Noisy Kids Make a House a Home

While I sit down to write on this Saturday morning, sipping hot coffee from my new "Super Mom Makes Everything Better" mug, I hear these sounds which typically fill our home:

-behind me is a man with his tablet game, emitting bursts of the most annoying and distracting gunshots. I'm willing to keep quiet about it because I want to have my husband relaxing near me, enjoying weekend coffee from his favorite mug that boasts "Best Dad in the Entire History of the World Ever."

-a seven-year-old boy is uttering noises that really are indescribable with words.

-a five-year-old boy rushes to the potty, so I hear his little feet patter across the floor as he yells, "I'll be right back!"

-a twelve-year-old boy has just woken up to join the family. He shuffles down our stairs, barely able to muster up a "Hi," in response to my cheery, "Good morning, dude!" He's kind of like the melancholy Ross on Friends.

-you'll notice the two females of the family aren't making much noise. My fingers are hitting the keys as I attempt to describe the dynamic of this place. However, my darling eleven-year-old girl has yet to emerge from her bedroom this morning. She's usually one of the earliest risers, even on weekends, but I'm guessing that she's upstairs at this moment, intently working on one of her own artistic creations. We'll leave her to the peace that she deserves. A house full of brothers is a lot for her, although she'll never admit it. I'm excited to find out what it is that she has been developing in her lair.

The noise level in this house shifts within seconds. Isn't that true for anyone with kids or grandkids around? Peaceful to blaring. Sweet to sarcastic.

From two rooms away, I hear this exchange:

"That's not nice!"

"Well, you're not nice!"

Aaannnd, now they're friends again…zooming around with their Lego creations.

So often, we find ourselves wishing for quiet. Just begging them to please stop talking, stop screaming, stop fighting, stop making any kind of noise at all.

How many times have you said this? "Mama has a headache. Would you please be quiet for just five minutes?"

What about playing "The Quiet Game" in the car?  Basically, it means no one is permitted to talk during the road trip, and the first one to open his or her mouth loses. In our car, it usually lasts about thirty seconds. 

What would we do if it suddenly was quiet...for real? It would be eerie, right? We wouldn't know what to do with ourselves. I know, of course it would be amazing for a while. Then, we would miss it. We would miss the laughs, the questions, the sighs, the nonsense. My mom-brain has been trained to function with so many sounds cluttering it up, that if I didn't have the constant blubbering of four voices (and their favorite electronic games) in the background, I might forget how to be the mom I am.

 

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Reaching for Little Hands: A Parent's Instinct

It's every mother's instinct: when she's walking with her children, to slide her arm to the side of her body, outstretching and then wiggling her fingers, awaiting the grasp of her small child's hand. Somehow, babies never really need to be told that their mamas' hands are there for the taking. It's so natural, and they all just seem to know what to do.

I have one child who will still reach forward and upward to clasp my hand, linking our fingers together, until we safely reach whatever our destination may be. Whether we're in the parking lot of Target, on our way into the library, on the steps of his preschool, or even strolling across our own driveway, Marshall knows that when my hand reaches out behind me, it's meant for his protection and comfort. He takes it. For those few moments, we're simply held together as mother and son.

My three other kids are long past being willing to hold their mom's hand. No matter how much they've grown, the second we step out of our car, I still find myself doing the typical mama-reach-behind. I suppose that I'm secretly hoping that one day, just one time, they'll forget how old they are, or how cool they're supposed to be, and just reach out to grab it. Wouldn't that be perfect?

For so many years, I often walked with not one, but two babies holding my hands. First Reese and Trixie were flanking me everywhere we went, and then it was Chip and Marshall. These days, with the big three in school full time, it leaves only Marshall and me most of the time. I've become accustomed to our life this way, and I'm diligently striving to cherish the few months we have together before he heads off to Kindergarten.

Just the other night, he and I were walking up the stairs together to choose some bedtime stories. We hardly ever walk side-by-side in the house, but since we were at that moment, my hand naturally reached out for Marshall to hold onto it. In an instant, his warm and crusty five-year-old fingers were touching mine.

He said to me, "Mom, I am holding your hand in the house. Can I hold your hand when we're not in the street?"

I stopped on that very step and squeezed his hand even tighter for a few extra seconds. Then, kneeling down, I explained to Marshall that holding his hand is not only for times when we're walking across busy roads, parking lots and pavement. It's for any time. For every time.

We all know that the day will come when our kids will suddenly stop doing what they've always done. They.Will.Seriously.Just.Stop. Stop calling us Mama. Stop needing our help to take a bath. Stop holding our hands to cross the street.

We cannot keep them from growing up. We can't keep them from changing and learning to be independent. We want all of that for our kids...and more. For those moments when my kids do continue to let Mark and me be there for them, I'm taking it all in...and more.

 

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My Christmas Tree is Still Standing

Nearly five weeks have passed since Christmas Day, yet our Christmas tree is still perched in our living room, fully decorated, right in front of our windows. Go ahead, feel free to gasp, shriek and judge. Revel in my laziness. I have found that my readers especially love my posts which document that I do fail at some parts of my job as wife/mother/woman of the world.

I talk to my mom on the phone every day, sometimes more than once. During one of our chats in the middle of January, she asked me if our tree was down yet. Of course, I laughed and gave the same response I give her every year around the same time,

"Nope, it's not Trixie's birthday yet."

We do not leave the tree up until Trixie's birthday for any real reason. It has just become a nice, solid deadline to strive for and a way to remember that when she was born, my mom took down our tree while we were at the hospital.

The year that Trixie was born, I had a semi-legitimate excuse for still having up our Christmas tree toward the end of January. Coming through the holidays with one baby who had just learned to walk and being extremely pregnant myself, who had time to think about taking down ornaments and lights and then putting them away in boxes? Weren't we lucky enough that the tree was decorated at all that year?

I was barely able to waddle after my also waddling toddler. I was falling on ice and going to physical therapy. It was cold and flu season. Our Christmas tree was the least of my concerns. Reese and our second child were going to be sixteen months apart in age, so I was storing any energy I had for when that baby did come. Having two babies in sixteen months sounded really close, yet manageable. Possible. My grandma had done it; my aunts had done it. I could do it, too. 

In reality, sixteen months was not meant to be our number. Sneaky little sister was anxious to meet us and made a very early, yet healthy debut. She brought the age gap between Reese and her even closer, making it fourteen months and some change. Her sudden birth caused quite a stir, as you can imagine. By the time we returned home from the hospital, bringing our tiny little girl to join her big brother and fuzzy doggie, all the leftover stress from a pregnant lady unable to put away her Christmas stuff had been magically erased.

My mother, always a loving caretaker and detailed organizer, had cleaned up everything for me. We were free to enter our home (and begin our new life as a family of four) with the fresh slate feeling that January often brings. Thank goodness for my mom. If it hadn't been for her, we might have just left the tree up till the following Christmas.

None of this suggests that every January has been as eventful as the year of Trixie's birth. A few of them have been really nuts, like the years we decided to move to and from Japan, and then again when we moved into our current house. I don't know what it is with us moving in the dead of Winter. On the other hand, most of our post-holiday seasons have been pretty standard. It's just that after all of the hustle and bustle, I'm never in a rush to drag up all the boxes to deconstruct the jolliness that has filled our home. It will seem so bare. So plain. So blah.

Right?

Actually, since Christmas was over a month ago, I know I'm ready for everything to come down now. It's time for me to gaze openly out my front window once again.

Trixie's birthday has now come and gone for 2015. I had set a goal to take down our tree over the weekend. I verbalized that ambitious goal to everyone here, only to be sidetracked by normal family happenings, such as a very loud trip to the bouncy house gym, fluffy purple cupcakes and our brand new, late-night Netflix addiction to Sons of Anarchy.

Our Christmas tree still remains. Its presence lingers in my mind every night when I finally rest my head on the pillow and then realize, Shoot, we still didn't take that tree down. Every time I pass by it or sit next to it as I write, I wonder, When will we ever have the time to put it away? It's exactly eighteen inches from me at this very second, but it's not down yet!

Will our Christmas tree still be standing by Valentine's Day? Surely not. My mom is coming this weekend.

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What Do You Do When Your Baby Hates Mommy and Me Classes?

An enticing and colorful advertisement for a Mommy and Me gymnastics class just breezed across my newsfeed. At first glance, I actually considered clicking on the link, thinking to myself, "Marshall and I would have so much fun together at that class. He would be such a cutie learning tricks and bouncing on the trampoline. It would be especially fantastic since our tramp is tucked away in the basement right now. He could run and jump and be free!"

Then, reality set in, and I remembered that my sweet son does not enjoy taking part in group activities. Especially ones that involve another adult encouraging playtime with other kids, or where choreographed movement is necessary, or scripted singing is required, or basically any time his mom wants him to do anything that is not his own idea.

So, as I thought to myself what a cool notion a Mommy and Me gymnastics class would be, I knew that it was not actually meant for Marshall and Me. I kept on scrolling.

Honestly, none of my children has ever had a desire to join in during those mama and baby group activities. After many years of being a mother to toddlers and preschoolers, I eventually...finally...had that moment when I just accepted it. With that acceptance, came the realization that it's fine! My young kids are just fine without attending any sort of regular class, and their mama is a lot more relaxed without having to worry about it.

Being the library fanatic that I am, I had always envisioned that Story Hour was going to be a magical place for us. Sitting on the floor, listening to smiley librarians introduce Open, Shut Them and Wheels on the Bus to the babies on my lap was supposed to be a delightful bonding experience. With each child, I had high hopes that they would enjoy it as much as I did. Sure, they loved books and reading and singing and cuddling at home. Then, once we were in a public setting, it was a whole different ballgame.

They absolutely hated it! They revolted. They stood up when it was time to sit. They walked around when it was time to stand in place. They NEVER sang the words or rolled their hands in the famous wheeling motion. When I tried to sing along (because what adult can resist joining in to every chorus of those songs?), they shushed me. My babies shushed me.

I was a sweaty, stressed-out, miserable mess. Every week. I watched the other babies and toddlers happily bouncing on their caregivers' laps. They were quietly following along with the stories or enthusiastically pretending their fingers were the Itsy Bitsy Spider. I would sit in the circle of moms and kids, just wondering why I was torturing myself. Why did I keep going back, dragging our butts out of our cozy jammies to be there by 9 a.m? Often times, I was plopped on the rug, with not one, but two or three, kids with me. They would push on each other, each hoping to take up the most space on my abundant thighs. Seriously? What was I thinking?

In Japan, we tried Kindermusick. Have you ever been to a children's music class? It's full of those fun instruments you remember from your elementary school days, plus movement is highly encouraged. We played with sticks, triangles, drums, eggs that make noise when you shake them and colorful scarves that we tossed around for beauty's sake. It's quite a lovely way to introduce music and rhythm to babies and children. This music-loving-mama had high hopes for that class, too. I do not remember my kiddos doing any of the singing (even though it was all in English), and I definitely know they despised being told to hop and wave their bodies around the room to the music. Yet, I kept going back, paying for those classes, until I eventually had enough.

Dance classes, soccer teams, school Christmas programs. All of these events ended with the same result: my kids bucking the system. Doing their own thing. Not caring that they were not blending in with everyone else.

In the past, when I was younger and newer to motherhood, I encouraged them to join in all the fun that they could be slash should be having. Now, I just laugh and know how freeing it is that none of us really has to care...at all!

Marshall's preschool class performed Christmas songs for all of the parents, and the kids were wearing reindeer ears and noses. Before I even walked into the room, I knew that my child would not be donning any of that festive gear, and he would not be singing a single note. He gave the most glorious non-performance ever!

So, what do we do when our babies won't participate in Mommy and Me classes? We care for a while, we try, and then we eventually learn to let them be who they want to be. Buck the system. Be brave. Be an individual. Be proud.

If you have a baby who loves those classes, I'm so happy for you! You will have the incredible experience that it's meant to be. If your kids fidget or moan or refuse to wear the costume, don't worry. It's okay to give up on the dream of what they or you should be gaining from those classes. Just go home and be free.

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Should We Provide Yearly Spouse Reviews?

Can I share some advice with you that I learned over the weekend? It came about from quite an unlikely source: a juicy novel about a woman who whacks her head at the gym and forgets everything that has happened to her in the past ten years.

Imagine everything that has occurred during your own life over the last ten years.

Obviously, for many of us, developing amnesia at this point in our lives would erase the memories of our children. Images of carrying, birthing, nursing, raising, and loving those noisy bundles would vanish, thus deleting this all-consuming notion we know as motherhood.

Although forgetting the children was an integral factor of the complex plot in the supermom's saga, it was a quick discussion that occurred between the husband and wife which lingered in my mind, long after I closed the cover of my book.

As this woman with amnesia is trying to piece together her life, she wonders why she fights so much with her husband. Why don't they find value in the same parts of life anymore? What happened to them?

He's often at work, where he's been promoted during the ten years that is lost in her consciousness. At the office, he feels important, making money for the family to have a comfortable home, cars, clothes and entertainment. 

The husband is extremely successful in his career. People throughout his office seek his advice, opinion and knowledge. He is an expert in many areas, topics about which his wife knows very little.

The trouble emerges when he begins to feel no value in his own home. He eventually decides that he would rather spend more time at work, where he's admired and appreciated, than at home where he feels belittled. He finally tells his wife that she makes him feel as though nothing he does around there is good enough. With the house, the kids, the dishes, the laundry, the schedules, the school. He can never do any of it right, according to her.

As I read the couple of pages that address the husband's feelings, I started to wonder about my own marriage. Do I act that way, too? Do you?

This post isn't about women and men and who has it harder or worse, or that we are all equal anyway. It's about the fact that maybe we should take a look at ways we can help our spouses feel valued. I know that mine has joked about me not letting him help me in the kitchen or that I worry he won't ask all the right questions when he takes the kids to the doctor. Why would I care so much? I can't change the oil in the car, and I definitely do not want to be in charge of the leaves in the fall. We all have our gifts and strengths which blend together to make a family function.

If ten years of my life were erased from my memory, I hope that I wouldn't find that I had forgotten to show the love of my life and father of my children how awesome he is. If we were to set up yearly spouse reviews, like employers do, what would we say about the person with whom we choose to share our lives?

So, what's my advice? Let's not ever allow our spouse's boss to be better at praising him or her than we are.

 

Are you guilty of letting someone else praise your spouse more than you? Can you change it?

 

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Why I Washed My Own Hair with Johnson's Baby Shampoo

One of the earliest tips I remember reading when I was expecting our first baby was in reference to introducing the family pet to a new baby. The experts suggested that parents should start using baby products, like shampoo, lotion and detergent, for themselves, well before the baby's arrival. This practice would ensure that a territorial dog (any newlywed couple's actual first baby) would become accustomed to the new and constant fragrance that soon would be filling the home. At our baby shower, I received gift baskets overflowing with all of these signature newborn goodies, so my experiment began. I washed my own clothes in Dreft, bathed in Head to Toe Baby Wash, slathered that pink Johnson's lotion all over my body, and of course, I washed my hair with the world famous Johnson's Tearless Baby Shampoo. I was determined that Abby, our two-year-old golden retriever, would slowly and lovingly welcome the new baby into her home with a friendly nuzzle when the time came.

Did the experiment do its job? Who can really know. We had the most incredibly mothering doggie we could have ever dreamed of, and she would have watched over our babies no matter what. Meanwhile, what the parenting books don't tell you is that babies produce and use a zillion other smells for which there's no way to prepare any dog: diaper fillers, spit-up, cradle cap, ear wax, breast milk, formula, rice cereal, mashed peas, and those are just in the first nine months.

The reason I'm writing about all of this is because I decided to do a much more recent experiment with the olfactory magic present in Johnson's Baby Shampoo. As my youngest son turned five a few months ago, I began to really become aware that he's not a baby and really hasn't been for a long time. After twelve years, we no longer have the need to buy or keep baby products in our home. Nothing that really takes me back to those days of being a young mom of babies.

Nobody misses the stinky smells of babyhood, but what I do miss are the sweet, irresistible, can't-get-enough-of-'em smells. The ones that you only know if you've been a parent. The newly opened package of Pampers baby wipes, the fresh from the dryer Onesies just washed with Dreft, and my very favorite smell of all, the top of a baby's head, just coming out of the tub, gently cleaned with Johnson's Baby Shampoo.

Part of being aware that I don't have anymore babies was when I noticed that I physically do not have to bathe any of my children. They are all fully independent when it comes to bath and shower time. Well, making sure they enter the tub is still all my job, but once they're in there, the washing is up to them. I hadn't even noticed that I wasn't needed in that department until just a couple of weeks ago, when Marshall actually asked me if I would help him. He never wants help in the tub, but for some reason, that one night, he asked me to wash his hair for him.

Trying to be increasingly present in their short and fast-moving lives, I willingly marched up the stairs into the bathroom to help my boy, noticing the floor already soaking wet with bath water. Along with the Axe and Pantene for the older kids, I do still buy Johnson's Head to Toe Baby Wash and Shampoo. It's for the sensitive skin of these kiddos, whenever they feel they need it. Of course, that's the bottle that I was going to use. I didn't want my little guy smelling like a teenager.

The very instant that I squeezed that golden goop into my palm and began to create the lather for Marshall's hair, I was wondrously transported to the countless days of standing over our miniature bathtub, gently washing away the dried milk from the creases of all four of our babies' necks.

It only took a few seconds to wash up Marshall's hair. He wasn't squirming or crying or peeing on me like the days when we counted his age in weeks or months. It was almost too easy. When the bubbles were rinsed from his hair, he asked me to go out of the room so he could keep playing in the now sudsy water. I hated to leave the room, because the smell from the baby shampoo was so enchanting to this sentimental mama.

But...I left.

When Marshall was all dry and warm in his jammies, I made sure that we spent added time reading books that night. His head was just below my nose, in the perfect position for me to sniff his clean and delicious hair for an extra long time.

The next week, I decided to wash my own hair with Johnson's Baby Shampoo. No need to explain, right?

What do you miss most from when your kids were babies? Maybe they still are babies, and you're trying to soak up all the yumminess of them right now! Let's talk about it.

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"Mom, I Love You!"

It's a frigidly freezing Tuesday morning. The three biggest children are off to school, and even though it's been an hour since we returned from our drive down to the bus stop (yes, I drive to the bus stop in the winter), I just cannot seem to be warm enough. I've downed my big round mug of coffee, and I'm wearing a baggy old sweatshirt from my little brother's college days, but my toes and fingers are still chilled. Maybe I need some of those fingerless gloves for typing that Ebenezer Scrooge used to wear for counting his money. I can hear the roar of the furnace, and a few scarce birds chirping outside. What are they still doing here? The only other sound that breaks up the silence of this early part of our day is my five-year-old Marshall randomly announcing that he loves me. Forget about my frozen bones, I have that sweet little dude to warm me up.

He's sitting a few chairs away from me, quietly playing Angry Birds, breathing through his mouth and sniffling...and then I hear, "Mom? I love you."

It has been a few weeks since I noticed my youngest son giving me these constant reminders that he loves me. When I'm cooking dinner, brushing my teeth, playing a game with him, cleaning the floor. It's always the same. "Mom? I love you."

I'll admit that even though he has been doing it for quite a long time, I still find myself taken by surprise each time he speaks those sweet words. I'm usually preparing myself for one of the many other questions my preschooler poses each day:

"Mom? Can I have a snack?"

"Mom? Do I have school today?"

"Mom? Will you turn on Jake?"

Or his most frequently occurring request: "Mom? Will you clean my glasses?"

For now, I'm going to take these numb hands of mine from the keyboard and go wrap them around my little son. He needs me. Maybe we'll hibernate with a blanket till everyone else comes home. Then, they will ask us what we did all day. Will it matter?

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I Bet You Are Better at Doing Laundry Than I Am

You would think that after doing laundry for my family for over fourteen years, I would be an expert. That I would have learned ideal ways to maximize my time and our space to make this chore manageable. My mom does it. Mark's mom does it. They have great systems. Mine? It's horrible. I curse laundry duty. I despise it. I don't need to tell you why laundry is frustrating. You know the reasons...all of them.

I was probably pretty good at it when there were just two of us. I don't remember laundry being a chore before we had our kids. It's like it didn't exist, although I know our clothes were cleaned and folded every week. With the arrival of our first child, I actually looked forward to laundry day, as the intoxicating aroma of Dreft wafted through my home each day. Next came a baby girl. Her clothes were so beautiful and sweet. Soft fleece jammies, lacy dresses, perfect purple socks. How could I not want to wash and dry those tiny threads to keep my baby comfy and clean?

Then, we moved to Japan. That is when all the fun of doing baby laundry went down the heated toilet. Our machine was an all-in-one model. Wash and dry in the same machine. Have you ever heard of such a thing? Of course not, because it was worthless. The machine was tiny, and it took eight hours to dry a load of towels. We had no other choice, as our home could not hook up to American appliances, so we invested in typical Japanese laundry equipment (a portable clothesline for our miniature balcony), and I resorted to hanging our clothes outside like everybody else.

It wasn't horrible, as there were only four of us, and two of them were still small. As years passed, you all know that I popped out more kids, who then continued to grow. Now we have more people with bigger clothes, and so even though we have a regular washer and dryer again, we have now reached the new problem of just never being caught up with laundry...ever. 

Every few years, I try to establish a new system that will make doing laundry a little easier...one that will save us from the piles and piles of unfolded clothes, merging into one giant heap on the floor of my laundry room. Thank goodness that room is in the back of the house, where no guest would ever go unless she makes a wrong turn. It's a disaster. Our moms do not dare help with our laundry, as they cannot decipher which piles are clean and which are dirty.

I started enlisting the help of the kids about four years ago.

Here was my old method. You'll see my mistakes, I'm sure.

1. I wash all the laundry in the same temperature water, not sorting by color, fabric, etc. It's faster that way.

2. When I remember, I move the wet clothes to the dryer.

3. When they're dry, I take them out and throw them in a pile on the floor.

4. Repeat steps 1-3 every day or so, for the rest of my life.

5. When kids finally run out of clean undies, pants or whatever in their rooms, or I just can't fit anything else on top of the clean pile, I declare it to be "Laundry Day."

6. Kids scream, kick, fight, whine. I make them drop everything and help with laundry. (Even though I have done the hard part of washing and drying it).

7. We use our misfit collection of laundry baskets to transport clothes to the family room. Clothes are dumped onto the floor-recreating the big pile. The little boys like to have the clothes dumped directly on top of them (for fun, of course).

8. Everyone takes a basket, fighting over who gets to use the biggest/best ones, and then they all dig through the pile to find their own clothes.

9. An hour of clothes flying through the air on a weekend morning is not anyone's idea of fun, especially when Mark is constantly barking at the little kids to stop climbing on the pile, start helping, keep their underwear off their heads...you know the drill. Wait? You probably don't do laundry this way.

10. At the end of this part, we are always left with a huge mound of socks that nobody wants to bother sorting. Sometimes I just put it back into the laundry room till the next weekend.

Over the years, my friends and I would talk about our laundry methods. Mine seemed to be the worst, but I just didn't see another way to make it work. How could I move away from simply creating a big pile of everyone's clothes? How could I create less fighting among the whole family when I need help with this chore that is for everyone's benefit? I just do not have time to fold it all right out of the dryer-obviously the best method.

Eventually, after watching what works for the grandmas and gaining some insight from a very wise friend of mine who taught me I was handling each piece too many times, I decided to make some changes.

I purchased color-coded everything. I bought collapsible hampers for each room, which are lightweight enough for the kids to take downstairs by themselves, and breathable in case I don't get to the clothes for several days. I eliminated our diverse batch of laundry baskets (some which were way too small to be worth keeping), and found large, sturdy ones for each person. We all know which one is ours, so there's no fighting over who gets "the good basket."

Our laundry system has been modified to be the best it's ever been, and probably the best it will be while our kids are here. Yes, I know kids can actually wash clothes, too. Maybe that day will come. For now, I'm home each day, so I can do it.

I still follow my original Steps 1 through 3 in almost the same way, except I've added something new for myself. I make sure to have everyone's empty, color-coded basket in the laundry room when I'm ready to empty the dryer. Instead of dumping the clothes straight on the floor like I did for so many years, I sort them right away, directly into each person's basket. I line the baskets up along the wall by age, plus I know whose color is whose, so I don't have to think too much while I toss in their t-shirts and pajamas. It's so much easier to tackle one load at a time! (Like I didn't know that before, I just was too overwhelmed to make it happen). Once in a while, if I'm really organized, an entire load will be designated to a specific hamper. So, if the hamper comes from Reese's room, I know those clothes can go right from the dryer into his black basket. Simple!

My laundry room is so much neater now! There are still a ton of baskets taking up the entire floor, but that's because we have a big, beautiful family to clothe. I'm so thankful for them!

Have you mastered your own laundry system yet? Have you always been a pro? Are you like me and were always looking for tips?

Here are some other brilliant ideas that friends of mine had given to me through the years as I sought laundry advice:

-Keep a small plastic dresser in the laundry room just for kids' socks. Never worry about sorting or taking them to bedrooms, especially if you have kids wearing the same sizes.

-Have your hangers ready when it's time to take the clothes from the dryer. Put your shirts directly onto the hangers instead of in the basket first and then on the hangers later. Handle pieces as few times as possible!

-Install a tension rod in the laundry room for shirts that need to be air dried.

-Play music or watch Netflix while you're sorting/folding laundry.

-Teach your friends what you learn! Although one of them may seem to have it all together, she's probably a closet laundry amateur.

 

I'd love for you to find me on Facebook:

 

https://www.facebook.com/mamalovesyouandchocolatetoo

Rediscovering a Lost Love

My relationship with books has not always been constant. For many years, during my young adult life, I chose to read for two reasons. I was either engulfing myself in information about pregnancy and parenting or exposing my children to the thousands of fascinating books that could shape their world. While all of the words I encountered were read with determination and purpose, I had somehow lost the quest for reading that I had developed as a young child. Why had I suddenly given up on one of my first true loves? Something that had completely and utterly fulfilled me during my entire childhood? Why had I shelved my passion for books and all of the excitement, wonder, joy, sorrow and knowledge that they unlocked as I slid my fingers over their pages?

So many of my memories as a girl are entwined with the magic of books. One of my very favorite sounds was the shuffling noises that resulted when our local librarian checked out my stacks full of books each week. Obviously, in the mid 1980's, libraries had no computer systems. There were no self-check counters. Gosh, I miss those days. Each book contained a small paper pocket in the front cover for record cards. The process that took place to give each book its due date was no quick task compared to today's barcode scanners, but it's forever etched in my mind. First, Miss Kathy would open each of my books and remove the cards, creating a stack of them off to the side of her desk.

Open the book, remove the card, close the book, move to the side. Repeat.

The quietness that existed throughout the rest of the library was barely interrupted by the sliding of my many books, often wrapped in plastic, across the desk. The librarians were always peaceful, tranquil women. They demurely smiled, keeping their heads down as they worked, once in a while offering opinions on the books in my selection. After the collection of cards were all removed from their books' pockets, it was time for my favorite part: the stamping of the due dates. Our small public library had a machine which accepted these cards into them, making a strange, cha-chunking sound as it imprinted the book's due date directly onto the card.

Cha-Chunk
Cha-Chunk
Cha-Chunk

One after another, the librarian would stamp the due dates onto each record card of the twenty or thirty books I checked out every week. I patiently waited, intently gazing at the process, listening to the sound that was so familiar to me, so habitual, so hypnotic.

Next, the cards were reinserted into the books, letting me know exactly when I needed to take my books back to the library.

Open the book, reinsert the card, close the book, move to the side. Repeat.

So relaxing!

I could ride my bike to the library when I was old enough, but my mom drove my brothers and me there whenever we wanted to go. Our library was small, but it was another home to me. Our school library was just as important to me, as was our school librarian and school reading teacher.

Somehow, my impressions of reading for hours, days, weeks and years non-stop as a child did eventually come to an abrupt halt. Once I reached high school, I cannot remember a single book that I read for entertainment. I cannot help but think it had to do with being required to read books not of my choosing. I remember all of the books I read for homework and essays and term papers. How had I, such a book fanatic, lost my love of books? I suppose I was too busy with so many other interests, there just wasn't time for more reading. I have always read magazines, but really reading books for leisure did not make a reappearance into my life until the past few years.

Initially, I had to force myself to make the time to read, but now, it is second nature. I have once again become a library addict. Although libraries are in no way the same as they were when I was a child, and I'm often quite guilty of racking up late fees (shhh, don't tell Mark), I find the same peace in them that I once did. I find escape through books. I find opportunity. I find awareness, enlightenment, humor, acceptance.

We all have a love in our life that has to take a back seat for a certain amount of time. For whatever reason, we have to set it aside until the time comes along again when we are able to reacquaint ourselves with it. Perhaps you have a hobby like photography, scrapbooking or quilting, but you're just too busy with babies or school or your job to do it now. Maybe you miss being outdoors in the garden or fishing at the lake. Do you wonder when you'll ever have time to do it again?

We'll know when the time is right to start again. Somehow, we'll know when our life really needs it. My mind needed the stimulation of real books after many, many years at home with four children. I could only read One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish so many times before I began to forget what my own brain could comprehend.

What do wish you had more time to do? Will you start today?