Because I'm Happy...And Other Little Bits & Pieces

I used to work on big cases for big clients, small cases for enormous clients, and gigantic cases for downright small town clients. I researched and strategized. I made outlines that were chapters long. The issues were complex, and life was even more complicated than that. (I'd love to tell you I don't miss it, but truth be told, I guess I do--in some respects). Today,  I spent most of my day folding used clothing and drinking in the bargain hunter's Mecca--the church garage sale pre-sale. I'm not a hoarder, but darn those hoarding tendencies! Today, my adoptees included a cast-iron dutch oven, harvest gold and avocado green Tupperware tumblers, a princess tent, some yard ornaments, a punch bowl (to be fair, I traded in the one that I already owned--not a hoarder), a cashmere sweater (!), and two country aprons. I dug through boxes of cables, used panties & socks (ew, really people?), and sorted water bottles from coffee mugs until late in the afternoon.

And throughout the day, I constantly caught myself singing: "I love you. You love me. We're a happy family. With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, won't you say you love me too?" Credit to the big purple dinosaur, Barney. Gigi has never seen his show, but she does enjoy his literature; every night she sings herself to sleep by reading Barney's book of nursery rhymes. And, this week, when I interviewed her as "Star of the Week" for pre-K, she told me that her favorite book is the I Love You book. There was a smile on my face.

Happy.

It also makes me happy that Gigi's favorite foods are Honey Nuts, Cheetos, and Fruit Loops. Second child syndrome. Her brother's favorites at that age were sloppy joe sandwiches and guacamole. Happy. Not necessarily proud.

What else makes me happy?

These two:

She loves her big brother. And sugar cereals. 

He's going through a serious phase peppered with childish curiosity: "Mom, how are you feeling today? Are you feeling okay? Do seals eat people?" Yes, this was all asked in sequence. In the car. On a Monday morning. For the record, he also would like to know if cats have kittens like moms have babies, and if so, well, then how do the babies get out of the cats tummy? Or better yet, how do babies get out of a mommy's tummy? If anyone has a six-year old appropriate answer, I'm all ears (glowing red with embarrassment). 

The first soccer game of the year makes me happy too:

Cutest cheerleader on the field. I'm going to make them re-take this picture when she's 14, and he's 17. 

This makes me pretty happy too. Dad's an awfully good coach. 

Those faces! A game well played. 

Some days, she looks so much like her daddy.

Fancy footwork makes me happy too. 

Not this happy. You know what makes me this happy? Running--when it's 60 degrees outside. 

Hello fall!

Every season, we ask him, "But did you have fun?"  The picture is a bit blurry, but I think the answer is still resoundingly "Yes!"

Little boy jokes make me happy too. "Hey mom," he told me today, "Did you know Bartlesville is a funny word? It sounds like you're burping!"

Of course, little girl dreams make me happy too: "I wish we had a fountain in our house. A princess fountain. A princess water fountain that we could drink from." 

Lately, I've devoted more time to volunteer service than to my computer. I'm behind on my shows, my blog, my books, and my house keeping. But, I've met (and I hope I've helped) people with problems far bigger than the ring around my bathtub. I have the opportunity of a lifetime to teach at a law school that not only places high value on service but that is also my alma mater. I learned to do a headstand this week in yoga class, and I can still run 5 miles at the drop of a hat. I picked up my violin for the first time in months and managed to eek out enough of a tune for Gigi to "Let It Go." 

It's almost November, and soon enough, I'm sure I'll join the minions in giving daily thanks for everything from fluffy towels to the great state I live in, earthquakes, tornadoes, monsoons and all. No doubt before then, I'll feel the pressure of a great thought just waiting to be expanded and expounded onto paper. 

But, for tonight, my thoughts are simple and happy. And, for now, that's who I prefer to be. 

Mommy, Are You Nice?

There seems to be a new(er) movement among mommy bloggers to embrace flaws--to make light of the days when you've locked yourself in the bathroom more than once just to escape little voices and sticky fingers. We joke about how our cars resemble a crime scene with all of the spilled red Koolaid. We fist bump other moms at parties when they admit to noticing their children's allergies require Benadryl more often than not after three sleepless nights preceding. I don't disagree with this strategy for dealing with mommyhood. It's tough job and one for which my qualifications are still questionable.

I do my fair share of lightening the mood when those little mommy moments hit, and I have a lot of them. I feed my kids Lunchables. Heck, today, I sent Gigi with goldfish crackers, Gogurt, and a white flour tortilla so that just once I would get her daily report back saying that she ate "well" instead of that she ate "a little." We haven't seen RJ's real sneakers in a week; he has been wearing water shoes to school with basketball socks.

I'm not perfect. Tee-hee.

Anyone who has raised, taught, or waited in a grocery store line behind a strong-willed child can appreciate this:

The screams. The shouts. The slapping and the biting. To say she is strong willed is to say Mount Everest is a big hill. 

I could call her a little diva and try to cultivate the Attitude. But, I grew up watching Little House on the Prairie, and 15 minutes of Nellie Olsen will convince any mother to at least try to discipline away an attitude like this one. 

At least 10 times a day, I tell Gigi, "Be nice." I tell her, "Pretty is as pretty does, Nellie Olsen." I put her in timeout. I take away toys. 

Nothing helps. She is two years old, and her feelings have outgrown her tiny little frame. Unfortunately, she has a mother whose frame hasn't caught up to her own feelings. By 5 o'clock every evening, tensions are running high. Gigi is hungry, tired, and darn it, she wants to change into her lounge wear--which to a mother should be pajamas, but to a little girl, should resemble Cinderella's ball gown, spaghetti sauce be damned. We argue. We both throw fits. It's ugly, and I don't much feel like fist-bumping another mom when I talk about it. 

Most nights, I re-commit, "I will not yell at RJ and Gigi. I will be nicer and kinder. I will be the type of person I want them to be." Then, a new day has passed, and the children's hour is upon us again. 

Tonight, we went to the pool, and as is par for our course, Gigi pooped. I'll spare details, but she kinda made it, and she kinda didn't. It wasn't a big deal, but as she balanced her tiny bottom on the big potty, she looked at me and asked, "Mommy, are you nice?" 

"Are you nice?" 

My two-year old daughter asked me this to calibrate the discussion that she thought we were about to have. The worst part? I wasn't nice tonight. I was nice about the pooping incident--it really was no big deal. But then she launched into a toddler rage about something I can't even remember. And I snapped. I shouted. I carried on. I lectured. And all the while, my sweet-tempered little man listened intently, because he's too little to understand that a toddler could make Billy Graham a smidge crazy. 

I apologized to Gigi. I apologized to RJ. I want them to know that fits aren't okay, and that if you pitch one, you should apologize. Apologies are remedial, not proactive. I want to be a proactively nicer mom--one who can raise a Nellie Olsen, who in the end, turned out to be a lovely young woman. I'm not willing to embrace this little mommyhood mistake. It's not cute, and it's not something that I'll look back on with fond memories. 

Gigi is a spitfire. A hellcat. She's also my little Nellie Olsen with curls in her hair and ruffles on her bloomers and her socks: 

And so tonight, I'll re-commit, "I will be nice." "I will not shout." "I will be a kind person just as I want my children to be." Tomorrow, when Gigi asks, "Mommy, are you nice?" I will once again pause, and answer just as I did today, "I hope so." 

Recreating Perfect Moments--a/k/a Second Child Syndrome, Second Verse

"I a boy!"

"No, Gigi, you're a girl. You're mommy's big girl!"

"I not a big girl, I a person!"

"Yes, you are a person indeed."

"Nawwww Momma! I a person! Not a deed!"

Gigi is her own person. I know this. She knows this. But sometimes, I have an irresistible urge to recreate a moment that I had with her brother.  There was this one beautiful fall morning about two years ago. Gigi was so small that I was wearing her in a front pack. RJ was barely tolerating me, let alone his sister. One morning, in an effort to calm his tantrums and keep my sanity, we headed to the park. I happened to have a yellow bucket. The light happened to be just right. And, I happened to have my little camera in my backpack. It was magical:

A couple of days ago, in an effort to quell her tantrums and with high hopes for keeping my sanity, I tried to recreate that same magical morning.

She's her own person.

The morning wasn't quite so magical. And it created more tantrums than it quelled. I suspect, however, that someday I'll look back with a smile.

The light wasn't quite as perfect as it was two years ago, but the model certainly was.

She's a person, with opinions on her shoes, her outfits, her car seat, and her lunch (is it wrong to pay a child in Oreo's in order to get her to eat a chicken nugget?).

Secretly, she may be a little angry that her pumpkin patch photo doesn't quite have the same zip as her brother's:

She was not impressed. Second child syndrome. I hope she's not damaged permanently. 

So far, she seems to be doing just fine. 

And, we did find a little magic of our own that morning. 

Two Years, Too Much, To the Moon and Back: Gigi Turned Two!

GiGi turned two about a month ago. She suffers from a particularly bad case of Second Child Syndrome a/k/a "You're Not the Firstborn." We did have a party, with cake (per GiGi's request). I did take a lot of pictures. I started a new job the week after her party, and as the story often goes with the second child, we got busy. Field trips and doctor visits happened (neither child was pleased about the latter though they are now soundly protected from the flu).

I had her party pants perfectly planned. They were trimmed in yellow gingham to match her yellow gingham sailor dress, both of which would make her look like the perfectly Victorian cherub she's meant to be.

GiGi had different ideas:

She wore pink party pants. 

And didn't look Victorian at all.  She did, however, look perfectly GiGi.  If you give a two-year old girl Hi Cat pajamas, she's going to want to wear them. (Yes, I know she's Hello Kitty, but to GiGi she's Hi Cat. It's her party, and she can Hi Cat if she wants to.) 

This was the day of her actual birthday. There's a theme developing. Her shoes are sparkly Hi Cats. She made a special request for her birthday: "I wanna see the baby el'phant!" It certainly wasn't too much to ask, so we did. GiGi and I spent the morning at the zoo. She threw more than two fits, in fact quite a few. But, turning two is a big step, and it can be too much sometimes.  We often have to stop so I can ask her, "GiGi, how big are your feelings? Are they too big?"

We finished up the day with a trip to gymnastics and fried food. I wish I could tell you that I made her a big cake with two candles and that we all gathered 'round the family table to sing. But I'd be lying. It was too much for one day. We settled for fried food...

...and funny ears. 

This is the morning of her party. She was excited because her daddy had told her there would be friends; that they'd all sing to her; and that there would be cake. (If you're curious, this is also a Hi Cat shirt. I'm buying stock in Sanrio; that seems to be a reasonable way to fund her education.)

Did you really believe we'd have any other theme? 

Girlfriend was excited for her b'woons.

So was her brother. Kind of. As excited as a five-year old boy is going to get at a two-year old girl's Hi Cat party. 

When asked what she wanted for her birthday, she replied, "An orange ball." 

There were a few other gifts too. 

Earlier that morning, she found an old pacifier and popped it in her mouth. If she had ever been thoughtful enough to use one when she was five months old, I might have let her carry it around all day. As it was, she spent the rest of the day (and is still currently) asking for her "bubble." 

Poppy knows the way to a girl's heart--a new phone.

And what girl doesn't love some fancy new bath bubbles?

Gma Cathy outfitted GiGi in her first ballet slippers; the Batman bandaid was per GiGi's request. 

Pink fingernails for the birthday girl. 

GiGi's babies are the envy of the rubber baby set thanks to Gma Lilly and the claw foot tub.

GiGi posed prettily for Gma Cathy. (When asked, "GiGi, how many pigtails do you want?" She'll tell you, "Two!" Of course.)

Baby sisters can be too much. And, RJ was grateful for a little spoiling of his own that day. 

As for me? Well, they say a picture is worth a thousand words. Sometimes it's something right out of Life. Sometimes, it's just something right out of life, when the floors aren't swept, the clutter isn't cleared, and there are goldfish crackers in the carpet. I had a moment during the party when I was watching GiGi chase balloons with her brother--a moment when I understood what it meant to love my babies to the moon and back; a moment when nothing was too much, and everything was right in my world.  I haven't seen this look on my face in a long time.

GiGi turned two. She's opinionated to the point of time-outs at school for growling at the teacher. True story. She's too fast for her own good. She challenges me and makes me a better mom. And thanks to GiGi and her big brother, I know what it is to love someone to the moon...and back.