Of Appreciating Gifts

Tonight I made (almost from scratch) a crab ravioli with tomato-cream sauce.  Philip and I were fans.  Micaiah took a bite, choked it down and declared, "I don't like it!"  Three and half minutes later, she was clapping, "Yay!  A hot dog!" 

Now, typically she eats what we eat, like it or not, but if she's not going to appreciate quality food that took me time and love to prepare (and that I think is darn good), I don't want to waste it on her under-developed toddler taste buds.  When she was younger I did the same with things like crescent rolls - things Philip and I love and will eat every last crumb of.  To an eighteen-month old, bread is bread.  So she had her some sliced Wonder while we devoured our flaky goodness.  Selfish?  Yes.  But there's only so long we can get away with making the switch like that - in fact, our non-crescent-sharing days are already behind us. 

But it all got me thinking.

I am so glad our Heavenly Father isn't as stingy as we can be as parents.  It's a wonder that He chooses to share the marvel of his creation - the splendor of a sunset, the resonance of a sweet rain, the glistening of a brand new snowfall - with His children, who, most of the time, act like spoiled toddlers, too immature to truly appreciate what we have been given.  Much like the joy of a hot dog when faced with culinary art, we trade the whisper of a breeze through the grass for the tin sound emitting from our computer speakers; we swap the glorious colors of a blooming flower for the glare of a television screen.  "Yay!  Noise!  Yay!  Distraction!"  It makes me wonder why He wastes His time.

I've been working toward Thankful living these days.  Noticing the beauty that surrounds me in the here and now.

The beauty of today included tiny fingers pouring M&M's into a bowl of cookie dough (and splattered egg white on a stunned toddler face), sunshine and a cool breeze between the car and the superstore wasteland, and, of course, this face:

I am grateful.  Grateful that God shares with me what I am often too busy to notice.  Thank you, Lord, for not giving up on us.

Of Being a Follower

My little girl is such an independent Miss Priss.  When she's at home.  Or just around others her age.

But put her in a setting with any child slightly older than her and my little bossy pants becomes such a follower.  This three-year-old is running around screaming?  Clearly I must run around and scream, too.  This three-year-old is blowing into the most obnoxiously loud recorder known to man?  I must do the same (right in Mommy's ear, of course).

Truly, it's not all bad.  I actually enjoy seeing her getting along with others and being a favorite play-mate (for her pliability, of course - who doesn't want a life-size Barbie doll?).  I enjoy the smile on her face as she joins in the games of others. 

And I know when the tables are turned, she is the model of a wonderfully bossy older friend.

It's all about the hierarchy of toddler-hood.

Of Right-Brain Tendencies

While Emmett honed his fine motor skills this evening, learning how to put his first tastes of peach-mango flavored puffs into his tiny mouth, and Micaiah worked on finishing her dinner (a task she was reluctant to complete), I pulled out the iPad and began flipping through a free e-book I downloaded longer ago than I can remember - something about living organized and ridding my life of clutter, a task any visitor to my home can attest to my needing to do.

The first chapter focused on the differences between right-brained and left-brained thinking, getting to the very root of the "mess" issue - those who are dominated by the right portion of their brains, according to the book, are inherently averse to order, or, perhaps just incapable of maintaining neat.  While every personality test I have ever taken has always had a difficult time defining me - I always come out nearly perfectly balanced, not fitting definitively into any one box (and I maybe kind of like that unpredictability) - it would appear that my ability (or inability) to keep house would be one of my better-exemplified right-brain characteristics (though my adoration for alphabetical organization points me toward the left-brain camp).

While I pondered this dual personality I seem to possess, I looked up to see my somewhat anal-retentive daughter - who can sometimes get in trouble for being too precise when putting things away and very much enjoys washing her hands - painting her face in ketchup, using her chicken nugget as a brush.  My first instinct was to stop her, scolding her for playing with her food rather than eating her green beans as she'd been instructed, but before I could follow through, I stopped myself.  Clearly she was expressing her own tidbits of right-brain creativity, and who was I, in that moment, to stop her from being herself just because it made life a little messy?

Sometimes it's nice to set the rules aside in favor of fun and freedom.

(And, yes, she had a bath shortly after.)

Of a Growing Boy

Our little man is so chubby. 

I've known he was big for a long time now, but he's always just seemed "big for his age" - meaning he wasn't really fat for a baby, he just looked older than he was.  He was proportional in his bigness.

Recently I've noticed his legs outgrowing the rest of him.  While his arms and belly are typically baby-fat, his legs appear to have been injected at some point with jelly.  There are rolls and knee dimples - the works.  And it's just plain cute.

Beyond his jiggly thighs (and calves), he's growing up in other ways.  He's laughing for more than just his sister these days, but it still requires work.  His smiles are free; a giggle is going to cost you.  Typically it's a few rounds of peek-a-boo or a good solid tickle, but sometimes you have to pull out all the stops and go for both at once, pulling out the big guns to really get that jelly rolling.

But it's always worth it.  To see his two perfect teeth poking out from his infectious grin and hear the deep belly laugh coming from his gut - these are the moments we work for as parents.  These are the moments that make all of the rest of it worth it.

Of Minutes

525,600 minutes. This refrain from the musical Rent has been echoing through my mind a lot lately.  Every time I hear Micaiah say, "Mommy, look!"  or  "Help me, Mommy" and I listen to myself respond, for the umpteenth time that day, "Just a minute, Baby." 

525,600 minutes.

It's never just a minute.  It's a minute while I set the final dish in the dishwasher.  Another minute while I run some dish soap over the pan that has to be hand-washed.  Still another minute as I refill the ice cube trays.  But then I hear Emmett crying and I know he needs to be fed.  "Just a minute, Baby."  While I blend together mashed bananas with Mommy's milk and a little bit of infant oatmeal, my daughter waits.  Waits for her minute.

525,600 minutes.

And they go by so quickly.  Before I know it, it's been an hour that my daughter has been waiting for her train track to be set up.  Or to sit on the couch and snuggle with Mommy.  "Just a minute; I'll be right there, Baby."

525,600 minutes.

Meanwhile, the minutes spent washing dishes which will be dirtied by the end of an hour or cleaning counters which will have crumbs before we settle in for lunch are minutes that could have been spent holding my daughter in my arms.  Or hearing sidewalk chalk scribble across the driveway.  "Mommy, I want to color sunshine."  "Ok, Baby."  As her arms reach as high as they can go and I realize she literally wants to touch her crayon to the heat of the sun, I know, this is not a minute wasted.

525,600 minutes.

That's all I have before this time next year - when she won't need my help with the potty, she may not care about Buzz and her dragon, and she won't be surprised to peek behind the flaps of her Dora book.  Maybe these changes won't happen by next year, but how many of these years do I have left?  Or, for that matter, how many of those 525,600 minutes am I even guaranteed beyond the one I am living right now?

May I measure this year as 525,600 moments cherished rather than minutes spent waiting.

Of a Covering of Love

"Love covers a multitude of sins."  It's a phrase I've heard often (though my high school Spanish teacher's version sounded more like, "Money hides a lot of ugly," but I digress).  My children exemplify this blindess of love with one another.

I cannot tell you how many times I've seen Micaiah smothering Emmett and just as I'm about to scold her, I'll stop mid-"Stop; you're going to hurt your brother!" to see that he's actually giggling.  The same goes for hugs that more closely resemble sleeper holds or bopping him with her princess wand. 

And today I saw the situation reversed. 

While plucking away at the computer, I heard a little squeal from the floor.  I peeked over the top of my laptop screen enough to realize Emmett had a fist filled with his sister's hair (which was still attached).  I fully expected to hear from my oft-cranky, possessive daughter a scream of pain and a yell of, "No, Emmett!!!  Is my hair!"  It was then, just as I began to pounce from the couch to rescue her curly locks, I noticed, rather than squeals of discomfort, it was squeals of delight I was hearing as she wiggled around on the ground in front of him.  She didn't mind one bit that his fist was squeezed tighter than a fat man's speedo.  She was just enjoying her time with Emmett.

Their love is truly the most forgiving.

Of Mushy Minded Blogging

The title just about says it all.  If you came looking for my best today, you might want to check out some of the posts listed in my sidebar, because you are not getting my A-Game tonight, folks.  I apologize here and now.

For the past couple of days I've been wanting to document a few of my more favorite quirks my children currently display.  I know these won't last forever and before I know it I'll have forgotten all about days like today.  This is me cherishing the moment:

• From the day Emmett first discovered his wrist, he has used it to his full advantage.  Well, maybe not advantage, but entertainment at the very least.  His favorite form of communication is sticking his arms in the air and rotating those wrists like a mad man.  If he's happy, you'll see a hand wiggling in the air.  An angry Emmett will get you a wild fist, but a really excited little man will stick two arms as high as they'll go with both wrists moving as fast as he can get them.  It's one of the cutest things in the world.
• When Micaiah has to use the restroom (and she actually thinks to tell us, which isn't often), she'll say, "I need un-erwear." Apparently she's noticed the changing of the underwear happens frequently (as in, when she doesn't tell us and we forget that it's probably time).  
• Both of my kids are fans of "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" - probably because Mommy tickles them whenever she mentions rain.  They kind of like that part.
• Micaiah loves story-time.  And for awhile, she was very specific about it happening on Mom and Dad's bed, but recently she's been ok with using the futon in Emmett's room.
• Micaiah hates the crust on her bread.  She won't eat it.  This frustrates me, but I pick my battles and bread crust just doesn't seem like a hill to die on.
• Emmett loves television.  Already.  This makes me sad.  This also makes me reach for the remote when he's angry and I just need a few more minutes to get his food ready.
• Micaiah can count - just not in order.  She often sounds like a quarterback, "One, Fourteen, Twenty-Nine, Ninety-Nine . . ."
• Emmett can be screaming his adorable head of hair off while getting his diaper changed, but if I stick a board book in front of his face, all's quiet on the western front while he reaches for the pages of cardboard.
• Micaiah is not a fan of pet names.  We can call her "sweetie pie," "hon bun," "baby bear" or any one of the hundreds of odd names I pull out of thin air and we always get the same response, "No, I Micaiah!"
• Micaiah also has the most proper pronunciation of the word, "Yes" right now - she always puts a large emphasis on the "s" and it's pretty cute.

That's all I can think of.  I know there is so much more about my kids that make them who they are - the little things you just can't put your finger on, but it's the reason you can't help but scoop them up in your arms for giant bear hugs.  The reason you just can't get enough.  But we'll just leave at this for now.

I'm putting this mind of mush to bed.