Why mom works

Have you ever found yourself really needing to get out of the house and unable to?

That’s happened to me all too many times over the past three weeks.

I’d have to say I’ve become an expert at getting stuck in the snow. Maybe it’s because somewhere deep inside I wish I was driving a monster truck. Oh, yeah, that’s my husband. You see last week despite the odds being stacked against us, we managed to dig our way to church.

Even though I wasn’t driving, I had the feeling it was all my fault.

First of all the noise level in my minivan on a Sunday morning requires the use of earplugs if you want to retain the ability to hear the sermon once you finally arrive at church. That’s because for any variety of reasons at least one child is screaming, one is probably crying and the other most likely will be complaining about the noise. So when my husband opened the garage door and began to back out he may have been a bit distracted.

I blame myself for attempting to steer him in the right direction with my warning to check for traffic before he left the cement apron and hit the gas hard. From his look of disgust when he plowed straight back into the snowbank I wondered if I should have mentioned he needed to turn the wheel to the right first to avoid backing into the ditch (on the left-hand side of the driveway). It didn’t take a single word from his mouth to get me to quickly jump out of his way since he couldn’t open the driver’s side door.

I hurried the kids out of the van and herded them to our car which he had already started in the second garage stall. Even the kids held their breath as daddy slammed the car in reverse, except for me. I found it necessary to warn him not to get too close to the van only to direct him right into the snowbank on the right-hand side of the driveway. Geez, there are days I wish I carried a spare sock so I could avoid being so helpful.

With two vehicles now completely blocking anything from getting through the driveway I jokingly asked, should we take the mustang? (It’s parked in the third stall with a big, big snowbank blocking the garage door.)

Thank goodness for my handy husband. He ran to the shop and came tearing out of the other snow-filled driveway with the truck. Instead of my plan to jump in the truck. He jumped out with a tow rope. I quickly got in the drivers seat, prayed that the vehicles wouldn’t bump, then put the car in reverse to be pulled out with minimal problems.

We made it to church with a minute to spare.

At the end of my last post, we were feeling quite proud of ourselves for cracking the meaning behind our youngest child’s scream-infested dinner table tantrum. We had deciphered that he felt it necessary to stand next to the refrigerator to pray. Again, keeping in mind that this is our third child, we chose to raise the white flag and let him leave the table to give thanks in his desired location.

And we tried again. Bless us oh Lord…

NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! he screamed. DAT’S NOT THE WITE WAY!!!!

Again we tried to calm him, asking what was the right way.

As the second tropical storm neared hurricane status I whispered to the older children to pray silently and eat their supper.

Of course the little guy with the eagle eye saw right through his tears to catch them with folded hands.

STOP PAYING WIFOUT ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thank God he idolizes his understanding big brother who tiptoed over to the refrigerator to ask, How do you pray little brother? Show me.

Like this.

Stand by the flegineater.

Fold your hands.

Squish your eyes.

No peeking.

Ready? Go… Come Lord Jesus be our guess, lef dese gifs to us be bless.

We all stared in stunned silence.

I don’t think that’s our dinner prayer, my middle boy quietly noted.

I simply shushed him with a smile and turned to my baby boy and said,

Amen.

There’s more power in prayer then one might imagine.

It’s become quite obvious at our family dinner table.

We’ve proudly noticed the youngest member of our family mimicking us as we give the sign of the cross before starting in on the table prayer. He repeats a few of the words that we recite at a snails pace as most of us peek up to smile and nod along with his efforts that end with a great big AMEN!

This was going quite well until about a month ago when Mr. Independent 3-year-old shared an all out temper tantrum at the table. Actually, as soon as we began to pray, bless us oh Lord, he fell to the floor and threw most of his fit under the table. As any parent knows, instincts tell you to do anything to stop a tantrum instead of letting it run its course. Since this is child #3 we’ve come to a sort of tantrum middle ground – work it out, privately.

I chose out of my basket of mom responses the calming, reassuring voice as I tried to lure him out from under the table in my attempt to transfer the screaming to his bedroom.

"Honey, what’s the matter?"

Between screams I thought I heard the words reef and potatoes. No, my daughter was sure it was Stan’s on a freightor. Or could it be snappy gator?

With every missed translation his anger increased and he screamed more.

Of course everyone looked to mom to solve the problem. I tried to pull him out from under the table only to get a kick in the throat.

I quickly recovered from my accidental "God.d.d.d…help me!"

Little brother paused a second and returned to holler Stand eat pears!

"You want… pears?"

No! We pay at the flegirator!

"Pay for the refrigerator?"

PPPPPRRRRRRRAAAAAAAYYYYYY!!!

He wanted to pray at the refrigerator.

What do you do when Santa doesn’t quite get the job done?

I’ve contemplated this question for quite some time considering my daughter is nearing age 10. 

For some reason, those double digits seem to cause all sorts of logistical problems when it comes to the holidays. It’s so simple with her brothers who were easily tricked into revealing their santa wishes. My oldest was another story. She kept her secret with santa under lock and key, even telling me it would be ok if I mistakenly got her what she’d already requested from the man in the red suit because he’d know and simply come up with another gift that she would love.

I can only imagine the stress that puts on santa.

Just think of the poor old guy racing down the aisles of his workshop on December 22 trying to find that perfect magical gift for a good as gold little girl. He’d easily (with the help of ebay) granted the wishes of her brothers, yet she didn’t seem interested in another Webkinz. She’d mentioned accessories but noted she hoped Santa didn’t bring her the same things as her brother like last year. Finally, with the help of one of the elves he found the perfect gifts – even something to go with one of the gifts purchased by mom.

Sadly, all the success of the last-minute scramble fell short when it was obvious the young lady didn’t have much interest in the Pixie Hollow charm set from her mom. In fact, the alarms were blaring in the workshop when the elves heard her agree with mom’s suggestion she return it for a gift card. 

Now what? The elves cried, frantic they couldn’t give this good girl another set of charms. Luckily in the depths of a closet they found a replacement gift. If they hadn’t been through enough, the youngest of these children would not go to bed and the reindeer had to circle the house for a good hour before sneaking into the pitch dark house while he called "Who is making that noise?"

Santa learned a big lesson that morning, while, as the stockings were opened, a little girl’s single tear revealed her heart was still filled with magic – What was the matter? Santa did a good job, except the one thing in her brothers hand that should have been in hers. 

You have to be a certain kind of person to love a cat.

I’m not sure if I’m that person.

While I do appreciate our kitten, there are days when I’d like to simply send her back to the farm.

First of all, Pancake is mean. If she weren’t so cute – she looks like a Holstein Cow, but has a one black patch over her eye like a pirate – I don’t know how we’d put up with her.

I was prepared for challenges with a kitten and a Christmas tree, so I left all the breakable and/or irreplaceable ornaments off the tree. Thank goodness because she spent most of December either sitting on the branches of our artificial Douglas Fir batting at the ornaments or hiding under the tree tearing wrapping paper off the presents.

"I’m now a hockey mom!" I’ve proclaimed these words proudly to my friends and family since my #1 boy decided to join hockey this fall.

The response varies.

"Really?"

"Are you sure he knows what he’s getting into?"

"What were you thinking?"

It goes on and on, basically focusing on whether I actually know my son and whether he’s ever seen an actual hockey game.

Apparently everyone I know thinks my son is "not cut out for such a violent sport."

Thank God we don’t let stereotypes stop our children from pursuing their dreams.

What many don’t realize is that in a positive and encouraging home, children believe they can do anything they set their minds to.

Just because my son can’t be bothered with talking to strangers and adores his sister so much he’s quietly let her have the spotlight for the past seven years doesn’t mean he isn’t cut out for sports.

While I secretly hoped my first son would take interest in anything other than wrestling – despite the fact his dad, two uncles, two grandfathers and all of the boy cousins live for the sport – I never pushed him into anything, instead I’ve simply left the door open to his options.

So when he said "I want to join hockey." I knew he was serious. This is the boy who, as a toddler, practiced talking in his room until he was ready to show the world he could rattle off complete sentences. His announcement about hockey meant he’d done his research.

While I’ve always encouraged my son to be a gentleman, there’s something oddly satisfying in seeing him knock another child down or when he slips in and steals the puck.

Some days he may let another skater simply pass him by, but he’ll get the hang of it.

I have approached the subject gently, "Why’d you let that boy just skate by?"

"I was thinking," he answered.

That thinking, I later found out, was my 7-year-old calculating the angle at which he could get the puck in the goal with the "clink" of first hitting the metal framework.

That’s why, no matter what anyone else says, I know in my heart, he’s going to be incredible.

Another busy Saturday began by taking the kids to see Santa Claus. My husband’s company employee club hosts a party for the big man himself, his wife and all of the children and grandchildren of employees. It’s actually a really good time if you aren’t in a hurry – we were. I had to work one hour after the party started. I’m sure we looked either crazy or like big jerks, but sometimes you do what you have to do. Here’s how it went. We were in the parking lot when the doors opened at 10 a.m. We had exactly 45 minutes to see santa, get our balloon animals and pick up a prize for each child. If, and we made the if very clear, there was extra time they could color pictures, eat a cookie and/or play bingo. With our oldest being 9, we pretty much had a plan figured out before we walked in the door.

As soon as we entered, the kids and I headed to the coat room and husband handed in our food shelf donations. I pulled the coats off (mittens and hats were left in the van), throwing them in a heap. As I began hanging up the coats, husband herded the kids to the balloon man. Santa may be the one to see, but the balloon man always has the longest and slowest line. I think it has something to do with experience. Santa Claus has it figured out, while the balloon man has much to learn. Santa gets a child on his lap, smiles for a photo and while Mrs. Claus grabs a treat bag, Santa listens to the wish. Balloon man, on the other hand, lets each child choose the kind of balloon animal and the color. He makes intricate works of art. Of course, my 3-year-old needed a sword AND a punching balloon, which he gladly created. Then #1 son, age 7, couldn’t decide. That meant a punching balloon and an exciting creation we’d never seen before… a reindeer that popped three times before he could get one to stay together. About half way into reindeer #2 I grabbed little brother and headed to the santa line. The other kids joined us after they got their balloons. Note, daughter barely made it because of the time spent making her a balloon vase filled with balloon flowers of many carefully chosen colors.

With no time to waste, my husband headed over the claim a spot in the prize line while we waited for santa. Since I wanted a picture of all three kids with Santa and Mrs. it took a while for us to reach the prize line. I half expected to hear screams of "no budging" when we jumped in the front half of the line, but it worked o.k. I checked the clock while the children were perusing the prize table. Twelve minutes! I rushed their choices and scurried them to the coloring room. Having a three-year-old never makes things easy and it was in the doorway of the crowded coloring room that he decided to assert his independence. His proclamation that he was "not coloring at all" was quickly answered by my "if you’re going to have a fit, get out of the doorway." Thankfully, nature interrupted him mid-tantrum with a, you guessed it, "I have to go potty!!" Once we took care of that – why do little ones insist on only drying their hands completely when you’re in a hurry? – we had six minutes to have a cookie and juice. Then I noticed we were missed one dad and Mr. big brother. I downed a fiery hot cup of coffee as I ran back to the coloring room to find my #1 boy had not yet completed his masterpiece. Knowing better than to rush my little perfectionist, I sent my impatient husband to take the balloons and prizes to the van and pull up to the door. Thankfully this boy is a quick eater. We had one minute to spare as we raced toward the door where I proudly watched as each of my children said an impromptu "thank you for the party." I breathed a giant sigh of relief as we pulled away… only to be interrupted by the realization I forgot my mittens.

When Grandma wasn’t available to watch the kids Friday I felt a flutter of excitement over the idea of a four-day mini vacation over the Thanksgiving holiday. I started thinking of great plans to turn on Christmas music and in all that luxurious time the kids and I would turn the house into a winter wonderland of excitement. We’d put up the tree, decorate it, take out the Christmas village, bake cookies and make crafts. I somehow forgot to consider the kids would have to eat. Since I’m not much of a cook, planning, making, serving and cleaning up a meal eats up at least 1-2 hours per meal. A little quick math here… one hour for breakfast, 30 minutes for morning snack, 1.5 hours for lunch, 30 minutes for afternoon snack and two hours for supper. That’s a grand total of… just wait, I also forgot to consider hockey. My #2 child joined hockey this year and if you include getting ready and drive time, his one hour practice actually takes a solid two hours. After I subtracted the entire day for Thanksgiving, one-half of Friday for cleaning up the mess we made racing out of the house Thursday, the 10 hour span in which someone is sleeping during out nighttime hours (times 3), 16.5 hours for meals, four hours for hockey practice and two hours for church, we had less than 20 hours to completely redecorate the house. Now take away the two hours I spent hot gluing pieces of my Christmas village broken by trying to be careful little hands and putting together the skating pond tree that was disassembled by curious fingers followed by a mission to retrieve the skaters stolen by miss kitty cat… Speaking of the cat, I think I’m opting out of putting up the heirloom ornaments instead letting her bat at pipe-cleaner candy canes and wreath ornaments made from frozen orange juice covers, as well as the other ideas. Did I mention our new computer game? Thanks to Doggie Dash, I may be taking a vacation day to complete my holiday mission. That is after I put in a few days at work just to recover from all that cooking. 

I got so caught up in this year’s election that I took little time to consider how it would impact 3-year-old "little brother."

 I picked him up at daycare November 4 to see a round, red "I voted" sticker on his chest.

"Did you vote today?" I asked him. 

"Yes," he answered proudly.

"Who did you vote for?" I prodded.

"Fish sticks," he shouted.

"Not fish sticks," I corrected, "McCain or Obama?"

"I like fish sticks so I chose fish sticks," he retaliated, "FISH STICKS!!!!"

In this great big world of campaign financing, political slamming and negative advertising none of those meant anything to my 3-year-old.

His daycare provider found a fantastic way to get the children involved in politics with no hidden agendas. Instead of voting for candidates they voted for lunch.

His point of view was simple. 

He likes fish sticks and, lucky for him, fish sticks was the winner.