Small Miracles

 

Today we wandered outside to have a picnic lunch. A ladybug immediately caught Madeline's eye, and she gently picked it up to examine it more closely. Rachel didn't want to be left out, so we gave her a chance to hold the tiny critter. She didn't mean to, but she toddler-handled the poor thing, meaning she squished it.

"Oh no, Baby Rae, it's dead," Madeline said.

Rachel looked at the smushed bug on the pavement and said, "No, it's not."

Madeline, ever the empathetic one, patted her sister's shoulder. "It's okay, but it is dead." She looked at me for confirmation.

"Yes, I think it's dead. We just have to handle bugs carefully because they're so much smaller than us."

"I 'sowry,'" Rachel said to the deceased.

"Ladybugs don't understand apologies, especially dead ones," Madeline pointed out.

Rachel crouched low and looked at what now looked like a red smear on our patio and gently started blowing on it.

Then she began to shout, "It's alive, Mommy! I 'blowed' on it, and now it's crawling."

Sure enough the ladybug was creeping away from us, his smushed body peeled from the pavement.

"Wow," I said. (I really thought that bug was a goner.)

Madeline watched the ladybug scuttle away, and then smiled. "It's a miracle," she said. "A real miracle."

With the sun shining down on us, the baby digging in the dirt, and my two girls marveling at Lazarus the Ladybug, I whispered a quick prayer of gratitude, "Thank God for small miracles, and thank God for the children who recognize them."

Brave Girl

While at the playground early this evening, I said to a friend, "My kids are falling apart," referring to a tired toddler and a hungry baby, but it was five-year-old Madeline who really fell apart and has a big, blue cast to show for it. A tumble (that I didn't even see happen) broke her arm in two places.

My brave girl earned her bragging rights and boasted to the grandparents, "I didn't even cry!"

As for me, well, I blinked back the tears and somehow managed to keep the dam from breaking. But it wasn't easy.

What You Really, Really Don't Want to Find in Your Baby's Mouth

 

This morning I discovered my beloved baby (the alleged food snob) plopped down next to our sliding glass doors, taking note of the sunny day, and munching on a beetle.

Choking hazard aside, I'm not sure if a crunchy insect would be considered the breakfast of champions.

Ewwwwww...

Unconditional Love

I'm the nursing the baby in the soft light of morning while my 5-year-old stands close by, watching the two of us.

She reaches over and gently touches the sucking cheeks of her little sister. "She's the most 'beautifulest,' cutest, most wonderful baby there ever was, isn't she?"

After a brief pause, my older daughter crinkles her nose and says, "Except when she poops. Then she's gross."

I'm pretty sure she's thinking of a recent diaper calamity that involved Mom busily writing Christmas thank you notes and being completely oblivious to a crawling, pooping baby, a leaky diaper, and stinky stains all over our living room carpet. It was the 5-year-old who discovered the crime scene and the guilty party happily clapping her poop-clad hands. And it was very gross.

"But," my daughter adds, touching her sister again, "We love her anyway."

Lessons from a Third Child

I remember how much I looked forward to my firstborn's well-child visits at the pediatrician. I could easily recount every milestone. Her entire first year of life was documented in a scrapbook with artsy layouts as well as in a journal that read like Proust.

Fast forward five years and three babies later, and this is what happens at your youngest child's appointment:

Nurse: Is she crawling?

Me: Yes.

Nurse: Is she pulling up?

Me: Yes.

Nurse: How often is she nursing and for how long on each side?

Me: Ummmm... I'm not sure, but enough.

Nurse: Is she babbling?

Me: Yes.

Nurse: Does she play Peek-A-Boo?

Me: Ummmm... Peek-A-Boo? I don't think I've ever played Peek-A-Boo with her. I mean, I read to her and count her toes and...

Nurse: It's okay. You've got your hands full.

While I did feel a tad guilty my third baby has been deprived of engrossing games of Peek-A-Boo (and you better believe I went home and played some Peek-A-Boo with her), I'm growing into my mothering shoes and realizing that you can’t do it all or be everything to every child, and that’s okay. I may not gaze for hours at end into the sleepy eyes of my nursing cherub, and my 2-year-old doesn’t have a built-in playmate (AKA Mommy) at hand all daylong like her big sister did, but here’s a little secret to all the newbie moms out there: Children - especially older children like my 5-year-old whose needs and wants are no longer one in the same - don't need instant gratification or never-ending ministration to be happy. (Don’t worry. I played Peek-A-Boo all the time with my first, too.) I'd actually argue that never teaching your child to wait or to share Mom's TLC is going to lead to disappointment later in life when the cruel, hard world doesn't hand you your dreams on a plate and your boss says you have to more than just show up at work to be considered special.

Still, when I was pregnant with my second child, I kept wondering how I could possibly love her as much as her big sister. My worrying was wasteful because as soon as I held my Baby Rae in my arms, I knew that there was and always will be plenty of love to go around. Whoever says you can’t love a second or fifth or ninth child as much as your first never had a second or fifth or ninth child.

Off the top of my head, here are just a few other lessons I've learned since welcoming our third child into our family:

Your life will revolve around bowel movements, nursing, and naps (or pining for them) if it doesn't already, but you won't be so anal about keeping track of everything. (I look at my first baby's nursing logs and the scraps of paper where I counted and described the characteristics of her poop and chuckle.) You see your baby's eyes flutter and her body and babbling quiets down, and you know it's time for a nap. You don't have to look at the clock. Your body responds when she cries or squirms; you give what she needs because you pick up on her cues, and you no longer second guess yourself (much).

A mobile 9-month-old is a worthy opponent even for a 5-year-old and will try to get that miniature teacup in her mouth or spur what could be viewed as a sibling brawl (baby squeals and flaps her arms in frustration, inadvertently slapping big sister on the face), so don't always blame the older children when tears are shed.

Second children grow up even more quickly than first children, and third children grow up the most quickly of all.

Even though you no longer play Peek-A-Boo much, your third baby is the best entertained little one yet because the beauty of a bigger family is that Mom no longer has to be a solo act. My baby would much rather watch her silly sisters run around and sing and dance anyway.

Going from two to three kids, at least for me, was the toughest transition so far. I am completely outnumbered. Someone always needs me for something and yet, somehow I keep on giving and giving even when I'm tempted to bail. (I do sometimes sneak into the bathroom for a Mom time-out as a matter of survival.)

Finally, as evidenced by the growing stash of happy baby pictures, my Peek-A-Boo-deprived third child seems to be coping just fine.



What lessons in motherhood has your third or fourth or ???th child taught you?

Mass Mishap

First Friday Mass went well for the most part. I'm choosing to overlook the fact that 2-year-old Rae pointed to the priest during the first reading and said very loudly, "Why's 'dat' man sleeping?"

Yes, Father's eyes were closed, but how do you explain contemplative prayer to a toddler?

You don't because when you try, they keep asking questions. Loudly.

"He's not sleeping," I whispered. "He's praying."

"Why his eyes closed?"

"Shhhh..."

"Why he praying?"

"Because that's what you do in church."

"Why?"

"Shhhh..."

"Why?"

Oh bother.

Gazing

On Sunday both Rachel and M.E. were napping and under the watchful care of Papa and Gaba. I looked outside my parents' big windows at the brilliant blue sky dappled with just a few fleeced clouds and the lake water sparkling with sunshine. It was a day that begged for me to be outdoors.

"Madeline, do you want to go on a walk with me?"

Of course she did.

So my oldest daughter and I set outside. We brought only a bottle of water, a ball, and good conversation with us. We walked, pausing to notice the squirrel scampering up a tree and the glints of silvery mica on the ground.

Madeline started to skip along the gravel path. "Skip with me," she said.

So I did. And it felt good to skip and to smile beside my little girl.

When we were approaching the water's edge, Madeline said, "Mommy, let's just go sit by the water and gaze at it. That's a good idea, isn't it?"

It was.

We found a fallen log and sat on it. She tossed some pine cones in the water. We watched a family of mallard ducks glide across the glassy surface of the lake. And we gazed. Together. Just the two of us with no toddler or baby pining for my or big sister's attention.

The lake was beautiful but not as beautiful as the girl beside me. I noticed the way the fall sunshine painted her hair a honey hue and the way her cheeks were rosy from her skipping. When she noticed me gazing at her and not the water, she smiled, her big brown eyes bright. I smiled back. I thought, She's the best scenery of all and she's in front of me every single day, but I don't spend as much time gazing at her as I ought to.

"Let's go, Mommy," she said, taking my hand in hers.

I followed where she led me, watching her all the way.

The Bottom Line

4-year-old: Mommy, your butt's hanging out. Your underwear's too small.

For your information, I was wearing nice briefs, thank you very much, and my bum did not hang out. Much.

Me: They're not too small.

4-year-old: Well, then your butt's too big.

I realize she didn't mean it the way it came out, but still...

Sympathy

After changing oh, I don't know, the gazillionth explosive diaper in one day (the baby has transformed into the Poopenator), my 4-year-old kindly pats me on the back and says, "Mommy, I'm so sorry you have to deal with so much grossness."

Thankfully, I get to deal with a lot of sweetness, too.

Return of the Yes Mom!

After being inspired by this post, I've been trying to revert back to being more of a "yes" mom. No, I'm not giving in to every demand or allowing my preschooler and toddler to transform into tiny tyrants. What I am making an effort to do is to use less fighting words, to not always be saying, "no," or "don't," to choose my battles a bit more carefully, and to not allow my tiredness to result in lazy, hands-off parenting.

See, I used to be such a fun parent. I would act out stories, sing silly songs, and join in on the finger painting mess. Then I had another baby and then another. And then my husband's hours got worse and worse (one reason I have time to blog and write is because I'm frequently alone in the evenings, stuck at home, and eager to talk about my feelings to someone, anyone). And then cleaning up messes started to demand too much energy. And little things irritated me. Small requests seemed too big to handle.

And one day I woke up and I realized I'd become one of those "no" moms.

I recognize my limitations. I am realistic, knowing that sometimes the demands of raising three children, gearing up for homeschooling my oldest, keeping house, and supplementing our income right now mean I may not be able to play as much with my children. I'm not their recreation director. There are other more pressing tasks I must tackle first.

Yet, is it really such a bother to say "yes" every once in awhile to an all-day slumber party, an impromptu nature walk (I'm fairly good at planning things; it's the spontaneous requests for things that I sometimes balk at), or to eating a cookie at breakfast? In this case, the right answer is no. It's actually quite fun. It adds a little excitement to my children's day (and to mine as well especially if the aforementioned cookies contain dark chocolate chunks).

While I can't promise to always cheerfully say yes to messy crafts and flowers at the grocery store, it's been a very helpful exercise for me to gulp down some of my "nos" and to be more agreeable to my kids' requests. Not only have I enjoyed being more of a "yes" mom again, it's actually made things more peaceful around here. Instead of digging their heels into the ground prepared for a fight, my kids have been making more polite requests and I've been pausing before immediately proclaiming no, no, no. Not to mention, the "lovely splash of color" (my preschooler's words) that's been added to our kitchen thanks to our purchase of bouquet of fuchsia carnations is a beautiful reminder to say "yes" more often.

Here's a look at just a few things I've said "yes" to in recent weeks:

• Adding more milk to a bowl of cereal when the flakes were already drowning in liquid.
  
  
• Agreeing to a preschooler's request for a cookie slathered in frosting at 8:27 A.M.
  
  
• Buying flowers at the grocery store.
  
  
• Accepting lots of "help" from my toddler during the same visit to the grocery store (the trip took about 20 minutes longer than normal, but the toddler felt very, very empowered). I also allowed my preschooler to pick out a cereal I normally would never have added to my cart because of its cost and content. PLEASE NOTE: Grocery stores are dangerous territory when it comes to being a "yes" mom. If you choose to adopt this little exercise, you may want to hit the store sans kiddos.
  
  
• An indoor beach party:
  
  
  
  
• Permitting my girls to watch TV twice in one day. I'm such a rebel.
  
  
• Allowing my girls to complete a cutting project in the bathroom with me while I was...ummm...you know. If only they'll always want to be this close to me...
  
  
• A plea to leave the breakfast table mid-bite to go outside to chase a big birdie.
  
  
• A very messy craft that resulted in a toddler-turned-Smurfette:
  
  
  
  
  
• Permitting a little one to light a candle all by herself after Mass (all the while praying she wouldn't burn the church down).
  
  
• Another game of Old Maid.
  
  
• Another game of War.
  
  
• Another game of Uno.
  
  
• Pretending to pick up Feezy (my preschooler's imaginary friend), so he could tag along with us at the park.
  
  
• A trip to the park/playground in sweltering hot weather. (I've heard there are people who actually like the feeling of being drenched in sweat. I don't consider myself one of them.).
  
  
• Lots of helping hands in the kitchen.
  
  
• Letting my toddler sleep in a pretty, frilly dress one night. Then letting her stay in a nightgown one day.
  
  
• Stashing a collection of natural artifacts in my purse that were collected after a picnic dinner. My new purse contents included three rocks, an acorn, a stick, and several crumpled leaves.
  

How about you? What are some ways you can be more of a "Yes" mom?

Keeping Faith (in my Children)

Preschooler: Church is so quiet and peaceful. There are no worries.

A brief pause...

Preschooler: But sometimes it's a little boring.

Honesty is a virtue, right?

In all seriousness, how should I respond to my little one's honesty? (Advice is welcome!) I don't want to force feed her faith to the point that it becomes a chore instead of a great gift. Nor do I want to place unfair expectations on her. (She's only 4).

On this particular occasion, I decided to share with her (she's heard this one before and she'll hear it again and again) the greatest love story of all time - the one starring Jesus, the action-packed saga that conveys a theme of sacrificial love and redemption found in suffering. Then I told her that we become a part of that story and show our thanks to Christ by going to church, by gathering at his table, and by partaking in the breaking of the bread.

She smiled at all of this and resumed perfecting a doodle she'd been concentrating on when we had our impromptu heart-to-heart.

I know it didn't completely sink in. Let's face it: It doesn't always (ever?) really sink in with me. In fact, there are many, many times when the mystery of it all seems out of my cerebral grasp. Why did Christ have to die to save us? How could anyone love a sorry bunch of humans that much?

Yet, sometimes I expect too much from my children. I forget the path to holiness is not straight or easy. Saints aren't born perfect. They're born sinners like the rest of us, and they face the same struggles and weaknesses we do. But they kept at it and they loved Christ with the openness of a child. And that's just it: My children are very open to discovering their faith. I have to help them along on their journey and not always to be so quick to criticize or to simply jump to unfair conclusions.

I had a lesson in being faithful to my children two Sundays ago. The aforementioned 4-year-old, who was being particularly fidgety and whiny during church, started to cry after Communion. I immediately assumed her tears were the result of her not getting much sleep the night before and in part, I think they were.

I was frustrated that she had boycotted sleep and that now I was suffering for it. I grabbed her arm (resulting in further tears) and steered her toward our pews. I was not the picture of peace. I think I may have even been grimacing. Instead of driving me to compassion, her sniffles irked me.

Then it was my reaction to her sadness irking me. There were a whole lot of irked feelings going on when I should have been feeling renewed. Here I was so close to the Lord, and I was already losing my footing and thinking more about me and how I wished my kids would just be still and not get antsy and just, well, not act like they were 4 and 2. (Thankfully, I cut babies plenty of slack but even so M.E. is the easy one these days since she usually sleeps for most of the celebration.)

When we slid back into our pew, I knelt to pray and put my one free arm around my child. She curled close as silent tears continued to trail down her face. She was doing everything in her power not to make any noise, but the tears would not stop coming. I should have shown her some mercy, but I was craving a peaceful post-Communion prayer and also was way too worried about what others around us were thinking about my child (she's not always this whiny, I swear!) and my parenting skills (or lack thereof). So, in my vanity, I whispered a bit too harshly, "What's wrong? Are you just tired? I'm sorry you're so sad, but please try to pull yourself together."

Not my best mothering moment.

Her reply came, softly, "I'm crying because I didn't get blessed at Communion."

I'll qualify this with saying I'm fairly confident it wasn't a manipulative tactic. I strongly suspect my little one was being truthful because there have been other times when she hasn't been blessed during the Eucharist, and she's always visibly hurt. As much as Mass can sometimes be boring in her microcosm, there's a big part of her that wants to be a part of the celebration; she wants a part of that great love story I told her about. With God's grace and counsel from the Holy Spirit, I pray I can help all my children understand their part in God’s story.

How? By encouraging them. By feeding them bits of faith bite by bite, day by day. By introducing them to the saints. By gently guiding them and being a good teacher who is long on patience and short on lectures. By recognizing that while children are small on the outside, they are filled with great treasures. By always remembering that it isn't so much what I say but what I do that will leave a lasting impression on the hearts and quite possibly the souls of my children.

I didn't live up to my expectations on this particular Sunday. I was impatient and too focused on myself and what others thought of me as a mother instead of how my child might be feeling. I knew it as soon as my child whispered through her sniffling why she was sad. Perhaps next time I'll recognize it sooner and will think before I react.

I would do well to give my children the benefit of the doubt, to be more forgiving of them when they stumble (they certainly forgive me without so much as a second thought when I'm not in top form). My sweet girl may sometimes find all this religious stuff a tad boring, but sometimes she surprises me by so clearly seeing the Truth. I should give her a little more credit. It's important I recognize that my children's faith is both real and fragile. Their natural faith can be developed - or destroyed. Careless words and actions can crush their spirits. That's why I must be careful to not be too harsh and to not expect too much too soon. It's also why I must approach my children with the same confidence I'd love them to have in God. If I really want to pass down the faith to my children, then I ought to start by having a little more faith in them.

Adventures in Groceryland Part II

I did it! I braved the grocery store with a newborn in my Ergo and a preschooler and toddler steering the shopping cart-racecar hybrid. It wasn't too harrowing of an experience either. In fact, we averted meltdowns entirely until we exited the premises and were in the parking lot. At this point, the toddler decided she wanted to keep driving and placed a death grip on the steering wheel, but after I encouraged her to say, "Bye-bye, car," (about 16 times or so), she reluctantly left her hot ride behind.

We weren't in the clear yet though. When I was loading the kids in the van, Madeline asked what I'd be making them for lunch.

"How about some hummus wraps? Oh wait. I forgot the wraps," I said.

"Go back and get some," Madeline said.

"I can't." And I really couldn't. I just did not have the stamina to unload the kids and venture back into Groceryland.

"Pleassseeee."

"No, I'm sorry. I'll make peanut butter smoothies instead."

No use. The floodgates opened. "No!!!! I want hummus wraps with veggies!" Loud, desperate wailing ensued.

And at that moment I remembered an essential survival skill in the trenches of motherhood: Focus on the positive. Sure, I would have liked to avoid a screaming tantrum (which woke up the baby), but I couldn't help but smile over the fact that my 4-year-old was crying her eyes out over a veggie hummus wrap.

If Only I Could Take Her Up On It

Said a nocturnal wee one at dusk: Now, Mommy, if you need me in the middle of the night to hold the baby, you can wake me up. Really. It's okay. I can help.

Forever Baby

Preschooler: I want to be a baby and nurse and always sleep with you. I want to do everything the baby does except get shots.

Me: But if you were a baby, you would have to get some shots. You'd also have to sleep about 20 hours a day. So tomorrow - if you want - you can pretend you're a baby and sleep all day and miss out on all the fun things 4-year-olds get to do and not pet Moose [a puppy we're going to see tomorrow].

Preschooler who sees sleep as cruel and unusual punishment, adores dogs, and suddenly seems much happier NOT being a baby: All babies do is eat, poop, pee, sleep, and sleep more. They can't eat ice cream or open closets.

Me, wondering since when opening closet doors has become such a privilege: Good night, my love.

Preschooler: Wait. Let me say good night to that baby.

She gently kisses her baby sister.

Me: And just think, someday M.E. will be a big sister who wants to be a baby again and sleep with me.

Preschooler: She can come sleep with me then.

After a few more words are exchanged, my big girl goes to sleep all on her own, not even knowing that she'll always be my baby.

Who Knew?

Preschooler, while playing pretend with Mommy: Okay, we're going on a trip.

Me: Where are we going?

Preschooler: To visit my friend Snow White.

Me: Oh, does she live in an enchanted forest?

Preschooler, glaring at me like I don't know anything at all: No. She lives in Africa.

Love Has No Limits

Me: How much do you love me?

Preschooler as she outstretches her arms: This much.

After a brief pause...

Preschooler: Actually, I love you more than that, but my arms aren't long enough to show you.

I needed to hear these words. We all need reassurance from time to time, but lately my mommy ego has been suffering some slight bruises. Since the birth of our baby, our tenacious, high spirited, and strong-willed 4-year-old has started to inform me that I'm "the worst mommy in the world" when I, gasp, enforce bedtime, quiet time during the day, or tell her throwing toys in the house is unacceptable, or make her sit on the potty to "listen to her body."

As far as the BMs go, we thought we'd overcome the "holding in poop" issues, but it seems any change means she's back to her old habits (and adding another baby to the mix is a big change for a child, especially a high-need child).

Dear Madeline takes a capful of Miralax (an adult dosage) every day per our pediatrician's recommendation. We were told she would not be able to physically hold her poop in any longer (this was almost two years ago), but when you have a truly tenacious child, I've learned anything is possible.

Last night it took 45 minutes of potty time before she succumbed and "listened to her body." We were going on day four of no poop and also watching her do lots of ballet dancing (she walks on her tip-toes when she's trying to hold it in). Our record is 15 days. It's a battle of wills...constantly. But the whole "choose your battles" doesn't apply in this category because I cannot allow her to hold her poop in for the sake of her physical health. So I cajole. Sometimes I fight. I always praise when she does go poop. Yet, it can be trying. It can test my limits.

Then again, should I even have limits? Madeline's love doesn't, after all.

Truth is, sometimes I get frustrated or even angry. Sometimes I raise my voice a little too loudly or squeeze her arm a bit too sharply. Sometimes I do snap after I've been up at night with a newborn. I am not proud of my behavior. There are nights when I fall to my knees and pray for God's graces and ask him to please, please help me to correct and to encourage with a firm gentleness and not in anger.

When I do put a limit on my love and throw my own tantrum, I ask for forgiveness from God and then I apologize to Madeline. I remind her of my love for her. I wait for her response, and this same child, whom I have learned to recognize as "high-need" and "high spirited," shows more empathy than most adults. She'll wrap her arms - the ones that cannot physically express her love for me - and say, "It's 'otay,' Mommy. You're a wonderful mommy," or, "I know you're sleepy," or, "It's tough being only one mommy." There have been times when she's even offered to pray for me.

I'm so thankful for this tenacious, beautiful child and the wisdom beyond her years she seems to possess, and I'll take poop conflicts any day if it means I can enjoy the company of this angel of a girl.

I realize, too, that she is right: Sometimes it is tough being one very human mommy to three very precious but oftentimes demanding black holes of need. Sometimes it's tough to be the bad guy (AKA "the worst mommy in the world") and to set boundaries or to enforce certain non-negotiable rules. Sometimes it's even tough to show love when you're children are exhibiting unlovable behavior (kicking or screaming or vocalizing a litany of why you stink), but a mother's love cannot be contingent on how "easy" a child is or how "fun" mothering is at that particular moment.

I say I love my children every day, and I certainly do feel an intense love for them. But feelings aren't enough. The way I feel about my kids is about me; however, the way I show my love, what I do, how I act toward my children, is what matters to them. This is a tough lesson - one that I'm learning and trying to embrace every day.

So I ask myself: How much do I love all of my children? There should never be arms long enough to quantify it. Like Madeline's unconditional, wide-open love for me, there can be no limit to my love. Sometimes I am required to just keep on giving even when the temptation to run and hide, throw my own tantrum, or withhold my love is great. This is, perhaps, the very reason why the call to motherhood is so sublime. Being a mother is surely a way of growing in selfless love and holiness - if we only allow ourselves to be stretched like the arms of my preschooler.

Pint-Sized Pragmatist

21-month-old: Where's "Melmo"? Where's "Melmo"?

(Melmo = Elmo)

Preschooler: Elmo's not here. He's not even real.

My Little Carnivore

I'm not sure I have to point out the irony of this post following my Meatless Monday series, but it has recently become very clear that my oldest daughter does not share my sentiments when it comes to red meat and when she turns 14 and is required to practice the laws of abstinence, Fridays in Lent will likely be quite the penance for her.

Although I'm no longer a vegetarian, I can’t remember the last time I ate a steak or cheeseburger. Even now that I eat meat on a regular basis, I still can’t think about where it comes from without feeling a little guilty, and working with raw meat often makes my stomach turn.

Not only did I embrace vegetarianism at a fairly young age, I was one of those peculiar, extra-sensitive kids who screamed at her brothers if they happened to hurl one of my beloved stuffed animals across the room, really believing it was "real" - if you loved it enough - just like the Velveteen Rabbit - and sprung to life when no one was looking.

So you can imagine my dismay during story time several nights ago when the following exchange took place:

The girls and I are curled up together in bed and it’s time to read another chapter from Farmer Boy. When we get to this passage, I’m starting to feel queasy and worried my preschooler will swear off meat after hearing the gruesome details of butchering:

“As soon as one was killed, Father and Joe dipped the carcass into the boiling cauldron, and heaved it out and laid it on the boards. With butcher knives they scraped all the hair off it. Then they hung it up by the hind feet in a tree, and cut it open and took all the insides out into a tub.”

From me: A mental Ewwwwww…

From my 4-year-old: “Yum," and some loud lip-smacking.

I don’t mean to look at her like she’s crazy, but I can’t help it.

She explains, “You know why I said, ‘Yum?’ Because that’s how you make steak and stuff.”

Her daddy would be proud.

I've Fallen in Rank

So yesterday afternoon I'm pulling out of the grocery store parking lot when my car alarm starts going off. I have no idea what I've done to trigger it, but I cannot figure out how to silence the blasted thing.

I finally pull over, turn the engine off, unlock the doors, and lock them again in a desperate attempt to stop the blaring horns. It works, and I breathe a sigh of relief and feel the heat disappearing from my flushed face.

I've almost completely recovered when I hear my preschooler say, "Mommy, everybody was looking at you like you were a weirdo."

And I thought I had at least another decade or so of coolness before my daughter saw me for the nerd that I am.

7 Quick takes (Vol. 6)

~1~

In a recent tweet (I still can't believe I'm Twittering. I'm the lady who frequently forgets to carry her cell phone with her and has never sent a text message in my life), I shared that we were having Blob Day. This is a tradition I'm passing along to my kids from my own childhood. Once a week we strip the beds and I allow the kids to play in the "blob" of sheets before tossing them into the washer. I fondly remember goofing off in sheet blobs with my brothers as a kid.

One of my least favorite domestic duties is changing sheets. (I don't do well with fitted sheets. I think there needs to be some sort of marker on each corner - like TR for top right - to tell the domestically challenged which corner goes where because I always get it wrong the first time.) Yet, calling bed changing time "Blob Day" somehow makes it more fun for the kids and me.

So, I'm curious: How do you make routine household chores more fun?

~2~

Death be not proud. Not in the eyes of my preschooler, anyway.

The other day Madeline said out of the blue, "You know what, Mommy? It's exciting when we die."

Huh? I tried to think where this conversation was headed, what macabre thoughts I'd inadvertently put into my 4-year-old's head.

"What do you mean?" I asked carefully.

Her response blew me away.

"When we die, we'll get to meet Mary and God for the first time. We'll get to see them."

Oh ye of little faith (as in me), that is exciting.

~3~

A wise friend of mine recently told me something that I'd honestly never really thought much about. She said, "God sometimes speaks through our husbands."

Looking back on the times when I've sought Dave's counsel, I see this to be very true. In fact, he recently encouraged me to take a step back from a writing project and to really decide if this was the right time to be pursuing it. I had not been praying enough about this particular decision, and his words of wisdom encouraged me to do so. I've felt much better about it since (though I'm still undecided as to how to move forward).

I've also started to ask what he thinks before committing to any new endeavor - whether it involves writing, volunteering, etc. I tend to be a "yes" woman who pridefully thinks she can do it all. And sometimes I can but not very well.

Now when someone asks me to do something, I politely say, "Let me get back to you. I need to discuss this with my husband and see how it might affect our family life." Or something like that.

I've found this not only "buys me time" and keeps me from impulsively saying yes and thus, transforming into an unhappy, overwhelmed martyr mom, but it also allows me to open a dialogue with my husband who is often much more able than I am to assess the situation and how it might impact our family and/or me. He has no problem graciously saying no, and he's helping me to learn to do the same.

~4~

My youngest is just over 20 months, but the Catholic guilt is creeping into her life. She has said, "'Sowry,'" on three separate occasions this week.

1st guilt trip

Me: Ouch! Who threw that book at me? That really hurt.

Not only am I in the driver's seat where flying objects could cause an accident, but my elbow is tingling like crazy after the guilty party chucked a board book at me.

Rachel Marie: Sowry.

2nd guilt trip

Me, as I'm tending to a nuclear diaper: Ugh. This poop really stinks. Ugh.

Rachel Marie: Sowry.

3rd guilt trip

Me, asking rhetorically in a nonthreatening manner: Now who got this purple smoothie all over the wall?

Rachel Marie: Sowry.

Soon she'll be saying "sowry" for saying "sowry." Not that I've ever done that.

~5~

Okay, I've had one friend tell me she had a similar sensation during pregnancy, but is there anyone else out there who has experienced quick but sharp cervical twinges during late pregnancy over and over throughout the day? The best way I can describe what I've been experiencing for about two weeks now (I'm almost at the 33-week mark) is that it feels like I'm getting Pap smears all day long. I feel a sharp pinch, then nothing, then another sharp pinch. Just thought I'd throw this out there because this is something I didn't have with my previous pregnancies.

~6~

I fear Madeline's horse craziness is worsening.

~7~

Madeline is a critic in the making. I tried out a new prenatal workout video (Leisa Hart's Fit Mama Workout) this week, and she quickly determined it was "too salsa-y and cha-cha-y."

"We keep doing the same thing over and over," she added.

I agreed with her assessment. The salsa dancing choreography was getting old, but I did enjoy the yoga section.

However, we might have to work on her knowledge of fitness terminology before she goes public with her reviews.

Madeline: What are you doing?

Me: Stretching my calves.

Madeline: What are calves?

Me, as I point to her calf muscle: This muscle right here.

Madeline: Oh, I thought you meant baby cows.

Swing by Jen's Conversion Diary for more Quick Takes, and have a wonderful weekend!