Mourning My Dear Friend, Fertile Myrtle

I suppose I should start by warning you that this post is about lady business. Dudes who read my page: you could benefit from reading it all, as someday, it may pertain to a woman you love, but feel free to turn away at any point. I promise I won't be offended. What I'm about to share is so deeply rooted in my mom-ness, and simply writing about it for you is healing, so would you please bare with me through this experience?

Now, let's get to it.

I have had a lot of nicknames throughout my life. Some were cute, some were mean, many were the result of little kids unable to say my real name. Elizabeth is a mouthful for children in any language, as we've learned. One nickname that my dear old dad bestowed upon me as I was popping out two babies in one year was Fertile Myrtle. As I announced that second pregnancy, I distinctly remember him saying, "Well, I guess we can just call you Fertile Myrtle, like your mom!" As more years passed and babies kept coming, the silly name lingered. Last Thursday morning, I had to say good-bye to Fertile Myrtle forever. It was so much harder than I imagined.

I had always considered my fertility an abundant blessing. Four pregnancies resulting in four healthy children was pretty incredible. I knew it to be true. I was defying statistics, so I was thrilled to be Fertile Myrtle for most of our married life.

She consciously retired after number four was born, but the possibility of her creeping in for one more April Fool's joke was never far from my mind.

Ever.

So, I went along the past five years, raising our four kiddos with no room or reason to add any more, yet my baby fever never broke.

Ever.

I always wondered, "What if...?"

Always.

Then, within the last year, the possibility of me actually permanently losing my fertility became a reality. I would need to have a surgical procedure for my own health, and the end result would be the end of this life I have always equated with who I am.

Fertile.

Woman.

Mother.

Gone.

As my surgery date grew near, the most unforgiving nag in my mind was not typical anxiety over pain or nausea or anesthesia or the laundry that would pile up during my recovery. It was the conscious steps being taken to strip away this beautiful gift I received upon my own birth. My gift of fertility.

On that early March morning, as my doctor popped into my hospital room to prepare for what would be a routine procedure for her, I suddenly felt the urge to stall. I knew that as soon as she said, "See you in there," it would be the end of an era.

Deliberately removing the lining of a woman's uterus to improve her health would be nothing unusual for my trusted and gifted surgeon. All in a day's work, as the saying goes.

Losing that precious cushion, which was the very first resting place for all four of my babies, would prove to be a grievous moment for this mama.

Knowing, from that day forward, that my body would no longer be a safe haven for any future surprise chocolate fans was difficult for me to swallow.

I grasped at the right words to explain my thoughts.

Women my age are just now starting to have babies.

I know we don't need any more kids, but I would always want more.

I just don't know if I'm ready....if I can do this.

It's so final. It's irreversible.

Witnessing my inner and outer struggles, my doctor graciously asked if we needed to postpone my surgery.

Then, my husband did what he does best. He cracked a joke, "Would you please stop dreaming about having more kids without me?"

And, there it was. Our laughter. The laughter that had guided me through every difficult moment in our eighteen years together. It's what I needed at that very instant. After punching him in the arm, I sighed a few more times, gave the all clear, and the rest is history.

It's been less than a week after having said farewell to my lucrative gig as Fertile Myrtle, so I don't know how long it will take for me to truly accept this next phase of my life. My days of housing and cradling babies in this wonderful womb of mine are officially finished, but I am truly thankful for the many years it served my bouncy babies so well.

Here I am, expecting number four, holding a drawing that my recent preschool graduate had given to me. It says, "I Love You, Mama." When our last baby was born, our other kids were only 7, 5 and 2. Wow, Fertile Myrtle was really busy!  

 

A woman's fertility is such a delicate subject. I wonder if anyone else who has gone through circumstances like mine felt a similar range of emotions before surgery. Even if you had no previous plans to have more children, was the permanence of it all difficult for you to handle? Would you be bold and share your experiences with us? I'd love to hear from you!

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How Rough Housing is Saving My Kid

If there's one thing we learn as parents, it's that every child is different. No matter how much we think we can prepare for number two or three based on what worked for our family in the past, the truth is, it's all a crapshoot. We can attempt to use the same methods for potty training, handling tantrums, or teaching our kiddos to read, but we will probably still end up trying something new for everybody. Children have many separate needs: physical, emotional and intellectual, so veteran parents try to react accordingly and keep those differences in mind. We even know that children have varying degrees of sensory needs, which also require a blend of parenting methods.

Last Fall, I composed a three part series on Sensory Processing Disorder. It's an optimal place for you to find ideas, tips and even commiseration if you parent, teach or simply know a child who struggles with sensory processing. Today, I'm here to tell you that through months of observation since writing that piece, I have noticed more positive changes and bounding growth in our son. We've learned to adapt once again, like adding a bowling pin to the mix of balls we've been juggling throughout this circus of parenting.

While I still recommend everything I suggested in Part 3, we have discovered something more. It's not because we are currently spending money on extensive therapy: occupational, behavioral or otherwise. It is not because we have sought out assistance from his school system for services. It is not because we have been diligent about practicing his "heavy work" home therapy. It is not because I have suddenly become an expert SPD mother, creating intricate routines or systems that allow him to thrive.

It's so much simpler than any of that, and it kind of happened by chance.

Plus, here's the big bonus: it's free!

It is because he is being allowed to engage in loud, physical play with his younger brother.

Our kids' age gaps and their personality differences haven't created an ideal environment for rough housing or horse play. Chip's big siblings aren't really those kinds of kids. They enjoy reading and art, board games and puzzles, bike riding and scooters. Physical contact with one another just isn't in their repertoire for fun. While Chip always craved that kind of attention and play, unfortunately, he didn't have anyone to fully engage in it with him. Until recently, his "baby brother" would have been hurt by such roughness.

So, our third child sought out other avenues to calm his senses. A lot of yelling and crying was a result of his confused system. We tried expensive therapies that did help, but during the school year, it was difficult to manage appointments. Outdoor play on a trampoline was fantastic, but since it's freezing here for so many months of the year, it's just wasn't feasible.

Then suddenly, just about the time that Marshall began to catch up to Chip in size and strength, I began to see a difference in his daily moods. Our home was calmer.

Ironic, right?

We had kids bouncing off each other, laying on top of one another, pushing and pulling and tugging and smashing, all while laughing and making noise like crazy, yet our home was calmer. How is that possible?

Our sensitive guy was finally finding the outlets his body needed. He finally had someone to play rough with him. They're not hurting each other (most of the time). Accidents happen, but they're no more common than someone falling from a swing set or flying off the merry-go-round at the park. I'm actually seeing the benefits that this horse play is having on both of our little boys.

If you're parenting a child whose sensory system needs regular tweaking and stimulation, would you think about encouraging some rough play--in the house?

I know it sounds bonkers, but it might just be life changing for you. When winter is long, everyone can be on edge, and permitting this type of nuttiness in our house really did help. Of course, there were times when we wanted to beg our kids to be quiet...stop jumping up and down...leave each other alone.

Those were the times I reminded myself to let the kids be kids and be thankful that we have a playroom...in the basement...with a door.

Do you ever let your kids play rough? If the child doesn't have siblings to engage in the play, do you step up to the plate? We're getting in on the action now, too, but I'm wondering what kind of difference we could have made if we'd thought of it years ago.

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Special Author Interview, Featuring David Stefanich, Writer of "Stand Up"

Sending kids off to school can create a lot of unknown answers for moms and dads. Our children leave the comforts of our homes each morning to enter these buildings which house unique sets of dynamics, academics and social scenes. As parents, we're left to wonder how our children handle the people who cross their paths each day. What is school life really like for our kids when they aren't physically in our presence and within arm's reach? Once they walk up the steps of the school bus, through the doors of the cafeteria or onto the gymnasium floor, does something happen to them that we can't see? Are they safe? Are they happy? Does anything change about them from the moment they leave our own front doors and step into the place we should trust the most…their school?

Now that I have you thinking, I'd like to introduce you to someone whom many, many parents trust with their children every single day. He's a man who constantly has his eyes, heart and mind on the safety and emotional well being of hundreds of school kids, just like ours. Elementary school principal, father and children's author, David Stefanich, is sharing his debut book, Stand Up, hoping to open an important dialogue about a sobering topic: a lonely child named Xavier who is being bullied in school. I recently had the honor of hearing the author read his book aloud, as scores of elementary students sat beneath his feet, clinging to every word and stretching their necks to view the haunting illustrations, gloriously provided by Corey Verdon. As Stefanich closed the covers of his eerily eloquent and all too real story, parents and kids were left stunned and speechless.

Why were we speechless? The author's words and the illustrator's creations tell the story in a way we've never seen. We instantly relate to the characters, and for each person, it's for a different reason. Maybe we have had the dreaded phone call that our child has been throwing blocks at another student. Maybe it's because we fear our own children could be silently suffering. Maybe Xavier's story has actually already happened to our child, and hearing Stefanich describe it so poignantly cuts straight through us. Maybe we couldn't really know or see how our child felt through it all, until now. Now we see. Now we know.
 

Maybe the story strikes us so deeply because it brings up painful memories from our own childhood. Ones that we thought had been buried, but here they are, dreadful as ever, staring us down like that group of mean girls blocking the way to our locker. Maybe we were one of the school bullies in the past, and hearing Stand Up socks us in the gut like we deserved twenty years ago.

Being bullied…being a bully…being a bystander…being a parent…being a teacher. No matter who you are, this story is POWERFUL. After hearing Stand Up, I created these goals for myself: meet the author, listen to his story, and do what I can to make sure this book finds its way into more libraries and homes around the world.

Please take a few moments to read the interview I've conducted with this up and coming author. While keenly aware that his story "makes adults uncomfortable because we don't want these types of things to happen," he has accomplished his goal of "writing something authentic that kids could relate to" today. Stefanich also provides some excellent tips for parents on how to spot signs of trouble in our own kids.

Interview between Elizabeth Morales and David Stefanich

 

In what ways do you empower children through the telling of your book, Stand Up, and with your author talks? Can you give an example of something that came from a child's mouth which blew you away? 

"I try to empower children just by sharing the story. I was recently at a local school doing a reading and afterwards, when I was signing a copy for a fourth grade student, I asked what his favorite part of the book was. He told me it was "the whole thing" because it reminded him of something that has happened to him. Although I was sad this boy had had a similar experience to Xavier from the story, I was glad that Stand Up was something he could relate to, because that was the whole point of the story." 

Describe signs that parents should watch for which might signal their child is encountering a bully at school.

"The biggest sign parents can look for if their child is being bullied is a change in behavior.  A sign that something is going on might be a child who has previously really enjoyed going to school, is having a hard time in the morning before school, or is saying they are feeling sick without a lot of other symptoms." 

 

As a school principal, can you offer advice to parents who are genuinely surprised to find out that their child is picking on another student? 

"My advice is kids make mistakes, and as parents it is important for us to do all we can to keep the lines of communication with our children open. This open communication can lead to the discussion that will help to turn that mistake into something that can be more positive down the road. As parents we need to help guide our children to persevere when a mistake has been made, to own the mistake, try to fix it, and move on. No one is perfect, but how we teach our children to respond when they have messed up can make a huge impact. "

 

Would you share with the readers if you personally remember being teased during childhood or adolescence? Did anyone "stand up" for you? If so, would you like to thank them for that courage now?

"I don't have huge memories of getting picked on or teased. What I do remember is that when I was picked on or called names, or laughed at, I remember feeling very alone. I also remember my 6th grade teacher, Mrs. Marzalec, was a teacher that really gave me a lot of confidence in myself. You could say she gave me confidence to 'stand up.'"

 

Has being a father shaped the way that you handle these situations, and if so, how?
"Being a father has shaped how I view these types of situations. Working in a school, in a position in which I interact with hundreds of students on a daily basis, I try to always keep in mind how I would want my own children to be treated. Whether a child is going through something like Xavier or whether they are picking on a classmate, I always think about how I would want my own child's teacher or principal to respond. It's kind of like my golden rule: 'How would I want the principal to respond if Kingston or Kyrie were in this situation?'"

What really compelled you to write your book, Stand Up?

"I was compelled to write this story for a couple of reasons. First and foremost, it has always been a dream or goal of mine to write a book. It wasn't until recently that I decided that if this is something I wanted to do, I just needed to do it. As a writer I believe it is important for you to write about what you know. I have either attended or worked in schools for the past 28 years, so it made sense to me to write a story that takes place in a school setting. I didn't set out to write a story on the topic of bullying, but as the first draft got down on paper, that theme became clear, so the telling of Xavier's story in an authentic and somewhat lonely way became a focus of the revision process."

 

Can you offer any other personal insights or stories?
"One thing I like to tell young writers is that the first draft to Stand Up was absolutely horrible. It was nowhere near the finished process it is today. And writing is just that, a process. This story, although under 1000 words, took almost a year to complete. I wrote and revised and poured over small details. Parents can easily encourage their child to become a better writer just by listening to their stories. I can't tell you how many times my wife listened to different versions of Stand Up. Her willingness just to be present in the moment and listen to the small changes I was making helped me to end up with a final product that I am really proud of."

This post is not sponsored by any book store, publisher or Mr. Stefanich. I'm simply using this broad avenue of mine to share an important story that I know you'll want to read. 

Now, share this link and get your hands on this book! Stand Up, Written by David Stefanich and Illustrated by Corey Verdon, is available for purchase online through Amazon and in person at Reader's World. 

For your chance to win a FREE copy of Stand Up, come on over to my Facebook page and leave a comment in the Stand Up post. We're giving one book to a school employee and one to a caregiver. Just tell me in your comment which one you are. The drawing will be on April 1st. Good luck! 

 

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There's No Use Crying Over Melted Crayons

One of the most rewarding parts of sharing my life with you guys is hearing how my words make you feel. How they move you. How you relate to them. How when you read them, you believe they could be your words.

Lately, I've learned that these words of mine have a tendency to bring on some tears. After bumping into people at school, around town and online, I've discovered this common theme of crying. I'm honored to be able to move someone to experience such extreme emotions. I am a deeply feeling person, so I suppose that's why I communicate that way through my writing. I love taking you to that place in motherhood where you might be afraid you're missing out on the daily growth of your child, so you pay extra attention to the little moments. I enjoy transporting you back to your childhood, playing in the yard with your hard-working dad. I know from experience how much strong friendships can make or break a woman's journey through adulthood, so if I can help you think about your own girlfriends and how much you cherish them, then I've done my job as your go-to blogger.

On the other hand, I also love to make you laugh. When my readers tell me that their car is also a junk bus or that they clipped my article from the magazine and sent it to their daughter, I couldn't be more proud. You guys are still telling me about your laundry horror stories. At least once a week, I hear from mothers who say they, too, stink at laundry or dishes or some other horrid household chore that has become "ours" by default.

Isn't this the way of motherhood? One day we're crying, the next we're laughing? These swings of the pendulum can even exist within the same day or the same hour for some of us. It has happened to me, on a random Monday in March. Would you read and listen and think about if it ever happens this way to you?

Working in a rush before school yesterday, I discovered that several different colored crayons had been dried with a load of clothes. The entire inside of our dryer was coated in a layer of blue wax, with small flecks of yellow, green and red dotted throughout as well. The clothes, belonging to all four kids, suddenly had the appearance of a funky tie dye mixed with toddler "art."

So many thoughts ran through my head when we uncovered the mess.

None were poetic.

Many were profane.

We reached out to Google and Facebook for advice, of course.

I wanted to take pictures for you guys, but I was so overwhelmed, I just couldn't.

I reminded myself to be thankful that certain pieces of clothing were not in the load.

Mark left for work, knowing it all would be waiting for him when he came home in the evening. 

I secretly wished he would say "screw it" so we could finally buy a new dryer.

We didn't have time to tackle any of it in the morning. I kept telling myself how much worse my life could be, and then we left to go on about our day. The rainbow colored dryer and speckled clothes were going to be dealt with later, because I needed to drive Marshall to the public library for a field trip. The sun had only risen a few hours earlier, and as we were walking along the sidewalk, I spotted something incredible. Just in front of the steps that led up to the library's main doors, we noticed one lone tree. No longer was it white with snow, as it had been for so many months. Instead, it had turned to a healthy brown, with little bits of red popping up all over its branches. Itty bitty red buds! I stopped to stare at them, to make sure I wasn't imagining them. They were real.

New life!

Spring!

It's coming, and we need it. Winter tends to brings drear and clouds and gloom. Blah. Spring brings sunshine and colors and cheer. Yes! In honor of Spring and new life, I'm writing a tear-free post today!

A full day has passed since I found the melted crayons, and this is what I know:

The dryer is cleaned, thanks to my husband's elbow grease and hours of scrubbing. The clothes are not, but they're only clothes, and we have more. I'm no longer worried about what I was worried about yesterday. That mess is in the past, and now I will move on to the next, while we celebrate the joys that are sprinkled in between them.

Dumped Legos...Birthday boy...Forgotten homework...Cello concert...Lost glasses...Reading lover...Ruined jackets...Art showcase.

My blog's tone changes often, just as mothers do, just as children do, just as seasons do. The tearful posts, the lighthearted posts, the informational posts, the "we've all been there" posts...they are all here for you. I hope that the right ones find you on the days you need them, and that you'll come back for more.

Tell us about your laundry mishaps. What do you love about Spring? Do you experience the ups and downs of motherhood? If you ever think of a topic you'd like to see covered on Mama Loves You and Chocolate, Too, just shoot me a message.

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When Friends Leave...

For so long, we have usually been the ones doing the leaving. We're the movers. The shakers. The jet-setters. The let's-pick-up-our-lives-and-go-ers. Leaving our previous homes and friends and lives in the dust as we moved on to the next best thing.

Right now...next week, the tables are turning. We have friends who are going to be leaving us, and I have found that I have no idea what to do with myself in this situation.

When you're the one who's leaving, saying good-bye to the friends who are staying is undeniably difficult. Physically moving your family is worth mourning. You're parting from relationships that are warm and comfortable and easy and right there.

However, just as adrenaline kicks in during an injury, the unknown of your enticing new life tends to mask the pain of a permanent good-bye. Life before a move is so hectic and overbooked with packing, paperwork, farewell parties and cleaning out the freezer that you don't even have the time to process what is happening. That you're leaving. That it may be months...or years...or never...before you see those incredible people with whom you have shared intimate memories, laughter, sorrows, birthdays, life.

The leavers don't have time to dwell on the "maybe nevers."

The stayers do.

Today, I'm the stayer, and I'm so sad about it.

My life has always had this way of working out so that people come into it at precisely the right times. I've been blessed with gifts of powerful female friendships that are beyond compare, so, when I meet a woman who so naturally fits into my cradle of connections, I long to keep her there forever. I lure her into my home with piping hot coffee and blueberry crumb cake, hoping she'll never want to leave.

When fate intervenes and brings a family to my doorstep that is meant just for me, how else can I react but to embrace them?

Two years ago, a Japanese couple with two young boys moved into a house across the street from us! Of all the streets in all the states in all of America, they moved onto ours. Their kids were in the same grades in school as two of ours. The boys didn't speak English yet, but Mark could speak Japanese. Nobody in this town speaks Japanese, but he does. See what I mean about fate? Of course we took them under our wing for American traditions like Trick-or-Treat, and they invited us into their home to enjoy delectable Japanese cuisine we hadn't had in years. While our Japanese and expatriate connection was the ice breaker to beginning this relationship, two years later we share a friendship that I am sure would have blossomed from any circumstance.

While I have always known that their life in America was temporary, I kept their move date in the back of my mind. It appeared to be so far in the future that there wasn't actually a need to think about it. Now, that looming date is knocking around in my mind like a bowling ball. They will be leaving our tranquil wooded street for Toyko in ten days. I will need to say good-bye. Can someone please give me instructions on how to do it?

How do I accept that we won't be seeing them every morning at our bus stop? Fall Saturdays with our boys playing on the same soccer team will be gone. No more bumping into them at school functions, and Halloween in our neighborhood will be so strange without them.

Our streets have been covered in snow and ice since the middle of November. Covered. This week, we have finally begun to see small sections of dry pavement. While I was driving out of the neighborhood two days ago, I saw my friend's oldest son riding his bike on what surely will be one of his last carefree bike rides on our block. He waved enthusiastically at me, and I flashed a huge smile and waved like crazy back at him. Then, I turned my car in the opposite direction as tears began to roll down my cheeks. I cried because I know that when Spring finally does arrive, he and his little brother will not be here to zoom up and down our driveway. His mom and I won't be standing in the street, chatting for an hour as we share stories about cooking and her career and this universal phenomenon known as parenting.

This morning, as I wipe my tears and take deep breaths to prepare for this farewell, I come away with these words for our friends, the leavers:

I am so happy for you and what is coming next in your life! I know you will miss the school and memories made here, but you are going HOME! You will finally be able to drive where you are comfortable. You can shop where everything is familiar...food, drinks, clothes...everything will be easy again. You will be with your family.

You will be missed. You will be remembered. Thank you for resting in this friendship cradle of mine, even if it was only for a little nap.

Now that I have been the leaver and the stayer, I can't say that one is easier than the other. Both are gut-wrenching. Both bring up emotions you never knew you were capable of having. Are you usually the leaver or the stayer? What's the hardest part for you?

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Why Would Parents Watch a Cartoon without the Kids?

"Hey, close your eyes and pretend you're driving!"

While I was unpacking groceries on a Sunday afternoon, Mark shouted those instructions to me from a few rooms away. He was relaxing on the couch, with beams of long-awaited sunshine bouncing at him from all sides. A few seconds passed before I understood his directions. It wasn't until I heard some very familiar voices ringing after him that I knew exactly what he meant. Hearing the voices of Dory, Marlin, Nemo and his aquarium friends quickly transported me back in time eleven years. They took me away from my present kitchen, surrounded by boxes of cereal and jars of peanut butter, to the front seat of my very first, and perfectly clean, mom-car.

Those characters project the voices of Reese's babyhood. The voices that soothed him during the countless long drives we took between our home and his grandparents' homes two hours north. That movie played on repeat for many months before we ever took it out of the van and into the house to watch it on a real television. Mark and I had memorized every single line before we ever viewed any scenes with our eyes. That movie and those voices represent such a memorable point in our lives: the extremely short period of time when our family was only just beginning, when there were just three of us.

So, on this recent sunny winter Sunday, when Mark stumbled upon Finding Nemo on TV, he instinctively quit flipping channels and called me into the room. When I stopped at the carpet, I expected to see a few of the kids sitting on the couch with him, or sprawled out on the floor. Except nobody was around. The kids were nowhere to be found. It was just Mark...watching Nemo...alone.

Curiously, I asked, "You're watching this all by yourself?"

"Yeah. It's such a cool movie. It's so colorful," he said.

That's when I gazed up at the television with him and realized he was right. The movie is breathtakingly beautiful. The bright and vibrant hues reel you in, making anyone watching feel entranced by the pure artistry. I snuggled down under Mark's arm, and we watched that familiar cartoon...together...while our four children were playing somewhere else in the house.

 

Only about twenty minutes remained in the film, but we paid such close attention to it, like it was our first time seeing the movie. We watched in anticipation, as if we still weren't sure what would happen at the end. We listened to Nemo's heartfelt pleas to his father, as he tried to prove that he should trust him. Like seeing an old friend after a long absence, we smiled and laughed...a lot.

I held Mark's hand and secretly reminisced about Reese's baby years. I thought about how much he has grown and changed since he went everywhere in his car seat, with our fluffy golden retriever at his feet and the soundtrack of his life being the fish from the reef in Finding Nemo.

In half a year, he'll be a teenager. In just a few more, he'll be the one driving the car. How did that happen? As Marlin cradled Nemo in his fins, I wondered if Mark was thinking about his own relationship with our sons. Dads know they need to let their boys become young men, yet how do they know when and how and which way is best?

Is it strange that we're so attached to this movie and these memories that it brings up that we would watch it by ourselves? Who could have known that when our new mini-van included a free copy of Finding Nemo, it would have woven itself into the fabric of our family for so many years to come?

Do you have a movie or show that reminds you of your children's baby years? Do you look back on it fondly or wish you could break the disc in half?

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My Kid Schooled Me on Manners

Someone in our house has pointed out that I have one considerably impolite and annoying habit during breakfast time. Whenever my smallest son asks for help pouring his cereal, I gladly oblige his tiny request. That's me fulfilling the most basic of my mom duties. Then, before I add the milk, I do something that I would never tolerate my kids doing to each other, or to anyone else. I mooch a few pieces of cereal for myself.

Every time.

Without asking permission.

I sneak my fingers into his bowl and skim a couple of tidbits right off the top of the cereal mound. One Frosted Mini-Wheat on Monday. Two Fruit Loops on Tuesday. Three Corn Chex on Wednesday. Four Lucky Charms on Thursday. Five pieces of Cinnamon Toast Crunch on Friday.

Am I obnoxious, or does every parent do it?

Is it the so-called Parent's Tax to which we somehow feel we're entitled? I provide the food, prepare the food, and serve the food, so therefore it is mine before it is yours.

I used to believe my daily bite was harmless, because, clearly, it equaled less than a spoonful of dry cereal from the bounty of boxes stored in our pantry. I thought my nibble was nothing until Marshall began to call me out on it.

"Mom, you always take my cereal without asking."

"Mom, you never say, 'Can I have some, please?'."

"Mom, why do you eat some of my cereal every day?"

Each time I heard him mention it, I made an excuse, a joke or simply brushed it off completely. I poured his milk, gave him a spoon, patted him on the head and carried on with our day. 

This morning, however, I listened. I acknowledged his concern. I apologized to Marshall for what I had done and told him that he was exactly right. I should be asking nicely and saying please. I should be waiting for him to say yes or no. (Admittedly, I just need to stop it all together, since I don't even like most of those cereals anyway, and it's mostly a habit at this point.)

I realized that I was not practicing what I preach. I was not using the manners that we drill and drill and drill into our kids, not holding myself to the same standards we have been trying to set for them all these years. Isn't it humbling when our children have something to teach us? So often we think we have all the answers. We want to say, "I know I'm right because I'm an adult." Yet sometimes, children do have the answers. We just need to listen to them. I'm so glad I took a second to hear my son this morning.

Can you think of a time your child schooled you on something important?

 

Do you believe in The Parent's Tax? 

 

Let's talk about it!

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Learn to Take a Compliment, Will Ya?

Have you ever noticed that when you try to give praise to a woman, especially a mother, she tends to dismiss your compliment? She can come up with a half dozen reasons, on the spot, why what you are saying about her is actually not true.

I can't figure out why we are all so hard-wired to dismiss the positive comments which are directed at us. It disturbs me how a woman will instinctively react when someone tries to tell her that she has something brag worthy happening.

Tell a woman that you love the outfit she's wearing, and she'll tell you she found it on clearance.

Tell a woman how delicious her caramel brownies are, and she'll confess that she made them with a mix.

Tell a woman you're impressed how well-behaved her children are in a restaurant, and she'll blab about how rowdy they were during the car ride.

Tell a woman that her home is gorgeous, and she'll admit that someone helps her clean it once a week.

These denials happen when we attempt to recognize someone's visible accolades. Complimenting a woman's intrinsic traits is even more difficult. Think about the last time that you tried to compliment a friend of yours on her character. Her kindness. Her strength. Her ability to give without question. The obvious impact that you know she is making on her children...her circle...on you.

Did she instantly smile and say thank you?

Probably not.

I'm going to describe what could be a typical conversation between two women friends, anywhere in the world:

Friend 1: "I've been thinking about how grateful we all are to have you leading our group. You really have made it into something awesome."

Friend 2:  "Nah. It's not because of me," while shaking her head.

Friend 1: "I'm serious. It just wasn't like this before you came along."

Friend 2: "Well, I think anyone could have done it. I really didn't do anything special."

Friend 1: "Listen to me, I know what makes a difference and what doesn't, and I have seen it through you."

Friend 2: "I don't think so. I'm not capable of making that kind of difference."

Friend 1: "I'm not just talking to hear myself talk. I mean what I say. I want you to hear me. You are awesome!" as she grabs her friend by the shoulders and shakes her a little.

Friend 2: "It's so hard for me to hear you say all that about me. I don't do any of it for the compliments. Stop it!"

Friend 1: "I know you don't, but it doesn't take away from the fact that you deserve to be praised. Now, just say thank you so we can order some cheesecake and be done with this nonsense."

Friend 2: "Okay, fine. Thank you. Now what kind should we order?"

I cannot think of the last time that I complimented a fellow lady who actually just accepted what I was saying as truth. Why do women feel the need to downplay their awesomeness? Where did you learn that it's not okay to recognize your greatness? That you shouldn't let others boast about you?

It's a new month. March is here, which means Spring should be coming! Would you do something for yourself as the days grow longer and the sunlight lingers a little bit more into your dinner time? Would you march forward, confident in knowing that it's okay to accept a compliment when someone gives it to you?

I know very few people who give out false praise, so when affirmative words come at you, please listen to them. Breathe them in. Hold them in your chest for as long as you can. Remember them when you're doubting yourself again. Swaddle those compliments like you would a newborn baby, cradling them inside of you for when the doubting moments try to creep back inside your delicate blanket...your self esteem as a woman.

Your children and grandchildren are watching you. Your students are watching you. Your little sisters and nieces are watching you. I'm sure someone has gifted you a coffee mug that says you are The World's Greatest Mom/Grandma/Sister/Friend/Aunt/Teacher. It's time for you to start believing it!

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