Sigh. Yep, it's true. I've been reading the Mommy Blogs again. (Pause for an ominous "da-da-da-DUHHH...") They often beat the daily news, but they still drag me down.
No, wait, that isn't quite fair. Mama-logs can be super great things. Truly! (Maybe you write one, and I just totally insulted you. I humbly apologize. And gently suggest you may want to leave now, 'cause I'll prolly do it again in just a minute.)
...Such heart and depth of emotion these writers have. Such courage they show; such faith! So many of the blogs I've found and followed are like ordinary American women replacing their factory-issue skin with a clear plastic coating -- you can look right through to the inside! See? Coursing blood and beating Mama hearts. Like the 6 Million Dollar Man action figure with more feeling!
This kind of openness and accessible emotion got me hooked on a little universe of Mommy Blogs long ago, and they got me through a very hard time between Brandt boys. I read a lot late at night, and I cried a lot while reading. It was theraputic for sure. Sustaining. And bonding in a weird way. (Weird as no one was exactly bonding back. I didn't even have virtual relationships with ANYONE whose deep inner thoughts I was regularly strip-mining.)
I still love a certain segment of the personal Mommylands online. I visit a few spots regularly. But I've mostly switched to shelter blogs because I find I just can't sustain the over-my-head emotion for so long. I burn out. On their tales of "intentional," "authentic" parenting, just as on my own.
(I tell myself I could write raw essays or tender anecdotes about some event from almost every single day, too... But, somehow, they would no longer be touching by the droves.)
And, also, I start to feel bad about myself, the more I dwell on the lifestyle posts of the home-schooling, only-homemmade cooking, I-just-stopped-organic-gardening-to-craft-a-little-something, always-more-than-two-kids-hanging-on-me-but-never-a-raised-voice kind of mothering that a significant part of Christianhood thinks is the highest way.
And, hey, it might BE the highest way! What do I know?! I know not one of these particular examples is a BAD thing on its own. They're all pretty good things, in fact. But I also know I start to feel like a REAL outsider, and not that great a mom, the more I dwell on those places of "ideal" my life doesn't allow me to reach for right now.
Finally -- and I can't believe I'm really gonna admit this where it will be sent into cyberspace forever, no-doubt to return one day and completely guilt/ shame/haunt my soul -- but there is something about unflinchingly earnest people that, eventually, bugs the crap out of me. I like my earnestness with a little more flinching on the side. Some wisecracking. Irreverence. Maybe a dropped glass and surprised curse, just once in a while. I'm reminded of something Wynonna Judd said in a magazine interview... something to the effect of (yes,I'm paraphrasing), "I like being in church. I just have the urge to ride my motorcycle up and down the aisle sometimes."
Amen, Wy! You preach it! A faithful soul that still rebels a little bit? I can feel it. And she's a mom, too. ...I wonder if Wynonna blogs?!
Just a girl, asking for grace, to survive her happily-ever-after.
4.15.2009
The One about Mommy and the (maybe) Sewing Machine
"Daddy! Daddy!"
The bright, high voice is clearly delighted.
"I punted the football between the fences!"
The next voice, an octave deeper, is slower-paced and slightly confused.
"You what? Wait... You kicked the football and it landed between our fence and Mr. Dave's?"
(We have chain link; the neighbors have wood privacy. The fences run closely parallel, creating a thin no-man's land between them and, increasingly, showcasing our wedged sports equipment through the grid of silver, against the backdrop of brown.)
"Yeah! Yeah! Isn't that cool?"
"OK. Well, have you thought about how you're gonna get it out?"
"Nope. I have NO idea. But, wait, I'm thinking of something.... [under the breath muttering commences]. And it MIGHT involve Mommy buying a sewing machine!"
I consider pretending I can't hear from the patio, my head buried in a laptop. Sigh. But an overriding Mom instinct kicks in.
"I HEARD THAT. And.... WHAT!? How does your plan involve me and sewing?!"
"Well..." Hesitation generally means the boy clearly wants to do something or say something he isn't sure he should do or say. Momentary fidgeting gives way as his own, boy instincts take hold.
"I gonna have to climb the fence, and I JUST might rip my pants."
He lifts himself into the links while I nod and purse my lips at his logic.
"Oh. Well, thanks for thinking of that, Miles! I'm glad you did. Just... um... try NOT to let it happen." (Meanwhile I think, "Can one repair a crotch hole with a $1.69 iron-on patch?")
...Clearly neither of us is as focused on the practical as we might believe, because the adult male voice stops us both short.
"WAIT. Miles. If you drop in there, how are YOU going to get out?" (The space is so narrow, it doesn't allow for climbing. The boy, along with the football, would be wedged in a shaft about 6 inches wide.)
Hmm...
I nod, again, (another fine point!) as Miles says, "OOOhhhhhh. Yeah... Well, we'll just have to think of another way. And it might involve poking sticks."
And so the pater familias, himself silently nodding at the "no, duh!" delayed thinking from the rest of us, directs the search for proper sticks and the slow, steady lifting of the object through the links.
Meanwhile, young master Owen (age 18 months) toddles in and out of the action wielding a badmitton racket and a tennis-size ball made of rubber bands. "Ug!" (Or, maybe, "Up!") "Ug, ball. Ug!"
This, my friends, is a perfect example of why we need each other in this life. Without two Brandt parents, our children might not make it out of the backyard alive. Or be able to save the sporting goods.
"Awwww! Oooooooo!" (We've switched to soccer as I type.) "I saved that one with my privates! That was AWKWARD."
"Ooogh, Mama! Oock!" ("Look?") A sippy cup is proferred while my head is still shaking from the unnecessary, inappropriate goalie blabber.
Then Jeremy calls Miles in for a shower and Owen (repossessing the cup and a pacifier but inadvertently dropping the Lamby) rushes behind.
I hadn't noticed nighttime on the way, but suddenly my laptop screen in the only clear light in the yard. Dark washes out all the daily drama. Wind rustles leaves and the low, steady buzz of traffic comes to the forefront as the household sounds fade. In the peace of newly fallen night, the crickets and I keep company in a circle of fallen toys, scraggly grass, a silent swing set and an untended goal.
It's a good life, this. A solid life. Amazingly, it's my life. All blessed mine.
The bright, high voice is clearly delighted.
"I punted the football between the fences!"
The next voice, an octave deeper, is slower-paced and slightly confused.
"You what? Wait... You kicked the football and it landed between our fence and Mr. Dave's?"
(We have chain link; the neighbors have wood privacy. The fences run closely parallel, creating a thin no-man's land between them and, increasingly, showcasing our wedged sports equipment through the grid of silver, against the backdrop of brown.)
"Yeah! Yeah! Isn't that cool?"
"OK. Well, have you thought about how you're gonna get it out?"
"Nope. I have NO idea. But, wait, I'm thinking of something.... [under the breath muttering commences]. And it MIGHT involve Mommy buying a sewing machine!"
I consider pretending I can't hear from the patio, my head buried in a laptop. Sigh. But an overriding Mom instinct kicks in.
"I HEARD THAT. And.... WHAT!? How does your plan involve me and sewing?!"
"Well..." Hesitation generally means the boy clearly wants to do something or say something he isn't sure he should do or say. Momentary fidgeting gives way as his own, boy instincts take hold.
"I gonna have to climb the fence, and I JUST might rip my pants."
He lifts himself into the links while I nod and purse my lips at his logic.
"Oh. Well, thanks for thinking of that, Miles! I'm glad you did. Just... um... try NOT to let it happen." (Meanwhile I think, "Can one repair a crotch hole with a $1.69 iron-on patch?")
...Clearly neither of us is as focused on the practical as we might believe, because the adult male voice stops us both short.
"WAIT. Miles. If you drop in there, how are YOU going to get out?" (The space is so narrow, it doesn't allow for climbing. The boy, along with the football, would be wedged in a shaft about 6 inches wide.)
Hmm...
I nod, again, (another fine point!) as Miles says, "OOOhhhhhh. Yeah... Well, we'll just have to think of another way. And it might involve poking sticks."
And so the pater familias, himself silently nodding at the "no, duh!" delayed thinking from the rest of us, directs the search for proper sticks and the slow, steady lifting of the object through the links.
Meanwhile, young master Owen (age 18 months) toddles in and out of the action wielding a badmitton racket and a tennis-size ball made of rubber bands. "Ug!" (Or, maybe, "Up!") "Ug, ball. Ug!"
This, my friends, is a perfect example of why we need each other in this life. Without two Brandt parents, our children might not make it out of the backyard alive. Or be able to save the sporting goods.
"Awwww! Oooooooo!" (We've switched to soccer as I type.) "I saved that one with my privates! That was AWKWARD."
"Ooogh, Mama! Oock!" ("Look?") A sippy cup is proferred while my head is still shaking from the unnecessary, inappropriate goalie blabber.
Then Jeremy calls Miles in for a shower and Owen (repossessing the cup and a pacifier but inadvertently dropping the Lamby) rushes behind.
I hadn't noticed nighttime on the way, but suddenly my laptop screen in the only clear light in the yard. Dark washes out all the daily drama. Wind rustles leaves and the low, steady buzz of traffic comes to the forefront as the household sounds fade. In the peace of newly fallen night, the crickets and I keep company in a circle of fallen toys, scraggly grass, a silent swing set and an untended goal.
It's a good life, this. A solid life. Amazingly, it's my life. All blessed mine.
3.10.2009
Drink Up...
Miles is a bit obsessed, lately, with drinking.
Oh, not that kind! ;) What is allowable for him to order as a mealtime beverage, that is. As he gets old enough and confident enough to place his own food orders in public, he's got to be able to make acceptable drink choices, too.
Typically, he likes to review ALL the choices -- thoroughly -- before he makes a decision. Preferably, this review will be available in a written menu format. (Even when the choices are fundamentally the same at every fast food joint or restaurant we visit.) He doesn't want to be simply told what's available -- he wants to READ ALL OPTIONS, ponder deeply, then make up his mind.
And, you know, kids' minds can easily head in directions adults need to discourage. ("I want the large smoothie. With a soda. And an iced tea." ;)) Insert repeat discussions about good choices and good health and what substances are good/ bad for the human body.
(This is KILLER information, by the way, with which to arm a very bright young mind, if that mind's mother happens to enjoy few beverages more than the very bad-for-the-body Dr. Pepper.)
So, anyway... He's starting to get it. And he self-censors. And it's ADORABLE!
We've long upheld the concept of "no caffeine," but we've lately added in a more detailed reading of ingredient lists -- and all this new knowledge has gotten a little jumbled up in there... as the following quote attests.
While at Chick-Fil-A recently: "The only choices are Hi-C, Sprite and water. The other things I can't have, because they're too high in sodium. Or something with an -em. Or an -en. And definitely an -ene..."
Oh, not that kind! ;) What is allowable for him to order as a mealtime beverage, that is. As he gets old enough and confident enough to place his own food orders in public, he's got to be able to make acceptable drink choices, too.
Typically, he likes to review ALL the choices -- thoroughly -- before he makes a decision. Preferably, this review will be available in a written menu format. (Even when the choices are fundamentally the same at every fast food joint or restaurant we visit.) He doesn't want to be simply told what's available -- he wants to READ ALL OPTIONS, ponder deeply, then make up his mind.
And, you know, kids' minds can easily head in directions adults need to discourage. ("I want the large smoothie. With a soda. And an iced tea." ;)) Insert repeat discussions about good choices and good health and what substances are good/ bad for the human body.
(This is KILLER information, by the way, with which to arm a very bright young mind, if that mind's mother happens to enjoy few beverages more than the very bad-for-the-body Dr. Pepper.)
So, anyway... He's starting to get it. And he self-censors. And it's ADORABLE!
We've long upheld the concept of "no caffeine," but we've lately added in a more detailed reading of ingredient lists -- and all this new knowledge has gotten a little jumbled up in there... as the following quote attests.
While at Chick-Fil-A recently: "The only choices are Hi-C, Sprite and water. The other things I can't have, because they're too high in sodium. Or something with an -em. Or an -en. And definitely an -ene..."
2.25.2009
Miles Musings
Run-on sentences notwithstanding, I see some really great things in this kid's academic future. He can logic!
The scene: Hallway, living room and home exterior, as we load up and head out to school this morning.
Starting as I hand him a brush from the hallway bathroom while keeping his toddler brother out of said bathroom cabinets with a blocking ankle and a proffered pacifier, this conversation unfolds...
Miles: Mom. Um... hey, Mom? When we lived in Colorado, was our area code 303?
Me: Why YES, hon, it was! How did you know that?
Him: Well, um... your car... that is a Saturn... well, you bought it when I was a baby....
(pause to bend down and fidget for no obvious reason....mumbling while strapping on backpack)
... and I was a baby in Colorado. So, um... um.... well, in that little place-where-you-keep-the-mail, there's this gold thing-that-attaches-to-keys, and, um, it says the name Saturn and also the name Boulder, and that is in Colorado, I know.
...
Me: .... OK. So, what?! That wasn't the end of your explanation, was it?
Him: Oh, and so on the little gold thingy under the "SATURN OF BOULDER" (uses formal reading voice) is their phone number. And it starts with a 3. Well, actually, 303. And so that's how I guessed.
And then he walks past me, munching the rest of his granola bar across the driveway, saying with crumbs coating his lips: "I think the peanut butter ones are definitely the crunchiest. I think that because I have eaten every flavor. And I observed it."
Oh, how we love that Miles! What's better than brains PLUS a slightly nutball sense of scientific observation?
The scene: Hallway, living room and home exterior, as we load up and head out to school this morning.
Starting as I hand him a brush from the hallway bathroom while keeping his toddler brother out of said bathroom cabinets with a blocking ankle and a proffered pacifier, this conversation unfolds...
Miles: Mom. Um... hey, Mom? When we lived in Colorado, was our area code 303?
Me: Why YES, hon, it was! How did you know that?
Him: Well, um... your car... that is a Saturn... well, you bought it when I was a baby....
(pause to bend down and fidget for no obvious reason....mumbling while strapping on backpack)
... and I was a baby in Colorado. So, um... um.... well, in that little place-where-you-keep-the-mail, there's this gold thing-that-attaches-to-keys, and, um, it says the name Saturn and also the name Boulder, and that is in Colorado, I know.
...
Me: .... OK. So, what?! That wasn't the end of your explanation, was it?
Him: Oh, and so on the little gold thingy under the "SATURN OF BOULDER" (uses formal reading voice) is their phone number. And it starts with a 3. Well, actually, 303. And so that's how I guessed.
And then he walks past me, munching the rest of his granola bar across the driveway, saying with crumbs coating his lips: "I think the peanut butter ones are definitely the crunchiest. I think that because I have eaten every flavor. And I observed it."
Oh, how we love that Miles! What's better than brains PLUS a slightly nutball sense of scientific observation?
2.09.2009
Writing Samples
I can't remember right now why I've been collecting random writing samples from my 6-year-old... or where I wanted to go with this post. But, in the month of his 7th birthday, just past the middle of his First Grade year, these little snippets of scholarhood must be worth saving!
Each comes from a worksheet with some sort of writing prompt. I think the last bit is an aside (as it's written vertically up the page) to explain the answer called for in the prompt. And I think they're learning "writing strategies," from the looks of things...
"My hous has no chimny, is verrrey short, small base, with short rouf."
"Cupid is a unocorn that has wengs across his body bow with a maguc horn. & a metal tayl."
"The number that I put for 1 is the part that is the beginning. 2 is what happens next. 3 is the end."
Each comes from a worksheet with some sort of writing prompt. I think the last bit is an aside (as it's written vertically up the page) to explain the answer called for in the prompt. And I think they're learning "writing strategies," from the looks of things...
"My hous has no chimny, is verrrey short, small base, with short rouf."
"Cupid is a unocorn that has wengs across his body bow with a maguc horn. & a metal tayl."
"The number that I put for 1 is the part that is the beginning. 2 is what happens next. 3 is the end."
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