It's the Little Things

This winter's first snow waited to fall until December, a small reason to celebrate in our house. As moms, we tend to find delight in what others might consider menial. For example, I was able to avoid taking any of our four children shopping for new snow boots. At the exact moment when they told me all of the boots in the house were going to fit, I began to sing. Yes, sing. I made up some silly verses about boots and growing kids and swayed throughout our home while snow fell upon our yard. I had been dragging these children shopping for new boots for well over a decade, and this year, for the first time ever, I was off the hook...a small feat!

As the three younger ones piled on their snow clothes to gleefully charge onto the pristine blanket of white, I laughed at myself for how happy I was at this humble moment in my life. I began to think about other times parents feel joy and success at what seems minute on the surface. I don't always burst out in song, but I do tend to internally reflect. Sometimes, I let the kids know my heart is being tugged, but they don't usually understand my sentimentality. Other times, I'm quiet and hope I'll remember the fuzzy feelings.

Looking back on the days when our little guy's boots and the snow were as high as his knees. 

We have one son who is still interested in reading aloud to us. He's growing up quickly, so his willingness will end soon, I'm sure. When he lets us into that world, it is important. When my older ones talk to us about music or history, I try not to act too excited to turn them off from the conversation, but inside, I'm hugely honored to be included.


My brother and his wife have five children of their own who live two hours from us. When the cousins are able to spend time together, they never want it to end. For so many years, my sister-in-law and I were nursing, changing diapers and chasing babies. We were exhausted for what seemed like an eternity. This Thanksgiving, we realized we had finally reached a point when the kids could be out of sight and out of mind. 

No more toddlers. 

No more spills. 

No more fear of what might happen if we turned our backs. 

So, she and I let them all hang out in the basement while we cooked together and enjoyed adult conversation. The kids made memories and we relaxed. Success!

Relishing little moments does not have to involve silly songs or quiet reflections. One of my favorite ways to celebrate anything is with this delectable winter champagne. Try it for your next cocktail party or brunch. It's so simple, you'll never have another party without it.

Festive Cranberry Champagne Punch

1 or 2 bottles of champagne
1 bottle of lemon-lime pop (2 liters)
1 can of frozen cranberry juice concentrate, thawed
frozen cranberries, for garnish

Mix all of these ingredients in a punch bowl or glass beverage dispenser just before serving. 

Cheers for a sweet and successful 2017!

Being the Mom Who Doesn't Record Everything

Nineteen days have passed since I last clicked my keys to blog. My last message, about empowering ourselves to be bold, was left hanging in the air for over two weeks...waiting for me to return to write again. I have yet to allow this much time to pass in between posts, but I'll tell you that while I was away from blogging, I was happily living in the blurry, hurried moments with people who matter to me. Today, I finally have time to exhale-and write!


Living in the moment is something I realized I was doing a few years ago, long before the internet was filled with wiser-than-thou experts begging people to look up from their phones. The first time I was aware that I was living in the moment was when I attended a celebration for my oldest son's fifth grade class. I made a conscious decision not to record the performance. I chose to view the children, and thus my son, through the lenses of my own eyes...not that of a two inch screen. When he walked forward to the microphone to give a short speech, I wasn't worried about hitting record. I wasn't worried about having him in the center of the shot. I wasn't worried about the zoom.


Instead, I opened my ears and soaked in everything that he was saying to a very crowded room of parents staring back at him. My composed and poised son blew me away. He knocked the wind right out of me, and then came the water works.


Later, I realized that I was one of the only people not recording the performance. I was positive that I would not have felt as connected to him had I been watching him from behind my camera. Would I have been so moved by my child and still remember it to this day had I recorded him and watched him later at home? I don't think so.


Obviously, I do use my camera sometimes. I wouldn't want entire childhoods to pass by without any proof. I simply choose not to make capturing the moment (and then sharing the moment) a priority. The freedom that comes with leaving the stress of photography and videography behind makes me such a more relaxed mom at big events. I've seen so many parents miss the actual moment they were there to witness while they were setting up the camera. Capturing the wrong kids. Hitting photo instead of video or vice versa. Oops.


In a sea of phones and tablets and cameras blocking everyone's view, I'm the other mom...the one without any of it. Maybe you're thinking, "Doesn't she realize this is a big deal?" Maybe I look as though I don't care enough to preserve the moments with a digital memory. However, the opposite is true. I am able to watch it happen live and absorb it all. I see the raw emotions on the teacher's face as she bids a final farewell to her class. I see the bright smiles that naturally widen as small children are allowed to stroke the fur of a soft, fluffy rabbit. I see the rise and fall of a kid's chest as she completes a difficult athletic feat. It's beautiful. It's satisfying. It's what we dream about as parents.


I'm not here to tell people to stop taking videos or pictures of kids, because it's always fun to play them back and see them later. I'm here to introduce the idea that we can thoroughly enjoy experiences without a camera, too.

Have you ever gone to one of your kid's events and not recorded or photographed it? How did it feel?

 

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"May There Always Be Mama"

Bittersweet. The end of an era. We are gettin' old!
 

 

All words my friends and I have recently used to describe the feelings that come along with experiencing lasts.

 

The last month of elementary school.

 

The last parent helper day at preschool.

 

The last field trip with a treasured teacher.

 

Marshall and I have just returned home from the last Mother's Day Celebration I'll attend at his preschool. Our preschool. The preschool that has nurtured three of our barely potty trained toddlers into full-fledged kindergarteners. We have been driving there a few days a week for five of the six years that we've lived in this city. It has been their cozy home away from home.

 

Marshall's teacher, Mrs. R., is also Mama to four grown children and Nana to seven little ones. She reminds me of my own mom in so many ways, so when she welcomed me into the school family, I decided to cling tightly to her. I listen intently to her advice and adore her ability to laugh at her past. She's lived through so much more than I, so like I do with all mothers, I learn from her.

 

While she teaches my young son to write his letters and practice patience, she also helps guide me through my journey of motherhood. A journey she has passed through herself and one that she witnesses forty times a day. She and I often talk about our last babies. Hearing her recall the life she's led with her family helps me cherish my own moments...our "lasts" as they unfold before my eyes.  

 

The Mother's Day Celebration is an opportunity for the children to showcase their vocal skills while the mamas lovingly gaze upon their little darlings. Cute songs, sentimental songs, a story or two, naturally followed up by cookies and punch. Kleenex is passed around as tears are often shed in that moment of pride and realization that the next step is the big yellow bus and a super hero lunch box.

A couple of weeks before the Mother's Day Celebration, Marshall's teacher shared a touching story with me about the students learning a new song. Mrs. R. described the scene of the morning in this way:

Per the norm for him, Marshall didn't sing any words with the class. The music for one of the new songs is very beautiful, with a lot of flutes and instruments that make people want to sway.

The lyrics to this endearing song are:


"May there always be sunshine...May there always be blue skies...May there always be Mama...May there always be me." 

 

Marshall sat on the carpet among his classmates and listened, as his teacher helped the other children learn the new words. He began to show signs of a quivering lip and tears in his eyes. Eventually, he did open his mouth, but it was not to sing.

He simply stated, "This song makes me feel sad."


My baby boy, who has grown so much, was really listening to that music. To those lyrics. To that melody that was flowing through his body. It was affecting him in a way that many other five-year-olds have probably never experienced, making him think, "What if there wasn't always Mama?" I was so thankful that Mrs. R. was keeping an eye on my guy that morning, and that he felt safe enough to tell her what had happened in his little heart.


I already knew that he wouldn't be singing on performance day. That was a given. I never would have known what goes through his mind during those times he is surrounded by other children who bounce and sing and smile. They stomp and laugh and turn 'round and 'round, while he gazes away from them.


This year, I knew. I knew that he would be feeling the music.


What a gift...to have a teeny peek into his complex mind. Music and teachers are two of my absolute favorite things in this world. They've come together at precisely the right moment on a random spring day to make this particular "last" a little more lasting. I'm sure I'll always remember how it ended.


The Mother's Day Celebration was going well. As usual, excited kids hammed it up on the makeshift stage. With the culmination of the show approaching, Mrs. R. asked my silent performer if he'd like to sit with his mama for the final song. My long-legged, oldest boy in the room nodded and hopped right over to me. He eagerly climbed onto my lap, nuzzling into my embrace. We swayed together to that sappy song, as he quietly wept underneath my chin. Geez, that song is sad! No wonder it makes him cry.




May there always be sweet kids.


May there always be teachers like Mrs. R.


May there always be music.


May there always be double chocolate chunk cookies to pick us up when we stumble. 

My boy is so sensitive. He's quiet. Demure. Reserved. He chooses not to sing or move his hands with the motions during class performances, and we're fine with it. It's who he is. As my mom often reminds me, "Not everyone is the same." (What she probably means to say is, not everyone is a showboat like her daughter). Are you and your kids similar? Do you all love to perform or loathe it, or are you a good mix of both?

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Showing That Old Swing Set Some Love

The first swing set that sat in my childhood backyard was bought secondhand, from a yard sale. Someone was selling it a few blocks away, and when my parents decided to buy it for us, the previous owner, my dad, and a few other guys simply picked it up and carried it to our house. Fully assembled. No tools. No trucks. They just walked it through the neighborhood. I can still remember my giddy excitement in seeing that group of dads turn the corner toward my house, with my new swing set hiked high above their shoulders.


It was nothing like the heavy duty play sets kids have today. Nothing like the one Mark assembled in our backyard, which might need a crane when it's time to move. It was composed of plastic and metal, in shades of brown, yellow and white. That swing set had been the source of entertainment for some neighbor kids who outgrew it, and instead of going into the landfill, it was being brought back to life in our yard. For our excitement and that of all of our cousins and friends! That first swing set, a hand-me-down, provided several more years of memories for my brother and me.


Although my parents have never moved from my childhood home, our trusty yellow swing set eventually rusted and cracked. When it was time, my younger brother was given a cooler, newer set for his generation to enjoy...one that my dad bought from the store and assembled with tools.


Over the past sixteen years, my dad has become Grandpa to nine children. A few years ago, rust and cracks on the old set meant it was time, once again, to buy a new one. My husband and older brother, the dads of all of those kids, were tasked with assembling it.


The first place that our kids run to when they head out to Grandma and Grandpa's backyard is the swing set. It's a staple. A given. A monument for the fun they have there year after year. From the times when we only had a few little kids, to now when we have teenagers and preschoolers, it has served a strong purpose.


Easter eggs hide under the slide.


Moms feverishly snap photos, as all 9 kids drape over it.


Grandpa gets bonked in the head by a flying swing.


Cousins create obstacle courses...and memories.


Grandmas lovingly watch from the window, as the circle of life continues.


Swing sets may seem like such trivial pieces of play equipment. Sometimes they may even
be an eyesore. Yet, they are important. Significant. A key facet of a child's growing years.

The set that we have in our own yard features bright yellow and green plastic pieces. It's certainly not aesthetically pleasing in our tranquilly wooded backyard. We were beginning to question why our kids don't play on it as often as they once did. My friend, Becky, even suggested I tackle the feelings moms have when swing sets are shown less love, and then something crazy happened.


Our oldest son invited a friend over, another twelve-year-old-boy. After being inside for about an ninety minutes, they ventured outside to play. The Very First Stop his friend made was at our swing set. He climbed up the rock wall, which is actually shorter than he is tall, but somehow, he still found it thrilling. He slid down the slide. He crossed the monkey bars and pumped his legs on the swings, just as enthusiastically as any six-year-old I've seen.


I called Mark over to see what was happening. Together, we watched from our kitchen window, as two video-game-loving boys showed our old swing set some love. It was a handsome sight for sure!

Do you feel attached to your swing set? Will you pass yours on for another family to enjoy when it's time?

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I'm Afraid I Hoard Children's Literature

Letting go is such a challenging concept for me. I hold deep attachments to nearly everything that has been of use and significance to my life. People. Songs. Dishes. Blankets. Clothing. Letters.


I should also add books to my long list of "I-wanna-hang-on-to-these-forever-because-they're-sentimental" items. We are in the process of transitioning our two youngest boys to bunk beds, so that calls for shifting and rearranging the bedroom that they share.


Their book shelf had been busting at the seams for many years. It only ever held about two-thirds of their books at any given moment, which meant anything that didn't fit in it ended up on the floor around it. It was constantly exploding books. We were forced to cram and push and fight and then throw up our hands as books tumbled back out.


With the bunk bed arrival days away, I was forced to do some major cleaning and purging over the past weekend. My attempt to tackle that daunting book shelf began like this:


Me: "I seriously don't know what to do with all these books."


Mark: "We should just get rid of the ones the kids don't need."


Me: (Big gasp) "How could you say that? We can't get rid of books! I think we just need a bigger shelf."


Mark: "That's insane. It's not a solution. We are not buying a bigger shelf to fill with more books. We need to go through these books, take out ones the kids don't read anymore and only keep the ones we need."


While I don't always admit it in the heat of the moment, my husband does have really strong sensibilities and quite often is...right. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt this time and see if I could actually find any books in this gigantic pile that we didn't need. Not likely. As I stated to him earlier, all books are necessary.


I sat cross-legged on the carpet in front of the book shelf, which rests in the cramped corner between the closet and our sons' current trundle bed. Slowly and deliberately, I began to slide books off the shelf. One at a time, I contemplated their value.

 

What I noticed was a huge portion of our children's books had been ripped and torn and worn to shreds. Obviously read a thousand times, they had been immensely loved. Cherished. Needed. Several of the important books had been around since before Reese was born, as they were presented to us during our baby shower. While our little guy was nestled warmly in my belly twelve years ago, our friends and family members carefully chose books for us to begin our first home library. For those of you reading this, please know, your books were meaningful, impactful and valuable to all of us. They served each baby well!

The time had actually come to clear the shelf of books that had fallen apart. Why hadn't I seen how many we had until now? (Probably because when it's time for bed and the boys choose books, they never bring us the ratty baby books). Those books had been taking up real estate on their three-tiered book shelf, and since we already decided a bigger space wasn't an option, I owed it to our growing boys to make room for their current interests.

Looking back through our tattered board books was like opening a time capsule. I envisioned myself sitting in our rocking chair, which has been perched in our many different homes, reading bedtime stories to whichever babies and toddlers were sprawled out on my lap. I felt the urge to pay each book a proper farewell, rubbing my hands across the covers of the ones that were favorites to each child and to me. I was able to tell Mark exactly where every book originated.


I breezed through the pages of these baby books, able to recite the words from memory. I lifted the flaps on the Karen Katz books, which had thrilled all of our babies to no end. As I came across Brown Bear, Brown Bear, I could hear Reese's little boy laughter as Mark always read that book with silly voices. I pulled out a tiny tea party book that reminded me of the days when my tiny Trixie dressed in princess gowns every day and asked us to call her Cinderella. The Very Hungry Caterpillar had appeared to have actually eaten his way through half the pages of our book, but Chip and Marshall had devoured it so many times, it was worth it.


Mark listened to me elaborate about why each book was important to us. To me. When I had trouble letting one go, I quietly slipped it back onto the shelf. Some of them were still in excellent shape, but I wasn't ready to pass them on yet. I'm sure I'll be ready the next time I do a book shelf purge, like when they start middle school. Time will tell.


Until then, I'm happy to report that the shelf is finally organized, leaving room for the more appropriate and more adventurous books that Marshall and Chip will be reading in the future.

Are you attached to books as well? Your own or your children's? It's difficult to explain the feelings to someone who doesn't experience them, but if you do, you just know. Maybe it's time for a spring cleaning of your books, too.

 

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Do People Still Ask to Borrow a Cup of Sugar?

Two young girls, best friends who are as opposite from one another as can be, are playing together in the back yard. It's the 80's, so nobody is wearing sunscreen or shoes. Pony tails are flying in the wind as they run around, engaging in whatever game they can agree on for the day. One girl loves baby dolls, while the other one is an athlete, so their choices are limited.


The screen door creeks open, and a Southern mama, who's been transplanted to the North, peeks her head out to yell, "Girls! Head next door and ask if I can borrow a cup of sugar."


The girls grab the measuring cup from Mama's outstretched hand and then mosey over to a neighbor's house to retrieve what's needed. They don't ask the same person every time, but the results are always the same. The mom in each house on the block thinks nothing of walking into her own kitchen to share food from her pantry with a friend. A give and take exists among these women neighbors, as children embark on this simple errand.


Depending on what this mama is mixing up in her kitchen, the items she needs may vary.


A stick of butter, two eggs, a packet of cherry Kool-Aid


Tromping through the neighbors' yards with my best friend, Stacey, to borrow small items for her mom was a regular part of my girlhood. Our play was often interrupted by this request to exchange kitchen basics, her boisterous voice calling after us to fetch something to add to the iron skillet bubbling away on the stove. On many Saturday mornings, we answered their front door to find other barefoot kids asking for the same usual staples.


Do you remember those times? Did your mom share and borrow sugar from her friends? Weren't those days effortless and breezy?

Today, times are different, right? Neighbors barely know one another enough to wave Hello while mowing the grass, how could they ever consider raiding someone's kitchen cabinets?


Now that I'm the mom in the house, I'm faced with this dilemma from time to time. I run out of basics as I'm baking. While our street is quaint, comfortable, and we are actually friends with the people who live around us, I have never sent my children to ask anyone for anything.


Not once.


I know our neighbors would gladly fill my empty cup with mounds of grainy white sugar if I asked, and I would do it for them in a second, but I haven't been able to take that plunge. What if they think I'm a weirdo?


Whenever I am short on ingredients, I do quickly consider the possibility of asking one of my lady neighbors for a bit of help. Here is my thought process, which I realize is quite ridiculous as I write it for you:


I figure that the best first step would be to text. I plan out in my mind what I should say. Something like,


"Hi! I'm so sorry to bother you, but I'm in the middle of making banana muffins, and I just realized I am short an egg. Do you happen to have an extra one that I can have? I promise I'll share the muffins with you guys! Sorry again, it's okay if you say no. Thank you so much in advance."


Meanwhile, I think about the trouble (whining) I'll have to endure to convince one of my children to go grab it for me. I'm typically a mess when I bake, so no one should have to see me in that state. Because it's never been done here before, the kids who are old enough to cross the street would argue about going. They would try to bargain for somebody else to do it.


I would have to bribe them.


Eventually, I decide none of the hassle or fear of rejection is worth it, so I give up on the entire idea. I pile everyone in the car and drive to the gas station, where a dozen eggs costs twice as much as any regular store.


All of this talk about borrowing sugar from neighbors began because Mark's mom told me a story about her current next-door-neighbor. She shared with me how grateful she was for their relationship, because she loaned her a potato when she needed it.


A potato.


I've discovered that those ladies trade foods with each other on a regular basis, just as they would have done if they'd been neighbors in 1988 or 1968. They don't have small children to shuttle anything back and forth between their homes, so the husbands do the transporting.


A friend of mine who also has four children had just boiled all of her eggs for the Easter Bunny, not remembering they would need more for baking. Instead of going through my complicated process, which ultimately would have resulted in buying overpriced eggs, she borrowed some from her neighbor. Modern mom and brilliant!


Tell me, have you ever asked your neighbors to borrow food? We do other favors for each other all the time, so I don't know why I've been anxious about this practice that's been happening in American homes for years. Should I just start the trend again?

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Something New-Our Summer Calendar Is Empty!

Most stay-at-home-moms I know have been doing the summer schedule shuffle for several weeks by now. In the past, I would have been doing the same. The calendar comes out in February to plan every little detail of what initially seems like a vast, endless and ultimately structure-free summer break. Three months is a looong time! We feel the need to pack the days and weeks with activities in order to avoid too much togetherness and not enough fun.


What begins as an anticipated vacation from our school year commitments of rising early and doing homework quickly fills up with an abundance of sports, camps, lessons, getaways and library events, all intricately woven between adult work schedules and family vacations. Mastering the family's summer schedule requires some serious skills.


Avoid sports overlap.


Set up grandparent visits.


Arrange car pools.


Make sure we have the right size cleats this year...Soccer and baseball.


Which week is church camp?


One kid wants to try tennis this year.


Can we make it from art camp in time for swimming lessons? 


Everyone needs an equal amount of their favorite activities and new opportunities.


Wait, when will we have time to go to the beach? The ice cream shop we love so much? The blueberry farm?


Every single summer, I plan to do less. Less than the year before, when we were crazy and harried and spent half of every day carting four kids to and from some sort of scheduled activity that was directed at only one of them.


Here's something nuts. I tend to sign the kids up for events that start early in the morning. What is wrong with me? When I make the schedule in February, I'm used to waking up early, so the thought of doing it all summer doesn't phase me. It doesn't seem like that big of a deal. That is until summer is actually here. Then, I'm cursing my alarm clock and the color-coded-for-every-family-member-calendar that's hanging on the side of my fridge.


Why have I been sabotaging our vacations all these years?


Well, because it has always seemed like what the best moms do. Parents who can provide educational, athletic or social opportunities for their children should do so. Right?


What if...maybe that's not right? Not in the way that we think.


Summertime enjoyment doesn't need to be costly or scheduled or outsourced. I had four kids to stay home with four kids, not so I could split them up and rely on others to give them "learning experiences." I know I can provide my children with fantastic excursions, exciting play time and meaningful activities. I don't know what took me so long to realize it.

Do you remember last December, when I decided that I needed to declare more time for the six of us? Although my Christmas prep seemed to be rooted in my family's happiness, it was actually taking me away from them. Stressing us out more. Sabotaging our holidays.


This year, I am going to do the same for summer! I'm declaring to value our summer vacation. While I can, I am going to let loose with these kids. I know it's not feasible for all parents, but because I'm home with the kids, it will work for us. Can you consider ways to join me in ending the typical summer madness?


Maybe you need a nudge. What will it take? Are you worried the kids will strangle each other if they spend too much time together? Are you nervous how you'll handle having them with you All.The.Time? Believe me, those thoughts cross my mind, too.


What first led me to let go of my urge to schedule so much was when our oldest son decided to stop playing a sport that he's played for the past six years. Cold turkey, he told us that he didn't want to join this year. That registration is usually what starts the ball rolling for my summer schedule shuffle. Without it, I didn't even need to open my calendar. A few of the kids didn't plan to attend the camps they've gone to in the past. I could check those off my list, too. Now, it's April, and we have missed deadlines for most everything that will be happening around town this summer.


Do I feel guilty?


Maybe a tiny twinge.


Then, I remember:


We live three miles from an incredible fresh water beach, but shamefully, our summers are typically so hectic that we only make it there a handful of times. This year, we'll be free to go whenever the kids ask.


They have bikes and wagons and scooters, and we live in a neighborhood blanketed with shade. We can create our own free "biking camp," making pit stops at home for big bowls of watermelon that will drip pink juice down our chins.


We're going on a road trip to the Rocky Mountains with our best friends and their four kids. We'll witness more of our Earth's beauty in one week than the kids could ever experience in an expensive nature class or science camp here in town.


Lemonade stands, trampolines, swing sets and bubbles.


Jumping, playing, chasing and climbing.


Screeching, squealing, bellowing and laughing!


Those are the moments that we should be dreaming about...the lazy days of summer.


We've spent an entire school year barking at our kids to hurry up, and nobody wants to waste the short summer months riding around town in a junk bus. Would you join me giving our kids a carefree summer...a true vacation?


Is your calendar already jam packed with Kid Stuff? Will you be able to resist the temptation to fill each week with more? I know it's hard and even scary to be unstructured, but let's try it together. You have gifts and talents to share with those babies you dreamed of for so long. Let them see you shine. You have a sprinkler for them to run through if you can't make it to a pool or the beach. You can dig out your old roller blades or take long walks with them after work. The memories they'll make with you by their sides will be immeasurable, and your alarm clock will survive until September.

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What Will Moms Do When Our Chuck E. Cheese Closes?

Utter the words Chuck E. Cheese to parents, and you'll be greeted with one of two very different reactions. During my past twelve years as a mom, I've found him to be quite a polarizing character.

I proudly stand in the camp of parents who are thankful for the brilliant entertainment concept that is Chuck E. Cheese.

For over a decade, it's been used as a regular meeting place for my mom friends and me. No matter how old or young our kids have been, we always knew they would be free to romp around without fear of bothering anyone.

That place stood chock full of games for all ages, rides, slides, photo machines, music and all the trinkets and treasures a child could ever dream of accumulating in two short hours.

The noise was so over the top on its own that nobody ever noticed that children actually have voices, too.

Parents didn't feel pressure to ensure kids sit quietly at the table while waiting for food. We set them free with a cup full of tokens (always bought with a coupon) and endless possibilities. They actually wanted to leave the moms alone, only checking back in to beg for more tokens or grab a drink or slice of pizza.

My girlfriends and I sat sipping iced tea and enjoying our crisp salads. Well, and let's be real, we gobbled up pizza, too.

Germies and overloaded senses couldn't keep us from taking advantage of Chuck E. Cheese, which is what people in the other camp often cite as reasons to avoid it.

A few years ago, I decided that we should visit Chuck E. Cheese on my birthday, instead of going to my usual grown-up favorite, which is Olive Garden. Our four kids had a blast, while Mark and I tuned out the chaos and treated it like a date. Our Babysitter? Chuck E. Cheese.

I'm writing this piece on the first day of Spring Break, after one of my best friends and I made plans for lunch with our six collective kids. Where did we choose? Chuck E. Cheese, of course!

Surprisingly, when we arrived, we discovered that our local store is closing in just over a week. The mall that houses it is restructuring and has bought out their lease. This comfortable home, which has served as such a wonderful sanctuary for thousands of children during our brutal winters, will vanish. Yes, I just called Chuck E. Cheese a sanctuary.

For parents who live in frigid and snowy climates, indoor play places are vital. Our children crave the space to run around in a warm environment. Sure, they love to play in the snow, too, but that can only last for so long before their fingers and toes start to freeze. With all the sitting still that they do for school, we need for them to have a huge place to be free.

Before I was a mom, I never would have imagined how much I could rely on Chuck E. Cheese to save my sanity. I will forever be thankful for the opportunities and memories we have in that building. Birthday parties, playgroups, baby time, mom time, couple time. It was all worth it to me. To us.

Thank you, Chuck E. Cheese! You have been part of our family. We will miss you.

How do you feel about Chuck E. Cheese? All I can say is don't judge until you try it.

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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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Being a Child's First Valentine-6 Reasons My Dad Was Mine

It's usually around Father's Day when our social media feeds explode with abundant expressions of love that people feel for their dads. It's only fair that fathers receive that recognition during lawn mowing and grilling season, but I'm about to break tradition. I'm about to gush about my dad in the middle of February, because while spending time with my little boys over the weekend, I realized he was my very first Valentine.

Still chilling in our jammies, Marshall, Chip and I were lying, tummies down, on the family room carpet. Armed with red pens and class lists, we surrounded ourselves with dozens of store-bought Batman and Star Wars Valentines. The boys signed their names on the cards meant for classmates and friends, and then they stuffed them in baggies in anticipation of the big party coming up on Friday. My youngest planned to save one of his cards for me. He examined them all, and he carefully chose one that was two inches bigger than all of the others, featuring the forever-wise and wonderful Yoda. I'm sure he didn't choose it for me because he believes I'm as enlightened as Yoda. More likely, it's because I'm tall, so I should have a tall card.

The thought of receiving a Valentine from my small son pulled a vivid memory to the forefront of my mind. A memory of a special surprise dessert I made for my dad when I was a little girl: a chocolate cake shaped like a heart. It was the '80's, so even if heart-shaped cake pans were in existence, my mom had no plan to buy one. We were going to create our own heart cake with what we had at home.

We whipped up a trusty box of devil's food cake-my dad's favorite-and evenly poured the batter into one square cake pan and one round cake pan. Courtesy of Google and Pinterest, people in 2015 know that you can create a heart-shaped cake by cutting a round cake in half and connecting the two halves to the square cake. In the '80's, my mom just knew. I was convinced she was a genius.

To frost the cake, we also made a batch of my mom's famous homemade icing, and I colored it a light shade of pink. She slathered that pink fluffiness all over the chocolaty goodness, and suddenly, we no longer could see any traces of three individual pieces of cake. We had turned those fragmented slices into one giant, seamless, chocolate heart, covered in rich whipped cream icing.

My dad came home from work that Valentine's night to find his big pink heart waiting for him on our kitchen table. He smiled and MMMed through every morsel, as adults often do as they eat something a child has prepared for them. My dad was the best at making me believe whatever I had baked for him was the most incredible piece of anything he had ever eaten in his entire life.

I was so proud of that pink heart cake when I was a young girl. My dad made me feel that I had made something exceptional. These days, heart-shaped cake pans are a dime a dozen, and I've had a few of them over the years. Maybe I should hide mine and encourage the kids to use their brains to make their own dad a special cake for Valentine's Day. He would be proud of their geometry skills for sure.

Though this story is about my own father, I know it may resonate with you as well. For those of you who have sentimental dads like I do, I hope that joyful memories will surface as you think about times spent with your own father. For the men who are reading, my hope is that you can contemplate the ladies and little girls in your life. Are you worthy to be their first or forever Valentine?

We hear it all the time: that we may not appreciate what our parents have done for us until we are our parents ourselves. When we're living through the daily grind as kids, how could we possibly know that what our parents are doing for us will have such significance? Now that I'm a mom and sharing parenthood with Mark, I'm able to see 6 reasons my dad was my first Valentine.

1. When I think of what a man and father should be like, I think of my dad. I grew up in a steel mill town, where everyone's dad worked in one factory or another. Shift work. Overtime. Steel-toed boots and hard hats. Work clothes that can't be washed with the regular laundry. Men taking care of business to take care of their families. No complaining. No whining. Just working hard to make it all work. That was and still is my dad.

2. When I was young, cars didn't have remote locks, and stores didn't have automatic doors. I was let into a building or into our car by my dad's two hands. Even though technology has come a long way to put an end to chivalry, my dad continues to insist on practicing one of my favorite gentlemanly gestures, everywhere we go.

3. My dad was the first person to ever give me flowers. We really didn't make that big of a deal about Valentine's Day, but as my dad would present my mom with flowers and a box of Fannie May Mint Meltaways, he would always have a smaller bouquet waiting for me.

4. When we were on the brink of adolescence, my best friend's father very suddenly passed away. It was the most tragic event imaginable. Up until that point, all of our lives had been completely entwined with one another. It was as if we had two homes, two sets of siblings and two sets of parents. When one father was suddenly lost, my own dad naturally and effortlessly embraced the children in that family. One year later, she and I were attending a summer writing program. It was almost Father's Day, so our teacher asked all of us to write about our dads. She asked my best friend if she could think of another man, someone who loved her as her dad had done, for her story. She decided to write about my dad. Why he was special to her. How he cared for her and her little brother, always taking the bunch of us to the park and out for ice cream. Her incredible story was published in the local newspaper. I was only eleven years old, so I didn't really see the significance or magnitude of everything that was happening through those years. Now that I am a mother, I see it all. I see how my dad viewed that loss and the responsibility to his friend's children. She and I are still best friends, with our own families now, and he has never let that compassion or dedication subside.

5. During all of my cello performances, or at any of the kazillion other activities my brothers and I dabbled in through the years, I knew that if I looked out into the audience or up in the stands, my dad would be there. Even bone-weary from working the midnight shift, his presence was a given...a constant. Now that he's Grandpa to nine grandchildren, he unquestionably watches their games and attends their special performances, too.

6. One of the coolest and most selfless acts my dad has done was forgoing a big 60th birthday bash to celebrate at the McDonald's play land with his grandkids. As his family is what matters most to him, and being with those nutty kiddos makes him so stinkin' happy, he chose to spend his birthday at a place where the kids would be comfortable. They wouldn't need to worry about being bored or staying clean or speaking politely to a bunch of strangers. So, we booked his party at McD's, where he was the oldest birthday "child" they had ever hosted. He played the silly games, wore the special hat, posed for crazy pictures, and in the end, it's a party none of us will ever forget.

Aren't all parents supposed to be a child's first Valentine? The most trusted source of love they'll ever know? I know I'm honored to be Marshall's. Unfortunately, not everyone is blessed with such strong and caring parents, so I guess all I can really say to my own father is thanks for being "Dad."

Happy Valentine's Day!

Love,
Sissy-Liss

Would you tell me about your own first Valentine? If your own memories are not filled with pink hearts and chocolate, what have you done as a parent to show unconditional love to your babies?

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Date Nights with Four Kids-Do They Really Exist?

In honor of Valentine's Day, my friend suggested that I write about parenting and dating. My initial thought was, What do I possibly know about dating? I'm an old married mom. What she really meant was, "How in the world do you find time, with four kids, to nurture your marriage with what we modern parents call date nights?"

Now, we're talking. Let's dish married-with-kids date nights.

Mark and I have been married for over fourteen years, and we've been parents for twelve of them. Long gone are the carefree nights of our early twenties. We try to reminisce about what our life was like before our children were born. The memories are hazy from sleep deprivation, but we are pretty sure that during those early years together, we were able to hang out with our friends without making plans weeks in advance. We could see movies on the very night they were released, and we definitely went out to quiet restaurants at a moment's notice! Do you remember those days, too?

Fast forward two continents, four kids and a truck load of diapers later to what our life as a couple is now...a couple as Mom and Dad. Our time alone can require an extreme amount of planning. Obviously, he's working during the day, while I'm busy maintaining our bustling home, intricate schedules and ever-changing kids. Nights are spent navigating the needs of the little people who live here, and we all know how quickly the weekend minutes seem to disappear. Even so, no matter what stage our kids have been in, we have developed a few methods to make room for date nights.

When we abandoned the comforts of American life in 2005 and moved our two babies to Japan, we became a fiercely independent family unit. It was during our experience abroad when we learned the importance of in-home date nights. We would read English bedtime stories, rock our kiddos to sleep, and then tip toe downstairs for time together. We would share a glass (or bottle) of wine and a bag of microwave popcorn while watching already outdated American TV through the Internet.

We sat side-by-side, right in front of the computer desk, in two hard kitchen chairs. It wasn't romantic, but it was all we could manage. It wasn't until we were forced to go without the conveniences of American life that we appreciated what made our dates so special…each other.

Now that we have been back on American soil for several years, welcomed two more children into the mix, and we are close enough to our families that they can visit, our date nights are much easier. I'll break down our system for you, and you can piece together what works for you and your own family.

Rule #1: Have Date Nights at Home

We all have reasons why we can't go out of the house to enjoy time away with our loved ones: a brand new baby, finances, childcare, conflicting work schedules. No matter the reason, it doesn't have to become an excuse to avoid spending time together. When our kids were much younger, we needed to wait until they were sleeping to have a date night at home. Now that they're older, we have an awesome new system. We are able to send them to play in the basement on a Saturday morning, as we share a quiet breakfast and actually enjoy our coffee while it's still hot. We tell the kids, "Mom and Dad are on a date," and they know not to bug us unless something major happens-like a pencil is protruding from someone's body. They really do listen, we stay in our jammies, and it's free.

Rule #2: Find a Trustworthy Babysitter

Whether your babysitter is Grandma or your niece or a neighborhood teenager, every family needs at least one person they can call on when a date night at home just won't cut it. If paying a sitter is really difficult, save the nights you do hire someone for when the entertainment is going to be free, like going to a holiday party in someone's home, an outdoor summer concert, or, the old stand-by: gazing out into the sunset. While we do have some fantastic sitters in town, we also use our moms whenever they're visiting. They see (read: spoil) their grandkids, and we see a movie that isn't animated. Everybody wins.

Rule #3: Try Family Date Night

If you just can't seem to leave those precious wee ones, or the sitter is busy, or you really just want to enjoy a meal with no clean-up, then plan a dinner out that's special for the whole family. Obviously, packing a picnic at the park is the most affordable way to go, but oftentimes, we end up at a restaurant that offers special discount nights for kids. Seasoned moms have lists of these places, categorized by days of the week and prices-all you have to do is ask. I sit close to my husband while the kids color in their menus, and we laugh at how drastically our dates have changed over the years.

Rule #4: Put Down Your Phone

That one is self-explanatory.

You have just a few days left to plan for Valentine's Day. Will you be doing anything special? I'm sure we'll be having an in-home date night, as we do every year. We don't even attempt reservations or movies or finding a sitter for that night. We leave that for the young couples.

I'll probably make something special for our family dinner, and then once the kids are snoozing, it'll be time for wine, popcorn and something on the TV. At least these days we can watch American movies and shows from our comfy couch. I'm fine being an old married mom, as long as I have this old married dad here next to me. 



One of our fancier date nights-going to my cousin's wedding!

 

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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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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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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?