Of Our Chatterbox

I tell my husband all the time, "I hate to say this, honey, but your son is a cry-baby."

He shrugs.

We both know it's true.

Last night, though, was different.  Crying, for some reason, I can handle.  Because there's a "solution."  Even if it takes awhile to find it; I know that if he's cold, I can cover him up; if he's hungry, I feed him; if he's too hot, I peel back the layers; if he's soaking wet, we do a wardrobe change - simple enough, right?  What do I do, though, if he's keeping me up in the middle of the night, but he's not crying. 

What if he's just talking to himself - babbling, with a lot of sleepy moaning thrown in for good measure?  There's really not a fix for early (early) morning whining is there? 

Just call him Mr. Chatterbox.  I guess it beats a cry-baby.  Maybe.

Of Our Wiggle Worm

Emmett has begun the next stages toward becoming a mobile little man.  He has got the army crawl nailed.  And his little feet and knees go a long way toward getting him to where he wants to go. 

I attempted to get video of his wiggling, but, as it turns out, taking a toy away from a baby in order to tempt him to move toward it only makes him cry.  And then, when his sister picks up said toy while you command her to put it down and she, instead, gives it back to him, forcing you to take it away again to put just out of reach, causing him to scream even louder, well, that's just cruel and will make you feel like the world's worst Mommy ever.  Trust me.   So, no video for now.

But believe me, he is working on this becoming an independent man thing.  Now, if he could just learn to pull himself up to his hands, rather than shimmying along on his elbows, he'd be racing around the house faster than we could blink.

Perfect timing for me to become a Cleanie, wouldn't you say? ;)

Of Keeping it Short

I am so grateful for a husband who will stay home with the kids while I run around being a normal human being, doing things like going to Christian rock concerts with my sister-in-law - for nine hours on a Saturday.  He's pretty much the greatest.  And I'm pretty much tired and have ringing in my ears.  So . . . good night, y'all.

Of Becoming a Cleanie

I've mentioned previously a book I had recently begun reading entitled "Living Organized." The photo on the cover depicting neatly stacked pastel boxes drew me in.  I'm kind of a sucker for boxes and baskets of all sorts - ask my husband.  And the concept of organization has always fascinated me - as in, I love to dream up (and sometimes go so far as to implement) various tactics for keeping my things orderly, but often find the system only works if you put work into it - which, let's face it, sounds like a lot of hassle for a lazy girl, such as myself.  Besides, I can't re-organize if my things are already well-organized, right?  It's a sick cycle into which I put myself.

So, back to the book.  I have only read the first couple of chapters, but there was one concept the author mentioned that has stuck with me and revolutionized my life already, in the short few days since I first read them.  "Messies," as she calls those struck by my plight, tend to do all things necessary to avoid "frustration" now, but, in the end, only cause more frustration later.  As in, I don't feel like putting my shoes away when I take them off because it's not convenient.  But when it's time to walk out the door and I can't find that other brown shoe, more time and emotion is wasted than would have been if I'd simply put them in my closet when I removed them two days ago.

Suddenly, I find myself constantly questioning my motives.  "What can I do now to avoid frustration later?"

And it's working.

I'm daily vacuuming, making my bed, re-filling the ice cube trays.  And, amazingly, I can relax daily, knowing my floor has been cleaned and relieving myself of the stress which comes from being surrounded by crumbs, shreds of paper and grass tracked in.  I less often have to deal with the annoyance of an empty ice cube bin when all I want to do is sit down to dinner.  I can crawl into an orderly bed without tugging sheets into place.

And, most importantly, I can have guests over without having had to spend the entire day frantically putting things back into place which could have been returned to their homes long ago.

Is this what every day life is like for the "Cleanies"?  Why, on earth, have I been avoiding this for so long?  Crazy, I tell you, crazy.

Of Welcoming Spring (Maybe)

About three weeks ago, a furry rodent residing in Pennsylvania predicted, in the absence of being scared away by his shadow, an early spring.  Let's be honest, those of us shuttered inside by one of the most intense snow-storms known to the great state of Oklahoma (and those outside of the state also receiving the brunt of said blizzard) were a little skeptical of our friend Punxsutawney Phil.  Spring didn't so much appear to be on the horizon from where we were sitting, bundled on the couch gorging ourselves on an overabundance of readily available entertainment provided by our Netflix subscription.  No sir, it almost seemed winter had just gotten started.

And yet, I've begun to wonder if that easily-frightened little vermin wasn't on to something.  Not days after the second round of the storm blew threw, we donned short sleeves while the final piles of snowflakes melted into the grass.  Today we enjoyed the first thunderstorm of the season along with the endearing twittering (the natural kind, not the technological sort) of birds as they greedily hunted the soggy soil for unearthed worms.  As I enjoyed the warmth, streaming through our open windows, of the brightening day while the clouds rolled away, I sighed.  Spring, it would seem, is upon us already.

Then, suddenly, I felt a certain chill through those same opened windows.  And by the darkened hour of night, a (fully-zipped) coat was necessary to ward off the bite of these 36 degrees. 

Really, winter?  Is it gonna be like that?

Sorry, Phil, looks like we're going to have to wait a bit while this battle between the seasons plays out.

Of Training

When your child, through her sniffles, tears and snotty nose, asks to snuggle after a very frustrating hour of tantrums and bouts of discipline, heads butting against one another, your heart sighs. 

It's a moment of freshness, starting anew. 

A minute to simply rest on the couch, holding your toddler like you've rarely done since she learned to move around on her own and, thereby, had a choice.  She nestles her head into your chest and you cover her curly hair in every kiss you have.  And you sway just a little.

When she offers up in the tiniest voice a request to watch her favorite cartoon, you stick to your guns - the punishment stands.  And she knows it.  And does not argue.  Simply accepts.

And snuggles.

You realize it may have been worth the struggle.  Because this parenting thing isn't always about the now.  It's about treasuring the moment in which we live, but also about storing up treasures for the future of our young ones. 

And sometimes there are tough moments. 

But we know.  Deep in our hearts. 

We're living in the now, but training for the then.

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.