fear that he won't make any friends. At least he's talking about it.

Today was the first day he verbalized, "Mommy, I am too nervous to go in there," in reference to reading time at the library. The program is fantastic and includes reading and some songs.

Both my kids have NEVER enjoyed group music classes once they reached 3 years old.

So, as the kids began the opening song, which was just a silly version of the Wheels on the Bus (which was cute) Zane would not stand up and practically crawled under the chair to hide. I decided to remove him from the situation, as he was so uncomfortable, and take him to choose books. It was when we got into the stacks that he wailed, "I'm so nervous!" It was a real, guttural cry. As a parent you begin to distinguish cries. He was a wreck.

This hasn't been the first time. We tried class last week and the same thing occurred, but I held on through the craft section and Harper even came in to sit with him on the floor, as otherwise he'd be on my lap the entire time. She was an incredible help.

Today, she offered to buy him a prize with her earned Book Bucks ("money" redeemed for prizes each time you read a certain amount of books), which really cheered him up. Quite impressive, my dear Harper.

What's funny, is that I would think that in anxious situations, the first thing to slip would be potty training. Nope. We've not had one problem. Even at night. Perhaps he realizes that this is the one thing he can truly control right now.

He has asked about taking gymnastic class, so George brought him to a trial class tonight. I got a call about 20 minutes in. Now I was the one nervous to answer the phone.

"He didn't want to participate in the stretching, but once the tumbling started he was all about it. He learned how to do a back flip on the rings, and even offered to straighten out the mat for the other kids when it got crooked."

I told Harper that Zane actually participated in something and she got so excited. We waited for him on the front the porch and then cheered as they drove up.

Zane got out, all smiles, yelled, "I LOVED IT!" and proceeded to show me a forward roll ON THE SIDEWALK!

Ouch.

He was ok.

His new friends who live behind us came by and he stopped. Immediately.

"I don't want anyone watching me."

Uh-oh.

Guess where I've heard that before?

She was once 4 years old.

I may have to go back and read my own blogs to see how to and how not to proceed should he share a certain personality trait with his sister. Good thing I've kept a history. I wrote much about Harper, but even as I start to look back at Zane, I recall that he hasn't taken a liking to group stuff (with kids - wouldn't do the Skokie library kids program without clinging to my side), and can't stand places where there are crowds and tons of noise. His SLC class had 12 kids and 3 teachers and was very structured. Gymnastic class had 5 kids. At his new Sunday School (which was a bit of a struggle) he talked about one boy.

He's a small group type of kid. As is Harper.

I can't wait to attend the gymnastic class with him next week and am so very glad he found an activity that is fun, builds confidence, and one which he expressed delight!

Stay tuned tomorrow as I share how Harper read books to a seeing eye dog tonight. Ishtar, a black lab, comes to the library on Tuesday nights, and Harper signed up to read to him. It was right up her alley.

Waking Up

As the realization that our house is now under agreement began to sink in yesterday, I could feel the pressure I'd been feeling in my chest begin to decrease.

And while we also realize that "it isn't over until it's over", finding a buyer in a mere three months, (which is relatively quick for this current housing market), has definitely helped in chipping away at our hardened tension levels.

And just how else should one respond to such a huge mountain being scaled?

By praising God and making a list of everything that is good about the situation (as in all honesty we do have a slight bone to pick. Not with God. But, we do indeed have a bone to pick. Where did that phrase originate?).

And just how should one respond to the chipping away of the useless rock that surrounds what can one day be transformed into a beautiful piece of art?

By praising God and embarking on yet another fun-filled "Pajama Ride".

Throughout this home selling adventure, George and I have often shared that it has been the kids who have weathered it the best. They have been incredible. Helpful. Encouraging. Excited. Flexible. Eager to help. I could go on. The "storm" that has been this experience for us, the responsible, faith-filled adults, has only been a tiny Spring shower for the children.

Thus, after a great dinner out at The Noodle & Company, (where the checker actually saved us money by suggesting that we just split one large mac-n-cheese for the kids, rather than ordering two smalls . . . I share this because this has never happened to us at any restaurant), we did a little wandering through Border's. Once home, we rushed the kids up to bed.

Shout out to Melody for the gift card to The Noodle & Company. Ordering out has been so very helpful these last few weeks, for I haven't had the energy to meal plan, nor have we wanted the stress of messing up the kitchen in between our frequent showings.

Upon arriving home and hustling the kids up to bed, we waited about 30 minutes. Once we were sure that things had settled down upstairs, we launched into kooky and crazy parent mode, grabbed our saucepans and wooden spoons and began yelling and hooting and hollering and clanging and banging as we ran up the hallway and entered the kid's rooms.

"PAJAMA RIDE! PAJAMA RIDE! Everybody up! Into the car! PAJAMA RIDE!"

Harper was out of her bed in a flash and ready to go. In fact, she disappeared downstairs only to return with her own stainless bowl and spoon in order to join in the drumming parade.

And Zane?

We couldn't wake him.

Three of us in his room clanging on stainless steel cookware.

He didn't budge.

Nothing. Nada. Zip. Snore.

George had to actually pick him up and carry him to the car where we then proceeded to coax him awake with the lure of ice cream.

Yes, he did eventually awaken and enjoyed a bit of his ice-cream before announcing, "Ok. I'm done. Put this in the freezer. I'm going back to bed. Good Night." And he was gone. Up the stairs to his room where he climbed back into bed.

Gotta love that.

Well, I'm NOT going back to bed. I've been in a walking coma for a few months now and I've needed the shocking sound of those pots and pans to jar me back to the land of the living.

I know we still have a bit of a hurdle in front of us to complete our sale, and yet, I feel as if I just woke up from a great slumber.

And perhaps, just perhaps, my son will forget that last night ever happened, thus leaving his ice cream for me!

Ok, that's just mean.

No, instead of lifting my son's ice cream, I think I'll head out for a walk/run this afternoon.

Doesn't that sound great?

In This Patience Contest, Our Kids Took Gold

What does a family do with hundreds of other people the day before Easter?

Visit the Jelly Belly factory.

It's free.

We had two showings today and really wanted to do something fun with the kids other than just walking the streets of Evanston. Last night we had a fantastic time at the Mitchell Museum (thanks for the idea Angie), where Harper served as tour guide, and Zane received inspiration for his new bedroom in Beaver. He's going all out American Indian style. The kid wants a tee pee, mural, fake fire, and a pretend bow and arrow. George is all over it.

So, today, we did another Zane fav. Jelly beans.

We arrived in Pleasant Prairie, Wisconsin at 11:00. The line for the factory tour (via train) wasn't too long at this point, but rather than risking further crowds, we jumped in line rather than visiting the store first.

2 hours later . . .

Repeat.

2 hours later . . . I call the 1-800 number from inside the waiting area to ask about the tour, number of trains, the wait time, etc. (as it was too cramped to reach the front desk to ask in person why it was taking so jelly freakin' belly long), only to find out that today they only had 1 train available. 1 TRAIN. The day before Easter. 1 TRAIN. What was this place thinking? The day before Easter when they publicize the Easter bunny, sales, raffles, and the tour, they pull out all the stops with 1 TRAIN?

After about and hour and a half of waiting and slowly moving forward, we see a sign advertising a factory walking tour. The entrance being around the corner, with no line.

Now, I realize that this would not have been nearly as fun for the kids, and we would have had a mutiny had we even suggested blowing of the train for foot, however, where was the staff to tell us about this tour? Where was the staff to share that due to being down a few trains, the wait would be seriously crazy, and that perhaps some folks would prefer to take the walking tour?

We passed the time by talking with others, praying for our showings, and taking pictures with a Jelly Belly costumed figure, a car, and, of course the Easter Bunny.

And wouldn't you know that just as we're getting close to the entrance and they are beginning to take what we thought would be our group, they CLOSE THE GATE AT OUR FAMILY.

And then, Jesus had had enough.

One of the staff comes over to us and says, "We have 4 more seats for this train."

I knew that tubal ligation was a brilliant idea.

However, despite the fact that we stood, and stood, and stood in line for 2 hours, with no food, and a few bathroom breaks, what was the response of Harper and Zane once we sat on that train?

"THIS IS SOOO AWESOME!"

The two hour wait was forgotten the very moment we were handed our paper Jelly Belly hats (which we had to wear since we were in a factory).

Forgotten. Never even spoken of again. Not brought up. Not mentioned. Not alluded to. Nada. They were handsomely rewarded with A&W Root Beer Jelly Belly's. I was rewarded with buy two, get one free, Belly Flops.

I have to give huge props to our kids. They whined maybe three times in a span of 2 hours. We were surrounded by Super Nanny candidates - all yelling, "So and so, don't do that or there won't be any tour for you. I mean it. One more time and we're going home!" Ah, the sweet sounds of the empty threat. So pointless.

Kids, Mom and Dad, but mainly Mom, can learn a great deal from you. YOU made today fun, and even though I didn't get a chance to try the "vomit", "ear wax", "boogers", or "moldy cheese" Jelly Belly's at the sample counter, which would have been great entertainment, we did indeed have fun. Your egg hunt will be well stocked tomorrow. The Belly Flops may look all elephant manish, but they taste awesome - and now, having been on the factory tour, we know why!

On the drive home we went through our old stomping grounds in Highwood and showed Harper where we lived prior to Evanston (Zane was out cold in a sugar coma). She was genuinely interested in both our homes on High Street and later Sard Place. I'm still trying to come to grips with the fact that I've lived here for almost 18 years.

Drive: 88 miles (roundtrip)

Wait time for 20 minute tour: 2 hours

Belly Flops, Root Beer Jelly Belly's, and a surprise key chain for my key chain collecting daughter: $28

Time with family: Priceless

And oh yeah, you just know that I left a comment card . . .

First Communion

Two Sunday's ago, Harper and I had the joy of worshipping together in the back pew of our church. Usually, this is difficult, as our sanctuary is very large, and sitting in the back doesn't offer a great visual for children - or adults for that matter. But, we came late, and thus, that's what was available.

She had her worship journal with her, and as has been the habit for several weeks now, we settled into our tradition of writing questions and answers back and forth regarding faith and the service.

This week, however, the written conversation took a big turn as we began a dialogue about sin and why Jesus had to die.

Without sharing the exact contents of this discussion, as it is her journal after all, it became clear to me that Harper does indeed have a fundamental belief in Jesus as the Son of God. Savior. As Lord? Well, I believe this belief only grows with time - the act of following Him completely with heart, soul, mind, and strength - one's whole being.

So, as communion was served that morning, Harper became frustrated when the plate wasn't offered to her.

In what can only be described as a stage whisper she said, "Mom! I believe! I believe!"

She was emphatic.

At that moment I realized that I could not see inside her heart. I could not be the judge of this statement, for we had just completed pages of Q&A about God's love for her and the ultimate sacrifice made by Jesus in order that she may spend eternity with God in heaven. I had even shared with her how the act of communion was a symbol of Jesus giving his body and blood for her.

Thus, I summoned over an elder and friend, Ray Carmichael, and shared in whispers that this would be Harper's first time taking communion.

"Harper, this is the body of Christ. Broken for you."

I helped her to answer with, "Thanks be to God."

As the juice was passed, I made sure that it was offered to my daughter.

At first, I was saddened that George was missing this very important step in Harper's spiritual development, and yet I also knew that he wouldn't have wanted us to pass up the moment just because he wasn't present.

I realize that this is just the beginning for Harper. Having taken enough courses in seminary to now be of the belief that there isn't necessarily a "sinner's prayer" or just one "moment of belief", I know that this act of faith is a first step down a long road of her faith journey.

I am thankful that God allowed me to share this special moment with her, for I too have a memory of my first communion. It is certainly not as special. What do I remember? My partner (as I took my first communion in the Catholic Church dressed as a bride and partnered with a boy in a tux) going the wrong way after taking the Host.

He blew the blocking.

And that's my memory.

Hopefully, Harper will have a different memory of her first communion. No dress. No veil. No partner. Just Jesus. And her. And Mom. Back pew.

Together.

Sacrifice

I wrote, quite recently, how my children, four year's apart, actually get along.

Sure, they have their daily tugs, pulls, pushes, and kicks. And there is the occasional bite. It happens.

And yet, truly, there is a deep love between the two of them.

Zane genuinely worries about Harper. He even expresses it. If we are in a store or a public place, and Harper lags behind, he demands, demands, that we stop and wait for her. He has a fear that she will somehow be left behind and that "we will lose her." Harper, in turn, knows that she really can not even tease him by hiding while we are out and about, for he'll break down into sobs if he thinks she has gone missing.

Harper feels her brother's physical pain and is brought to tears when he is hurt. There have been several instances when he has fallen, or cut himself, or bumped his head, where she is right there, by his side, wanting to help and console.

Today, however, she should have been awarded a medal.

They both had their annual pediatric check-ups today. During the appointment, Harper was given the option of getting her additional Chicken Pox booster right then, or making an additional appointment to do so. She opted to wait.

Zane, on the other hand, was due for two vaccinations. He wasn't given a choice. Today was the day. He was not happy.

Let me preface this next part by first describing our experience at Harper's check up last year. Last year, when overtaken with anxiety, she refused to remove her clothes and change into a gown or even have the Dr. or nurse check her. Last year, when she was so "glum and vacant", (the words we use to describe her disposition leading up to diagnosis), that she sat comatose during the entire appointment - other than during that anxiety-fueled freak-out moment over the gown and exam. Last year, when the Dr. communicated her concern, as this wasn't the Harper she had known since birth. Last year, before therapy and medication.

Contrast last year with today, when upon realizing how scared Zane was about getting his shots, Harper willingly chose to receive her booster, before him, so that her little brother wouldn't be the only one with a sore arm.

Dr. Goodman's face was in joyful shock over the radical change she saw in Harper from last year to today: the smiling, the joking, how she had returned to her old conversational self - and, most especially, this specific moment where she put her pain aside in order to help her brother cope with his. Even now, I am fighting back tears as I write. Not real successfully.

There was no hesitation on Harper's part when Dr. Goodman asked if she wouldn't mind getting her shot today so that her brother could see her bravery and courage.

There was no hesitation as she sat strong, anticipating the prick. She didn't make a sound other than to thank the nurse for the lollipop.

Zane went next. She was there, standing right in front of him saying, "Zane, you can do this. Don't look at your arm. Look at me. Focus on me and your lollipop."

Focus on me and your lollipop.

Zane said he never wants to return to "that place". Even the visit Dunkin' Donuts on the way home can't take away his sore arm.

But maybe, just maybe, his big sister can.

Photo by christian svanes

For the Love of Despereaux

I know, I'm a bit hung up on this mouse. Not merely because the book was so enjoyable, but because Zane has developed such a fascination with this little rodent.

It's funny that my children have yet to associate Despereaux with the two mice we took out just last week. Like the Cook in the book, I do not want mice in my kitchen. And unlike her, I will not be sharing my delicious and very legal Italian Wedding soup with any little creature with whiskers and the ability to bend its body like a young Cirque du Soleil performer with the intent of invading my house through the tiniest crack. Sorry fella's. Enter, George, to do the dirty work. Spit spot. Mice gone.

Zane went to bed talking about Despereaux and woke up this morning talking about Despereaux. Having seen the movie preview, he has now taken it upon himself to act out lines from the film.

I have been instructed, directed, even, to say, "Are you a rat or a mouse?" To which Zane replies, quite dramatically, "I am a gentleman", complete with a little bow of sorts.

I could freakin' faint on the spot.

After some review reading tonight, I'm afraid that the film won't live up to his expectations, but seeing as I've never really followed reviews, unless of course they referred to me as being "charming" in a show, (to which I quickly abandon my former belief and agree that the critic is right on the mark . . .), I'm sure we'll enjoy it well enough. Maybe, it will serve as a reminder for Harper and Zane as to why their Mom is always pushing books on them prior to seeing the film.

We finished Book 4 of Despereaux tonight. An hour of reading. Hot chocolate in hand (mine with a little added, ahem, "kick" of something special) and some cupcakes we made today. Having spent the entire day inside waiting for the furnace guy to come for the clean and check, we needed some entertainment. It's amazing how calm this winter break has been. Reading, baking, writing thank you notes (Harper helped), Wii (Lego Star Wars is Harper's fav after Wii Sports), and, yes, a little bit of homework for Harper everyday - I'm so mean.

It's been fantastic.

I really enjoy my kids and while my not working a true part-time job has definitely taken a financial strain on us, I think there is a reason for my being home while they are home.

Because I love them. Just like Despereaux loves the Pea.

Because I love them.

Possessed!

Come on. Admit it. You know you like having stuff.

You have stuff everywhere.

In the front hallway, the kitchen counter, on the reading chair or sofa, in the closet, the junk drawer, the attic, the crawl space, the dresser drawer, the sideboard, the shed, under the bed, on the wall, on bookshelves, in file drawers, all piling up in an endless accumulation of items which will ultimately turn out to have very little impact on the quality of our lives.

A wise friend of mine once replied to her child who had just stated, "Oh, I just love that such in such!", with "We do not love things. We like things. We love people."

Well said. I've taken that statement to heart.

My friends may find me a bit extreme on the subject, but secretly, they want me to come over to clean and organize their offices for them (shout out to Trish). And while they secretly want me to come and clear out the unnecessary clutter, they would certainly have a conniption over every tossed item.

Fess up. You know it's true. Purging, if you are not accustomed to it, is very difficult.

Our house has a rule.

If we haven't touched or used or spoken about a material item within the year, we give it away (shout out to Jason and daughter Linnea who are loving their "new" rocking chair), consign it (shout out to Monica at Hand Me Downs), or donate it (shout out to Junior League Thrift House).

And lest you think that my children would rebel against this type of thinking, take in these words by Zane, as he did a possession review (shout out to Angie) on Christmas Eve of all days.

"Mom, I can give this box of blocks to a new kid. I have so many other blocks."

See, we've been doing this since they were babies. It started with a mountain of stuffed animals that had taken over Harper's bedroom as a toddler. We would hold up a stuffed and furry item (as long as it wasn't Snowman (shout out to Raymond Briggs), or another for which she had developed a true affinity) and ask, "Keep? Or go?" Harper would then decide the fate of the said stuffed creature.

Frankly, my kids do not have a lot of toys. Of course they have their favorite toys - those stay put. But the stragglers? The one's they've outgrown both in age and interest? Buh-bye. And they have even less from our clean-out the day before Christmas. For standing in the hallway is a large box filled with toys that they, THEY (not Mom), have decided to donate. Yes, I oversaw the process with my traditional, "Keep? Or go?" questions as I held up items. And yet, I respected their answer by either returning the item to its place or dumping it in the donation box.

It can be done.

We started early.

A yearly possession review is, and I shudder to think that I am about to quote Martha Stewart, "a good thing."

But wait. I'm not trying to get all high and mighty or uppity on you. My kids rooms are a mess. Harper's desk is a frenetic, scattered mess of stickers and papers and little chotskies, leaving no room for it to be used as an actual desk. I wouldn't dare touch those special items. Zane's room is a dangerous terrain of blocks, matchbox cars, and action figures with sharp weapons that seem to camouflage themselves until a parent's shoeless foot comes into view.

So, no, I'm not announcing perfection here.

But let's help our children make choices and decisions about their possessions while they are young. For maybe, just maybe, their generation will make wiser choices with their spending then ours has.

Despereaux and the Pea

I'm on my second reading of the The Tale of Despereaux, the first taking place just a few days ago between Christmas Day and the day after Christmas. The second happening over the past 3 nights, with the exciting conclusion, which is being talked about with great anticipation by Harper and Zane, planned for tomorrow evening.

For my kids know their Mom's rule: No movie until we've read the book.

Period.

The Tale of Despereaux is broken down into 4 "books", of which I've been reading aloud one a night. And while I got lost in the story while reading it to myself, reading it aloud has proven to be even more exciting. Even I am excited to see the film on New Year's Eve.

Zane, who has sat through many a novel, is thoroughly enjoying this one. Particularly any part of the book that has to do with Despereaux, Princess Pea, and love. He always surprises me. I think he's not comprehending what I'm reading, or paying attention, when 'lo and behold, I am proven wrong. Terribly wrong.

"Mommy, I am Despereaux. You are Princess Pea."

"Ok, Zane. You are Despereaux and I am the Princess Pea."

"Yes. Because I love you. And Despereaux is in love with the Princess."

I kiss him.

"No! You can't do that! People don't kiss mice! Because they have icky skin!"

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"You can kiss me again when I am Zane."

We then gathered around the computer to watch the preview of the movie. Zane decided that we should all be characters. Me, the Princess, Zane, the brave mouse, Daddy, King Philip (as Philip is his middle name - although Zane misunderstood this thinking that "King Philip" was George's middle name), and Harper, well, we just couldn't imagine her as the Queen (deceased), or Miggery Sow (she was just appalled, and rightfully so, at Miggery's plight beginning with the death of her mother, to her being sold into slavery by her father, to the "clouts" at the hands of her "Uncle"), so we all agreed that she would be the Princess Pea's beautiful white horse.

Before bed, Zane just couldn't stop talking about the story. And as I exited his bedroom and closed the door, I could still hear him muttering aloud to himself, "A mouse who loves a Princess. How can that be?"

We're planning a reading of The Indian in the Cupboard next . . . and of course George is still reading them The Hobbit. We are really looking forward to finishing that one so that we can once again see the animated movie that we remember from childhood.

I am thoroughly loving this winter break.

We may have no food in the house, but we happily gorging ourselves on books!

Obamaland

Ok, it's no surprise that Evanston is otherwise known as Obamaland.

Don't be fooled by the photo. George and I are voting for Senator Obama.

But what does a parent do when their kid, while trick or treating, walks up to a door, and refuses to knock on that door because it is sporting a McCain/Palin sticker, and thus turns, and leaves the property?

I don't need a parent manual to tell me that this is not good.

I told Zane he needed to be bipartisan and march up to that door. He was rewarded with a Milky Way. Too bad for you, Harper.

Yes, Harper has been learning about both candidates in school and has registered to vote in her classroom on election day. She, and her classmates, have also written letters to whomever will be our next President.

And while we have also discussed the election in the house, we have told Harper that she needs to read the informational brochures on each candidate, (child friendly material), and vote for the candidate of her choice.

"Yeah, I already know I'm voting for Obama because McCain stinks!"

Um, wait a minute.

"Where did you hear that"?

She shared that a few students in her class had mentioned that McCain was no good and stunk. My heart broke. Broke. I have failed. No awards for Mom in this house today.

"Harper, speaking about Senator McCain that way is completely disrespectful", said the mother who dissed Palin verbally early on . . . I've redeemed myself . . . "and I hope you understand that both Obama and McCain love this country and want to do the best job as President. They just disagree on how to do so."

We then discussed the issues in her handouts. As much as one can actually discuss the issues with a 7 year old. I was surprised, however, by her questions, and her conclusions as they pertained to each issue highlighted in the brochure.

"Mom, why are we in a war with Iraq"?

I stumbled through explaining 9-11 (having previously touched upon the events of that day after reading a book from before 2001 which still showed the towers standing, two skyscrapers which Harper mentioned interest in visiting one day) and how after the attacks we believed that Iraq was possibly protecting terrorists, like the ones who hurt and killed many Americans on 9-11, by allowing them to stay in that country, and that Iraq also had really bad weapons, or RBW's, that could threaten us. I then shared that these weapons were never found.

"So why are we still fighting with them?"

"Harper, I do not know."

"Did they find the people who hurt our country when I was a baby?"

"No. But they think the person who planned the attack is in a country called Afghanistan." I told her his name. (Updated on November 2: I really didn't want to explain suicide missions to my daughter and thus, I told her that the people hadn't been found.)

"So, why don't we go there and get him?"

"Well, Harper, it's difficult."

"Well, I think that if we keep sending Americans to Iraq then the war will just keep getting bigger and go on longer. So I disagree with it."

"Ok."

We talked about education. Harper didn't like the word "compete" when it came to schools competing for the best teachers. In her young 7 year old mind, she took this to mean,

"So will all the best teachers only be in a few schools, then? What about all the other schools?"

I realize that all this is watered down and that Harper can't possibly comprehend the entire scope of the issues, but she came to these conclusions on her own - at least she is beginning the process of thinking critically.

She also decided that "all children should be able to go to the doctor".

Now, I know that she can't really make an informed choice at 7 years old, and that she is completely influenced by the fact that Obama signs have become yard ornaments around here, but I am really glad that we are talking about the election. I'm glad that there is material out there for parents to use when discussing the candidates with their children.

I do hope, however, that parents are actually having discussions with their children and are not simply telling their child that one candidate is better than the other, end of story. This does nothing for their ability to think critically. These men are not deities, and don't encompass true "hope" and "truth", so I feel quite comfortable discussing both candidates with Harper. And truth is, she's hearing stuff in school, from other kids. I can't ignore that this is happening. It's like a discussion about sex. Can a child this old really understand it? No. But if she came home repeating something of a sexual nature that she picked up on the playground, then I best be ready and available to discuss it.

Cringe.

I felt compelled to apologize to Harper if I had said anything to make her think that McCain "stunk". She assured me that she had heard it at school.

I wiped my forehead.

Still, after her comment from last week, and then her refusal to trick or treat at the house of a McCain supporter, I really needed to discuss respect. Both my respect for both candidates, and, well, ok, their running mates as well . . . and her respect for the candidates.

She is 7.

What was I doing when I was 7?

Discussing politics?

I don't think so.

Mom?

Village? A Little Help Here . . .

There's kind of an unspoken rule at the playground.

Or so I thought.

I have always believed that when at the playground, one doesn't only keep a lookout for their own kid, but also the well being of other children.

If a kid trips at your feet, you help them up.

If a child can not find their parent, you assist.

If a little one is about to run into the path of moving swing, you either physically stop the swing, or the child - whichever you can reach more quickly.

I've been attempting to open my circle a bit by getting out to parks with Zane more frequently and striking up conversations with mother's and/or nanny's I've never met. As I have found that way too often I have met a new parent and shared a quick chat without ever really properly introducing myself.

Today, I had the good fortune of bumping into a parent who had taken my toddler tunes class with her daughter. She introduced me to her friend and we began a conversation about music classes in the area. I glanced over to see Zane playing with a broken branch - climbing it, etc. It was big enough for climbing, having been broken from a nearby tree during last Saturday's storm.

I wrote the name of an area music class that I would recommend on the back of my card and handed it to the mom I had just met for the first time, and then looked up to see that Zane was no longer on the branch. I turned. Turned again. Spun in a circle.

I couldn't find him.

I began jogging back and forth, glancing every which way.

I couldn't find him.

My two friends immediately branched out. The park was crawling with children, parents, and Nanny's, so I was certain that he was still in the area and that I just couldn't see him, but the painful fear that struck my core was almost paralyzing. An inner mantra of "Find him. Find him. Find him," ran on a continual loop as I realized that I needed help. So, I stood in the middle of the playground and yelled loudly, "Everyone! I can't find my son. Please start yelling, Zane!"

My two friends continued looking. A Nanny began to look. And the others?

They looked up. And then looked back down. No one else moved.

A dad even chuckled and apathetically "hollered" Zane's name.

I'm running back and forth, in and out of equipment, and up and down ladders, while the world just goes on.

Oh. My. God. Help me. Jesus. Please. I can't find my boy.

Finally, one of my friends said, "There he is! He's in that tree".

And sure enough, my son, dressed in brown's and sage green (brilliant fashion choice for a fall day), was in a tree - not very high - not even out of the playground vicinity, but definitely camouflaged by the brown bark and greenery of the tree. I doubt he could see or even hear the three of us running around and yelling . . . he was having too much fun and there was a lot of other playground noise to drown us out. It wasn't even a situation where I could scold him. He was completely in range. I just couldn't see him.

My friend came over.

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah. But I feel like my heart was just ripped out of my chest".

Pause.

She continued. Softly.

"Why didn't anyone else stop and help you?"

"I don't know. I just don't know."

I thanked her.

I turned around and very pleasantly, (although I was seething), announced, "Um, thanks everyone! We found him. It's all good!"

But it's not all good.

The playground is where we encourage our children to try new challenges. It's where imaginations turn tunnel-slides into boats, or in Zane's case, into a dog crate at the pet store. It's even the place to climb a tree. It's one of the developmental hot spots for children. It's their scene! It's also a tiny village: a gathering place for parents or caregivers and their children. It's where we teach our children to play nicely, take new risks, share, take turns, and respect others. Collectively. Parents working together.

I think we adults may need a refresher course in the village mentality.

And I'll be dressing Zane in bright primary colors for our next park outing.

Vacation: All I've Ever Wanted

Combining a family vacation with the Olympic games is awesome.

You hit the beach during the day, get home around 4, shower to get the Atlantic salt and sand off every inch of your body, listen to your daughter teach campfire songs from family camp to her cousins, look at old family photos and marvel at how much she looks like you, grab some grub (grub being Chesapeake crabs or boardwalk fries with vinegar - two must haves out here), take in an amusement park with the kids, ride your first roller coaster since college with your daughter who keeps her hands raised the entire time while you are just trying to "create a great moment" for her even though you are scared *&^%less, ride the smaller coaster with your son, stop for ice cream, get home late, snuggle your boy and rub his head until he falls asleep, and then stay up even ridiculously later watching Olympics, the most perfect summer television event to settle in and watch after a day full of activity, knowing that you can sleep in the next day. Remember, we're on East Coast time, so the Olympics last until 1:00 AM.

But since your daughter is also staying up ridiculously late watching the games, and your son is wiped out from waves, no naps, and all that other stuff I just typed, sleeping in is almost a given.

This has been a great trip thus far.

Many of you parents out there may choke on what I'm about to write next.

Vacations are better with children.

I know that sounds completely screwy. And yet, there is no better way to take in new experiences. New, meaning, new for them, which in turn, makes them seem new to you: the adult. Adults who have a tendency to lose the wonder in the moment due to all the clutter in our heads.

Take the roller coaster. I really didn't want to ride it. It was a carny coaster. Freaked me out. And, in all honesty, my back is a now a bit tight. But my own fear and discomfort seemed so very unimportant next to sharing a new personal risk with Harper, void of visible fear. Her squeals and smiles were infectious. Thus, I had a great time. She went on to ride that coaster 4 more times.

Zane also rode a coaster, albeit smaller. First with his cousin Toby, and then again, with me. We were the only two on the ride. He was so excited to be riding with me that he must have turned and kissed me square on the lips at least 10 times throughout the ride.

Both Harper and Zane jumped waves with Daddy. This too, freaks me out, and yet having grown up at the beach every summer, I can jump 'em, swim through 'em, and body surf 'em. However, my adult mind has clouded those childhood memories. Knowing I would need to help them resurface, I left the two piece at home, donned the one piece, and got in the water. Harper debated the waves for a day and a half before inching her way out with George. And after getting hit pretty hard, (it was bound to happen, as the waves have been fierce the last two days), she came up laughing and shouting, "AWESOME! That was awesome!" Zane, too, was caught up in the moment and allowed George to walk him in.

My children seem to give me the ability to put myself aside: my fears, my discomfort, my disinterest, and my busy ways, in order to just enjoy. To rediscover pure enjoyment.

As we left the amusement park tonight, the kids asked if we could stop for ice cream. Zane was insistent.

"Mom, there's a MxDonald's. They have ice cream there."

I was silent.

"Mom? Did you hear me? There is a MxDonald's."

I remained silent.

"Mom?" a tiny little finger gets pointed in my face. "Mom? You have to speak."

I couldn't. I was just enjoying listening to him.

Ultimately, my answer was yes. We did not, however, hit MxDonald's for ice cream. We're at the beach. There's far better than MxDonald's.

Tomorrow we're off to Assateague Island and will hopefully get a glimpse of the famed wild ponies of Chincoteague while taking a boat to the island. No doubt there will be much to discover on the island.

Thanks, kids.

I Surrender

Yeah, I wish this were some deep post about how I am learning to give all to God; to surrender my own ambitions and desires for His glory.

Nope.

It is just a post from a desperate mother who has decided to raise the white flag of potty training.

Zane has had a successful start to potty training and continues to show interest in using it, and yet, we are now locked in a battle of wills with regards to, well, a very particular area of potty training.

A particularly dirty area.

And frankly, I'm tired of cleaning it up. Plus, I don't want him to feel as if he is continually missing the boat. Which he is. Everyday. I hate that the kid feels as if he needs to hide in order to do his thing. It's either hide or sit in the bathroom for 30 or so minutes while Harper reads book after book after book. And even then, movement is not guaranteed.

Thus, I'm relenting. We are going back to pull-ups during the day and diapers at night.

And before you jump all over my case about the use of pull-ups and diapers, let me just say, in my own defense, that I have really tried. We have been in underwear for some time now, and this particular area is just not improving.

So, with all respect to those of you who seem to be able to handle the cloth . . . we just can't. It's a great idea . . . but we are not homebodies and the bags of underwear full of particulars are getting to be too many to handle. My utility sink is full.

Yes, yes, yes, I have tried all the Internet "tips" that are sprinkled throughout various parenting websites. 100% effort has been made here. I'm not just crapping out.

Pun.

Perhaps Mike Rowe should take this job.

Or I could check out one of those potty training boot camps that are advertised these days.

Better yet, why not just give the kid a break and return to it when he feels more comfortable?

Radical.

Super Modeling

Today we had a lazy morning at home before Harper, Zane, and I trekked over to the pool for a swim. Upon arriving there, we were disappointed to learn that the pool would be closing at noon, and not reopening until 1:00. Not wanting to come back at 1:00, as that would completely screw up Zane's 2:00 nap, which is oh so necessary, I had to tell the kids that the pool was a no-go.

I expected the weeping and wailing that followed, but I also realized that this was the perfect opportunity to show them that the fortitude and perseverance that they witnessed from their parents during Friday night's adventure was not just a fluke, but rather an attitude that we plan on modeling more frequently when the road swerves in an unexpected direction.

"Hey, I know you are upset. But we can either weep and sob and call it a day. Or, we can figure out something else. Which do you choose?"

"Starbuck's" was Zane's answer. That's just scary.

Harper chose the beach.

We don't have beach tags, nor was I going to pay for the three of us to sit on the beach for 2 hours. However, I was determined to track down beach tags and began calling everyone I know.

Bingo. Thanks to the Holt's we spent 2 hours playing on the beach.

We covered Harper from the waist down in sand, turning her into a mermaid. She preferred to be called a sea creature, as mermaids are just way too close to princesses. That is, if you take the Disney interpretation of mermaids. On the other hand, Peter Pan (not the Disney version - blech) shows them in a much darker light. Regardless of which version of a mermaid is the truth, Harper was a sea creature - not a mermaid.

We made our way out to the sandbar and Harper worked really hard at swimming back to shore.

Zane even ventured out. Which basically means he let me put him down in order to "be brave" in the water.

We all sat and let the current wash over us.

We left completely covered in sand. Happy. And yet, oh, the sand. And this is why I can't stand the beach. I'm of the belief that telling a kid to go rinse off the sand in the water, only to then have them walk back up the beach to the car, thus gathering more sand, is completely ridiculous. There is just no way to leave a beach without sand clinging to every inch of a child's body - or in every crevice. So, I just had them climb into our mechanic's courtesy car, which unfortunately I just don't think I'll have the time to vacuum out tomorrow before I return it, sand and all. Upon getting home, we rinsed off via the garden hose and then Zane was out like a light. Harper completed some workbook pages (I know, what a FUN summer mom I am), and then I gave her some TV time for completing all her chores and then some. Without any back chat.

Alot of parenting success is in the modeling. Unfortunately, my clay doesn't always take on the persona of one who sees the bright side while being throw a curve ball. Which is interesting because lately, I just can't handle being around negativity. I crave positive conversations, responses, affirmations, and outlooks. I find myself drawn to those who can spin a cynical situation into a celebration. I'm still a realist. And yet I desire to take a more affirming approach to life's glitches and thus, model a more faithful spirit to my children.

Harper exclaimed Friday night to be a "great night". Even in the midst of confusion, frustration, and anxiety. Which she did indeed see us experiencing. And conquering.

And although on a much smaller scale, I think we pulled out another good one today!

When we approach a difficult situation with the understanding that our responses will either create positive memories or a negative ones for the children we are nurturing and preparing for life, the idea of modeling faith skyrockets in importance.

I may not be a super model, but I can be super at modeling.

I can.