I’m sorry but I can’t stay here.

Do you ever have those moments as a parent where you give in, and throw caution to the wind?

Where you say, to heck with the evening routine, the weather is great, so go ahead, kids, play outside with the garden hose until it’s dark. 

And then shortly thereafter, you come to regret that moment?

That was me last week.

I had an epiphany during the hour and fifteen minutes since I had decided to tell three smiling faces that yes, they could put on their bathing suits, and get good and muddy in the backyard. I realized (much too late) that I should have probably just stuck with our normal routine.

Because then I had three wild children stuffed in the same bathtub fifteen minutes past when they are supposed to be in bed on a normal school night. All I could hear were their squeals and the torrents of water slopping over the sides of the tub and on to the bathroom floor with each passing minute.

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I had stupidly sat down for more than six minutes and gotten myself comfortable, and therefore couldn’t bring myself to get up and wipe soap through three heads of hair. 

I immediately regretted my decision. 

Well, I didn’t ENTIRELY regret it, but I had a severe change of heart right around when I started being eaten alive by mosquitos. Which was also about the time my oldest child inadvertently sprayed with me with the hose. For the second time in twenty minutes.

I used to do this on the regular. I’d say to heck with our daily schedule, and just let my kids play until they were so tired they wobbled a bit as they walked. Then I’d throw those babies in the bath tub, and let them float around until all of the suds disappeared, and the water turned a very questionable color.

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But they were preoccupied. They were both happy. And I could sit for a moment and breathe and be a spectator because what else did they need but eight inches of water and a few cheap rubber ducks?

Then two babies turned into three, and tiny squirming bodies grew out to be lanky bean poles. Then one kid wanted to only take showers, and the other didn’t want her bath disturbed by the third (feral but cute) child who also has a high probability of going number two in the tub. Nobody is ever particularly thrilled to bathe with her. She wears her scarlet P well, though.

So my simple bath routine eventually grew into three separate bath routines. Because of course it did. 

Now, here they were. For the last time, these three were in the tub together in our home on a weeknight. Life was humming along as it should. Only it wasn’t really.

We are moving next week. As in seven days from the moment I started hammering out this post while one kid is distracted, the other lazily waking up from her nap, and the third on a car ride with her Grandma. 

We are leaving this house. This house where my husband and I made three babies, and where our hearts grow about ten times in size. Where we put more sweat equity into remodeling these four walls over the last decade than most folks do in their homes over their whole lives. 

For the last time, my babies played while squished together in one tub and soaked every inch of the bathroom. The bathroom that was once orange. Now it’s gray. Their new one will have beige tiles. I’m sure the floors will get puked on and sopping wet just the same as this one, but it won’t actually be the same as this bathroom. 

I have tried and failed miserably to find the words to lovingly close off this chunk of my life before tonight. To get a place where I feel like I won’t be split in two when we leave.

I am eternally grateful to our home, even if it doesn’t have adequate closet space like the new one will have. Even if it doesn’t have a playroom for these kids to destroy like the new one will have. Even if it doesn’t have a mudroom like the new one will have. 

The day we worked out the contract with will-be buyer of this home, my heart caught in my throat because it was just then, after we had signed our names one more time, and solidified that we are in fact doing this, we aren’t staying here, it got so real.

There is so much to leave behind that can’t fit into boxes.

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My red living room. My green kitchen that was once yellow. How I miss that yellow. How I will always miss the first color I ever chose in any house I ever owned. 

The growth chart on the walls that measures the tops of our littles heads.

The hand prints in some places covered over with fresh paint, in others not.

My son’s Optimus Prime sticker on the outside of his bedroom door.

All fifteen of the pine wooden steps on our staircase that I have tripped on far too many times to count.

It’s been ten years, but I feel like we grew a lifetime in these walls.

And really, we did.

We brought three babies home to our two sweet, and now gone, California doggies. We’ve sat many an evening in the backyard until the sun set and the trees were alive with cicadas. We’ve rocked a thousand miles on our front porch, a cold beer in hand, the American Flag fluttering overhead protectively. And even more miles put in to the glider rocker in the corner of what was a nursery, rocking babies until they hushed and gave up. Babies that don’t fit in cribs anymore.

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I’ve worked so hard here, standing in front of a sink, a stove, a washing machine, a crying child. These walls saw me angry, frustrated, anxious, broken. But hopefully these walls saw me, at least in part, turn into the person I’m gonna be when I grow up. They have certainly seen me pry permanent markers out of the hands of toddlers and catch puke in my hands and laugh at babies who danced naked in the kitchen.

And then there is my husband.

This house is a love letter from him to all of us, to me. How sometimes I wish he was better with words because I want sonnets, dammit. But how incredible his wordless magnum opus has been to me. To us.

He painted the walls in our bedroom the color I chose because we both liked it enough, but really it was because he loves me. Or one of the dozens of times he has crawled in the dirt in the cellar underneath of this house to fix frozen pipes in the winter, to rewire a few things that needed fixing (shhh, don’t tell).

When he demoed each room, wall by wall, and rehung plaster on the ceilings above his head while his shoulders ached. Standing with arms outstretched on our old metal ladder well into the hours of the night. Hanging brand new maple cabinets in the kitchen, laying down tile flooring diagonally. Refinishing our hardwood floors, and fixing a hole where someone had put their foot through it an hour before we had it appraised after he had already spent fifteen months worth of evenings and weekends working like his feet were to the fire.

Sweat equity doesn’t even remotely cover what he has given us over the last ten years, the work never ending, always something to mend or fix. 

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So now, here we are. 

With three kids spilling out of the bathtub. They just don’t fit in there anymore. And I said it to myself:

I’m sorry, but we can’t stay here. 

We just don’t fit anymore. 

I’d like to think we grew a thousand lifetimes in these walls. If they really could talk, they’d tell you that the people here were mostly happy, mostly okay. And I’d also like to think we mostly accumulated the things that matter, not just a bunch of stuff to look after and be stuck with. 

I know they say that it’s the people that make a home, and I believe that to be true.

But actually, it’s the scuffs on the walls and sharing of cramped spaces, the painting of rooms together and removing six layers of wall paper while you mutter curse words under your breath that make the people who make a home. It’s working for something when you want it so bad you can taste it, and when you want so badly to give it to other people that the urge to push through aches in your chest. 

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The work we do makes us who we are. The things we make is really the making of us. We grew out of this home, because we grew up here into the people we want to be.

I’ll miss this tiny town. There is nothing like walking to the post office in bare feet. I’ll miss the way that everything is quiet by midnight, and how every person I see waves and smiles. I’ll miss not being able to wander across the street for a cup of coffee with my favorite neighbor.

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I don’t know what it’s going to be like to wake up some place new. The cardinals and squirrels outside of the window won’t be my cardinals and squirrels. The trees will be different. The noise outside will be that of cars driving past, not just cicadas and bluebirds.

Usually, it’s calamity that is the catalyst for change. When we sign our names that last time, on the day we set our keys in someone else’s hands, we know that we are changing not because of tragedy or sorrow.

We are upending all that we know so that we can set our roots down even further.

I know that life will inevitably grow more complicated the older our children get. 

But for a time, we were here. And things were simple. And it was so, so good.

I get now that leaving here doesn’t have to mean it wasn’t good. The only thing I’m sorry about is that we can’t stay. 

 

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But I’m glad we stuck around for a while.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Just take the picture.

About five years ago, my husband gave me a swanky camera for Christmas. 

After opening my gift, I was speechless.

My mind immediately jumped to worrying over the cost of such a gift – a gift with all of the bells and whistles. I knew that he had spent more on me than he would ever expect anyone to spend on him. Or that he would ever spend on himself.

This is his generous heart.

My new camera opened up the world of photography to me. Photography was a fledgling passion of mine, a part time past time that I was beginning to develop a keener interest in  

He, being the supportive and wonderful husband he is, made it a point to encourage my newfound pursuit. It was as much an investment as it was a gift. He was investing in a happy wife who could pursue creative outlets and build her confidence, while also maybe not go crazy in the meantime.

It was a pivotal moment for me. 

(He gave me a way.)

This past Christmas, I gave him an album full of photos from the year gone by. It was wonderful to give him something tangible that was produced by my hobby five years after he gave me a leg up on a new journey in my life. He encouraged an outlet that wasn’t directly related to chasing small children, even though it at times has been almost exclusively used to record those child-related happenings.

I can look back between when I unwrapped that wildly unexpected present and now, and see a pronounced change in my abilities from that first Christmas to this last one. I have much to learn, but I’m further than I would have been without his generosity.

(I found a will.)

Today, I was scrolling through the photo library on our computer. Recently, the computer decided that its memory was too full (the nerve!), so I’ve slowly been deleting unnecessary photos and files off of my computer in an effort to purge. 

Just this morning, I found dozens of videos, and hundreds of photos from a seemingly bygone era in our home.

A time when we just had one child. When the kitchen was still painted yellow, and we didn’t have the white shoe cabinet in the corner of the dining room that smells like cedar. Our son was a chubby-cheeked, floppy-haired chipmunk who kept two fledgling parents on their toes. 

As I thumbed through these photos and videos, some slightly blurry and a bit fuzzy, I realized that I had no immediate recollection of having even taken them.

The video of my son and me in the cozy green chair in the living room, nestled up with a pile of books stacked high. Him laughing as I playfully squeezed the inside of his thigh just above his knee. Him sitting on the back steps in the kitchen, covered head to toe in Crayola markers – I’m still thankful to this day that they were washable, other wise I’m sure he would still be tattooed in ever color on the spectrum  

Videos of my son, turning on the shower head, and drenching himself while naked in the tub, and the look of amused shock on his face. 

Then there were the photos. Pictures upon pictures of yellow haired, tiny children. Afternoons spent at the park or out in the backyard. Afternoons that now seem like a short lifetime ago. 

I looked at that tired mother in some of the photos, I studied myself with a lot less gray in my air, and I was transported back to feeling every ounce of anxiety over whether or not I was doing a good enough job.

Those days at home with two small children that seemed endless and tedious are now just one footnote in the pages of our family’s story. 

The mother in those photos was so tired, so unsure of herself. Today, I wish I could have given her a hug to say thank you

Thank you for taking those photos.

Thank you for not giving up and putting the camera down even when the kids weren’t being cooperative.

Thank you for not closing the camera on your phone just because someone at the park might have been giving you side-eye.

Thank you for ignoring the thousand and one articles on the internet say that you can’t ever fully experience a moment if you have a lens out. 

Thank you for having enough presence of mind, even though your eyes were so heavy with exhaustion that you thought they might fall out, to think to snap a photo of the things I truly want to remember.

Thank you for clicking away even when everyone in the photo had a bad attitude, because you knew you’d get at least one shot where everyone was looking at the camera. 

Photos tell our stories. Photos let us relive our story. Again and again. 

No, it’s not an exact replica of one moment or another, whether they were good or bad, certain or uncertain. And no, not every photo is of a pivotal, life changing moment. 

But a photo in the hands of the heart that’s looking to remember is like hands holding a hidden jewel.

The things we take photos of are assuredly the things we love. The things we seek. The things we want to think about one day, when we’re older and we have forgotten. Or when we are gray, and crows feet branch out around our eyes.

Our photos will only ever be precious to us, like some distinct, bespoke treasure.

So listen, I get it. 

It’s the holiday season.

And if she hasn’t already, your mom or wife or grandmother or girlfriend will soon want you and everyone else to put on an odd, matching sweater.

She’s going to want you to shave, and wear those pants and that tie you never wear. She’s going to give you several options for the color palette that best highlights everyone’s eyes when you could honestly care less.

She’s going to want you to help her dress the kids in stockings and button down shirts that will definitely get messy if they leave them on for more than three seconds. And she is going to want you to load the kids into the car, and drive to the park or the Christmas tree farm or to some photographer’s studio.

Or maybe she’ll just drag you out to the backyard where she has a tripod set up, and she’ll be hurrying everyone up and yelling something about the lighting being perfect right.now.

She’s going to want you to spend half an hour smiling so hard that your cheeks hurt while you have to pretend that the camera isn’t there. She might even threaten you a tiny bit, heck  she might even want you to fake laugh until your sides hurt. One of the kids might cry. She might tell you where she’ll hide someone’s body if you all don’t smile.

She might turn into some unrecognizable scary person in the pursuit of one Christmas card worth shot.

You must actively fight off the instinct to resist her every step of the way. 

I say this, with an urgency and sincerity: the memories of you, on this day, mean more to your mom/wife/grandmother/girlfriend than literally almost anything. 

These photos will warm the nooks of their coffee stained hearts for years and years to come.

Whether they end up in an album or stuck to the fridge with a magnet, on someone’s desk at work or in a pair of hands weathered by time belonging to someone who loves seeing those family shots. These photos now are the treasures for when these moments are long gone. For people who will one day be long gone. 

These photos show that we were here, even if we might have been pissed off at the time because we didn’t want to wear a bowtie.

Not to be crass, because it IS Christmas and all, but you can surely suck it up for a few minutes, buttercup, and you can take the photo. You can be be one to have a gracious attitude so that your children or your siblings and relatives catch on. 

And one day, when times have changed, and you’ve gone the way that we all eventually do, when you’re old and gray, and you’re holding in your hands the faces that smiled long ago, no mater what’s happened in between now and that day to come – you’ll remember that you were there. They were there.

And that you all lived. 

And it will be your hidden treasure. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Moms: you shouldn’t do everything for your children just because its easier.

 

My husband has a gift.

Besides his handsomely rugged smile and trademark “dad voice” that can make little people listen instantly (unlike when mom’s been yelling that “it’s dinnertime” for the last fifteen minutes to no avail), he has one more trick up his cardigan sleeves: his ability to successfully encourage our children to do things for themselves.

When it comes to daily life, even the tiniest every day task can immensely frustrate or prove challenging for our children. Fastening the button on their pants. Fetching a cup of water for themselves. Finding their lost shoe. Remembering to do what few daily chores we give them

I don’t know about you, but when little things like that happen in our home it can easily become an international event. My first reaction as a mother is to quickly intervene and problem solve on behalf of my children.

My husband’s approach is usually different. 

He works his magic and coaxes our children to solve their own problems. He talks them through the process in a bid to see if they can find a reasonable solution independently. He reminds them to finish a set task that is given to them, or to remember the daily behaviors and manners we expect from them. And to make matters even more mysterious, they are actually willing to listen to him!

What sorcery is this??

We can talk about the fact that moms are (usually, but not always) the parents who are inherently programmed to want to meet every.single.one. of their children’s needs on an almost molecular level without it sounding reductive, right?

This isn’t some special skill-set we develop all on our own, either. This is one that nature and biology figures we will be needing post-birth, along with hemorrhoids and thrush apparently.

Since our children spend almost an entire year inside of us developing, moms get a jump on the whole lifetime-of-service-and-hospitality-thing starting when we are hunched over the toilet with morning sickness and indigestion, long before baby is even born. 

We moms are programmed to hear the crying, coughing and sneezing in the middle of the night. Our brains are never turned completely off. That is, unless we are trying to accomplish something that doesn’t directly pertain to our children, like remembering what day it is and our real name. Here’s a hint, it isn’t, “mom!!”

It turns out that since having children, my brain is sometimes about as useful as a pile of soggy spaghetti noodles…unless I need to assemble a sippy cup in record time.

There is scientific proof behind the notion of “mom brain.” It is real

Not only am I programmed with the inescapable urge to meet all of my tiny love demons’ needs, I am also a woman who has ten things on her to do list at any given point during the day.

Stopping suddenly to teach someone the proper way to tie their shoes, sort toys into the correct bins, and scrape bits of food off dinner plates into the trash requires time. And we all know just how much extra time we have as parents, right?

More often than not, I will stop what I’m doing. But it’s to finish putting my children’s toys away for them. To tie their shoes and help them button their pants. It’s to search out that long lost My Little Pony toy from underneath of the sofa. It’s so I can clear their plates for them when they forget. 

Because the quickest way through each obstacle is the one that doesn’t require too much of my patience and sanity. It’s the one that doesn’t require me to teach life lessons when we have somewhere to be in eighteen minutes. 

But…is this behavior on my part really the quickest way through?

Or, am I actually setting my children up with the expectations that someone will always be there to help shoulder their responsibilities and cover for them when they fall short?

Am I crafting a world where my children value my service to them as a mother, so that they in turn develop an deep appreciation for other people serving them throughout their lives, like a server at a restaurant, the cashier at the grocery store or even a friend who helps them when they’re in a bind?

Am I actually being too child-centered to realize that part of being an efficient, dutiful and loving parent is teaching our children that our world does not revolve exclusively around them?

I don’t actually want to answer those questions. I was just asking.

I don’t know about the rest of you reading this post, but the daily challenges of parenting are difficult enough. There is no such thing as having enough patience, because it is constantly siphoned out of you in a steady stream of requests for cartoons and string cheese.

For a long time, I have fallen into the trap of thinking that it was better to resolve an issue quickly, rather than using it as a valuable teaching opportunity that could slowly bear fruit, and change the way my children and I relate to one another.

The gist? I am not their maid. I am not their nanny. I am not their personal chef, their cruise boat entertainment director or their personal sock finder.

Im their mother. And also, as it turns out, I’m a person.

There are many practical and spiritual reasons why we should empower our children to become their own problem solvers.

Here are just a few:

 

1.) You already have a lot on your plate

You already feed, clothe, bathe and tend to your children. You already facilitate their routines and schedules. You already manage their belongings. You already take them to the doctor, get them out the door to school, tend to them when they’re ill and comfort them when they’re upset. 

It sounds like the most basic of truths, but it IS true: momma, you already have a lot on your plate when it comes to taking care of your children. 

Which means that it is totally reasonable to expect that your children can accomplish age appropriate tasks for themselves as they grow.

It’s that simple. 

 

2.) Chores never hurt anyone

I don’t ascribe to the way of thinking that children need to walk fifteen miles uphill in the snow to school in order for them to turn into decent human beings. But chores and hard work actually DO build great character. 

Your children should know the pleasure of a job well done, and sense of pride that comes from accomplishing something on their own. And the best part is that it won’t kill them. Even if they moan and act like it will. When they resist, you know you’re on the right path.

 

3.) Fostering independence builds confidence

Much like potty training, zipping their jackets for the first time, or the moment they realize that they have cleaned their entire room themselves, there is nothing like seeing a child’s face light up when they have accomplished something entirely on their own. 

We can’t expect independent thinking to stem from the schools they attend, the friends they hang out with or to pop up when they finally move out of the nest on their own.

A strong sense of character and identity starts at home. And it can come from encouraging them to problem solve and work dutifully over the course of their entire lifetime. 

 

4.) We are seeing the negative affects of a child-centered culture

Parents today, in my very personal view, are afraid of upsetting their children. They’re afraid of the tantrums. They’re afraid to let them down. They’re afraid to simply say no. 

When we work for our children, instead of positioning ourselves as the guiding parent, we are fostering lifelong view where they subconsciously believe that all of their needs will always be fulfilled exactly how they want them. Where they believe that they will always be happy.

And if they aren’t? Then it must be someone else’s fault. 

Part of life is difficulty, pain and even disillusionment. It is never the job of the parent to be the causes of those things. We are never called to exacerbate or provoke our children.

But it is our job to love our children enough to give them a positive outlook on such things. Part of that is not shielding them from something that is hard simply because it’s hard.

 

5.) You don’t want to raise brats.

So, I know that sounds horrible. And I’m the first person to object to naming children as “a*******” or “brats.” Because children are children. But, really….

I’m not saying that you’re going to destroy your child’s entire life if you find their missing shoes for them. I’m not saying that if you cut the crust off of their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that you’re enabling their privilege. 

But we must correct the heart behind negative behavior as much as we must address the actual behavior.

I want my children to not only become capable people as they grow, but I want them to do it for the right reasons. I want them to have a sense of gratitude for the food on the table, the warm blankets on their beds and the shoes on their feet.

I want them to know that raising a family requires work, even on those lazy days out to the park with a picnic lunch. Every good thing requires the work or sacrifice of someone else. It is never free. Nothing ever just happens.

Encouraging independence in our children, giving them chores and enabling an attitude and cultivating a heart that is helpful and grateful and joyful for all that they have will help them open their eyes to the privileges and blessings that we are afforded in this country. It is teaching them to be aware in this world.

And it all must start in the home.

It is one more successful notch in the calling to send them out as straight arrows, tried and true.

 

Ready to fly.