The Weeks Since

On December 24, 2010, I lost my mother to breast cancer.

On December 24, 2013, I found out that I was pregnant.

When the strip turned into a plus sign, a positive, a wordless life-changing message sitting on the ledge of the bathroom sink, I thought of two things: 1) oh my God, I’m pregnant, and 2) The date.

In the weeks since, I have thought a lot about this coincidence, trying, and failing, to understand it. Instead, I have accepted it as the work of a much higher power. I have accepted it as the work of my mother—giving me a sign. And a gift.

In the weeks since, I have thought many times about how I could possibly do this without her. I have thought, there is still so much advice she hasn’t given me yet. All that advice I was supposed to fight with her on and say, “Hey, I’m going to do this MY way.”

But really, how much of my way will in the end be her way? I am sure all of it will belong to her, from calming Baby’s cries, to singing lullabies, to rocking Baby to sleep, to healing sick Baby, to making Baby laugh.

All of it belongs to her, and now to me, passed down from generations. And generations. 

In the weeks since, I have thought about all the things I’m going to tell Baby about her.

She was an artist. And an architect.

She could make dream homes appear on forsaken plots of land. She made dreams appear.

She had a gap between her teeth she refused to close. It’s for luck, she said. Baby, I hope you have a gap between your teeth the size of an ocean, a valley, a sea.

She was patient. And kind. When I was overcome with stress, or grief, when I couldn’t sleep, my mother would take her finger and smooth the space between my eyebrows. It was a repetitious movement, her pointer finger against my skin, smoothing out the wrinkles, the worry, the fear.

Baby, I hope you see her best parts and pieces through me.

In the weeks since, I have felt her absence, and her presence, in equally intense waves. There is a hole in my heart, but my heart is full. There are words left unsaid, but I know everything she would have told me. This new beginning, this do-over, this birth, this re-birth, they are all reminders that the line of life is fine. And impossibly sweet.

They are all reminders that there are no coincidences, only signs. And eternal, never-ending gifts. 

Me and my mom, circa 1998(ish)

-Yaz
We are so excited to have Yaz as a regular honest mom contributor! To read more about Yaz, click here.

She Let Go

Sometimes as parents we have struggles that we want so desperately to share but never do.

Sometimes we just want someone to take our hand and say, "Me too," or at the very least, "I have a friend who," and just hearing that makes us feel a little less alone.

Sometimes we just keep the struggles to ourselves, out of fear in sharing or fear in sounding like a burden.

Sometimes we work through those struggles and we triumph. Or not.

Sometimes we just need to read the most perfect words at the most perfect time.

I love these words. Hope you will, too.

Without a thought or a word, she let go.

She let go of fear.

She let go of judgments.

She let go of the confluence of opinions swarming around her head.
She let go of the committee of indecision within her.

She let go of all the ‘right’ reasons.
Wholly and completely, without hesitation or worry, she just let go.

She didn’t ask anyone for advice.

She didn’t read a book on how to let go.
She just let go.
She let go of all the memories that held her back.

She let go of all of the anxiety that kept her from moving forward.

She let go of the planning and all of the calculations about how to do it just right.

She didn’t promise to let go.

She didn’t journal about it.
She didn’t write the projected date in her Day-Timer.

She made no public announcement.

She didn’t check the weather report or read her daily horoscope.
She just let go.

She didn’t analyze whether she should let go.

She didn’t call her friends to discuss the matter.

She didn’t utter one word.
She just let go.

No one was around when it happened. There was no applause or congratulations.
No one thanked her or praised her. No one noticed a thing.
Like a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go.

There was no effort. There was no struggle.

It wasn’t good. It wasn’t bad.
It was what it was, and it is just that.
In the space of letting go, she let it all be.

A small smile came over her face. A light breeze blew through her.

And the sun and the moon shone forevermore.

Here’s to giving ourselves the gift of letting go…

There’s only one guru ~ you.

The author of this poem is unclear.  A few sites list Ernest Holmes as the author, another Jennifer Eckert Bernau and still another Rev. Safire Rose.

-Kristin

The Frozen Lessons

In case you've been living under a rock for the past few months, the creative geniuses at Disney have released a new film entitled Frozen, which has taken the world by (snow) storm, literally.

My husband and I took our two daughters to see it in the theaters in January, and the mesmerized looks on their faces said it all: they were truly captivated by the story line, characters, songs and messages conveyed in the film.

So we HAD to see it a second time in February. (Thanks again, Polar Vortex!) Then we stumbled upon YouTube videos of the songs which led to many nights of Toddler Karaoke. Next, we simply HAD to buy the soundtrack. From thereafter, every voyage in the car and every meal had to be accompanied by Kristen Bell and Adele Dazeem (Oops, Idina Menzel! Shame on you, Travolta!!). To this day, when those first few notes are heard, my husband and I give each other the "Frozen" look, which also translates to "Dear Lord, if I have to listen to that song ONE more time, I am going to go INsane!!!" 

But do we continue to listen to the soundtrack EVERY day? (And do we sing along?!) Of course. 

Did my husband purchase the DVD the day it was available in stores? You betcha. 

Olivia and Madelyn anxiously awaiting Daddy to arrive home with the FROZEN DVD!!! Squeel!

Do our girls watch the movie practically every.single.day? Um, yep. 

Olivia wouldn't stop shrieking during the first home viewing of the movie. Madelyn had to 'shush' her.

After careful consideration of our parenting decisions to allow this obsession with a film continue, I have decided to channel my inner Elsa and I've just LET IT GO!!!!!!!

Here are five lessons that our daughters' have learned via their obsession with the movie Frozen: 

1) Geography: The movie is set in Norway, in the beautiful port town of Arendelle. My oldest daughter, Madelyn, became fascinated with its location, so we had to research more about Norway and its culture on the Internet.

2) Spelling and Phonetics: Not a day goes by that Madelyn doesn't ask me how to spell a word or character's name: "Mommy, how do we spell Kristoff? How about Olaf? And what about Hans?" Her curiosity leads her to take our her pencil and notebook from her book bag, and we practice phonetically sounding out the letter-sound combinations of character's names. Consequently, she happily records them into her spiral notebook.

Perhaps the Ohio Department of Education could learn a thing or two from Disney? Maybe if they would center their Kindergarten curriculum tests around themes which are meaningful to children, they would see an increase in overall student achievement?! :) ::Teacher stepping off her soap box::

3) Vocabulary: Yesterday, after watching the scene where Anna discovers Oaken's Trading Post (and Sauna!), Madelyn inquisitively asked me: "Mommy, what does the word crook mean?" To which I replied: "A crook is someone who is dishonest and doesn't make good decisions." Later on, when squabbling with Olivia over which Lego set to construct, Madelyn proudly used the word in a sentence: "Sissy! Don't be a crook! Give me back that Princess Lego set!" (Yes, it was a proud Mommy moment.)

Madelyn was also very curious after the scene when Olaf unknowingly walks into the large icicle "Mommy, what does the world impaled mean?" 

My kid is going to ROCK her SATs one day. All thanks to Frozen. 

4) Girl Power: The movie conveys the message to young girls that it's okay to be comfortable in your own skin. Even if you're Elsa and possess magical powers which frighten Arendelle's citizens and place an eternal winter over the city which will not relent. Even if said magical powers help create a magnificently beautiful crystal ice palace and others think you are an evil sorceress. Because every person matters. Every girl is unique and valuable, despite society's preconceived notions about what girls CAN and CANNOT do. Every girl can impact her world with a special talent, gift, or ability.

Madelyn asks my husband and I almost daily, "Why was I born with Turner Syndrome?"

To which we reply: "God knew you are a brave and courageous girl. In spite of all you have to endure, he knows that you will never let this label define you. Because you are special, just like every other girl is special in their own way. And you are loved."

Children are faced with far too much drama and conflict at such a young age. Bullies, self-esteem concerns, popularity wars, social media, the list goes on. 

We want our girls to understand that they should be proud of who they are. Be confident and strong, and believe in yourself, for you CAN achieve your dreams. 

5) The bonds of sisterhood: No, I'm not referring to Greek Life at Ohio University, where I was a proud member of Chi Omega sorority, but rather, the lifelong bond that sisters can cultivate. 

Olivia and Madelyn are as different as any two siblings can be.

Madelyn is always sweet, energetic, and she's a definite people-pleaser. If she even thinks she hurt someone's feelings or didn't follow the rules, she crumbles into a pool of tears. 

On the other hand, Olivia is a DIVA. Plain and simple. Every transition is difficult for her. Sleeping through the night, ditching the pacifier, transitioning to a big girl bed, potty training. Sigh. (We are currently in the throes of the latter combined with typical two-year old tantrums. Fun times!)

Ever since they saw Frozen together for the first time, we have witnessed them become much closer as sisters and as friends. 

Despite the fact that they are three years apart in age, they LOVE recreating the scenes from the movie by dressing up and playing the roles of Anna and Elsa ("Mommy! It's Coronation Day! Why?! Why do you shut me out, Elsa?!)

At bedtime, after tucking them in and kissing them good night, my heart swells a bit as I walk down the stairs and I hear them whisper to each other:

"Good night, Anna." 

"Good night, Elsa." 

"I love you."

The joy that I feel to know that our daughters accept, encourage, and appreciate each other for who they are is reason enough for me to continually hit PLAY on the DVD remote to start the movie again. For the 24th time. (I am about to lose count!) 

Whatever obstacle may arise, the movie Frozen is an adorable way to teach our kids to be their courageous and true selves, no matter how outsiders may choose to view them.

Our girls constantly blurt out the quote shown below which has resonated within them as a source of inspiration. Oh, and they simply LOVE using it as a rebuttal when they think that spring may have actually arrived and they scoff when I remind them that they need their coats and hats. 

-Amber

The Spring Break SAHM Shower

I get to play the SAHM role quite a bit during my various teacher holidays.

Today started Spring Break.

I decided to "sleep in" (7 a.m.) and enjoy a leisurely morning.

At 9 a.m., it was time to shower. While my usual work day showers start at 5:30 a.m., and I'm groggy and tired and sad that I'm not still in bed, I'll take it over the 9 a.m. SAHM shower.

First I sat--nearly naked--on the cold tile floor to read Hop on Pop to Reid, who was crying that I was even getting in the shower in the first place. You know that glass door that would separate us is pretty much the same as me being in another country.

I then ran into the water before he could reattach those little fingers to my wrist and whack me with the book, but the glass door just made him cry harder. (So at this point, I'd actually rather be in another country.)

After attempts at singing to him and playing a lame game of hide-and-seek with my washcloth, I decided to send him on an errand.

Which turned into ten errands.

Which is how I ended up with an assortment of nail polishes, and the chapstick and moisturizer from my nightstand with me. In the shower.

I think I'll be getting up at 5:30 a.m. tomorrow to shower in peace.

-Kristin

Spilled Milk

Last week, one of my eighth grade students posed this question:

"Mrs. Kauffman. What do you, like, DO, on Instagram?"

I thought--but not for too long--and asked her to clarify. So she did.

"I mean, like, what do you look at on there?"

I decided this was a valid question. Teachers sleep at school, never go home, never wear pajamas, and they certainly don't take selfies OR peruse social media.

So I rambled off a list of people I follow, in this order: DIYers, photographers, fashion bloggers, and moms.

Which brings me to today's post.

I was perusing my IG feed yesterday when I read a mini blog posted by a photographer (I happen to love the IG mini blog--an anecdote of inspiration) about spilled milk.

Her father had given her a story about a mom who, when her son spilled a gallon of milk on the floor, used the experience to teach a lesson: well, how should we clean it up? What tools should we use? And further, upon completion of the clean up, she let him practice carrying a full jug outside so he could get used to the awkward shiftiness of it.

Genius.

So you mean, like this mom?

I so want to be her.

I do. 

I wish wish WISH that I could repel flying orange soda with the hose from the kitchen sink and BE COMPLETELY OKAY with that. 

I wish that when milk goes tumbling across my kitchen table to form a lake so that the table looks like an enormous boat sailing in a sea of white that I DO NOT GET ANGRY. 

I wish that when these things happened I would laugh and say, "That's what paper towels are for!" 

Or even just maybe say, "Son, tell me, what do you think we should use to clean this up? No worries if you get it wrong the first three times and we actually end up just smearing warm milk film or better yet--sticky apple juice--all over the floor and into the crevices of cabinets. Mistakes happen. Let's learn!" 

I can't. 

Before we had kids, I watched one of those mom paper towel commercials and I said to Greg, "That'll be me. It's just milk. You clean it up. I will never get mad at my kids for doing that." 

Greg laughed hysterically and promised me he'd remind me of that declaration time and time again.

And he has.

But the truth is--me being honest, here--there are usually 38 other things going on when the milk spills, and it is usually preceded by a "PLEASE don't do that" (or ten) and someone is at the door, the dogs are barking, my pants are being yanked on because grapes are not cut up into miniscule pieces quickly enough, and the absolute last thing I want to do is STOP and clean it up. The chaos that was 38 things becomes the chaos that is now 39, and the whining intensifies and the dogs bark louder, and what was just a little Fred Astaire tap dance across my nerves becomes an all out marching band stomp and the only thing I want to do is YELL. 

If I did just stop, and take that deep breath, and ignore the 38 things, and gain a little perspective on the fact that it's JUST spilled milk and no one is choking or bleeding or with dangling appendage, then maybe I would find myself responding to more teachable moments and less moments of anger.

I would also have more time to take selfies. 

#chaos

#honestmom

#widn

I think the first step is being aware. Thank you, random photographer on my IG feed, for reminding me that I need to spend more time teaching and less time yelling. It's the truth in my classroom and needs to be the same in my home. 

We are so not starting these moments with a busted gallon of milk in the kitchen.

-Kristin

Be Human

There's a video making its rounds lately on the topic of how we raise our boys--you can watch it here. 

Apparently, we are experiencing a shift in our society. The gist of the video is that the three most harmful words you can say to a boy is "Be a man." 

In other words, suck it up, don't cry, don't show your emotions. Ever.

I don't know about you, but these words were never spoken to me: not by a coach, a teacher, my brothers, or even my dad. 

I also don't know that I would ever say these words to my own boys--after all, what is it really to "Be a man"? Some sort of machismo responsibility? 

If there's no how-to, step-by-step instruction manual, then they aren't for me. Or my kids.

Instead, I think I'll say these. Sage advice, if you ask me. 

Regarding Growing Up

• Eat your vegetables. They may taste yucky to you today but I promise, when you are older and someone adds bacon and sauteed onions to your brussels sprouts, you will clean your plate.
• Be nice to you brother. He may give a toast about you at your wedding one day. Don't provide too much fodder.
• No. We aren't there yet. See that sign? That's our street sign. We just left the house. Here's a map. Chart our journey. Someday the satellites that control GPS will fall from the sky and you'll have to know how to read a map.
• Only five more minutes on the iPad before it rots your brain.
• Never shave against the grain. Period.
• And by the way, sorry for the acne, glasses and braces. You didn't win the genetic lottery here.

Concerning Others

• Be respectful of everyone and everything. That includes the roly-poly bugs you squish. Don't squish them. 
• Always be a good friend. 
• Be yourself.
• Remember that other people are just being themselves, too. It's okay if they're different from you. We still ask them to play superheroes and build blocks. They might teach you something new.

Sports

• I guess it's okay that you root for Ohio State. I've picked nothing but losers when it comes to sports. From high school to college and professional sports, I've only witnessed one championship team. And I was ten when it happened.
• When I beat you to the top of the stairs in our nightly race, it's to teach you how to lose. No tantrums. No hitting. But a "You tried really hard" can go a long way in learning that not everyone wins all the time. 
• That said, it's okay to cry when you lose. It's okay to cry when you are sad. It's okay to cry period. It's okay to have emotions and show them to other people. That's called human. 

Be human, son. 

-Greg

I Really Miss Trapper Keepers

Hey can you take the trash out while you still have your snow boots on? My husband walks in the door to me yapping orders. It’s only Monday but I’m already a bit fried. Another snowy and icy week where the kids and I will move from room to room and go through the motions of playing, eating, napping, repeat.

Yeah, but I don’t even need them anymore. The sun must have melted the driveway! <said with the same tone one would remark about the unicorn giving free rides in the park>

My husband didn’t even consider that I shoveled the driveway--the crumbling, uneven driveway, with compacted snow from his tire tracks.

While the kids napped.

When I usually like to sit for a minute and watch women of great wealth snark at each other.

The sun?! The SUN? THE SUN?!?! IT. WAS. ME!  I was in the midst of trying to cook dinner while simultaneously yelling at the kids to play nicely and at the dogs to stop making piles of slobber near where I was chopping veggies. My hair was frizzy and thrown into a messy ponytail. The black yoga pants I pulled on in the morning were covered in yellow dog fur with traces of toddler sneeze. And, like my face, my hooded zip-up looked tired and crumpled. 

For the rest of the night I whacked away at that deceased horse:

Thanks for dinner. It was good.

Oh, no problem--THE SUN DID ALL THE WORK!

Do you know where Sass put her pacifier?

I don’t know...why don’t you ASK THE SUN?!

I know, I know…I can be a long day.

It feels wrong to me to complain about being a stay-at-home-mom when things get rough. It’s like I’m complaining about my family…which I am. I feel shrill and bitchy when I do it. If I go on about how Sassafrass never.stops.moving, it makes me feel guilty, like I am somehow saying I don’t like my kid. But, three years ago? I was complaining about my boss who called me in to accuse me of forging an office document and threw papers at my head (might I clarify that I did not and he just looked in the wrong file folder). Well, that was more interesting cocktail banter than a fidgety toddler.

I was a philosophy major (one of three women in the program) and went on to become a criminal defense attorney. I was in and out of lock up in the county jail and it never phased me. I am quite comfortable in what my grandparent’s generation would have considered a “man’s world.” It wasn’t that I ever avoided a more “traditional” life; I think it was just that I didn’t realize I actually wanted it. 

I was lucky enough to work part-time after Monkey, but I still wasn’t happy. I wanted to be home with him every day. I felt like I had a foot in each world, and both were slipping. After all those years of pricey education I felt guilty wanting to stay home with Monkey. I felt like it would be interpreted as laziness or occupational malaise.

After Sassafrass was born my husband and I figured out how I could stay at home full-time with the kids. It was a mutual sacrifice chosen by my husband and I together. We reduced both our income and my sanity. I was a public defender making shockingly little money for how much my degree cost, and I never really had a tight grip on my horses, so one could argue the sacrifices were minimal. But still. I got what I wanted so desperately.

Therefore, I should not be entertaining any negative feelings towards my new chosen profession.  

Just because you get to walk on the path you chose doesn’t mean it’s easy. I had wanted to go to law school for as long as I could remember. The dream was born right after my belief that I was the next great fashion designer. I turned in my Trapper Keeper of fashion sketches for a calendar full of scheduled trials and briefs. When I got to law school and realized it was just piles of hard work, I actually felt lucky to be living my dream. Many people were there because they didn’t know what else to do with their lives. Those classmates were like the kids in gym forced to run laps for punishment and the rest of us happy law students were the cross-country team. But living my dream didn’t mean the papers and exams sucked any less.

So I find myself again in the same position: I want to be a stay at home mom and consider myself lucky to be able to do it, but it still doesn’t feel right. I don’t even look the part. I don’t do well looking “casual.” If I throw on a t-shirt and jeans I look like I got a 3 a.m. call to meet someone in the emergency room. I never really rocked the business suit either. I seemed to believe my suit jackets were somehow magical, thus preventing the outside world from seeing that underneath I was wearing the tank top I purchased in eleventh grade. No life choice has ever really “fit.”  

I spend my days doing what a chauvinistic relative calls “the domestics.” I find myself planning meals, cleaning the house, doing my husband’s laundry and sometimes not leaving the house for days on end.  I work in service of my husband and children, and a lot of the time I feel overworked and under appreciated. But doesn’t every working adult?

How many spouses give you a pat on the back for meeting that presentation deadline? Grading that stack of papers with days to spare? That’s the conundrum of being a stay-at-home-mom. It’s your job…but your co-workers are the very same people you would have complained to about other co-workers.  

That little so-and-so that ate your lunch out of the office fridge? The lunch you were looking forward to all morning? Well, you really shouldn’t call him names. He’s three and he wanted leftover Indian for lunch, too.  Whining about that judge who makes you tape all the staples on your briefs (true story) because it may snag their robe? That makes you sound wearied and noble. Complaining that your husband wears too many freakin’ t-shirts…as you count aloud to prove your point? That makes you sound kinda pitiful and makes people think you need to get out more.

I have a friend who is just meant to be a stay-at-home-mom. She was born for it. She does a fantastic job, and it is so obvious that it is in her DNA. I know another woman who was counting down the days of her maternity leave. She loves her son as much as a stay-at-home mom loves her kids, but she happily returned to the office.  

When I was part-time it felt odd. Like playing the role of a grownup in a third grade play. I want to be the type of stay-at-home-mom that exudes whatever my friend has. I want it to be in my bones--staying at home. But it isn’t. Thursdays are the worst. I have held it together as long as I can. I have pressed play, picked up Cheerios and smiled through the same question 37 times. I am done. I am a cranky tyrant on Thursdays. But didn’t I feel that way when I worked in an office? Hell, maybe I’m just super-lazy and don’t enjoy hard work.

I am still floundering a bit. Like that bad grade I got in Ethics class during college (I know, make your lawyer jokes), the Civil Procedure teacher who, I swear, was speaking Greek, and the magistrate who had it out for me my first year at the Public Defender’s Office. These things make me question the path I have chosen. I may look like a “before” picture on a makeover segment and I can be rather cranky…but I’m happy. I love that I get to stay at home with my kids. I am very grateful that I, again, have my dream job.

Maybe I was right with the first dream though… I could design stay-at-home-mom uniforms! Stain repellent, comfortable yet flattering. Gotta go find a Trapper Keeper.

-Elizabeth

A Tale of Two Bears

On a recent evening of books and cuddles (which is far better than an evening of dumping buckets of bath water out of the tub, followed by yelling, and ending with no books and no cuddles), Will asked me what I was like as a little girl.

He wanted to know about my clothes (I described a watermelon dress), what I liked to do (I talked about cabbage patch kids), and what I looked like (to which I could only answer, "Like you, buddy," because he is my twin). 

He asked if I had a Blue Bear, his security blanket of choice since about the age of one, and I told him about Big Bird.

"Big Bird was about this big, and he was super dirty, and he had a bare spot on his head where I would rub my finger to fall asleep, and he only had one eye left because I loved him so much and grandma had to wash him so many times," I described.

"Where is he?" Will asked.

"Actually, he's in our basement." 

Well down to the basement we went, right then and there of course, and up Big Bird came. The boys and I took a photo of us and our security blankets: Jingle Dog, Blue Bear, Big Bird. 

 

Like any parent who is willing to keep the peace no matter the price, Greg and I purchased a back up Blue Bear right after we realized Blue Bear was it for him, and we kept the second on stand by should something happen to Blue Bear Version 1.0. 

My mom also had a back-up Big Bird, but I never fell for him. He had two eyes, all of his fur, and was too clean for my three-year-old tastes.

Will, however, took right to Blue Bear 2.0 without batting an eye, and this was especially handy when 1.0 needed a bath, or got left in a car, or stuck under a couch for a few days, which is precisely what happened this past week. 

Will found 1.0 last night under the couch. I thought nothing of the fact he'd been missing for a couple of weeks.

We headed up to bed, 1.0 tucked under his arm, and there on the floor was 2.0.

Will's mind was blown. 

Dumbfounded.

We may as well have taken the opportunity to tell him about Santa, and the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy, and the Bengals having ever been to a Super Bowl. 

How could there be TWO of his very best friend?

He furiously examined both--their ribbons, where there had been a hole sewn up, their tags--and he noted every difference and told me which one was  the real Blue Bear. 

I told him the truth, that we never wanted him to be without his best friend, and now they were so excited to be together--that they hadn't been able to be with each other since they were on the shelf at the store, and now they get to BOTH love the kid who loves them so much.

This seemed to appease him, although it would be days before the shock of having two Blue Bears wore off. He told everyone at pre-school about it, grandparents, aunts and uncles--like it was the best office gossip ever. 

I tucked them both into his arms that night and pulled up the covers. He kissed both Blue Bears on their heads.

And then he handed one to me. 

"You sleep with this one. Now we both have one forever." 

So last night, I slept with Blue Bear 2.0 in my arms. 

**

I wrote this post three months ago. Since then, Will has made sure nearly every night that I have a Blue Bear to take to bed. There was even a night at 3 a.m. when he came into our room and tucked Blue Bear 2.0 into my arms and ran back to bed.

Two weeks ago when Greg was out of town, and the day had been long and the evening rough, I tucked Will into bed and went downstairs to just sit. And breathe. When I returned to my room to sleep, there on my pillow was Blue Bear. Will had snuck in to lay him there. I melted onto the bed in a puddle of exhaustion and tears--so attuned to my needs and so willing to share the one thing he loves the most.

It is my belief that our children are hand-picked for us and given to us to teach us exactly what we need in any given moment. Although on most days for me that thing is patience, I find myself sated in knowing that I have a boy who just maybe sometimes puts the needs of others above his own. It gives me moments of thinking I'm doing okay, that I'm not totally failing at this parenting adventure. 

The Light-Up Shoes Lesson

I was certain that my boys would never like Superheroes. They wouldn't wear Superman t-shirts, or Spider-Man rain boots, or Batman Halloween costumes while shopping at Target...in July. I also said they wouldn't watch TV, or eat hot dogs, and most importantly, they'd never own those ridiculous shoes that light up when you walk.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, and much to my dismay, wrong. 

Superheroes? To say the boys are obsessed is an understatement. You name it, we've got a costume, mask, action figure, sticker, fruit snack, puzzle, vitamin, sleeping bag, or underpants with one on it. Last week, Jack got in trouble at school for pushing his friends. When we talked about it in the car on the way home, he looked at me, in complete sincerity, and said, "But I'm Hulk." Sigh.

TV? My three year old can operate Netflix with more efficiency than I can. I think our bookshelf is getting a little dusty because of the lure of Phineas & Ferb, Scooby Doo, and Super Why.

Hot dogs?  We might as well own stock in Hebrew National. Grilled, boiled, microwaved, or on a stick...always painstakingly cut into tiny bite-size pieces.

Which brings me to light up shoes. Up until last Thursday I had avoided them like the plague. In fact, I avoided shoes stores in general. Giving them the option to choose their own shoes? A complete recipe for disaster. Instead, I guessed their shoe size and ordered from Amazon. Cheaper, no possibility for public shoe store meltdowns, and I was in complete control of brand and style. Plus, I loathe shopping at the mall. 

Shortly after Christmas (and by shortly, I mean December 26th) Colin started talking about his birthday (which is on April 1st). He's constantly revising his wish list, with the exception of one thing: light up shoes. Apparently everyone who is anyone in the Sapphire room at school has them. And I suppose I should count my lucky stars that he didn't ask for light up cowboy boots like one of the kids in his class.

Seriously, they actually make those. OMG.  

As he was jabbering away about the shoes I had a flashback to my childhood--remember Keds? I wanted a pair so badly, and everyone who was anyone had them. But instead my mom bought me the generic version, with a little green rubber emblem on the back. I was mortified. 

So, with the newly surfaced memory that I had repressed from my youth, and the fact that Colin's toes were smashed into his size and a half too small shoes, I caved. After careful research on the Stride Rite website, I found a pair of light up shoes that weren't completely hideous, and we trekked to the mall. When we got there, I remembered why I only shop online. A few deep breaths, a squirt or two of hand sanitizer, and we continued on our journey to the mecca of light up shoes.

As we entered the store, Colin and Jack's eyes lit up, just like the overpriced shoes we were about to purchase. I guided them over to the orange shoes I had carefully selected, and by the grace of God, they loved them. So much so that Colin started squeezing his 11.5 foot into the much smaller display shoe in excitement, declaring that they fit!   

Over $100 later we left the store with two very satisfied customers, and four very bright orange light up shoes. I watched the boys happily stomp back to the car admiring their new shoes, giggling and shrieking in pure delight the entire time.

The lesson here?  Maybe the running shoes I've been buying for the last few years that don't light up are like the generic Keds I wore as a child. I needed to get over myself. In the grand scheme of things, does it really matter if they have light up shoes? They make them happy. Colin even took his shoes to bed with him the first night to use as a "flashlight." They get ready in the morning easier and faster. And to me, that is priceless.

Our preconceived notion of what our children will do, like, and be is often very different from reality. Trust me, I know. And it's okay. In fact, I'm the one at Target pushing the cart with the child dressed up as a Superhero (in March).

Luckily summer is around the corner, which means one thing: Croc season.

They don't make light up Crocs do they?!?

-Laura 

Mommy's Time Out

Every now and then, one of my friends will blurt out the phrase that all parents have uttered at one time or another:

"I don't remember my life before kids!"

::raises hand::

Um, I do!

Vivid memories dance in my head of a time filled with less stress, MUCH more sleep, more carefree outings, and fewer responsibilities than my life calls for at this very moment.

Think back to how your Friday evenings were typically like BEFORE having children. Go ahead. Hop in the Delorean and make sure your Flux Capacitor is fluxing...88 mph...You're there!

Friday nights probably involved meeting up with friends at a favorite watering hole to take advantage of Happy Hour specials. You'd laugh and chat about the highs and lows of the work week. Dancing was always required. After drinks and dinner, you decide to see a new movie or go Downtown to watch live music. Your fun night would end at some ungodly hour and you'd sleep off your one-too-many cocktails in a dreamless slumber only to wake up the next morning at 11 a.m., feeling carefree and probably a tad hungover.

Time to refuel the Delorean with bags of fruit snacks, animal crackers and Capri Suns, because now our journey is bringing us back to the present: Friday nights as a parent.

Before leaving school on Friday afternoon, I pile my enormous stacks of papers to grade in my bag, drive over to the sitter's to pick up the girls who have morphed into crabby and tearful tots after an exhausting week. The music selection in the car MUST undoubtedly be the Frozen soundtrack ("MOMMY! Put on the song where Elsa sings on the mountain top!"). The girls scream/sing the lyrics for the two millionth time, and I have no choice but to sing along, the songs emblazoned in my memory like a hot, searing brand.

We arrive home to the eternal predicament that is dinner and squabbles ensue about which show will be viewed (Sofia! Curious George! Word Girl!) so that Mommy can attempt to cook said dinner. Play time, baths, and stalling at bedtime will all occur before 8 p.m. When the girls are finally asleep, my husband and I collapse on the couch, trying to stay awake with glasses of wine and minimal conversation before passing out at nine o'clock.

#Parenthood

Before my daughters were born, otherwise known as Life Before Kids, I read devoured books and magazines. It was not uncommon for me to finish a novel in one day if my schedule permitted, and I would often sprint to the mailbox to grab my latest issue of US Weekly magazine.

 

I know, I know...you're thinking this is a gossip rag. And you would be right! Ridiculous, mindless celebrity entertainment, but I would be engrossed from the first scandalous photo to the last hideous outfit on the red carpet. 

I can't remember the last time I read a magazine from cover to cover (Highlights High Five, excluded.) Two novels rest on my nightstand, collecting a thick layer of dust from not being opened in months. I don't remember the plot or characters any more. Something got in the way of my love for reading. 

That something would be this crazy, thrilling, awesome, rewarding, exhausting adventure called Life With Kids. But even Mommy and Daddy need a Time Out. If only to regain their sanity, for the love of Pete!

My Time Out was unexpectedly granted last Friday thanks to the lovely folks at my district's Board of Education.

I had Parent Teacher Conferences Wednesday and Thursday evenings which made for excruciatingly LONG days at school. Luckily, high school teachers had Friday off and the promise of no school to look forward to. In my attempt to reheat some leftovers for dinner on Wednesday,  my droopy eyes spotted something odd printed on my daughter's school calendar hanging on the fridge.

School for elementary students would be in session on Friday.

Whaaa???!!! I could hardly contain my excitement.

Mommy's Time Out would finally be possible!

What's the first thing I did after learning about this weird twist of fate, you ask? Did I make a mental note to catch up on those enormous stacks of grading with my free time? Nope. Did I decide to tackle the mountains of laundry? No way. I did what any sane Mom would do.

I jumped into my proverbial Delorean and thought about what activity I would do on a whim, in those fuzzy years known as Life Before Kids.

I called my favorite spa and scheduled a pedicure for Friday.

On Thursday, I received an e-mail at school from my husband. He surprised me by asking for the day off on Friday, too!

It's almost unheard of: a completely kid-free day for Mommy and Daddy.

We drove our youngest daughter to the sitter on Friday morning, then treated our oldest daughter by driving her to school instead of having her ride the bus. After we dropped off Madelyn at school, my husband and I had a delicious breakfast à deux where we tried our hardest NOT to talk about our girls. We drank cups of steaming hot coffee with no chance of it turning cold due to someone's need for a diaper change, snack, or different princess dress.

After breakfast, we drove to Target and listened to music from our iPod that we hadn't heard in forever. (Well, let's be honest--music we haven't listened to since Frozen came out in theaters!) We ran errands at Target and strolled through the aisles with ease to find the items we needed. No kids around to pick products off the shelves to inquire if we could buy them. No demanding that the kids stay close by. No migraine upon check-out.

I had an hour or so to kill at home before heading to my pedicure, so we relaxed and chatted about our plans for the weekend.

A minute later, Eric asked:

"Hey. Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?" I replied.

"Silence," he whispered.

It was glorious. Truly. We both sat in silence like huge dorks for a few minutes just to soak it all in.

My pedicure was wonderfully relaxing and oh-so necessary. I scanned the magazine selection during my second coat of OPI polish and what do you think was staring back at me, practically begging me to open the cover?

You got it.

US Weekly.

The universe was speaking to me. It was then that I realized the importance and value of Mommy's Time Out. As parents, we work SO hard every day to be the best Mommy or Daddy to our kids. We give, give, give, and rarely ever take in return. There is no flashy award for being a great parent. We just DO IT, from sunrise to sunset, because it is our job. Our kids and family are our life.

That being said, let's remember that it's okay and absolutely necessary to set time aside for ourselves. Mommy's Time Out. Read, exercise, meet friends for coffee or drinks, do a craft that you enjoy, go shopping for YOU, not for your kids. Plan something FUN without the kiddos.

I promise it will help you be a better parent.

Maybe I should renew my US Weekly subscription, after all?

-Amber

Make New Friends, But Keep the Old

“...One is silver, and the other is gold.”

Thank you, Girl Scouts, for emblazoning this little ditty on my seven-year-old mind back in the 1980s. AND for making the most delectable, chocolaty mint cookies in the whole, entire friggin universe.

As a young girl, I wasn’t able to fully understand the lesson behind this brief rhyme, but as an adult I appreciate it with all my might. In fact, I’ve taken it as my mantra in life right now as our little family braces for quite a big, new adventure.

We are moving from Adventure Drive in Ohio (ironic, eh?) to Mt. Lebanon, Pennsylvania, an older neighborhood just south of Pittsburgh. It’s only three and a half hours east of where we live now, but given what we have gone through over the past month to prepare for the move, you would think we are embarking on a life-changing trip to the moon.

But then again, this is life changing for us. Three weeks ago, Brian accepted a new position with Children’s Hospital of Pittsburgh. We then sold our home in just 24 hours, spent three days looking through 20 homes near the ‘burgh, finally went into contract on a home, started the loan process, held a home inspection on both properties, hired movers and by-the-skin-of-our-teeth landed (I think) a daycare option for the boys once we get there so I can work remotely for my current job.

Can I just say, #mentalhealthbreakdown?

The only things keeping me going through this insane time is my faith in God and my enormously supportive group of family and friends. From our sweet Columbus friends hosting a happy hour to send us off, to our parents watching the boys so we can travel and pack, to friends introducing us to their Pennsylvania contacts, to co-workers doing everything in their power to make the transition smooth, to our babysitter offering to take Mac to Chuck E.Cheese's next week (God bless you)... encouragement and assistance and love and goodwill has greeted us at every crazy turn.

It is going to be so hard to leave our network here in Central Ohio. We’ve lived here for 13 years and have found everything that made us completely comfortable: a beautiful home in a great community, good jobs, fantastic friends, wonderful child care, two Targets within five miles. I mentioned on Facebook the other day that it is going to be unbearable to leave my OBGYN — the woman who bravely dealt with me in delivering my two little peanuts. (Please note, they were not the size of peanuts when they emerged from my body.)

A good friend (and the yogi of this blog) recently asked me the date of our move. I told her it was scheduled for March 21st, and until that very moment, I hadn’t recognized the significance of that day.

She wrote, “Spring equinox is all about unearthing our roots and hauling ourselves up from the dirt. It is the quintessential time to dust ourselves off and make room for change. That’s you this year...you get to live it!”

Oh that girl, she has a way of making me feel good about all of this. And I do feel good about it — but also, I’m scared. Scared of leaving everyone and everything that feels so good and so right. Like every change in life, big or small, it’s just the unknown that worries us and leaves us with a feeling of discomfort. But when it is time to face the change head on, we somehow muster the courage to embrace it, settle into it and gain our bearings in a new space, a new light, a new place.

Everything will be just fine. We will soon move and get comfortable in a new home, in a new community, with new jobs and a Target just three and a half miles away (nine minutes in current traffic). And we will find new friends who will be added to our current support team that we won’t dare let slip away. (Oh no, dear friends, don’t think for a second you are going to hide from me!) The old tried and true friends are the golden friends, the ones that will be there no matter the distance, no matter the issue. They are the friends that will toast our new beginning and remain just a phone call away.

And those friends will be there for us, year after year. Just like the Girl Scouts with their amazing cookies.

Thank you, friends. You have been unbelievable through all of this, and you are worth more to me than you will ever know. Undoubtedly, more than silver or gold.

-Melissa