Summer Survival Skills - Part Two

We play gymnastics on couch cushions. We play in water. We climb walls and dress up...in undies. Robert does everything he can get away with...in undies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Summer Survival Skills - Part One

We have officially survived summer. I hate to use that word. I wish I was saying, "I took advantage of every precious moment with my precious cherubs, and we didn't just survive - we THRIVED!!" But folks, this blog belongs to a hopeful mess, not a superstar, and all I can honestly say is, "PRAISE THE LORD FOR THE FIRST DAY BACK TO SCHOOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

The kiddos and I spent every moment together this summer, and people would often ask me, "What do you DO all day every day?" Here is the answer....in pictures:

We build forts. Bud knocks them down. Millie cries. Marge comforts.

 

 

 

 

 

Semi-Deep Thoughts...by Robert

 

On the subject of runny noses:
"Mom, I had a boogy on my finger, but I didn't eat it."
Do you need a kleenex?
"No."
Where is the boogy?
"I lost it."

On the subject of sunscreen:
"My pee-pee will never get sunburned."
Let's hope not.

On the subject of manners:
"This is what God told me to do. He told me to chew with my mouth open."

On the subject of traditional male/female roles:
"Some fairies are boys. And some girls are rock stars."

On the subject of forgiveness:
"I'm going to play a song called - All Our Sins Go Away..........(on his plastic guitar)

"I'm going to chop off the head of our sins!
I'm going to chop off the head of our sins!"

Miller was determined to tattle on Robert the other day, even after repeated threats by me that she had better NOT tattle and had better get back in her bed!! She said, "But mom, it's so bad! Robert called Jesus 'stinky'."

Springtime Pics

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunscreen

 

 

 

I've been working on this entry for a long time...in my mind...and thanks to my brilliant plan to have kiddos skip naps while hubby is away, everyone is asleep at 8 p.m. and I'm finally typing it out. I jotted down these quotes a few weeks ago, but today is 5.18.10, the last day of pre-K before the long, hot summer. Kiddos were excited. I was teary. But that's a subject for another entry.

The other day, I bought a new stick of sunscreen. Miller asked if I had gotten it because the other one was broken. I said that the other one was empty, not broken. She responded, "No. Remember last summer when you threw the sunscreen and broke it?"

Wow. Ouch. OUCH. I did remember. Flashback to last summer - August (I think it was August. I feel slightly less horrible if it was August, but only slightly). I was as big as a hippopotamus and had just put on my maternity swimsuit which itched like crazy and barely covered my swollen belly. I was sweaty. I was irritable. I was trying to get my kids dressed and greased to go cool off in the miserably tepid water of the community pool. I was so angry that I was having to ask them a million times to put on their swimsuits and sunscreen. I mean, there I was, huge but sweet as pie, trying to take them somewhere fun for them (and not for me), and they were making me beg them to get ready? PLEASE. Fury bubbled up and boiled right over, and I threw the sunscreen stick across the room. And the plastic broke.

And the other day when Miller asked me about replacing it, besides feeling sad, ashamed, ridiculous, etc., I wondered: Is that what she remembers about last summer?

People often say things to me such as: I just know you're such a sweet mom. Or: I can't imagine you yelling at your kids. Statements like this, though made with kind intentions, make me cringe. Because, as moms go, I can be sort of a disaster. I do yell, and I throw sunscreen, and that's not the only thing I've ever thrown, or even the most recent thing I've thrown, though I've yet to throw M or R.

We have bad moments at my house. I lose my cool at least 7 times a week. AT. LEAST. And though most of my bad moments don't include throwing, they include words and tones and expressions and volume I immediately regret.

But what about the good moments? What about the hugs and kisses and snuggles and I love you's? What about hilarious conversations and laughter and singing together and dancing and swinging and running around the yard? What about the days when I keep my cool and take a break from picking up the house, and we cook and go to the park and read and color? When my children look back on their childhood, will they remember the good things about me? Or just the bad?

I went to a counselor a few years ago when the bad seemed to be daily outweighing the good, and through tears and more tears, I asked her this question: "What if my kids don't think I was a good mom?"

Her answer: It's not about you.

I think about that response all the time. It's true, but it's hard. What could be better than my kids thinking they have a great mom? One thing - my kids thinking their mom has a great Savior whose grace is great enough for their sunscreen-throwing mom. Even better - letting Him use all my crappy moments to point them to the Father who will never disappoint. Better still - seeing them know Him and love Him.

I've been humbled to the dust in this journey of motherhood, and I hate it but I love it. I know my good moments are all from the One who is Good. I know my bad moments are forgiven. I know I'll have more good as I go along, thanks to the One who promises not to leave me right where I am. I know my worth isn't in what M remembers about last summer, or in my ability to be a perfect mother, but in a perfect God who loves sinners like me.

Some recent quotes:

M: I cleaned this table as good as a whistle. Right, mom?

On our way to a recent superhero birthday, R told me he wanted to spend some time with his friends and asked if I could just drop him off. Seriously. A child with a red shirt about 3 years R's senior was a little too rough on the trampoline. On the ride home, he asked me several times: Why did that red man push us down?

The following quotes need to be prefaced with the fact that R uses the word "down" often and in unique ways; he also loves violence; he's also been told (by me) that he can't hurt anything unless it's hurting him.

R: I need to blow my nose before I sneeze down Miller.

R: I need to shoot a bird. Because birds can peck you down.

R: I saw that cat with a beard. And I almost had to fight it down.

That precious, crazy, wonderful boy just turned four years old. One morning this winter (see above), R ate breakfast in his hat and scarf and I snapped a picture. The one of M & R was taken during a show that M thought was scary. My cherub isn't watching t.v. during her photo op. Yea for me!

I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners. Matt 9:13

Yea for me.

Total Confusion and Poison Control

After a trip to the pediatrician for M's 5-year check-up (a visit I'm too tired to recount), we were settling in for an uneventful, rainy afternoon. The doc had also looked in R's ear for me and discovered that there was, as R had claimed, "a boo-boo in my ear." I gave R his antibiotic and gave M Tylenol for her poor legs that endured four immunizations. I wandered back to my room to feed my cherub and enjoy a few moments of quiet. Too quiet.

R: Mom, that green medicine didn't work, so I had to get some new medicine.
L: What? Did you take some medicine?
R: ............No.
M: Yes, he did. His breath smells like medicine.
(I sniff. I smell cherry Children's Tylenol. I run into the kitchen to find the Tylenol bottle that I left open sitting on the counter and the little medicine cup next to it.)
L: Robert, did you drink this?
R: No.
L: ROBERT. Did you drink this? Tell me the truth.
R: No.
L: TELL ME THE TRUTH RIGHT NOW. It's very important. Did you pour some of this into this little cup and drink it?
R: Hmmm.
L: WHAT?
R: HMMM. HMMM.
L: What does that mean? Yes?
R: Uh huh.
L: YES???
R: Yes.
L: How many times did you fill up this little cup? Tell me the truth.
R: Hmmm.
L: How many times?
R: I take two sips.
L: You took two sips? Or filled it up two times?
(He holds up three fingers.)
L: You filled it up three times? ROBERT. TELL ME.
R: Hmmmm.
L: ROBERT, did you drink three cups of this?
R: Two sips.
L: You took two sips.
R: I fill it up three times.
(By this time I'm on the phone with poison control, trying to recount the details of this ridiculously unclear story.)
L: ROBERT. THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT. TELL MOMMY THE TRUTH RIGHT NOW. TELL ME HOW MUCH YOU DRANK.
R: Where am I going? (He thinks we're going back to the doctor.)
L: You're not going anywhere. You're not in trouble. But I need to know RIGHT NOW how much you drank.
R: I didn't drink any.
L: YOU JUST TOLD ME YOU DRANK THREE CUPS. DID YOU???????????!!!!!!!!!!!
R: Hmmm.hmm.
L: WHAT???????!!!!!!
R: Uh huh. Yes.
All the while, the poison control lady is asking me details about the bottle, throwing out different fractions that might describe the "worst case scenario", and imploring me to do my best to evaluate how much he drank. Millie was loving every minute of the drama. Peggy was crying. Have I ever mentioned that I don't deal well with stress? That stressful situations aren't my best parenting moments?

I've condensed this conversation. It was fifty times this long. I braced myself for: Mrs. Murray - we're going to need you to take R to the emergency room. Thankfully, the sweet lady came back and said I could give him a cup of water and watch him at home.

I mentioned in my last post that I was so content with my identity. That it was the greatest. A cashier at Wal-Mart made me realize this may not be so true. I made a quick run sans children a few Saturdays ago to buy baby food. While I was in the check-out line, a guy walked up behind me who had grown up at my home church. He was several years younger, but I always knew who he was. So I said hello and chatted while we waited. When it was my turn to pay, the cashier looked at him, then me, and said, "Is he your son?"

EXCUSE ME???????????????

"Is he your son?"

NO.

"Do people ask you that all the time?"

NO. Are you an idiot?

I'm kidding. I wasn't mean to her. I just laughed in a "that's really funny but not really" sort of way and walked off, feeling mortified that someone thought I could have a 27-year-old SON.

Why did I care? Why do I care? Because I am VAIN. That's why. And not just a little. I may be the most vain person on the planet. I have a bad haircut right now. And roots. And grays. And cellulite. And it stinks.

I wrote this post a couple of months ago and have been waiting to finish it with something deep and inspiring, but to heck with it. A 5.18.10 update, though. I have a better haircut, and I highlighted my own hair (not great, not terrible); the highlights helped the roots and some of the grays. As for the cellulite...hmmm...no quick fix for that one. But no one has asked me this week if I have an adult child, so that's something, right??

Hard and Great

I've been wanting to start a list about my experience in motherhood. A list of the hard things and the great things. Of course, one of the great things about motherhood is that it's hard. It pushes me to the limit, to the end of myself, and that's great. And, one of the hard things is that I want to attain greatness in this, the most important calling of my life, and I can't.

Back to the list. It's a little awkward-sounding because it's not parallel; some things on the list are specific and some are general...I'm just going with it. And it's not very long. Maybe I'll add more items another day during my spare time.

Hard thing - no spare time.
Great thing - kisses on the lips from my kids. Last night I said, "Robert, I'm so thankful I get to be your mommy!" He just smiled and said, "Okay." Then he planted one on me.

Hard thing - needing help the most when my kids are sick, and no one being able to help when my kids are sick
Great thing - seeing Miller and Robert dance around the den

Hard thing - wiping Robert's bottom with leaves at the park today when I discovered there was no bathroom (If anyone thinks I need to rename this blog "The Poop Report", I can't disagree.)
Great thing - the way Margaret's smile thrills Miller as much as it does me and Andrew. She says, "I LOVE that smile."

Hard thing - waking up from an almost comatose sleep to Robert telling me there's tee-tee on the couch. (I'm sorry, folks, this is my life. Try to block these stories from your mind if you ever have to come over to my house and actually SIT on my couch.)
Great thing - listening to Miller and Robert sing songs to Margaret

Hard thing - figuring out how to teach my kids to handle anger and disappointment well when I don't know how myself
Great thing - seeing them start to grin and then smile big at my attempts to be funny

Hard thing - teaching them to share
Great thing - seeing them, on occasion, share

Hard thing - failing in front of them
Great thing - seeing how quick they are to forgive me and each other. Reminds me of Someone else I know.

Hard thing - being disheveled, and consequently, humiliated. Quick story - I walked all around Babies R Us this week, looked at every car seat, talked to three employees, entered and exited the store several times, with my hair looking greasy and unkempt and my NURSING BRA STRAP somehow HANGING OUT OF THE BACK OF MY JACKET AND HALFWAY DOWN TO MY KNEE. I talked to some neighbors yesterday while holding Margaret and realized a minute later that there was an 85% possibility I had been talking with a considerable amount of thick, white spit up on my chin.
Great thing - being willing to be humiliated. Losing my pride. Realizing that I'm okay with the fact that my identity is now: Mother of Three.

Speaking of being okay with this identity - Yesterday, I heard that random lady on the radio singing "I Dreamed a Dream", Fantine's famous lament from Les Miserables. Do you know who I'm talking about? She won America's Got Talent. Or almost won. What is her name?? Anyway, I started remembering how obsessed I was with Broadway musicals in junior high and high school. I LOVED them. I even...this is really embarrassing...but I even recorded myself singing this song for a school project in 10th grade. 10TH GRADE!! On a tape! For my teacher to hear! Holy cow. What a nerd. I had dreams of being on Broadway. I really thought I could possibly be Eponine one day. I started thinking about other dreams I've dreamed in my life. When I was younger, I hoped I would one day learn to play the guitar well and be a singer songwriter. Or live in New York for a year. Or go to law school. Or write a book. Or be a pharmaceutical rep. Or have another job that was challenging and at which I was fabulous. None of these dreams came true, and they never will. I'm 32 years old. I'm getting gray hair and wrinkles. And this is what I am: a mother of three who walks around with undergarments hanging out. Guess what? It's much, much, much more than okay. It's a dream come true. Not because it's easy, but because it's hard. and GREAT.

I've tried all kinds of tactics to motivate Robert to behave at school. The above is a picture of a Green Party held in his honor (at our kitchen table) after he stayed on green two school days in a row. He told me the other day, "Daddy loves me even if I go on lellow." I said, "Does he want you to go on yellow?" "No. But he LOVES me even if I go on lellow."



"This is love: not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins."