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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