Teach Your Children; Well, I Tried.

About a month ago, RJ turned six. Eventually, I'll recover from the endless weeks of school parties, graduations, musicals, and weddings and catch up with the family blog. For purposes of today, you should know that he's a six-year old boy. He still loves cars--the vehicles and the movie. More recently, however, his obsession has turned airborne: Planes--the vehicles and the movie. 

For his birthday, RJ had a simple request: "Oh, you know, I think I'd like some planes." No remote control cars. No video games. Little die-cast planes whose propellers turn only by the energy of a little boy's imagination. 

We complied: 

He was pretty excited. 

I believe that's Bulldog on the left--a key player in today's tale. 

Ignore the counter clutter. I just hadn't had time to do the weekly (er, monthly) sweep. 

For the next month, RJ forged a relationship with Dusty, Bulldog, and El Chupacabra. 

I started to bend some rules. It was the end of the year. The whining was at an all time high (pitch). I started to allow toys in the car despite having a strict "no toys in the car" policy--the result of Mom's frazzled nerves zinging one too many times as the swagger wagon turned a corner sounding like a rolling rummage sale as toys clattered from one side to the other. The swagger wagon, a fine vehicle in every respect, has one flaw: there are tracks in the floor that run from front to back, ostensibly so that the cushy captain's chairs can adjust to accommodate short legs and longer legs too. In reality, those tracks serve as crumb collectors, juice sieves, and racetracks--for little race cars to zip up and down keeping time with every stoplight and every acceleration. So, we've had a rule for a while: no toys in the car.  

As the whining increased, my resolve decreased. Every morning, both RJ and Gigi would ask, "Can I take these two cars?" or "Can I take my baby?" I'd respond, "Yes, but you can't take them inside." The days wore on. I fed them pasta for breakfast and sent them with turkey jerky and crackers for lunch. Toys in the car gave way to, "Can I take them inside with me and you take them back?" "Fine, whatever. Just get your backpack and get out of the car!" 

I found Dusty on Miss Debbie's desk when I went to confirm my lunch order for the week (hot lunch for the win!). Turns out Dusty had fallen from the swagger wagon in the parking lot and some kind soul had turned him in. I returned him and admonished RJ to be more careful and for goodness sake, take some responsibility for his toys!

This morning, the swagger wagon was due for maintenance. So, I emptied the trash bins, collected the used wipes (noses, not bottoms) and ran a ratty t-shirt over the dash in an effort to impress the mechanic who would be blessed with driving the great beast back to the shop. For totally impractical reasons, we take our cars to Norman--about 35 minutes down the road--for service. For equally impractical reasons, we took both cars and both kids this morning. 

"Mom, Can I bring Bulldog?" "Yes, just get in the car!" I sighed. And apparently, I gave a similar affirmation when he asked if he could bring Bulldog into the car dealership. I have no recollection of this, but I assume he's not lying ('cause if he is, he's in deep doo-doo). 

Cars were serviced. Daddy needed to work and headed to the office while the kids and I headed home. 

As we eased into the exit lane for home, RJ asked, "Mom, do you have my plane in your purse?" "Nope. I'm not your toy manager." 

"Oh." 

That face. That face. 

And then the tears. Heartbroken big tears and the gulping, gasping little boy question, "Can we go back and get him?" 

"Nope," I told him. "I bet next time you'll take responsibility for your own toys," I continued while furtively texting Dad at each stoplight. 

"But he was my favorite! That's why I wanted him with me today!" RJ is inconsolable. 

I let the ruse continue for another 20 minutes. I want to teach him lessons. I want him to learn that he has to take some responsibility for his own possessions. He has to learn sometime. Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young tell me, "Teach your children well." 

Well, I tried. I broke after only 20 minutes. Little boy tears are my kryptonite. He's only six, and he had only one simple request for his birthday. I hope RJ learned something. I think he did.  I told him the truth, "Daddy called the dealership, and they have your plane. Daddy is going to go get him. Daddy is your hero today." 

That smile. That smile. 

Here's the thing: I learned something too. I've never been the type to proclaim my affection loudly. I'm not a hand holder or same-side-sitter.  I have personal space restrictions (but so does the husband). I do try to set some kind of example for my kids in the hopes that they'll have an idea of what a loving relationship is.  RJ was disappointed that his dad had to work today. Those two get crazy on the weekends. I could have easily turned the car around and gone to pick-up the plane, but it was lunchtime (and I hate driving in south OKC). And, I wanted RJ to have a daddy hero today. It made me happy to see the shine on RJ when he learned that his daddy was coming to the rescue. He needed that today. I'm certainly in no position to give parenting or marriage advice. I have my fair share of failures and weak moments. But, being a parent has taught me that sometimes, the best way to show my children what a loving relationship looks like is to give dad the chances he can take to be the hero. In the end? RJ and Bulldog were reunited; the boys played soccer in the yard; and the whole family took a chilly dip in the neighborhood pool. It was a good day. 

I think we taught RJ well. If we didn't, well, we tried. 

Caps 'n' Tutus: Kindergarten Graduation

I blinked, and RJ graduated from kindergarten. How does that happen? How did he go from this

to this?

"Mom, we get to wear tutus for graduation!" 

I guess a tutu is a better choice than jail-house stripes: 

Walking into graduation, he laughingly told me, "I look like I'm going to jail!" 

By the end of the ceremony, he was showing how much of a little boy he still is--kindergarten was exhausting, and so is posing for pictures. 

He wants to be an artist when he grows up...so he says. "RJ, what does an artist do?" we asked at dinner. "Well," he paused for importance, "It's those guys who use microscopes and stuff." Ahhhhh, yes, I suspect he wasn't confused. He was simply describing the crossed paths of medical arts and medical science. I'm sure of it. 

Gigi held down the pew for one more of her bubba's events before she starts dialing up her own special events in preschool next year. 

No photographs please!

She and her brother have been having some pretty deep theological discussions lately. RJ tells us, "Jesus lives inside of you." Gigi responds, "I don't see him in my tummy. I don't even see him on the road." It's a truth we all struggle with, Gigi. She does, however, have a firm understanding of baptism: "Pastor Henke washed my hair in church too!" 

I survived my boy's first graduation. I blinked, and he was in a cap and gown (he'll be in one next year too--kindergarten is tough, particularly with a late birthday). But somehow, this was the one that mattered (remind me of that next year when I post nearly the exact same thing). 

And, for those of you who are curious about just what exactly a kindergarten graduation looks like, here are the highlights: 

Bittersweet

I put away RJ's train set last week. I wiped the crumbs from Thomas, James, and Percy, carefully placing them in a plastic bin. "It's just for now," I told myself. "We can always pull them out when RJ asks to play with them again." I carefully stacked the bridges and curves inside the bin so that they won't warp, because deep inside, I know that they're going to be stored for years. Gordon, Henry, Emily, and Victor have chugged their last chug powered by my little man's fingers (for now, right? He's not really finished with them?).

I used to think I understood "bittersweet." It's that feeling of dark chocolate--so sweet you nearly can't stand it until that little bite of bitterness pierces through you, though not the kind of bitter that chews away at your soul but rather, the bitterness that remains after some type of loss. The sweetness ultimately overcomes the bitter, leaving nothing but a mild melancholy, a hint of pride, and tension between longing for the past and looking forward to the future.

Motherhood has given me this feeling of bittersweet. Without it, I would never have shed a tear over a wooden track and a few (okay, many) tiny railroad engines. But, I'm a mom above all else. I'm not ashamed. I cried like a toddler who dropped her ice cream cone when I put those little trains away. I convinced myself that I'm happy that RJ prefers Legos and racing cars to little steam engines who wile away their days trying to be nothing more than really useful. I am happy that he's growing up, and that Gigi is too.

But it's only now that I'm truly understanding that "bittersweet" is more than a key ingredient on my Christmas baking list. "Bittersweet" is the recurring theme of motherhood. It's a feeling I know will come next week at kindergarten graduation. I'll be visited by that melancholy and pride again when Gigi starts pre-school. Someday (not too soon!), I'll watch my babies go on first dates, mend broken hearts (and break a few too).

Yesterday, I was reminded of the bittersweetness of Mother's Day for a dear friend, and after a day spent with my mom, I appreciated the sweetness of my day that came without any bitterness. Happy Mother's Day to all of my mommy friends, and to all of our moms who cried their own tears at those little bittersweet moments. I'm lucky that my mom is still with me, and I can tell her, "I love you." And to my friends who missed their moms yesterday, I remember them. Our moms all raised good women, and I know they're proud, whether here or in heaven.

And because I'm feeling a little bit of melancholy and a little bit proud,

This was my first Mother's Day, when I swore I'd never have a train table in my living room, and I'd never heard of Thomas the Tank Engine. I didn't know that there's one evil diesel engine on the happy Island of Sodor, and I certainly didn't know that someday, I'd shed a tear when that little diesel engine pulled into Tidmouth Shed one last time. RJ was so little on my first Mother's Day that I only knew the sweet, without a hint of the bitter. 

This year, he's gotten a little bigger, and he gained a best friend and sister along the way. 

This is my happy place. 

This makes me pretty happy too--a Mother's Day tea at our little Lutheran school. 

Yoga and the Child Within

After the half marathon, I was feeling a little let down. I had trained for months, and in one morning, I  checked a culminating box on my to-do list. The presents had been opened, the cake had been eaten, and the candles had been blown out (I need to blog RJ's birthday and then some).

I felt a little out of sorts.

I wasn't sure if I needed a nap, the potty, or a cracker. 

My world had been flipped upside down after being right side up for nearly a year. 

I felt off balance. 

Just generally out of whack, helper-skelter, and kind of wacky. 

I swam a few laps, lifted a few weights, researched full marathons (am I crazy?!), and ultimately decided to try something completely new. 

Yoga. That thing stretchy, balanced people do. And with legs carrying knots like grapefruits and a general feeling of weightiness on my left side and weightlessness on my right side, I decided I should be a stretchy, balanced person. 

I don't do well in fitness classes. When I was two, I peed in my tap shoes. I'd like to say I got better after that, but really, the only thing that improved was my potty training. If the teacher says "left," I go right. 

But this is yoga; it's slow and easy, right?

My first class, I uncurled my fresh-out-of the-wrapper mat beside a friendly looking woman who didn't cringe when I told her it was my first time. The instructor was about 50, and much to my delight, she wore a leather headband and tie-dye. She turned on music that chimed, and I found myself upside down in Downward Dog at 6:30 on a Tuesday evening. My arms shook, and I felt slightly dizzy and more than slightly out of place. But I persevered. I stood on one foot. Then the other. My abs screamed. I inhaled on the exhale, exhaled on the inhale, and found myself holding my breath, desperate for oxygen while the rest of the class rested in something called the "prayer" pose. My only prayer was for strength to finish the class without passing out. 

Then, something kind of magical happened: I started to understand. I followed instructions and figured out a pose or two. 

I can do this. I can be stretchy and balanced! 

Then, my friendly tie-dyed yogi (who, it turns out, is not a picnic loving bear) asked me to feel the energy of the room. I felt it. It pulsed in my aching ankles. She asked me to be aware of the energy. I was aware. She asked me to notice it pulsing "about three-inches in front of the mirrors."

I lost what energy flow I had in the stream of giggles that escaped on the exhale. I wasn't balanced anymore. It all seemed a little silly. And, as a silly girl should, I found my way back to the child's pose (because I behaved like one--just a little bit): 

But I felt relaxed. I felt stretchy. I felt kind of balanced. 

So, I went back for another class. I stretched into a headstand. I was sore in all the right places. I started to notice the energy in the room. Even better? I started to become aware of the energy outside of the yoga studio (so, it's a YMCA gym--why quibble over small details?). 

I've always said that if I could find a way to bottle my kids' energy, I'd be a happy, rich woman. 

I want to discover this kind of energy within. The pure delight that only comes from the first summer spray of the water hose. 

I want to place my hands carefully at shoulder level and feel the giggles bubbling from deep within my soul. 

I can see the energy rushing from his laugh out into the cosmos for all within earshot to enjoy. 

I'm quite certain that this is the look of the energy that has been balled up just behind my knees until its spectacular release that left me balanced and stretchy. 

Somewhere, in the midst of something new,  I'm finding myself floating, nearly flying.  I'm aware of the air on my skin, the breath in my lungs, and the energy inside and outside my body. 

And slowly, I'm stretching my mind. I'm balancing my right foot and my left brain. Tonight, we worked on our back muscles, and for the first time in years, the stabbing pain in my right hip and thigh has completely vanished. Even if the relief is temporary, it's relief nonetheless. I'm learning to control my thoughts with my breath and my breath with my thoughts. I'm becoming aware of the child that does still reside in my soul--the little girl who delights in spinning her sundress skirt; the excitement of a freshly-baked cookie; the little twinge of happiness that fizzles down the fuse toward the quickly approaching explosion of summertime. The energy flowed about three inches in front of me tonight, and tonight, this silly girl is happy and rich (for now--I've given myself until July to commit to a new goal because you can put a Type A in tie-dye, but you can't bask in the golden energy forever.).  

The Other Half (Marathon)

About a year ago, I decided to do something about my fitness. My back hurt. I was tired. I was sad and grumpy, out of sorts, and kind of lumpy (thanks to Ann Dewdney and Grumpy Gloria for aptly describing not only a sad, fat bulldog, but also me).  Swimming is bad on my naturally golden locks, and my bestie had taken up running. I decided to give it a whirl.

I started out at a 14-minute mile. Yes, I was running. Yes, it really took me that long. Yes, I was proud I could run a mile. Then I ran 2, 3, and even 4. My times came down. I ran a 5K and a 10K.
I started to get ideas. Crazy ideas. I signed up for a half marathon.

My goals shifted. I aimed for a sub-11 mile, then under 10. Last month, I paced below a  9-minute mile for a whole 10K.I set a few more goals. My race plans were set. I was going to run a half marathon in less than 2 hours. I had the legs. I had the ambition. I had the shoes, the leggings, the sweatband, blister-proof socks, anti-chafe balm, and headphones. I trained. I cross-trained.

As race day approached, I hydrated. I ate protein and carbs. I could see the finish line, and I visualized the clock time and again (just like my old swimming days had taught me.) I envisioned the healthy breakfast I would eat on race day: a bit of cereal, perhaps some fruit, a relaxing cup of tea. I planned my outfit (key, as any girl can tell you): an adorable white running skirt, blue hat, blue shirt.

This morning, I dragged myself out of bed at 4:30 a.m., took a shot of Imodium and assessed the damage. The stomach flu had knocked me down. I missed RJ's 6th birthday party and most of the 24-hours leading up to race day.

This morning, I ran my other half-marathon. The one I hadn't planned. I donned my old black leggings ('cause you know, Imodium) and scraped my hair into a ponytail. My pre-race diet? A cup of chicken broth and all the Powerade I could take down in 2 hours before crashing at 8:30 the night before the race.

By the 6:30 a.m. start time, we were walking away from the starting line and into a downtown office building, where we watched the radar for an hour of race delays. Rumors abounded. Cancellation seemed imminent (and I was secretly really happy).

At 8:15 a.m., the starting gun sounded, and we shuffled into the mass of discarded trash-bag ponchos. By mile 4, somewhere around the state capitol, I started to believe I could make it to the  halfway point. By mile 7, I had completely drained my handheld Powerade stash and was desperately seeking the next water stop. There wasn't enough water in Lake Hefner to adequately hydrate me.

Somewhere around mile 8, I started high-fiving toddlers and old men on the sidelines. At mile 11 I started counting down the distance instead of up.

And suddenly, 2 hours and 8 minutes later, I ran across the finish line.  I didn't break 2 hours, but I came close. Eight minutes isn't all that long in the grand scheme of things. Today, those 8 minutes were insurmountable. I'm okay with that.

It wasn't the half marathon I had envisioned. That will be some other race, some other day.

For now, I'm pretty proud of my other half-marathon--the one I finished!  (And I'm awfully proud of my racing buddies too):

After a 2-hour delay, we were ready to go!

We did it!

Curls for the Girl: Frozen Fantasy

A few years ago, I started seeing signs for daddy-daughter dances. Daddy-daughter dances? What are these newfangled parties? Are we really sending little girls on dates with their dads now? I don't even get a date with Gigi's dad anymore (yes, we're still married--I know how that sounded). I scoffed. I poked fun. I wondered at the wisdom of spending hard-earned cash for toddler dancing dresses. If you spend $30 on a dress for a dance when they're two, what on earth will you be spending for prom? Or for a wedding dress (shudder)?

Then I had a baby girl. A pink bow on her head (I would say in her hair, but I'd be lying--my little woman was darn near bald, but bald is beautiful). Her daddy wore pink the day she was born, and so began that relationship that can only be understood by another daughter who thinks her daddy hung the moon too.

Gigi and her daddy have a thing going on. I'm okay with it. My daddy and I had (have) a thing going on too. There used to be a cute little warning label that made the rounds on the Internet--something along the lines that men should look out for any grown woman who still called her father "daddy."

Gentlemen, look out. This pretty little lady will be calling her father "daddy" for a while:

She requested curls for her big dancing date.

Major thanks to our little Lutheran school for giving my baby girl the best night ever. (Someone really should talk to this one's mother; she needs to learn to sit like a lady.)

She asked for pink lipstick too. 

And for days leading up to her big dance, she boogied to her own beat. She was singing "Let It Go" before letting go was what the cool kids were doing. She's got the beat, and she just wants to have fun.

I promise, they really do have a thing going on. She just wanted to dance. 

The sky was awake. She was awake. And it was time to dance. 

I can't wait until I have to spend way too much on a prom dress and make him pose with his little sister.  Actually, I can wait a few years. I didn't have to worry about her dad getting her home safely before curfew. 

We had our own date night (to soften the blow when he learned that sons and mommies couldn't go to the Frozen dance. He likes to let it go too.)

I used to question daddy-daughter dances. They seemed extravagant and unnecessary. I didn't have a daddy-daughter dance until my wedding. Until then, fishing trips with my belt-loops tied snugly to the truck bumper were just as fun as any princess dance could have been. (I love you too, Daddy.) 

I hear that Gigi partied hard. The word around the playground is that she shook her bootie for two hours straight. She came home that night, snuggled into the chair and told me, "I had fun. Can I have nay-nay?" She's a dancing queen and a daddy's girl, but at the end of the night, when her curls have fallen, and the lipstick has faded, she's still my baby. 

And didn't this baby have fun! (She has worn the crown everyday since the dance.)

P.S. To the moms who made it happen, thank you! The effort was well worth the memories you made for a whole lot of little girls. 

A Total Mommy Brag: Gigi Swims (With Video!)

A big thank you to LeAnne and Meghan with Let's All Swim--proof positive that great teachers don't need fancy equipment to make big things happen. After six months of lessons, my two-year old can swim! (Apologies for the quality--mommy's hands were a wee bit wobbly watching her toddler traverse the depths.)

The best part? She loves it. After swimming across the pool, she spent the rest of her lesson diving for rings,  and tonight, she taught her baby dolls how to swim in the tub.