Ode to Claire on Your 7th Birthday

Dear Claire,

I walked into your bedroom at 7am singing, "Happy Birthday to you...Happy Birthday to you!"

Nestled under your covers, you murmured, "Did you see Holly?  Do you think she remembered that it's my birthday?"

Sure enough, Holly was situated on the piano, holding a number seven birthday candle and instantly, all was right with the world.

This is what happens when you have a birthday butted up to Christmas, you ask about your elf on the shelf.

***

Feisty, precocious, tenacious, determined, exhausting, irritable, creative...lover of all things big and loud, hot and cold...you are my hard to handle child.  You know what you want, when you want it and sometimes, all I want is for you to be quiet and just to do as I say.  But that doesn't sit right with you.  You won't be shushed or silenced.  Your voice matters and you're not afraid to make your intentions known.

Singing, as your piano teacher says, perfectly on pitch--you are a force in motion...always singing, dancing, swaying, skipping, strumming, striking, drawing, painting, and dreaming.  The world is your oyster and you see it as a space to bend, to mold, to maneuver into what you see as fit.

Lover of unicorns, horses, hedgehogs, dragons and Mo Willems books, you live your life in a wonderland of imagination.  You make up stories of characters who go on adventures with elves, fairies, mermaids and wizards.  You write poetry and paint images with detail and abandon.  And, I stand in awe.

Now, entering your fourth month of first grade, you are resolute that you will be a reader.  You try your best to sound out words phonetically, but in the end, your lack of patience gets the best of you.  And you just scream out, when it doesn't come easily....or, you make up your own words, because according to you, you could of written the book better.

Twirling in ballet, banging notes on the piano, riding your bike without training wheels, painting your toenails bright yellow and purple, your life is full and alive.

And even though, many times, we wish you would slow down or give us a little less attitude, we realize that at the core, you are unstoppable and we garner passion and energy from yours.  You teach us to let loose, to be free, and to grab what life has to offer--and when it's not enough--to make your own.

Everyday, we are grateful for your spirit, your smile and the way you make our hearts sing.

Here's to the seventh year...may it bring you more opportunities to chase the sun and to know just how deeply you are loved.

Love always,

Mama

Your Voice

September 21, 2016

Dear Kate,

Last night, you curled up next to me in my bed with your latest Golden Sower book, excited to do all the voices, and to introduce me to a character that you can't get enough of.

I was so--so--so tired.  I awoke at 4am, only to discover that going back to sleep was not in the cards for me, worked the day at school and then spent the evening shuffling to and from activities.

I kept my eyes open as long as I could.  I just kept looking at you and listening to you.  Your whole face stood animated, alive, engaged--up until the point when you HAD to turn to garner one more delicious bite of chocolate ice cream.  You're so, so, so beautiful.  Really.  It astounds me.  The way that you say, "Wait, mama.  This--THIS--is the best part!" and then you tell me about hugging your sister because she got really hot on the playground and how you're worried that Sam just seems to be doing homework all the time and that you'll have pizza tomorrow, so I don't have to worry about making a cold lunch and that you really liked my polka dotted dress today.

So, when I woke up and saw that you were not there and realized that I had fallen asleep during your reading, I felt like a terrible mother.  I sheepishly, made my way into your room and apologized to which you retorted, "I was trying to ask you a contextual question and your mouth was open, but your eyes were closed.  You took away my voice."

Shit. Shit. Shit.

It was late.  You were tired and hurt and I was tired and hurt and so, I didn't get to say this.

If there is one promise, aside from fostering your faith on this earth, I will never, never, never keep you from finding, speaking, and nurturing your voice.  You have my word.

There is nothing more important than discovering who you are, what you care about, your lines in the sand, the places that you will show up to and the hills that you will die on.

I know what it feels like to be a young woman who is not recognized for her voice and it is a small, humiliating place to visit.  This land of power mongers is not for you.

You, my daughter, will have the support to grow your heart and your lungs and your mindset and your tribe, so that when the time comes to go to war, you will be on the field prepared for victory.

I will never squelch your voice or your dreams or your possibilities.

I am your advocate.

I am also human and tired and stretched and learning and trying.

So, forgive me when I need to refuel.  As you'll discover, most women are still trying to nurture their voice and the things that matter to them, well into their lifetimes.  And this forty one year old mother is no different.

I love you.  I believe in you.  And I'd love a second chance at hearing your voice tell the tale tonight.  I promise to keep my eyes open.

Love, Mama xo

Exhaustion and Gratitude

'Tis the season...

For all of it, baking pies, decorating cookies, carving turkeys, gathering around tables, breaks from the office or the classroom, travel, families, late nights, bottles of wine, mugs of hot cocoa, screaming, laughing, remembering, waiting for your family member to remind you of that one time that you did that one thing that you wished had just never happened...it's the holidays.

This weird amalgamation of the almost passed over Thanksgiving, Chanuakah, Christmas tree/lights, New Years parties, resolutions and then boom...your ultimate dedication to turn a new leaf and make 2016 your absolute best year ever...just as soon as you get the God damn tree down to the curb along with the fucking Lego boxes that these ungrateful ingrates have left all over the house and your in-laws hit the road and the office lets you have a real vacation without 2,500 emails from John who apparently could give two shits about family time and goes in to "catch-up" over the weekend.

And today, for me, was the start of the madness.  The day before Thanksgiving.

Like a dip shit, I went to Trader Joes along with a bazillion of my closest friends and my three children.  I've frequently lamented how my kids whip around the aisles with those miniature red carts and make minced meat out of the innocent shoppers who are simply trying to make a discerning purchase.  With the volume of traffic today, it left very little room to go crazy.  Instead, the last minute shoppers made stink eyes at my littles and mentally told them to fuck off while they pilfered the shelves searching for organic pumpkin puree.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I thought, before the pies, wouldn't it be fun to let the kids take their hand at making chocolate chip cookies from scratch.  And then the measuring cup filled to the brim with brown sugar got thrown into the Kitchen Aid standing mixer and little bits of chocolate sugar cane affixed themselves to every crevice of my kitchen and the inside of my jeans and bra.

I screamed.  I doled out mean words.  And then, like usual, I felt guilty.  Son of a bitch!  Why can't I just let everything go to Hell in a hand basket and be okay with it?  They're only little for a short time.

Every year, I vow to do better...to spend time being grateful in the moment instead of distracted by the to-do's and the continual being behind the eight ball in the eleventh hour of everything in my life.

And so today, I focus on the serenity prayer and this quote by Marianne Williamson, whom I love...

"The only way to gain power in a world that is moving too fast is to learn to slow down.  And the only way to spread one's influence wide is to learn to go deep.  The world we want for ourselves and for our children will not emerge from electronic speed but rather from the spiritual stillness that takes root in our souls. Then and only then, will we create a world that reflects the heart instead of shattering it."

'Tis the season to make yourself and the world the way that you want to be focused only on harboring the blessings and not the minutia of the to-do's.  No one will remember everything you didn't do...they'll only remember that you showed up, imperfect and real.  

Navigating the Waters of September

I don't know what September looks like at your house...but here's what's been going on at mine.

From the moment that we round the bend on our walk home from school, my fifth grader, third grader and preschooler, kick off their shoes, grab a snack and immediately start prioritizing which homework needs to be tackled first; assessing which tests have to be studied for; analyzing the best window to sneak time in on that Social Studies project in the midst of shuffling off to football practice, ballet, swim team and music.

And we're all tired.

Because the truth is, it takes a while to get adjusted to a new homework regimen, teacher expectations, extra curricular involvement and what it means to stay focused on school work long after you've left the building.  And with each new grade comes a progression of information that requires all of us to try and breathe and trust that with time, routines will morph, the brain will absorb, the will power will rise up and the yelling will dissipate.

But I forget and so do they...

And so in the midst of the management or lack there of, we get short with each other, we say things we don't mean, we project our stress and we fizzle out.

If I had to guess, I'd predict that the whole deal has been the hardest with Sam because as the oldest, he and we, right or wrong, hold him to a really high standard.

He is hard working, extremely bright, bears the weight of the world on his shoulders and is as interested in pleasing his parents as he is in learning the material and having a general curiosity about the what the hell is going on in fifth grade.

And man, the boy has a shit ton of homework.

So when I watched him walk out of the doors of school this afternoon, I could see so much of me in his eyes and in the back pack strap he clipped around his waist for extra support.  It's just a lot.

And I'm conflicted because academics have always been extraordinarily important to me.  A love of learning and a strong work ethic is honestly, a bare minimum.  But in the same breath, I'm also trying to remember that he's 10.

As we continue to navigate this push pull relationship of working harder than we have in the past and letting go of the reigns to teach him how to be more accountable for his success as a student, I say, here's to time on our knees as parents.  I've prayed so much in these last few weeks for grace, for peace, for trust that he won't need extensive therapy because I've jacked him up.

And here's to our little ones just trying to do the best they can while maybe getting time to throw the football or the frisbee or to build in Minecraft or to ride their bike or to lay in the grass and stare up at the sun before it's dark by 5:30pm.

Here's to all of us making it through September.

Why We Do It

Yep, that's a picture of my foot and my blackened toe.

I'm gonna lose another one.

This will be my fourth casualty in the love of running.

When I inadvertently showed my friend the other day, she said, "Why in the Hell do you do that shit? Haven't you suffered from like every running injury known to man?  Maybe, we're just too old."

And, well, she's kinda right.  I've had shin splints, IT band issues, hamstring, knee and heel pain, lost toe nails and now, some unknown throbbing pain on the top of my right foot. 

So, I started thinking about it.  Why do I do it? Maybe running is just too hard on the body, particularly the older you get and if you were never really an athlete in the first place.

Then, because being a mama is my primary role in life, I started likening motherhood to running. 

Being a mother is not easy, by any stretch.  There are days when I come out of the trenches looking far worse for the wear with very little reward to show for it minus the fact that my children are alive and I am too...but just barely.  I've suffered infinite scrapes and bruises to my heart and my ego, continuous amounts of sleep deprivation, hair pulling, back talking, eye rolling, screaming, crying, gnashing of the teeth...and that's just getting started.

But after nine years of doing this gig with three kiddos, I've also experienced a love that is unparalleled by anything else.  And I would walk through fire for any one of them every day and twice on Tuesday.

And well, it's worth it.

Just like running.  When it starts to hurt or gets to be a bit overwhelming, you back off, try a new route, ice down the worn parts, ibuprofen the inflammation, and then, well you get back on the horse.

Because the high that comes from the endorphins, the adrenaline, the release of toxins and unnecessary stress is really, well for me, unparalleled by anything really, other than, wait for it, wait for it...sex.  You knew that I had to say it.

For now, I'm stuck with the ugly parts of me like blackened toe nails, chaffing and sore quads.

As well as the sassy comments from the littles when they're overstimulated, undernourished, irritated at the world, or just in a funk...but sooner, rather than later, I'm reminded of why we do what we do...it's so worth it.

Days are Long

I know all of the mantras.


Don't wish this time away.

Before you blink, they'll be grown and gone.

The days are long, the years are short.

You can't imagine it now, but you're gonna miss it...best time of my life.


And yet, this morning as I was rushing around to get it all done, I slowed for a moment and remembered...

Fork, knife, spoon, coffee mug, juice glass, water bottle, towels in dryer, whites in the washer, jammies in the pajama drawer, toothbrushes in their holders, pull the covers up, throw the pillows on, pull out of the driveway tuning her favorite CD, kiss her, leave a note in her mailbox, grocery store, apples, can't forget the toilet paper, Target, why am I here at least twice a week?, gas station, why do these birds keep shitting on the car?, bank, deposit jewelry money, meeting at church, back to the preschool, oh my God...I'm not drinking enough water for the race tomorrow, shit...what if I get lost on the course?, and now she's whining, uh oh, she feels warm, oh no, no fevers before tomorrow, back to the house, boil water for the macaroni and cheese, construction paper on the table, oil pastels, you spell it...C...L...A...I...R...E., shit, I forgot to pull his work shirt out of the dryer, have to call back the dentist, she needs to get that tooth pulled, why won't they let us wear headphones on the course?, can I run the whole time without music?, is his jersey clean for the football game tomorrow? damn, macaroni and cheese boiling over...

This is about 3.5 hours of my morning.  I know, you're glad you're not me.

I live in my head a lot.  Remembering, planning, strategizing, organizing, keeping track, praying, hoping, being grateful.

And while I trust that this time is sacred, it is also incredibly exhausting and full, very, very full.

I'm certain that many other women do it better.  They have systems in place.  They're creative.  They're organized.  Or, they just don't give a shit.

I'm in the space of trying to be appreciative while simultaneously being butt ass tired.

So, it's hard to not want this time to pass because I really do look forward to space, time to think, the idea of being alone, and a bit more sufficiency from my littles.

But as I look at them and listen to them, I am mindful that this is the great adventure, exhausting as it may be.

The Dance of the Tiger Mama

Okay, I'll admit it. 

I'm a Tiger Mama.

And not a little bit of one either.

If you're not familiar with that term, you might substitute it for a helicopter parent, an "overly involved/engaged" parental influence, a very "hands on" mother.

From the time that my children were in the womb, they probably had a significant inclination that academics are very important to me.  With regard to the school experience, I value academics and the faith component of our educational environment more than anything else.

Specifically, I value the desire to voraciously read, the ability to write well, and the love of learning.

To that end, I firmly believe that every child in the world should have access to a public library and an adult who can help to get them there.

And hopefully, they also have someone or better yet, multiple someones in their life who set the bar high and expect them to achieve beyond what they personally think they are able to.

If you ask my children, they will undeniably tell you that I am "that person" in their lives.

I make no bones about it.  Their job is to go to school and to soak up as much knowledge, insight, wisdom, and information that they possibly can.  And then, when we come home, my job is to both keep them accountable for what they've learned and to provide them with opportunities to apply that knowledge in the world.

They like using their knowledge....they just don't like being accountable for it.

Like most parents, we have instant access to their grades, an amazing source of quick and helpful communication with their educators, and community resources that are abundant when it comes to helping them grasp a concept or master a skill.

What we don't have is enough fucking wine in the house when the shit hits the fan which is about every third night.

And it hits the fan because my oldest, my fourth-grader is on overload.  Like me, he's a type A, first-born who has high expectations of himself and does not want to disappoint.  But he is stubborn and he fights dirty and he has no problems with hitting below the belt.

His latest was something like:

"Fine, mom...I don't care if I fail this test.  It will be your fault.  I'll never leave my bedroom.  And you can live with how that makes you feel."

Or...

"Until my grades are suffering, leave me alone."

In both instances, he has a point.  Asserting his independence, he's essentially saying, "Back off, lady.  This is my life.  These are my grades.  I kind of kick ass.  So stop making a Federal case about it."  And in my heart I'm thinking, "You're being lazy.  If you'd just spend half a minute reviewing your work, you wouldn't make careless errors and we wouldn't be in this God foresaken boat after school. And, while we're at it, you should be thankful that you have a mom that cares so much."

Instead, we both sulk.  We exchange sharp words.  We circle the wagons.  Cut each other some slack.  And come back to the complicated, unconditionally loving, albeit, hard as hell, mother son relationship.  And we know that we'll find ourselves right back here again on Tuesday.

I used to care how other moms did it.  Now I don't.  I'm owning how I do it.  Flawed, imperfect and full of love.  Here's to the dance of the Tiger Mama.

A Broken Light Fixture and Heart

Beat up from the feet up.

It has been a day.

A good one in so many respects, but as I've crawled into bed with a cup of tea and my computer, I'm mindful of the exhaustion.

One of the few benefits of living in an older home is that the architecture lends itself to an extraordinary amount of character and a unique living experience.  It also lends itself to plumbing problems, one car garages, minimal closet spaces, and lack of storage...but the crown molding, hard wood floors, arch ways, vintage light fixtures, and stained glass windows make up for it.

And so it was after mass today, my three wild and crazy kiddos were running like beasts in and out of bedrooms having Nerf gun wars, tag team ambushes and a fantastic time getting their yayas out.  I was making grilled cheese preparing to take the girls to a birthday party and out of the blue, my husband and I heard a huge crash and then a quick scampering of feet and then a deafening silence.

And then, my husband yelled out, "Oh my god."

To which I went into the girls' room and saw my favorite vintage green light fixture in shards shattered all over their room...in their desks, their pillows, their windowsills, their dolls, their shoes, everywhere.




I didn't scream, stomp my feet, throw a fit or ground anyone.

Instead, I turned to my children and said, "You broke my heart."

I know, I'm a heartless bitch.

They all converged on my son, Sam's room, closed the door and started talking in hushed tones while I finished chopping vegetables.  Instantly, I knew my response was wrong.  A light fixture is a thing and given how high it fell and how much glass dispersed, we're insanely lucky that no one was really hurt.  It could have been a bad deal.

So, when they headed to the dining room table, I gave them the speech that I swear to God my mom gave me and my siblings many moons ago.  "I'm really sorry for my reaction.  I know it was just an accident.  But mommy has such few nice things that it's really painful to see it go with something we've talked about before.  Rough housing belongs outside."

Long after the glass had been cleaned and we started to prepare for the new week, I was still beating myself up.

If you tell someone, particularly, the people you love the most that they've broken your heart, you better mean it and for good reason.

This was not one of those times.  Lesson learned.

I Love You Over and Over Again

It had already been a long morning.

We woke up to mowing the lawn, changing out the laundry, preparing for mass and in general, getting life ready for the first day of school tomorrow.

Following lunch, I hauled my 3-year old daughter, Claire to do the week's grocery shopping.  We were listening to Vacation Bible School songs on the trek belting out all of the words.

And I was tired.

Viscerally tired. 

I just finished week three of training.  The weather is five bajillion degrees of Hell outside.  There's always something to do for the house and/or the kids.  And well, sometimes, I'm simply going through the motions.

Grabbing the fun kid-cart, I bought an iced coffee for me and a chocolate milk for her and we made our way down the list.

Until we got to the bread aisle which is bizarrely across the way from the pharmacy and she spotted "Doc McStuffins" band-aids that she had to have to which I replied, "Not today."

And for what seemed like an eternity, she whined, "PLLLLLEEEEEAAAAASSSSSEEE....(repeat ad nauseam).

Until by the frozen fruit, I broke down in my own whiny, please kill me now, I can not take this anymore voice, "Claire...I am NOT buying band-aids that we don't need.  You need a new tooth brush,,,maybe you'll find something you like there.  If not, it's not my concern today.  Mommy is exhausted.  I have next to no patience and I'm just trying to stay on task.  So, PPPPPLLLLLEEEEAAAASSSSEEEE stop asking me for something that I cannot give to you."

To which she said, "I love you," over and over again and again.  She's really good at this.  She has a smile that can melt your heart and eyes that bear into your soul and then when she uses her sweet voice to tell you that she loves you, you're done for.

But in that moment I realized, I've been tired for a long time.  I'm probably going to be tired for a lot longer.  Raising kids makes your bones ache and your head pound and your heart fill with more love that you could possibly imagine.

Here's to telling our people how much we love them...over and over again...ad nauseam.

Love Upon Demand

Exhausted.

Beat up from the feet up.

So tired that my eye balls hurt...and my hip, can't forget the new war wound.  It must be that I get to test out pain in all parts of my body to determine that yes indeed, I want to be a runner, badly enough.

It also must mean that it's 4:00pm on a Friday afternoon that is cloudy, damp, and cool outside.

And then when I think about where the week went or better yet the day, I see her coat.  It's red velvet and little, really little, hanging out by her shoes, her pigtail holders, and the back pack that she's been carrying around pretending that she's a big girl like her older sister.

And, it's the revolving plate of cookies.  And the spelling test prep.  And the talk about flag football and the fire truck that came to visit school. "Do we have two escape plans in case of an emergency?" 

And it's the cub scout uniform crumpled up in the corner and the macaroni and cheese smooshed into the socks by the library book bag and the cobwebs that will not go away.

And it's "Mama...Mama...Mama...I'm here, hold me, love me, be available to me now or I'll explode."

And it's that feeling of wanting to curl up and be held by a force that will just take care of everything for you upon demand and your command that I get.  I really get it.  And it's not unreasonable.  It's just that somehow we grow out of expecting it because it's not reliable or organic to every situation.

But right now, in this moment, I say simultaneously...bath, wine, nap, sushi, chocolate, love, breath...immediately.

Please, Please Stop Whining

I forgot about this phase.

I should have recorded it with the two older children, so that it wouldn't have caught me so off guard and in the end, been such a pisser.

My soon-to-be two-year old daughter is going to be the death of me, literally.

She's teething, has some form of a cold or allergies, and is refusing to sleep through the night in her bed.

She's learned to throw temper tantrums and instead of shouting "no" in disapproval, her signature retort is "MO!" which means no in Claire speak.

She is beyond exhausting.  She's consuming so much energy and mental mojo that my husband and I are ready to hop the next plane to anywhere.

"It's just a season."

"This too shall pass."

"Try to enjoy it.  Soon, they'll be grown and gone."

All of this is great advice, but offers little to no comfort when you're thick in the trenches. 

The only thing that provides refuge is her crib.  She hasn't yet figured out how to crawl out...and a sound machine which somewhat drowns out the incessant whining...and a glass of fill in the blank which sometimes numbs the constant irritation.

I feel horrible documenting these feelings, but it is what it is...the joys of parenting a toddler.

I'm sure I'll miss it, but definitely not today.

Here's to Sleep & Indulgent Behavior

Today was the first morning in ages that I woke up and thought, I can't run.  I'm too exhausted.

Lacing up my shoes, it all started playing like a movie in my head.

For probably two weeks leading up to the Chicago Half Marathon, I didn't sleep.  Or if I did, it was fitful and fraught with weirdo nightmares of getting lost.

Compounding my lack of sleep, my whole family, and many families around us are sick with some yuck deal that is either a virus or a severe case of allergies.

Consequently, I've been pounding Emergency drink, Airborne, Zinc, Vitamin C and water.

Then my calendar smacked me in the ass when I realized that I've volunteered for a shit load of roles/events at my kiddos' school and church.

And, another half marathon in 8 weeks.

And, a jewelry business that I'm resurrecting.

And, I'm crazy.  Certifiably so.

So, at the risk of sounding immature...lazy...or sophomoric....here's what I want to do.

I want to run my long run on Saturday morning, drink a ginormous glass of vitamin D chocolate milk, take a steaming hot shower, fall asleep to a great play list, wake up and start drinking.  You name it.  Martinis, Mimosas, Champagne....it doesn't much matter.  I just want to drink.  Then sleep again.  Then sleep some more.  Take some ibuprofen.  Regain consciousness.  Resume the routine.  And be happy.

It's okay if it's only a fantasy.  It's a beautiful one that may someday become actualized.  Until then, here's to sleep and dreams of indulgent behavior.

They Call Her Love

I've had love on the brain lately.

Mostly, because everywhere I turn, I see ugliness.

Political digs.  Facebook commentary.  Billboard signage.  Commercials.  Protests.  Sidebar conversations.

So the other day, when I was driving, this song came on.  It's an old one.  You've probably heard it before.  Not paid it any attention.  That's cool. 

But it grabbed me because the band Parachute personifies love as a woman...a person...an entity...someone who saves.

And the truth is, we're spending lots of time, energy, resources, and space hating on each other.  I know it's not that simple.  I know, in our minds, we find all kinds of justifications, rationalizations, and reasons for our behavior.  We've got to create a better governmental system.  We need to save our children's future.  What about the environment?  The machine is broken.

But at the end of the day, what I'm finding is less people engaged motivated by hope and more people apathetic to change of any kind.  It's not true for everyone, but it's certainly palpable.

I told a friend the other day that I was sorry.  Sorry for not being there for her.  Sorry for the place that she'd found herself in.  Sorry that our connection wasn't stronger.  And I ended with, I love you.

They call her love, love, love.  They call her love, love, love.  She is all I need.

I Didn't Want to Go...But I Did...

As I write this, I'm cradling a BIG cup of coffee that I never intend to put down.

Last night sucked, like of the royal suck variety.

We transitioned Claire (18 months old) into a toddler bed two days ago and for the most part, she's been handling it like a champ...until last night.

After more iterations of "Good Night Moon," then should be allowed, more singing of the "A,B,C's" than I care to claim, and more "Where's your nose?  your eyes?  your belly button?" and "Mama loves you," our sweet little angel turned into poltergeist.

Unable to stay asleep in her bed for more than two hours, even after two stints at the pool yesterday, I finally made my way to the couch for the night.

Wailing like a wounded dog with her nose permanently stuck under the door, I finally put her in our room at 5:00am, just in time for me to grab my shoes, a banana and a whole lot of self will to get out the door and run.

Why do kids always jack things up?  I mean that in the most loving way possible.

You have good intentions of getting a good nights sleep, waking up to a strong workout so that you can do everything during the day for your loved ones...and then, they suck the blood right out of you.

I remind them regularly that it's a good thing their grandparents keep tabs on them or I'd sell them...we need the money.

Breathe In, Breathe Out

Moments after my husband left to take our oldest on a cub scout camping trip, our youngest daughter, Claire (17-months) woke up from her nap with a raging fever. 

So we spent last night up and down interchanging ibuprofen, acetaminophen, water, rocking, singing, walking and in general, sharing exhaustion.

Our middle child, Kate (4 years old) has been an absolute trooper.  Entertaining herself with oil pastels, painting, building forts, reading Dr. Seuss, eating Bomb Pops, and watching Toy Story... I owe her big.

We haven't left the house.  It's 5:00 pm and we're still in our pajamas.  Claire's had three  tubs.  I've drank copious amounts of coffee and eaten more dark chocolate covered espresso beans than I care to admit.

And, all in all, we're winging it and trying to breathe in and breathe out until bedtime.

Do you ever have those days?  You know the ones.  Where they don't go down at all as you'd expected.  I had planned to take the girls and their friend to the park for a picnic lunch.  I was going to paint Kate's toes and my own.  We were going to order in pizza and watch a movie.  It was going to be a fun girl's weekend.  But with a baby attached to my hip and crying ringing in my ears, I'm trying to remember to be in the moment.  Even though I wish the moment would pass before I lose my mind.

I Don't Need You

We had an amazing, beautiful, insane, off-the-charts busy, blessed, colorful, exhausting weekend.

My parents came into town from Dallas.  We celebrated my nephew's third birthday.  We hunted for eggs three times.  The Easter Bunny came to our home.  We made it through mass.  We hosted meals and brought meals to other family member's homes.  And by 4:30pm this afternoon, my four-year old daughter, Kate had reached her breaking point.

Her older brother and cousin were playing soccer in the backyard while the adults were cheering them on and the baby was happily swinging.  Throughout this time, Kate was insistent on playing "Red Light, Green Light," but no one else seemed to be interested.  After her final pout, a melodramatic walk-off, and the very loud words, "I DON'T NEED YOU!" screamed out of her mouth to her family and to her mother, a soccer ball landed squarely in the center of her forehead and she lost it.

After everyone left, we sat over Easter candy and talked.  I asked if she really meant what she said.  And through chocolate and jelly beans she muttered, "no...I love you."

But isn't this how we feel...when we're done dealing...exhausted...beyond our limitations.  We don't want to be around anyone and we don't want anyone to get in our way.

That's where I'm at now.  The kids are in bed.  The dishes are done.  The party platters are put away.  I'm icing my legs and I just don't want to be needed by a thing in this world.  And yet, I want to be needed and loved by my family more than I can imagine.  Love...it's what makes the world go around, even when you've been loved to the gills on an Easter holiday.