Ten Minute Tuesday

Rachel over at Testosterhome is sponsoring Ten Minute Tuesday. Visit her, write for ten minutes, and leave a link in her combox.


I came home a little after nine after attending a women's meeting. I nearly texted Dave telling him not to put the little people to bed until I was home. I put the littles to bed six nights out of seven. Multiply that by their average age (which would be four) and that number by fifty-two weeks and you end up with a lot of diaper changing and tooth brushing, alot of Curious George and Caps For Sale and Bible Stories for Little Children, a lot of "God bless the whole crew" and a lot of Hail Marys.

But it doesn't matter if I've done it for years or that I do it all the time. I still like to do it.

The meeting got busy. I wasn't able to text Dave, but I arrived home and found the little people in bed, but still awake.

"Mama," Ainsley squealed.

Dave was sitting her bed. "Do you want Mama or Daddy," he asked her.

"Mama," she said emphatically, throwing back the covers. "Here's your spot."

And so I laid down next to her for a few minutes.

Over at In the Heart of My Home, Elizabeth is talking about motherhood. Readers are comparing life with older children to life with the little ones. It makes for good reading.

We have a bit of a split family. Tim and Kolbe, 15 and 11, make up the older set, and John and Ainsley, 5 and 3, are the littles. It should come as no surprise to me or to anyone else on planet Earth that teenagers bring a few challenging behaviors into the house. Along with the deeper voice and the occasional breakout come attitudes and agendas, boatloads of homework and interesting weekend plans, new tastes in music and and colorful words that may or may not be to your liking.

And suddenly you think back to the day you had all littles, and you remember all those more expereinced mothers who said, "These are the easy years!" Though you in your sleep-deprived state might have bristled at her words, you now think she may have had a point.

I certainly am far more aware of how fast it all goes. John jumped out of the van the other day and stopped in his tracks to watch an ant carrying a crumb over a blade of grass. He was mesmerized.

I love this.

I watched him dress in a Batman cape and go out to tthe sand box and to build something or other.

I love this.

Ainsley threw back her covers last night and said, "Here's your spot."

I love this.

I, of course, love my big boys. I appreciating their budding intellects. I enjoy watching the way they care for their little brother and sister. I am sometimes caught off guard by the big questions they're pondering.


So that's a tad more than ten minutes and wholly unedited (though I'm going to add a link to Elizabeth's site so that you can catch what other mothers are thinking and saying).

Frankly, My Dear, I Don't Give a Damn

My morning surf this week garnered thought provoking commentaries on dress and manners and -- to highlight a word that's fallen into disuse -- charm. Writers are looking at the externals -- what we wear and how we present are ourselves -- and pondering what the externals say about the internals.

We live in a crass world. As we drive to church on Sundays, we pass two billboards bearing anti-meth messages. They are graphic. They are in your face; I'm waiting for the day John asks, "What's virginity and why would you lose it in a bathroom?" These ads, rather obviously, are meant to shock.

Along with the rude, the crude, the unattractive, there is the sloppy.Years ago the Women's Olympic Soccer Team celebrated their gold medal with a visit to the White House. Talking heads immediately picked up on the fact that nearly every player wore flip flops to meet the president. Now, all flip flops are not created equal. There's the rubber variety that are basically shower shoes you wear to the Y to fend off foot issues. And then there are blinged out but still sporty sandals that are appropriate at a dressier event.

But to the White House? Hmmm. Do we dress up to meet the president? Or do we give a damn?

It's interesting to me that the question was even raised. Our culture has brought casual to new heights (or lows?). Apparently it is now perfectly acceptable to wear jammies everywhere from college lectures to Walmart. I tend to make excuses for the people at the pharmacy in their flannel sleep pants and scuffs. They're sick, after all. But college classes? When I was in college, yes, sweats were perfectly acceptable duds to sport to class; PJs were not.

A while back, Jen Fullwiler wrote about  our contemporary trend toward casual dress:

I think there's simply not that much that's important to us anymore. I wore faded jeans and a t-shirt the last time I went out to dinner, because it wasn't a big deal to me. As much as I hate to admit it, I wasn't that grateful to be able to be served dinner in a restaurant; it felt more like a right than an honor. However, if I got an invitation from Queen Elizabeth to join her at Buckingham Palace for tea tomorrow, you can bet that that outfit would be the furthest thing from my mind. We still dress up when we feel that an activity is an honor or a privilege.

(Read more at http://www.ncregister.com/blog/jennifer-fulwiler/why-dont-we-dress-up-anymore/#ixzz20Dpx4i7w.)

Civility is a related topic. Once a week or so, I head up the street to our neighborhood Kroger. If Betty is working, I head for her check out line. Betty is an older woman with the smile of an angel and a cheerful word for every shopper and child. Her life has not been easy. She recently lost her husband after a long bout of poor health. She has a demanding job. She's on her feet all day. She deals with rude customers. She is invariably kind.

What the world would be like with a few more Bettys in it.

At the hardware store a while back, I questioned an item that scanned at the wrong price. I quickly learned that the old adage The Customer Is Always Right no longer applies. I was shuffled from the check out line over to customer service where a bevy of irritable employees stood ready and willing to avoid helping me. Twenty minutes later, the associate who had been strong armed into doing the price check ambled back to the desk -- in no hurry whatsoever -- to let me know that, yes, I was right.

Naturally, he didn't actually say I was right. In fact, this associate addressed the other employees, not me. No I'm sorry for the inconvenience; No Here's our policy on scanning errors. His entire affect screamed I don't give a damn. Once ounce of Betty would have gone a long way here. A simple Sorry about the hassle and I would have left satisfied.

Wasn't happening.

As Dave Barry once so eloquently put it, "Anger ultimately benefits no one. You'll end up a mean, resentful person working in customer service."

We work hard on manners around here - please and thank you, excuse me and yes, Mama. What's the point of all this?

Wikipedia says of manners: In sociology, manners are the unenforced standards of conduct which demonstrate that a person is proper, caring, non-grouchy, polite, and refined.

Refined. I like refined.

Refined is an interesting adjective to consider in a household of kids, most of them boys, all of them fourteen and under.

Does it matter that the three-year-old says, "Mama, I need to pee" versus "Mama, I need to go potty"? It does to this Mama. Some of the best parenting advice I've ever received was a single line: Begin as you mean to go on. And so we begin the long and circuitous route of training children to open doors, to push in chairs, to notice others, to make eye contact.

It isn't easy even when you do give a damn.

Years and years ago a friend and I got into it about about letting our kids watch The Rugrats Movies. My take is this: Why let your kids spend ninety minutes hearing language you know you're going to correct them for saying? I'm no purist in all this, believe me. In a moment of weakness this time last year, I mumbled "whatever" when the kids begged and begged to watch Shrek II. Blame it on the heat or on Dave's relentless work schedule; I simply caved.

And did we pay the price for that moment of surrender! John spent months -- months! -- repeating every off-color phrase all while singing "I'm too sexy for this ..."

Jesus enjoins us to love our neighbor. How effortless it is to love the faceless, anonymous "neighbor" living half a globe away who has never once left a wet towel on the bathroom floor, scarfed down the last bite of Moosetracks, or parked behind you when you were in a hurry.

Move closer to home and I start to squirm. Why is it I can be civil, even kind, to cashiers and waiters, pharmacists and receptionists, but get snarly with these precious souls who live under my own roof? A friend posted a pity remark to Facebook: Patience is what mothers display when other people are around. My response? Too funny and too true.

And in those all too frequent moments when I lack refinement and civility, when I fail to be either polite or caring, my children learn yet another tenet of civil society: the way to make amends, the way to ask forgiveness, the way to say I do give a damn, and I'm so sorry I hurt you.

As We're Picking Pecans

John: Mama, do you need a lot of pecans to make a pumpkin pie?


Me: No.

Seven Things I've Learned

1. If the printer isn't printing, smashing the enter button a little harder doesn't really solve the problem. And repeating the same non-working keystrokes over and over again? Sorry. Swearing? Nah.

2. If you don't regularly check your calendar, you may not realize that your sweet mother-in-law is having a birthday in three days. When this fact does dawn on you, you will be thrilled to remember an item she mentioned she would like. When you go on to Amazon to buy it, you will thank God that Amazon has free two day shipping. When you place the order, you just might want to double check that shipping address because the package might just arrive a day before Grandma's birthday, but at your house instead of her house, and no matter how frustrated you are,  Amazon will not repackage the gift and redirect it to Michigan anywhere near in time for her birthday.

Errrr.

3. Without a list, I am lost. L-O-S-T! With a list, I am better. It helps to read the list.

4. Scholastic book orders? I loved them in the second grade. I them still.

5. There is nothing like the excitement of a freshly minted kindergartner looking at a cereal box and yelling, "Mom, it's A! That says A!"

6. If you join Weight Watchers, your loving husband just might come through the door with five boxes of Girl Scout cookies. Never mind that Girl Scout cookie season was six months ago. You will be forced against your will to consume two boxes of Thin Mints and then subsist on rice cakes until weigh in.

7. Prayer moves mountains. As I type this, my friend is facing a mountain. He has voluntarily re-entered rehab and could use all the prayer we could send his way.

Head over to Jen's to add you Quick Takes.

Reasons I just May Have To Buy a Real Phone

1. I am being slowly dragged into the world of texting . . . and it really is useful.

2. Former English teachers like to use punctuation marks.

3. My name is Kelly not Jelly, but sometimes fixing an error requires too much effort.

Making Room at the Inn

We moved a treadmill into our bedroom on Friday.

Let me tell you something: A baby takes up less room than a treadmill.

At least in the short run.

Really.

To make room for the treadmill, I had to vacate what I have dubbed "the corner of shame." What a colossal mess. It's an ever changing mess, a mess for all seasons. It holds Scout gear and birthday presents, miscellaneous junk related to the fish tank and boxes of hand me downs. When the kids were younger and not so adept at snooping, it held all our Christmas gifts.

This time last year I cleaned out the corner of shame in record time. My parents were on their way to Florida and planned a brief layover at my house. Mom was not doing well. She had just been released from a rehab facility following a serious fracture. I knew she had been in a wheelchair. An hour or two before their arrival, my dad informed me that Mom was entirely wheelchair bound. Furthermore, the wheelchair was too wide for a standard bathroom door. She would need to get into our house through a door blocked by the pile 'o shame.

Necessity can indeed be my friend. In the span of an hour or two, the pile was gone, the door was accessible, and a portable toilet stood ready and waiting. I made a space for my mother.

I think the pile reappeared forty-eight hours after their departure.

Friday I tackled it anew, and we now have a treadmill in its place.

Kolbe wants to start running, and he asked if we could find a treadmill. We found one -- a space saving, portable, foldable model -- and it was free! Now don't let the terms space-saving, portable, or foldable fool you. This thing is huge.

As I cleaned and sorted, dusted and donated, I thought of the skill set that motherhood demands. An important element of that skill set is the ability to make a place.

Last week I gathered with a group of women in our community to discuss ways we could do a better job of making other women feel welcome. How do make a place for new people, for older people, for single people, for all people?

The discussion left me thinking about the many ways women make a space for people. Sometimes it's a physical space. Do you have a seat? There's one right here. Sometimes it's emotional space. How are you doing? Can I pop by? Sometimes its material space. I'm running to the grocery store. Can I pick anything up for you?

Making a space is an important job and a huge part of motherhood.

When I was expecting Tim, I spent hours and hours designing his nursery. How fun was that! Four years later, Kolbe moved into the nursery, and I transformed the guest room into a space room for Tim who, at age four, planned to be the first American on Mars.

A  l-o-n-g  six years after Kolbe, John came along, and so did our first set of bunk beds. Nesting with your third is very different from nesting with your first. Having had two babies, I had a clear idea of what was worth taking up real estate, what was completely unnecessary, what I could borrow rather than buy, etc.

I made a space for dear, sweet John. It was a special space, a smaller space, but still a special space. I bought John diapers, wipes, a few sleepers, and a box of Dreft.  I've written before about the years of loss that preceded John's birth. Nesting (even though it was really micro-nesting) was pure unadulterated joy.With each baby I've bought one box of Dreft. I launder and fold all the onesies and sleepers. It's so fun, so, so fun! I must have oxytocin positively oozing from my pores as I fold.

And then Ainsley was on the way. Suddenly the three bedroom house seemed a tight fit. We borrowed a bassinet and purchased an armoire. I bought new onesies and my trusty box of Dreft. In a moment of wild abandon, I bought a set of pink sleepers.

If Ainsley didn't get much space in our house, she got an enormous chunk of our hearts (and, truth be told, she commandeered a substantial part of our closets as the avalanche of pink came in).

Mothers cull through the too-small clothes and sort through the news ones. They box up the Little People and make a space for Legos. The Hardy Boys move out, and J.R.R. Tolkien and J.K. Rowling move in. They buy Scouting equipment and basketball shoes, bicycles and tiny kitchens with red gingham curtains.

I have a son who loves messy, messy crafts and another son who plays the guitar and the piano. We make a place in our house, in our budget, and our schedule for these things to happen. Mothers make a place.They may grumble and kvetch, wring their hands over the cost, pray for logistical miracles to get everyone where they need to be. But they make a place.

Can I tell you a secret? I don't want a treadmill in my bedroom. I like my room. It's yellow and red and filled with dark wood and Mother's Day gifts from the kids and my bridal bouquet and my grandmother's picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus . . . and a big, hulking treadmill.

I don't want a treadmill in my room, but I want room for my son to grow and develop. I want him to  know deep within his heart that his mother was always willing to make a place for him.

Seven Late Takes

1. So after fourteen years of carting little boys to pre-school, I now have two little girls in tow and, let me tell you, it's another world entirely. Love those boys. Love 'em. love 'em, love 'em. But the boys never gave me flowers when I pulled up. The boys never asked, "Aunt Kelly, can we take off our shoes?" I never heard a sweet little voice whisper excitedly, "I know! Let's dance!"

Girls prattle. Day one of the carpool brought non-stop chatter. On day two they went mute on me. I leaned back and asked if they were okay. Everybody got a pulse back there?

This.never.happened.with.boys.

Never.

On day one last year, I got a phone call and a rather colorful account of the language skills John had demonstrated during the fifteen drive. Two words capture it all: Shrek Two. Note to self: If you don't want you're four-year-old singing "I'm too sexy for this shirt", don't let Shrek cross the threshold.


2. After I bobbed Ainsley's hair, and we watched To Kill a Mockingbird, Dave began calling her Scout and told me I should put her in overalls.

She doesn't like being called Scout, but she loves her "olivers," as she calls them.

"Do you like my olivers," she asked the boys.

"They're not ollivers," Tim told her. "They're called Jerry Germanns."

We laughed hard. Jerry Germann is a dear friend who is helping the ninth graders learn to garden as part of an amazing class called Life Skills. Jerry likes to wear olivers.

3. Ainsley has discovered the thrill of talkie walkies, as the little people call them. "Hello, hello," I hear her say. "Can you coffee me? Can you coffee me?"

4. My friend is trying hard to make me love Costco. I've got to say they have awfully nice produce, their meat prices are very competitive, and I love, love, love those samples.

But massive boxes of cereal? It really doesn't matter how cheap it is. It just won't fit. This reminds me of a time about twenty years ago when my friend put a college-aged guy in charge of buying food for a two day retreat. He went to Sam's Club, and my friend, I believe, is still using the mustard he purchased.

A friend suggested I take my double box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, put it in the middle of the kitchen, and call it an island.

It's about the right size.

5. I baked pumpkin muffins for a birthday party this morning. Ainsley spotted a muffin and asked, "Are we going to pat it and mark it with an A?"

6. A visit to the library is long overdue (or at least the books are). Gosh, I hope they don't name a wing after me.

We just read Did the Greeks Really Use a Trojan Horse? The answer? Maybe. This led to a lengthy discussion concerning the Titans and the Olympians. Tim regaled us with the story of Cronus marrying Rhea and then eating each of their children shortly after birth so that none of them could fulfill the prophecy that said the children would one day overthrow their father.

Rhea, clever woman, offered Cronos a rock rather than their youngest son, Zeus. Zeus eventually fed his father wine mixed with mustard, and dear old Dad vomited up the rest of the fam who were all remarkably well for having spent two decades swimming in Dad's stomach acid. Zeus, a chip off the old block, swallowed his wife for the same reason his father swallowed the kids.

Kolbe, mesmerized by the whole tawdry affair, yelled, "Hey Bill, have you seen my sandwich?"

"Son, I am your sandwich."

Kids.

You endure knock knock jokes and  potty humor ad nauseam, and one day they're making literary jokes that really are clever.

7. "Tim," John asks in his most pathetic voice, "would you punch Kolbe for me?" Sadly, Tim complied.

Hurry over to Jen's and add your Quick Takes.