Joy... and the sharing of small things

My husband and I took our children to a local renaissance festival yesterday. We spent a wonderful day. We watched shows, listened to live music and ate yummy, overpriced food. The weather was beautiful and kid behavior was exceptional. It would be a gross understatement to say that I was pleased. 

One of my favorite parts of the day was the sharing. Busy festivals don’t lend themselves to tremendous personal space. It’s hard to find tables so food is frequently eaten standing and has to be eaten one item at a time, for lack of extra hands. My kids are young enough that their attention spans are short. They drop plates easily at the best of times. 

As a result, we tend to buy our food at festivals in small snacks and graze through the day, sharing all we buy as we go. And I enjoy it enormously. What was born from function has become a wonderful little family ritual. I suspect that we will continue doing so long after the need becomes obsolete. 

Food isn’t the only area where sharing is necessary. Seats can be limited, in general, so people are forced so squish in closer to share inadequate bench space. Walking space is limited so people are required to pay attention to those around them as they move, as to not bump. Lines can be long, so people are required to “share” lines, as they wait their turn. 

As a parent, it is my job to share many things with my children. I share my knowledge and my wisdom. I share life lessons, strength, and morals. I share my opinions on the world, hoping that they will grow in open minded, respectful, intelligent and free thinking adults. You know… the big stuff.

But we also share the small stuff. And I have to tell you, I LOVE sharing the small stuff. I love sharing sodas and ice creams. Especially when there’s only one spoon or straw. I love sharing chairs, even when it means that my butt is half off the chair or my legs are squished under a 40 pound wiggle monster. I don’t love sharing colds, but I do love knowing that I was a source of comfort for my sick kid and the contagion factor was an acceptable occupational hazard. 

I read a lot of articles about parenting. Whether this is a blessing or a curse varies from article to article, and day to day. Sometimes these articles fill me with confidence and/or new information. Other times they fill me with unnecessary doubt. When the topic of sharing comes up in articles, it always takes such a serious vein. Psychologists and other such experts earnestly discuss the ways to educate your child on sharing and how to handle it when they aren’t sharing successfully. They talk about modeling the behaviors you choose your children to emulate. 

But I have never read an article about how much FUN it can be to share. It’s a blast when it works. For dessert, we bought two “cheesecakes on a stick”. Yes, it is exactly what it sounds like. A slice of cheesecake placed on a stick and then dipped gloriously in dark chocolate. It’s heaven on a stick. Divine. I held one and my husband held the other. We each shared with one kid and I shared with my son. I would take a bite, and then hold it out for him to take a bite. He grinned happily then waited patiently while the process repeated. Not once did he grab between turns. The experience was more delicious than the food, if that’s even possible. 

My husband’s experience with our daughter was equally positive. 

During one of the music shows, my daughter clambered into my lap to snuggle. When I leaned in to kiss her, she turned her head towards mine and said “Mommy, I want to kiss you with my nose”. She pressed her little face against mine and giggled. We must have stayed that way for at least 2 minutes. She was the one who pulled back. 

Want to know what I think? I think that if parents are to be educated on how to make their lives easier, we need more resources on how to have fun with our kids. We need to be shaken from our routines and reminded to relax a little.

 Hey, I need that reminder. Don’t you?

Memoires from a consignment sale

This morning I woke up way too early (by my standards) and dragged my exhausted self to a local elementary school that houses our biyearly consignment sale. I belong to a “moms of multiples” group and this sale is a huge fundraiser. The sheer money we have saved over the years, shopping there, is incredible.

This year, my needs were small but significant. I needed outdoor winter gear for my kids. Sadly, I didn’t get much of what I needed, due to lack of selection in my kids’ size. Oh well. 

So, I was browsing the sale and found myself walking by the table with nursing pillows. Next to said table was a couple. The woman was sporting an impressive baby bump and the man was sporting eyes so wide and panicky that I couldn’t help but laugh. As the soon to be parents eyed the pillow suspiciously (not sure what they were waiting for it to do…) I walked alongside. 

Me: “I loved that pillow. It’s the best”

Woman: (with a bright and relieved smile) “Oh really? So it really works?”

Me: “Oh yeah. Totally”.

Man: (said nothing. Just stood there speechless)

And then another woman walked by entering the conversation. 

Other woman: “Oh yeah. I loved this pillow too!”

Man: (finally finding words) “But how do you pick them up at the same time to put them on?”

Me and Other woman: (accidentally speaking at the same time and laughing like crazy after the fact) “You scoop them!”

And we proceed to provide a visual demonstration of “scooping” two babies simultaneously, using both arms and words to explain. Just picture a baby lying with its feet facing you, and sliding your hands under the butt, up its back and under the head. Then, you bend down and lift both babies so their heads rest on your shoulders and stand back up. The fact that we were doing this sans baby made it even funnier.  It was a scene, I assure you! 

Man: (with a thoughtful expression) “But aren’t they too heavy?”

Me: “No. When they get too heavy to scoop, they can hold their heads up by themselves so it doesn’t matter as much.”

Man and Woman: (with awed expressions) “ohhhhhhhh”. 

For those of you that watch animated movies, the “ohhhhh” sounded like the 3 eyed Martians in the claw toy when Buzz Lightyear lands and they are worshipping him. That little ripple moving across their mouths. I kid you not.  

Approximately 5 years ago, that was my husband and me. Me, sporting the bump. Him, sporting the glazed and terrified expression. I remember staring at all the baby paraphernalia and wondering how anyone knew what to do with it all. It was overwhelming. I remember sweating even though it wasn’t hot. I remember the onset of a headache even though I wasn’t sick or particularly. My husband commented on being exceedingly thirsty despite having had plenty to drink. Amazing how anxiety takes over your body.

And now my kids are almost five. Where has the time gone? 

This time, as I passed the infant section, I paused for a moment to remember and reminisce. The tiny little pajamas that somehow fit my kids in a former life. The bottle carriers and swaddling blankets that no longer have any place in my life. The silly little musical toys that are no longer interesting. 

Let’s be honest. I don’t want more kids. I want my current kids, but I’m good with two. I don’t want three. My heart doesn’t ache for a new baby, despite my love of caring for other people’s babies. I am totally content to be the auntie and to pass that precious little bundle back when it’s time to go home. I love that my kids can walk on their own and be spoken to like people. I love that they clear their own plates from the table and can go fetch things for me when I don’t have hands. I love that I can send them down to the basement/playroom or outside to our fenced in backyard without direct supervision. It’s liberating. 

And I LOVE that they have the words to tell me what’s wrong. 

It’s somewhat like looking back on your high school years and reminiscing on the funny lunchroom conversations. I have no urge to be a high school student again, but I wouldn’t mind reliving just one lunch for posterity. 

And while this anxious couple doesn’t know it yet, five years from now it will be them. Giving the advice. Calmly joking about the baby scoop. Gazing emotionally at tiny clothing. 

In the meantime, I send them strength and patience for the hard times. And joy for the good ones.

Real life forgiveness...

My daughter threw a monster tantrum tonight. Monster. When we announced it was bedtime, she spent 10 minutes screaming at the top of her lungs, “It’s not night. It’s never gonna be night. It’s day! I’m not tired!”

Uh, yeah. I can hear how NOT TIRED you are. Sigh. I hope the neighbors didn’t hear too much. The windows were open with the beautiful weather. 

As I tucked her sweaty little four year old body into her Hello Kitty bed, 15 minutes later, I looked into her beautiful little face. Those big, beautiful eyes. The pouty little lips. The flaring nostrils. Those soft cheeks, red from exertion. Her little chest rising and falling rapidly in a frantic body.

Nobody should go to sleep in that state. It made my heart hurt. 

And suddenly, I started to talk, the words flowing from my heart. 

“Honey. You know what’s magical about mommies and their babies? That we ALWAYS love each other. Even when we’re mad at each other. Even when we’re REALLY mad at each other. We ALWAYS love each other. And we ALWAYS want to see each other in the morning. “

I planted a kiss on her forehead and smiled gently at her. She looked directly into my eyes, smiled back. Her eyes twinkled once again, and she began to say something silly. I kissed her again, turned out the light and closed the door. She went to sleep peacefully, snuggled with a soft friend.  I went downstairs to watch some adult TV. 

Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New year, just passed. Much like the New Year’s celebrations of many cultures around the world, it’s about new beginnings. Introspection. Forgiveness. Redemption. It’s about looking into your past year with a willingness to see with honest eyes. A willingness to apologize and attempt to create change.  A sincere desire to live a better life. 

I don’t know if a four year old can process that, but I do know one thing. As she drifted off to sleep tonight, my daughter was not worrying about tomorrow. She wasn’t questioning how much she was loved. And she probably was sorry that she had caused such a scene, but wasn’t quite mature enough to verbalize it. 

And that’s ok, because she’s just a kid. And we love each other. And tomorrow is a new day. 

Happy New Year.

When is YOUR new year?

Yesterday was the Jewish New Year. For those of you who aren’t Jewish, or don’t have more than outsider knowledge of the Jewish religion, this is the big one. Actually, it’s in the top three of the truly important Jewish holidays. For those who are truly observant, it’s a really big deal. It’s the time of year when you reflect on the year past with an honest and introspective view. You feel pride for what you have done well, but you are also asked to “fess up” for what you botched. You are asked, by God, to make a concerted effort to improve yourself and your actions in the coming year. 

As a side note, Hanukah is not. Not religiously important, that is. Not to say that it’s not fun. Hey, I love Hanukah. Candles, pretty songs and presents. And don’t forget the fried food and chocolate coins. What’s not to like? But in terms of religious power, it’s not even in the top ten. The only reason Hanukah get the attention it does is due to its proximity to Christmas. It seems the Jewish kids wanted a party holiday too. Go figure. 

I’m not particularly religious, despite having been raised in a Jewish home. I don’t say any particular prayers at this time and I certainly don’t visit any synagogues. I don’t eat any particular foods. 

I do, however, think about the year past. I reflect on where I am RIGHT NOW. What’s going well? What am I enjoying? What am I not enjoying that I used to enjoy? Can I change that? How? What is causing me stress? Could I lessen that level of stress without disrupting the central elements of my daily life? 

Am I truly living my life the best way I could? Probably not. What can I change? 

If you aren’t Jewish, you probably associate this thought process with a different date on the calendar, but quite likely follow the same pattern of thought. Maybe you contemplate the past year, under the influence of too much alcohol, on New Year’s Eve, while watching the ball drop over New York City. Or perhaps your thoughts wander on your birthday as you reconcile the fact that you are now a whole year older. Or perhaps Easter. Or maybe on the anniversary of an important event. 

The date is insignificant, if you ask me. The essential is that you take the time, however short, every once in a while to reflect.To live with awareness.To strive for excellence.

Because if we don't have a concrete date to remind us to pay attention, we might forget.