she

Her profile is so much like her oldest brother's profile. I wonder if she'll be more like him, or more like Asher? Or just plain different than all of us? For now all we know is that her profile is a lot like her oldest brother's profile, a boy who will turn six the week after she is born.

Ryan and I walked through aisles yesterday and we talked about six years ago. We carried that registering-for-baby-things-gun that beeps. (Yes, we created a registry for a third baby. We did. For moms and grandmas to know what we need, since we did that thing where we got rid of everything somewhere between colic and hydrocephalus...or maybe that was after...whenever it was it was obviously too soon, but we thought we knew we were done. Stress will do that to you...until time passes...I think I'm rambling like this because registering feels greedy even if it's really not...)

It's funny how we realize now how little we need compared to what we thought we needed those six years ago. Back then, when Miles was coming, I think we beeped everything in every aisle. This time we beeped one or two things here and there and kept in mind that we really don't need much. People would stop us to try to give us advice, assuming that this was our first baby, and we wouldn't correct them, we'd just smile and say thank you.

Because just as much as this isn't new to us, every new person is new. She is new.

She.

I can't wait to see what she'll be like.

Asher and his sister belly

(photo taken with my Droid-Retro Camera app)

voices

I am here alone in a place with Internet access and food, trying to clean up my inbox and clear my head.

But their conversation is turning my limbs light and my stomach in circles. They are men, with gray hair and pot bellies and low grumbling laughs, at the next table. They are reminiscing about the good old days, the "good old days" with women.

Heat is rising in my cheeks and my heart is beating faster and everything in me wants to strangle, to rail, to fight, to scream...to get them to stop, to get them to see.

Here you sit with all these years to know...and you still don't know.

They are talking so loudly...with so much pride, it sounds like bravado, and I feel sick.

:::::

Last night I was randomly struck with a thought, right before bed. I called out for Ryan, to come from the other room and I said, I just had the most terrifying thought.

What?

What if she's beautiful? What if this baby girl is beautiful? That scares me so much because men can be so awful.

I just needed to say it.

:::::

One of them, in here now, he says, Yeah, all I had to do was pull the car to the side of the road and she knew what was coming. They all laugh, that loud laugh, like they're trying to be the most humored, like it's a contest. Then he says, She knew how it was going to end. More laughing. She'd make excuses--oh I need to work in the moring or oh it's so late--but I'd just say yeah yeah yeah...

more laughing. They just keep going, with the stories and the laughing.

Then as quickly as it started, it's over--the topic has changed to the weather, oh it's so cold--and their voices are growing softer and softer, barely audible, and then there's a silence, the kind that takes over after a last breath. A kind of eerie and then holy silence. It's over.

My shoulders relax but only a little and I'm whirling with my history and her future and I'm trying hard to grasp around for faith, to trust.

One of them gets up to leave, pulling up his suspenders and slipping his arms through his coat. He walks by my table, and he smiles at me.

And I want to strangle, to fight, to scream, to rail against it.


Everything in me wants to protect her always, and even more, everything in me wants to give her a voice.

____

*edited to add: I realize that bad things can happen to anyone, not just girls (or beautiful girls for that matter). I simply caught myself in fear and expressed it here. Beauty can draw a lot of unwanted attention, that's just simply where my thoughts began, and then I wrote them out.

thought to self

Something keeps running through my head. It just up and popped in there one day and now I'm trying to cling to it.

Because it's not the big stuff that I have a tendency to sweat. I'm a survivor of many big things, just like most humans...so I have practice at persevering through pain and carrying on.

But I've also had a lot of practice with the daily grind
and yet it still really gets to me so much of the time.
I mean, the thing about the daily grind is that it really won't ever end.
I'm selfish enough to dislike that.

stupid kitchen floor always dirty stupid where's the broom ugh
worry worry worry (enter big thoughts)
why why why are the Legos all over the floor again seriously?
It's 5 freaking 45 what in the world is this child doing UP?
worry worry worry (enter more big thoughts)
oh I get so sick of meals. Three a day? That's too many.
It's 3pm? Really? HOW is it NOT 9pm? HOW?
stop whining! stop fighting! stop whining!
worry worry worry (even more big thoughts)

You know, stuff like that.

This is when I start to trudge and martyr and pout.
It's hard not to do that because motherhood and life, well, they're
exhausting.

Motherhood, if all of its parts could be summed up in one tiny definition,
is
a million little sacrifices all piled up to make one big one.
And as much as it hurts and exhausts so much of the time,
it's also beautiful because it's the very thing I needed most,
to work away at my protective shell, my internal focus and my tendency to dislike
anything that messes with what I want when I want it.
It teaches me what we all need to know. The simple truth,
it's not all about me.

And so I say, as of late, when I start to stomp and sigh,
Heather, don't resent the sacrifice.
And then something softens in me somewhere under all that exhaustion
and frustration
because first of all, the details and repetitive sameness,
they aren't going anywhere, so I'm wasting my time to wish them away.

And as it turns out, for me anyway, sacrifice is a comforting word...
when I stop to see that it's making me more of who I want to be.

goodbye pacifier, hello reminder

Yesterday we decided to be done with Asher's pacifier.

say it ain't so!

(Actually, Ryan decided and I begrudgingly tried hard to see why this made sense on this particular day because yeah, I'm quite easy-going about such things, I'll admit it--I don't get all uptight about what the books or other people say about pacifiers.) (And yes, Asher is 3 and a half and still slept with a plastic thing in his mouth.) (Don't judge.)

So last night was the big night, if only on a whim, and so we prepared ourselves for a fight. We prepared ourselves to get up a lot. We tried to prepare Asher by talking about it throughout the evening, before bedtime.

He argued a whiny attempt at changing our minds incessantly for the last ten minutes before bed, his enormous blue eyes looking up at us, begging. So we tried bargaining and praising and convincing, etc...infinity...

But he continued to say things like, I don't want anything but my paaaaciiiiii. (And believe you me, it was so tempting to say OKAY FINE because he's the cutest little cherub with a nasal-y voice you ever did see.)

I carried him to bed and whispered good things to him. I put him down and told him that he's a big strong boy, just like his big brother and that I knew he could do it.

And then, after all that arguing and whining, he said, "You are right, Mommy." (With a little quivering lip, a big sigh and very sad Goodbye Paci eyes.)

Then he immediately went to sleep and did not make a peep all night long and slept later this morning than usual. True story.

~~~~~

I'm consistently surprised by motherhood. By parenting. By life with kids. We hardly ever get what we expect no matter how we try to prepare or not prepare and no matter how uptight or easy-going we are. All I really no for sure is how totally out of control I am no matter how much I try to control things.

I'm in no way an expert on anything. I mean, I allowed my boy to have a pacifier until age 3.5 (and honestly, I'm totally cool with that), but if I could give one piece of advice (even though I'm truly not much of an advice-giver, since I know that can be annoying) to new parents, this would be it:

Roll with it, friends. Almost everything in the early years works itself out in its own time, it really does. The sleep schedule, the feeding schedule, the potty training and the pacifying. These are simply small things when you look back. So trust your heart-gut rather than the books or even the experts and do your best to...well, relax.

I wish I had done that, from the beginning. And maybe it just takes time for us to learn to do that. But it's not laziness to relax a little. I think it might just be surrender--to life with kids, on its own terms. Of course it's important to remain consistent with discipline and all that, I'm not saying it's not. I'm simply talking about letting go and living out the process and trusting your heart-gut if it's telling you everything will be okay, even if it's not right now.

I mean, really friends. If I don't take on this attitude myself, I may not be able to handle it tonight when Asher has a complete fit over not having a pacifier anymore.

(Look at me, trying to predict the future again. My learning curve...it ebbs and flows.)

one minute

One minute he was on the couch and the next minute, my youngest boy had somehow scurried off, his bare little feet making not a sound.

(He looks so tall lately.)

I said, Where'd Asher go ? He was just right here. And Ryan shrugged and laughed because talking about Asher just naturally makes a person giggle, even grown men. I went through the dining room and looked through the living room. No Asher. Just silence and the dark except for the Christmas tree lights.

I said, I bet he just up and went to bed!

And he had. There he was, under the covers, turned on his side, his eyes scrunched closed the way they do for the faking of the sleep. It hadn't been long enough for real sleep. He smiled a little and we said prayers and goodnight and then I tip-toed out even thought I didn't have to because obviously he wasn't going to protest. He was ready for bed, and he knew it.

(I'm just in the habit of night-time-soft-walking.)

~~~~~

He is growing up already at age three, just like his big brother, these little men trying so hard to spring past me. I think those mother-thoughts, about how fast it has gone already, and then it strikes me that we're about to start all over again. It will be a long time before this baby that's growing in me walks and talks and there's only a very small chance he or she will put themselves to bed at age three, I think that might be exclusive to the middle child in our particular family. And yet, this baby will walk and talk and make little independent decisions in the blink of an eye.

As any mother of grown children will tell you (me), one minute they're there and the next, gone, slipping silently away to life. It's as it should be, and so fast and so slow like a deep breath.

~~~~~

Today I'm having some time alone and I'm sitting here with soup that came with saltines and the saltines made me think of babies and how they love crackers. Or at least it seems like they do, since we hand them over so often for the distracting and gnawing.

I'm going to have a baby with no teeth. It feels like it's been a really really long time, so much has happened since Asher came. It awes me, how terribly hard and fast these early years in the physical trenches truly are. They are so hard and fast they are sometimes very very slow. And it's like we've just started to walk out of that stage and then BAM, we'll start again. I'm not lamenting this, only part of my mind is, but not my heart. I want this. I'm just observing the ebb and flow of my feelings, letting the anxiety wash over me and away, releasing me to anticipate the joy and the hope.

After all, that's what babies are. Joy and hope,
in silky skin.

And it will go so hard and fast and then the edges will blur and we'll look back and forget all the many details and the stresses. We'll be in the next foxhole, dodging the bullets of educational issues and emotional maturity and it will go on and on, trench after trench.

I know why that's okay. It's okay because I'm the one that will still see that pure innocence in their eyes even when it is not there. Mysteriously beautiful things are slippery things and we struggle to hold on to them all our years. But we mothers, we're given the gift to always see it, the light and the grace and the goodness of our children, no matter what. We watch them unfold through their eyes and we remember the scent of soft skin, the package of joy and hope. It blurs and fades, but it's here in us and so we're with them, on their side. That's how we get and stay there.

So I will take the sleep deprivation
and the constant constant constant needs,
even though it sounds daunting in the comfortable now.
And I will know how fast it all will go even when I don't
because of the hard
that can seem
and is
so slow slow slow.

We have to dig into the trenches to be with them and know their eyes
and then do the thing
that mothers do,
the always thing.

I'm a mother. I will lament the hard daily grind while I do the same with its opposite, the growing up so fast. And it will always be messy and hard and just exactly where I find the most joy and hope, in their eyes.

A Plant Momaphor

Sunday~November 8, 2009


I've never been able to keep a plant alive.

It's not that I forget about the plant, ignore it, leaving it thirsty. It's more like I over think it, water it too often, and prune it too much.

I'm a recovering control freak.

I thought about this today as I (conservatively) pruned a plant of ours that's been living a record amount of time in my care. This plant was given to me after my Grandpa died, and I was afraid from the start that I'd kill it. The difference this time is that I'm being less careful. I'm holding back when I start to worry if I'm doing it just right. Should I water it again, does it seem droopy, the edges of the leaves are getting a little brown, maybe I should move it....

No, I say to myself. It's fine, it'll be fine. I've simply been letting it live, even when a little brown colors the corners of it's leaves.



Quite a metaphor for life, I think. I so often want to panic or jump ahead or fix things before they need fixing. In motherhood, I'm probably a bit hyper-vigilant, calling the doctor before I really even know if there's a problem, or discussing what to do about this or that endlessly with my husband. Like any mother, I mull over how I can shelter my boys from pain, or I work really hard at relieving that pain when it rears it's inevitable head. I've been learning slowly to have more of a go-with-the-flow approach to parenting, but when fears creep in, I have a tendency to over-think things. Of course, these boys mean so much to me, I sometimes mistake controlling their world as a form of love.

That's when I find myself with that familiar non-green thumb impulsivity welling up in me, when I feel the need to grab the watering can and scissors and take care of business, thinking I'm the only one on the planet that knows exactly what to do and how to do it. A person can really screw things up that way, controlling the life right out of things, people, decisions, stealing away what the experience or lesson was meant to be.

This one has a whole lot of brown at the top, I better take care of that. Snip. This one's a little yellow, only I know exactly where to cut it. Snip. This one's probably killing the plant. Snip. I have to help get it just right or we'll be wrong, snip snip snip...

until there's nothing left,
no growing or flourishing,
no sprouting out of the ground and reaching toward the sun.
No life.

I believe my boys will be watered and pruned exactly as they should be, even with a little brown around the edges of their leaves, the color of fear, mistakes, and pain. Letting go of control means trusting that the brown will be pruned away in it's own time, no matter how green I think my thumb is, and despite the thousands of unknowns that loom over my 'plants.'


The plant I was given after my Grandfather's funeral means more to me than any plant I've ever had. I suppose that's why I hold back on all that extra watering and pruning. I've learned the hard way what happens when I do that, and this plant means too much to allow myself to get in the way. This time, I'm simply meeting it's basic needs and stepping back.

I guess that's what I'm trying to learn as a mother too, holding myself back and allowing my little plants to flourish, to live and learn, because they mean so much to me. Sometimes that's terrifying, even now in these early years, and I know it's only going to get harder. But I suppose that means I'm truly living too, all that brown around my leaves getting pruned away.

Snip.

Maybe I should stop freaking out

Wednesday~June 3, 2009



I come from a long line of reactors. (No offense, Mom, it's just plain true.) We have a tendency to panic in response to pretty much anything. Or at least have a bit of an extreme reaction. Like if someone says, "Oh, I forgot the camera," we'll say, "OH MY GOOOSH!" (Gasp, shake head, humph)

(My poor husband.)



I've gotten a bit better about this over the years, if I do say so myself. But it's especially hard for me to remain cool and calm under pressure. And since a mother is pretty much always under pressure, this is something I struggle with.

I heard something recently that I immediately wrote in big letters and stuck to the fridge. It goes like this:

DON'T REACT, RESPOND.

Um, yeah Heather. That's kind of obvious isn't it?

Well, for me, NO. I'm someone who needs to mull over what words mean for them to really take a seat in my scattered mind. So I loved thinking over how true this simple statement is. When something happens, what's the difference between reacting and responding?

Responding is intentional, it's thought through rationally, even in just a moment. Reacting is simply a knee-jerk in which someone almost always gets hurt by my response. Or at the very least they're irritated, annoyed, or frustrated by my irrational reaction.

Right after I heard this, my closest friend called so we could catch up on our weekends. She told me about a BBQ she and her kids had gone to on Saturday. There were a lot of kiddos at the party, and my friend was sitting with the adults while the kids played on the other side of a line of trees. There was an above-ground pool near where the kids were playing, but since it was pretty cold out that evening, it was covered with a tarp that was held down with bungee cords. My friend was talking with a group of people when in the middle of the conversation the thought went through her head, "There's someone in the pool." (Yeah, pretty crazy since she hadn't heard anything that would make her think that.) She walked through the trees to see a two year old boy tangled in the tarp with his head under the water.

Did she scream? No. Did she panic? No. I know this because she talked about being calm, and I also know this because I know her. She responds, she doesn't react. She could have had the whole place in a chaotic uproar, but she simply took care of business, carefully removing the boy and pulling him to safety. She must have gotten there right after he went under because he didn't even sputter. He just wanted her to hold him, he was cold, and I'm sure a bit shocked. So she carried him back to the house and asked the host for a towel. She calmly let his mother know what happened without giving her details. He was fine after all, and her response was one that was thought-through. Why make this nightmare even worse for these parents?

I don't know what I would have done, I probably would have screamed and flailed or something. I'd like to think I've made progress enough to believe I could pull it together, but I don't know.

All I know for now is that I'd like to keep reading those words on my fridge and applying them to our daily lives. Hopefully I won't need them for a life-threatening emergency, but I'd love to respond with actions and words that are life-giving rather than knee-jerk reactions that hurt the hearts of my husband and boys. If I read them enough, maybe when someone spills juice or hits their brother, I'll be able to pause a moment and respond rather than growling without thinking.

(If you'd like to read an excellent post about the power or words, click HERE.)

For more Works For Me Wednesday posts, visit We Are That Family

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I had to pick two winners of the "Name the TV personalities" game from the other day. Both Lisa and Laura did such an amazing job, I had to give them both a shout out. You guys sure know your TV folk!

Laura, do you remember that time in high school when suddenly my car would only go backwards? Yeah, only the reverse worked, so we just drove it that way?! That was funny. Do we call it responding or reacting? :)

Successful People

Posted on Monday, January 5th, 2009


I will focus my efforts on helping them build character.

I will structure their lives to ensure that when they're grown,
they'll be successful people.

I will read them stories and play them songs
that teach them right from wrong.

I will sign them up for activities to make sure they'll be well-rounded,
the type of guys who play sports and at least one instrument.

I will take them to church every Sunday,
dropping them at their classes and picking them up,
to make sure they'll hear how to live their faith.

I will fight to get them into a school that's just right for them,
and then stay on top of homework and grades (and teachers).

I will tell them what shows they aren't allowed to watch
and why, and I'll monitor their computer time.

I will feed them fruits and vegetables, whole grains and proteins
to help their bodies grow.....

Yes, that's what I will do.....

I suppose those are all good things, but it sure seems like a lot.

And I figure this means I'll need to live what I'm telling them to live.
I'll need to engage in activities that keep me well-rounded. I'll need to exercise and maybe even take up playing an instrument. I'll need to strive to reach my personal goals, doing things I love. I'll need to live in a way that teaches them right from wrong. I'll need to eat fruits and vegetables, whole grains and proteins to keep my body healthy. I'll need to tell myself what shows I can watch and why, and monitor my computer time. I'll need to live my faith past Sunday mornings and love unconditionally. Overall, I'll need to live a disciplined and organized life, because I'll need to be an example of the kind of life I'm striving to create for them.

That would all be good....

But it sure seems like a lot.


And then it hits me....

Above all the rest,
I need to sit with them, really being with them,
talking to them and respecting them.
I need to accept myself when I don't get it right, just as I accept them.
I need to forgive myself when I fail at the list, just as I forgive them.
I need to take them places and show them things,
while I listen and care deeply about their thoughts,
big and small.
At times I need to forgo keeping us busy with activities
so we can have time to just be together.
I need to laugh with them and cry with them.
I need to take care of their hearts.
That is how I will speak the most loudly of the love I have for them.

I will give them me.

They are worth my time, that's what they'll learn.

And that sure seems like a lot.

Falling isn't Failing

My heart hurt as I watched my one-year-old struggle to get his body to do what his head was asking. I stood and watched as he slowly made his way across the room. He was crawling, then moving up on his knees, then putting one foot out in front of him in an effort to pull himself up and walk. But his weak little legs wouldn't let him. He cried out in frustration and looked up at me, his eyes asking me to do something.

I smiled at him and told him it was okay, that I knew he would walk soon enough.

I see the reasons why he struggles more clearly than he does. I've known him since before he was here with us, growing and changing by the day. Because I know him, I know it will take some time for him to walk, and I don't mind a bit.

I thought about how I wasn't frustrated with him or embarrassed by his lack of ability. When people ask if he's walking yet, curious about this meaningful milestone, it's never bothered me to answer, "No, not yet."

So I went to him and helped him to his feet. He held my finger with his tiny hand and we walked together. He giggled at the joy of putting one foot in front of the other without falling, and I thought my heart might burst with his joy.

He will fall a thousand times before he actually stays on his own two feet. He'll try, he'll get discouraged, and try again. Then the day will come when he'll run. I'm sure of that. For now, I'll be here to help whenever he needs me to get him up and going in the right direction.

In the meantime, as I watch him strive and fail, I'm learning something new. Or maybe it's not exactly new, but it's fresh.

Once again, the parent heart of God has been revealed through one of my children.

Because I'm crawling so much of the time, frustrated with myself for tripping and hitting the floor again and again. I'm impatient with myself and confused as to how I can want something and have such a difficult time living it. I consider myself ugly, impatient and cranky. I see myself sad and failing to find joy. I'm assuming God must be tired of all the crawling, sick of my mistakes, shaking His head in disgust and moving on. So I stay planted on the ground, afraid to move, jumping to the conclusion that I'll never get it right.

"It's okay, daughter. You'll get there. Be patient with yourself. I see you. And by the way, I'm not in the hurry that you think I am. I know why you struggle, I've known you since before you were born. Be more patient with yourself and let me help you."

He comes over and stands there with His hand outstretched, pulling me off the floor and keeping me stable as I toddle along. We will practice this over and over, a thousand times. He won't get tired, but I might. And I'll let go and flop to the ground, stubborn and weary, sick of the striving. I might even forget to get back up, but He'll find a way to remind me. Then relief will wash over me as I reach for the hand that never tires of me or my faults. His hand full of hope.

So this year I'm thankful for Asher and his struggle to walk. As his mother, I'll never give up on him. Even if he never took a step on his own in this life, I would love him all the same.

Just as it's true that if I never accomplish what I think I should, my God will not give up on me.

My children and I, we strive and we fail together. My prayer this Thanksgiving is that they will both know how madly in love I am with them despite my failings, or theirs. Even more, I pray they'll learn what God's unconditional love looks like from their imperfect Mom. I'm thankful that I'm theirs. It makes all the striving, and even the failing, completely worthwhile.
----------
This post was submitted to Scribbit's Write-Away contest for November.

The Punk on the Court

Ryan and I took the boys and went to play tennis again yesterday. I don't know why we don't learn from our mistakes. We really should just give up pretending we can play like we did in high school. We can't. We actually totally stink.

But that isn't my point. I'm not even that sure what my point is, except I might secretly want reassurance that I'll have really really nice teenage boys one day. So if you can tell me that I will, please do so in the comments. I want a guarantee though. It's nice that it will be in writing because it's on a computer and in the comments. Forever. All Nice Boy Guarantees are appreciated more than words can say. Thank you for that. Oh sorry, where was I?

Oh yeah. On the court next to us was a young man (teen) who I will refer to as Sassafrass. He was playing tennis (quite well) with his father, who I will call Mr. Hides His Face in Shame.

You see, Sassafrass embodied every detail of what you would imagine to be a punk kid. Not as in purple-mohawk-punk. But as in, constant-back-talking-foul-mouthed-disrespecting
-sassing-cutting-his-dad-down-at-every-chance-scowling-arrogant punk. That kind.

We tried to "play" awhile after the arrival of Sassafrass and Mr. Hides His Face in Shame, but I couldn't take it. If I had to hear "UGH, you SUCK, I HATE playing with you, you're the worst!!" one more time, Psycho Heather may have reared her lashing tongue while grabbing the scrawny little brat around the neck and shaking him. That would be silly and crazy and I prefer to keep silly and crazy at bay, at least in front of the tots. Well wait. I take that back. I do silly stuff in front of the tots constantly, but I try to avoid crazy. Anyway, I digress...

My point?

This kid? He was oozing mean and nasty. So I looked at Ryan and said we needed to cut this short because Psycho Heather was fast approaching. He gathered our children and bee-lined for the exit faster than he had moved the whole time. Because he's met Psycho Heather and he's scared of her.

On our way home, I started to freak out about the future and how I'm pretty sure we'll have teens one day. And even with our stellar parenting skills, our kids might sound like Sassafrass one day. Please God, don't let it be so! (that's a real prayer. I mean that. A lot.)

I'm happy to say that I stopped myself from taking the worries too far. After all, our kids are ages 3 and 1. Why worry now? (even though I'm secretly sort of still worried)

So we moved on. By playing a new game we made up on our walk home. I walked ahead of Ryan and the boys and had to act out everything they called out. While walking and even sometimes while running. Yes, I did this in public. Streets are public. In constant motion, I was a car, a grocery shopper, a tornado, a shark, a swimmer fleeing a shark, an apple picker, a ladder climber, and many more. People may have seen this. But that's okay. I'd rather be Mrs. Fool of Herself than Mrs. Hides Her Face in Shame any day.

I was left with this. Should I feel sorry for this father? Because I think I really do.

See? Random? Really no point or conclusions or epiphanies here. I just needed to tell this story and now I'll go live in today. Thank you for wasting your time reading something that has no point. At least I don't think it does. I'm not sure.

Making History

9/11 still makes me weepy and a bit off. And it's a dreary day. Rain makes me weepy and a bit off too. I don't mind though. Some days are good for being weepy and getting the emotions out.

I often sing that little crying song to Miles and Asher,

"It's alright to cry.
Crying gets the sad out of you.
It's alright to cry.
It might make you feel better."

Sometimes I sing it to myself too. But in my head rather than out loud. It feels sort of crazy to cry, rock back and forth, and sing.

So yeah, I'm a bit off today. I've never been good at wrapping my mind around time. When someone said this morning that it has been seven years since the terrorist attack on NYC, I just felt a bit stumped. SEVEN? How is that possible. I'm sure the families of the people who died on planes and in the towers feel as though it happened yesterday. Even though life's pace picked up and raced right along without waiting for them to catch up.

I want to be able to tell my boys about that day seven years ago when they're old enough to understand. I remember it vividly. But I'm sure a lot of the gravity of it all has faded without me noticing. I wonder if they'll be interested. I know that I never took history all that seriously as a kid. I didn't fully care to understand Vietnam or Pearl Harbor, World Wars or the Depression. As most kids go, I was pretty much only focused on my current world and the atrocities therein. You know, like not being able to get the safety pins lined up correctly at the bottom of my cinched jeans and making sure my bangs were high enough.

So how do we help our children understand that history matters? That lives have been effected and it brings us to where we are today. That the good and the bad that we are today can be chalked up to Faithful History. We couldn't escape it if we tried. It happens, it changes us, and then the clock moves forward like a hunter, reaching out to grab more history.

Maybe teaching our children about past history is all about how we deal with what is happening in the present. Maybe if we live by example, pointing out what's going on in the world and moving to action, the desire to see outside of themselves will be contagious.

"Miles, something really hard is happening in Haiti. Right now. Today. We can't see Haiti, because it's really far away. And maybe you haven't heard about it because not many people are talking about it. But people are having a hard time because of a storm. Let's go to our mailbox and send money to Haiti. They need it for food, clean water, clothes and a place to stay. Let's go now so we don't forget."

I want my boys to know that history is in the making whenever they act. It is in the way they treat others in the big world around them. It's in the goals and dreams they aspire to, and the way they treat themselves. Maybe if we praise them for the ways they positively effect their world, it will bring them to a curiosity of how others have done the same in years past. History is people surviving, thriving, failing and trying again, shaping, changing, moving into action. Making history.

(the "send money to Haiti" link above will bring you to a really great blog you may not have discovered. There's a lot of information there on the devastation in Haiti and ways to help.)

The Color Red

I want my kids to be angry.

Isn't the color of anger bright red? Yes. Color my children bright red. Color me red while you're at it. Yes. I mean it. When life calls for it, paint my whole family as red as a tomato, or a fire truck.

Sometimes anger is just plain necessary.

We don't give anger enough credit. It rises up in us for a reason, but we try to stop it, prevent it from making us look unstable or out of control. But it isn't our anger that's the problem.

It's what we do with our anger that seems to turn it against us. Because most of us have always had a problem with allowing ourselves or those close to us to be angry. Negative emotions seem to scare us. So when we feel this anger, the most harmless of emotions, we mute it. Silence the rising in our chests. Turn away as if we've seen something ugly. We allow our healthy anger to be stuffed inside, turning to rage; anger's own personal giant.

There are a million valid reasons to feel angry in a person's lifetime. Maybe our anger even lies within, waiting to serve a purpose; to relieve us from pain, to shield us from harm, to signal us that something isn't quite right. But we fight it, and then we lose. We run from the color red to save face, to appear controlled and at peace. And so our anger turns inward, it dissolves into sadness, a term we've coined "depression."

So often the bright red feeling of anger is the most prominent, seeking escape, an outlet, a healthy release. And just as often, we forget that it's okay to be angry. We forget that anger is possibly a protector from harm, a friend that nudges us, telling us not to allow the mistreatment of ourselves or those around us. We ignore it so much, we don't even remember what it feels like.

Yes, I want this protector from harm, a red friend that signals, leading my boys away from mistreatment. I want them to feel that any emotion is allowed. No, not any behavior in response to emotion is acceptable, but any feeling is right and good. Positive or negative, feelings and emotions serve a purpose, speaking to our gut and leading us from dysfunction, carrying us away. I would rather have my kids angry, voicing their fears loudly, than to have them left alone, stifling their feelings and allowing hate and fear to rise above.

So when I hear the forceful screams of the toddler stage; the red of anger with shoes that are difficult to slip on, or the block of towers that won't stand, I try to allow the groans and cries. I step in when the frustration turns toward the brother or the friend, and do my best to prevent outward attacks brought on by this anger. But I also try to put words to the acceptance of this emotion;

"It's okay to be mad, but it's not okay to hurt your brother."

I fail more times than I'd like to admit. But I'm working on it, trying to foster all the feelings that come with being human, with hope that my boys will one day stand up for themselves and others when it matters most. Because of anger, turning them red.


This post is a part of the Scribbit Write-Away Contest for September.

Should I Worry?

Miles made up this song while in time-out yesterday:

(Imagine sing-song preschool boy voice)

"Dear God,
I'm dead.
I'm squished.
People squished me killed.
They were being funny,
then I start to feel sad.
And I was squished all the time.
My life was going to be dead."

Um....Now here's me defending myself as a loving mother:

Really, we don't ever talk about death and killing, unless he asks questions. Cause he's three. So we don't like to push the weight of the world on the poor little guy.

Secondly, he had just been "squishing" his brother. Hence, the time out.

And lastly, maybe he was just remembering his time in the womb. Because I'm pretty sure he was squished. And maybe that was uncomfortable at times, causing stress.

We really are okay parents. At least I'm pretty sure about that. I mean, our nine year old nephew thinks so anyway. Just this last weekend he turned to Ryan and said, "Asher is so lucky. He's going to grow up and find out he has really great parents."
(That was one of the best things I've ever heard.)

And also, I love slides. What child doesn't want a mother that loves slides?

It's hard to see, but here I am on the big slide at the State Fair, giddy with excitement.
Mr. Squished and Dead is with me.

And there's my dad with my nephew, just as thrilled as I was.
See?
I learned parenting skills from the best!

And my children look happy!

Weird songs aside, we're alright! Right? We're okay. Right?

Giving

Miles asked, "Why are you giving that man your money, mom?" I paused for a second, thinking of what to say. I wasn't sure how to explain poverty to the three year old watching from my backseat. I didn't know how to say that I was giving this man money because a turn in his life had resigned him to asking me for it.

There are times when I have to be extra careful, choosing the right words to say. I have to figure out how to describe a person's situation without taking a bite out of their already waning dignity. After all, this person is standing at a stop light; dirty clothes, unshaven face and a backpack. That's it. Little dignity. Little pride. Just eyes darting away from my attempts at contact. A sheepish, "thank you, Miss," after being handed the little spare change I could find after scrounging around, waiting for a green light.

What does a three year old make of that?

"Why are you giving that man your money, mom?"

I hope Miles sees love in this simple gesture. I hope he sees compassion. I hope he carries it with him and has faith in other people. When those around him are wary of what someone might "deserve," I hope he's the voice of love, standing up for his neighbors. I hope he doesn't see pity or duty. I hope he sees grace.

Because the truth is that we all deserve the benefit of the doubt.

I hope he ignores the pressures, voices telling him that these people have brought hardship on themselves. I hope he's more naive than jaded. More sympathetic than pessimistic. More full of mercy than suspicion. I hope he believes that when he gives something, he's helping with a person's next meal or a place to stay. I hope he doesn't worry that he may have made a mistake, only giving a man his next fix.

"Why are you giving that man your money, mom?"

"Because he might be hungry and short on money. It takes money to buy things. So now he might be able to buy something to eat or a place to stay for the night. Did you know people get money from working jobs, like daddy? But sometimes it's hard for people to have a job. They feel sick and it's hard to work when you're sick. So they don't get paid money. Then they don't have any way to pay for food and other things. I hope if I needed help, someone would help me. I liked helping that man, because he looked like he might need some help."

He was silent, thinking that over. And then it was as if it made perfect sense to him, "Okay, mommy." Words painted with a touch of understanding, acceptance, and maybe even a little peace of mind.
-------------
And she rings through my mind and heart again, "We can do no great things, only small things with great love." -Mother Theresa.

Proverbs 21:25 says, "if your enemy is hungry, give him food to eat. If he's thirsty, give him drink."

My enemy? I figure that blows the whole hand-out debate right out of the water. If we are called to serve and give to an enemy, why wouldn't we serve a stranger, no matter what the assumption? I really hope my boys ask that question one day. And I hope they have the confidence to give to others, "deserving," or not.

Adjusting to Imbalance

A friend (who is similar to me in a million ways) was asked something in regard to parenting and her answer was along the lines of, "yeah, it's good. I mean...I'm adjusting." Her oldest is almost five. We had a good laugh over that one, but I feel the same way. I love my family. I wouldn't change a thing. (Well, okay I'd sleep more if I could change one thing. Oh! And less poop, I'd appreciate less poop.)

I admit that at times, I resist the complete sacrifice that is required of a mother, at the same time as I fully love being a mother. Such a strange paradox. A tension. A dichotomy. It's tiring. It is one of the many things about parenting that there was no way to prepare for.

Because of this tension, I wear myself out between acting out of a complete and consuming love for my boys, and feelings of shame over the moments that I feel frustrated; fighting for my own time, begging for myself, for my own head space and rest. At times, I dive fully in to time spent with these scrumptious little morsels, loving every moment, word and expression. Other times, I fall into a heap of martyrdom, fussing and fighting this exhausting role.

No matter what a mother's situation; if she waited a very long time to have kids, if she got pregnant quickly and easily, if she works or stays at home, if she adopted... there are times when the weight of this responsibility feels too heavy. Times when she recognizes that even after the sleepless nights have passed, it will not get easier. There are always new hurdles, stages, sorrows and joys. We don't get to know how it's going to be. We don't get to plan and prepare. We are never ready. And sometimes that's overwhelming and a bit scary. For me anyway. Because I love these boys so much, I so badly want to make right decisions for the life of our family, and then watch them thrive as they pursue lives separate from mine all too soon.

But I'm not all that good at making decisions. I want to try and I will. I want to focus on God's hand in this, remembering He's there and completely in love with my children. He's ready with over-flowing cups of wisdom to pour on my mothering fears and questions. Sometimes I'm just too tired to take the time to ask for a drink. To slow down and rest in His promises. I so easily forget.

Finding balance is probably one of the trickiest things about parenting. Balancing parenting with alone time, with your marriage, your spiritual life, your other relationships, your work, the list goes on. Balancing life while still sacrificing as much as parenting calls for, will I ever know how to do that? I feel spread so thin, I'm only leaving a tiny part of me in any one area of my life.

I often wonder if it's a good idea to accept that imbalance is an inevitable part of mothering. Accept it and be freed from the tension, the pressure and the unreachable goals? To let God do His work despite me. That's a hard thing to do as a recovering perfectionist/control freak. To just let go and trust, doing the best I can, even if my best doesn't feel like quite enough. It just so happens that my best is all I've got. And it just so happens that God is the ultimate perfectionist. He can take care of the rest. Now if I could just remember that...

They Pull Me Through (and Tire Me Out)

The weekend is here. It's been a hard week. A death in the family, single-parenting with Ryan out of town, Miles being in the terrible three stage, and Asher being in the terrible teething stage.

It's tricky for me to keep my cool with Miles and Asher. The days are long, and I have to admit that I'm not doing that well. I'm losing my cool more than keeping it.

But what pulls me through each day are the very people who wear me out so much.

Miles is an absolute joy of a person. He is so curious, full of excitement, sensitive and sweet. Asher is an old soul, so interested in people, so willing to snuggle and freely gives a big, "HI!" to anyone who will listen.So when my back aches and screams at me for lifting Asher off the floor, I do it anyway, because there's just something about the way he reaches for me.

When I think I can't possibly take one more moment of incessant chatter from the back seat of the car, Miles says something like, "look at the cloud it looks like a pretzel with feet or a crabber with one broken claw, or maybe just a doggy." And then I realize that every day with him is precious, a chance to experience more moments of creativity and light.
When the "MA MA MA MA" starts around 5:30am, pulling me from my dreams and I have to pry open my eyes and strive to sit up, it's okay because I know the face I'm about to see. I know the joy that will spread across that face at the sight of me.

When I'm trying to concentrate at the computer and Miles keeps talking so I can't focus, I stop and realize that he needs to connect with me. And just when I do, I have the honor of hearing, "I think I'll call you Bongo, Mommy. Yup, Bongo. Daddy and me are going to call you Bongo Heather." And when he laughs hysterically at his own silliness, I'm struck with the thought that he is so much better than anything else I could be distracted with.

When Asher screams and cries from the high chair because I just can't feed him fast enough, grabbing his hair with his very dirty hands, I can keep trying. Because there are moments when he stops, he looks me right in the eye and tilts his head to one side and softens his face. It's as if he's saying, "I really love you, mommy person." And that's enough to pull me through a few more hours.When Miles won't eat the food he's served, just for the sake of not trying it, I add a little parmesan and he says, "that cheese looks like a fingernail like a cut fingernail it's like a cheese fingernail." And then we laugh and it doesn't matter that we were both so frustrated a moment before.

When everything is crazy and I just can't keep up; another diaper, another meal, another tantrum, another mess...I look over at Asher because I know there's a chance he'll give me that toothy grin, making everything okay again. And it never fails that he delivers, smiling up at me like he's seeing a long lost friend.

When my cousin died last Saturday and left three boys to grieve for her, it made me cling to mine in a new way. I'm so thankful for life, so thankful for everything, even the moments that wear me to the core.

The Miles Tree

When Miles was born we planted a new little tree in our front yard. That little tree has been so resilient. It takes a lot for a new tree to make it here in Minnesota. If it's not winter, covering the earth with ice and snow, it's not raining enough. So new little trees need a whole lot of love and attention to survive.

This particular tree did not receive it's much needed love and attention however. And yet, there it is, sprouting new leaves each spring, bright with green. I often look at it and wonder how it's pulling off growing up.

Because of it's resiliency, that little "Miles Tree," planted in honor of birth, didn't give up to the curse of the crazy dog and her chain. Last summer our dog, Tia would occasionally be hooked up out front rather than in our fenced backyard. Mostly because Ryan would be in the garage and she likes to be near him. But every time someone walked by with a dog, (or alone for that matter) Tia would run as fast as she could, back and forth across the front yard, barking her brains out. As she went, her chain would bend the tiny Miles Tree. To the left and down to the ground....To the right and down to the ground....Over and over. That poor tree's bark was even being shredded off it's tiny little trunk, victim to the antics of that crazy dog.

I would get so mad, watching from the window, calling out for Ryan to stop the madness and save the Miles Tree. After a while I gave up, figuring the poor tree would never make it. I stopped going to the window. Stopped trying to save the little tree from doggy demise.

Today I smiled as I watered that resilient little tree. We don't ever let Tia out in the front anymore. Mostly to keep the poop clean-up to only one yard, the back. What's funny is that it's as if the little Miles Tree is laughing in the face of a dog's rampages and winter's frozen punishment. That resilient little tree is thriving with life.

But it looks nothing like the tree it was planted to be. The leaves start at it's very base. There are a number of outgrowths pouring from it's small trunk, rather than starting a bit higher, like most trees. The Miles Tree looks a bit odd, but it's alive and well.

I got to thinking about my own life. The ways I've been pummeled by my own mistakes, or the harsh rampages of others. I thought about how I know the same will happen for my kids. Life tattering their once untainted dreams and values. I guess we all come out, as the years fly by, looking a bit unlike what we may have dreamed we would become. But we have our own little branches and twigs, places of flourishing despite the hard knocks. Places that are ours alone and make us who we are. We may be quirky and strange to an on-looker, full of faults, but we're thriving. We spring to life often, despite our circumstances. We are as resilient as the Miles Tree, fighting our way toward living.

My favorite thing about the Miles Tree is it's fullness near the ground. If not for the cuts and scrapes, it wouldn't be so full there. It was split in different ways, barely surviving. There were times when Tia's chain had it all ripped up, down to the very base of it's trunk. But it would fight back, making the areas of it's own wreckage into new vines and branches thick with leaves. The places of new life grew closer and closer to their source, the roots. It's as if every painful moment created a need to dig a little deeper, draw nearer to the very place where it's life begins.

What matters is not that we end up perfectly shaped, but that we are of any shape at all. Our appearance, the ways that we thrive, show the story of who we are. Our trunks are rooted deeply in the soil and water of grace and mercy; the ever-present reality of all things working together for good.

The Miles Tree is a reminder to me. A reminder to never watch from the window and give up on my boys. Never to shake my head and assume that they're not going to make it in the face of the dog chains of life. It is a reminder to smile and remember that every experience, good or bad, will shape them into being exactly who they were made to be. No, not perfect. But flourishing and possibly becoming even more beautiful than they may have been without the trials. Trials that will re-shape them and make them more fully alive.

I pray that Miles and Asher will learn to see life this way too. That they won't grow jaded and give up when they're hurt. But will spring back, thriving and surprising the harsh world around them.

The Squirrel Experiment

Yesterday the boys and I were on a "venture," as Miles likes to call a walk in the double stroller. He takes these adventures very seriously and his imagination is always running wild with ideas of what kind of hunt or rescue we're on.

I chug along pushing 50 pounds of children and about 40 pounds of stroller. Sometimes I can't breathe, especially while headed uphill. So Miles gets frustrated and says things like, "talk to me, Mommy! Why aren't you talking?!" And I pant out, "I...can't..."

I'm in great shape.

Anyway, yesterday I noticed that we were about to come up to a very dead squirrel, one who must have met his fate below a tire. Now most mothers would veer away a bit, attempting to shield their children from such an awful sight. But those are most likely the normal people. I, on the other hand, decided this was an excellent teaching opportunity. So I pulled right up next to the dead squirrel and stopped the stroller. I said, "Miles look at that."

He did. Long and hard. He said, "what is that?"

"That is what happens to a squirrel when it doesn't look for cars before running out into the street. This is what I've been saying could possibly happen to you."

Silence.

"Why, Mommy?"

"Because cars are very heavy and you are not. I don't want what happened to the squirrel to happen to you."

(By the way, we have moved on at this point. I didn't want to totally traumatize him, so we talked as we walked on, even though Miles kept asking if we could turn around and look at the "quish sqirall.")

Sometimes life lessons take drastic measures. Miles has always been quite oblivious about the perils of streets. Of course this has much to do with impulse control and his developmental level. But he's also the type of kid that if you finally are able to get his attention and he really thinks about something, it will stick. He'll remember. He'll be able to stop and think before chasing a chipmunk across the street, or suddenly running out to the middle to fetch a stick.

I'm not sure yet if our little lesson will do the trick. Because as we walked on, Miles continued to ask to go back to the squirrel. I continued to say we had looked long enough. He asked if the squirrel was "died." I said yes. He asked if the squirrel was "kewed" by a car, and I said, "yes, he was killed."

I'm pretty sure he doesn't fully understand the gravity of the squirrel's demise though. Because the next question I had for him was "what does killed mean?" And he said he didn't know. So far I'm pretty sure he believes that pancake of a squirrel simply had owies and would sooner or later pop back up. But who knows? Sometimes the results of drastic teaching moments don't reap a harvest of knowledge until they are mulled over for a bit.

For now, right before Miles shoots out into the street, I'm going to try screaming "SQUISHED SQUIRREL!!!" We'll see if that makes him freeze. It's simply an experiment in desperate and excellent parenting.

The Insecurity of "Better"

Recently on Twas Brillig, there appeared a hilarious and thought-provoking post. Which happens most every day with that lady. Brillig posed a question. I cannot do her post justice, of course. But since my thoughts were provoked there, she deserves the credit for the subject matter.

Here it is: "Do you often feel that you are, in one way or another "better" than the crowd?"
Right now the poll is like this:
88% YES
11% NO

At first I thought of how often I feel insecure in a crowd. So my immediate response was NO, I don't feel "better" than others. I know we all disagree and judge each other on a regular basis. We see something done differently than we would do it and we think it's wrong, not just simply different. Most of us anyway. But I wonder how much of that comes from how insecure we human-folk really are. It makes us feel better to think about how ridiculous another person's choices are. In clothing, housing, jobs, parenting, marriages, etc.... But in essence, I don't know that we really believe whole-heartedly that we are in fact "better." If we were that comfortable with all of our own choices, we probably wouldn't even be comparing.

We like to be right, to be seen as doing things right. As mothers, we especially want to be seen as doing at least our very best as a parent. It's such hard work, it's pretty frustrating to deal with criticism on top of everything else. Especially when you know you have nothing but the best of intentions for your kids.

But here's the deal. I'm thinking that judging another person's parenting is wrong, and I want to work harder on not doing it. I get that there can be times when there are real concerns that warrant an intervention of sorts, but that's not what I'm talking about.
This is what I'm talking about:
"Their kids stay up way too late!"
"I can't believe they still let her sleep in their bed at that age!"
"He's STILL not potty-trained?"
"Shouldn't they be making him clean his plate? He gets away with everything."
"I can't believe how much TV time those kids get? It's awful."
"They are way too rigid. Those kids are going to turn into robots."

You know the judgements I'm referring to. We've all "heard through the grapevine," at one point or another, someone else's "concerns" about our parenting. And we're probably all guilty of making similar statements at one time or another. It's just plain hurtful and unfair. I add "unfair" because we don't live in each other's houses. We don't have each other's children. So what do we know "better?"

An on-looker might think it quite odd that we don't ever have much of a power struggle about food with Miles. Especially at other people's houses when he's totally distracted. We've made the choice not to make food a big deal. Miles knows that if he chooses not to eat, he's done. No more snacks. But he is not forced to sit at the table until he eats the amount we decide he should eat. I'm not saying this is the "right" answer. This is what works for our family. If Miles takes two bites at a meal, he knows we mean it when we say, "please remember you will not get anything else." We are consistent. In our own way. That boy eats. There are times he eats anything and everything like crazy and times his body must not be starving, or he'd eat. Anyway, all of that explaining to say that we have seen the look on friends and family's faces when we don't force the issue. We've heard the gossip perspectives on this and yes, it's frustrating. But we're still comfortable with how we do it. It's working for our particular child. He's healthy. We don't battle about food as a means to show who's the boss. We don't want food and eating to have a lot of negativity and tension around it.

Do you see how, in all of my insecurity, I felt the need to explain that so well? I must think the way we do it is "better." Or maybe if I see someone else doing the opposite with meal-times, it will make me feel more confident about our choice to think long and hard about how silly it is to do it differently. And it would probably make me feel even more confident if I tell someone else about it.

Even if we think our way is the best way, maybe we could give each other the benefit of the doubt out of respect, knowing that most of us really are doing the best we can with what we know. Just an idea.

Normal Sibling Rivalry? Or Totally Weird? You Decide

The thing about the catscan is that I really don't think it's necessary, but it's quite hard to ignore that the doctor seemed a wee bit concerned. And she is an excellent and seasoned doctor. I'm sure she's also a bit paranoid that someone might sue her pants off if she didn't always suggest the tests, there's always that....

We decided that having the catscan would kill two birds with one stone. Asher is knocked over, hitting his head on the floor - CRACK! - at least three times a day by his brother. Then there are the times he isn't pushed over, but simply loses his balance and - CRACK! - hits the noggin on the hardwood again and again. Which happens around three times a day as well. Yes, this happens to all babies. They have thick skulls. But I'm convincing myself the catscan will be more worthwhile if we also get to take a look around for fractures and the like. You never know really. And don't you forget that I'm totally neurotic.

Actually, the truth is that I'm simply a push-over when it comes to doctor's suggestions. There. I said it. Now let's go back to that part about the brother pushing the other brother down constantly. Or poking his eye with something sharp...Or punching him in the face, unprovoked...

The truth is that Miles has never liked Asher. The "adjustment period" of bringing a baby home is either really long at our house, or it's never going to end because Asher happens to be quite high-maintenance. At age one, he is more baby-like than most, crying and fussing most of every day, needing lots of attention, drawing the attention away from Miles by default. It stresses us all out to just let him cry, so answering to him when he wants to be held (constantly) seems easier. Except that's really annoying to a three year old who'd like us to be playing.

Imagine being Miles, in your "only baby" utopia with mom and dad, and then Asher is born, crashing your party. I mean, he really crashed the Miles party. In Miles' eyes anyway, and who could blame him? We brought home another person and not only did he need to eat all the time and be held? But he also cried all. the. time. And so did mom, and she used to be fun, at least more often. There was/is always tension and stress. No matter what we try. No escaping the vacuum that is colic/temperamental baby/high-needs baby - whatever you want to call it, it hasn't changed much since day one. The entire family inevitably gets sucked in.

Miles is also a very sensitive little guy, always aware of people's feelings. He could read people's faces at a very young age. He'd say, "why sad?" and hand over his little snuggly blanket to try to help. I know! He's totally awesome. That's just it. Miles has always been so good-natured, mild, easy-going and patient. Until Asher. When it comes to Asher, he's not Miles.

When the constant crying stopped, the poking, pushing and attempts at suffocation did not. Miles continues to hurt his little brother at absolutely every opportunity. I've seen his face when he doesn't know I'm watching. A look of anger and frustration bunches that normally angelic little expression, and he does awful and sometimes very dangerous things.

Now, I don't think he's awful and dangerous. But usually I know what to do with behaviors. I know how to teach things in a positive way that brings about change. But this is one I'm completely at a loss over. Ryan and I are so tired of sending that kid to his room to "take a break and come out when you're ready to be kind to your brother." It's not working.

Miles is someone that really needs to know how things work. He goes way beyond the typical "whys" and digs for the most thorough explanation of almost everything. A friend suggested I show him how a head works, anatomy and all, in a kid's "inside the body" book. So I did. He was totally intrigued, eating up every moment. He seemed to completely understand why he needed to be more careful with his brother when I showed him what parts inside the head could be hurt. You know, like the brain. About twenty minutes later he took a pillow and full on tackled Asher, who had been in a standing position next to a table. He went flying into the corner of a door and hit the floor. Again. Those are the times I totally lose my cool. I yell. Then I see the shame on Miles' face and we both feel guilty.

(Gosh, I can ramble in great detail...)

Oh! And one more thing. Miles does still get lots of love and attention. That's the kicker. We spend a lot of quality time with him and as a family. I don't know that he's just looking for attention.

I would LOVE it if someone would say, "my son/daughter used to do that too, yeah, for like over a year after the baby was born and he/she totally grew out of it." Please? Make it up if you have to.

Oh good grief, stop explaining and trying to make sure people get it, already! Geez.
But no, one more thing. Of course, one more thing! Asher really is great. Just how he is. So sweet and silly. So great.... I'm actually really done now. If you made it through this, please let me know so I can write to you and tell you how patient and cool you are.