You Have So Many Things To Love When You Love Everything

It doesn't take much for our children to get us thinking, does it? My oldest draws pictures all the time to express what's in her heart, and although my boy doesn't care much for drawing, he loves to tell us stories and make silly analogies that give us a little bit of insight into the way his mind works. Children are often so much more clever than we 'grown-ups' give them credit for, but what I treasure the most is how they challenge me to get back to the basics, to a simplicity that I lose when I have my head in 'the world' for too long.

You have so many things to love when you love everything.

Ever since she drew this picture, I've had her words rolling about in my head from time to time. There's so much to hate in this world. There's so much to fear. There's so much to wonder and worry about all over the place.

And yet she wrote about love. That is what sticks with her, and I'm so thankful. It's not what sticks with me anymore after innocence lost and years of words that don't match the actions. That's the reality of life as we get older and find that we have to return to love...to recall its power...to fight to remember its truth and beauty. It's far too easy to get caught up in everything else.

I am wanting, simply, to love well. I could hate that I'm not always good at it. I could be afraid that I might cause another to forget its true meaning. I could worry that I'll never be able to do it well enough. But those thoughts are NOT the ones that should stick with me.

I have so many things to love.

Writer's Block

When I was younger, a long, long time ago, in a house that didn’t have fancy things like a computer or the Internet or Blogger, I scrawled my ideas on notebook paper in the forms of silly stories and poetry and carefully composed my thoughts in a little purple diary with a tiny lock on the side.

Sometimes I think I did better back then than I do now. There’s something oddly gratifying about the scribble of a freshly sharpened pencil lead against clean, white paper that doesn’t happen with keyboard clicking. Not to mention there was significantly less eye strain.

My first story, inspired by R.L. Stine’s Goosebumps series, was titled “The Horror of the Bunkin Party.”

What is a ‘bunkin’, you ask?

Well, you see, people in the south tend to leave the g’s off the ends of their words, such as when they say something like, “I’m fixin’ to go to the store” or “I’m gettin’ some bacon cause I’m cookin’ turnip greens.”

My mother, a true southern gal, referred to sleepovers as ‘bunking parties’, and I assumed that ‘bunkin’ was just some sort of adjective that described a sleepover where you made pumpkin buns or something.

When I finally discovered the error, I promptly changed the title of my story to “The Horror of the Sleepover.” Cause, you know, I’m so original.

The story was hilarious. I think. I don’t really remember it. (If I have any regrets in my life, it is only that I don’t still have that story.)  I just remember giggling to myself as I wrote it and reread it a thousand times.

All my young life I dreamt of being a writer, not knowing that a writer is simply one who writes. I was a writer – I just didn’t know it. When an idea hit me, I stopped what I was doing to go write it down. I would get up in the middle of the night to write down a dream so I wouldn’t forget. I’d write down silly things that made me laugh, and it all brought me a great deal of enjoyment.

It’s easy to take a hobby too seriously and forget that it’s fun, that you actually love it. When you’ve so tightly woven something into your identity, it can feel like a chore. You think you have to do it perfectly all the time or it’s no longer a part of your definition.

My fifth-grade self knew that the thoughts didn’t have to flow out in flawless fashion. Even if it’s goofy, even if no one reads it, even if it doesn’t make a difference in the world, it’s still okay to write it. Even if it has a really bad title.

It’s what I would do…when I was younger.

While You Weren't Sleeping...But Should've Been

A while back I was trying to come up with some blog post ideas, and I considered writing about the crazy things that sleep deprivation does to a person. However, I find myself unable to come up with much material for such a post because I honestly feel like I’m getting fairly decent sleep this time around. I was expecting the lethargic lifelessness that occurred after Hannah was born, when my eyes were glazed over in an unendingly vacant stare while I feared that I might never feel any semblance of normal again.

It’s not like that this time, hooray!

Even so, I’m still thoroughly lacking in the energy department, so my blog posts are probably going to continue to suffer in quality and quantity for a while. My brain is not functioning on all cylinders (not that it ever did), but that’s okay. I need rest, and I need precious time with my babies. But I also need some time to myself to stay sane, so I’m going to continue to work on that balance.

What I do know is that it’s funny how staying up too late or not getting enough sleep is similar to drinking one too many margaritas. I remember a time long ago – I was in fourth grade – when I couldn’t fall asleep one night. Instead of counting sheep or some other sort of harmless activity, I came up with a “genius” plan. By the light of my alarm clock, I penned two secret admirer letters - not to actually give to anyone I secretly admired, but to play a practical joke. I planned on leaving them on the desks of two male friends I had in class. Both letters said something like, “Meet me by the big oak tree at recess.” (I don’t really remember where the meeting place was, but that sounds good enough.) I thought it was going to be hilarious for them to show up at the tree and see each other standing there.

So that night I feverishly scribbled away on the notepad, giggling like a maniac in anticipation of watching this all go down. I patted myself on the back for being so HI-LAR-I-OUS. And the next morning at school I went through with my plan.

As genius of a plan as it was, it was not without its flaws. I failed to take into account the fear that fourth grade boys have of romance, so I watched in horror as both of my targets, upon reading their letters, proceeded to take them up to the teacher and show her. No, what are you doing? I screamed in my head. This is not part of the plan!

Convinced I was going to get into trouble, I tried to pretend I wasn’t paying attention as the three of them looked around the room confusedly. Nothing ever came of it, but to this day I believe the teacher knew it was me. I’m sure my face must have turned beat red out of the terrifying realization that she probably thought I had crushes on both of the boys.

Life lesson: Do not try to be hilarious when lack of sleep (or consumption of alcohol) is involved.

Thank goodness Abram has a tendency to go to sleep by 11 p.m. Otherwise I just might persuade myself to engage in more shady (albeit hilarious) activities.

I’m in for it if my kids end up being anywhere near as goofy as I am. So far signs point to yes.

Costume FAIL

One Halloween night many years ago, I dressed up as a vampire. Now my frugal mom was never one to spend much money on our costumes – understandably, since they only get worn once – so my sisters and I often had homemade touches to our attire. Mom decided that since I was the “undead”, it was vitally important that my face was white. Finding a household product for such a purpose proved to be a difficult task. We didn’t have any sort of powder…Flour?...No, that wouldn’t do the trick…Ah, yes, of course…Noxzema.

For those of you unfamiliar with Noxzema, it’s a deep cleansing facial product that, oddly enough, contains many of the same ingredients as my beloved VapoRub. However, I most certainly do not have the same nostalgic feelings toward Noxzema as I do VapoRub, especially after this particular night.

When she applied the greasy goop, the first thing I noticed was how badly it stung my face.

“It’ll go away,” my mom assured me.

Eager to get started on the trick-or-treating, I accepted this explanation and chose to ignore the stinging sensation. We set out into the neighborhood.

The stinging did not go away.

My eyes watered and my skin burned more with each step we took. But I was determined and was not going to let some minor inconvenience like my face melting off to get in the way of my candy-collecting fun. I persevered through the pain, even though the vapors made my eyes feel like they were peering into the vortex of a steam engine.

When we returned home, I quickly removed the toxic mess from my face and happily munched on some chocolate, minimally affected by the ordeal. On the plus side, I probably had a really clear complexion for several weeks afterward.

When I recently reminded my mom about this particular incident, she was ready with the phrase that all parents must keep handy when their kids bring up these types of memories:

“You lived.”

An Ode to the Swing

When we were dismissed for recess during school, most of us would make a mad dash for the swings in the hopes of being the first to snag one of those coveted little contraptions. It was a rare occasion for me to actually get one, as it seemed like there was always another class that had been released early, and my heart would sink when I would round the corner and see that they were already full.

In an effort to make the swing-nabbing fairer, the teachers came up with a “brilliant” plan: If you wanted to swing, you could stand near one of the swingers and count to sixty. The swinger would then have to relinquish his spot and give you a turn.

The problem with this is sixty seconds is barely enough time to get the swing to full speed and enjoy a good ride, not to mention the poor shy kids who did not have the guts to participate in this plan. There was always the chance you’d end up choosing a little punk who’d refuse to get off once you’d counted, and I never wanted to risk having to spend my recess tracking down a teacher to tattle to.

But one glorious day I actually managed to find a free swing right at the beginning of recess. Oh, how happy I was! Those swings were BIG, and you could go HIGH. And I did. I pushed and pulled my weight until I had that thing flying so high and so fast that I thought it might break.

I was elated. I felt like I was soaring into the clouds, my little heart pumping wildly with joy. I was exhilarated by the whole awesome experience - the wind in my hair, the sun on my face, the strength in my body as I pushed myself higher and higher. I was unstoppable.

“Fine! I’m telling!”

Shocked, I looked down to see an angry kid beginning to stomp off across the gravel. He had counted to sixty, and in my state of euphoria, I hadn’t even noticed. I skidded to a stop as he smugly returned.

After giving up my beloved swing, I spent the rest of recess walking around the playground, deflated and discouraged. I could have counted to get the swing back, but I likely would have had to give it up sixty seconds later anyway. And I knew that after such an abrupt disruption to my psyche, it would be impossible to get back what I’d had.

I love that I have that brief moment of bliss to look back on. It’s a shame that it couldn’t have lasted through the whole recess, but I suppose it was an important life lesson to learn. No matter how hard we try to hold on to those idyllic times in our lives, they are so, so brief, and sometimes it’s impossible to avoid the interruptions. But we’ll always have them in our hearts.

Always, always, always enjoy the ride. Because none of us ever has any idea how long it will last. And when you let someone else have his turn, go ahead and let it last the whole recess.

The Incident

Running out of room in there =
bladder trampoline for baby

Lately my bladder has felt like a punching bag/squeeze toy. I probably have to pee an average of 87 times a day, and although this is a normal part of pregnancy, the constant trips to the bathroom are starting to drive me nuts. On the plus side, frequent urination also brings to mind an interesting story from childhood:

One day in kindergarten we were in the middle of recess, and I was enjoying a game of tag (or something like that – it was 23 years ago, so I can’t say for sure) when all of a sudden I felt the urge. I promptly made my way over to the teacher on duty and asked if I could go to the restroom.

“Recess will be over soon. Can you hold it?” she asked.

I pondered her question. I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t want to disappoint.

“Okay,” I said reluctantly.

I made my way back to my friends. Somehow in my little mind I thought this was a test. The teacher wanted me to hold it, and I wanted to make her proud.

But the urge kept getting stronger. What had once felt like a slowly expanding water balloon was beginning to feel like an enormous tidal wave getting ready to burst through a dam.

My friends were standing around, talking and trying to decide what to play next. Gravity was taking its toll, so I sat down on the ground, hoping it would somehow make the discomfort go away. Stay in, stay in, I kept thinking. Please don’t come out. But alas, it was not to happen that way. The next thing I knew, a river was springing forth from underneath me and flowing down the pavement.

Maybe no one will notice, I thought.

One of my friends pointed to the stream. “What’s that?”

I don’t remember much after that, other than trudging back to the teacher and informing her that I had wet myself.

She looked dumbfounded. “I thought you said you could hold it.”

Um, lady, I’m five.

Morals of the story? Well, first, if a child tells you he/she needs to pee, then by all means direct the poor little thing to a restroom! This I know from potty training Hannah - children are so distracted at playtime that when they finally tell you they have to go, that means they have to go RIGHT THEN.

Secondly, don’t overestimate a child’s sense of judgment. Common sense and discernment are not things we are born with – they are qualities that develop over time. This is why kids notoriously never reveal they have to go potty until they have already been bundled up to go outside.

And lastly, don’t try to be tough or try to please someone else by “holding it in” – metaphorically speaking. I was the type of child who was a little timid and didn’t want to be a burden to anyone. Had I just been assertive and insisted that I needed to go right away, the whole incident could have been avoided. And I’m still a little like that, still learning how to let my needs be known without worrying that I’m putting someone out.

Folks, we learn a lot more from our playground days than we realize.

Now, I'm off to the restroom...again.

A Soothing Salve and the Sincerest Form of Flattery

Aaaaaah, yes

Does anyone else have the problem of not being able to go through the medicine cabinet without opening the jar of Vick’s VapoRub and taking a big whiff?

Seriously, I LOVE the stuff. There’s just something magical about the aroma, that tantalizing mixture of menthol/eucalyptus/camphor. It must be a nostalgic thing since I always got it rubbed on my chest when I had colds as a kid…but all I can say is if I see a jar of it sitting there, I HAVE to smell it.

I suppose there are much worse quirks to have. My grandmother once told me she loved the smell of gasoline so much that it made her want to drink it. Yikes.

I got to thinking about this because Hannah just recently got over a cold, so of course I’ve had the delightful concoction nearby, and now Hannah wants a sniff every time she sees it. I’m not sure if she genuinely likes the scent or if she’s just imitating Mama, but it’s definitely true that kids are little copycats at this age. They are watching EVERY. MOVE. YOU. MAKE. That’s why it’s so vitally important to set a good example at all times. Of course, as humans and as parents, it’s impossible to be perfect - but we do have to be mindful of the little eyes that are on us.

Eventually, our kids are going to grow up and make fun of all of our idiosyncracies. I know this from being a daughter. (You’re welcome, Mom.) But right now I embody everything Hannah knows about the world, and that is a pretty heavy concept to think about. My actions shape how she learns to behave and adapt and interact. It’s such an amazing and scary responsibility.

Daddies are just as susceptible to this scrutiny, perhaps even more so when there are daughters involved. Hannah adores her daddy. Every day they go to the garden to see if there are any vegetables to pick. To her dad’s dismay, she routinely picks unripe tomatoes off the vine when he’s not looking and cheerfully displays them. She just wants to make him proud. Maybe that’s also why she sits at his computer with his headphones on and pretends to chat with her gaming buddies.

Taking over daddy's "man cave"

My children will always love me, but they won’t always revere me. They will realize that I’m flawed, that I don’t have all the answers, that I have silly quirks that drive them nuts...and that’s okay. I just pray that I will provide them with the best example I can possibly be. I just want to know that I have done all I can to shape them into strong, loving, beautiful souls.

And I also just want to know if there is anyone else out there who has a bizarre obsession with VapoRub…

Daydreams and Thought Streams

I was such a dreamer as a kid. I would get so lost in my own mind that I would unknowingly make ridiculous or bizarre facial expressions and would not realize it until after someone else had already noticed. I would eventually look up to find the spectator watching me intently, with a look of either extreme confusion or dread/repulsion – I was never quite sure which. (Granted, this usually happened as I was staring out the window of the school bus, a place where kids tended to look at each other with repulsion.) I can’t really blame them because I must have been quite a sight. Why is that weird girl over there gritting her teeth and flaring her nostrils at nothing? But those experiences forced me to attempt to reign in my thoughts and emotions and make a concerted effort to keep them hidden.

Has that stuck with me? I think so, to an extent. I think we all have hesitancies about revealing our true thoughts and feelings, out of fear that others will find us odd. But the funny thing is that as a result of turning myself into a closed book, I often wonder if I’m generally misunderstood. I’d like to say that I don’t care what other people think of me, but I really do. It bothers me if I feel like someone has the wrong idea about me. After all, I don’t know who wouldn’t want to be friends with the co-creator of this awesomeness:

*warning – shamelessly unnecessary cute kid photo ahead*

I think about the way that my daughter makes me feel, and I hope that I am that for someone. I hope I am capable of giving affection the way she does, of bringing joy and laughter to someone, of just being a soul that other souls want to be around.

I know I can’t be that for everybody. In sixth grade we took some sort of social studies quiz about relationships and interacting with others. It was just a quiz for fun, but back in the day I took all quizzes pretty seriously, and being the typical idealist I was, I marked “True” next to the statement “It is possible for everyone to like me.” It took me a long time to figure out why I got that question wrong.

Thankfully, there are many times when I look at Hannah and think, I must be doing something right. It brought tears to my eyes the first time I saw her wrap her doll in a blanket, give her a kiss, and say, “Night-night, baby.” A few days ago I asked her, “Hannah, are you Mommy’s best friend?” I don’t think she has any idea what that means, but she replied, “Yes, Mama. I wuvoo,” and gave me a hug. It just doesn’t get any better than that.