Friday, May 15, 2015

Note to the Boy Sleeping in the Dryer Box

Note to John: If you're going to take up residence in the dryer box, please send a change of address card to your mother.

See, John, your mother is slightly neurotic. You may or may not have taken note of this fact. When she ambles into your room to do the old rise and shine thing, she's taken aback when she peers into the top bunk and spies no John. Naturally, since she is not a complete nut job, she quickly considers that you could be a) in the bathroom or b) taking in a little Scooby Doo before school.

But when a) and b) don't produce one sleepy, brown-eyed John, she instantly leaps to c) which typically goes along the lines of CHECK THE WINDOWS! CHECK THE YARD! SOMEONE STOLE MY KID!

I wish this were a bit of bloggy hyperbole, but, sadly, it is not. I go from zero to CALL THE COPS! in about the time it takes to say Looney! Tunes! I probably need to examine why panic is so often near at hand.


I can think of any number of valid reasons.


The Internet.

Helicopter parenting.

Too many horror movies as a teenager.

Mary Higgens Clark Where Are the Children? type pulp fiction as an adult.

Yes, John has taken up residence in a dryer box. He sleeps in the box at night and makes improvements upon the fort by day. As I zipped through the neighborhood the other afternoon, John spied an amazing box on our neighbor's front walk.  Can John have the box? I quickly texted my friend. It's yours for the having, my friend responded. The dryer box now has a sizable and tasteful addition.

If you're in need of a cathartic cry, please read this piece by Ann Voskamp.

So much of motherhood seems eternal -- and I am mean both the good and the dreary. The laundry will never end, but you'll always have a small hand in yours as you cross the street. Sibling squabbles drone on and on and on, but you spend a good chunk of every evening reading books on the couch. Tense words fly over homework and curfews and screen time, but late nights end with tight hugs and early mornings begin with shared coffee.

I find myself on the brink of something.

My oldest is moving toward adulthood. The braces are gone, the SAT has been taken, college looms in the not so very distant future. Meanwhile my youngest is taking us through our last set of firsts.

Our last set of firsts.

She's about to lose her first tooth which will be our last first tooth. I won't have another first day of kindergarten. She already swims, but she doesn't yet ride a bike. Yes, there will be more firsts. But unless a really, really big surprise comes our way, these firsts -- the tooth, the bike -- will be our last firsts.

A part of me breaks when I think about these things.

But another part of me quickly texts my friend to get that nifty box.

Handle with care, reads the top of John's dryer box.

This cardboard and duct tape behemoth is not exactly the decorating statement I had in mind when I envisioned John's new room. But babies don't keep, as the saying goes. John is welcome to sleep in his ever-growing, double-wide fort.

(As long as he keeps his mother apprised of his whereabouts).

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

When You're Everything to Someone

When I delve deep into the archives of this blog, I read some of the antics of life with two babies and, wow!, those were some wild times.

In honor of Mothers' Day, I offer this little blast from the past.

To moms everywhere:

Maybe you, like me, had a four-year-old come running with a grisly tale of an overflowing toilet. Upon investigating, you found that this boy with a flair for the dramatic wasn't exaggerating one little bit.

Maybe you, like me, sat in the backyard wondering why oh why your phone was ringing off the hook. When you finally answered it, you found that your assistant catechist, a mother, and your entire class were all waiting at the atrium for a session scheduled to start fifteen minutes earlier.

Maybe you, like me, let your adorable toddler try on her Easter dress for just a minute and then found that this darling frock -- lovely, smocked, purchased by Grandma -- had had an unfortunate encounter with an uncapped Sharpie.

Maybe you, like me, have been wringing your hands, questioning your purpose, pouring yourself glass of wine. If so, I suggest reading this article on the impact of nurturing mothers.

It seems the hand that rocks the cradle really does rule the world, or as the author puts it, "One generation full of deeply loving parents would change the brain of the next generation, and with that, the world."

Here's a summary of the study:

Researchers brought the kids and parents into a lab and videotaped them as the parents, almost always mothers, tried to help their children cope with a mildly stressful task that was designed to approximate the stress of daily parenting . . . Ratings of parental ability to nurture their children were done by study personnel who watched the videos. . .

Several years later, on average, the children had the size of a brain area called the hippocampus measured . . .  The researchers found that children with especially nurturing, caring mothers, based on their behavior during the laboratory stressor, had significantly larger hippocampi (plural of hippocampus - you’ve got one on each side of the brain) than kids with mothers who were average or poor nurturers.

Why is the hippocampus so crucial?

Because more than any place else in the brain, when it comes to the hippocampus, size matters. Other things being equal, having small hippocampi increases your risk for all sorts of troubles, from depression and post traumatic stress disorder to Alzheimer’s disease.

In addition to protecting us against brain illnesses, we all need big hippocampi because this brain area, while not much bigger than your little finger, plays a disproportionately large role in how you will be able to handle the stresses and strains of your life, and how you will remember your life when it’s all said and done. (Emphasis mine).


It's a rainy day today, and my van is in the shop. We enjoyed a slow, lazy morning full of coloring books and Legos. John grabbed a scrap of paper and wrote a bunch of random letters on it.

"I wrote a note to Auntie Kate," he told me, holding up his paper. "It says, 'Dear Auntie Kate, I love you.'"

With Valentine's Day still fresh in his mind, John colored a heart for her. I gave him little scissors and encouraged him to cut it out.

"I can't do it," he said. "I don't know how."

I demonstrated and told him to give it a try. He was thrilled to see that he could cut out a heart. This was very much the kind of mildly stressful task these researchers studied with children. These challenges arise a hundred times a day. A child struggles to tie a shoe or manage that last button or get that Transformer to transform. And there's Mom. Is she helpful or encouraging or comforting? Is she cranky or distracted or cheerful?  Is she blogging or texting or chatting on the phone?

I can be all of these things depending on the week, the day, the hour.

Today I folded John's note and the heart and put them in an envelope to mail to Auntie Kate. "Are you going to letter it," John asked. "How do you do that?"

I showed him how to "letter it." He carefully wrote J-O-H-N in brown crayon in the upper left hand corner. He put the envelope in the mail box and raised the red flag. Lettered!

I remember a day years and years ago when much  a younger Tim fell apart during piano practice. He hit a tricky measure and no amount of repetition or counting could help him get it straight. I had just plunked an enormous quantity of unfolded laundry onto the couch. I looked at Tim's obvious frustration and said, "You know, Tim, this laundry is overwhelming. I can't do it all, but I can fold one shirt."

We both persevered.

It is constant, this life-long gig we call motherhood. I find it helpful to keep my eyes on the prize, to read articles like this, not so that I can become undone by the enormity of it all, but so that I can once more be inspired by the greatness of this vocation.

No one has expressed this better than G.K. Chesterton who once said this about motherhood:

I can understand how this might exhaust the mind, but I cannot imagine how it could narrow it. How can it be a large career to tell other people’s children about the Rule of Three, and a small career to tell one’s own children about the universe? How can it be broad to be the same thing to everyone, and narrow to be everything to someone? No; a woman’s function is laborious, but because it is gigantic, not because it is minute.

That hand that rocks the cradle? It really does rule the world.

Monday, May 11, 2015

{these moments}

In honor of Mothers' Day 2015, a few images I want to remember:

John hauling an over-sized box down the street because every decent fort could use an addition:

Ainsley's suction cup toothbrush, stuck to the mirror just out of reach by a helpful brother.

My girl in braids and school uniform and mary janes, still tiny, so sweet:

Tim's coffee mug. The coffee says he's big. The space mug says he's the same boy with big dreams.

Kolbe, my builder. always dreaming and scheming and finding a new use for duct tape.

Kolbe's work bench, seldom caught on camera:

Thank you, God, for these unique and beautiful souls you've entrusted to my care.

Friday, May 01, 2015

Stomach Bug, Be Gone!

Seven Quick Takes from the Dolin house . . .

1.    Boy scheduled to take the SAT Saturday morning is huddled in the fetal position fighting a nasty stomach bug. Current score? Bug 4, Tim 0. Please pray for him and pray that the bug won't hit boy scheduled for First Communion on Sunday or aunt arriving from Michigan on Saturday or anybody else for that matter.

2.    So I spent nearly two hours trying to reconcile various accounts. Here's a hint: If you begin with the wrong starting balance, it's never gonna jibe. Nope. The key is starting with the correct balance and having a few good tunes to make a tedious task less bothersome. My playlist:

Smile a Little Smile for Me, Rosemarie - The Flying Machine
Ma Bell Amie - Tee Set
Hey There, Delilah - Plain White T's
Ninety-nine Red Balloons - Zena
My Maria - Brooks and Dunn
Mandy - Barry Manilow
Close to You - The Carpenters
We've Only Just Begun - Ditto
Knock Three Times - Tony Orlando and Dawn
Lemon Tree - Peter, Paul, and Mary
Puff the Magic Dragon - Ditto

Call me a child of the seventies, but Mandy still makes we swoon. How's that for good taste? As for the Carpenters, a veritable schmalzapalooza that few but myself and Kris can fully appreciate.

3.    Happiness is discovering half a box of Oreos after the kids are all in bed.

4.    And while we're on the subject of Oreos, we can file this under "too good to pass by". A mom gets the following note home after -- oh, the horror! -- packing Oreos in her daughter's lunch:

PHOTO: A note sent home to Leeza Pearson after her daughter Natalee brough Oreos to school.

The blurry fine print specifies that children are "required" to bring a fruit, a vegetable, and a healthy snack and further stipulates that peanut butter is "not a healthy snack".

My goodness, I'm fairly sure I'd be facing hard time if my kids attended that school.

A Dolin staple.

5.    I can do one better that the above note. Not so long ago, I received a text from Ainsley's kindergarten teacher: Ainsley says she's hungry. Did she eat breakfast?

And because I try really, really hard to tell the truth, I was forced to reply: I don't know.

I don't know. 

How awful is that? 

She's five, and I don't know if she had breakfast or not. Mornings can be a tad harried around here. I gulped hard and have tried to be more careful about these things since then.

6.    Meanwhile, John's eating habits have been cause for maternal angst. His lunch came home virtually untouched two days running. He didn't even eat his cookies (not Oreos, but probably verboten at the above school).  And for breakfast, nothing appealed to him. Nothing. John's appetite tends to go south in the wake of his fever episodes, one of which struck hard over the weekend.

It can certainly be a challenge to get kids to eat and to eat right. I'm pretty sure shame notes don't help the process.

7.    And since John's first communion is upon us and we are expecting house guests, I am off to clean and paint and weed and de-clutter like a mad woman. 

For perspective on First Communion, please read this. While I'll work hard today and tomorrow, it's all about John and Jesus. 

Not the cake or the suit or the tablecloths or the weather. 

John and Jesus. 

And it's all going to be glorious.

Head over to Kelly's to add your Quick Takes.

Thoughts on First Communion

As we prepare for John's First Communion, I think back to our first First Communion. Here's what I learned . . .

Six years ago I spent weeks and weeks preparing for Tim’s First Communion. I had him pick out the tablecloths. I labored over the menu. I gathered a dozen of my favorite photos of Tim to decorate the tables.

Then came the actual week of First Communion. Things began to go south quickly. I was eight weeks pregnant and scheduled for an ultrasound.

“Well, your dates may be a little off,” the sonographer began.

And I knew it was all over.

This was my fourth or fifth miscarriage, and I had heard the line about the dates too many times before. Despite the inauspicious report, I continued on progesterone which left me bloated, moody, and unable to sleep.

This was the backdrop to a momentous sacrament of initiation. Despite the bleak circumstances, Tim still received the Eucharist.

Loads of family traveled to celebrate with us. Some arrived late, some arrived early, and I hardly slept in between. Despite my fatigue and irritability, Tim received the Eucharist.

I planned a dinner at a homey restaurant known for its excellent food. I had not eaten there for five years or so. In the interim homey had devolved into run-down with a similar decline in the quality of food. I was mortified. But Tim still received the Eucharist.

At the reception guests began to arrive an hour early. I was frantic. Rain stymied our plans to celebrate outside. I sent Dave to pick up some flowers, and he returned with the gaudiest bunch I have ever seen. The ribs were burned. I left the macaroni and cheese in the refrigerator. I neglected to buy enough drinks.

And Tim still received the Eucharist.

In an education course eons ago, I studied a technique known as “concept attainment.” Teachers present multiple lessons using different modes of learning all aimed at mastering a single concept.

God was clearly employing this tactic with me.

At the end of the day, it's not about tablecloths, flowers or even the beautiful white dress (as fun as that's going to be!).

It's about about receiving the Bread of Life.

We celebrated Kolbe's First Communion yesterday. It was a beautiful, solemn event followed by a simple party at the lake.

Compared to Tim's, the glitches were minor. Kolbe forgot his belt. One family hogged three double pews! Everyone dashed before I could snap a picture of four kids with decent haircuts and ironed clothing. John got into the cake.

Still the graces of today - and six years ago and a thousand years ago - were abundant and unchanging.

When we arrived at the lake, Kolbe announced, "I'm the First Communikid!"

Yes, you are, my sweet sunshine.

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

How Do I Love Coffee? Let Me Count the Ways!

I've noted before that the traditional list of the corporal works of mercy -- feed the poor; clothe the naked -- lacks just one item. That would be caffeinating the Dolins.

Tongue is just barely in cheek.

I spent the better part of yesterday afternoon panhandling throughout our near environs in dire need of half and half. Most of the panhandling was of the virtual variety -- i.e. desperate texts shot to a variety of coffee-drinking friends. Do you have a little half and half for an under -caffeinated friend? Do you have half and half I could scavenge?

Kolbe, bless his dear heart, I sent in person across the street to hit up my friend Sue. Moments later the phone rang.

"Mom," Kolbe began, "Aunt Sue wants to know if powdered creamer or milk will work."

I tried to explain to Kolbe how to politely decline. Thank you so much. My mother is just over-the-top picky. I fumbled for the right words because, hello!, under-caffeinated because, hello, again!, no half and half. Vocabulary is just out of reach, syntax won't jibe, subjects and verbs won't agree, every noun morphs into the word "thing".
Image result for funny coffee images
Apparently, Aunt Sue heard my end of the conversation and got the drift. I was after half and half and could brook no substitutes. Meanwhile Sarah responded to my text. Only powdered creamer and whole milk, she replied. I am a bad combination of desperate yet picky, I responded.

Powdered creamer and milk? A vast and nefarious conspiracy, oh, yes, it was. I felt a nervous twitch coming on.

I don't do cream wanna be.

Coffee-mate? Cremora? The vast array of wretched, wretched brews concocted in the kitchens of International Delight? Well, delight is not the word that comes to my mind. Interested in the most egregious breaches of coffee creamer decency? Please click here for a telling expose.

White Chocolate Macadamia.

Almond Joy.

Cinnabon and I'm not even making that up.

Girl Scout Cookie Thin Mint. Clearly a sin against both coffee and cookies. A veritable war crime, that one.

Red Velvet Cupcake? Head bang.

I can't go on.

It's wrong, I tell you, it's just plain wrong.

Now, any reasonable person who has stuck with this drivel this far surely must be pondering a simple question: Why didn't you just go to the store?

In my defense, I had gone to the store, and said store was fresh out of half and half. Now, my gut instinct tells me they probably had shelves full of that International Non-delight. I returned home empty handed and a tad worried. And I didn't immediately go out again because John was sick.

Motherhood brings oh! so many transitions. Two such transitions are significant but get little
press: the day early on when you realize leaving the house for any purpose is a multi-step and unbelievably time consuming endeavor and the day you realize it's not. I've been in the "not" camp for some time now. I can dash to the post office, zip to the gas station, head to Kroger for half and half (or a whole basket of groceries). These days I'm caught off guard when I can't leave (or shouldn't leave). And so it's been for a few days. John was sick, sick, sick over the weekend. Raging 104 degree fever, vomiting. And you don't leave, not even for half and half.

John's fever subsided. The vomiting ceased (thank you, good and merciful Lord). I headed to Kroger, procured my half and half, and sat down to a tasty brew.

Aaaaaaaah!, I texted Sarah. (Actually, the text read Hf and half . . . aaaaaaah! because, hello!, can't spell while under-caffeinated).

John is better, Two quarts of half and half sit in my fridge. And all is right with the world.

Friday, April 24, 2015

1.  Since I have a proclivity to whine about the weather, I have to say Augusta has been so very beautiful of late.

Now, we had nearly ten solid days of rain that left everyone feeling like they needed to buy a happy light. And ten days of rain wreaks havoc with the soccer schedule. We're always thrilled when something gets cancelled, but it's just coming right back at you at a less opportune time. This week we have six games scheduled over about four days.


But the weather is now beautiful. Beautiful.

2.    So I've made the great leap forward and bought a smartphone. I ordered a case on Amazon expecting that my two day, free shipping deal would have it here in a jiffy. Alas, I didn't read the fine print. Tracking information indicates that it will arrive in Augusta, Georgia, between May 15th and June 6th.

Seems it just boarded an inflatable Spiderman raft in Shanghai and is headed out into the East China Sea with a six-year-old at the helm.

3.   I have an alter-ego and her name is Mrs. Pattmore. Remember this exchange?

“Is there any aspect of the present day that you can accept without resistance?” Cora asks after introducing the idea of, gasp!, a refrigerator. Mrs. Pattmore, a woman after my own heart, responds,“I wouldn’t mind getting rid of my corset.”

I'm glad we're not stuck with restrictive underwear, but new technology intimidates me. I'll just admit it here: I'm afraid of my smartphone.

4.    Mostly I'm afraid of breaking the darn thing. Hence the case. For years I've watched nieces slide their fingers across splintered glass and wondered if they still have intact fingerprints after all that shredding. Quite possibly they could embark on a life of crime and never get caught.

You know, you don't really worry about dropping a $10 phone. Believe me, it's been dropped, dunked, even cooked. Now, this smartphone? Not cheap.

5.    Dave and the gang of boys joined a robotics competition last week. This is a first for our school, and from the kids' response will be something we continue.

Team mascot.

6.    So John garnered a first place trophy in the Pinewood Derby, an event that will surely make saints or sinners of us all.

I am a much more mild version of my former self in regards to the venerable Derby. I set my expectations low and then am happily surprised if all goes well. This year, when I realized John was winning quite a few heats, I walked away and stopped watching.

So the top three finishers from each den compete to decide an overall winner. In that final round John came in second or third, and at that point you could just forget about the glory of winning a first place trophy just moments before. Friends were snickering as I attempted to get a shot of John smiling with his trophy.
John, ordered to smile for the camera.

"There's only one kids in the whole room who's happy right now," my friend Sarah told me.

Yep, and that would be the overall winner who was not my John.

Twenty-four hours later, John had regained a little perspective and, in fact, slept with his trophy. When they're not pouting about the Pinewood Derby, gosh, I love seven-year-old boys. Love them, love them, love them.

7.  And then we have five-year-old girls.

Ainsley likes to be near her people. Since she was tiny, she's wanted someone to lie down with her at night. It's never been an ordeal. She just likes a little company when she drops off to sleep, which used to take about a hundred and twenty seconds and now takes maybe five minutes.

And if we're engaged elsewhere, she's happy to find spot to curl up nearby. Maybe on the piano bench.

Love my girl. Love, love, love my girl.

Head over the Kelly's to add your Quick Takes. She's talking Kristin Lavransdatter, quite possible my all time favorite book.