tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20897970678383320182024-02-18T19:30:25.126-08:00Inch by InchMusings on Raising Two Boys (and Myself in the Process)Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12164702011386573650noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2089797067838332018.post-75251081901111538372011-01-23T13:57:00.000-08:002011-01-23T21:18:33.630-08:00Work in Progess<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGJckNwIW_-GVXi_y5uC7QvB5dSVmgtymQGqxPq96IF2LaO-YaTXWWCu5CYggVFBz2vTbNeSkB__qxX5WuIoSQT9mI0RNN19b8Ndob9Kr1SLIbt8ai8ml-uyHH0-856PZMqRJjhfN-VvE/s1600/work-in-progress.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGJckNwIW_-GVXi_y5uC7QvB5dSVmgtymQGqxPq96IF2LaO-YaTXWWCu5CYggVFBz2vTbNeSkB__qxX5WuIoSQT9mI0RNN19b8Ndob9Kr1SLIbt8ai8ml-uyHH0-856PZMqRJjhfN-VvE/s200/work-in-progress.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565617431580664482" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Ok, I admit it: sometimes, I am totally and completely HUMILIATED by my own children's behavior. I don't mean just that my cheeks get a little flushed and I laugh nervously (although I do that, too). I mean that I've seriously fantasized about walking away from them in a grocery store and pretending I've never seen these two little boys before, even whispering conspiratorially to a stranger, <span style="font-style: italic;">"Why doesn't someone do something about those children?"</span>.<br /><br />Once, a lifetime ago, I assumed that I would do this child-rearing thing RIGHT, that children who misbehaved were simply a product of poor parenting. I was certain that loving discipline would cure any child of rudeness, tantrums, hitting, whining, or pooping in one's pants beyond the age of two. I had it all figured out.<br /><br />And then I met my blue-eyed boys.<br /><br />And while they are generally delightful little human beings, they have some rough moments. They are prone to tearing each other's hair out the moment I sit down to go to the bathroom. Eli has a penchant for electronic destruction that has recently cost us both a DVD player and a car CD player. And Jonah told me a bold-face lie last week about why he didn't receive a reward from the kindergarten "treasure suitcase". It's all enough to make even the most confident mama question whether parental control is just a facade, prone to collapse at the most inopportune moments.<br /><br />It seems to me that this pathological drive to feel like we are "getting it right" with our kids may be particularly pronounced in those of us who have temporarily left our careers to spend our days changing diapers and driving to soccer practice. We no longer have quarterly or even yearly evaluations from our bosses to let us know how we are doing at our chosen vocation. Our only measure of success in this particular field of work seems often to be our children: Are they happy? Are they well-behaved? Are the "successful" in school or activities? And if they're not, what do we do? We can't be demoted or fired (although Jonah must strongly disagree, since he recently informed me that he planned to go find a "new mom"... ouch). When things are hard at home with our kiddos, we simply drink more coffee, read more frustratingly contradictory parenting books, ask our often equally clueless friends for advice, and try to press on. At times like these, I'd give anything for a written report like the ones I received when I was a high school teacher, extoling my pedagogical virtues even when all my students weren't quite geniuses.<br /><br />But last week, when Eli refused to share the matchbox cars and Jonah exclaimed, "he never shares!", I heard myself reminding Jonah, "I know sharing is hard for him right now. But he's learning everyday. Can you try to be patient with him while he learns?"<br /><br />And then it hits me. This is the advice I so badly need myself. These children aren't merely with me for a semester. We have a "forever" kind of thing going on here, and while my boys certainly aren't perfect, they're learning every day. Thursday, Eli made it through a playdate without whacking anyone. Jonah didn't throw a tantrum when we refused to buy him a stuffed shark at the aquarium this morning. It's these kind of little things that often make a huge difference in my day. These boys are works in progress. Beautiful, messy, and complicated... but they're not finished yet.<br /><br />And thank goodness... neither am I.Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12164702011386573650noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2089797067838332018.post-26717130240808369722010-12-10T08:56:00.000-08:002010-12-16T22:48:34.818-08:00Rule of Thumb<span style="font-style: italic;">Oh the thumb-sucker's thumb<br />May look wrinkled and wet<br />And withered, and white as the snow,<br />But the taste of a thumb<br />Is the sweetest taste yet<br />(As only we thumb-suckers know)<br />--</span>Shel Silverstein<br /><br />My Jonah has loved his thumb since he was just a few days old. Truly, he has ADORED it. That thumb has been his trusty companion for five years, always faithful when he was feeling a little sad, a little sleepy, or even a little bored. It's wrinkled and amazingly soft, and when inserted in mouth has provided an excellent platform for an index finger curled comfortingly around his little nose. When he was a baby, a few observers of Jonah's thumb habit "tsk, tsk"ed it, lamenting the fact that a thumb was much more difficult to remove than, say, a pacifier. I wholly disagreed...I've loved that thumb, too. With Jonah, I never had to keep track of pacis, wash pacis, retrieve lost pacis when dropped in the car or hurled from the crib at three in the morning. His good old thumb was always at the ready. Jonah knew how to soothe himself and he alone controlled when he needed it, instead of being gagged into silence with a pacifier as so many paci parents (myself included, with Eli) can be tempted to do. And man, especially when he was really small, it was just so darn cute. Who could resist this thumb-sweetened face?<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkQV0kT0qIbbB5VTnHiBR3-O4zRhjN5T6wFZoe11XUu6u8jhOusnfa7mcZ5gAjdCM1_G7OgbrUmqTZ9yf_cSomltLCwElSOggJgvNPc5ssOdm0l1nVAIhuCjPm9_iPei_92_ZOpX2UPcA/s1600/100_0278.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkQV0kT0qIbbB5VTnHiBR3-O4zRhjN5T6wFZoe11XUu6u8jhOusnfa7mcZ5gAjdCM1_G7OgbrUmqTZ9yf_cSomltLCwElSOggJgvNPc5ssOdm0l1nVAIhuCjPm9_iPei_92_ZOpX2UPcA/s320/100_0278.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549282830955128690" border="0" /></a></span><br />But a few months ago, we decided that the time had come for Jonah to bid his trusty thumb friend goodbye. Warnings of potential problems with his permanent teeth from the dentist and concerns from his kindergarten teacher about his sucking at school convinced us that the time for a thumb intervention was now. Jonah seemed amenable, but so much of his thumb sucking was subconscious that we made little progress, especially at night. Reminders didn't work. Band-aids didn't work. Secret signals, gum, and even a few mocking comments from other kids didn't seem to help. We wanted to avoid being punitive or manipulative, and Jonah burst into tears when we even mentioned coating his thumb in nasty tasting stuff. We had reached a thumb impasse.<br /><br />Enter "The Magic Lady". Our dentist had mentioned that if Jonah was really having trouble giving up his thumb, he would recommend a speech therapist who specialized in helping kids eliminate thumb and finger sucking habits, and that his patients had had such good luck with one particular therapist, that he affectionately referred to her as "The Magic Lady". I kid you not. We were skeptical at first, particularly because the The Magic Lady was magically expensive, and also because as parents, we like to think that we can handle these things on our own. Shouldn't be that hard, right? But as the weeks passed and Jonah's thumb sucking did not decrease, we got a little desperate and reluctantly scheduled an appointment in the hopes of experiencing a little magic for ourselves.<br /><br />Well, in the interest of expediency I'll spare you all the details, but let me just say that after fifteen minutes of winning Jonah's heart and an hour of completely positive and non-manipulative discussion, Jonah mustered up the courage to give up his thumb for good. As if he were a tiny AA member, he trooped around the office and told everyone he could find, "I'm Jonah, and I've decided to stop sucking my thumb today!" <span style="font-style: italic;">("Hi, Jonah.") </span> It's been three full weeks now, and he hasn't looked back. It's pretty amazing, but there really is no magic here... just plenty of logic and some some simple tools to help keep his hands and mouth "happy". We are thrilled, and Jonah could not be prouder of his discovery that, at the ripe old age of five, he has the strength to conquer a powerful life-long habit.<br /><br />In the midst of all this, I think I've learned (or re-learned, as always seems to be the case with me) some really precious lessons about parenting:<br /><br />1. <span style="font-style: italic;">It takes a village...</span> Yeah, yeah, it's a cliche', but time after time, I tend to think that Steve and I should capable of raising these kids on our own. And maybe we are, but we can do it a whole lot better with some others along for the ride. In this whole thumb journey, we are not only indebted to the Magic Lady herself, but also to the three groups of "supporters" that the Magic Lady insisted we involve in the process. Jonah's supporters called and emailed daily with an encouraging word and plenty of praise. It was a beautiful thing to watch his face light up as he recounted another thumb-free day to his grandparents or family friends. Part of me is always so tempted to sweep a guilty habit like our five-year old's thumb sucking under the rug and pretend we're not struggling, but it is inevitably better when we admit we all need a little help sometimes.<br /><br />2. <span style="font-style: italic;">Put the kids in charge (sometimes)... </span>So often, I feel like the "responsible parent" would take a situation into his/her own hands and lay down the law, and I'm often tempted to take this approach with the boys. But truthfully, when we work WITH our kiddos, involve them in the solution, and put the responsibility in their hands instead of gripping it so tightly ourselves, we all feel a whole lot better. Sure, we could have started nagging Jonah endlessly about his thumb and coating it with tobasco (certainly no offense to parents who have found success with this approach), but we might have robbed him of the opportunity to feel so in control and proud of his own accomplishments. With just a little help, he made the decision to stop for himself, he did it himself, and he knows it. And what could be easier, or more rewarding, for me than to watch my children develop a healthy sense of personal responsibility? I love it, and he loves it. <br /><br />It's <span style="font-style: italic;">almost</span> like magic.Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12164702011386573650noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2089797067838332018.post-4442095566271303762010-11-08T14:08:00.000-08:002010-11-08T20:31:02.418-08:00Snakes and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails (or, Little Boys are from Mars and Mommies are from Venus)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCCED_Ol228foCF1_R2Bo_wPNOnFEuahu7UIDLWDCxo92_4nh2Vv9N65zSwPzC_4KmGj006GzMmx1-ubch1uohs7Z2ZN_uEdiMCtUHts_Kc0G75RaXBB4N8aCC0xPwlCkYwgvZX3Kc72s/s1600/Billings-472-111.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCCED_Ol228foCF1_R2Bo_wPNOnFEuahu7UIDLWDCxo92_4nh2Vv9N65zSwPzC_4KmGj006GzMmx1-ubch1uohs7Z2ZN_uEdiMCtUHts_Kc0G75RaXBB4N8aCC0xPwlCkYwgvZX3Kc72s/s320/Billings-472-111.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537400718302218946" border="0" /></a><br />The day that a blurry sonogram revealed that our firstborn, Jonah, was a little boy, I remember feeling infinitely relieved. Females, to be really honest, tend to make me nervous. We're complicated and emotional. We tend to over-analyze things. You never can tell what we're really thinking and well... sometimes we're just bitchy. So I breathed a peaceful sigh when I learned that I would be a mother of a male. Thank the Lord.<br /><br />Three years later, when another sonogram revealed a second little boy in my belly, I grinned. Brothers. I loved the idea of the two of them growing up side by side, doing boy things together. Despite many others' concerns that I might have wanted this second (and last) baby to be a girl, I was purely thrilled. I would never have to deal with time-consuming little girl hair-styles or annoying teen girl drama. Yes.<br /><br />But those years ago, I knew nothing about the wild realities of mothering tiny men. These days, my life involves dodging crashing Matchbox cars that forever litter our floor. Someone always seems to be roaring like a dinosaur or mock wailing ("Ahhhhhh!") as they fall to the ground, or "pew, pew"ing (the universal sound for small boys shooting a pretend gun). Tackling is an actual sport itself around here.<br /><br />People who claim that there are no differences between genders, that all our male/female variances are purely social constructs, have clearly never spent a day with preschoolers. Leave two four-year old girls alone and when checked on, they will likely be found demurely sipping imaginary tea or singing sweetly to a doll. Boys? The ones I know would likely be jumping off of the top of the dresser onto the guest bed or tackling each other while yelling things like, "Dr. Doom, you will never defeat me!".<br /><br />Little boys like to be naked, and like their adult counterparts, they like their penises. Jonah and Eli's current favorite bath time game involves scooting around the tub in apparently hilarious attempts to grab each other's genetalia. Seriously? And it doesn't stop there. The words, "Eli, please take your lips off of your brother's bottom" have actually come out of my mouth. I am fairly certain that my friends with little girls do not deal with this.<br /><br />Little boys, despite all my attempts to deter it, like weapons. They <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> like them. We have so far banned any toy guns in our household, but these little guys seem able to turn just about anything into a dangerous weapon. No guns around? A stick, a ruler, or even a piece of cardboard (Jonah's latest passion) will certainly suffice. At least they're creative, I guess.<br /><br />I have a theory regarding the mysterious force of nature many child experts refer to as "boy energy". Boy energy is the stuff that makes little guys run around like wild animals while the girls sit quietly and roll their eyes. I firmly believe that boy energy, unlike mom energy, is not just multiplied when several boys get together; it is exponentially increased. One little boy? Not too rowdy as he sits peacefully and plays. Two little boys? The roughhousing and running begins. Three little boys? Full-scale destruction can ensue if said boy energy is not carefully harnessed.<br /><br />However, while I do so often find myself completely perplexed at the actions of my rowdy little men, like so many moms of boys have done before me, most days, in spite of myself, I take a deep breath and dive right into the chaos. Because that's what it means to be a parent, right? To fully embrace who and what your children are, even when they seem so different from ourselves. Jonah's current infatuation, like many little boys his age, is Star Wars. He spends full afternoons building lego starfighters and he rarely visits the local playground without his light saber in tow. So of course, when it came time to choose his Halloween costume, he wanted to be Luke Skywalker. He even has the perfect shaggy blond haircut. Now, I'm not a big dresser-upper at Halloween; it's mostly just too much silly work for my overly pragmatic mind to take on. I'm also not so much of a Star Wars fan; my five-year old's knowledge and passion for the story is clearly superior. But this year, Jonah's great Halloween wish was for me to go as Princess Leia, so we could be a real Rebel Alliance pair. And you better believe that this mama made a white dress out of a sheet and put my hair in two cinnamon roll-style buns, and my little Jedi and I walked hand in hand down the street in all our Star Wars glory.<br /><br />In this little boy world, may the Force be with me.Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12164702011386573650noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2089797067838332018.post-17533024198304003142010-06-12T13:20:00.000-07:002010-06-13T20:51:51.037-07:00Lessons from a Green Rocking Chair<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4XcKXHpxjr_AfV1LadCY7-8-OCbGqIKJ7je1g5uvLx2OVAellokKMJYYCF1M7bmc0hJM1WwJdwqejIfce3vKH9HX7eLJzth0vbijuHc4-zcZ9fs0e9YmNg5sLhfR-3jGzbR_T3DIP8eI/s1600/100_3248.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4XcKXHpxjr_AfV1LadCY7-8-OCbGqIKJ7je1g5uvLx2OVAellokKMJYYCF1M7bmc0hJM1WwJdwqejIfce3vKH9HX7eLJzth0vbijuHc4-zcZ9fs0e9YmNg5sLhfR-3jGzbR_T3DIP8eI/s320/100_3248.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482460722121871682" border="0" /></a><br />Our trusty green rocking chair sat looking somewhat dejected at the yardsale this morning, surrounded by outgrown clothes, Jonah's too-small toddler bed, and Steve's old golf clubs priced to for a quick sale. This rocker is nothing incredible, not particularly hip or stylish or cool, but I'm fairly certain that I've learned most of what I know about being a mother while gliding back and forth in this old chair with my two little boys.<br /><br />Was it really more that five years ago that I sat in that chair, awkward with swollen belly and puffy feet, watching Jonah's tiny hands press up against the taut skin from the inside, as if trying to escape? I had such expectations, such impatience for his arrival, such fear about my own inadequacy. So I rocked.<br /><br />Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.<br /><br />And then, miraculously, Jonah was here, nursing ravenously and endlessly in those early weeks. I remember the quiet, the peace, the intoxicatingly sweet smell of his head, the exhaustion. Jonah suckled; I breathed and watched him, and we rocked.<br /><br />Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.<br /><br />And there were days (and nights) when he was cranky and colicky. Through Jonah's wails, I willed him to sleep, sang endless lullabyes, and shushed desperately in the moments when I was certain this tiny boy would never be comforted. Only the motion of the green chair seemed to calm him (and me), and so we rocked.<br /><br />Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.<br /><br />Then Jonah was a busy toddler, but he often climbed his pudgy little body onto the green cushion, and begged, "read, mama, please read!". Together, we discovered <span style="font-style: italic;">Dr. Seuss</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Mike Mulligan</span>, and <span style="font-style: italic;">The Runaway Bunny</span>, and all the while, we rocked.<br /><br />Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.<br /><br />And soon, there was a new tiny one in the chair with me. Eli and I learned each other's faces in this rocker and his little fist gripped my hand. I relished the middle-of-the-night nursing sessions there, so grateful for a few quiet moments just for the two of us. I sung him "Beautiful Boy", and we rocked.<br /><br />Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.<br /><br />And together, we devoured even more books in that glider. First one little boy perched on my knee with <span style="font-style: italic;">Goodnight Moon</span>, then another snuggled in on the other knee, and both boys joined in together with the old lady who was whispering "hush". Peaceful and perfectly content even in the midst of the daily craziness, we read and we rocked.<br /><br />Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.<br /><br />And now they are both growing again, and the old rocking chair can no longer hold us. Jonah's daily stresses are becoming more complicated now, can no longer be calmed simply by the familiar gliding rhythm, and Eli can't be bothered with this chair that is clearly not designed for "big boys". But as I watched the old rocker drive away in the back of someone's pickup truck this afternoon, I couldn't help but offer up a prayer of gratitude. And I stood in the driveway, arms wrapped around myself in the drizzly rain, and ever so imperceptibly, I rocked.<br /><br />And on it goes...Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12164702011386573650noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2089797067838332018.post-39819573939176389752010-04-14T20:28:00.000-07:002010-04-24T13:18:18.522-07:00Freako-MOM-icsA few years ago, I read Steven Levitt and Stephen Dubner's <span style="font-style: italic;">Freakonomics</span> (didn't everybody?). In case you're unfamiliar, <span style="font-style: italic;">Freakonomics</span> is a peek at some surprising statistics that tend to contradict everything we assume we know. Think it's crazy to keep a gun in the house if you have children? I do, but according to Levitt, having a swimming pool at your house is 100 times more likely to kill a child. If you tend to believe that the amount of money we spend on campaign finance in this country is pretty ridiculous (about $1 billion per year in a major election period), how does it make you feel to know that we collectively spend the the same amount annually on <span style="font-style: italic;">chewing gum? </span>Whoa, right?<br /><br />I didn't have children when I first read <span style="font-style: italic;">Freakonomics</span>, but even then, the chapter that really smacked me in the head had to do with parenting, or maybe more accurately, <span style="font-style: italic;">not </span>parenting. Levitt cites some initially puzzling statistics regarding the factors that relate to school success for children. For example, in the study he discusses, it didn't seem to matter if a child's parents read to him every day; it <span style="font-style: italic;">did </span>matter if the child's parents owned many books. Say what? It didn't seem to matter if the child's mother stayed at home with him; it did matter how old the mother was when the child was born (older seems to indicate more academic success for the child). It didn't seem to matter if the child visited museums frequently; it did matter if the parents spoke English in the home. Spanking, going to Head Start, watching too much television all seem to have minimal overall impacts, but (no great surprise) having highly educated parents seems to make a big difference in how a child performs in school.<br /><br />The general conclusion here is that, despite our culture's fixation with "perfect" parenting strategies, ultimately, who the parents <span style="font-style: italic;">are</span> seems to matter much more than what the parents <span style="font-style: italic;">do. </span>According to Levitt, parents who are "well-educated, successful, and healthy" tend to have children who do well, at least in school. Now, obviously the statistics only deal with academic success and do leave out a whole host of other emotional and spiritual issues, but for me, the data really hits home, both literally and figuratively.<br /><br />In recent months, I've been realizing that for the last five years, I have spent an incredible amount of energy trying to be the best parent I can be, but truth be told, I haven't given myself very much attention. In fact, I think I have a bit of a martyr complex. There's this wierd self-congratulatory voice in my head that genuinely seems to believe that the more I deprive myself of all things good and lovely, the better mother I am. How many times I have a left the library with a huge totebag of books for my boys, only to walk wistfully past the adult section, so much wonderful literature calling out my name, certain that I just couldn't spare a moment to stop and choose just one book for myself? I've been kicking around the idea of going to grad school for years now, but honestly, I spent many more hours choosing the perfect preschool for Jonah than researching options for myself. When the budget is super tight, guess who still gets the expensive organic yogurt at our house, and guess who ends up with the crappy generic cereal? I have used my role as a mother to justify my lack of time and energy for exercise, intellectual stimulation, spiritual development, and date nights. And mostly, I've just considered it all an occupational hazard.<br /><br />But then I think about this study. About the idea that <span style="font-style: italic;">who</span> I am as person may just matter a whole lot more than what I <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> as a parent, when it comes to the kind of humans my little guys may turn out to be. I want them to know that their mother is a woman who can devour a good novel in one sitting. That despite stepping away from my career for a few years to be home with them, I'm a damn good high school English teacher. That my body thrives on exercise, and that I'm a much more peaceful person if I start my day with some good yoga. That sometimes the beauty and grace of Jesus still makes me cry. And that, despite our hurried daily squabbles, I'm crazy in love with their dad.<br /><br />It has taken me five long years to figure it out, but I think I'm finally learning that embracing my own needs and passions will ultimately make me <span style="font-style: italic;">more</span> of the mother Jonah and Eli deserve, not less. I'm a little rusty, feeling awkwardly like the blank-faced cartoon parent on the airline safety card, dutifully placing the oxygen mask on her own face before tending to her cartoon child. It goes against my instincts a bit, I admit. But I'm getting up and exercising in the mornings. I'm looking into grad schools. I'm trying to dress myself in unstained, unwrinkled clothing that don't make me feel like a hobo.<br /><br />And little by little, maybe we'll all breathe a little easier.Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12164702011386573650noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2089797067838332018.post-72545141720725232942010-03-30T20:45:00.000-07:002010-03-31T11:49:03.377-07:00All Things New<p>For many people, the transition from one year to the next is a really big deal. They celebrate the holiday with New Year's parties, dropped balls in Times Square, black-eyed peas, a day off from work, and endless resolutions to make a fresh start in the coming months. Lots of folks find January 1st to be the perfect time to reflect on the past and move forward with purpose. </p><p>For me, however, New Year's Day never really feels that significant. We're still saddled with all the problems of the previous year. The weather is still gray and we're still buried under mountains of snow and ice. We wear the same heavy sweaters and breathe the same dry, stale, recycled indoor air most of the time. A new number on the calendar just doesn't thrill me in the midst of winter's tedious monotony. </p><p>In my life, the "new year" really begins in March. When those first bulbs peek tentatively our of the cold ground. When we finally throw open the windows and breathe in the warm, fresh air. When I leave my down coat in the closet and walk outside in a t-shirt for the first time in months. </p><p>Since I've become a mother, I think I feel the relief of spring even more acutely. After months of trying to keep my boys busy inside and endless hours of arduous bundling and un-bundling them in coats, hats, boots, and mittens for even the shortest trip outside our door, just watching them run out to our backyard in short-sleeves and bare feet feels like indulgent luxury. Both Jonah and Eli were born in the spring, so maybe their entry into the world at this lovely time of year has indelibly reinforced my own feelings of this season as one of birth and life. </p><p>In the spring, every new morning brings a surprise for all of us: a new flower peeking out of our garden, birds building a nest in the backyard tree, neighbors finally emerging from their homes after so many months of seclusion. And ever on a deeper level, I'm feeling a shift to a new season of life for our little family. Eli's second birthday a few weeks ago means I'm no longer the mother of a baby, which I find simulaneously thrilling and heartbreaking. I'm noticing that the boys are growing increasingly independent; now, they'll entertain each other in the backyard for impressive chunks of time, unheard of last fall. Jonah and Eli dug in the garden with me this afternoon, and I was shocked to find them both truly helpful. Jonah will be finishing up preschool in the next couple of months, moving on to kindergarten in the fall. He stays up late on Tuesdays with me now to watch American Idol; we snuggle up on the couch and dissect every performance like buddies, so grown up is he. And all around me, the growth of the natural world reflects the budding emergence of these amazing little men. Even in the midst of the fickle Colorado springtime weather (65 one day, a foot of snow the next), the buds on the trees and the boys in my house persist in their plucky new growth. I breathe in the warm air, and thank God for spring. </p><p>Happy New Year 2010!<br /></p><p> </p><p></p><p> </p>Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12164702011386573650noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2089797067838332018.post-28465489899855111282010-03-13T13:01:00.000-08:002010-03-15T12:36:40.801-07:00Beautiful Boy: A letter to Eli on his 2nd birthday<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju5EkOOwXd2PNIfSVdJY5Tz10rZi4g4vCwzk5eKuPaTB_o4Jhxu0rMFkhzPa7cB-K3G8lSPr9rTlQ1_P8u4G3WZOWW9SzcBiPrXYFK6XnN2__9wTwXQDxstZ62SukwWsXDPEEWGXSZHlE/s1600-h/scan_812262181_1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 229px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju5EkOOwXd2PNIfSVdJY5Tz10rZi4g4vCwzk5eKuPaTB_o4Jhxu0rMFkhzPa7cB-K3G8lSPr9rTlQ1_P8u4G3WZOWW9SzcBiPrXYFK6XnN2__9wTwXQDxstZ62SukwWsXDPEEWGXSZHlE/s320/scan_812262181_1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448944888283077282" border="0" /></a> Eli at just 6 months old... my how you've grown!<br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Several months ago, I posted a <a href="http://www.inchbyinchmusings.blogspot.com/2009/10/letter-to-jonah-four-years-old.html">letter I wrote to Jonah</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> as he was starting preschool. </span>I wanted to capture a particular moment in time in Jonah's life as well as my own, a snapshot of who we both were at that moment of our mother/child journey. I received lots of encouraging feedback about that post, but several people wondered about when Eli might have his own letter, too. I figure that his 2nd birthday is as good a time as any to attempt to wrap my pen (or keybard, as it may be) around my unique and wonderful youngest boy. </span><br /><br />To my amazing Eli,<br /><br />It was just two years ago this morning that you made your grand entrance into this world, already looking robust and powerful, not much like a typical newborn at all. Even then, I knew you had such a strong spirit, just brimming with life and all its potential. In those early days, I struggled so much in my role as your mother, constantly mourning the fact that I just didn't have more hands, more hours in the day, and a bigger lap to keep both you and Jonah happy. I recalled the hours of entranced gazing at each other that Jonah and I had experienced when he was so tiny, but as an overwhelmed new mom of two, I was heartbreakingly aware that you and missed out on many of those quiet moments. The middle of the night feedings were our time... just you and me and the glorious moonlight shining in the windows, completely at peace. I think I treasured to those quiet moments with you all the more, knowing just how fleeting they would be.<br /><br />At less than three months, you discovered that you could roll over on your own, and nothing has stopped you from your fierce explorations in the days since. You are child who is into everything! Your little hands just MUST reach out to touch it all, from the contents of all the kitchen cupboards to the pigtails of poor unsuspecting little girls. You climb everything you can, you hate to be carried these days, and you rarely walk; this little man needs to run! You insisted on feeding yourself at only 10 months old, urging to me grab the stain remover and just prepare for disaster - on your clothes, on the walls, on the floor. You love all things gooey or messy or disgusting. Last summer, you sauntered up to your dad in the back yard with a little brown dog turd in your hand and proudly proclaimed, "Poop!". You couldn't have looked happier.<br /><br />You adore music, and I've quickly learned that with you, the proper musical accompaniment can quickly diffuse even the most difficult of situations. You play a mean air guitar, and you dance, well, like the lip-biting little white man that you are. For the past few months, you have been fully obsessed with Ziggy Marley's "Give a Little Love". You'll beg, "More, love!" over and over and you zealously belt out all you can with your caveman speech skills: "Give... love. Have... hope. Make... world... better. Try... more. Harder... b'fore. Do... t'gether.... Sing it!". You little voice is amazingly sweet, particularly for such a boisterous little man. I wish I could just bottle it up and play it back when the world seems hard, because that voice is just pure joy, plain and simple.<br /><br />You are fiercely independent, much more so than your older brother. For Jonah in his first few years of life, I was the center of the universe... Jonah wanted all mommy, only feeling truly safe when I was within his sight. But you, my little E, are so different. You are brave and bold and rarely clingy. For you, I am a more of a harbor, a safe place to return when the big kids are mean or Mr. Noodle on Sesame Street scares you (and oddly, he does!)... you come back to me for a few snuggles and a bit of reassurance, but then you're off again, ready for your next adventure. You stride into Jonah's preschool with such comical confidence when we pick him up each day. You give high fives and say hello to all the teachers and students and parents by name as if you were a tiny principal greeting the school, and then you sign yourself in with a picture on the bulletin board by Jonah's classroom door. One mother commented to me one day, "That child is a FORCE to be reckoned with!". You certainly are.<br /><br />As you grow, I have a feeling you will challenge me in more ways than I can imagine. I know that finding appropriate outlets for all those big feelings and big plans is sometimes difficult for you, and I promise to do the best that I can to help you safely embrace all this wildness in a way that nurtures your bold spirit and doesn't shut you down. You are just so full of life, and you are teaching me more than I ever realized I needed to know.<br /><br />So go explore, little one. I'll be here when you need me, with all the love this heart can hold.Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12164702011386573650noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2089797067838332018.post-21895350045148410532010-02-26T19:18:00.000-08:002010-02-28T20:02:26.879-08:00Coming Clean<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi62a6w6H1mgtdRL2TZSg_7DjVEbwUdC8U5ZhtI17WHVgrFmIqHxRpnRse1_AhKx65xxSAapc-pZhcBcc1N1AP7OjdvKFsHQfEk8tzvz7w-is83UyKjpEJBTnWLk4d8Tt29I73z5GNoPts/s1600-h/YellowRubberDuck.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 272px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi62a6w6H1mgtdRL2TZSg_7DjVEbwUdC8U5ZhtI17WHVgrFmIqHxRpnRse1_AhKx65xxSAapc-pZhcBcc1N1AP7OjdvKFsHQfEk8tzvz7w-is83UyKjpEJBTnWLk4d8Tt29I73z5GNoPts/s320/YellowRubberDuck.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443484726607237618" border="0" /></a><br /><p>Tonight was a typical bath night in our house. Although they usually put up a pretty good fight about getting in the tub, once they are plopped into that warm, bubbly water, these little guys could not be happier. Eli sings to himself. Jonah tells "stories" with his bath toys. They pour and splash and slide around on their bellies. They laugh and squirt and make bubble beards and they almost never ask to get out. And yes, they do get clean, but for these little dudes, cleanliness is clearly NOT the main event; this party is all about the FUN. </p><p>As I watched Jonah and Eli splashing and swimming and singing in the bathtub tonight, I was struck with a sudden sense that, well, I can't imagine approaching my daily bathing with such zeal. First, to be honest, I don't remember that last time I actually made time for a bath. It's strictly showers here. And sure, I enjoy a good shower as much as anyone, but I don't just PLAY in there. I don't tell stories to myself or squirt myself with a toy fish or splash around just for the fun of it, and I don't remember the last time I laughed in midst of my daily shower. I am oh-so-utilitarian. I get in there to get myself clean, maybe shave my legs if it's a good day, and get out of there and on to the next thing. </p><p>At what point did I begin lose my children's incredible capacity for joy in the most mundane of daily tasks? When did the faucet cease to be something looked on with wide-eyed wonder? I'm not sure, and I fear that, if I'm really honest, I am most likely contributing to the loss of this playfulness in my little guys. I rush them around. I warn them not to splash so hard that they make a mess. I often set to work cleaning the toilet or the bathroom sink while they play in the tub, subtly and silently teaching them that there are MUCH more important things to do than giggle and float in a warm soup of Mr. Bubble. </p><p>But maybe with the help of my soaking wet boys, I'm slowly unlearning all those "rules" that convince me that every moment needs to be productive, that for adults, silly time is "wasted" time. I'm discovering that despite my grown-up agenda of toilet-cleaning and bill-paying and errand running, more often than not, a squeaky rubber duck and a shampoo mohawk in the bathtub is just what the doctor ordered. </p>Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12164702011386573650noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2089797067838332018.post-17178134416858109242010-02-15T19:25:00.000-08:002010-02-15T20:05:46.546-08:00The Good Night<p>One final lullabye</p><p>One last kiss</p><p>Curious George tucked in tight</p><p>I switch on the motorcycle nightlight</p><p>And quietly close your door.</p><p>I stand for a moment in the hallway as I listen to your hushed giggles </p><p>and I contemplate an evening's possibilities: </p><p>read a book</p><p>eat a dessert with much, too much sugar for you</p><p>call a friend</p><p>pray</p><p>drink a glass of wine</p><p>argue with your dad</p><p>pay some bills </p><p>make love to your dad</p><p>clean the bathroom</p><p>watch a movie with foul language</p><p>practice yoga</p><p>take a long, hot bath</p><p>tidy the house of the very toys that will find their way back underfoot again tomorrow</p><p>write</p><p>All of these have lurked in the corner all day, watching me</p><p>And waiting impatiently for the few and precious hours</p><p>when you finally sleep. </p><p>But later, as I pass your room again</p><p>I tiptoe inside, adjust your blankets, and lean down to breathe you in.</p><p>Almost</p><p>just almost</p><p>hoping you will wake. </p>Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12164702011386573650noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2089797067838332018.post-23481838109022121782010-02-09T12:14:00.000-08:002010-02-09T21:20:37.235-08:00The Age of the Informed Parent (or, 500 Ways to Mess Up Your Kid Before He Turns Five)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIfePvSHjo16dFEsVbXb_2Cvc_Sb959Mc6oVAFZOIlGwGm2MVCBSCOXEwr5TLHpvvtR4b-Mn0cfCi-y1CoezQOpr1GSmVkpZZImKi22BtA87Wj_Y9fVnxhoNfJx_eyCzk0nKJ0o_GCVdc/s1600-h/parenting-for-dummies-book-lg.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 255px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIfePvSHjo16dFEsVbXb_2Cvc_Sb959Mc6oVAFZOIlGwGm2MVCBSCOXEwr5TLHpvvtR4b-Mn0cfCi-y1CoezQOpr1GSmVkpZZImKi22BtA87Wj_Y9fVnxhoNfJx_eyCzk0nKJ0o_GCVdc/s320/parenting-for-dummies-book-lg.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436476156149737698" /></a><br /><p>We Gen X moms and dads have more parenting resources at our disposal than any parents in the history of the world. If we're confused about where and how to put our babies to sleep, we can choose from a dizzying array of books, magazine articles, and websites stressing the dire importance of sleeping with your baby in your bed, NOT sleeping with your baby in your bed, rocking to sleep, nursing your baby to sleep, "crying it out", parent-led scheduling, child-led scheduling, swaddling, and NEVER, ever, letting a baby sleep on her stomach. We know more about the complexities of breastfeeding, the dangers of BPA, and the intricacies of choosing the "right" preschools than our parents ever did. So really, we should have this parenting thing all figured out, right? </p><p>Heavens, no. We're more clueless, and anxious, than ever. </p><p>As a self-proclaimed parenting book addict, I'll fully admit that all of the information overload has two main effects:</p><p>First, the guilt factor. Now, I'm very aware that TV is not good for little people. Numerous studies connect excessive childhood television viewing to increased rates of ADD, autism, learning disabilities, obesity, and just plain laziness. I've done the reading and I believe all this, I really do. I've never even owned a Baby Einstein DVD. But here's the thing: sometimes, a mama just needs a few minutes to make dinner, or sneak in a shower, or take an important phone call without her little boys smacking each other with toy golf clubs or "decorating" the walls with bright red tempera paint. So yeah, my guys watch a little TV just about every day. But really, as I'm turning on the tube for them, I often just wish I didn't know all that junk about how bad TV is; I'm just trying to survive another day. </p><p>Next, I think modern parents are often nearly paralyzed by all the scare tactics and endless options. At a playdate this morning, we moms stood around the kitchen watching our toddlers romp in the adjoining room. The topic of conversation revolved around how to best sweeten our foods without causing our children irreparable harm. High fructose corn syrup? Unthinkable. Refined sugar? Of course not. Organic cane sugar, agave nectar, honey, blackstrap molasses? Maybe, although one mother had recently read that agave nectar, sweetener of choice for many a health-conscious mommy, caused a whole host of problems. What's an over-informed parent to do? Eventually, we all just faded into a hopeless silence and munched our muffins. </p><p>With all of the parenting possibilities out there, it's often too easy to forget that there's very rarely one "right" answer for every child, or every parent. Even a quick assessment of my own two boys make that concept undeniably clear. Instead of the endless array of books and magazines, I could often just use a good dose of grace for myself, a reminder that I'm doing the best I can for my little guys, and ultimately, that must be enough. Yes.</p><p>There's gotta be a book out there to back that up, right? </p>Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12164702011386573650noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2089797067838332018.post-56778645080109014722010-02-04T12:53:00.000-08:002010-02-05T20:32:08.695-08:00Little People to the RescueIt's been a tough week. Not the garbage disposal isn't working right kind of tought week, or the annoying parking ticket on your windshield kind of tough week, or the "my kid is kinda whiny and frustrating" kind of a tough week, but the kind of week that makes you want to just curl up in a ball and only come out to eat pints of Ben and Jerry's Chubby Hubby ice cream. Tragedy in our extended family and some heavily emotional job/life decisions have made it a week full of endless late-night discussions, plenty of grown-up tears, and more prayers than we've prayed in a long, long time. This is life-changer stuff. <br /><br />But in the midst of all this heaviness, on the days when I've been most tempted to tend toward despair, one look at Eli with a grin covered in chocolate pudding or Jonah sharing his silliest knock-knock jokes offers me a much-needed respite from the larger struggles. One recent day, I was feeling particularly down when Jonah, upon learning that our local grocery store was open all night long, exclaimed, "I see... so wombats and King Soopers are both nocturnal!". It wasn't hard for me to find a deep laugh, laughter that made my heart feel just a bit lighter. These little guys just keep doing their daily thing: we visit the geese at Golden Ponds, we bake brownies, we snuggle up before bed and read Curious George. We visit the the library, we run errands, we build Storm Trooper helments out of cardboard boxes. My little boys have very little knowledge of the chaos swirling around them. And although I'm sometimes envious of their oblivion, spending my days with them allows me, if only for brief moments, to be a little oblivious, too. Life with small children just doesn't allow for curling up in a ball; there are just too many diapers to be changed, PJ&Js to make, and games of Candyland to be played, and for that, I couldn't be more grateful. Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12164702011386573650noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2089797067838332018.post-1009171548340323142010-01-11T19:53:00.000-08:002010-01-11T22:36:34.438-08:00A Little Wisdom from Nick, the Volvo Guy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0X06kz7y4lCJItjYG1NjmmKVxYCuDq1b-NQlWHGeI_uc64102qD77PVJQ4XTkcrrnVBHaZ8Id60laLx0FiwSe4N5mkQzT4rkIlJggstMaBnUIFcE8wR30LRDy9YS60EpgjuSzctU5fnc/s1600-h/036.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0X06kz7y4lCJItjYG1NjmmKVxYCuDq1b-NQlWHGeI_uc64102qD77PVJQ4XTkcrrnVBHaZ8Id60laLx0FiwSe4N5mkQzT4rkIlJggstMaBnUIFcE8wR30LRDy9YS60EpgjuSzctU5fnc/s320/036.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425725260224482866" /></a><br /><p>I really am outdoorsy, I swear. </p><p>In our pre-kiddo days, I backpacked for weeks on end, rock climbed some incredible routes, traveled across glaciers, and summited some breath-taking peaks. I have the scars and the ridiculous amount of gear in my garage to prove it. Even in my last months of pre-parenthood, Steve and I joked that our oldest son Jonah was the world's tiniest backpacker because I guided a 5-day backpacking trip at seven weeks pregnant. I vowed that none of this would change when the baby actually arrived. </p><p>And then I met our real-life child... who, unlike my original visions, was not always stoked to accompany Stephen and I on our many adventures. Our first inkling of this challenge developed when, at six weeks old, we took Jonah on his first rock climbing outing. Our plan was simply that one of us would wear our sweet sleeping child in his front carrier while belaying on the ground, and the other would climb blissfully above. Sounds easy enough, right? </p><p>Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Jonah got hot, wouldn't sleep, and most of all, hated standing still while strapped to one of us; the kid needed movement. Each time one of us would attempt to climb, he wailed. We were all miserable, and we eventually packed up and went home. On our way down, other climbers stared and whispered, "What are they doing out here with that little baby?". The simple answer was, we were just trying to maintain some sense of our prior selves, and we were attempting to figure out how to include this tiny new member of our family in the mix. </p><p>And we're still working on it. Over the past four years, our quest to maintain our outdoor lifestyle has definitely had it's ups and downs. Jonah's first camping trip ended with so much endless screaming in the wee hours of the morning that we literally just tore down our campsite and came home, much to the relief of the sleepless neighbors in our campground. I've developed a deep confusion about how little boys who literally don't sit still all day long at home can whine that they are exhausted to the point of death after just 50 feet. Twenty-two month old Eli often refuses to ride in the backpack on our hikes recently, meaning that it can easily take us what seems like HOURS to simply move a few feet forward as he examines every leaf, flower, bug, and footprint. </p><p>But that slower pace isn't always such a bad thing, is it? We decided to by some flora and fauna books and make the most of our snail speed. By now, we've had some incredible experiences with our little guys outside: some picture-perfect camping trips, some great days teaching Jonah how to rock climb, and some wide-eyed hikes as Eli grins in amazement at the mountains before him. Steve and I are learning to embrace the idea that our excursions with our boys are often nothing more than a chance to be together as a family and a chance to be outdoors; any other accomplishments together are just icing on the cake. </p><p>An easy hike in Sunshine Canyon last summer included all the usual whining and fussing and rescuing Eli from hurling himself down a rocky hill. By the time we returned to the car, we were all weary and hungry, and once again, Steve and I were questioning why we even bother. </p><p>But then we noticed a note on our windshield. Here's what it said: </p><p><em>"I noticed your lovely family, and I wanted to share how awesomely beautiful it is to see a family together in nature. Thanks for the beautiful memory. Much love and blessings upon you all!" - Nick, the guy in the Volvo</em></p><p>We smiled, thankful to this stranger, Nick, for reminding us that, even with all its challenges, sharing this big world with our little guys is a beautiful thing. </p>Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12164702011386573650noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2089797067838332018.post-86657043851143139882009-12-22T21:37:00.000-08:002009-12-22T22:36:54.403-08:00Clinging to ChristmasA few months ago, I saw an amazing little film called <span style="font-style: italic;">God Grew Tired of Us</span>. It is the story of The Lost Boys, a group of Sudanese orphaned and displaced young men who fled from the genocide in their country and spent years in refugee camps in Ethiopia and Kenya before some of the boys were invited to come and live in America. The film chronicles their experience of attempting to assimilate into American culture, which proves to be more challenging than any of the boys ever imagined. One of the scenes that really stuck in my memory involves the boys' initial impressions of their first Christmas in America. I'm unsure of the exact quote, but one of the young men said something to the effect of: <br /><br />"Your Christmas includes many things which are very beautiful. Trees and lights and music, but I am very confused about what any of this has to do with the birth of Christ."<br /><br />Ain't it the truth? American Christmas is undeniably lovely and fun, full of traditions, family, and of course, presents. But for those of us parents who consider ourselves to be Christians, it can be immensely challenging to find any meaningful context for the holiday in a culture where Santa and sleigh bells get top billing, particularly when we hope to pass the true significance of the holiday on to our children. <br /><br />How can Jesus compete? His songs are much trickier for kids to learn than our American holiday standards. Try explaining the lyrics "round yon virgin" to a four year old, and you'll quickly be tempted to turn on "Frosty the Snowman" instead. Jesus doesn't do photo shoots at the mall. He doesn't have a clay-mation holiday special. And he certainly doesn't get to take credit for Barbies and Star Wars action figure sets under the Christmas tree. <br /><br />Several of our friends have chosen to eliminate Santa from their Christmas celebrations in an attempt to focus the holiday on its true meaning. I definitely understand and respect the sentiment. For our family, however, we finally decided that unless we chose to completely opt out of Christmas gift-giving, the absence of Santa probably wouldn't make a huge difference. And really, Santa's just too much fun for us to pass up. So what else can a well-meaning parent do to help little ones understand that the birth of Christ is ultimately a much more beautiful event than a local tree-lighting ceremony?<br /><br />We certainly don't have all the answers, but we're trying. For most of Advent, Jonah and I have been reading the Christmas story each afternoon in his children's Bible (and for anyone who is searching for a wonderful Bible for kids, I can't recommend <span style="font-style: italic;">The Jesus Storybook Bible</span> highly enough - its humor and insight are teaching me each day as well!). The boys play with their little wooden Nativity set. We sing carols at church and talk, day by day, about WHY we actually celebrate Christmas. We'll make a cheesy birthday cake for Jesus. And we pray that our boys will truly take in the meaning of my favorite name for Christ - Emmanuel - or "God with us." What could be more beautiful than that? <br /><br />And maybe, little by little, the real miracle is making itself known. The other day, as we finished reading the story of Jesus' birth for the gazillionth time this month, Jonah turned to me with his eyes sparkling. <br /><br />"Mom," he grinned, "Jesus is SO cool." <br /><br />Take that, Santa Claus.Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12164702011386573650noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2089797067838332018.post-68023699066068821372009-12-18T13:15:00.000-08:002009-12-21T22:19:37.479-08:00The Tyranny of the Christmas Letter<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.laprensatoledo.com/Stories/2007/121207/Grinch.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 270px; height: 321px;" src="http://www.laprensatoledo.com/Stories/2007/121207/Grinch.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><p>I love getting Christmas cards. As I write, our pantry door is adorned with a myriad of festive holidays greetings: adorable family photos, lovely cards, sweet handwritten messages from many of our favorite people. Who doesn't feel loved when the Christmas cards come flooding into the mailbox? </p><p>However, there's one kind of holiday greeting that can give me, well, mixed feelings: the Christmas letter. First, before I offend each of you who might have been kind enough to send me a holiday letter this year or ever, I should preface my comments by fully admitting that I write Christmas letters myself (okay, so the last two years I've been a bit too lazy, but I certainly have in the past), and for the most part, I adore getting them just like all of my other less detailed holiday mail. It's enjoyable to read the yearly updates from dear friends and family who, unfortunately, live too far away for sufficiently frequent visits. But the only problem with Christmas letters (my own included) is that they tend to reduce an entire year of living, growing, stumbling, stretching, struggling, striving, and thriving to a few tidy paragraphs of apparent bliss. In Christmas letters, we all sound wildly successful, incredibly well-adjusted, perfectly behaved, and infinitely happy. You know the drill: </p><p><em>"It's been a banner year for the Smith family. Bob received a phenomenal promotion to CEO of his company, which allows him to work only four hours each week and still make incredible money. In his spare time, Bob climbed Mount Everest, ran twelve marathons, and saved 27 acres of rainforest in South Amercia. Little Bobby is the star of his preschool class. At the age of four, he's already reading Tolstoy, studying precalc, and excelling at Modern Dance and origami." </em></p><p>I don't think any of us really intend to portray such an abashedly candy-coated view of ourselves. Maybe we feel insecure about the less glamorous parts of our lives, so we conveniently leave them out of the yearly synopsis. Maybe we truly look back on the events of months past with rose-colored glasses, minimizing the reality of the tough stuff of life in our own memories. Maybe the day-to-day challenges just don't strike us as significant enough to include. Whatever the reason, even a quick glance back through some of my own Christmas letters reveals a surprisingly incomplete, if not inauthentic, portrayal of what was truly happening in our hearts, minds, and lives each year. </p><p>These days, I'm trying hard to embrace what is real and true in my world, even when it's not always easy or pretty. I'm working on figuring out what I genuinely think and feel about things, not just what I think I "should". So, with that in mind, although I'm not actually sending a Christmas letter this year (just a Christmas ecard that's quickly becoming a New Year's ecard as I procrastinate), here's a sampling of what a truly honest holiday letter might look like for us right now: </p><p><em>"Kristin truly feels blessed to be able to stay at home with their boys, although they sometimes drive her to the brink of insanity. While she loves reading, snuggling, and playing pretend games with Jonah and Eli, truth be told, she's not a big fan wrestling. Kristin began taking Pilates classes this fall, which has been a real joy...unfortunately, she's a bit bitter about the fact that she can't seem to find time for any exercise that doesn't involve chasing small boys. </em></p><p><em>Steve likes work these days, but he finds that it seems to get in the way of his climbing time, which in turn sometimes gets in the way of his family time. This can make Kristin a bit frustrated... we're hoping to find a good balance in this area in 2010.</em></p><p><em>Jonah, age four, loves preschool and played soccer for the first time this fall. He keeps us laughing with his expressive vocabulary and dramatic antics, and he also keeps us pulling our hair out when he occasionally still poops his pants or uses his whiney voice too much. </em></p><p><em>Eli, at 21 months, is all boy and truly loves life. If he can get messy and wrestle, he's a happy guy! This physicality can sometimes be tough for him to control: we've been warned that if he can't keep his hands to himself and stop hitting other toddlers, we might not be allowed to return to storytime at the library. </em></p><p>Would I really write all this in a holiday letter? Probably not. Right or wrong, I, too, hold onto some inner need to communicate the best of things this time of year. I guess at its core, Christmas is about hope, about the coming of light into a dark place. And even when life feels dark, we'll cling to the hope of Christmas and keep on writing the good stuff. </p>Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12164702011386573650noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2089797067838332018.post-71304246432052574702009-11-15T11:59:00.000-08:002009-11-15T12:57:26.045-08:00Love in the Time of Diapers<p>There was a time when my dear husband and I could lie in bed all day on a snowy Saturday, take off for a spur of the moment weekend away at a B&B, or even simply share the details of our days over a leisurely dinner without a small child screaming, knocking over a glass of milk, or hurling his his entire plate of squash at the dog. </p><p>Those days are long, long gone. </p><p>But the marriage still remains, and we're forced to attempt to keep the sparks of romance alive in the midst of poopy diapers, ridiculous sleep deprivation, and two little boys who seem innately programmed to wake up screaming the moment we begin to arouse the desires that produced these children in the first place. </p><p>Despite these amorous beginnings, there's much about parenthood that's just not sexy. Who feels particularly attractive when covered in spit up? Sneaking in a shower while my small children might be destroying the house doesn't leave much time for shaving my legs, or armpits, or deep conditioning my hair, or for many of the other little primping habits that help us to feel desirable. A night out on the town requires feats of organization and planning that can take weeks to arrange: calling a potential sitter, waiting for said potential sitter to return my call, receiving call that the sitter in unavailable... repeating said scenario three times until an available sitter is located. Tidying my house for the sitter, planning and shopping for an easy meal for the sitter to feed the children, locating attractive, stain-free clothing to wear, figuring out when in my crazy day I might get myself ready for the date, budgeting twice the cost of the actual date to pay the sitter... By the time I walk out the door, I've often had to spend more time preparing for this night out with my husband that we'll actually get to enjoy on the date itself. It's all enough to tempt a weary parent to just give up on the prospects of a romantic evening.</p><p>But giving up just isn't an option, not if we want to come out on the other side of parenthood with some sense of affection for the spouse we so wholeheartedly fell for in our pre-kiddo days. It takes work and a deliberate focus maintain our grasp on this tenuous thing called love. And it might look a little different than it used to. I've learned to find my husband attractive in situations I might not have considered before; a man with a faux bubble bath beard making his boys laugh or sleeping peacefully with a newborn on his chest can melt my heart these days. We make a concerted effort in little ways, like trying to call each other with a sweet word during the day rather than just a request to stop by King Soopers to buy Capri Suns for the soccer game. And sometimes a date night can be just putting the boys to bed and sharing a bottle of wine on our deck... no sitter required. </p><p>And though we do still dream of the days when we'll once again be able to spend amorous days alone, when our little boys run into our room and climb onto our bed in the early morning, giggling and snuggling, I often catch my husband's eye and we smile. This love is big enough for all four of us. </p>Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12164702011386573650noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2089797067838332018.post-3985042466885300012009-10-11T15:27:00.000-07:002009-10-14T22:08:59.487-07:00A Letter to Jonah, Four Years Old<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBsXXDG85mZxhGI4KKmU2G7mPFH1RHLrT4s9NpCc9JIYGZIXSHVIE-EUHMiVxihBDjBCi58hPVO7bAGFey8aC2Lr1c5p5HCyyUZNt6gsiknyv7oxgdXD2zwl1p4PHsdEFZxPx0167Z3RE/s288/100_2678.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 216px; height: 288px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBsXXDG85mZxhGI4KKmU2G7mPFH1RHLrT4s9NpCc9JIYGZIXSHVIE-EUHMiVxihBDjBCi58hPVO7bAGFey8aC2Lr1c5p5HCyyUZNt6gsiknyv7oxgdXD2zwl1p4PHsdEFZxPx0167Z3RE/s288/100_2678.JPG" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><p>Sweet Jonah, </p><p>You started four-year old preschool last month. On your first day, we approached your classroom together, hand in hand, but you were clearly more excited than apprehensive, and before I knew it, you gave me a small wave and a big grin, and you were off. I sometimes spy on you a bit through the two-way mirror and watch as you get settled, hanging up your little backpack with the green and orange skater guys on it in your cubby and running up to your friends to join in the daily action. As I watch, you strike me as both amazingly grown-up and incredibly small, with those same huge blue eyes that gaze out at the world with such wonder, just as they did on the morning your were born. Part of me wishes I could freeze you in time right here, so I've decided to write down some "snapshots" of the little person you are at four and a half: </p><p>You love all things related to motorcycles and racecars. While I put Eli to sleep, you often lie on my bed and tell yourself elaborate tales about your vehicles as they trek over the pillows and down the headboard. As I sit here writing, you are animatedly bringing your cars to life, wailing, "James! James! James! I don't want you to go! CRASH! Whoa, he got 50 hundred scratches!". </p><p>You are petite for your age, a fact I only tend to notice when I see you surrounded by other boys. You're built like your father with thin little matchstick legs, and your ribs show a bit when you and Eli run around naked in your nightly after-bath ritual. You both squeal and shreik, bare bums bouncing on the bed, burning off the final bits of energy for the day before snuggling into your jammies.</p><p>Although your build is slight, you really can throw down some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. You've historically been wary of green foods, but your relationship with Farmer Ewell at Pachamama Farm, the CSA where we get most of our vegetables, has recently changed all that. Farmer Ewell has become a dear friend to you; you run and hug him each week, begging him to "play" with you instead of doing his farm chores. Later, as each veggie appears on your plate, you'll eye it warily and ask, "Did Ewell grow this beet/carrot/broccoli?". If we answer affirmatively, you gobble up your vegetables with a big grin and exclaim, "That's delicious!". I'm not sure what we'll do this winter when the veggies won't be coming directly from Ewell anymore!</p><p>You love learning to be a climber like your daddy, and you're so proud of your tiny climbing shoes, or "sticky shoes", as you call them. We can already see that you're calculated and graceful on the rock, carefully choosing each hand and foot placement. However, on a recent climb, you confessed that the climbing harness put your "penis in a silly situation." I guess that's an recreational hazard you'll learn to handle. </p><p>Your vocabulary is so funny to me, like the words of middle-aged man coming out of the mouth of a tiny child. You love dramatic exclamations like, "How could he do such a thing?!" and "Oh, I couldn't possibly do that!".</p><p>You're on a soccer team this fall for the first time, and you approach each game with incredible zeal. For the pure drama, you love to hurl yourself to ground, even when no other players are near, and then jump back up, calling, "I'm okay! I'm okay!". You scored two goals in your second game, running to the middle of the field pumping your little fist triumphantly. Never mind that fact that both points were in the wrong goal, or that the whole game fell apart after that with both teams of four-year olds kicking into any nearby goal in complete soccer anarchy. </p><p>Although you do love days filled with action, you still love to snuggle. When daddy and Eli wake up early and you and I sleep late, you'll wander in to my room, climb up into my bed, and nuzzle up next to me. You smell of sleep and your bath from the night before, and you breathe so peacefully, warm in my arms. </p><p>Jonah, you are beautiful and passionate, hilarious and wise. As you say, "I love you to outer space, past the moon, and around Jupiter." Thanks for letting me be your mom. </p>Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12164702011386573650noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2089797067838332018.post-23673071101554129702009-09-30T20:50:00.001-07:002009-09-30T20:55:22.452-07:00More to Come SOON....Thanks so much to all of you who have been sending messages that you're anxiously awaiting new posts; it feels good to know people are reading and checking! My apologies for the delay. It's been a crazy month, but I've been working diligently on a new post and it should be up very soon. Thanks for not giving up on me as I'm learning to make writing more and more a part of my daily life! Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12164702011386573650noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2089797067838332018.post-32910816154800420562009-08-27T09:38:00.000-07:002009-08-27T12:22:46.171-07:00Anger Management<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim7bqMRHQQwlDdZuWk79nrwtNOsuPpNHGA284DZnhRAE5AohKuVYFnCHfqlxkcoGXDAL5ut1IJ80B5h2KdtQ_gScLJrIhwUSZIl4rI_Ft8yb_rT1_1L5kgnES6TbyCrGqyPFMEw1XJxVs/s1600-h/Angry_face.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 301px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim7bqMRHQQwlDdZuWk79nrwtNOsuPpNHGA284DZnhRAE5AohKuVYFnCHfqlxkcoGXDAL5ut1IJ80B5h2KdtQ_gScLJrIhwUSZIl4rI_Ft8yb_rT1_1L5kgnES6TbyCrGqyPFMEw1XJxVs/s320/Angry_face.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374715079404213810" /></a><br /><p>Most people who know me would never guess this in a million years, but I think I have an anger management problem. </p><p>Now, if you're anything like me, the term "anger management problem" brings to mind bar room brawlers, men in tight white tank tops, and 17 -year olds who get sent to juvie for jumping their math teachers. What I DON'T think of is a 32-year old church-going, yoga-practicing, stay-at-home mom with an endless repertoire of verses of "The Wheels on the Bus." Me. Smiley, happy me, right? But beneath the innocuous exterior is a woman who has, truth be told, really struggled to keep her cool over the last 17 months. And here's the worst part of it all: the two people who can most easily drive me to the ugliest kind of fury are, 1.) under the age of five, and 2.) my own children. </p><p>Now, an important disclaimer here: first and foremost, I LOVE MY BOYS DEARLY. I CHOOSE to stay home with them on my own accord. They are not unusually misbehaved or obnoxious children by any means. In fact, strangers have even approached me to comment that these kids are quite the opposite. They are curious, loving, adorable little people... truthfully, they're the coolest kids I know. Which makes it all the more shameful that, in recent months, I seem prone to yelling and making this loud, exasperated grunting sound, even in the grocery store or in front of gawking neighbors. </p><p>Seriously, what's happened to me? I started motherhood with seemingly endless patience and gentleness, a firm resolve that I would model these virtues for my boys. A definite Kumbaya kind of mama. I would never, I swore, be one of those mothers who screamed or slammed doors or forced their shrieking toddlers into car seats in the Target parking lot when they refused to go of their own accord. Such women, I thought naively, simply needed to take a breath and remember what precious treasures their children were. </p><p>But here's the thing: some situations were just not meant to be endured by sane human beings. Like the time a few weeks ago when both boys were given balloons on the Pearl St. Mall, which initially, made them quite happy. I smiled blissfully as we walked along, hand in hand, each boy watching with amusement as his balloon bobbed in the wind. However, when on the way home, peacefully buckled into their side by side car seats, their balloons accidentally twisted around each other and tangled, all hell broke loose. Each boy yanked with all his might on his own string in a futile attempt to free the balloons, and both Eli and Jonah began to shriek like the girl from The Exorcist. Initially, I was impressively calm. </p><p>"Boys," I called back to them from the front seat as I cruised down the highway. "Just let go of your strings and I'll untwist them for you." </p><p>The duet of high pitched wailing subsided for a moment, but Eli, at just 16 months old, couldn't make sense of my offer and proceeded to tug with everything he had on his coveted yellow balloon. Jonah, not to be outdone, yanked immediately back, and the screaming resumed. </p><p>I raised my voice a bit. "Jonah," I called, trying to appeal to my older, most sensible son, "just let go for a minute and I'll get your balloon back to you." But by this time, neither boy could hear me over their screaming. I felt my patience and sanity begin to disappear. </p><p>"BOYS!" I yelled at the top of my lungs. "DON'T MAKE ME PULL THIS CAR OVER OR YOU WILL NEVER GET ANOTHER BALLOON IN YOUR LIVES!"</p><p>Seriously. I said that. Who am I, after all? Certainly not the peaceful earth mother I aspire to in my mind. But sometimes, desperate times call for desperate measures. </p><p>I'm certainly not justifying my anger or claiming that it's a good idea to yell at children. I deal with the shame and the guilt on a daily basis, wishing I could take back words or even an angry tone, praying that I'm not wrecking these little guys for life. </p><p>One recent evening, I had lost my cool once again after my four-year old had refused to go to bed and had woken up his sleeping brother for the second time that night. Jonah had padded down to the living room begging for "just one more snack" as I heard the baby begin to wail upstairs. I banged the pantry door shut, slammed down some crackers and milk in front of Jonah, and stomped back up the steps to attempt to put the little one to bed for the third time that hour. </p><p>When I returned down the stairs a few minutes later, I was feeling a bit calmer. Jonah sat alone at the table with his head down in front of his empty plate. I called him over to me on the couch, and he climbed up onto my lap. We talked a bit about the importance of following the bedtime rules, and he nodded. </p><p>"But mommy," he said quietly. "You broke a rule, too." </p><p>"Yeah, buddy. You're right. I was too mad, wasn't I? I'm really sorry. Do you know that?"</p><p>"Yeah," he whispered as he laid his blond head on my shoulder. "You did break a rule, but you know what? Now we'll put the rule back together." </p><p>Gulp. The boy really said this, came up with it on his own. Sometimes his grace and wisdom just about knock me over. </p><p>And I just can't help but feeling that maybe, just maybe, there's hope for me yet. </p>Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12164702011386573650noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2089797067838332018.post-2434901636941277072009-08-25T21:17:00.001-07:002009-08-28T20:24:26.119-07:00The Invasion of the Incredible Hulk<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwpoec4AaKBV36mzQIP6e9K0B-JCSm7T8DUKareSSNfX6_vwU-IPvtPoJYOD2s3BSA9LYsgoO48cudq0wI-DN2mpXmpbaD5NXVYBIloI7590m8afjGaun6clNWPpFxVygmHvbnKwhdOHE/s1600-h/hulk.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 295px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwpoec4AaKBV36mzQIP6e9K0B-JCSm7T8DUKareSSNfX6_vwU-IPvtPoJYOD2s3BSA9LYsgoO48cudq0wI-DN2mpXmpbaD5NXVYBIloI7590m8afjGaun6clNWPpFxVygmHvbnKwhdOHE/s320/hulk.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374513949862628034" /></a><br />Does the Incredible Hulk have a sword?" Jonah, four years old, asks me as he cruises his scooter in wide circles on our driveway. <p>"Nope," I respond. "The Hulk is so strong that he doesn't need a sword. Just his hands."</p><p>"Whoa." Jonah stops his scooter to ponder this fact, obviously impressed. </p><p>It's a Monday afternoon, and ever since Jonah returned from a friend's Incredible Hulk-themed birthday party the previous Saturday, he's been bursting with questions about the green superhero who grows so large that he spontaneously explodes out of his clothes. </p><p>Now, my husband and I have nothing against superheroes or the Hulk in particular. He's a perfectly entertaining character, but prior to this party, we hadn't yet introduced our son to this particular facet of boyhood. We must be somewhat unusual in this choice, because Jonah turned out to be the only kid at the party who was unfamiliar with this freaky green giant. He played it off well, though, avoiding humiliation for all us at his ignorance of the cultural icon. But now, he's hungry to know more, and the questions just keep coming. </p><p>"Is the Hulk a monster?"</p><p>"Why are his pants so raggedy?"</p><p>"Does the Hulk have friends?"</p><p>"Is the Hulk good or bad?"</p><p>"What makes the Hulk turn all big and green?"</p><p>I try to be patient and answer his questions thoroughly, although I'll admit to having to check the internet for the exact reason that Bruce Banner transforms from human to hulk (it's exposure to gamma rays from an explosion in a bomb testing facility, in case you wondered). But the truth of the matter is, I have some real ambivalence about the fact that we're entering this particular phase of life with our little boy. It's a perfectly normal phase, one filled with superheroes and army men, lots of conflicts between the "good guys" and the "bad guys". I think boys need to go through this stuff as they struggle to understand our crazy world and their place in it, but inevitably, this stage seems to be filled with both violence and commercialism, two concepts we've been pretty much able to control in Jonah's life up to this point. Don't get me wrong... we certainly don't want to raise him under a rock or something, but it's been one of our greatest gifts to observe his little life unfolding in what we've hoped would be a deep sense of beauty, gentleness, wonder, and joy. When you're the mom and the dad and your small kids look to you for eveything, and most young children do, it's really not that hard to control this through little decisons, basic stuff like choosing PBS instead of Spongebob or prime time, simple toys like blocks or cars instead of guns or Nintendo, playtime spent mostly outside collecting bugs or wading in a creek rather than in a McDonald's PlayPlace. Up to now, we haven't done a whole lot of talking about gamma rays or bombs. </p><p>But now the rules are changing on us. We're suddenly not the only viable influences on Jonah's life. His little friends on the playground and in preschool are much more articulate and opinionated than they used to be. On a daily basis, he seems to come to us with ever-increasing knowledge and curiosity about video games, guns, boxing, death, or other concepts that belie the fact that, at the ripe old age of four, his grip on his own innocence is tenuous. </p><p>It's poignant to watch this process unfolding, and to know that despite my best intentions, Jonah's view of the world is changing day by day. The best we can do is take his little hand and promise to walk with him through this maze of reality...me, Steve, Jonah, and the Incredible Hulk. </p>Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12164702011386573650noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2089797067838332018.post-50607569998538698942009-08-24T20:46:00.000-07:002009-08-25T11:45:38.230-07:00Little Boys are Like Tomatoes... :)<p>I've been a mother for over four years now, but I've only been a gardener for about four months. When my husband and I finally bought our first home in the spring, we had big dreams for our little yard. We imagined lush gardens teeming with perennials, vegetables, berries, native grasses... all cultivated by our own green thumbs. We set to work planting as soon as we could, relishing each trip to the local nursery, carefully choosing the best amendments for our soil, pouring over plant guides, designing layouts, getting our hands nice and dirty. We watered, we composted, we weeded, we pruned, we mulched. </p><p>But really, we had no idea what we were doing.</p><p>And within a few weeks, our promising garden withered like an old man who had spent too much time in the suntan oil. </p><p>We searched in books and consulted neighbors and family, all of whom seemed to have a different opinion. </p><p>"More water, definitely."</p><p>"Less water. You're drowning them." </p><p>"Must be the bad soil. Dig it all out and start over."</p><p>But then one day, miraculously, the sage started to perk up. The tomatoes produced some flowers. The strawberries gave us a few sweet fruits. It was so strange, because we really were so paralyzed by all the advice that we didn't actually DO anything to try to improve our dying plot. We're still not quite sure what happened, but as the summer has progressed, our little garden has survived, and even sometimes thrived. At the moment, we're bombarded by more tomatoes than we know what to do with. Sure, it's certainly not worthy of master gardener status, but it's ours, and we think it's pretty beautiful.</p><p>And I'm noticing that, at least for me, the process of learning to be a parent is a lot like learning to be a gardener. These little living beings are placed in your care, and sometimes, they are lovely and you soak up the beauty and joy of the raising them. But just as often, it seems, despite your best intentions, you flail and you do the wrong thing sometimes, and you feel as if, you've ruined these little people for life. People give you all kinds of advice, but mostly, it doesn't help much. Still, like our little garden, and even in spite of their parents at times, these kids keep thriving, and you praise God that many things are just way beyond our control. </p><p>My kids like this old folk song I think Woody Guthrie sang, which seems to give voice to lots of what I feel about being a mom trying to raise little men in a tricky world. </p><p><em>Inch by inch, row by row<br />Gonna make this garden grow<br />All it takes is a rake and a hoe<br />And a piece of fertile ground<br />Inch by inch, row by row<br />Someone bless these seeds I sow<br />Someone warm them from below<br />'Til the rain comes tumbling down<br /><br />Pulling weeds and pickin' stones<br />Man is made from dreams and bones<br />I feel the need to grow my own<br />'Cause the time is close at hand<br />Grain for grain, sun and rain<br />Find my way in nature's chain<br />Tune my body and my brain<br />To the music from the land<br /><br />Plant your rows straight and long<br />Strengthen them with pray'r and song<br />Mother Earth will make you strong<br />If you give her love and care<br />Old crow watchin' hungrily<br />From his perch in yonder tree<br />In my garden I'm as free<br />As that feathered thief up there<br /><br />Inch by inch, row by row<br />Gonna make this garden grow<br />All it takes is a rake and a hoe<br />And a piece of fertile ground<br />Inch by inch, row by row<br />Someone bless the seeds I sow<br />Someone warm them from below<br />'Til the rain comes tumbling down<br /></em></p><p>So I've decided to name this blog "Inch by Inch", which is the way my little boys and I are growing these days. Slowly but surely, in spite of weeds and stones and old crows. Those of you who are reading my blog hoping for quick family updates and always happy quips will be sorely disappointed, I'm sure. I've decided to write not so much to document the daily happenings of our family as to process my own experiences of my days as a stay at home mom, and to force myself into some reflection. Too many days, I tuck the kiddos to bed and plop in front of the TV for the night, neglecting to acknowledge the little miracles that occurred in my boys and in myself that day. Inch by inch, I'm learning that the process of raising them is changing me, too. Some days this is joyous and some days it's torturous, but it's always an adventure. Thanks for joining me. </p><p>Now, off to pull some weeds...<em><br /><br /></em></p><p> </p><p> </p>Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12164702011386573650noreply@blogger.com0