Every night before dinner we hold hands around the table and sing a simple prayer that Kostyn loves. Tonight, he did some improvisation. See if you can pick out which parts he added:
"Thank you Jesus for this food Penn Staaaaaate;
Thaaaaaaank youuuuuuu Jesus Penn State.
And all God's people say Penn StateAmen!"
That's right little man. All God's people say Penn State! Amen.
(P.S. - Apparently, some people think Nike's trying to prove that all God's people say Penn State. What a laugh.)
Swingin'
“Kostyn, you wanna swing?” I ask, anticipating the same answer I always get.
“No,” he says, happy to be digging in the sand with a stick or climbing through a wooden maze and over a wobbly bridge. Swings are not his friend. Yet.
“OK,” I say. Then I notice how Evan is sitting straight up in his stroller, eyes wide.
“Evan, you wanna swing?” I say, unbuckling him from the seat and lifting him into the kiddie swing. Instinctively he knows just where to hold on to balance himself.
Kostyn pauses, puts down his stick, and heads over to us.
“Evan’s swingin’!” he says excitedly. Lately every day Evan seems to surprise his big brother with an action that moves him incrementally toward “peer and playmate” in Kostyn’s eyes. He is rarely referred to as “baby” anymore by Kostyn. He is now either “Brother” or “Evan.”
This is good.
“Yeah, Evan likes to swing!” I say, watching Evan’s face light up with every gentle push. I glance at Kostyn, who’s smiling almost as big at his little brother's accomplishment. “Do you want to swing, too?”
“Yes!” he says, his body suddenly vibrating with enthusiasm. So I lift him into a kiddie swing beside his brother. I have to help him figure out where his hands should go, but once he’s holding on the right way and feels safe, he relaxes.
I stand there in front of them, pushing both my sons on a swing set on a random Wednesday afternoon at the playground and I can hardly believe this is my life. These are my boys. I soak in the moment.
Then Evan figures out that if he moves his head and chest he can “help” get the swing moving. So he starts throwing himself forward and back, forward and back, rocking the swing as I keep the momentum going. He squeals and Kostyn looks from Evan to me to Evan.
“Evan and Kostyn are swingin’!” he exclaims, and it hits me with pride that it won’t always be the little brother trotting after his big brother, trying to keep up, to jump higher, to reach farther, to copycat. Sometimes the older one will follow the younger one, stretching in a way he didn’t think was so important until he saw the joy of it on his brother’s face.
“Yep! Evan and Kostyn are swingin’!” I repeat. “Are you having fun?” I ask, seeing the answer before I hear it.
“Yeah!” he says. Evan squeals again.
Yeah.
“No,” he says, happy to be digging in the sand with a stick or climbing through a wooden maze and over a wobbly bridge. Swings are not his friend. Yet.
“OK,” I say. Then I notice how Evan is sitting straight up in his stroller, eyes wide.
“Evan, you wanna swing?” I say, unbuckling him from the seat and lifting him into the kiddie swing. Instinctively he knows just where to hold on to balance himself.
Kostyn pauses, puts down his stick, and heads over to us.
“Evan’s swingin’!” he says excitedly. Lately every day Evan seems to surprise his big brother with an action that moves him incrementally toward “peer and playmate” in Kostyn’s eyes. He is rarely referred to as “baby” anymore by Kostyn. He is now either “Brother” or “Evan.”
This is good.
“Yeah, Evan likes to swing!” I say, watching Evan’s face light up with every gentle push. I glance at Kostyn, who’s smiling almost as big at his little brother's accomplishment. “Do you want to swing, too?”
“Yes!” he says, his body suddenly vibrating with enthusiasm. So I lift him into a kiddie swing beside his brother. I have to help him figure out where his hands should go, but once he’s holding on the right way and feels safe, he relaxes.
I stand there in front of them, pushing both my sons on a swing set on a random Wednesday afternoon at the playground and I can hardly believe this is my life. These are my boys. I soak in the moment.
Then Evan figures out that if he moves his head and chest he can “help” get the swing moving. So he starts throwing himself forward and back, forward and back, rocking the swing as I keep the momentum going. He squeals and Kostyn looks from Evan to me to Evan.
“Evan and Kostyn are swingin’!” he exclaims, and it hits me with pride that it won’t always be the little brother trotting after his big brother, trying to keep up, to jump higher, to reach farther, to copycat. Sometimes the older one will follow the younger one, stretching in a way he didn’t think was so important until he saw the joy of it on his brother’s face.
“Yep! Evan and Kostyn are swingin’!” I repeat. “Are you having fun?” I ask, seeing the answer before I hear it.
“Yeah!” he says. Evan squeals again.
Yeah.
Goodbye to an old friend
The first boy I ever kissed died a few days ago. He was 35. He left behind a wife, two kids, a loving family, and some of my most vivid childhood memories.
Scott (or “Scotty,” as he was known around the neighborhood back in the day) was a sweet, skinny kid with a bum heart that made him huff and puff a bit more than the rest of us on bike rides and during street hockey games. His older brother, Billy, was more outspoken, but Scotty was the natural leader. When a game rule needed to be made or an argument defused, the neighborhood kids generally listened to Scott. We lived next-door to them, and the proximity alone made us fast friends in grade school.
Scott was my age, though somewhere along the line he got held back a year and ended up graduating with my younger sister. I don’t remember how or when I developed a little crush on him, but I suppose it was inevitable given the sheer amount of time we spent next-door. Those were the days before gated communities and overly cautious parents, when kids roamed the neighborhood freely. We could swim in each other’s pools at will, explore the nearby woods without parental supervision, and play games like Hide ‘n’ Seek and Green Goober late at night with boundaries that stretched across several back yards. Eventually Marco Polo and kickball gave way to big-kid games like Truth or Dare, which is how we came to share that kiss. (OK, it may have been two.)
My sister doesn’t remember the day Scott asked her out, but I do. I remember it distinctly because it secretly crushed me, realizing that he didn’t like me like me, the way I liked him. I remember pretending to be happy for her and then leaving her there at his house and walking back across our front yards alone, escaping to my room where nobody could see the embarrassment of rejection I was sure was written all over my face.
Their “courtship” probably only lasted that afternoon but the mere prospect of it stuck with me, in the way that sometimes even a seemingly superficial cut leaves a faint scar. I’d never thought, until now, how funny it is that the same boy has top billing in both my “first kiss” memory and my “first rejection” memory.
Finding out the person you like doesn’t like you back is sort of a rite of passage for an adolescent; I’m sure it happens to everyone at some point. Besides the sheer sadness of losing an old friend, what’s been rattling around in my brain since I heard the news is how much that kiss, that sideline rejection, and everything else that happened between the fences of our youth made me who I am.
If you’re lucky enough to grow up in a neighborhood teeming with kids like I did, much of your formative years are influenced by “majority rules” and “do-overs.” Because when you spend weekends and holidays and summers in each other’s basements and back yards, you do a lot more than play. You help one another figure out who you are. It’s like having an eclectic, dysfunctional extended family; there are roles to play and lessons to learn and secrets to keep and spill. You learn how to fight and how to make up, how to stand up for yourself and when to back down. You make up stories and games. You break rules. You break hearts.
You get to see how the world works outside of your own living room. You see what other people eat, how other people live, whose dad isn’t around anymore. And you play with labels, too. She’s tough. He’s slow. She’s bratty. He’s funny. I’m shy.
And then you all grow up and go off to live your lives, leaving behind the ones who labeled you in the simplest terms yet knew you were so much more than the fastest kid on a skateboard. Or the girl who could ride no-handed.
Or the boy with the pacemaker.
Scott’s heart was never healthy. I don’t remember the details of his affliction, but I do remember the long scar he had running down his chest from open-heart surgery he’d had as a baby. And I remember the day he emerged poolside without a shirt on and we saw the pacemaker doctors had implanted in his chest. It looked like a small box sitting just beneath the skin. Funny that it made him feel stronger but look more fragile than before. Kids are kids, and I’m sure we antagonized the hell out of one another about everything under the sun, but I don’t recall anyone ever making fun of Scott’s pacemaker.
We’ll never know how many more heartbeats that pacemaker gave Scott than his heart alone would have pumped. Rumor has it a staph infection in the pacemaker eventually took his life. I wish I’d tried to reconnect with him when I saw his name on Facebook awhile back, not to disclose some long-forgotten crush but just to say hello, and share pictures of our children.
Someday soon, for my kids’ sake, I hope to settle in a neighborhood like the one Scott and I shared. The last couple places we’ve lived turned out to be inhabited by mostly older couples whose kids had long since left the nest. The neighbors we’ve met, firmly entrenched in their retirement years, take a look at our little ones and say with a smile, “You should have lived here 20 or 30 years ago.” I imagine some of my old neighbors — the ones who could point their fingers at a row of modest homes and recall a time when the Rydzys and the Cheniers and the Chittys and the Huberts and the Browns lived there — have said the same thing over the years.
The neighborhood of our youth produced a lot more than friendships and fences. I could say a piece of my childhood died with Scott, but I prefer instead to believe a piece of his childhood lives in me.
Scott (or “Scotty,” as he was known around the neighborhood back in the day) was a sweet, skinny kid with a bum heart that made him huff and puff a bit more than the rest of us on bike rides and during street hockey games. His older brother, Billy, was more outspoken, but Scotty was the natural leader. When a game rule needed to be made or an argument defused, the neighborhood kids generally listened to Scott. We lived next-door to them, and the proximity alone made us fast friends in grade school.
Scott was my age, though somewhere along the line he got held back a year and ended up graduating with my younger sister. I don’t remember how or when I developed a little crush on him, but I suppose it was inevitable given the sheer amount of time we spent next-door. Those were the days before gated communities and overly cautious parents, when kids roamed the neighborhood freely. We could swim in each other’s pools at will, explore the nearby woods without parental supervision, and play games like Hide ‘n’ Seek and Green Goober late at night with boundaries that stretched across several back yards. Eventually Marco Polo and kickball gave way to big-kid games like Truth or Dare, which is how we came to share that kiss. (OK, it may have been two.)
My sister doesn’t remember the day Scott asked her out, but I do. I remember it distinctly because it secretly crushed me, realizing that he didn’t like me like me, the way I liked him. I remember pretending to be happy for her and then leaving her there at his house and walking back across our front yards alone, escaping to my room where nobody could see the embarrassment of rejection I was sure was written all over my face.
Their “courtship” probably only lasted that afternoon but the mere prospect of it stuck with me, in the way that sometimes even a seemingly superficial cut leaves a faint scar. I’d never thought, until now, how funny it is that the same boy has top billing in both my “first kiss” memory and my “first rejection” memory.
Finding out the person you like doesn’t like you back is sort of a rite of passage for an adolescent; I’m sure it happens to everyone at some point. Besides the sheer sadness of losing an old friend, what’s been rattling around in my brain since I heard the news is how much that kiss, that sideline rejection, and everything else that happened between the fences of our youth made me who I am.
If you’re lucky enough to grow up in a neighborhood teeming with kids like I did, much of your formative years are influenced by “majority rules” and “do-overs.” Because when you spend weekends and holidays and summers in each other’s basements and back yards, you do a lot more than play. You help one another figure out who you are. It’s like having an eclectic, dysfunctional extended family; there are roles to play and lessons to learn and secrets to keep and spill. You learn how to fight and how to make up, how to stand up for yourself and when to back down. You make up stories and games. You break rules. You break hearts.
You get to see how the world works outside of your own living room. You see what other people eat, how other people live, whose dad isn’t around anymore. And you play with labels, too. She’s tough. He’s slow. She’s bratty. He’s funny. I’m shy.
And then you all grow up and go off to live your lives, leaving behind the ones who labeled you in the simplest terms yet knew you were so much more than the fastest kid on a skateboard. Or the girl who could ride no-handed.
Or the boy with the pacemaker.
Scott’s heart was never healthy. I don’t remember the details of his affliction, but I do remember the long scar he had running down his chest from open-heart surgery he’d had as a baby. And I remember the day he emerged poolside without a shirt on and we saw the pacemaker doctors had implanted in his chest. It looked like a small box sitting just beneath the skin. Funny that it made him feel stronger but look more fragile than before. Kids are kids, and I’m sure we antagonized the hell out of one another about everything under the sun, but I don’t recall anyone ever making fun of Scott’s pacemaker.
We’ll never know how many more heartbeats that pacemaker gave Scott than his heart alone would have pumped. Rumor has it a staph infection in the pacemaker eventually took his life. I wish I’d tried to reconnect with him when I saw his name on Facebook awhile back, not to disclose some long-forgotten crush but just to say hello, and share pictures of our children.
Someday soon, for my kids’ sake, I hope to settle in a neighborhood like the one Scott and I shared. The last couple places we’ve lived turned out to be inhabited by mostly older couples whose kids had long since left the nest. The neighbors we’ve met, firmly entrenched in their retirement years, take a look at our little ones and say with a smile, “You should have lived here 20 or 30 years ago.” I imagine some of my old neighbors — the ones who could point their fingers at a row of modest homes and recall a time when the Rydzys and the Cheniers and the Chittys and the Huberts and the Browns lived there — have said the same thing over the years.
The neighborhood of our youth produced a lot more than friendships and fences. I could say a piece of my childhood died with Scott, but I prefer instead to believe a piece of his childhood lives in me.
Good Girl!
Our dog, Sadie, is awesome. She was awesome before we had kids, and now she's awesome in all new ways. She hasn't gotten nearly enough attention or exercise since we had the boys. (Well, let me clarify: She hasn't gotten nearly enough attention or exercise from the adults in the household. She's gotten more than her fair share of both from the pint-sized members of the family.) I keep telling her to hang on, that if she can just survive these next couple of years, the Tail Pulling Years, then she'll have groomed two boys to be her best buddies for life. So far, so good.
(This is perhaps my favorite picture of Sadie Girl. Note the cat lounging on the dog's bed in the background. People raise their eyebrows when we say our dog is a pit bull/chow mix, but really she's just a big sweet pushover.)
The One I Said I Had to Write Before I Could Write Anything Else
(This post might not make much sense to some people. It might seem like a rambling, self-indulgent mess. I understand this but I’m publishing it anyway because it’s therapeutic for me, and because someone else out there might be struggling in a similar fashion with this particular challenge of parenthood and hey, there’s strength in numbers. However, I’m choosing not to publish the first few paragraphs I wrote for this post, which described in detail a recent incident that illustrates my current problem. I decided I don’t want my kids to read such a harsh memory sometime down the line when they stumble upon Mom’s blog — which will probably be way sooner than I presently imagine.)
I always thought I was a laid-back person; my whole life people have said that. “God, you’re so laid-back.” “Everything just rolls right off your back. Do you ever get mad?” I used to answer, “Not really; it takes a lot for me to get mad,” but I can’t say that anymore.
Because now that I’m a mom, I seem to get angry at the drop of a hat.
I know it’s not reasonable to believe I should never get mad at my kids. I know this because they're kids, which means they’re going to yank on the dog’s tail for the millionth time after I told them not to. They’re not always going to be quiet when I want them to, or stay still for a diaper change. At some point just about every day, they’re going to piss me off. What I have trouble with is how assertive — and loud — I get when I’m angry.
I’m ashamed at how often I suddenly reach the end of my fuse and lash out at my two little ones. I do not physically harm them (and sometimes that takes a fair amount of control on my part), but I know my rage hurts them. I know my tone of voice, my shouting, my “I don’t care about you right now” body language, and my twisted angry face hurt them. And each time it fills me with remorse because, obviously, I do care about them, more than anything in this world, and I have no idea why I can’t demonstrate that love all the time.
Let me be clear: I’m not saying I don’t think you should ever yell at your kids, or reprimand them, or send them to Time Out. I think discipline is healthy for kids, limits are necessary, and trust is gained when the child knows implicitly that the parent is in charge. But I’m not talking about discipline. I’m talking about unnecessary, unhealthy anger and intimidation.
When I heard that old “Being a parent is hard work” cliche before I had children, I assumed it was referring to the physically demanding aspects of parenting — the fact that someone is constantly needing something from you, whether it be a diaper change or a bottle of milk or a hug or a tickle or a sock put back on a bare foot or a clean sheet or clean spoon or clean slate from his last tantrum over absolutely nothing. (Whew!) I had no idea that the “hard work” might actually be mental and emotional work a parent does on oneself, striving to make oneself a better person and, therefore, a better parent. More open. Centered. Balanced. Creative. Spiritual. And the hardest of all, for me — more patient.
I know people without kids also work to improve themselves. I’m just sayin’ there’s this weird inner spotlight that’s clicked on when you have a child since you are from that moment on not only an individual but also An Example. Along with your new baby you get a white-hot light that beams directly on you, shining its light in the darkest crevices of your psyche for the rest of your life. Instantly you become the star of The Parent Show, and you have a captive audience All The Freakin’ Time in the form of a pint-sized human being who’s using way more brain power than you are to soak up everything you do and say like a sponge. (Break a leg!)
This aspect of parenthood has delighted and frightened me. I’ve been trying diligently to embrace more positivity in my life. I’ve worked on judging less and accepting more. I’ve strengthened my relationship with God. But I am having a really unexpectedly difficult time building up my patience reserves. And on my worst days, I fear I’m losing Kostyn to my stress and my temper. Every moment that I react to him with anger instead of understanding, his identity and self-worth are molded and reshaped. And every day I hate myself a little bit more for not being sane enough to count to 10 like other parents, for not forcing myself to go into another room and scream into a pillow when I want to scream at him.
I could pick a dozen excuses for why my stress levels are fraying the edges of my nerves, making me prone to flying off the handle when my kids’ behavior doesn’t match my expectations or desires. I could say I’m overtired and sleep-deprived. I could whine that I’m alone with them too much. I don’t have a hobby or any type of outlet outside the home to offer a little space between me and my boys now and then. I could even point out that I haven’t been physically healthy in awhile.
While those may be contributing factors, I still have the intelligence to choose a reaction to a situation rather than let it choose me. In fact, it’s my job as a parent to do just that. I can’t be the 2-year-old who throws a fit when something doesn’t go my way, because I have to be the mother of a 2-year-old who throws a fit when something doesn’t go his way.
Through a lot of reflection, study and prayer, at least I have a grasp on the problem. I realize I have trouble accepting the *feeling* of anger, of disempowerment, without needing to bring someone down in order to lift myself back up to the power position. Now I must find the strength in a heated moment to validate that feeling of anger -- since feelings aren’t bad or good, they just are -- without needing to turn it into any form of negative action (unless one is truly called for, of course).
So I’m working on asserting my patience to control the situation instead of my raised voice. I’m working on redirecting bad behavior calmly, or just allowing the moment to move forward peacefully. This might seem like second nature to many, but to me it’s hard work. It’s also extremely rewarding.
Sometimes I fail and sometimes I succeed, but I keep trying. It feels very powerful to choose one’s reaction rather than to be a slave to one’s struggling ego. And while I work on it, I wonder. I wonder if there are other parents out there like me. Or if all parents are like me. Part of me hopes so, and part of me hopes not.
One thing’s for sure, though: Being a parent is hard work.
[Postscript: Interesting that this article on yelling parents was published today, right after my post. Made me feel even worse for having this problem. But again, I'm working on it.]
I always thought I was a laid-back person; my whole life people have said that. “God, you’re so laid-back.” “Everything just rolls right off your back. Do you ever get mad?” I used to answer, “Not really; it takes a lot for me to get mad,” but I can’t say that anymore.
Because now that I’m a mom, I seem to get angry at the drop of a hat.
I know it’s not reasonable to believe I should never get mad at my kids. I know this because they're kids, which means they’re going to yank on the dog’s tail for the millionth time after I told them not to. They’re not always going to be quiet when I want them to, or stay still for a diaper change. At some point just about every day, they’re going to piss me off. What I have trouble with is how assertive — and loud — I get when I’m angry.
I’m ashamed at how often I suddenly reach the end of my fuse and lash out at my two little ones. I do not physically harm them (and sometimes that takes a fair amount of control on my part), but I know my rage hurts them. I know my tone of voice, my shouting, my “I don’t care about you right now” body language, and my twisted angry face hurt them. And each time it fills me with remorse because, obviously, I do care about them, more than anything in this world, and I have no idea why I can’t demonstrate that love all the time.
Let me be clear: I’m not saying I don’t think you should ever yell at your kids, or reprimand them, or send them to Time Out. I think discipline is healthy for kids, limits are necessary, and trust is gained when the child knows implicitly that the parent is in charge. But I’m not talking about discipline. I’m talking about unnecessary, unhealthy anger and intimidation.
When I heard that old “Being a parent is hard work” cliche before I had children, I assumed it was referring to the physically demanding aspects of parenting — the fact that someone is constantly needing something from you, whether it be a diaper change or a bottle of milk or a hug or a tickle or a sock put back on a bare foot or a clean sheet or clean spoon or clean slate from his last tantrum over absolutely nothing. (Whew!) I had no idea that the “hard work” might actually be mental and emotional work a parent does on oneself, striving to make oneself a better person and, therefore, a better parent. More open. Centered. Balanced. Creative. Spiritual. And the hardest of all, for me — more patient.
I know people without kids also work to improve themselves. I’m just sayin’ there’s this weird inner spotlight that’s clicked on when you have a child since you are from that moment on not only an individual but also An Example. Along with your new baby you get a white-hot light that beams directly on you, shining its light in the darkest crevices of your psyche for the rest of your life. Instantly you become the star of The Parent Show, and you have a captive audience All The Freakin’ Time in the form of a pint-sized human being who’s using way more brain power than you are to soak up everything you do and say like a sponge. (Break a leg!)
This aspect of parenthood has delighted and frightened me. I’ve been trying diligently to embrace more positivity in my life. I’ve worked on judging less and accepting more. I’ve strengthened my relationship with God. But I am having a really unexpectedly difficult time building up my patience reserves. And on my worst days, I fear I’m losing Kostyn to my stress and my temper. Every moment that I react to him with anger instead of understanding, his identity and self-worth are molded and reshaped. And every day I hate myself a little bit more for not being sane enough to count to 10 like other parents, for not forcing myself to go into another room and scream into a pillow when I want to scream at him.
I could pick a dozen excuses for why my stress levels are fraying the edges of my nerves, making me prone to flying off the handle when my kids’ behavior doesn’t match my expectations or desires. I could say I’m overtired and sleep-deprived. I could whine that I’m alone with them too much. I don’t have a hobby or any type of outlet outside the home to offer a little space between me and my boys now and then. I could even point out that I haven’t been physically healthy in awhile.
While those may be contributing factors, I still have the intelligence to choose a reaction to a situation rather than let it choose me. In fact, it’s my job as a parent to do just that. I can’t be the 2-year-old who throws a fit when something doesn’t go my way, because I have to be the mother of a 2-year-old who throws a fit when something doesn’t go his way.
Through a lot of reflection, study and prayer, at least I have a grasp on the problem. I realize I have trouble accepting the *feeling* of anger, of disempowerment, without needing to bring someone down in order to lift myself back up to the power position. Now I must find the strength in a heated moment to validate that feeling of anger -- since feelings aren’t bad or good, they just are -- without needing to turn it into any form of negative action (unless one is truly called for, of course).
So I’m working on asserting my patience to control the situation instead of my raised voice. I’m working on redirecting bad behavior calmly, or just allowing the moment to move forward peacefully. This might seem like second nature to many, but to me it’s hard work. It’s also extremely rewarding.
Sometimes I fail and sometimes I succeed, but I keep trying. It feels very powerful to choose one’s reaction rather than to be a slave to one’s struggling ego. And while I work on it, I wonder. I wonder if there are other parents out there like me. Or if all parents are like me. Part of me hopes so, and part of me hopes not.
One thing’s for sure, though: Being a parent is hard work.
[Postscript: Interesting that this article on yelling parents was published today, right after my post. Made me feel even worse for having this problem. But again, I'm working on it.]
Things I Learned Today
1. The only thing that feels better than finally watching my football team win a game is watching my 2-year-old celebrate wildly right along with me.
2. If I stare at an old guy with just the right amount of contempt after he throws a piece of paper out his car window, he might actually get out of his car, pick up the garbage and throw it in a nearby trash can.
3. It’s extremely difficult to find a pretend kitchen for a preschooler that isn’t pink, purple or otherwise clearly designated for a “girl.”
4. I can’t put my finger on why it makes me uncomfortable to buy my son a pink toy, but it does.
5. The sound of my two little guys giggling at each other while taking their first-ever bath together can fill me with such joy I’ll still be smiling hours later and already anticipating tomorrow’s bath time.
2. If I stare at an old guy with just the right amount of contempt after he throws a piece of paper out his car window, he might actually get out of his car, pick up the garbage and throw it in a nearby trash can.
3. It’s extremely difficult to find a pretend kitchen for a preschooler that isn’t pink, purple or otherwise clearly designated for a “girl.”
4. I can’t put my finger on why it makes me uncomfortable to buy my son a pink toy, but it does.
5. The sound of my two little guys giggling at each other while taking their first-ever bath together can fill me with such joy I’ll still be smiling hours later and already anticipating tomorrow’s bath time.
Wordless Wednesday - Anniversary Edition
*A girl meets a guy
a car passes by
The moon shines down on a tree
A kid in the park
should have been home by dark
You mean so much to me
The snow on the ground
A merry-go-round
A sight that was somethin' to see
Some cigarette smoke
Some laughter a joke
You mean so much to me
It seems to be
like heaven to me
with you at the end of the day
Here's looking at you
Here's looking at me
Dancing with history
That old crocodile
Got a satisfied smile
His life is no big mystery
A postcard you wrote
A musical note
You mean so much to me
Here's looking at you
Here's looking at me
Dancing with history
It seems to be
Like heaven to me
With you at the end of the day
A girl meets a guy
A car passes by
The moon shines down on a tree
I'm thinking of you
So what else is new
You mean so much to me
You mean so much to me
(*John Prine's "You Mean So Much to Me" was the tune we danced to for the first time as husband and wife. Hard to believe a decade has passed since that night.)
10/10/09
We used to have big dreams for how we'd celebrate our 10th anniversary.
Now we have big dreams for every other day.
It's a decent trade-off, if you ask me.
Exactly 10 years after we said "I do." Our self-portraits haven't improved in a decade of taking them, but at least we no longer have to schlep to the drugstore to get the film developed.
Now we have big dreams for every other day.
It's a decent trade-off, if you ask me.
Exactly 10 years after we said "I do." Our self-portraits haven't improved in a decade of taking them, but at least we no longer have to schlep to the drugstore to get the film developed.
Wordless Wednesday
The boys are interacting more and more lately. The other day I grabbed the camera when they were spontaneously "playing" together. Warms my heart every time.
This one cracks me up because they look like I caught them doing something they're not supposed to. I suspect I will see these exact same looks thousands of times over the next several years.
Evan's very grabby...
...and affectionate. We call him our little koala cub, the way he just clings to ya.
When Kostyn got tired of all the grabbing and drooling, he wanted to play photographer. He took this one...
...so I had to let Evan take this one (heh). (I totally know those days of 'everything he can do, I can do' will be here before I know it.)
This one cracks me up because they look like I caught them doing something they're not supposed to. I suspect I will see these exact same looks thousands of times over the next several years.
Evan's very grabby...
...and affectionate. We call him our little koala cub, the way he just clings to ya.
When Kostyn got tired of all the grabbing and drooling, he wanted to play photographer. He took this one...
...so I had to let Evan take this one (heh). (I totally know those days of 'everything he can do, I can do' will be here before I know it.)
Monday Morning
I’m roused from sleep by the sound of Evan waking fitfully in his bed beside me. Without opening my eyes I know it’s still dark, impossibly early, too early to start the day. Yet I also know that’s exactly what’s about to happen. I was up too late again working the night before, meeting a deadline I had gotten extended once already. Then I was up twice with Evan, the last time around 3:30 a.m.
He turns over, whimpering, revving up for a full-on cry. I bury my head in the covers, not wanting to accept my fate. Maybe if I just lie here very still, Evan will fall back to sleep.
What time is it? I wonder.
Just then Chris’s alarm clock goes off, and I curse silently. I hear the monotone NPR newscaster rolling through his morning news brief and I know it’s 5:45 a.m. Chris moves and sighs and I swear again, knowing the creak of the mattress springs and the radio and the ruffling of sheets is not helping the cause of willing Evan to drift back to dreamland on his own.
He starts to cry, and suddenly my goal of staying cozied up beneath the down comforter in a haze of sleep is trumped by a new, way more important goal — Make Sure Evan Doesn’t Wake Kostyn.
I scoop up Evan from his Pack-n-Play and bury him in the bed beside me. “Shhhhhhhhh, shh shh shh shh,” I hiss into his ear, kissing his cheek frantically and fumbling for his pacifier, trying to get him to focus on something other than his own need to be heard.
He stops crying almost instantly, which is fantastic, but his eyes are now wide open. This means he’s ready to start his day. He pulls the pacifier out of his mouth and starts babbling, cooing, in love with the sound of his own voice, and I find it both impossibly cute and totally unnerving.
“Daaaaaaaa.....wuuuaaaaahhhhh........wuuuuaaaahhhhh....” he croaks, eyes wide, as I shush him half-heartedly and Chris turns over and smiles.
In the other room, Kostyn starts to whine. I curse audibly. It’s 5:48 a.m.
“I’ll go get him and bring him in here,” Chris says, and although I know that’s better than me having to get up and feel the early morning chill on my bare shoulders, it still pisses me off. I’m mad that my day never starts on my terms. I’m mad that my kids never sleep in. I’m mad.
Chris reappears a minute later carrying Kostyn, who’s whining and wiggling and doesn’t know what he wants. He deposits his older son beside his younger son, moving his own pillow sideways to create a bit of a border between Kostyn and the edge of the bed.
Then he’s gone, and I spend the next 30 minutes under a dark cloud of jealousy as I hear Chris going about his morning routine. I’m jealous that he gets to stand in the shower for as long as he wants, no door left open to hear a baby’s cry, no toddler running in to open the shower curtain and get water all over the floor. I’m jealous that he gets to sit in peace at the table and sip his coffee and read the newspaper uninterrupted by a hungry baby or a dirty diaper or “More Cheerios Mama?” while I’m in bed getting my hair pulled by a 6-month-old and my face kicked by a 2-year-old.
It makes no sense in the light of day, knowing that he’d give anything to trade places, to stay home with them, to soak up our early morning ritual of tangled bodies and yawns and hand-holding in Mama’s bed.
But there is very little that’s rational in my brain at 5:50 a.m. So as I lay there feeling the impossibly soft skin of my boys, hearing Kostyn sigh and Evan coo, watching Evan reach for Kostyn and Kostyn admonish his brother — “No baby, no hair! Not!” — I am unable to soak up the moment for what it is. Which is perfect.
After several minutes of Evan grabbing and Kostyn flailing, I realize they cannot be next to each other, so I scoot Evan over to my nice warm spot, wedge myself between them, and try to get comfortable lying on my stomach with no pillow and somehow trying to face both of them. This is ridiculously futile. It’s a queen-sized bed, but when you factor in the wall of pillows on both sides of the bed there isn’t much wiggle room left for two wiggly little ones and one overtired mom.
We should all just get up, I think. This is stupid. It’s not like there’s a chance in hell of any of us falling back to sleep. Dawn is breaking, the room is slowly getting lighter, and I’m waiting for the first of many times Kostyn will ask to “Watch some TV?”
But he doesn’t. He flips over onto his belly, his diapered bottom up in the air, grabs my hand and closes his eyes. This is an astounding turn of events. I lie there very still while Evan pulls my hair and caresses my shoulder and tries to yank on my shirt.
I close my eyes. Evan keeps talking. Please, please just be quiet. I think about trying to leave with Evan, to get out from under the covers, in the middle of the bed, without waking Kostyn. There’s no way.
“Daaaaaaaa...” Evan says. I’m mad and jealous and tired and irrational.
And then, somehow, I open my eyes and things are different. Quiet. I can see the brightness beaming in from the corners of the curtains. I lift my head to peer over a sleeping Kostyn at the clock. 8:16 a.m. I turn to Evan. He’s staring at me. When our eyes meet, he grins.
I reach over and caress his cheek and he grabs my hand and tries to chew on my knuckles. A few minutes later Kostyn stirs, rolls over and sits up.
“I luff you, Mama,” he says, smiling. “Good morning!”
Great morning.
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