Motherhood | Page 7 | Minivans Are Hot

Eight

July 10, 2011 by Kelli

“Mom.” Hot breath on my cheek stirs me from the deepest of sleep. “I have a stomach ache. Can I sleep with you?”

I mumble something incoherent that he and I both interpret as a yes and he burrows under the covers. His hair smells clean, freshly washed just before bed. I’m poised to drift back to dreamland, but for a conscious moment, I relish him close.

He sucks in a deep breath. It’s sharp. Pain.

“Are you okay?” I ask, more awake now. He clutches his side and pants. It’s probably an air bubble, but in my sleepy haze I immediately assume appendicitis and I push on the lower right side of his abdomen. “Does that hurt?”

“Ow! Yes, that hurts!”

“Oh…sorry.”

In the next moment, he is wrapped around me. Knees and elbows swathed in a narrow frame. His nose is in my neck, his arm flung across my waist. He’s hot and I’m immediately uncomfortable. I’m so tired and my first thought is to push him off on his father who is snoring on the other side of the bed.

But then I stop. His breathing slows and falls into a quiet rhythm. In, out. In, out.

It’s just as it was back when he used to fit a little more snuggly in my arms. Back when I couldn’t wear his flip flops and his hands weren’t nearly as big as mine. Back when his hair was a white blonde fuzz on top of his round head. And instead of pushing him away, my arms engulf him and squeeze tight.

Because I miss back then. I miss it.

But for a few short hours, I got to relive those moments. I didn’t sleep much…or at all. Somehow, though, sleep didn’t matter, just as it didn’t matter back then. Because the moments fade so fast. When morning light pierced through the darkness, he finally stirred and unwound his spindly body. He looked up at me, all blue eyes and freckles. And eight years passed me by in an instant.

“Hey Mom,” he said with a sleepy grin. “Can I have some Nutella for my birthday breakfast?” And as he dashed off to conquer the day, I remained behind. Tired and teary. Grateful for a night of little sleep and thankful for those brief, still moments when he snuggled close and held tight. Those moments will soon be no more.

Happy Birthday, Sloan.

Filed Under: Family, Kids, Life, Motherhood, Sloan Tagged With: children, Love, Motherhood

It’s Not You, It’s Me

July 7, 2011 by Kelli

The kiss of death for any relationship. Can I see a show of hands, ladies? How many of you actually used this cliche line when breaking a poor boy’s heart. Relentless, we ladies are. But I’m not here to talk about relationships. I snagged my man a long time ago and have never once even considered breaking things off. I know a good catch when I find one and me? I got a good catch.

I’m talking about parenting. You know…’cause I’m a Mom Blog (Capital ‘M’ Capital ‘B’). About 6 weeks ago I sat down with a friend to discuss the ins and outs of homeschooling. Have I mentioned we’re considering that for next year? I haven’t? Ah…that’s another post for another day. But, yes, we are. I began considering it before we knew we were going to move and now I’m considering it because we’re going to move. I’ll explain more later.

As I soaked in this veteran homeschool mom’s wisdom (her oldest just graduated high school) I relayed to her my fears. My biggest fear was what if I can’t do it? What if it ruins my relationship with my child to be with him all day long? What if a wall of bitterness comes between us? What if I fail?

I didn’t like her answer. I mean, I did. But I didn’t. *sigh* I’m not making much sense, am I?

“I’ve found,” she said in her sweet and gentle way, “that whenever I am having personality conflicts with one of my kids, it’s usually my heart issue that needs to be dealt with.”

BAM! Right to the gut. You mean I have to take responsibility for my own actions? Parenting doesn’t give me a free BecauseISaidSo pass?! No body mentioned this to me when I left the hospital with my bundles of joy, by the way. There was no sign on the way out that read, “WARNING: Parenting is hard work and more than likely when you lose your patience it will be your fault and not the child’s.”

But the thing is, I know she’s right. I’ve known that a long time, but I haven’t really sat and simmered with that understanding. When I lose my temper with my kids, 9 times out of 10 the problem is mine. In the interest of full disclosure, I’ll give you an example.

Yesterday I took the kids on a bit of a Tour de St. Louis. We hit up the City Garden, the St. Louis Science Center and the Loop all in the span of about six hours. And it required a lot of in and out of the (smokin’ hot) minivan. I don’t know about your kids, but something happens to mine when they step inside a van. Whatever it is is definately not hot. The second they sit in their seats, it’s starts.

“Mom! Landon’s copying me!”

“Mom, Sloan called me a dodo-head!”

“Mom! Tia stuck her tongue out at me!”

“Mom! I’m being bullied!”

And on and on it goes until I’m blue in the face. My grandmother, when her kids were making her crazy like this, used to get in their faces and say, “My name’s not Mom anymore. It’s horses butt and you’re not allowed to say that so you can’t call me anymore.” Can I tell you how tempted I’ve been to pull that line out of my back pocket? I think her sister had a little bit of a spicer version of that line that she used on her kids…

So, riding in the car? Not so fun. Sloan tends to take the brunt of the pestering because he gives the biggest reaction. Lee and I are constantly telling him to ignore them and let us be the parents. He has a tendency to…ahem…step in and take matters into his own hands. This usually winds up with him in trouble. He’s slowly learning that lesson.

So yesterday we spent some time driving and by the third time in the van everyone was a little frayed. We had been having a lot of fun and everyone had behaved marvelously, until they got in the van and it started immediately.

And I snapped. I turned into that mom. The one that looks all wild and huffy. I pulled over on the side of the road and let loose – bad mommy style. As I drove down the street again, oppression set into my chest. I glanced in the rearview mirror at my kids faces. They were quiet, Sloan had tears in his eyes and I felt terrible.

It wasn’t them. It was me. I was tired and a little fried from a long morning. Tia and Landon had been merciless in their pestering of Sloan and he had snapped, but he was tired too. And he’s only 7. I’m old enough to supposedly know how to control myself. So I pulled the car over again. I asked them to forgive me for losing my temper and hugs went around to all.

Then we sang “Kumbaya.” It was beautiful.

When I lose my patience with my kids, it’s my fault. Because the kids are just acting like…kids. Generally I lose my patience when I haven’t taken the time to really deal with an issue. I brush it aside until it escalates out of control then I look at the kids like it’s their fault. But if I would just take the time to deal with things instantly, we wouldn’t have the escalation. All it requires on my part is a little bit of time, energy and focus. Lazy parenting is not allowed.

It’s not them…it’s me. Can anyone else relate to this?

Filed Under: Family, Motherhood Tagged With: Motherhood, Patience, St. Louis

A Wisp of a Girl

June 16, 2011 by Kelli

I see her clearly – a wisp of a girl. Thirteen. Awkward. All knees and elbows, teetering between innocence and angst. She is loved well, but a certain enemy awaits. She doesn’t know it and isn’t prepared for it. And she falls.

“You’re fat,” someone says to her. The wisp of a girl, without an ounce of fat on her body, laughs. Then she wonders.

I see her clearly – a wisp of a girl. She’s looking at a magazine and for the first time notices shape. Long, tall, thin. Is that perfection? She studies the mirror and her eyes cloud. She knows the Truth. She’s heard it a lot.

Fearfully.

Wonderfully.

Image.

God.

Made.

Like the whisper of wind through tall grasses, these words float across her heart. But this time, another wind, less gentle, rough like that of a tornado tears through her.

Ugly.

Fat.

Not perfect.

And she believes it, the wisp of a girl.

I see her very clearly – a wisp of a girl. She is older now, having grown through the awkwardness that defines junior high. She is beautiful, but she doesn’t think so. Though she has been loved well, there are misguided comments from those who just don’t know better. The hormonal teenage boy whose image of perfection is more skewed that her own. “You’re not super skinny,” he says, and he’s right. The wisp of a girl has developed a muscular physique – strong, lean…she’s not the waif that defined beauty in her generation.

The wisp of a girl also replays the voice of her coach over and over, like a broken record. “You sound like a cow when you run.” It was a comment made in passing – lighthearted and teasing. But despite all that she knows to be true:

Fearfully.

Wonderfully.

Image.

God.

Made.

She believes the other voices – the louder voices. Not perfect. Not skinny. Cow.

I see her, the wisp of a girl. She is allowing herself to be defined by the louder voices now. The sound of the wind in the grasses is almost totally snuffed out. In it she hears words like disordered and dangerous. The wisp of a girl is getting lost. Does she hide this shame or wear it as a badge for attention? She doesn’t know. If she advertises, someone might take the shame away from her. So she tries to keep it hidden. But she’s never been good at keeping secrets and before long the wisp of a girl is in a counselor’s office. Tears. Shame. Frustration.

The wisp of a girl.

I see her now, the wisp of a girl. She’s away from home, away from accountability, away. College. In the quiet of night, the tornado rips through her mind and her heart and she can’t seem to shake the destruction it causes. She’s gotten better at hiding it, this wisp of a girl. But the devil isn’t gone completely. He’s still there, waiting. Comparing. And the wisp of a girl, still small, wants only to be smaller still.

This wisp of a girl is so loved, so poured into, that a new beast begins to take over. Guilt. Now more than ever, she knows the Truth.

Fearfully.

Wonderfully.

Image.

God.

Made.

She knows this, and she believes it. But…

I see her now, the wisp of a girl who’s grown into a woman. She’s in a white dress and standing at the end of the aisle is a man who loves her completely. He loves her perfectly. He thinks she is beautiful – fearfully, wonderfully beautiful. Perfect. And she knows it, but she doubts. She doesn’t know why, but she still doubts. The tornado is strong still. And the inner torment brings even greater shame.

Until…

The wisp of a girl cries out to Jesus. It’s not the first time she’s done so, but it’s the first time she’s felt total and complete surrender and, for the first time, the tender whispers drown out the tornado of lies. In one brief moment, the girl is healed.

Miraculous.

Sometimes I still see her, that wisp of a girl. I stand before the mirror and look closely and the tornado winds swirl. I’m not who she was, but she is who I am today. The doubts like to surface every once in awhile, reminding me of the wisp of a girl who was so innocent, so naive, so fooled. But the healing experienced that day years ago is the constant that keeps me going. The whispers are louder and greater and Truth reigns leaving me to rest in healing.

I watch her now, my wisp of a girl. Innocent, beautiful, lovely and perfect. In the stillness of the night, I whisper prayers over her, for her. In the silent black, I whisper my prayers like the wind across tall grasses, a hedge of protection that I hope keeps the voices of dissent away from her heart. Protection. Love. Truth.

Fearfully.

Wonderfully.

God.

Image.

Made.

These are the things I want my wisp of a girl to know and embrace.

Filed Under: faith, Motherhood Tagged With: faith, Motherhood

Living Life: Practicality vs. Wisdom

June 14, 2011 by Kelli

There’s a certain thing that happens when you become a parent. It happens in different degrees and forms for everyone, but we all experience this phenomena:

We become practical.

It’s just natural for a certain amount of practicality to set in once that bundle of joy lands on your doorstep. Suddenly life takes on a whole new meaning. That money you used to spend on late night Sonic runs now gets applied to diapers or formula or a set of plastic keys for your little one to rattle. And you forget what it was like to dash out for a snack at 11:00 at night anyway because, you know, practically speaking it’s not wise to leave the baby home unattended.

Practicality.

Where life was once an adventure, now you have to think about jobs and income and houses and schools. You have to consider how your decisions will affect not only yourself or your spouse, but also your child or children.

Practicality.

Some people are very good at remaining spontaneous, even with children in tow. Have you heard about the family that is driving around the world, living nomadically, raising their children on the road? They’ve been on the road for 11 years, all four of their children born in a different country. I don’t desire that life, but I envy their courage. What they’re doing isn’t practical, but it’s pretty dang cool.

Or this family, whom Lee met recently on an airplane. After adopting a little girl from China, they felt a strong prompting from the Lord to return to their daughter’s birth country and open up an orphanage for special needs children. So they went. They packed up their three young children, sold all their possessions and went.

“What organization did you go with?” Lee asked.

“No one,” came the astonishing reply. “We just asked the Lord to provide and He has.” Through charitable donations, they have raised enough to build a five story building where they currently house 34 children with various special needs from cleft palates to cerebral palsey. And they’ve never asked for a cent.

That’s not practical. But it’s pretty dang spectacular.

I used to fancy myself a bit of an adventurer. I didn’t think twice about hopping on a plane as a 20 year old and exploring the former Soviet Union on my own. I didn’t flinch when I spent 36 hours on a train to Prague by myself, half the time trapped with a horny Iraqi German (I know…). I relished walking the streets of London by myself.

When Lee and I went to Europe last year, I once again found my adventurous roots. I loved not having a plan, living in the moment, exploring, living.

But I’ve felt trapped in practicality for awhile. This isn’t a bad thing, in some regards. Obviously parenthood requires a certain amount of practicality. We have to provide for our children. We have to give them stability and they do need a certain amount of material possessions to feel secure. Of course, our Western world children (as I’m sure yours as well) have far more than they need for security and stability, but as a parent I want to give them good things. Just as I know the Lord wants to give me good things.

But I’m a little tired of feeling held back by practicality. Because there’s a very fine line between practicality and fear. And I think that sometimes?

I blur that line.

I’m not going to act on passion because I tell myself it wouldn’t be practical for my family. But really, I’m just too scared to try it. I’m not going to follow a dream because it would be terribly impractical to do so. ‘Fraidy Cat! As a couple, Lee and I always talk about all the cool things that we’d like to do with the kids and expose them to, but most of them seem too lofty and impractical to really pursue.

We’re scared.

What will people think? What if it takes us out of our comfort zone? What if we fail? What if it requires us to leave all that we know? Where is the practicality in that?

Here’s the thing: I don’t think God calls us to be practical. I think He calls us to be wise. We are not to live in fear. “Do not fear, for I am with you; Do not anxiously look about you for I am your God.” Isaiah 41:10. We are called to wisdom, not practicality. Men are called to provide for their families, and that will look differently for everyone. For some, that means a stable job in a good home where they can minister to, and meet the needs of, those in their local community. For others still, that means selling all you have and leaving.

One of those scenarios is practical, one is not. But for the two men who are guiding and leading their families according to God’s calling placed in their hearts – both are wise.

Does that make sense?

So Lee and I together are working on, and learning, to let go of the shackles of practicality.

Walk in faith.

Live in wisdom.

Cry out to Jesus.

Do not be afraid.

That last one’s a doozy.

Filed Under: faith, Family, Lee, Motherhood Tagged With: faith, living by faith, Motherhood, practicality

Good Morning to You

June 10, 2011 by Kelli

He crawled up in bed next to me and laid his head on my pillow. I rolled over, caught in that fuzzy state between dreams and reality. His soft cheek pressed up against mine, satiny skin dotted with freckles.

I wrapped my arm around him and pulled him close, breathing in deep the smell of little boy. Summer is in his hair – dirt, sunscreen and sweat. My eyes have yet to open but I feel his eyes on me, his breath smelling of apple juice. I squeeze him close and I hear his mouth stretch into a smile. His tiny little arm wraps around me and he returns the early morning squeeze.

Pure bliss.

“Good morning, buddy,” I say, finally forcing my heavy lids to part. He looks up at me with wide, crystal blue eyes and his tiny little bow tie mouth leans in for a kiss. It’s delicious and precious.

“I’m glad to see you,” I whisper in his ear. “How are you this morning?”

There is a quiet pause as his warm little body snuggles close to mine. Then he giggles – magic.

“I jus’ fawted.”

*sigh*

So how was your morning?

Filed Under: funny stuff that happens, Kids do the darndest things, Landon, Life Tagged With: Funny things kids say, Life, little boys, Motherhood

My Montreal Post

June 6, 2011 by Kelli

What if you and your kids could all enjoy movie night together?

It’s a scene that is familiar to all moms. You sit down on the couch with your young ones, excited to enjoy a little downtime together. You flip on the TV and begin channel surfing, looking for the perfect program to all enjoy together. Given the night, you can flip through all 562 channels and not find a single appropriate program.

Because, let’s face it, we can only watch America’s Funniest Home Videos so much before our brains start to melt. Am I right?

If, on the off chance, you happen to catch an evening where there are one or two reasonable shows on for your young children, you will likely find yourself scrambling for the remote at some point during the commercial while screeching at your bewildered children to close their eyes. Whether it be an advertisement for a scary movie or a Hardees commercial, little is safe on TV these days.

That’s why I’m ~~happy~~ thrilled to announce a new movie coming out August 6 as part of Walmart and P&G’s series of family friendly movies.

Want to read more and see my interview with Christine Baransky? Head over to 5 Minutes for Mom and check it out!

Filed Under: Motherhood, the boob tube Tagged With: Family Movie Night, Motherhood, P&G, television, Walmart, Where is Simon Miller?

One more year

June 6, 2011 by Kelli

I am officially one more year older as of Saturday. I am 29.

Stop laughing.

I have to tell my children that because the two youngest can’t say their “Th” sound, which means “Th” sounds like “F” so when they say my age they place me well into a decade that I’m not prepared to enter.

When I was a 19 year old college girl, I began dating a boy who was, at the time, a senior. One night as we sat in his apartment, I asked him how old he was. “23,” he replied. And I almost had a heart attack because OMG 23 was so old.

One year after marrying my husband, we headed over to the home of a couple who was one life phase ahead of us. They had three young kids, a big house and were everything we thought we wanted to be. It was my birthday. “How old are you today?” they asked.

“23,” I replied. And they laughed. “Do you remember 23, babe?” she asked her husband.

“Barely,” he replied and I laughed along with them but for a different reason because OMG 23 felt so old.

Shortly thereafter I began having children. And I waddled around, 25 and knocked up. Feeling so old. Despite the fact, however, that I looked to be no older than a teenager in a very precarious position.

Then I hit 29 (where I have remained) and I finally felt at peace with my age. When you have three children and you’re under thirty, you tend to get a look or two. It’s a look of pity and wonderment. Three kids already, huh? I got asked more than once. So 29 felt right…it felt good.

So I stopped there. Mentally, anyway. The truth is, I’m only in my early thirties. I’m two whole years away from my mid-thirties so there’s really no need to acknowledge the thirties at all, in my opinion.

And there sure as heck isn’t any reason to tell my kids my age. Because if I do, then whenever they’re asked how old mommy is, their reply will be, “Mommy if fowty-fwee.”

And h@#^ no I’m not. I’m nowhere near the 4-number. I can’t be because OMG forty is so old.

Stop laughing.

Obviously, age is just a number and it’s all relative. Forty really isn’t that old, but in my mind, it seems old. I remember my parents turning forty, for cryin’ out loud. But whatever. The older you get, the younger old looks…right, Dad?

But I’m a long way from the 4 number so there’s no need to worry about that anyway. Moving on…

So the number may not be my favorite thing but, I have to say, that in my 29-ish years of life the greatest accomplishment I’ve had by far are these three:

I still feel like that little 19 year old girl floating on the cloud of youth (just the fact that I am compelled to refer to anyone under the age of 25 as “little” or “kid” is evidence of my age…) but I will gladly grow older because each year brings new joys, new blessings and the chance to watch those sweet kids grow.

I’ll take that in exchange for a few new wrinkles. But just a few!

Just please, don’t ask them to say my real age until we’ve had a little time to work with a speech therapist. Deal?

Stop. Laughing!

Filed Under: Family, funny stuff that happens, Kids do the darndest things, Life, Motherhood, Random, things I don't need to hear Tagged With: birthdays, growing older, Motherhood

Once Upon a Time

May 17, 2011 by Kelli

Once Upon a Time, I was cool. Or I thought I was. I was informed yesterday by my oldest, and ever so wise, child that I’m “not really cool now, so much.”

“Really? What am I, then?”

*pause*

*long pause*

*awkward pause*

“Geesh. Don’t answer to quickly, ‘kay?”

“Well,” he says, clearly thinking hard, “It’s just that I’m not sure.”

“So I’m not even a little bit cool?”

*pause*

“When I make you pancakes for breakfast – is that cool?”

“No. That’s more awesome.”

“When I wash your clothes and drive you places – is that cool?”

“Not really. That’s more stuff you’re s’posed to do.”

Oh no he di’int.

“When I play games with you – is that cool?”

“No. That’s fun, though. Hey can we play Uno tonight?”

“So I’m really not cool, huh?”

“Nope,” he says with a shrug. “But you’re awesome and fun and you do things you’re s’posed to do. So that’s good right?”

Um…

I guess.

Excuse me while I go look for my cool pants. I know they’re in my closet somewhere. Probably right behind my fat pants and next to my sweatpants.

*sigh*

There’s a chance I was never cool to begin with…

Filed Under: Sloan, things I don't need to hear Tagged With: Kids, Mama Ain't Cool, Motherhood

The part where I really start to enjoy motherhood

May 16, 2011 by Kelli

I have a confession to make:

I haven’t always enjoyed motherhood.

The act of being a Mom came so naturally to me at first. When Sloan was born I was immediately comfortable with him. I wasn’t one of those neurotic moms who worried about every little cry. I didn’t care if people held him without washing their hands first and I didn’t freak out at every little cough or sneeze. I was laid back.

Except when it came to sleeping. I made that poor child take naps all the flipping time. Four naps a day for the first four months of his life, three naps a day for the next four and two naps a day until he was eighteen months old and he staged a morning nap coup resulting in me freaking out for a solid month before requiring he take a three hour nap every afternoon without possibility of negotiation until he turned four when he staged yet another coup and has refused to sleep since.

Okay I might have been a little neurotic.

I also required 12 hours of sleep per night and made sure bedtimes were rarely messed with. No wonder that child hates sleeping now.

Alright, alright – I was a lot neurotic.

But, neurosis aside, I was comfortable as a Mom. Babies are hard, but now that I’m on the other side of them I find myself snorting at how not hard babies really are. Am I confusing anyone yet?

The real work of motherhood starts when their reasoning ability kicks in. When you are no longer merely keeping them alive and sustaining them from day to day (or nap to nap in my case). Wait…you mean..I…have to…ya know…teach them? I have to raise them to be morally responsible, compassionate citizens of the world who contribute to society in a positive way?

*gulp*

I love being with my kids. I love doing the fun things with them. Going to the Zoo, playing at the park, going to the beach and the pool. I love to do the activity of life with my kids. But the day to day training that’s imperative to their development?

It hasn’t always been my favorite.

In fact, the day to day instruction has always been a bit daunting to me. The business of training them to be respectful and obedient. It’s hard! Give me a fussy newborn over an insolent toddler any day of the week. Can I get an Amen?

For those who know me well, you know I’m not what you might call a homebody. I don’t enjoy just being home. I like schedules and activity. I like to be on the go. I like to sprint through life. But guess what? It’s hard to sprint when there are three little ones whose legs aren’t as long as yours. My metaphor is getting a little rough, I know. Stay with me…

I’ve spent the better part of the last few months trying to slow down. I’ve cut out a few activities here and there and tried to pull back. I’ve tried to spend a little more time at home and when at home, I’ve tried to stop being so…busy all the time. I tend to equate down time with idleness. That’s not necessarily the case. Sometimes it’s good to sit and read a book to the kids in the middle of the day. It’s good for them and it’s good for me.

I’m finally beginning to enjoy the art of motherhood. The hard part. I’m even getting excited about it. I know, right? It’s about time. I’m looking forward to and excited about the process of training them. I look forward to praying for them and being with them. I’m so excited for this summer to just be.

I know it will be tiring and exhausting and hard. But I love the hard. I love the tiring. I’m learning to love the process. I’m learning to sit, to be still, to play Barbies, to have imaginary tea parties, to read books, to live every day life. I’m finally enjoying that part of motherhood a little more. Fewer schedules, more free time, more playtime. I’m slowing down my pace and finally giving my kids a chance to catch up.

This is a great place to be.

Filed Under: Life, Motherhood Tagged With: Kids, Life, Motherhood, slowing down

Meet George, George, George, George…

May 13, 2011 by Kelli

Sloan brought home “pets” yesterday. Tadpoles. Fifty of them…at minimum!

He fished them out of the neighbor’s algae-ridden pool. Naturally.

More than half of them did not survive the night. Much to my relief. The rest are, today, munching on lettuce and I’m headed out in a bit to buy distilled water so they can have a clean, healthy environment per Google’s recommendation.