Growing Up Doesn't Get Easier

I'm a farmer's daughter. Those two words have defined me for a few decades now. There was a period of time when I wasn't necessarily proud of it but over time, I've carried those two words with me like a symbol of my strength. For me, it represents hours spent in soybean fields with a corn knife, summer mornings that began at 5:30, fashion that revolved around black rubber boots. I've never had skinny, shapeless arms, that that's a trait I've grown to love about myself. But a few months ago, I was left pondering whether or not I can still label myself as a farmer's daughter. My father shared that he is scaling back and working toward retiring from the industry. Immediately, I saw flashes of memories growing up. When I was too young to irrigate, I carried an avocado-green Tupperware container from field to field. It was filled with "Teachers", which were really Little People. While my parents changed gates and checked motors, I'd build dirt towns. Flash forward to learning how to drive a tractor pulling a pipe trailer. I'm still perplexed by multiple brakes...and I'll never be comfortable driving one. As I mentioned, my older sisters and I spent hours roguing soybeans. We'd wear tube tops and short shorts with knee-high rubber boots. The shirts, for maximum sun exposure; the boots, to protect our feet from the wet beans. The memories go on and later include my children. Their first exposure to farming. My son fishing with my father in one of three reuse pits. Catching turtles while laying out irrigation pipe. The smell of freshly turned soil, pollinating corn, and dirty water from the reuse pits. The more I dwelled on my own memories, the more my heart sunk for my parents. I can only imagine that this decision is equal parts sad and rejuvenating. They had spent more than 40 years of their lives working the soil, sweating more than most people will in their lifetime. It hasn't made them rich financially but it's my belief that they're ahead of most in character and respect for the land. But how does my father define himself now? Is he a retired farmer, a semi-retired farmer? How can someone who has given so much of himself to the industry ever call himself anything but a farmer? He's earned the title, which is something to be extremely proud of. It's an industry that helped establish this great country, and one that is all too often ignored or criticized. I can't help but feel that this decision weighs far too heavy on his heart and mind. I worry that he feels like he failed somehow. Like he hasn't accomplished enough. Like he no longer has this label to hang proudly for all to see. This could very well be that transitional period that I've heard of...where we begin to take on a parental role for our parents. In this case, it's not to tell him what to do or to drive him to appointments. It's to remind him of his self worth. Offer words of encouragement, a hug that he would never ask for, and our memories so that he might understand that we'll always proudly carry the title of Farmer's Daughter.

The World Needs More Belly Laughs

About six years ago, I noticed a change in my son. The once blonde-haired, bubbly little boy had lost his contagious belly laugh. Even now, I believe it happened over night. And I have searched my mind for events or situations that might have stolen it from him. I've even watched the home video of him the night before his sister was born. His smile lit up the room as he bounced from the love seat to cushions and back around. He made countless trips from the chair to the cushion, each bounce causing this rippling laugh straight from his gut. That rumbling laugh could break any frown. These days I keep a close eye on my daughter, who's belly laugh has stuck with her an incredible three years longer than her brother's. Even at the age of six, little things like dog tricks on really bad TV, cause her to laugh from the deepest parts of her tummy. Warm giggles, eyes-clenched-shut smiles, radiate from her small body in waves. This time around, I find myself stopping to watch, listen and try to memorize these moments. However, earlier this week, their grandparents stopped briefly to see their grandkids. Both, our son and daughter, were tired and were supposed to wind down for the evening. Instead, they chased each other around the house. You could feel their energy and with each giggle, laugh or squeal, it became harder and harder to ask them to settle down. The belly laugh even made a brief appearance from my son...an occasion worthy of noting. There's a huge life lesson to be learned from a really great belly laugh, and although it's extremely cliche, it's true: Laughter is the Best Medicine. It is far easier to let the weight of responsibilities, let downs and the unknown to drag down the corners of your mouth. Furrowing your eyebrows is a far more natural movement that a simple chuckle. If we celebrated the good and the simple "funny" in life a fraction of the time that we delegate to negativity, belly laughs could make a comeback. With that comeback would be positive feedback, stronger friendships and healthier bodies. My belief is that my daughter's role as a little sister to her more serious brother is to remind him to laugh. To be silly. And to be reminded of all the simple goodness that surrounds him. His role for her? To protect, offer guidance and provide a shoulder in those moments she's led to question her optimism.

there is great risk in over-analyzing your past.

I hid out in my bedroom last night as an effort to seek out some adult time...more specifically, adult TV. At some point, I caught the winter Olympics commercial that celebrates motherhood. I've seen people's reactions on Facebook but I honestly hadn't taken the time to find the spot. Either it's that good, or I was in a mood last night... The spot offers snapshots into the life of these athletes through their mothers' eyes. First as babies, then as maturing professionals. I loved the message of the commercial but what struck me was the baby and toddler scenes. I was hit with panic over not having another child. Like so many others, my personal struggle isn't unique. As soon as I was hired out of college, I knew my career would be a priority. I wasn't looking to get married or have a family. But it happened. A week before I turned 25, I was married. And a week before I turned 26, I gave birth to our son. Once he came, my priorities changed a little but I still spent as many nights up working as I did with him. I also knew we wanted him to have siblings. After waiting until we felt we could handle it, we went for #2. I experienced one miscarriage but soon after was pregnant with our daughter. Both deliveries were awful. They scarred me a little bit. Our daughter being significantly worse than our son, I just convinced myself that my health or the health of the baby wasn't worth trying it again. After some discussion, we opted for a dog instead of another human. I've been plagued by doubt ever since. It's hard to convince yourself that your husband is getting too old, in that, we have plans for "some day" and he may not be interested in doing those things by the time our children are out of the house. I also convince myself that I have other goals to focus on. That the world is only getting uglier...but my heart aches to experience a growing child. I won't look into another baby's eyes searching for pieces of myself and its father in its features. I won't get to see my other children take care of another sibling. I know that we made the decision. I know that it feels like time has run out. I just haven't figured out how to get over this pity party that I seem to throw for myself fairly regularly. Of the lessons I'm learning, this is one of how our life choices can haunt us years later. It makes me wonder if I'm mentally strong enough to overcome these feelings of doubt. And it's amazing to think that the two children that I do have...have completely changed me. They are truly gifts. So much so, that at times I feel like I could surround myself with tiny version of them.

You're never too young or two old to admit fault.

My son turned eight last week. His birthday is always emotional for me. I don't know if it's just because he's my first born, or that it was an unplanned pregnancy, or that it's a reminder that we have no control over the clock. How can eight years pass so quickly? Regardless, the day came and went. Like every year, I found myself daydreaming about that day. Details that I play over again and again as I'm afraid that if I don't, I'll forget. I hugged him extra tight that night. Four days later, after his birthday party with six other eight and nine year olds, and then a sleepover for someone else's birthday, I knew he was tired. I was tired. But there was work to be done. I sent Caden and his sister off to clean their shared bedroom and then the playroom. Much arguing ensued. Hitting occurred. What should have taken 15 minutes was taking an eternity. Lately I've been trying to stay out of it. Pick your battles. Make them figure things out. Problem solving seems to be a lost art these days. But I can only take so much. I hate to admit it but I eventually yelled. Like the kind of screaming where you feel the veins in your neck bulge, your face gets hot and you immediately worry that the neighbors can hear you. I was angry. My son didn't miss a beat; returning the rage and calling ME names. I tried being an adult about it. But it happened again. So I spanked him. His mouth kept running. So I fed him a little soap. Bawling now, he still managed to yell at me. So I made him feed himself some soap. Horrid sobbing sounds began and I sent him to his room to calm down. Ending it with he could come speak to me after he calmed down. Minutes passed. More bawling. More like wailing. I waited for him to fall asleep but rest was not coming. Eventually he calmed down, I calmed down and we all sat and talked about it. I always start these conversations with how much I love them and that even if I lose my patience, it does not reflect the amount of love that I feel for them. I apologized for using some choice words. Then I asked why he felt it was appropriate to speak to me in that way. He didn't know why. He never does. More than likely it boils down to a young boy who is trying to figure out how to deal with these new emotions. His instinct is to become physical. But he has a soft heart so he often reverts to using words instead. It's frustrating; I can see it on his face. After a while, we decide to blow off some steam and play catch outside. The day went on and it was as if nothing happened earlier that day. But at night and again this morning, he came to me with a big bear hug, an apology in his eyes and kind words. I know he loves me. I know there is no permanent damage. But it still hurts. My words, not his. My hope is that my apology heals him and shows him that it's okay to apologize.

there are some skills you can't outgrow

When the doctor announced that we had just brought a little boy into the world, my husband and I decided that, when it came to sports, he would learn equally. You need to realize that I come from a family of three daughters...all of whom played basketball, and my husband came from a family of three sons and a daughter...the sons (and parents) all very passionate about wrestling. At the age of five, Caden started wrestling. It was cute, and I didn't mind taking him to the practices because I had no idea what was going on and figured I could learn a few things. I had also realized that the area we live in doesn't teach basketball until the second grade. Caden enjoys wrestling but felt bad last year when he had to wrestle against his friends. After winning the first time, he came back to the bleachers saying that he thinks he should have let the other boy win. He felt terrible. And he had decided that maybe wrestling wasn't for him. Shortly after, he realized that the following season, he would also be on the older end of the scale, so he thought maybe one more year would be okay. My husband and I couldn't help but laugh. You can imagine my excitement when the flyer for little kids basketball came out. Knowing that he'd miss the first session, my son and I began working at home. We went over the basic fundamentals of dribbling, passing, shooting and defensive stance. We shuffled in a defensive position back and forth across the driveway until our legs burned, laughing the entire time. Those lessons I had learned from my father and coach came rushing back. It was like I had never stopped playing the game. I was still shooting in my dad's shed. Beating up on my older sister. Those are some of my fondest memories as a child and teenager, and I was experiencing it all again with my seven year-old son. I realized afterward that this must be how my husband feels when he works with Caden. Helping our children to experience the same memories we had is part of the circle of life; or at least it's a goal of ours. So what if my son never plays high school basketball...and I end up spending most Saturday's in a gym...we have these moments. And they are truly magical.

we're all a little more than selfish

I gave away my heart when my son came into this world. Even at the age of almost 8, he still captivates me in a way that no one else can. However, our five year-old daughter is exploring a side of herself that is very near and dear to my heart. She has discovered the magic of writing. Pencil and paper. Where you have the power to create anything, to go anywhere that your mind will allow you to go. I realize that she probably doesn't see it that way, at least right now. And her father just see's her autographing his tools, scraps of paper and anything else that will accept ink. But I'm mesmerized by her creative spirit. She is too young to know how to spell. She struggles with letters right now. Even her name might be a challenging read for some. But she's writing nonetheless. When I ask what her creations are, she asks me what it says. Inevitably, we end up creating incredible stories together. Sometimes it's a simple lunch order. Other times, it's a tale about her brother or a friend. However the writings end up, we both enjoy sharing ideas, exploring the unknown and laughing about how silly it all is. My only fear is that she'll lose sight of this incredible gift. That she'll become dazzled by technology and the black-and-white of the world. I may be selfish for loving that my daughter seems to be a creative type, like her mother, but her world is so beautiful right now that I can't help but explore it with her.

becoming our parents doesn't always suck.

There have been many situations over the last 2.5 years when I've had this feeling of, "this is a dad's job, not mine". Granted, this is more than likely an unfair attack on my husband but it happens...a lot. Last night was no different as my son begged me to practice tee-ball with him. (after a rough game last week we made a pact to at least play catch every night for 10 minutes) He grabbed my glove and everything else and we made our way outside. I have to admit, I grumbled before we even began. Part of the tee was gone, and the shaft was shoved so low that I couldn't raise or lower it...the one time our daughter wanted to participate...I just wanted to get out there and get to work. After figuring out a solution that involved pliers from my husband's toolbox, we were ready. Facing the street and keeping our fingers crossed that Caden wouldn't have a terrible shank off our home or the neighbors. As I began coaching him on where his feet should be in relation to the base, his elbows raised, and where his hands were gripping the bat, I was suddenly standing in the front lawn of my parent's house. My dad being the one saying those things to me. In the summer, it was a daily routine after lunch. Eat and head outside so he could hit fly balls and grounders or let us bat and play catch. I could hear his voice matching mine. Every word was his, not mine. It was incredibly magical. When we finished practicing I was tempted to call my father and share the experience with him. But I knew he wouldn't really understand how profound it was for me. Or how proud I felt for having the opportunity to pass those fundamentals on to my own son. So I just tried to bottle up that feeling...the look on my son's face every time he succeeded in using the correct form or standing ready for the ball instead of swinging his glove around loosely at his knees. The smack of the ball hitting the sweet spot of his glove. Some traits and lessons stick with you...and this is one that I hope sticks with Caden.

imagination is one of our most precious assets.

Last winter I bought an Elf on the Shelf. But we didn't get it out. I didn't even read the book. So this year I was determined to see how my kids would react and if they would believe. We got a late start. It was about 10 days before Christmas and we were heading out the door to go pay a visit to Santa at the local fire hall. I ran inside quickly to get our elf and his book out to surprise the kids when we got home. I had told them that Santa is incredibly busy and they have been questionable in their behavior so it may be a good time to ask Santa to send an elf to our home...you know, as an extra set of eyes on my kids. The plan worked beautifully. We got home, they saw the elf immediately (although they touched him just as immediately, which we later found out ruins his magic). We read the book, they named him Louis Spark and we were in business. Day 1: Caden watched Louis throughout the day. He swears he moved his legs, even switched positions. The classic line: Mom, he had his legs crossed. How did he do that when I've been watching this whole time? At one point, Caden even hid behind a wall to peer over the side in an effort to catch Louis in the act of moving. Cali just kept repeating that she loves Louis... Day 2: Louis moved from the TV console table to the antique cabinet in the dining room. More excitement and watching took place. Careful examination, I should say. Day 3: He returned to our home and made a place for himself on the wine rack in the kitchen. Again, he moved when the kids weren't watching. They're pretty sure he has a taste for mom's Cabernet. Day 4: Louis snuck off and hid in the Christmas tree. They couldn't figure out how he was holding on but he stayed in there all day long. Day 5: Louis returned to the kitchen, this time he laid with his hands behind his head on top of the apples. He looked pretty cozy and the kids giggled when they saw him. Day 6: Louis was found the next morning hugging a framed picture of Caden and Cali. They were sure it was a sign that he loves them (and thinks they're pretty good kids.) Day 7: Louis didn't move very far. He got caught in the cupboard above the microwave. Caden and Cali were sure it was hurting his legs but he seemed not to mind too much. Day 8: Right before Christmas, Louis found our other Christmas tree and snuggled up in the branches. He must have been looking at all of our memorable ornaments! Day 9: On his last day at our home, Louis embraced the countdown snowman that sits in the living room. He wanted to be sure that the kids knew it was his last day until next year. They blew kisses, told him they love him and wished him a Merry Christmas before going to bed. I wish I could put into words the genuine love and full belief my children had in Louis the elf, as well as Santa. Their excitement is something I crave to experience one last time, and I am appreciative for the opportunity to see it glimmer in their eyes.

love is fragile at any age.

My son just wrapped up his first year of school. I'm officially the mother of a first grader...it's been a beautiful experience watching him learn and grow. I love watching him learn how to read especially. So serious. So determined. It's amazing. His school subjects aren't the only learning he's been doing this year. He has gained some pretty terrific friends. He's been learning about the pros and cons of hanging with older kids; with bigger kids and tougher kids. He's been hurt, he's seen success, he's found a few awesome kids to look up to. He's also been introduced to the idea of girls and love. He covers his eyes when people kiss and hug on TV but he never hesitates to tell me he loves me or give me a hug. The last week of school, Caden was invited to a classmate's birthday party. It was a girl...THE girl he's been talking about all year. At first, he told me that the rule of the party is that the birthday girl chose a boy and a girl who have to kiss (a little young, right-we played this game in fifth grade I think). Caden was to kiss the birthday girl. He told me this was top secret information. And that he told her he's never kissed a girl. When I said, "What about me?" he immediately replied that "that's different mom". Oh no, my son, at the tender age of six understands the difference between loving his mother and another girl! I had to take a moment to absorb this information. The party came and he was upset because another rule was that everyone was to go home and change out of their school uniforms and into their best clothes for the party. Keep in mind, it was ninety degrees that day and the wind was blowing at like 30 mph. I told him I wasn't driving an extra half hour to have him change and he freaked, but shortly got over it. There was no kissing at the party (sigh of relief by all). However, when I picked him up after the last day of school, he seemed down. Not only was this little girl moving many states away this summer, he had other news. The school had walked many blocks away to play at a park and have a sack lunch. On the way back, my son and this girl held hands (Caden has said many times how much he'll miss her). His friends gave him a hard time about loving this girl. Caden looked at me sadly and said, "Mom, just because we hold hands, that doesn't mean I'm in love with her. She's my friend and friends can hold hands." What a proud moment. I responded by telling him that showing affection or showing that you care for someone is never wrong. There's nothing wrong with holding hands with a friend. Especially one who is scared to move and worried about making new friends. She probably needed a good friend and I'm so glad that my son was there. I know I've said this a million times before...I have no doubt that my son will have his heart broken by a million girls over the years because he is SUCH a lover, but I would rather he have too big of a heart than not having one at all...

Maybe I'm not always wrong.

I've never been much of a gamer. As a kid we only owned Mario Brothers and Duck Hunter...and I'm not sure it was worth the money. When I got married and we found out we were going to have a baby, I promised that our children would live as we did. They would build forts, play ball, make up games and not sit in front of some gaming device all day long.

Well, my son is six and we just purchased a Wii. My change of heart was about winter and staying active indoors. It came with a dance game...that's really REALLY fun. So I was feeling pretty confident about our new gaming system.

That's were I screwed up. In my new-found gamer excitement, I purchased a game that has something like 20 different games to play. They range from table tennis to bowling to darts. And now my son begs me to play. From the moment he gets home from school until bath time. And he cries and flails around and screams like a youngster verging on the dreaded three's. When I (and yes, I realize we all become our parents at some point) tried to explain that when I was a kid we made up games and played by ourselves and were rarely entertained by our parents or some game device, he looked at me like I was speaking another language. He refused to play anything else or dig through his toys. And chose to sit and pout until bedtime.

I know this will pass. I know the games will get dull. But I never thought in a million years that at six years old, I would have to take games away or set limits on how much game time my children could have.

If only imagination came with a battery!

They're watching us just as closely...if not closer...than we are of them.

Much to my delight, my three year-old daughter is a girly-girl. The moment she gets home from day care, she strips down to her panties and goes in search of a dress worthy of dancing in. (Lately, this has led to her wearing a flower girl dress from earlier this summer...it was white at one time.)

She loves Barbies, which was one of my favorite pastimes as a young girl. We dance like it's going out of style. She loves to brush her hair and wear lipgloss. The list goes on.

But while I often feel she's so caught up in being a girl, I have more often been bit by her keen remembrance of what her mother says and how she acts.

Just this past week, I heard her following her daddy around the house as he was moving some heavy furniture. She would call after him, "You know you're going to hurt yourself," or "Let me go in front of you daddy," as she wedged herself between the wall and whatever it was that he was moving. As she gabbed-and crabbed-at him, she never once stopped to let him react. Class mommy move.

Another fine example occurred this morning shortly after we got home from church. I was crabby at her father already and grumbled the entire time I made HIM breakfast. While he searched the TV for an old Western, my daughter caught me calling him a lazy ass. For the next five minutes, she strolled in and out of the living room asking daddy if he was going to get off of his lazy ass...and by the way, mommy's the one who said it. Her brother and I ended up repeatedly asking her to stop using potty language.

While I do correct her for some of the behavior, I mostly find myself finding a corner of the house where I can smile or laugh for a moment at how wonderful it is to have the opportunity to see myself in someone else. No matter if she's learning good or bad traits, it's a pretty amazing feeling.

Their love is pretty darn great (as in the size)...

Last week school started back up for the second semester. It was bittersweet dropping my son off as we all enjoyed the extra time together (although the evenings got a little out of control). For whatever reason, I didn't just pull away from the curb after he hopped out. This time, I sat there for a few seconds to watch him with his friends. But instead of seeing them all freaking out about getting together after two weeks apart, I caught him looking back at me.

One thing you have to understand is that my son...my beloved first born...has these amazing eyes. Not only are they as large and round as his head, they are also the warmest shade of brown and surrounded by the longest, softest lashes I have ever seen. (Yes, I also realize I'll be paying for this as soon as he becomes interested in girls). So even after he gave me the usual "I love you too mom" smile when he hopped out of the van, he turned back a few steps in. I smiled, he grinned and it was like we shared this secret mother-son moment where all was right in the world. He's never been naughty and I've never screwed up as a parent.

Although we were 20 feet from one another at this point, I could feel his love and I'm pretty sure he could feel mine...and that's why I am so blessed to be a parent. There is nothing that even comes close to that feeling, and I'm certain there never will be.

We should never grow out of our silliness.

I've caught myself taking life too seriously on and off through my life. I always feel guilty the moment I realize how ridiculous I'm being. This night, my son was pretending to be a super strong wrestler...obviously ready for his pee-wee wrestling season to start. And my daughter, the ultimate copy-cat, was not very far behind. (I'm just hoping she grows out of wanting to wrestle!)

As they hollered about being tough and grunted and stomped around the living room for awhile, my husband caught their toughness on camera. Good thing it's difficult to stay too serious in this house for very long. Let's hope we're still laughing and being silly another thirty years from now.

Their love shines just as bright as ours.

I'm not sure what's gotten into me this week but Monday will be the third time I've visited my son's kindergarten class in seven days. I never know what to expect. The first visit was to listen to an author speak about a children's book she wrote. A book I've been wanting to buy and now want it even more.

The kids were fidgety the entire hour; I almost couldn't stand it. The teachers were obviously used to it. And while I went into the event believing my son would be embarrassed to have me there even though he begged me to go, he sat there, draped all across my lap through most of it. Held my hand the other part. I didn't mind at all. It was sweet and I wanted to squeeze him back but refrained until I said goodbye.

Today, I went to lunch with his class. Again, he had begged me to go and acted excited and nervous the whole time. He kept peeking around at the other kids to see how they would react and yet, you could tell he was on cloud 9. I think I smiled for that entire 30 minutes. I was so proud of my son. He's growing so quickly and is learning so much. He amazes me. But after we dumped our trays, he went and re-joined his friends and yelled out "Bye mom!" I turned, knelt down and asked for a hug. Keep in mind there were 13 kindergarten kids staring at us and a handful of other children and adults watching. He leaned the opposite direction. So I took the opportunity and squeezed him as hard as I could and as I planted a big kiss on the top of his head, I said, "Awe, are you embarrassed to hug your mom in front of your friends?" They all roared with laughter...it was pretty incredible.

I could see and feel his love today. There is absolutely nothing like it in the world. And I just hope that he could see and feel how much I love him. What a terrific memory...can't wait to do it again Monday!

Liar, liar...

I've busted my son lying to me a few times now. He tells me his room is tidy and I walk in to find the floor still covered in little cars and clothes. I ask a simple question and get some strange, obviously made up story in return. I've tried explaining right from wrong; used poor Santa Claus as a scare tactic; threatened to take away toys...all with no real sign of remorse or a single ounce of care.

But last night, he went too far. Or maybe it was just the first time his father witnessed a lie. Either way, it went from bad to worse in a matter of seconds. All he had to do was eat a dinner roll. He had asked for it. Wanted butter on it. And then he tried saying that it was his sisters or some crazy thing. The next thing I know, his father is yelling and and carrying on...Caden's bawling and Cali just looks thoroughly confused.

I tried to step in an speak calmly. Try to negotiate a solution. I though I got through to Caden but received death stares from his father. Two minutes later, he was lying to me. Only I didn't know it. Instead, I took pity on him and felt his father went too far. I asked him to go apologize and maybe dad would change his mind about his punishment. He walked away only to return two minutes later to apologize to me for lying. His dad knew all along that I was lied to.

Now my blood was boiling and I was trying so hard to keep my emotions in check...following a bath, I sent him to bed. Sobbing, shuttering with sadness. My heart hurt for hurting him (although today I realize it didn't really phase him). I thought about it as I went to sleep that night. Considered going in and laying with him in an attempt to reassure him that I love him and that I'm not mad, even though I was.

My lesson here was more for me. I truly believed that we were hard on Caden by making him go to bed early. I believed that his sobs were true torture. But reality is that he was tired. He was trying to play us. And I have a feeling his days of lying are not over.

So now I'm rethinking my strategy and wondering if we were in fact, too soft.

Maybe none of us are as comfortable in our own skin as we seem.

My son is officially a member of a kindergarten class. And no, I didn't cry. My lack of tears did shock me but what was even more interesting this past week was watching his reaction to the whole thing.

The first day of school, there he was in his little uniform, looking very much like everyone else (only cuter). He hopped out of the car and I walked with him considering the load of school supplies we were asked to provide...watercolor paint of all things...anyway, the kids were lined up outside waiting for the front doors to be opened and I asked Caden if he'd hold my hand or if he's too cool for that now. He quietly said he was too cool. Keep in mind, his eyes didn't leave the crowd of kids the entire way into the building. So, being the over-protective mother that I am, I firmly placed my hand on his head instead. More to comfort myself, and yes, I realize this is my doing.

We walk inside the classroom and he's the last one to arrive. I felt terrible as he shrunk back a little after seeing all of these eyes staring at him. But he found his seat and let me walk out with a little peck on his head and a tight squeeze of his arm.

He was all smiles at the end of school that day.

Day two...the first full day. This time, I walk him in because we had forgotten some stuff that needed to be dropped off...this time, four boxes of Kleenex tissue...I barely get around to his side of the car and he grabs my hand. Again, his eyes never leave the sight of the big kids standing around outside.

I couldn't help but smile. As brave as we all want to seem, sometimes you just need a hand to squeeze to know you're not alone. I have never felt so proud of my son as I have this week. It feels like my heart doubles in size at moments like these...And I have a feeling that it's just the beginning.

Only kids know what unadulterated happiness feels like.

My little family of four traveled four blocks over to our town's carnival last night. I have to admit, I was a little bit in awe. A town with less than 300 people and a three-day carnival that takes up the entire main street area. It was quite a sight. But what was even more amazing was the look in my children's eyes. It was pure bliss at its finest.

They couldn't wait to ride the rides, play games for cheap toys and see all of their friends. But on this night, it was even more magical. First came my son's slow bike race. We recently took the training wheels off of his bike and I was nervous about how steady he would be trying to ride slow. But he was amazing...just the fact that he understood the concept of the race was amazing to me.

Next up was our daughter's foot race. I have to admit I was nervous. She rarely runs without falling on her face. I don't know where she gets it but that girl is one clumsy lady. There are many days she comes part way into the room and just falls over, tripping over nothing. Anyway, her daddy stood on the starting line with her while I waved from the finish, hoping that she'd run to me. "Go" was yelled and away they went; a bunch of little tikes running for their lives, although I'm sure none of them knew why.  The closer my daughter got to me, the louder her giggles became. And the look on her face was sheer happiness. She had no idea why she should feel so gleeful but she did and she let it show. It was truly amazing, and I realized that as adults, we're robbed of unadulterated happiness. How wonderful it would be to see the world through their eyes one more time.

As brave as they want to be, it takes time.

My five year old son has been begging me to ride his bike alone. Around the block. Down a park path and back. Two blocks over to see his dad at work, etc. Little by little, I've been giving in to him. We talk about Stranger Danger all of the time and I do feel that I need to let go a little once in awhile.

But I learned that it's very possible and very easy to give too much.

Yesterday was T-ball practice. We've had many, many practices. I've spent several hours already this summer, entertaining his little sister while he plays ball. And, unlike wrestling, I've never seen him making sure I'm watching or asking where I am. He's seemed very enthralled in the game and in his new friends. Halfway through practice, his sister and I trekked two blocks away to visit with his daddy. With fifteen minutes of practice left, we make our way back. And as I searched the field for Caden...not in the outfield. not in the infield. Not up to bat...my heart began to sink.

I started searching the playground, thinking that maybe some of the kids were dismissed early but he wasn't there either. A moment later, he emerged from the park restroom, holding hands with one of my new could-be friends. Tears were streaming down his face. I could see his heaving chest from halfway across the park. I jogged over to find out that he needed to use the restroom and got scared when he couldn't find me. The woman had gone looking for him after he'd been in the restroom for several minutes.

Thank God she didn't have to help him with anything in the bathroom but still, I was mortified and really felt that I just earned the Worst Mother award. After apologizing over and over again and comforting my son, we scurried home.

After a warm bath, a warm hug or ten of them, and some dinner, he was back to normal. And I'm still feeling guilty today...

Happy Easter

I realize it's a little late, but much of our holiday was spent on the couch watching movies with the flu. But it didn't spoil our gratefulness of having each other in our lives...

We've been manipulating people to get our way since birth.

I first noticed this new game with my five year old son. But amazingly, my two year old daughter has already caught up with him. Making up little lies to get their way...as in asking one parent for permission for something and then going to the other parent and, instead of asking the same question, telling them that the other parent said it was okay.

Seriously, I hear them virtually every day:
"Daddy, mommy said I can go to grandpa's and you're going to drive me there."
"Mommy said you're naughty."
"Mommy said I could have candy."
"Grandpa, my mom said I can come help you tear out that fence."

It goes on and on. What I haven't quite figured out yet though, is when will they realize that I can hear them. And I hear it all the time. And they get busted for it all the time.

Kids are brilliant and completely naive simultaneously...every day.