ten things I did while my kids were gone for 24 hours

1. Took a 4 hour nap.

2. Didn't worry about what's for dinner, and who wouldn't like it.

3. Walked through Target without once being asked to buy something.

4. Helped my husband pick out a few new clothing items. (A very rare moment of weakness on his part, but we may finally be able to ditch the old crocs and hoodie for church and nights out. Black skateboard shoes and green army coat - big step up.)

5. Ate leisurely dinner out at the Ale House at 9 p.m. on Sunday night. (With husband in new black shoes and army coat I made him change into in the car.)

6. Enjoyed a sort of tidy house that, gasp, stayed sort of tidy for 24 hours.

7. Had my husband all to myself, alone. That's all the information I'm giving.

8. Slept uninterrupted all night. (And had lots of weird dreams and woke up tired. Perhaps it's better to be terribly sleep deprived.)

9. Revelled in a silent house all morning. (And found it harder to get my work done. Perhaps I can only focus when someone is pulling on my leg crying "snack, snack, snack.")

10. And, alas, wondered when my kids were coming home.

friday haiku

girl loses sleep, finds
laundry piles, picky eaters
still she is smiling

parenthood

Some days I feel so ill equipped for it. Like in the rush to get out the door to school and your son puts on his spring coat and refuses to change to the winter one because it's "too fat" and it looks ugly on him. But he has a cough and it's 39 degrees out even if the birds are singing and you're the mom. And because you're the mom, you raise your voice and firmly tell him to change. And he lays on the kitchen floor and cries. So you tell him he has a choice, he can wear the winter coat or a thick hoodie under the spring coat, which he tries on and recognizes as ridiculous. He is now blubbering as you tell him, Fine, you've made your choice, and you throw him the winter coat. Which he puts on and tells you you owe him a dollar for your mean face. You respond that he probably owes you five dollars for his behavior over the last 5 minutes. And he shoots back that every boy in school is wearing a hoodie during recess or no coat at all. And you tell him he's lucky that he has a mother who cares. Not one of your finer moments.

You walk to the car and decide you will apologize for not being patient and snapping at him when you're all strapped in. But your son is still at the door. You run back to see what his problem is now. And he stands there in tears. What's wrong? you say. I'm scared, he tells you. Of going to school? He nods. Then he tells you how two of his buddies told him that a girl fell down the stairs of his school and cracked her head open and died and now she haunts the place. It's an urban legend, he tells you. A true one. Seriously? In first grade? You comfort him as you hustle him to the car, trying to convince him that there's no such thing as a ghost.

Now your son is coughing up a storm. You consider letting him stay home. But it's only three days to spring break and the school book fair is tonight and grandma is coming to shop with him. Plus, you need to work. Are are you terrible? Probably. Yes.

And so begins another day of parenthood.

Of course, not every morning goes like this. And there are moments when you radiate parenting brilliance. But sometimes it is just crazy to think how we are shaping these little people without any training or credentials. You just do your best, try to ooze with love, pray a lot and hope for the best.

Yesterday I was bolstered by this beautiful essay by Anna Quindlen. In it she reflects on all the stages of parenting and how whether you're longing for the next stage or mourning the passing of the last, each stage gets better. In fact, she claims, being a parent of adult children is the best. In other words, bad parenting moments will one day be behind us. And the point of the whole exercise will be made clear. And we'll see that even subjected to our mistakes, our children will endure and surprise us and become amazing grown ups. In other words, we can forgive ourselves and move on. Alleluia.

friday haiku

reaching in the bowl
flour dust and sticky toes
we call this helping

a goodnight I'll never forget

Tonight my almost four year old told me he loved me. I was stunned.

Elliott's understanding of concepts has been slow coming. Lately he's begun to gain a better grasp of cause and effect (touch the hot oven and get burned) and his place in the world (birdies go nite-nite, I go nite-nite). He names objects, counts to 10, recites the alphabet (more or less), finishes sentences in his favorite books and asks for things. But, spontaneously express his emotions? I don't think so.

Tonight I put him to bed and laid down and prayed with him.

"Okay, Elliott," I said. "Time to go to sleep. Goodnight, sweetie."

It was silent for a bit and then his sweet little voice said, "Mama, I wah voo."

"What, honey?"

"Mama, I wah voo."

I struggled to decipher. "What?"

"Mama, I wah voo."

It suddenly hit me.

"I love you, too, honey. Oh, how I love you."

Then I laid in the dark and cried. My son understands an abstract concept. It is a breakthrough...of the sweetest kind.

maybe I don't want to be contacted

Sometimes I think I should have an iPhone. I could text long missives (a huge improvement over the 20 one-liners I have shot out one-fingered in my WHOLE lifetime), surf the web in the car (not while driving, of course) and poke it like a mini Yellow Pages to find and call, say the local Bowling Alley to see if they have any lanes open before turning the ignition and heading over (which I watched my friend Emily do so nimbly Sunday night, and score, they did!).

It would be handy. It would be time-saving. It would launch me into the 21st century.

But I don't want one.

I have a pay-as-you go phone. Somewhere. The same phone, in fact, for the last four years. But I almost never use it. It's almost always out of battery or funds. And it really doesn't bother me.

It bothers other people, though. Occasionally my husband would like to contact me. The few random people who leave messages on it (sorry, Monica) would like to be called back. Friends and family can't understand how a busy freelancer can survive without one.

The truth is, I don't want to be contacted when I'm not at home. I wade through a hundred emails a day. I troll Facebook to see what everyone had for lunch and what my friends think about the latest scandal or tragedy. I scan Twitter to see if anyone famous has noticed me (just being honest people).

I am ready to divorce myself from the electronic age. I want a book and a beach. I want a month free to just chase my kids outside. I want the smell of glue and paint and dough. I want a break from sitting like a robot.

But, for now, I'm stuck on this computer. So, if you need to contact me send me an email. If you want to make my day, leave me a comment. But forget about calling or texting me, chances are very good that I won't answer.

friday haiku

every night he prays
for you, gone one year, held tight
in our hearts always

::

Bonus: My post in the TribLocal today.

what we're giving up

I don't think that I've ever given anything up for Lent. I've thought about it, of course. But I could never get past the coffee/chocolate/TV-type sacrifice—none of these things have ever meant enough to me to garner a 40-day strike. Probably I haven't been looking deep enough.

Many people who read this blog may be surprised to know that I yell at my kids. Not all the time, of course, but when they disobey or I'm tired and frustrated, it's my instant response. And I don't like it. At all. In the aftermath of yelling, I feel mean and sorry and disappointed with myself.

What gets my hackles up most, ironically, is rude and snotty behavior in my six year old. Like when he whines and stomps around because "It's not fair" that his friend has more LEGOS than he does, or when it's time for piano lesson and he acts all sour and pouts, "I hate piano lessons!," or when he calls someone or himself "stupid." I want to shout or grab him angrily when he acts like this. And sometimes I do.

Well, over the next 40 days we're going to break this cycle. Because here's the deal. I'm giving up yelling for Lent. And my son is giving up every ugly word he knows.

Unlike giving up chocolate or coffee, where you have a lot of conscious choice over whether you are going to break your vow, giving up what has become a fairly instant reaction is going to be a challenge. So Liam and I have brokered a deal to help us out—and hopefully give us back control of our angry impulses. Every time we break our vow during these 40 days, the vow-breaker will have to pay the one he hurt with his words $1.00.

My son is both overjoyed and petrified by this arrangement. He has become quite fond of money. Although he feels confident he'll get a buck off of me here and there (I plan to prove him wrong!), he's not so sure he can channel his frustration well enough to avoid breaking even or losing a little more.

But he's willing to try. I think it's because deep down he feels like I do when the ugly, angry words come out—about as separated from God as it gets. And, really, this is what the "giving up" is all about - eliminating a not-so-great behavior in order to fill our hearts and lives with something so much better.

I'm hoping that we break even and that the something better we both make room for is deeper love and understanding. And next year our ugly, unkind words won't be in the running for a lenten sacrifice . . . because we will have already given them up.

friday haiku

signs are among us
not easily noticed, Look
God's kingdom is here