August

Summer is finally slowing down and stretching out, like long shadows on a lazy afternoon. June and July were energetic. Three different VBS weeks, baseball, family camp, drama, church activities. We practically ran from one event to the other, powered by the drugs of early morning sunshine and fresh cut grass.

But eventually, the adrenaline wears off and tempers wear thin. Structure, even fun structure, becomes a prison. And so we limped into August and fell head-first into a calendar filled with nothing but white space.

So here we are, week three of August. We have three weeks of summer vacation left. And I'm starting to feel my shoulders relax and come down from their perch by my ears. These are the days when I make plans with friends because the openness of our days scares me a little, when I let the kids stay up until 11:00 to watch family videos, when I say, "Oh, all right" when asked if they can have a treat after eating a paltry serving of vegetables.

This is the summer Sabbath. A time to rest, for sure. To recharge and refresh. But also to celebrate and enjoy the work of our hands. August is when I remember how much I like being with my kids when we have no demands intruding on us. It's when I treasure the simplicity of life as it is right now, when I have enough silence in my soul to behold it. Little ones in fresh-smelling pajamas. Connor and Natalie laughing over a video. The sound of lullabies competing with the hush of the trees after dark.

These are the days I wish August could last forever.

Seasons Change

Cold is coming. That’s what the meteorologists say. Never mind that it's only the second week in September and that most everyone in the Upper Midwest is near panicked about summer's end. Nope. Weather don't care. A Canadian cold front is coming in with a left hook. Highs in the 50s with a cold rain, they predict. Gray. Maybe even frost in the outer suburbs.

Teach us to number our days of sun, Lord, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.

The dire forecast certainly sent a tingle of terror down my spine. But more than that, it gave me permission to wallow in the last few days, which were perfect to the point of myth. Blue skies, crisp breeze, bright sun that caressed my skin with warmth. “There, there, baby. I’m not gone yet.” The purple and orange coneflowers hosted a honey bee frat party, and the pool was filled, one last time, with laughing, splashing children.

It was glorious. And I relished it more because I knew it was about to change.

This is the lesson of the seasons: change is constant. So you best keep your eyes wide open for the gift of today.

My kids started school last week. There was the normal adjustment: Teyla started first grade - she's gone all day now, riding the big yellow bus to and from school with her older brother - and Kieran is in preschool three mornings a week. But for the most part, this is a well-worn groove. We know this dance. We all get up between 7:00 and 7:30, we leave the house at the same time each morning. I know every possible route to Natalie's private school, I can guess what each child wants for lunch. Everyone gets home around 4:00. It's safe. Predictable.

But I see signs of change ahead.

Next fall, Natalie starts high school, and a public high school at that. Connor will transition to middle school. And Kieran, my baby, will start all-day, everyday kindergarten.

Whew. Left hook to a momma's heart. That's a lot of transition coming for me in 2015. Good stuff, even great stuff. But all of it involves heaping piles of change.

Which is why I'm savoring this year, The Year Before. I'm 42 now. I have experience with seasons. I have learned to step back and use all my senses to treasure today. Natalie, tall and tanned, embracing her new role as oldest on campus. Basking in her last year with her friends before the high school diaspora. Connor, relaxing in to his second year at his new school. Deepening friendships, growing comfortable with routines and expectations. Teyla, delighting in first grade and the new friends and the new teacher. For her, it's all discovery and giggles. Even Kieran, dipping his toes in the educational pool and then happily joining me back at home, where he can snuggle and play guys and do karate without a single distraction or care.

I've said before, these are the good days. I know it.

And this year, I'm savoring it. Open wide my eyes. Listen. Laugh. Drink it all in, every last bit.

Because I love every season. But the one I'm in is always my favorite.

The Golden Days

The wind blew crazy Sunday morning. The treetops pirouetted against the sapphire sky and the leaves skittered along the pavement and the dragonflies stayed low to the grass and tried in vain to make headway.

I went outside in my pajamas just to feel its wildness on my skin. It lashed my eyes and twisted my hair and snuck down into my soul, where it tugged like a hurricane. Faster, faster, it whispered. I bring change on my wings. You cannot stop me. 

And I whispered right back, I know, alright? I know. But I have two days left.

Simmer down, wind. Simmer down.

----------

Summer has been golden this year - piled high with laughter and sunshine and laziness like a triple-scoop ice cream. I've fairly rolled around in it like pig in slop. We didn't go on any big trips, choosing instead to stay close to home and do ... well, a whole lot of nothing. We swam every chance we got, we spontaneously met friends at the park which turned into pizza dinners at someone's house which turned into sleepovers "please mom please mom please." The big kids spent days watching YouTube videos of other people playing and narrating Minecraft, sort of a Mystery Science Theater 3000 for the next generation. The little kids went camping in their bedrooms, which essentially meant cramming backpacks with two of every toy in the house (tiny little Noahs) and then leaving them for me to discover under beds, in closets, in bathtubs. Teyla spent hours crouched low in the yard, one finger out, patiently willing dragonflies to land on her. Kieran taught himself to swim in our pool, going from life-jacket-only in June to jumping off the diving board by himself in August, part ninja, part fish, bobbing up from sparkling water with a smile and a yell.

It was the best stuff of life.

These are the sweet days, I know it. Natalie turned 13 in July. She's almost as tall as me and her thick mane of chestnut hair stretches long down her back. She takes selfies like its her natural language (which it is, I suppose) and she texts with friends from school and when I hug her good night, I close my eyes and hug tight because just a few days ago, she was my baby, and now she's emerging woman. Connor is as wirey and bronzed as some mythical snake. He does perfect dives into the pool and when he laughs, he wrinkles his nose and throws his hair back and his sun-streaked blond hair shimmers.

This summer shone brighter than the sun.

I've told many friends that I'm in a near panic about going back to school this year. I'm not ready to return to early to bed and early to rise, I'm not ready to pack lunches every day, I'm not ready to return to schedules and traffic and deadlines. I've grown quite accustomed to waking up whenever I want and doling out breakfast between 10:00 and noon and serving chips and homemade salsa for lunch and eating dinner only when everyone is hungry. Bedtime lately has been well after dark, almost always after 10:00, if I'm honest and feeling brave enough to admit that on the Internet. I'm not ready to give up days where getting dressed means putting on a dry swim suit and we can fall asleep on chair cushions watching the clouds meander across the sky.

Mostly, I'm not ready to give up my kids. I will miss each one of them when they go back to school on Tuesday. I will miss the time we've spent together this summer, just being. I will miss them as they are in this season, this moment - tanned, laughing, bored, relaxed. I will miss them so much my soul will ache.

So simmer down wind. I know I can't control you, and I know you are a harbinger of change. But I've got two more days. Still time for one more swim and one more snuggle.

I don't intend to waste a moment of this golden summer.

The Parenting Fog

I call it The Parenting Fog.

It's easy to slip into, especially in the summer. We get home from a camping trip, we finish up a week of VBS, the relatives leave after a fun visit - and everyone collapses. Fun plus exhaustion plus emotional hyperactivity minus sleep minus vegetables equals a deflated balloon of a person. So everyone retreats to their own corners.

In my house, that means the big kids ingest hefty doses of screens. Connor plays Minecraft eight hours a day, Natalie watches equal amounts of "Good Luck Charlie." The little kids split their time between Netflix and playing "school" which involves getting out every type of toy we own and putting one of each kind into a backpack to shlep around their bedrooms. And me? I stare at Facebook and various news websites for hours on end.

In the back of our little brains, the whole engine is going "chug, chug, chug, put this memory over there, chug, chug, file this big thought, chug, chug, do that better next time, chug, chug."

I maintain it's a necessary and even healthy stage of summer survival.

The only problem is: like a bad houseguest, it tends to overstay its visit.

I know this, because last Wednesday - after two weeks of family visiting us plus Fourth of July celebrations plus a week of VBS plus Corey leaving for North Korea the same day the last family members flew home - I entered that stage. I descended blissfully, I'll have you know. "Have at the screens, kids," I mumbled before sitting at my desk with Facebook open. The fog enveloped me like a blanket, and I sighed with pleasure at the nothingness.

But by Saturday, the sun was breaking through. The fog started to dissolve a little. I could make out shapes. What is that - a child? He's hungry? Bizarre. Do I have children? What day is it?

And slowly, ever so slowly, I felt strength and determination return.

That is the moment I decided - hey, this mothering gig. I'm not doing a great job at it - unless you count throwing cheese sticks and granola bars at the fog shapes and calling it a day. Maybe I could get off my arse, put limits on screen time and actually BE with my children.

Novel, no?

So Monday, I started over. I parented with intentionality again. I made breakfast for my kids and listened to their stories, instead of retreating with my coffee to my desk. ("I wonder if anyone on Facebook has posted something in the last five minutes?") I made plans to get out of the house. We spent an afternoon at the park on the beach. We dug holes in the sand and ate chips under the trees and marveled at the fall-like temperatures. We took Teyla to gymnastics lessons and instead of pulling out the phone, Kieran and I played tag and catch and let's see who can hit the wall harder. We went to the final baseball games of the season and cheered Connor and his team and basked in the just-warm-enough sunshine and gaped at the best summer sunsets.

It only took a few days for me to remember - oh yeah, I actually like this parenting gig. It's hard and at times it's tedious and at times it's maddening. But it's summer and I don't want to waste one glorious golden moment with the people I love.

Bring on the second half of the best season, I say. Here comes the sun. And it always brings grace with it.

San Diego Spring Break, Part 2

Part two of the memories, stories and lessons from our spring break trip to San Diego; part one - including how travel is getting easier for us these days and the simple joys of being outside in March - can be found here. 

Not everything on vacation has to be about us.

I love taking our kids on vacation. I love anticipating the fun and making plans. I love being in a different setting - especially when that involves escaping winter - and I love the memories and connections that happen when we have time to be fully together.

But I do worry that vacations will becomes just one more extravaganza for my kids. We have so much already, and I will fight to my dying days the entitlement that privileges seem to breed.

So when Corey told me his organization, Feed the Children, happened to be hosting on a charity event when we were in San Diego, I jumped at the chance to take a day off from focusing on us and focus on others instead.

Thus, our second full day in San Diego, we found ourselves standing outside in the bright sunshine in a parking lot just a few miles from Mexico, loading boxes from Feed the Children into the cars of 800 military families who had been preselected by the Armed Services YMCA.

Two Feed the Children semi-trucks were the backdrop - along with a battalion of Navy and Marines servicemen and women. We worked alongside them to hand out a trio of boxes that contained food, household supplies and a special box from Avon for the women of the house.

Truth: our kids were a little intimidated to be surrounded by so many "soldiers," and yes, there were a few moments of "I'm hot, I'm hungry, how much longer?" But for the most part, spending a morning serving others was a great adventure for our little tribe, and hopefully, by taking their focus off themselves for a few hours, it made the fun to come even more meaningful.

My ideal trip is a mix of familiar and foreign.

I discovered something on our trip to San Diego. The perfect vacation, for me, combines familiarity and discovery. Traveling to a city that's completely unknown is too much chaos at this stage of life to enable relaxation. I like going to a place where I already how to get around town, where I already have a few destinations in mind, where I don't have to scramble just to find a place to grab lunch.

San Diego is that sweet spot for us. We know the traffic patterns, we know the cities, we know the locale of our favorite restaurants. We have friends to visit and favorite haunts to swing by. But since we stayed with my brother in northern San Diego County, about 45 minutes north of where we used to live, there was also plenty to explore.

My brother's neighborhood, in particular, delighted me to no end. I took a walk every day; one morning, I even walked to Trader Joe's, which sits at the business end of the mixed-use development, and bought cream for my coffee. I mean, really. I walked to Trader Joe's. I constantly poured over the variety of housing styles in his neighborhood. On Facebook, I showed off four of my favorites. We visited new beaches, new parks, new restaurants. We made memories and discoveries without the stress that sometimes accompanies exploration.

Maybe best of all:

Staying with family on vacation is the frosting on the perfect vacation cake.

This isn't always possible, but for the record: I highly advise having family live in popular tourist destinations. My brother, Michael, and his lovely wife, Kristen, were impeccable hosts - letting us use their house, their kitchen, even their laundry. Our kids adored having cousins to play with, not to mention all the new toys to play with - including this dream playhouse in Michael's backyard.

Because we stayed with family, we were able to pack healthy lunches for our adventures, instead of eating out every meal. Because we stayed with family, we were able to swim in the neighborhood pool and have floaties for everyone. We used their toys when we went to the park, their towels when we went to the beach, their fridge to store our leftovers.

And the crowning glory: because we stayed with family, our kids had extended time to play with their cousins and get to know them. That was the real joy of this trip - building new connections with family.

Up next: a few of our favorite things to do in San Diego.

San Diego Spring Break

We spent spring break in San Diego this year, something you surely know if you follow me on Instagram or Facebook. Ever since we got back, almost two weeks ago, I've worn the silliest grin, even as we re-entered daily life and Corey left on a work trip and Minnesota had the audacity to (gasp) snow. I didn't care, not much anyway. It was a great trip, and I'm still basking in the glow.

I intended to do a photo-heavy post to sum up our trip in one fell swoop. But then I downloaded my pictures and looked through them all and I realized: I have more than one post here. This is the good stuff. I don't want to skimp on this in a rush to get to the next thing. So permit me a few days of snapshots and stories, like we used to do in the dinosaur age of blogging. This is the story of my family and our experiences, and the beautiful thing about sharing these memories here is that my story is often your story too.

Travel is getting easier.

We flew from Minneapolis to Los Angeles, even though our eventual destination was my brother's place in northern San Diego, because LAX has more flights and it's easier to redeem frequent flyer points at the busy airports. Our kids are pretty used to flying at this point; Connor has stopped packing weapons in his carry-on (there was that one time we forgot to tell him he couldn't take a pocketknife on the plane; thank you, Lord, for giving us TSA agents with a sense of humor), and since Corey is TSA-Pre, he can take the kids through the expedited security line, which makes everything easier.

Still, California is a good 3.5 hour flight away from home. It used to be, I packed snacks and new toys and a coloring books and a variety of clothes, diapers and blankets just to get us through.

Not anymore. At some point, on our way out, I looked across at our family row, three deep on either side. Natalie was reading a book, Teyla was playing on her Leap Pad, Connor was playing Minecraft on the iPad. Corey was working on his laptop, I was reading a magazine and Kieran was asleep on my leg.

No one was fidgeting, no one was fighting, no one had just dropped their marker for the 30th time and wanted me to bend myself into a pretzel to retrieve it from under the seat. They were all taking care of themselves. They were happy and peaceful and able to sit still without reminders.

"Oh my word. We've made it," I whispered to Corey, nodding at the relative peace around us. "I never thought we'd get to this stage, but here we are."

And then my heart burst into a million tiny pieces of confetti, because it's true. Don't give up hope, parents of toddlers and preschoolers. You'll make it too.

California is still my home.

I said on Facebook: Every time I walk out of LAX, I inhale deeply and smile. I know that distinctive smell is 95% smog, but it is so familiar and distinctively Southern California, I can't help it. Happy to be "home."

And this is true. My heart skips a beat when I spy the Pacific Ocean, racing alongside us as we head south on the 5 toward San Diego. The familiar hills, the bright flowers, the traffic on six lanes of freeway, the Tejano music on half the radio stations. It all reminds me of the decade we spent living and rooting ourselves in California. A spring break trip to San Diego would be awesome for anyone, but for Corey and I, it was also a sweet reunion.

When you've been surrounded by snow for 3.5 months, all it takes for a morning of fun is green grass.

Our first day in Carlsbad, in northern San Diego County, we decided to take it easy. We investigated the many playgrounds in my brother's adorable neighborhood. The kids were thrilled just to be running on green grass. Teyla performed a full dance recital for Corey and me, as we sat on a bench in the sunshine and drank our morning coffee.

Connor launched foam rockets, one of the many outdoor doors we were encouraged to borrow from my brother's garage. Natalie led her siblings in a game of pirates versus ninjas. It was glorious just to be outside and not be cold.

That afternoon, at yet another park, the kids took turns rolling down the hills.

It wasn't until they stopped and said, "Our arms itch!" that I remembered Southern California grass is coarsely cut. Each of our downhill rollers had tiny scraps and scratches all over their arms, like a thin road rash.

Note to my SoCal friends: in Minnesota, the worst a downhill roll will do is stain your jeans.

Up next: Familiarity vs discovery, we make our kids work on vacation and staying with family. 

How to Make Vacation Re-Entry Pleasant Instead of Painful

We arrived home from spring break a few days ago, suntanned and satisfied after a week away from snow and schedules. Re-entry isn't fun - who wants to go back to school when, the day before, you were playing at a park next to the beach, eating In-N-Out burgers and fries? - but thankfully, our last few days have gone about as smoothly as one can expect.

And that, my friends, isn't something I used to be able to say. A few years ago, I got serious about setting myself up for success when it comes to vacations. Being on the backside of an anticipated fun event is hard enough; adding a rough return home to the mix was like a double whammy. Instead of winding up rested and refreshed, I squandered my good vacation vibes trying to get up to speed with my normal life.

Here's my recipe for a pleasant versus painful re-entry.

Before I Leave
Bottom line: I have to do more work before I leave on vacation to set myself up to be able to relish it on the back end.

Clean out the fridge (1-2 days before departure)
There is nothing more disheartening that coming home from vacation to find rotting bananas on your counter and sour milk in your fridge. So now, a couple of days before I leave, I go through my fresh food supplies and decide what can stay and what needs to go. Sometimes, that means my family eats a dinner of leftovers a couple of nights in a row so we don't waste food. (I hate wasting food.) Sometimes, I have so much fresh food, I decide to give some of it away to local friends rather than have it languish in my empty house. And always, it means I allot myself 30-45 minutes the day of departure to put freezable food in the freezer - this includes all bread, cheeses and leftovers. And if I have time, I deal with the remaining produce in my fridge that won't keep. Last week, I put all our berries in the freezer; at least that way, I can use them in the future for smoothies or muffins. I froze a bag of pre-cut broccoli; that will go in broccoli cheese soup. I even froze the rest of the container of spinach for smoothies. I also put a bowl of pears on my counter into the fridge. The only thing I forgot was the bananas in my pantry, but banana bread to the rescue, yes? Nothing wasted.

Make sure I have at least one meal ready to go (1-2 days before departure)
You know what's disheartening? Stepping into your house after a long vacation at dinner time only to realize: there's nothing to eat for dinner. Sure, we could hit up a restaurant, but if we're coming home after vacation, we've just eaten out ad nauseum. And no one has the energy to control the kids at a restaurant after a long day of travel. In the past, a dinner of eggs and toast came to my rescue. But these days, I try to make sure there's something in my freezer that I can reheat the night we come home. Last week, it was a frozen Pioneer Woman lasagna. I put it in the oven right after we walked in the door, and it cooked while the kids ran crazy and the adults unpacked. Ninety minutes later, we sat down to a real meal that didn't include fries or chicken fingers.

Bonus tip: Make sure you at least have milk and cereal in your house before you leave, so you don't have to run out for breakfast the next morning either.

Clean the house (1 day before departure)
A clean house calms me. A chaotic house makes me crazy. Ergo, I now make the day before we leave on vacation a cleaning day. I don't go crazy, but I do clean the bathrooms, dust the major surfaces, vacuum and Swiffer and make sure my kitchen counters aren't sticky and the sink is wiped down. Walking into a house free from clutter and dog hair makes me think: Ahhh, it's good to be home. I can linger here in this vacation mode for just a few more days.

Launder sheets and towels (day of departure, if you have time)
If I can, I like to do it the morning we leave. As soon as I get up, I strip my bed and wash the sheets. (I don't worry about the kids' beds. They don't appreciate clean sheets like I do.) I also grab all the towels after morning showers and cycle them through. I figure, even if they aren't hung up (read: I threw that last load in the dryer as I was walking out the door), it's still nicer to come home to fresh.

Take out the garbage (day of departure)
One time, I forgot to take out the kitchen garbage. In the summer. Before we left on a two-week trip. It took me bottles of Febreeze to remove the smell of rotted chicken that seemed to pervade every surface in my home. Never again.

Start the dishwasher (day of departure)
Dishwashers get stinky too, yes? Especially if they are loaded with cereal bowls coated with milk. So even if the dishwasher is only 1/4 full, I start it right before we leave. Because I don't like stinky.

Once I Get Home
Bottom Line: Cash out the pre-vacation work.

Have the Hold Mail delivered
I always have my mail held for the time I'm gone and then have everything delivered the day I get home. That way, I can get through the stack of junk right away. It's usually waiting for me, wrapped in a big rubber band, in my mailbox.

Unpack
I used to wait to unpack. "I just don't feel like it yet," I said to myself. You know what happened? Five days after the trip, I was still living out of a suitcase. Ain't nobody got time for that. So now, I unpack within an hour of getting home. And I ruthlessly unpack everything. Laundry goes into the laundry room, clean clothes get folded or hung on hangers, toys get put away, DVDs reunite with their cases (they live in an old-fashioned CD carrier while we are away; less bulk). Yes, it's a pain, but once it's done, you can relax and enjoy being home and bask in all the good memories.

Do laundry
If I don't start the vacation laundry right away, I will put it off forever. So I gather and sort it as soon as possible and throw in a load before I go to bed that first night. It means I have to fold and put away the next day, but if my house is clean and I have food for meals, it's the only real chore I have to do that day. I can manage that.

Clean your schedule for a day or two
Obviously, this one isn't always possible. But when we arrived back this week, I discovered - to my utter delight - that because many districts around us are on break this week, almost all of my regularly scheduled activities have been cancelled. So I had no Wednesday night church events, no Thursday morning workout classes, no Friday morning mommy and me class. I didn't plan this, but now that I've experienced this slow-and-easy re-entry? I would plan it this way in the future, even if it meant bowing out of normal life for a few days. It's been so much nicer than trying to hit the ground running. The whole family has been able to rest from the time change and enjoy being home without being rushed somewhere. Instead of being stretched and depressed, we are savoring a spring break well spent.

And isn't that the whole point of a vacation?

On Sleepovers and Waking Up to Change

This past weekend, Natalie hosted a sleepover for two of her closest friends. The way the schedules worked out, the girls were here for a full 24 hours, which normally I would say is A Bad Decision, given what I know about sleepovers and tween girls. But the extra time turned out to be a secret bonus: since the girls knew they had a big budget of hours to spend together, they didn't force themselves to stay up all night to make the most of every opportunity. Ergo, they slept from midnight to almost 7:00 AM, and they were a complete delight on Saturday instead of cranky zombies.

Also: they baked homemade mini donuts and then whooped it up with the sprinkles. Can't hate that.

It sounds funny, but at some point last year, I woke up to the fact that I'm a mom who's oldest kids are rapidly approaching the teen years. And I don't mean I gently woke up, as on a spring morning with the birds singing outside my window. I mean woke up like my alarm went off with its loud "BLEEP BLEEP BLEEP" and I simultaneously have a heart attack and win a gold medal for cartwheeling out of my bed and slamming the snooze button while doing the splits.

It was startling, is what I'm saying.

I think it snuck up on me because my focus has been fixed by necessity on the younger ones. The baby years are singularly absorbing, the toddler years are joyfully and exhausting. Natalie and Connor were mostly in the sweet spot, the easy and uncomplicated years between 6 and 10, when they are old enough to get dressed by themselves and brush their own teeth (theoretically), but they still want to be with you and they have awesome imaginations and they are completely unselfconscious.

I think I forgot they are changing too, even if it's at a slower pace.

But you know what? After I got over the heart-pounding moment of recognition, I found myself falling in love with the ages my kids are today.

Yes, Natalie is only 18 months away from high school. (I'm not really OK with that at all, but I keep saying it to myself to see if I will eventually get over the shock.) But she is still my girl, she is sweet and loving and responsible and generous. What's more, now she is genuinely funny (versus the knock-knock joke funny of second graders, which we all know is a special kind of torture) and she sends me cute emoji texts and she gets totally embarrassed when her friends follow me on Instagram, which is endearing.

Connor draws comics like it's his job right now (which he hopes it will be, someday), and he shares them with me and explains each panel so patiently. "And here he falls down and then it's all 'aaahhhh' and the bomb explodes and then this darkness is where the ninja dies.'" And I smile and nod and feign understanding. Because it's not about the drawing, it's about his imagination, right? And that I get that spades.

Just last week, I unearthed a bizarre belief deep down in my subconscious, which was: once we are mature, we stop changing. I have no idea where I got this, because I'm fairly certain no adult ever told me that. When I stumbled upon this belief and and held it up to the light, I laughed a while with God because - to live is to change. Even now, at 42, I'm shifting, evolving, learning, growing in my soul and my world view. And I love it. Change isn't always easy but it's exhilarating.

And so it is with my children. Change is constant. For sure, trying to keep up with the growth of four kids at once is like trying to watch four TV programs at the same time, as I often say. I'm bound to miss key twists in the plot, because there's only so much I can absorb at once.

But oh. To be on this ride. What a joy.

---------

So as long as we're talking about change, let me ask you a question: how old are your kids and what is their bedtime? We are not an early-to-bed family, so generally, the kids all have the same bedtime because a. it makes it easy for us to enforce and b. we rarely make that bedtime anyway. 

But it occurred to me this weekend that Natalie, at 12, probably doesn't need to aim to be in bed at the same time as Kieran, who is 3. At what age is it right to make the shift to a later bedtime? 

(I'm going to post the same question over on my FB page, where there is usually more discussion. So if you want to comment there, feel free to hop over and join the conversation.)

On Raising Boys and Other Feral Things

I was sitting at my desk the other night, when Kieran emerged from the bathroom. He was nekkid from the waist down, clutching his nighttime pull-up and his polar bear fleece pajama pants. Pretty routine for this boy; if I had a dime for every time I found him without pants lately, I could fund his college education. I started to help him put his bottoms back on when I saw his left foot was splattered with liquid.

My mind pressed rewind.

One minute earlier a tinkling sound had come from the bathroom. I had ignored it, thinking he was using the potty. But the discovery of the wet foot led to a wet leg which led to a scurry to the bathroom where I found an empty potty.

"Kieran! Did you go pee-pee?" I tried to keep the terror from my voice.

"Yep!" he answered proudly. "In der."

And he pointed to the shower.

My shower.

Sure enough, there was a splatter of liquid gold still trickling to the drain.

"Buddy! What did you go potty in the shower instead of the toilet?" I asked, completely befuddled.

"I dun know," he shrugged.

Boys. They are feral things, wild creatures we welcome into our hearts only to find pee in the shower and exactly zero underwear in the wash. (Because it's too much work to go get a clean pair after the shower, Mom.)

I am confused by them but equally delighted. My three-year-old Kieran wipes his snotty nose on my shirt sleeve and then says, "I wuv you so much, mama" and hugs my neck hard. My 10-year-old Connor has to be reminded every day to brush his teeth, every day, as if it's a new task we've suddenly given him instead of a twice daily routine he's been doing since he was three. But he also shows me the new comic strip he's drowning and lays his head on my lap each night before bed with a quiet, "Will you pray for me, Mom?"

I can't predict them, and Lord knows I don't understand their native ways. (Why is burping so funny?)

But I love their otherness, and I can't imagine my life without their hugs, their adoration and their boy grunts and giggles.

Even if it means there's occasionally some pee in the shower. At least it's not on the front rug, right?

A December to Remember

So winter quiets me. But you know what? It doesn't quiet my children. It doesn't mute my life. Winter slows the core, like sap in a maple. But it doesn't ever freeze solid.

All that to say: a whole lot of living happened the last few weeks, while I was transitioning from December's sparkle and bustle to January's possibilities and paralysis analysis.

Last month, we managed to buy our Christmas tree, decorate it, put the holiday lights on the house and arrange the front porch pots full of winter greenery exactly two day before the first snow storm of the season. (And exactly one day before Corey left for North Korea. More on that later.)

In a flurry of caffeine and sugar induced hyperactivity, the kids and I mixed, scooped, baked and decorated all our Christmas cookies - all 20 dozen of them - in one day.

Sadly, all that baking didn't preemptively burn off all the cookie calories. (And I still have some chocolate mint brownies, if you want one. I'm done.)

Christmas was more relaxed than it has the right to be. Our kids don't wake up at the crack of dawn anymore, and since we don't have tons of family in the area, the day was more about playing with the new toys, taking naps and walking together through the snow-covered neighborhood than craziness.

There was also a lot of laughter. I love that kind of Christmas.

And then we got even more relaxed. Corey enjoyed some vacation after his Korea trip. We got the backyard ice rink ready for business. We tortured ourselves with a 1000-piece puzzle. We slept in and saw "Frozen" twice and we went sledding and we had an epic snowball fight on an above-freezing day.

The cold never bothered me anyway.

And then we rang in 2014 with our annual cheese and chocolate fondue extravaganza. Because what we really need after a month of rich foods and extra treats is - cheese and chocolate!

Not pictured in any of the collages above: the whiny moments, the exhausted meltdowns, the cries of "I'm bored" coming from the middle of a mountain of new toys and the five or ten extra pounds left by the holidays. They were there, woven into the fabric of reality. But that's not what I remember when I look back. I mostly remember a Christmas break almost magical in quality. Corey was home for three weeks in a row, which hasn't happened since July 2012. We were just ... together. It was glorious.

----------

The photo collages above were all created with the help of my favorite monkey on the Internet, PicMonkey. Ever since the demise of Picnik two years ago, PicMonkey has become my go-to for basic, easy and painless online photo editing. It's the perfect solution for people like me who want to touch up photos, maybe make a collage or add some text but who don't want to go to the trouble, time or expense of mastering Photoshop. The basic service is free, or you can pay a small monthly fee to upgrade to more editing options. Maybe my favorite part is PicMonkey's sense of humor and general cheekiness. Any website that has a monkey winking at me is alright by me, you know?

A few weeks ago, PicMonkey contacted me to see if I would share my love here on the blog - which I agreed to immediately, since I rave about PicMonkey in real life and I'm a little abashed I haven't told you about it before - in exchange for giving away a one-month subscription to their upgraded services. So there you go! I've told you of my monkey love. Now you get the gift.
a Rafflecopter giveaway

The giveaway will close on Sunday, January 26.

Today is The Day

Today is the day to right the ship.

It's a day for Tom & Jerry on the TV, for toys being picked up and put away, for Christmas jazz to play constant. It's for doing laundry and for cleaning those sticky spots off the kitchen floor and getting out the toilet bowl scrubber and doing what must be done after a week of guests in the house.

Thanksgiving was incredible this year.

I'm not sure I've ever had my family come for this particular holiday. We had almost 20 around the table, and the whole day sparkled like a drop of dew in the sun. (Or maybe like a pat of butter melting on a homemade roll; that's probably more apropos.) We laughed and played games and ate ourselves sick. And then we ate some more. Because that's what we do.

And the cousins. My goodness. All the kids are getting old enough to play together now, and watching their relationships unfurl like a bud in the spring delighted me to no end. They kept disappearing together, to play puppies in a bedroom or to have a Nerf gun battle in the basement. I didn't grow up with cousins around, so to watch my kids form real friendships with my sister's kids is a joy new to me.

But now the party is over. The last of the house guests left this morning, and just in time, because the chaos is right up to my chin.

I am the kind of person who loves to celebrate and be with my people and stay up late talking and eat just one more piece of pie. But after a few days of that, I am also the kind of person who craves routine and quiet and the simple peace of folding clothes still warm from the dryer. I relish both flavors of life.

So today, I will turn on every light in the house, and I will go room to room, restoring order. I will vacuum up the dog hair and the stray crumbs, and I will bet money I will find something belonging to my sister's family tucked under a bed or behind a cushion. I will wash every towel I own and I will make an extra cup of coffee, and when Kieran takes a nap this afternoon, I will crawl in next to him and revel in the softness of flannel sheets and the stillness of my monkey boy. And when the kids get home from school, we will do homework in a quiet kitchen and eat leftovers for dinner and maybe snuggle around the fireplace, a necessary act when the forecast calls for the season's first dumping of snow.

Today, I will give thanks for the memories made, for the laughter still echoing off the stones and for the glory in the ordinary. I am full, in every way.

The Most Important Part of my Day

The most important part of my day usually comes at the very end.

It's after I supervise homework and play another game of Go Fish, after I make dinner and clean up the kitchen, after I give the little kids baths and wave the big kids to the showers, after I supervise teeth brushing and story reading and bedtime snuggles for Kieran and Teyla.

It's when the house is dark and quiet (finally!) and I'm so bone-weary, I'm tempted to grab my iPad and fall into a stupor on the couch.

It's then that I go to say good night to my big kids.

At 9 and 12, Connor and Natalie don't need my help to get ready for bed anymore. When I walk to their rooms at night, they are washed, brushed and snuggled under the covers without my assistance.

But they still need me. That's what I need to remember.

Now, more than ever, they need me to ask about their day and to listen to their stories. They need me to ask them about the book they are reading, the comic they just drew, the story that came up at dinner about the new kid in class and "how did that make you feel?"

They need my questions and my laughter and my attention. They need my blessing. They need my hands on their heads as I pray for favor and growth and a heart that hungers for God. They need to know that I love them more with every passing day, that no amount of exhaustion or solo-parenting or stress can stand between them and me.

If they needed to hear it when they were babies, they need to hear it even more now that they are tweens.

So this week, I started to treat 9:30 each night as the pinnacle of my day, instead of the final box I check before I get some time alone.

Because it is.

Do Hard Things

The refrigerated air from the ice rink hit my nostrils before it hit my skin. I steered Connor inside, him carrying two hockey sticks, me carting the bag. A line of eager young hockey players, already suited up and ready to go, stood wrapped around the glass. A friend from baseball saw Connor and waved.

It wasn't exactly an intimidating setting, but I felt my pulse quicken. I helped Connor sit down on the bench and lace up his skates. He pulled on his new helmet and gloves. He looked impossibly small inside all that equipment. I smiled and said, "Go get 'em! Have fun!"

But inside, I felt like I was sending him to fight lions with his bare hands.

Earlier this year, Connor decided he wants to play hockey. Part of me clapped my hands with delight at his announcement. Hockey is my favorite sport, a passion I share with most Minnesotans (and all of Canada). But he's 9. And he just learned to skate last winter. This is not a good-thing in our hockey-obsessed state, where a lot of kids are born in blades. (Not really, because ouch. But you know what I mean.) Kids skate year-round here, and many are on teams before first grade. All that to say: He's way behind the curve, and if he really wants to play, he's facing a lot of hard work, a fair amount of embarrassment and lots of initial failure.

Aye, there's the rub.

----------

Growing up, I did many things well. I got straight A's in school. I was a fast reader. I wrote poetry, I was a good friend, a perfect student and I could clap a round of "say, say oh playmate" wicked fast. Those things came easy. I didn't even have to try.

Other things weren't so easy. Sports. Jump rope at recess. Failure.

In a twist of irony that's not unique with me, the more I excelled, the less I wanted to risk making a mistake. I liked the feeling of succeeding on my first try; I could get a perfect score on an essay test, even if I knew nothing about my subject, because I could make BS sound pretty. But I despised the feeling of trying and failing; math class, anyone? It was uncomfortable and humiliating and it made my face burn red.

So I started to live by an unspoken rule: I avoided hard things and stuck to activities where success was guaranteed. No risk? No failure.

As I got older, my strategy started to wear thin. I married Corey, a jock and extreme risk taker. I accompanied him on his adventures - keeping book at the softball games, waiting on the ground while he parachuted from planes - but I never participated, even when he begged me to join him. (In one infamous episode, his coed softball team needed a female player to avoid a forfeit, and I stubbornly, desperately, refused to bat even once, wildly choosing social exile over looking like an idiot at home plate.)

It wasn't just sports. I didn't ask for help at the TV station when I was behind deadline, because I didn't want to admit I was going under. I didn't learn to surf, even though I worked one block from the ocean, because I didn't want to struggle in public. I didn't introduce myself to new people who might have been friends because I didn't want to risk rejection.

I missed out on a lot of life. A lot.

Finally, sometime in my 30s, I decided: this is no way to live. I refuse to be hemmed in by fear of failure. I'm tired of giving up before I even start.

So I started to do hard things. I got certified to teach a fitness class. (Me! Doing sports!) I intentionally sought relationships with people different than me. (Me! Inviting uncomfortableness!) I had four kids. (Me! Losing my mind!)

I began to value effort more than ease. And I grew.

I don't fear failure anymore. I fear living inside of a box of my own making.

But that morning in the ice rink, I remembered its smell (and the smell of unwashed hockey equipment). It's one thing to no longer fear failure for myself. It's another thing entirely to watch my kids struggle. I fight hard against my instinct to rescue, to comfort, to gently steer my children toward those things that will come easy. I don't want to watch them fail.

But if I got my wish, how would they grow?

So that morning in the hockey rink, I sat on my hands as I watched Connor finish each drill a full 30 seconds after every other player. I watched him fight to stay upright when kids younger than him were skating laps around him, backwards. I gave the thumbs up when he fell down and I sighed with relief when the coaches divided the kids into skill levels. I cheered when he gained confidence in his hockey stop. I gave the thumbs up when he shot me those tentative, "I think I'm getting it" looks. And I smiled big when he walked off the ice after 90 minutes of solid skating and said, "That was so much fun. I can't wait to come back."

My heart swelled with gratitude and my eyes swelled with tears.

"You are doing a hard thing, Connor," I said as I tugged off his skates. "Don't give up."

We're getting there. We're getting there.

The Last Week

Yesterday afternoon, I was standing in my backyard, chatting with a friend who had come over with her kids to swim because of the wilting, oh-there-you-are-summer heat and humidity. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a yellow jacket went kamikaze on me and dive bombed into my eye with such force, I stumbled. He stung me, at least once, while I did a frantic little dance and tried to swipe him off my eye socket without getting my hand stung. (But my tongue wasn't hanging out, and there were no giant teddy bears, so at least I didn't look completely ridiculous.)

I immediately ran to get an ice pack, which helped both the pain and the swelling. But because the sting was right below my eye, I've still got some residual puffage. You probably wouldn't notice it if you glanced at me. But I notice it. The right side of my face is swollen and today the bags under my eyes are right up in my eyes. My vision is slightly compromised and my skin stretches taut when I smile and it's all mildly uncomfortable.

It makes it hard to focus on what's right in front of me, because I keep focusing on the distraction.

-----

This is the last week of summer. My kids go back to school next Tuesday, the day after Labor Day. The first day of school is one of those looming dates, you know. It's so big, it can't help but cast a shadow on the final days of vacation. And my brain, blessed be it's geeky neurons, is already in September, sorting out schedules and signing the kids up for fall classes and events.

But this is the last week of summer, the final hurrah of my favorite season. Outside, the sun is shining, and the pool beckons. There are still several lazy, hazy nights worthy of ice cream runs. I have many grill-worthy meals in my fridge: carna asada, Greek chicken kabobs, cedar-planed salmon. We still have to visit the Minnesota State Fair and squeeze in a few more afternoons at the lake.

I don't want back-to-school to puff up into my vision and crowd out what's right in front of me.

It's mildly uncomfortable. My inner planner squirms at this stay-in-the-moment crap when there are to do lists to be written, options to discover, calendars to be aligned. It's hard for me to focus short instead of long.

But I refuse to let the swirling, stinging things distract me from what's before me right now. So if you see me squinting the next few days, it's probably not the bee sting. It's just me, trying to stay here, in the last week of summer, where my kids laughter and the clink of ice make a swollen eye no big deal.

Snuggle Time

Every afternoon this summer, between 1:30 and 3:00, I scoop Kieran into my arms and give the signal to the other kids that means "Screen time! Now! Do whatever you want as long as you're quiet!" And I walk down the hall to Kieran's room and pull the blinds in his window and I turn on a small fan in the corner and I click on his bedside lamp. We read a book and I say, "You know what time it is now?" And he grins and says, "It's time to SNUGGLE!" And I click off the light and burrow under his construction trucks quilt, and he puts his head next to mine on the pillow and sucks his finger and puts his other hand on my face and we both sigh and take a nap.

Every day. Without fail. A nap.

This has saved my life this summer. Corey's traveling, per normal, which means I'm solo parenting four kids this summer, all day, 24-7, without help, by myself. (I know that's redundant but the point needs to be emphasized.) I am a little rung out, honestly, with all the bickering and the cruise-ship-directoring and the constant cleaning up in the kitchen. ("I just made lunch. How can you be hungry again?") It's good, don't let me steer you wrong. I love these lazy summer days and I love being around my kids, most of the time. But it's also depleting, this constant parenting. So to have a daily break, when I can lay in a dark room and hear nothing but the gentle swoosh of a fan and the deep breaths of my sleeping three-year-old next to me? To have an hour every day to drift off and rest my body and my mind? It's the hinge in my day. It's when I reset, refocus, refresh. It saves me.

What's saving you these days?

What Summer is For

I got up at 8:00 this morning, the sun peaking through the cracks on my matchstick blinds, and I felt virtuous for getting up so early, a sign that summer is in full swing.

I believe summer mornings are best served up lazy. I relish getting out of bed when I'm ready to get up, not when my alarm dictates. I let my kids lounge in their pajamas until noon and watch Bubble Guppies and Team Umizoomi until they turn off the TV. I might serve breakfast at 11:30. (Hey, it's still morning.)

I want the plan being no plan, at least for part of the day.

I'm not normally like that. The rest of the year, I bleed organization. This past school year, I had a schedule that ran so smoothly, it was like living inside a Lear jet engine; my weeks positively hummed.

I would get up around 7:00 (::cough:: 7:30 ::cough::) and shower, get my kids ready for school, feed everyone breakfast and then swoosh everyone into the minivan by 8:30 for the drive to school. Three mornings a week, Teyla had preschool, so those mornings, Kieran and I would hit up Target and Trader Joe's or head to the community center so I could work out and he could play at his own "school." (Brag alert: I worked out consistently two mornings a week the entire school year thanks to Teyla's schedule.) The mornings Teyla didn't have preschool, I would leave the littles in their pajamas for the school run and then we'd come home and watch TV or paint or clean the house or maybe head to the Children's Museum. The ying-yang of the busy mornings spaces with the lazy mornings was pitch perfect for me.

Lunch was around 12:30 each day, nap for Kieran (::cough:: and me ::cough::) at 1:30 while Teyla watched Strawberry Shortcake on the iPad and then we'd leave at 2:50 (::cough:: 3:00 ::cough::) to pick up the kids at school. Afternoons we might do homework or watch PBS Kids or play Legos or go outside until 5:00, when it was time for me to make dinner. We'd eat, play, bathe, read books, snuggle, pray, snooze. The end.

My weeks were so well-ordered, I almost didn't have to think about anything. I just flowed from one spot to another. Of course, it also meant I had to keep moving. At 7:30 each morning, I was forced to get up. Lunches had to be packed for the next day, homework had to be done, bedtime had to be at a decent hour. Even if the schedule is a thing of beauty, it starts to feel like a prison after a while, a taskmaster glowering at you if you miss a beat.

Maybe that's why I love summer so much. It practically demands schedules be thrown to the wind. Stay up late! Eat one more s'more! Sit next to the pool and watch your kids swim instead of cleaning the house! Drink your coffee on the front porch and let your toddler explore the new flowers. Don't plan too much or rush ahead. Relish this moment, when the sunshine is bright on your skin and the breeze is tickling the trees and your children are laughing with the joy of a spontaneous football game with Dad in the backyard. Inhale the smoke from the bonfire, built for no other reason than you like to hear the wood snap and hiss. Make homemade ice cream. Go Up North. Spend too much at the fair.

Fall will be here soon enough. The schedules will return, days will be organized and your calendar full.

But not today. Not this morning. Pour a second up of coffee and linger. It's what summer is for.

The Final Hurdle

You know that little plastic thing that goes in the lid of a sippy cup? It has arrows on both sides causing mothers-of-a-certain age to squint and hold it up to the light to figure out which end it which?

A little tip from me to you: When it starts to grow mold that cannot be eradicated, it's time to toss the sippy cup.

And when your youngest child is three, you might decide, "Screw it. I'm done with sippy cups forever. See you later, suckers!" And then you might laugh maniacally at your own stupid joke and toss the sippy cups in the trash with smug satisfaction.

Enter: The Era of the Open Cup, also known as The Age of the Spilled Milk.

But it's OK, I've decided. For better or worse, I'm winding down my time in Toddlerville. I'm entering a new phase of life, one more ruled by school calendars and sleepovers and sports schedules than naptimes and tantrums and baggies stuffed with Cheerios.

I'm a little wistful. But mostly, I'm ready.

What's a little spilled milk between mom and her growing kids? Bring on the new stage of life.

I've only got one final hurdle - potty-training Kieran, who never really liked sippy cups to begin with.

Lord have mercy.

On The Wound and The Healing

I was reaching back to hand Teyla her markers when I felt my thumbnail bend and then rip deep into the nail bed. Lightning pain. I gasped involuntarily and jerked my hand back to the front.

We were driving home to Minnesota after spending a week in Colorado, a week where we practically steeped ourselves in the goodness of family and friends and Americana. I had nail clippers in the back of the minivan, tucked away in my suitcase, but I couldn't reach it. So for the next hour, I nursed that broken nail and pulled at it gently to see if I could finish the job the marker case started.

It throbbed and my nail bed oozed. Finally, I worked up the courage to pull it off in one-fell swoop, to put an end to the suffering and get on with it.

But dang. That bad boy hurt.

My thumb has been tender the last four days, ever since we got home. Much like my heart. On one hand, it's wonderful to be back in Minnesota, to enjoy the glorious summer we earned enduring our too-long winter. I'm glad to be sleeping in my own bed again, I'm even more glad the kids are sleeping in their own beds again, and it feels right and good to be cooking in my own kitchen, doing my own laundry, even wedding my own garden again.

Home is a wonderful thing.

But after spending a week with my sister and brother-in-law and parents and watching my kids play with their cousins and remembering what it's like to live near family, my heart is a little tender.

I didn't grow up with extended family nearby, so I didn't grow up expecting to have my kids hang out at their grandparents on the weekends or have a cheering section of family present at every ball game. It was always just me, my parents and my siblings. There was a sweetness about it being just us.

But now that I'm older, I know that we missed out on that larger community of family. And I miss it for me, as an adult. I miss it for my kids.

So my heart is healing this week, in a place that's normally protected. The rawness is fading, and I know I'll adapt to life as it is, not as I wish it could be. The nail will grow back.

But it sure was fun enjoying it all sparkle, for a little while.

The Whoffer

Last week, as I was giving Kieran a bath, he held up a plastic fish and said, "Look, Mama, I caught a whoffer!"

"I think that's a butterfly fish, buddy," I said with a smile, soaping up the washcloth.

"No, Mom! It's a WHOFFER! I caught a WHOFFER!" he insisted.

----------

I remember when Natalie and Connor were the ages Teyla and Kieran are now. I only had two kids, and being a SAHM, I was with them every moment of every day. We went to the grocery store together, to the park together, to the library together. There wasn't anything in their lives that I didn't experience with them.

So when Natalie would say something funny, I could reach back into the recesses of my mind and say, "Oh! She's repeating a line from the children's hour at the library this morning." And when Connor would step into our pontoon and parrot, "Life jackets! So we can be safe!" I knew it was Dora.

And then, Natalie turned five and went to kindergarten, and let me assure you - having your oldest go to school is a seismic event. In the blink of an eye, her circle shifted away from the constant overlap with mine. I wasn't a part of everything anymore. She started to create her own world, separate from me, with her own friends and her own memories and her own experiences.

I could no longer interpret every phrase or figure out the seed event that grew into such a flowery story.

It hit me like a sucker punch. I didn't see it coming.

----------

So last week, when Kieran kept insisting, "It's a WHOFFER, Mama! A WHOFFER!", I searched through the storage cave of my mind and remembered a Backyardigans he'd been watching earlier that day. It details Tasha, the fisherwoman, attempting to catch a whopper.

"OH! Is it a WHOPPER, buddy?" I said with sudden recognition. "Like what Tasha caught?"

He grinned in dismayed relief. "Yes, Mama. But not a whopper. A WHOFFER!"

OK buddy. You can call it what you want. I know what you're talking about.

For a few more years anyway.

Change

I'm always tinged with wistfulness this time of year, when the final few days of school roll around and I'm forced to acknowledge the passing of time.

It's easy to ignore that in March, for example, when the days blend together in one perpetual, never-changing swath. Wake up, eat breakfast, go to school, exercise, grocery shop, nap, pick up from school, homework, eat dinner, bathe, go to bed. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

But then early June arrives, with her lilacs and fresh-cut grass and the promise of summer, and I'm woken from my daze to see my children, changed. Natalie is finishing sixth grade this week. Next year, she moves up to the junior high area at our small, Christian school - "the vault" it's called, more because it's the original 1900s part of the building, than because it houses tweens. But whatever fits. She'll go from having one teacher to having many. Her books will be stored in a locker, not a desk. She'll be an official big kid, on the cusp of high school. I still picture her like this:

A pig-tailed first grader, smiling big in a slightly too-big pink dress and tennis shoes.

And then Connor, my blonde-haired, brown-eyed boy, he'll finish third grade next week and then begin the biggest transition yet - that from private school to public. It's the best thing for him; Corey and I have prayed much over this decision and feel peace and even joy about what's ahead. But it makes the end of this school year that much more poignant. Connor had been with these same kids, everyday, for the past three years - and in a few cases, four years, because they went to preschool together. I know switching schools doesn't mean the end to friendships. His best friend, in particular, lives nearby and Isaac's whole family is dear to us, so we'll continue to invest in those relationships, like this spring break picnic from three years ago.

But it won't be the same. There's no escaping that, which makes my heart twinge.

And Teyla, whose entire life has been chronicled on this blog, will start kindergarten in the fall. She enjoyed every minute of preschool this year; she graduated last week, and bless her heart, she's asked every morning this week, "Do I have school today?" So I know she's more than ready for the leap. But it stuns me that the tiny, dark-haired baby who was born on a cold day in 2008 is now a bounding ball of creativity and spunk, her wavy, blonde hair no more retrained than her spirit.

She's going to public school, with Connor, and I'm glad our district still offers the option of half-day kindergarten, because I'm not ready to give her up yet.

And then there's Kieran, my constant shadow and companion. He's in the full throes of mama worship these days, and June reminds me to savor every minutes of his raucous joie de vivre.


I have a theory that your life stage is determined by your youngest child, so maybe that's why I'm so shocked to turn around and see my oldest firmly in middle school. For crying out loud, I'm not even done changing diapers yet. (Because potty training is the death of me. This summer, OK? I'll do it this summer.) Is it right for them to continue to grow in grace and beauty when I'm so distracted?

Mais c'est la vie, non? Sunrise, sunset and all that jazz.

I'm just glad to be along for the ride. Life groans with beauty, and change is a miracle. I wouldn't miss this for anything. Even if it does make my heart hurt. It's the best kind of ache.