Goal for the Day

My daughter is a river. She is whitewater and I am a canoe, struggling to stay upright. I can't let the speed, the turns, or the swirling caps of white foam drag me under. My daughter is two going on ten going on sixteen, twenty-one. And I am at a loss, hoping to stay afloat.

How does one tame the wild without squelching the spirit? How does one balance in chaos? And how can I navigate this relationship so that I won't wind up wild in the throes of this river myself?

Every motherly cliché reads before me now with perfect clarity. The collective words of wisdom of the ages: of stubborn, fearless, brilliant children; of the bedraggled parent, exasperation, sleepless nights, and mother’s guilt.

My goal for the day is to not let the current take me under. One day with no yelling. One day with enough time spent in quiet reflection and prayer that I won't feel overwhelmed when the plastic cup of apple juice hits the floor - or when the second one splatters across the table. Or when the pull-up that should be dry, is drenched. Or when the clamoring calls of Mama, Mama, Mama come when I'm just trying to have five minutes to myself behind the closed bathroom door. Or when she tells me flatly, with eyes glazed over and hands firmly stuffed into her armpits – I don't like you.

This is my goal.

My daughter might have different plans. Her plans will probably involve finding my make-up and hiding in the corner quietly so that I won't hear her as she spreads foundation over her cheeks, her neck, over the fine strands of her hair, clumping them together like mud. She will probably follow this with an acrobatic bath time that will leave the bathmat sopping wet and my nerves frayed. Sit. Down. Please.

At meals, she will probably test my will by refusing to pray before she eats. By crossing her arms and declaring that she does not like the X that's on her plate or the Y that I've poured into her glass. Both should be chocolate flavored or peppered with rainbow sprinkles.

But before all of this: I will pray. I will commit my ship, canoe, vessel, whatever the case may be, to the Lord and let him direct my path over this uncharted territory. I will have peace. I will have patience. Because this is a river he has forged, this is a life that he has breathed his spirit into.

And so am I.

Long Time, I Know

But there's this.

Can you forgive me for being so lax? Does it even matter, really?

Life is still this unsettled blur. But there are days - beautiful, crisp, brilliant and shining ones, where I don't feel like I'm drowning and instead the world is mine to conquer. Really, they happen.

I'm just too busy living when they do, to blog.

Last Day

On the ride to the park this evening I turned to Vinnie, who will be starting his new job on Tuesday, and said "Last day tomorrow."

Before he could respond, Alex chirped from the far back of our van "Excuse me, Mama, is tomorrow the last day?"

Slightly confused, I started to explain that indeed tomorrow will be Vinnie's last day at his current job, but Alex seemed not to hear me and continued on his own - "Is tomorrow the last day and we'll all go to see God and Jesus?"

From the mouths of babes.

My children always think in this sort of way - grand, eternal, forever is always on the horizon, life unfurls before them and they charge at it with urgency. They aren't cluttered by the things that concern us: clocks, cell phones, putting meals on the table, getting bills in the mail. For them, clocks are only useful if it's Christmas Eve and they're counting the minutes - cell phones are always for talking to Grandma - food is a gift from the grocery store and cooking it is a melody of spoons banging on pans as things boils on the stove - and the mailbox is always magic. Glorious strips of unsolicited address labels, March of Dimes envelopes with nickles glued just beneath rectangles of plastic, letters from Sunday School teachers or a Highlights Magazine, all left by sheer serendipity.

And so when Alex asked us if tomorrow is the last day, Vinnie and I first had to stop ourselves from dismissing him so easily. We had to unplug ourselves from our own tangled net of obligations and distractions, in order to step back and see the world as it is. A time line unknown in a world of choice and consequence, a place of hope just around the corner and in the present moment, if we'll only stop long enough to grasp it.

I made these cupcakes today to bring with us down to my in-laws. We're heading down for three days to visit with my sister-in-law and her brood from Illinois. My children are especially excited to get to play with their cousins (of which there are seven...yes...seven.) The cakes were fun and easy to make, but probably not the wisest decision on my part, considering that baking was required, and summer has finally decided to make an appearance here in NH. It was 90 degrees today and the house is still trying to cool itself from this afternoon's activities.

Ugh.

Worth it though, I think. I made a little tutorial of the process, the final image being:

Changes are happening here, nothing as life-changing as a pregnancy or death, but still, change. Normally, I find change invigorating, but coupled with turning thirty, I feel as though it is all just pressure, mounting.

I should have spent more time today writing and less time baking. Writing always clears my head while baking tends to just fill my fridge and leave the creases of my fingernails dyed the colors of whatever frosting I was using.

However, my children are at an age though that baking or other such fun activities tends to trump all. And since I can't write while they're anything but absorbed in an activity (sleep is best) and I am growing rather bored of Chutes and Ladders & Disney Bingo - baking it is.

Today

Wake up.

Turn 30.

Make the best of the day.

Photos and stories to follow...

Silliness

Lest you think after reading the post I just put up a few moments ago (scroll down to read) that we are all discipline and withholding...




Also - if anyone is on Facebook, I seem to be posting there more than here as of late. It's so convenient to post mini-stories of the kids as status updates and in pictures. I'd love to friend you, so come find me.

For the Love of Ice Cream

Here's a little secret to all children out there - your parents always want to give you treats. If there's a reason to celebrate, we want to shower you. We want you to be bathed in all things glowing and sweet and wonderful.

If we're out on an adventure, say, at a planetarium or a museum and you have been well behaved, we want to reward you. And if there's an ice cream stand on the way home - we want to stop and share the simplest of summer joys together as a family, jimmies and all.

Unfortunately, we do not want you to grow up rotten or demanding. We do not want you to feel entitled to every good thing that there is on this earth, simply because you were so kind as to bless it with your presence.

As parents we must be measured in our rewarding, in our discipline. And so, when you decide to deliberately disobey, and to throw your little body down on the ground and whimper when we simply tell you that you need to try to use the bathroom before we leave - you force us to do what we must.

Not without warning of course. We give you chances. We count to three - waiting patiently, hoping, crossing our fingers - that you might stand up, apologize and wrap your little arms around us. Or at the very least, pull it together and use the toilet without any more scenes.

But when we've let the number T H R E E stall long enough on the tips of our tongues and you are still prostrate on the floor, consequences happen.

No ice cream for you.

Even though we still want to give it to you. Even though it hurts us to watch you pout and watch your brother and cousin slurp chocolate soft serve from their plastic spoons and gleefully wipe rainbow jimmies from their chins.

Even though as we sit, you are well behaved and you are listening and though your lip quivers, you do not scream or shout or whine. You simply sit and watch with your round saucer eyes glistening, reflecting sunlight and hope - hope that we might cave perhaps and let slide one of our spoons to your lips.

But no. Alas, there are consequences for your actions. And though there is nothing we'd rather be doing than sharing our frozen treats with you, we can not. We must not. In the hopes that you might learn, might not sob when we tell you to try and pee before we take a long car ride, so that you might not wet yourself and your seat and the only pair of pants that we brought with us for the trip.

Please. Let this lesson of ice cream stick. May you remember the feeling of not eating the cool, creamy confection as much as your father and I are going to remember the sadness and longing in your eyes. Because really, truly, and you probably won't actually understand this until you have children yourself - I know I didn't - we always want to give you treats.