"Ordinary" men and women- A tribute to those who serve us all!

I dropped my kids off at school today, and hurried home to get things done. Laundry, dishes… you know. The fun stuff…NOT. Just the ordinary, everyday stuff that allows life to keep moving on. I’d like to say that I don’t grumble internally at the sheer quantity of time I spend on these types of tasks. From time to time, or possibly more often,  the grumble escapes and becomes external. I suspect that this doesn’t make me unusual. 

As I was driving home, I was stopped by a school bus with its stop sign illuminated. As I watched, a man ran down a short driveway carrying a bag of gold. A lunchbox. He placed it in a kid’s hand with a smile, and then walked casually up the driveway. He clapped his hands with a friendly authority and 3 happy, tail wagging dogs followed him back into a home. 

Normally, a scene like this (while sweet) isn’t hugely noteworthy. Today, however, it seemed noteworthy. Why? I’m so glad you asked. 

This man was a soldier in full uniform.  

I have always had a fascination with uniforms, military being one of them.  I have a high level of respect for anyone who is willing to make it their job to protect innocent people. Anyone who puts the safety of those around them before their own personal safety.  I respect the systems that organize and train such people. It’s a huge commitment to the community and it shouldn’t go unrecognized. 

With the Boston marathon tragedy so fresh in our minds, this sentiment felt especially relevant.  I have family and friends in the Boston metro area. As soon as I heard about the events on the news, I called them and texted them to check on their well being. Days later, when they were housebound due to the man hunt, I checked on them again. Photos were posted of streets, ghost empty. For once, people listened and stayed home. Except for the police, that is. They were called to duty. People’s husbands and wives, sons and daughters, moms and dads.  Despite the danger, they went to work, protecting us. 

THANK YOU

And that’s my point, really. Quite simple.  A message to all of you that serve your communities by putting our safety before yours. Thank you.

We owe you more than we can express.

When gender identities appear...

My kids and I chat in the car. A lot. They tell me all about, well, everything… At least what they consider to be everything. I’ve heard it said that you can a tremendous amount by simply listening to the content of what a person chooses to tell you. It’s what THEY consider to be most important. I could not agree more.

The other day, in the car, I allowed my children to bring a toy from home. My daughter chose her small, stuffed unicorn.  My son chose a truck. The following conversation took place. 

Her- “Mommy, can you touch a unicorn?”

Me- (slight pause, thinking about the “right” answer) “ I don’t know, honey. You know more about unicorns than I do. Can you?”

Her-(With a huge smile… because I answered her correctly.)  “Yes, but only girls can. Boys can’t.”

Me- “Oh.”

Him (my son, with a huge grin and giggle)-“That’s ok!  Boys can touch monsters!”

Until recently, gender played very little role in my chidlren’s valuation of their little world. They picked their friends, and toys, based upon other factors. Friends were picked by liking the same games or having a similar way of being. Toys had their own criteria. How big it was. How loud it was. How easy it was to use successfully. Was it allowed in bed at bedtime? 

This past year, however, this has changed. My son picked his “best friend” first and it was a boy. I wasn’t shocked, and didn’t think much about it, with exception of being happy that he was happy to have found a friend. My daughter picked her best friend shortly after. A girl. My reaction to her proclamation was similar to that of my son. My daughter, however, felt the need to tell me WHY she made her choice. 

And gender was the first reason. “Mommy, she’s a girl like me!”  Hmmm. Interesting. And so it begins.

When my kids were really little, we received mostly boyish or gender neutral hand me downs for clothing. Our neighbors, who still pass us an extraordinary amount of clothing, simply had more boy clothing. Did I care? Not one bit. I would frequently dress my daughter in a pair of jean shorts that were gender neutral with a regular t-shirt. She didn’t care about anything beyond her comfort and I have never been a highly trendy or stylish dresser. It was a non issue.  As she has gotten older, however, she has huge opinions about her clothing and about the presence of pink, hearts and flowers. Age 3 disallowed anything that wasn’t a dress and only certain dresses were acceptable. She has since allowed pants and shorts, but in an exceedingly color controlled manner. 

To this day, my son doesn’t care that I pick out his clothing. If I waited for him to take initiative, we would never get out of his room, much less out the front door.  As long as there is some train, car, robot, or cool animal on his shirt… he’s good. When it comes to people, however, he shows huge preferences for the boys. One particular friend of mine, with two boys, is the best example. He’ll follow them anywhere and is excessively brave when they are around. Funny how that works. 

And there’s the talking thing. My son’s speech is fine. He is able to say what he wants, when we wants. He’s able to get his needs met just fine. But she can talk… and wow does she talk. She talks all the time and she doesn’t stop. Ever. I like to pride myself on listening to my kids but there is a limit to how long you can listen to the monologue and answer the same questions. I’d be lying if I said I never felt like my head was exploding by 6pm.

This could be a gender thing, or it could be a personality thing, but here’s what I noticed when I really thought about it. He communicates beautifully without talking. Always has. Pre speaking again, he knew how to make his needs known easily and he still knows how. I can’t quite quantify it, but I defend its truth. I suppose the talking is secondary sometimes. 

At first, when the gender differences began to appear, it bothered me a little. It’s hard to explain why, I’m not sure I entirely understand it myself. I suppose I was concerned that my children were at the beginning of the process that would limit them in life. Trap them into gender based choices. Being someone who does not like to be limited, it struck a nerve. And it stills niggles me a bit, as I watch my children navigate their life and make choices. That said, I’ve made a few observations that ease my concerns. 

My daughter loves cars and my son loves flowers. I love to watch them zoom the cars around the floor of our family room while I make dinner, it’s awesome. When the flowers bloomed this year, my son was just as intent on picking them as my daughter was. True, he spends more time lining the cars up on the rug and she held onto her flowers longer, but that’s ok. I can live with that. 

There is an indoor play zone near us and my kids ADORE the huge trampoline. They insist that I come in and play with them, and I comply. They jump around, tackling me from both sides, knocking me down with hysterical giggles. Rough and tumble, and my daughter keeps up beautifully.  I cannot explain what a comfort I find that to be. 

Funny, this is not the concern I anticipated when I thought about being a mom. Interesting.

Oh hello spring... I bid you a cheerful welcome!

Those of you that don’t know me well may not know this, but it’s completely true. I have a moral objection to socks. I know, it sounds silly. I don’t care. My stance on socks is twofold. I’ll explain. 

My primary reason is that they trap my feet. Yes, trap. My poor little toes are forced to endure captivity for all those long months. It’s not nice. Perhaps that’s why I have such a shoe fetish. If my poor little tootsies are going to be prisoners, it better be a nice cage. 

My secondary reason, which is actually more logical, is that socks are worn (primarily) to protect feet from the cold. Yes, the cold. That cold that invades your bones and makes your soul shiver. Yuck. I didn’t vote for cold. Did you?

Yesterday, we celebrated my husband’s 40^th birthday. It was about a week late, but having a party on the actual day wasn’t possible. Our home was happily invaded by 16 guests, making a total of 20. We barbequed enough food for a small army and I baked him a cake. It was chaos but very low key. A ton of fun.

What’s the connection, you ask? The warm weather of course!

We BBQ’d and hung out on the porch and deck. We opened the windows and propped open the doors. People milled around freely. The kids (our 2, plus 4 others) hit the backyard with a vengeance. They constructed sand castles in the sand box, played on the swings and took the swing set by storm. My son and the other little boy created a game of “kick the chair” where one of them placed a plastic chair strategically  at the bottom of the slide and the other slid down to kick it as far as possible. Now that’s creativity at its finest. 

They got totally filthy. It was beautiful! 

Want to know the best part? 

The kids didn’t need us. They were too busy playing. We have arrived. 

I’ve overheard moms talk about their kids disappearing for extended periods of time, allowing them to actually finish a conversation at a social event. I just hadn’t really experienced it. Not outside. The basement (our kid toy zone) allows for that but outside has never held that luxury for us. Until now. 

IT WAS AWESOME!

As host, I was pretty busy getting food organized and keeping things flowing. And the kids let me do it. I can’t wait for spring weather to be here on a more regular basis. I can’t wait to pack lunches, pick my kids up from preschool and take them to the park for a picnic lunch and play time. I can’t wait to put them in the backyard when they get cranky. 

I love spring.

Ladies and Gentlemen, children of all ages...

Ladies and Gentlemen, and children of all ages… 

My husband turned 40 a few weeks ago. I turn 38 this summer. Recently, however, we both found ourselves 4 years old with our children. 

Why, you ask? Because we took the kids to the circus. 

The kids had never been before; their only real experience with the circus was watching “Dumbo” on DVD or reading a random Thomas the Train book.  Not exactly the real deal. Neither my husband nor I could recall the last time we had the pleasure, but it was most certainly during our childhood years.  

Being a kid at heart, I always smiled when I passed posters and advertisements for the circus. My kids, however, were too young to really enjoy it. It’s loud, it’s overwhelming… and it ain’t cheap. And as I always say, “I don’t pay for pain”. My husband and I would exchange a questioning look, and then shrug. Maybe next year. 

This year, however, when I saw the signs for the coming circus, I felt it in my soul. This was it. The year we had waited for. My kids had become significantly more comfortable in crowds and are now quite good at behaving in a way that allows us to relax, knowing they are safe if simply pay attention. They had asked to go and my daughter had asked repeatedly. I don’t know if it was because she knew she was ready or because my response sounded less like “no” when she asked the first time. I wonder. 

So we bought tickets. The best seats we could. The credit card shuddered a little when we clicked on the purchase button, but we just couldn’t fathom paying for an obstructed view. And wow, were our instincts good. When we got there, I actually giggled. These seats weren’t good, they were fantastic. Perfect. Ground level, 2^nd row from the bottom. You could actually see the sweat on the performers’ faces. Wow. 

There were lions and tigers, elephants and performing dogs. Flying acrobats sailed through the air with the greatest of ease and crazy ladies hung from their hair. Motorcycles drove on the high wire. Clowns made fools of themselves. Our kids spent the vast majority of the show in our laps, eyes wide as saucers, hands clasping ours. They each had one moment of fear. My son, a lover of motorcycles and all things that go, got increasingly nervous as more and more bikes entered the globe to drive in patterns. It could have been the noise, but part of me wonders if he realized how badly the drivers would be hurt if they fell. Hard to blame him, either way. My daughter got scared of the lions and tigers. She curled up in my lap and told me so. Her heart was pounding. I pointed out that the man “playing” with the cats wasn’t scared and she calmed down some, but my lap was still the place to be. I couldn’t question her either. After all, I wouldn’t be caught dead in that ring. I was pleased that they each only had one event. Overall, quite a success. 

As we watched in awe, a metaphor popped into my head. Life, in a house with kids, is 3 ring circus. I’d heard it said before, but never really made the connection to where it originated. Whoever came up with that metaphor certainly knew their circuses, and their families. I’ll elaborate. 

1-      The organization of the circus was impeccable. A bright light shines on the center ring, riveting everyone’s eyes to a clown or juggler… or something fantastically distracting. Six feet to the left, a massive set is being disassembled and reconstructed for the next scene. Is anyone watching? Not really. They are too busy watching the fun, but the behind the scenes is always in progress and it’s never just fun. There’s work to be done and the “fun” must be supported by enormous amounts of unseen, unrecognized and unappreciated work.  Sound familiar in your home?

2-      The women hanging by their hair. Ouch, that’s all I can say. That looks painful. They aren’t grimacing, however. They’re smiling for the crowd while they twirl, making it look effortless. I have no doubt that they get headaches, but the crowd will never know about it. Reminds me of myself at the mall (or some other public venue) on a LONG day with the kids. I’m pulling my hair out, but do I show the people around me? Nope… On the outside I am THAT mom. Smiling, patiently reminding my little darlings AGAIN  that we aren’t buying candy right now. Answering the exact same series of questions AGAIN, despite the fact that we have discussed this 10,000 time already today and the last cycle ended less than two minutes ago.  Yup, I can identify.

3-      Some of the stunts performed by the acrobats are downright insane. On more than a few occasions, I found myself thinking “That man/woman has a mom. How does she sleep knowing what her son/daughter does all day?”  If you look more carefully, however, there are men and women in black surrounding the acrobats, ready to step in and support if/when they are needed. And needed they were. A few acrobats had to be caught and guided when truly precarious stunts didn’t go as planned. I was really glad the support was there. Without it, those acrobats would have been severely injured.

It reminded me of being a mom, and how you simply cannot do it alone. Sometimes you fall. Sometimes you get sick. Sometimes you need to go to the doctor and cannot take your monkeys, uhm… I meant kids, if you plan to have the necessary conversation with the doctor. In the last few weeks I have had the opportunity to watch kids for two different friends.  Those favors were returned when I was able to send one of my kids for all day play dates so I could focus on the other. We simply cannot do it alone. The sooner we come to terms with that, the less we will suffer.

4-      I adore the elephants. Some people think they are ugly, but I think they are adorable. Even the enormous ones. Their eyes are huge and I always feel like they are telling me something when they gaze upon me.  During one of the scenes, one of the elephants just had to go. And when you gotta go, you gotta go. Gallons of pee flooded the area and huge poops rolled onto the floor. I laughed way too hard. I must be spending too much time with my kids. Watching the cleanup crew race in to pour sawdust on the floor without interrupting the show was quite the spectacle. It reminded me of my home. Pee accidents. Poop accidents. Lunch dropped on the floor. Chocolate milk needing to be mopped up. Mess after mess, after mess. But the show must go on. As they say, “no use crying over spilled milk”. Clean it up, and move on. 

Maybe that’s why I love the circus so very much… because it feels like home.