I started running in September. Finally, all my kids would be in school and after a decade of neglect, failed attempts at excercise and taking care of myself, I knew I had to repair my broken house. I would finally have time to myself on a regular basis when I wasn't commuting to work or having to pay a babysitter. I began running. I started out slow--just one mile. My heart skipped into palpitations and my breathing got so labored I thought I was having the "big one". I learned what has become true of every run. The first mile is the hardest. Before too many days passed I increased my distance and ran 2 miles. It was getting easier. I had time to myself to pray, think, enjoy nature, the sun--the wind, and my feet were carrying me--counting out the miles one stride at a time. A few weeks ago I began training for my first 5K and with the added incentive I bumped my distance up to 3 miles. What had seemed like a glass ceiling burst open and within a few weeks of breaking that barrier I am now up to 6 miles. I look forward to my runs, I plan them out googling maps and new routes on the computer. I like to time myself to see if I can beat my last time. I wondered as I lay there one night why it's so gratifying and why I have so quickly embraced this new endeavor.
I began thinking of motherhood--my profession now for more than a decade. As with so many things, the benefits and rewards of motherhood are not immediate. It is often a thankless, repetitive job. Don't get me wrong--I wouldn't trade it for anything, however for over a decade now besides working outside the home a few hours a week as a nurse, that has been my full time job. There are sweet moments of victory, when your child puts into practice something you have taught them, or displays kindness to a sibling. There are moments of blessing, and closeness, and savoring togetherness. But, there are lots of moments of, "Did you....", "Remember......", and "Don't........". There are lots of messes, there are lots of hurt feelings to soothe. The fruits of your labor and toil of your efforts are not always evident. That's not the case with running.
When I run, the harder I work the further and faster I go immediately. When I run, within 1 hour I get to reap the reward of my labor--I get home, feeling exhilarated, having enjoyed time to myself and the beautiful outdoors. There are very few things in my life with immediate results like that. I am not a patient person. Motherhood has stretched me and made me grow in ways I never thought I could. I have learned so much from my kids, and I have been forever changed, I think, for the better. Running has given me joy. I don't need immediate results on the home front--I get that when I pound the pavement. With my kids in school now, there is so much beyond my control--they need to put their own effort forth. As much as I try to help, in many ways they are accountable for those results now. Running is within my grasp.
Some seeds take a while to bloom. They have a tough outer layer that the elements must break down before the rain and the sun and warm and soften the tender plant awaiting inside. Some seeds sprout almost immediately and everytime you visit the garden, it seems there is more growth to admire. A good gardner usually has both types of plants growing in their garden. A good gardner tries to plan their harvest for a good steady and even crop. I have been tending my seedlings that will take awhile to bloom for many years now. While I have enjoyed working the soil, and tending these little plants--I am so glad to be able to plant something that will bloom in a very short time. It will give me great joy, and keep my heart at peace, and allow me space and time to talk to God about my other crop that's growing. While I know they won't bloom immediately, I'm certain that with tender care, and a well rested and content gardener they will become the beautiful plants God intended.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Dandelion in the Fall
I went for a walk today. I needed a major attitude adjustment. Too much stuff to do, not enough time, too many people needing a piece of me--too many balls to juggle. You know--the standard fare. As I walked, the blue sky opened up before me. The sunlight glistened off the brilliant fall leaves, moist from the dew and the rains from the previous day. It was stunning, but my heart and head were burdened. The to do list grew heavy on my shoulders and it seemed to swallow me up--even as all around me the crisp autumn breeze beckoned to allow my cares free flight. I thought about Jesus' promises. "Come to me all ye who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, for my burden is easy and my load is light. Learn from me for I am kind and humble of heart." I repeated it over and over. How? If I take my yoke off, will He catch it? How can I lift my yoke to give it to Him--couldn't He just take it? Do I have to take His yoke before He takes mine? These questions swirled in my head.
I had been so involved in helping my oldest son with his homework this week, that I had completely forgotten about something I was supposed to help my youngest son with. The guilt was heavy on me. It was going to be just fine--but that didn't change the fact--not enough of me to go around.
I kept walking. Surely, if I repeated this verse often enough I would begin to believe it, to feel it, to really experience it. I just had to say it with faith. Walking. Walking. Through tears, reciting. Then, there it was--on the side of the road, in the shade of a mailbox on October 29--a brand new dandelion just opening up. I stopped and wondered what kind of crazy flower would begin blooming now when the temperatures at night were teasing the freezing mark? What kind of foolish bloom would flourish when the days are at their shortest, the wind cooler each day, and the sun growing dimmer with each passing hour? I marveled. I knew why it was there. I needed to take a lesson from this flower.
Despite a flurry of dead and fallen leaves around it--this flower bloomed. Though, the seed fell in the barren soil right beside the road--where the salt and the sand from the winter plow trucks made the growing conditions oppressive--this flower bloomed. Though June brought flooding and constant rains that could have rotted the seed away, it remained steadfast, clung to the sand and in the right time--it bloomed. Though winter ominously hovered, and autumn light was slipping away, this flower had done what it was supposed to do. Though cold fall rains had pelted the soil and brisk winds had whipped across the ridge, this dandelion remained stalwart and accomplished it's purpose.
It's strength was in its weakness. It was not strong enough, nor placed in conditions ideal enough to bloom, when it was "supposed" to. But, because it had to struggle and withstand so much during a difficult summer, it was blooming now--resolute against the crisp October winds. It stood alone, an early spring flower blooming even when the hydrangeas and the mums were starting to wither. I marveled.
I need to bloom where I am planted. I need to be there for my son struggling with school, the one who is excelling in school, and the son who spends his whole days inventing Lego models in his mind. I need to bloom for my husband who counts on me to hold it all together, for my patients who count on me to be compassionate, and knowledgeable and present. I need to bloom for my friends who count on me when they need to talk to a someone who cares. I need to bloom for my parents and family who depend on me in countless ways. I need to do what I am purposed to do and not wither and wilt under the harsh autumn winds. God is responsible for where I am and how I got there. I am responsible for staying and doing the work before me. He will be responsible for the results, I just need to remain. Thank you God for a dandelion in October, just when I needed it.
I had been so involved in helping my oldest son with his homework this week, that I had completely forgotten about something I was supposed to help my youngest son with. The guilt was heavy on me. It was going to be just fine--but that didn't change the fact--not enough of me to go around.
I kept walking. Surely, if I repeated this verse often enough I would begin to believe it, to feel it, to really experience it. I just had to say it with faith. Walking. Walking. Through tears, reciting. Then, there it was--on the side of the road, in the shade of a mailbox on October 29--a brand new dandelion just opening up. I stopped and wondered what kind of crazy flower would begin blooming now when the temperatures at night were teasing the freezing mark? What kind of foolish bloom would flourish when the days are at their shortest, the wind cooler each day, and the sun growing dimmer with each passing hour? I marveled. I knew why it was there. I needed to take a lesson from this flower.
Despite a flurry of dead and fallen leaves around it--this flower bloomed. Though, the seed fell in the barren soil right beside the road--where the salt and the sand from the winter plow trucks made the growing conditions oppressive--this flower bloomed. Though June brought flooding and constant rains that could have rotted the seed away, it remained steadfast, clung to the sand and in the right time--it bloomed. Though winter ominously hovered, and autumn light was slipping away, this flower had done what it was supposed to do. Though cold fall rains had pelted the soil and brisk winds had whipped across the ridge, this dandelion remained stalwart and accomplished it's purpose.
It's strength was in its weakness. It was not strong enough, nor placed in conditions ideal enough to bloom, when it was "supposed" to. But, because it had to struggle and withstand so much during a difficult summer, it was blooming now--resolute against the crisp October winds. It stood alone, an early spring flower blooming even when the hydrangeas and the mums were starting to wither. I marveled.
I need to bloom where I am planted. I need to be there for my son struggling with school, the one who is excelling in school, and the son who spends his whole days inventing Lego models in his mind. I need to bloom for my husband who counts on me to hold it all together, for my patients who count on me to be compassionate, and knowledgeable and present. I need to bloom for my friends who count on me when they need to talk to a someone who cares. I need to bloom for my parents and family who depend on me in countless ways. I need to do what I am purposed to do and not wither and wilt under the harsh autumn winds. God is responsible for where I am and how I got there. I am responsible for staying and doing the work before me. He will be responsible for the results, I just need to remain. Thank you God for a dandelion in October, just when I needed it.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Beauty for Ashes
In 1 month Peter and I will be celebrating our 10th anniversary. Many women my age are celebrating almost double that--but for me it is an important milestone. It is the 10th anniversary of when the Lord made beauty out of the ashes of my life. I had been married for nearly 8 years and was 4 months pregnant with Isaac when my husband at the time announced he no longer wanted to be married and he didn't want to be a father. It was devastating. I will not delve into all the details because they are not important now--except to say at some point in our lives God will give each of us a chance to show us His provision. We can choose to allow Him to control the outcome, and make beauty from the ashes of our life, or we can struggle and strive like a fish out of water clamoring for the next breath--instead of looking up to the very Giver of Life who allowed this trial in our life.
Out of pure emotional and physical exhaustion God sovreignly put me in a place where I had no ability or means to fix what had transpired. There were no choices in my hand, only the choice to walk forward in faith and know that if I was going to raise Isaac and be a single Mom unexpectedly, that God would provide and take care of me and my child. I decided that since I wasn't capable of working out the details, and was powerless to change almost everything-- I had to let go and let God.
He came through abundantly as He always does. Answered prayers and provision rained down on me. No, my marriage wasn't saved--but God had other plans. Through it all He taught me to trust Him for everything---even for unanswered prayer. I learned a "No" from a loving Father is as much a provision as a "yes". I learned that being still and waiting is an excercise in faith, and that even when you don't see God's hand moving--He is working behind the scenes, in hearts, never resting, never ceasing to love and care for those who trust in Him.
I learned that sometimes God gets your attention by knocking you on your butt and taking all your stuff away. And, while not a pleasant lesson--it certainly makes a lasting, lifetime impression.
I learned that God works through people--moves in them and in circumstances to show himself--not in blinking neon signs that point the way.
I learned personally how God can take the biggest tragedy I have experienced and turn it to good--in such a profound way that I can look back and rejoice that I went through it. How is that possible? How does He take something so dark, so tragic, so heartbreaking and turn it into the best thing? I don't understand it.
I understand this. God redeems that which the locusts consume. He gave me Peter. He brought me a tender, loving, wonderful man. God constructed our family from ashes. I don't know how He does that--but I'm grateful He does. In one month we will celebrate that milestone--the 10th anniversary of God's miraculous work. Amazing love....how can it be?
Out of pure emotional and physical exhaustion God sovreignly put me in a place where I had no ability or means to fix what had transpired. There were no choices in my hand, only the choice to walk forward in faith and know that if I was going to raise Isaac and be a single Mom unexpectedly, that God would provide and take care of me and my child. I decided that since I wasn't capable of working out the details, and was powerless to change almost everything-- I had to let go and let God.
He came through abundantly as He always does. Answered prayers and provision rained down on me. No, my marriage wasn't saved--but God had other plans. Through it all He taught me to trust Him for everything---even for unanswered prayer. I learned a "No" from a loving Father is as much a provision as a "yes". I learned that being still and waiting is an excercise in faith, and that even when you don't see God's hand moving--He is working behind the scenes, in hearts, never resting, never ceasing to love and care for those who trust in Him.
I learned that sometimes God gets your attention by knocking you on your butt and taking all your stuff away. And, while not a pleasant lesson--it certainly makes a lasting, lifetime impression.
I learned that God works through people--moves in them and in circumstances to show himself--not in blinking neon signs that point the way.
I learned personally how God can take the biggest tragedy I have experienced and turn it to good--in such a profound way that I can look back and rejoice that I went through it. How is that possible? How does He take something so dark, so tragic, so heartbreaking and turn it into the best thing? I don't understand it.
I understand this. God redeems that which the locusts consume. He gave me Peter. He brought me a tender, loving, wonderful man. God constructed our family from ashes. I don't know how He does that--but I'm grateful He does. In one month we will celebrate that milestone--the 10th anniversary of God's miraculous work. Amazing love....how can it be?
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Freeze Time
Many things get put aside in a move. We moved into this home two years ago and in the midst of boxes and renovations 3 pictures of my kids were put aside when one of the frames was damaged. As I hung the pictures that represented my children four years ago, I stared into the faces of a 7 year old Isaac, 5 year old Caleb, and a 3 year old Logan.
Logan had a boo boo on his chin that didn't heal for months because he wouldn't leave it alone. I even made him little gloves to wear in his sleep so he wouldn't pick in his sleep. There he was with a wide eyed grin, arms crossed in a standing pose--with a big boo boo on his chin.
Caleb posed for his picture with his usual impish smile lighting up the room. He had just entered kindergarten and he was loving every minute of Mrs. Holmes class and all the new friends he had made.
Isaac was losing teeth. His mischievous grin revealed the Tooth Fairy had been very busy at our house. As I looked at my eldest son I was overcome with a feeling of sentiment--they were growing up too fast. Wasn't it just yesterday I had held my baby boy and became a Mom?
I sat staring at the pictures I had just hung on the wall. I felt as though I was at the precipice of the hill of a big roller coaster ride--just ready to go over the edge--rounding the corner to the big drop as time unrelentingly presses forward and the unyielding cogs of days and years slip away.
They had changed so much. In the picture Logan still had his infant-like chubby cheeks. Now he is a long and lean boy of nearly seven. Caleb can read, is a math whiz, and dazzles us with his balloon animal creations and the science facts he knows. Isaac is our soccer star, so quick on his feet and intense in his art and everything he puts his mind to. Little men with their own personalities and interests, friends and schedules. They grew up before my eyes.
I am surrounded by empty nesters. In my work almost all the women have either raised their kids, or this fall had driven their last child off to college. I saw the mixed emotion of excitement and longing in these friends as they wrestled with that feeling of wanting to keep their kids little--but also wanting them to be successful and independent adults.
Here it was. Blink. In the midst of a busy move and a busy life. Blink. Three little boys. Blink. Grew up so fast. They're still here. Blink. They're still little. Blink. I'm going to enjoy every minute of this rainy day with them. Blink. Because we never know about tomorrow. And when I blink--they will really be big, and they will have their own life and my job will be much different. For now they still need me and I will enjoy this minute.
Logan had a boo boo on his chin that didn't heal for months because he wouldn't leave it alone. I even made him little gloves to wear in his sleep so he wouldn't pick in his sleep. There he was with a wide eyed grin, arms crossed in a standing pose--with a big boo boo on his chin.
Caleb posed for his picture with his usual impish smile lighting up the room. He had just entered kindergarten and he was loving every minute of Mrs. Holmes class and all the new friends he had made.
Isaac was losing teeth. His mischievous grin revealed the Tooth Fairy had been very busy at our house. As I looked at my eldest son I was overcome with a feeling of sentiment--they were growing up too fast. Wasn't it just yesterday I had held my baby boy and became a Mom?
I sat staring at the pictures I had just hung on the wall. I felt as though I was at the precipice of the hill of a big roller coaster ride--just ready to go over the edge--rounding the corner to the big drop as time unrelentingly presses forward and the unyielding cogs of days and years slip away.
They had changed so much. In the picture Logan still had his infant-like chubby cheeks. Now he is a long and lean boy of nearly seven. Caleb can read, is a math whiz, and dazzles us with his balloon animal creations and the science facts he knows. Isaac is our soccer star, so quick on his feet and intense in his art and everything he puts his mind to. Little men with their own personalities and interests, friends and schedules. They grew up before my eyes.
I am surrounded by empty nesters. In my work almost all the women have either raised their kids, or this fall had driven their last child off to college. I saw the mixed emotion of excitement and longing in these friends as they wrestled with that feeling of wanting to keep their kids little--but also wanting them to be successful and independent adults.
Here it was. Blink. In the midst of a busy move and a busy life. Blink. Three little boys. Blink. Grew up so fast. They're still here. Blink. They're still little. Blink. I'm going to enjoy every minute of this rainy day with them. Blink. Because we never know about tomorrow. And when I blink--they will really be big, and they will have their own life and my job will be much different. For now they still need me and I will enjoy this minute.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Giggling Dreams
Logan just giggled in his sleep. As I sat in the quiet wee hours of this chilly morning, ushering in October--I wondered what fanciful thought would make an almost seven year old boy giggle in his sleep. Most assuredly there were Legos involved. Had one of his Lego "guys" parachuted into a marshmallow field? Had they hunkered down to spy their enemies amid clouds of chocolate mist? Were they doing flips in Lego moon buggies he'd created, over mounds of macaroni and cheese? Had he finally worked out a problem in his head--as he spends hours manipulating all the Legos in his creations, always the perfectionist, never quite satisfied. I guess I will never know.
I'm sure when I have to wake him for school, and I ask him about his dreams he will long since have forgotten all the wonderful things that were floating around his beautiful head of tousled curls. He will stare wistfully at me with those big pools of brown eyes not knowing what I'm talking about. He'll utter something about the evils of structured education and how he just wants to be a Lego Designer and he doesn't need to go to school because he already knows how to do that. Then I'll
tell him that I know he's a good Lego designer, but he needs to know how to read and write well so he can write the directions to his models, and he needs to know math so he can keep track of the money he'll make from his models. It satisfies his seven year old ambitions just long enough so my sleepy babe can stagger down to his awaiting bowl of Cheerios.
I may never know why my youngest son just giggled in his sleep, but I will relish it. I have lived nearly half my life now and have seen and gone through many things. I have had wonderful dreams and smiled in my sleep, and I have lived through nightmares and awakened to my pillow wet with tears. I'm so grateful that Logan's life is safe and carefree enough right now that he can giggle in his sleep. Sleep Well and God Bless my Baby.
I'm sure when I have to wake him for school, and I ask him about his dreams he will long since have forgotten all the wonderful things that were floating around his beautiful head of tousled curls. He will stare wistfully at me with those big pools of brown eyes not knowing what I'm talking about. He'll utter something about the evils of structured education and how he just wants to be a Lego Designer and he doesn't need to go to school because he already knows how to do that. Then I'll
tell him that I know he's a good Lego designer, but he needs to know how to read and write well so he can write the directions to his models, and he needs to know math so he can keep track of the money he'll make from his models. It satisfies his seven year old ambitions just long enough so my sleepy babe can stagger down to his awaiting bowl of Cheerios.
I may never know why my youngest son just giggled in his sleep, but I will relish it. I have lived nearly half my life now and have seen and gone through many things. I have had wonderful dreams and smiled in my sleep, and I have lived through nightmares and awakened to my pillow wet with tears. I'm so grateful that Logan's life is safe and carefree enough right now that he can giggle in his sleep. Sleep Well and God Bless my Baby.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
More Motherly Musings
1) They should not make white shirts in sizes 6T or less. It is counterintuitive and cruel. I believe they're in cohorts with the bleach manufacturers. It's a conspiracy against moms everywhere.
2)Something will inevitably be moving--either their body or their mouth. Administer instructions for stillness and quiet with great discretion--then be willing to follow through when it doesn't happen.
3)You can never give too many hugs or say "I love you" too many times.
4)Memories are made in ordinary moments, so make the ordinary times good.
5) Big people need to say sorry sometimes too.
6) If you go to Quebec with a 2 year old do not order the beef fondue that you have to cook when it arrives to your table in a cute little fondue pot. You'll be eating steak tartare and people will be cursing you in French.
7) You're never too big for bubble stuff.
8) Bag balm gives wood furniture a luxorius sheen. (See The Virtues of Bag Balm)
9) Often the things we see in our children that upset us are merely reflections of behavior we have modeled.
10)I have not found 1 insect that has survived a spin cycle.
2)Something will inevitably be moving--either their body or their mouth. Administer instructions for stillness and quiet with great discretion--then be willing to follow through when it doesn't happen.
3)You can never give too many hugs or say "I love you" too many times.
4)Memories are made in ordinary moments, so make the ordinary times good.
5) Big people need to say sorry sometimes too.
6) If you go to Quebec with a 2 year old do not order the beef fondue that you have to cook when it arrives to your table in a cute little fondue pot. You'll be eating steak tartare and people will be cursing you in French.
7) You're never too big for bubble stuff.
8) Bag balm gives wood furniture a luxorius sheen. (See The Virtues of Bag Balm)
9) Often the things we see in our children that upset us are merely reflections of behavior we have modeled.
10)I have not found 1 insect that has survived a spin cycle.
Friday, September 25, 2009
bionic Ears and Other Parental Superpowers
Bionic Ears and Other Parental Superpowers
If you are a parent you have probably never thought about yourself as a superhero, but everyday you perform wonderful feats of physical prowess. For example, the other day I was going through mail as our children played in the other end of the house. They had asked to watch a movie, but I had told them, “later”. Over the sound of opening letters and crumpling paper I heard the distant, faint clicking sound of a DVD case being opened, yards away. Busted! I called out the child’s name who I expected was in violation of the “later” order. The culprit, correctly identified, came scuffling down the hall. Parents exhibit these superpowers daily. Over a myriad of other household noises, unseen to eyes, think of all the faint sounds of mischief you have intercepted. Not even kryptonite could keep an attentive parent from the task of protecting their fledglings from unknown dangers and untold “naughties”.
Can you identify a child by only the pitter patter of her feet coming down the hall? If someone coughs do you know who it is? If your child cries on the playground, can you pick him out amidst other cries and squeals of laughter? Then you are also gifted with bionic hearing and parental superpowers! I have witnessed this ability in almost every parent I’ve ever known.
We recently watched “March of the Penguins”. In one of the scenes I was amazed as the baby penguins, left on the ice alone by mothers who must start the almost 70 mile trek to the ocean to feed, await their father’s return. Even though there are throngs of squawking infant penguins greeting the returning father’s, they correctly identify which baby penguin is theirs. As I thought about human parents, I realized we have this same gift. I have seen my friends in a playgroup leave the room in an instant when they hear a faint cry from their toddler in the other room. The other Moms continue their conversation and hardly miss a beat, until they hear something amiss with their child.
Hand in hand with this amazing power to hear and correctly identify your young, is the ability to tune out unwanted stimuli. This is called, “selective listening”. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. Toddlers love to exhibit this behavior, but you may even recognize it in yourself. Before I had kids I would sit in a restaurant next to unruly children and wonder how the parents could possibly be so oblivious. Oh how sweet the ignorance! Little did I realize that it’s not lack of compassion, or ambivalence. It’s called survival. You see even the most cautious and loving parent after a certain point begins to tune out noxious stimuli. Eventually most parents “come to” and correct the problem. But sometimes the noise and business of childhood can become like the low roar of an airplane engine. After awhile, it’s reassuring because you know the plane is still in the air, and it lulls you to sleep. This is my theory for explaining why the same Mother can hear the tinkling of a forbidden cookie jar opening from yards away, but seems not even to notice the child bouncing off the walls in the doctor’s office, right next to her. She has a sense that her child is generally well, given the fact that his voice echoes off the walls. She senses his movement, as he bounces from chair to chair performing gymnastics that defy many laws of nature. Throw in a few nights of sleep deprivation, a traumatic grocery shopping trip, and you have a Mom exhausted from sensory overload who fails to act. However, when that same child does a double twisting somersault off the end table, and bumps his forehead on the way down, that bedraggled Mom will leap to her feet in a nanosecond, defying gravity. She will scoop up her injured cub faster than Spider Man could spin a web to soften the blow.
Besides bionic hearing, and the ability of selective sensory input, there’s the rarely celebrated super power of multi-tasking. There are few jobs other than parenthood where you get to bounce an infant on one hip, stir a pot of soup with the other hand, clasp a phone between your ear and your shoulder, fix your toddler’s stuck wind up car with your free foot and download pictures for the Grandparents all at the same time. Amazing! Truly a study in physical prowess, no matter what shape the parent is in. It’s probably a good thing that no one really knows what the physical demands of parenthood will be before they undertake it.
Perhaps in time our culture will come to appreciate the mental stoutness, physical fortitude and ingenuity that parents display daily. When that happens I expect that the Olympics will be changed forever. The venues may include such things as running a measured course with three kids hanging off your legs, and changing diapers at the speed of light. Perhaps the all time coveted prize would go to the “Iron Mom” who braves screaming toddlers and nagging teenagers while pushing 100 pounds of groceries through a store, all the while avoiding purchases that contain Saturated Fats. Ahhhh. That will be the day.
Kim Mihelich
If you are a parent you have probably never thought about yourself as a superhero, but everyday you perform wonderful feats of physical prowess. For example, the other day I was going through mail as our children played in the other end of the house. They had asked to watch a movie, but I had told them, “later”. Over the sound of opening letters and crumpling paper I heard the distant, faint clicking sound of a DVD case being opened, yards away. Busted! I called out the child’s name who I expected was in violation of the “later” order. The culprit, correctly identified, came scuffling down the hall. Parents exhibit these superpowers daily. Over a myriad of other household noises, unseen to eyes, think of all the faint sounds of mischief you have intercepted. Not even kryptonite could keep an attentive parent from the task of protecting their fledglings from unknown dangers and untold “naughties”.
Can you identify a child by only the pitter patter of her feet coming down the hall? If someone coughs do you know who it is? If your child cries on the playground, can you pick him out amidst other cries and squeals of laughter? Then you are also gifted with bionic hearing and parental superpowers! I have witnessed this ability in almost every parent I’ve ever known.
We recently watched “March of the Penguins”. In one of the scenes I was amazed as the baby penguins, left on the ice alone by mothers who must start the almost 70 mile trek to the ocean to feed, await their father’s return. Even though there are throngs of squawking infant penguins greeting the returning father’s, they correctly identify which baby penguin is theirs. As I thought about human parents, I realized we have this same gift. I have seen my friends in a playgroup leave the room in an instant when they hear a faint cry from their toddler in the other room. The other Moms continue their conversation and hardly miss a beat, until they hear something amiss with their child.
Hand in hand with this amazing power to hear and correctly identify your young, is the ability to tune out unwanted stimuli. This is called, “selective listening”. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. Toddlers love to exhibit this behavior, but you may even recognize it in yourself. Before I had kids I would sit in a restaurant next to unruly children and wonder how the parents could possibly be so oblivious. Oh how sweet the ignorance! Little did I realize that it’s not lack of compassion, or ambivalence. It’s called survival. You see even the most cautious and loving parent after a certain point begins to tune out noxious stimuli. Eventually most parents “come to” and correct the problem. But sometimes the noise and business of childhood can become like the low roar of an airplane engine. After awhile, it’s reassuring because you know the plane is still in the air, and it lulls you to sleep. This is my theory for explaining why the same Mother can hear the tinkling of a forbidden cookie jar opening from yards away, but seems not even to notice the child bouncing off the walls in the doctor’s office, right next to her. She has a sense that her child is generally well, given the fact that his voice echoes off the walls. She senses his movement, as he bounces from chair to chair performing gymnastics that defy many laws of nature. Throw in a few nights of sleep deprivation, a traumatic grocery shopping trip, and you have a Mom exhausted from sensory overload who fails to act. However, when that same child does a double twisting somersault off the end table, and bumps his forehead on the way down, that bedraggled Mom will leap to her feet in a nanosecond, defying gravity. She will scoop up her injured cub faster than Spider Man could spin a web to soften the blow.
Besides bionic hearing, and the ability of selective sensory input, there’s the rarely celebrated super power of multi-tasking. There are few jobs other than parenthood where you get to bounce an infant on one hip, stir a pot of soup with the other hand, clasp a phone between your ear and your shoulder, fix your toddler’s stuck wind up car with your free foot and download pictures for the Grandparents all at the same time. Amazing! Truly a study in physical prowess, no matter what shape the parent is in. It’s probably a good thing that no one really knows what the physical demands of parenthood will be before they undertake it.
Perhaps in time our culture will come to appreciate the mental stoutness, physical fortitude and ingenuity that parents display daily. When that happens I expect that the Olympics will be changed forever. The venues may include such things as running a measured course with three kids hanging off your legs, and changing diapers at the speed of light. Perhaps the all time coveted prize would go to the “Iron Mom” who braves screaming toddlers and nagging teenagers while pushing 100 pounds of groceries through a store, all the while avoiding purchases that contain Saturated Fats. Ahhhh. That will be the day.
Kim Mihelich
For This We Give Thanks
For This We Give Thanks
It’s the week after Thanksgiving. The golden brown and juicy bird that graced the center of our table has morphed into stew and fricassee, and the bottom of the leftover pile…turkey salad sandwiches. As we resume our hectic schedules it is easy to get caught in the flurry and forget the grateful pause we took on Thanksgiving Day. But surely, we all have so much to give thanks for throughout the year.
A few days before Thanksgiving we were making a “Thankful Tree”. I had pruned a lilac bush in our yard. We took the branches, placed them in a pot and decorated them with foam cut out leaves on which we wrote the many things we were thankful for. The answers were very predictable; God, Family, Food, Home, Our dog, Toys and teddies, Jobs, Cars etc. We helped the younger kids write down their answers, as they reviewed their small world for things to be grateful for. Our oldest son, who is just learning how to read began to sound out his own answers and formed his own little pile of thankful leaves he had written in his own hand. . The boys waited for Mommy to sew a string on their colorful leaves. As I finally got to our oldest son’s pile, I burst out laughing at the final leaf. On that leaf he had written he was thankful for “Toes”. His reasoning was very logical. He told us, “Without toes, you fall down a lot”.
For a day or so every time I walked by our Thankful Tree I burst out laughing at that wonderful answer. However, the more I pondered it, the more I realized what a blessed and innocent place that was to be, to be grateful for the simplest, most basic things that most people do not even give a moment’s thought to. How often are we dissatisfied with what we have, simply because we don’t recognize all the gifts we’ve already been given? Our eyes are full of longing for more, but blinded to the blessings lying at our feet. As the Christmas season gets into full swing, let’s not forget the day we took to remember all we have to be thankful for. For no matter what your situation right now, if you really count your blessings, you will find many, from your head to your toes.
Kim Mihelich
It’s the week after Thanksgiving. The golden brown and juicy bird that graced the center of our table has morphed into stew and fricassee, and the bottom of the leftover pile…turkey salad sandwiches. As we resume our hectic schedules it is easy to get caught in the flurry and forget the grateful pause we took on Thanksgiving Day. But surely, we all have so much to give thanks for throughout the year.
A few days before Thanksgiving we were making a “Thankful Tree”. I had pruned a lilac bush in our yard. We took the branches, placed them in a pot and decorated them with foam cut out leaves on which we wrote the many things we were thankful for. The answers were very predictable; God, Family, Food, Home, Our dog, Toys and teddies, Jobs, Cars etc. We helped the younger kids write down their answers, as they reviewed their small world for things to be grateful for. Our oldest son, who is just learning how to read began to sound out his own answers and formed his own little pile of thankful leaves he had written in his own hand. . The boys waited for Mommy to sew a string on their colorful leaves. As I finally got to our oldest son’s pile, I burst out laughing at the final leaf. On that leaf he had written he was thankful for “Toes”. His reasoning was very logical. He told us, “Without toes, you fall down a lot”.
For a day or so every time I walked by our Thankful Tree I burst out laughing at that wonderful answer. However, the more I pondered it, the more I realized what a blessed and innocent place that was to be, to be grateful for the simplest, most basic things that most people do not even give a moment’s thought to. How often are we dissatisfied with what we have, simply because we don’t recognize all the gifts we’ve already been given? Our eyes are full of longing for more, but blinded to the blessings lying at our feet. As the Christmas season gets into full swing, let’s not forget the day we took to remember all we have to be thankful for. For no matter what your situation right now, if you really count your blessings, you will find many, from your head to your toes.
Kim Mihelich
Blank Days
Blank Days
Almost all of us have them…daily planners with so many plans we can hardly see the white space of any day left in the wake of the ink. But, occasionally it sneaks up upon you. You look at the calendar which is usually a mosaic of to-do lists, appointments, reminders, and scribbled bits of shopping lists. There, amidst the chaos, peaking out at you is a completely blank, untarnished day! It’s almost like finding a forgotten present in the bottom of a Christmas stocking when you’re packing up the decorations for the next year. It’s so totally unexpected, a thing to be treasured all by itself.
Blank days deserve an extra long pajama break…when everyone lounges and just enjoys being together, snuggled in blankets and soaking in the warmth and love. Blank days deserve one extra cup of coffee, many extra hugs and many more minutes listening to silly stories that do not have a beginning, have a rambling plot, no conclusive ending, and doubtfully happened in the first place. Blank days mean you can make your favorite breakfast without worrying that by the time the pancakes leave the griddle it will be time to leave the house. Blank days mean that little boys can be indulged in their breakfast conversation without warnings about “more eating, less talking!”
It doesn’t matter what the weather is like on blank days, because there are no plans to spoil. There are no agendas to ruin, no lists looming over your head to accomplish before the setting sun, no projects beaconing for your urgent attention. Blank days are fresh and new and as inviting as a clean artist’s canvas, ready for families’ loving brushstrokes to create memories for years to come. Blank days mean the Tickle Monster can spend more time stalking his favorite prey…little children! Blank days mean we can sing silly songs together without barking out orders about morning chores that need to be accomplished or lamenting over lost shoes and backpacks in disarray. Blank days mean that when you finally do get around to dressing your clothes don’t necessarily have to match, in fact creative fashion statements are encouraged. Blank days mean that if you insist on wearing your Underoos backwards, it’s no big deal.
Blank days remind us how sweet life is when we slow down, don’t over schedule and try to out do our personal best record for most items crossed off a to-do list. Blank days remind us that when all the business of life is stripped away, what remains is all that really mattered anyways. More time for hugs, more time for stories, more time for joy and just being together. More time for love.
If we all had more blank days, more often, maybe our daily planners would start to look quite different. Maybe instead of cramming as many appointments and accomplishments as we could into the meager white space of our daily planner, we would be inserting large “X’s” to block off great blocks of sacred, blank space. More blank space in our calendar to accomplish the only thing that will matter in the end anyways…taking time for love. The next time you look at your calendar and someone or something tries to occupy space on a totally blank day, think twice. Keep it blank. It may turn out to be the best day of your life.
Almost all of us have them…daily planners with so many plans we can hardly see the white space of any day left in the wake of the ink. But, occasionally it sneaks up upon you. You look at the calendar which is usually a mosaic of to-do lists, appointments, reminders, and scribbled bits of shopping lists. There, amidst the chaos, peaking out at you is a completely blank, untarnished day! It’s almost like finding a forgotten present in the bottom of a Christmas stocking when you’re packing up the decorations for the next year. It’s so totally unexpected, a thing to be treasured all by itself.
Blank days deserve an extra long pajama break…when everyone lounges and just enjoys being together, snuggled in blankets and soaking in the warmth and love. Blank days deserve one extra cup of coffee, many extra hugs and many more minutes listening to silly stories that do not have a beginning, have a rambling plot, no conclusive ending, and doubtfully happened in the first place. Blank days mean you can make your favorite breakfast without worrying that by the time the pancakes leave the griddle it will be time to leave the house. Blank days mean that little boys can be indulged in their breakfast conversation without warnings about “more eating, less talking!”
It doesn’t matter what the weather is like on blank days, because there are no plans to spoil. There are no agendas to ruin, no lists looming over your head to accomplish before the setting sun, no projects beaconing for your urgent attention. Blank days are fresh and new and as inviting as a clean artist’s canvas, ready for families’ loving brushstrokes to create memories for years to come. Blank days mean the Tickle Monster can spend more time stalking his favorite prey…little children! Blank days mean we can sing silly songs together without barking out orders about morning chores that need to be accomplished or lamenting over lost shoes and backpacks in disarray. Blank days mean that when you finally do get around to dressing your clothes don’t necessarily have to match, in fact creative fashion statements are encouraged. Blank days mean that if you insist on wearing your Underoos backwards, it’s no big deal.
Blank days remind us how sweet life is when we slow down, don’t over schedule and try to out do our personal best record for most items crossed off a to-do list. Blank days remind us that when all the business of life is stripped away, what remains is all that really mattered anyways. More time for hugs, more time for stories, more time for joy and just being together. More time for love.
If we all had more blank days, more often, maybe our daily planners would start to look quite different. Maybe instead of cramming as many appointments and accomplishments as we could into the meager white space of our daily planner, we would be inserting large “X’s” to block off great blocks of sacred, blank space. More blank space in our calendar to accomplish the only thing that will matter in the end anyways…taking time for love. The next time you look at your calendar and someone or something tries to occupy space on a totally blank day, think twice. Keep it blank. It may turn out to be the best day of your life.
Field Trip
We had a field trip today. The 1st-4th graders went for a fall hike in Patuckaway State Park. It was a perfect day. Sunny, slight breeze, mild, but not too warm so you could hike up those steep embankments comfortably. Perfect.
As I received the assignment of my little charges from the 1st grade teacher, I couldn't help but think back to my field trips as a child when my Mom would accompany me. Six wiggly little 1st graders piled into the Wonder Bus--3 boys, and 3 girls-- and we were off. Last year on this same field trip my older son rode home with another Mom. She had baked cookies. Caleb's reply when we got back to the school was, "She's a good Mom!". Hmmm. Not to be outdone I baked last night. However, because I am presently surrounded by apples knee high they had to be apple oat cookies with vanilla frosting. They were good, and well deserved after the 1st graders made such a valiant effort for their little legs to keep up with those big 4th graders.
The worst memory I have of a field trip is when my Mom was assigned all the problem children in the class. You know the type. We had the kid who had his own seat in the Principle's office, the kid who rarely bathed, and the kid who laughed hysterically everytime he passed gas. Then there was me. I wanted desperately to go with my friend and her Mom. She had the station wagon full of all the cool girls. But my Mom was driving--and I belonged to her, and in some cruel conspiracy cooked up in the teacher's lounge of Cornish Elementary School, my Mom had charge of the problem kids. One boy wouldn't stay with Mom and kept running off away from the group. I remember she grabbed his hand to keep him under control. "Eeeeewwww" I thought. Obviously, she hadn't gotten the cootie memo. I reccovered. And thankfully the years have allowed me to see those kids in a different light.
As I look over the busy brood I hiked up the hill with I wonder about the memories they are making. I don't feel old enough to supervise a field trip--but here I am with my chaperone assignment. When did I grow up?
As I received the assignment of my little charges from the 1st grade teacher, I couldn't help but think back to my field trips as a child when my Mom would accompany me. Six wiggly little 1st graders piled into the Wonder Bus--3 boys, and 3 girls-- and we were off. Last year on this same field trip my older son rode home with another Mom. She had baked cookies. Caleb's reply when we got back to the school was, "She's a good Mom!". Hmmm. Not to be outdone I baked last night. However, because I am presently surrounded by apples knee high they had to be apple oat cookies with vanilla frosting. They were good, and well deserved after the 1st graders made such a valiant effort for their little legs to keep up with those big 4th graders.
The worst memory I have of a field trip is when my Mom was assigned all the problem children in the class. You know the type. We had the kid who had his own seat in the Principle's office, the kid who rarely bathed, and the kid who laughed hysterically everytime he passed gas. Then there was me. I wanted desperately to go with my friend and her Mom. She had the station wagon full of all the cool girls. But my Mom was driving--and I belonged to her, and in some cruel conspiracy cooked up in the teacher's lounge of Cornish Elementary School, my Mom had charge of the problem kids. One boy wouldn't stay with Mom and kept running off away from the group. I remember she grabbed his hand to keep him under control. "Eeeeewwww" I thought. Obviously, she hadn't gotten the cootie memo. I reccovered. And thankfully the years have allowed me to see those kids in a different light.
As I look over the busy brood I hiked up the hill with I wonder about the memories they are making. I don't feel old enough to supervise a field trip--but here I am with my chaperone assignment. When did I grow up?
Road Trip
Road Trip
Nothing can send a parent’s mind racing quite like the prospect of a long road trip with young ones in tow. Not only do you need to pack all the extra provisions that childhood requires for your destination, but usually you need a couple duffel bags filled with survival gear for the trip itself.
Lets talk snacks for example. Now juice boxes are great, but you have to be careful not to get the kind with extra sugar in them. There is nothing worse than a toddler, high on sugar, strapped into his carseat reeling from the effects of a sugar high. Typically, since he is strapped down the only thing worth moving is his mouth. Trust me on this one, before you cross the NH border you will be popping Advil and praying for the sweet sounds of your angel snoring.
Before you provide too many liquids you also have to consider the equation. You know the one. Size of child’s bladder x miles= number of stops
Number of juice boxes
Now typically, each stop can add at least 20 minutes to your driving time. Now if everyone would just pee like they’re supposed to, it would not be a problem. However, you have to factor in the time for, “Don’t touch that,” the random meandering up the rest stop path to blow off excess energy, the debate at the vending machines as to why they aren’t having Snickers bars, and the kid disinfection after they have touched things in the public restroom that were not intended for human skin to come into contact with.
There is also the matter of entertainment to be considered. Books are great for awhile, until the kids start to become carsick . That’s a whole other subject that could easily add 30 minutes to your driving time. Books on tape have helped us immensely. We have really enjoyed checking those out of the library before a long trip. However, when their attention is lost to the story you are quickly back to the mundane and nerve-racking work of trying to maintain peace and keep the vehicle moving toward your intended destination. We have played travel games, like Travel Bingo. That is also effective, for a little while. However, eventually a debate like, “NO! You didn’t really see that sign!”, shatters the tranquil busyness of the van like a rock slamming into a window.
Some kids just fall asleep when they get into a car. At first you think, “This is great!” However, when you get to your destination you’re ready to collapse from exhaustion. As you unload the suitcases, and unstrap Junior from his carseat he releases like a boomerang all over the place. This would be fine if you were vacationing in a rubber room. But, if Junior boomerangs himself into Aunt Diane’s Hummel collection or Nanny’s corner cupboard, it does not start off a visit very well.
There is also the matter of squabbling to consider. Now in the 70’s when I grew up we didn’t have carseats, or air conditioning and the windows in the back of Mom’s station wagon only rolled down halfway. The three of us kids would be roly poly situated in the backseat. Our thighs would have 2nd degree burns on the back from the searing genuine Vinyl seats. Somehow we would muster the strength to lift ourselves off the seat to pester our neighbor. To this, of course, the natural response, “Stop Touching Me!” came. I can remember more than once my folks pulling over and drawing imaginary lines down the Nogahide seats. Now we definitely have an advantage, the kids are strapped down. However, it doesn’t mean they don’t try every means at their disposal to irritate their siblings. I have issued more than one empty threat that, “Someone is going to ride in the luggage rack if you kids don’t cut it out!” We know that’s not effective, and we always end up stopping to take care of those problems. However, that always adds about 15 minutes per episode.
So the next time Aunt Mildred, or Cousin Wanda laments to you that you never visit I have a small mathematical formula you can share with them.
It goes something like this:
# Juice boxes x Number of children (20) + Number of fights to break up (15) +
Bladder size
Carsick episodes(30) + Miles to destination = Total driving time
55 MPH
Nothing can send a parent’s mind racing quite like the prospect of a long road trip with young ones in tow. Not only do you need to pack all the extra provisions that childhood requires for your destination, but usually you need a couple duffel bags filled with survival gear for the trip itself.
Lets talk snacks for example. Now juice boxes are great, but you have to be careful not to get the kind with extra sugar in them. There is nothing worse than a toddler, high on sugar, strapped into his carseat reeling from the effects of a sugar high. Typically, since he is strapped down the only thing worth moving is his mouth. Trust me on this one, before you cross the NH border you will be popping Advil and praying for the sweet sounds of your angel snoring.
Before you provide too many liquids you also have to consider the equation. You know the one. Size of child’s bladder x miles= number of stops
Number of juice boxes
Now typically, each stop can add at least 20 minutes to your driving time. Now if everyone would just pee like they’re supposed to, it would not be a problem. However, you have to factor in the time for, “Don’t touch that,” the random meandering up the rest stop path to blow off excess energy, the debate at the vending machines as to why they aren’t having Snickers bars, and the kid disinfection after they have touched things in the public restroom that were not intended for human skin to come into contact with.
There is also the matter of entertainment to be considered. Books are great for awhile, until the kids start to become carsick . That’s a whole other subject that could easily add 30 minutes to your driving time. Books on tape have helped us immensely. We have really enjoyed checking those out of the library before a long trip. However, when their attention is lost to the story you are quickly back to the mundane and nerve-racking work of trying to maintain peace and keep the vehicle moving toward your intended destination. We have played travel games, like Travel Bingo. That is also effective, for a little while. However, eventually a debate like, “NO! You didn’t really see that sign!”, shatters the tranquil busyness of the van like a rock slamming into a window.
Some kids just fall asleep when they get into a car. At first you think, “This is great!” However, when you get to your destination you’re ready to collapse from exhaustion. As you unload the suitcases, and unstrap Junior from his carseat he releases like a boomerang all over the place. This would be fine if you were vacationing in a rubber room. But, if Junior boomerangs himself into Aunt Diane’s Hummel collection or Nanny’s corner cupboard, it does not start off a visit very well.
There is also the matter of squabbling to consider. Now in the 70’s when I grew up we didn’t have carseats, or air conditioning and the windows in the back of Mom’s station wagon only rolled down halfway. The three of us kids would be roly poly situated in the backseat. Our thighs would have 2nd degree burns on the back from the searing genuine Vinyl seats. Somehow we would muster the strength to lift ourselves off the seat to pester our neighbor. To this, of course, the natural response, “Stop Touching Me!” came. I can remember more than once my folks pulling over and drawing imaginary lines down the Nogahide seats. Now we definitely have an advantage, the kids are strapped down. However, it doesn’t mean they don’t try every means at their disposal to irritate their siblings. I have issued more than one empty threat that, “Someone is going to ride in the luggage rack if you kids don’t cut it out!” We know that’s not effective, and we always end up stopping to take care of those problems. However, that always adds about 15 minutes per episode.
So the next time Aunt Mildred, or Cousin Wanda laments to you that you never visit I have a small mathematical formula you can share with them.
It goes something like this:
# Juice boxes x Number of children (20) + Number of fights to break up (15) +
Bladder size
Carsick episodes(30) + Miles to destination = Total driving time
55 MPH
Motherly Musings
. Motherly Musings
1) The road to Potty Training is paved with piddle.
2) Somewhere in this universe is a black hole where lost sippy cups go. However, you’d never want to go there. It smells like sour milk.
3) Some say the only 2 things in life that are inevitable are death and taxes. By that standard, Motherhood has the upper hand. There are lots of things inevitable in motherhood: dirty diapers, dirty laundry, dirty dishes, runny noses, skinned knees, and rewards beyond measure.
4) If you allow a behavior in one child it will be repeated in the siblings in exponential fashion.
5) If you give a child a fish it will occupy him for 10 minutes. If you bring a child fishing it will give you plenty of laughs for a whole afternoon and lots of material to journal about.
6) The best things in life are freely given: hugs, smiles, laughter, a warm hand and kisses from a child.
7) Many memories are made doing the most mundane things together.
8) If you’re easily embarrassed you get over it when you become a parent.
9) Most people don’t realize they can do so many things with one hand until they become Mothers.
10) “Diaper Bag” just does not do it justice. Let’s be real…it weighs 50 lbs, it’s survival gear.
11) Motherhood takes multi-tasking to a whole new level. Most people never knew they could do so many things with a free foot or their elbows… just because both hands were occupied!
12) To sleep or not to sleep….Ah! If that were the only question!
13) A pacifier in the hand is worth two left on the changing table at home.
14) It’s just spit, it happens.
15) You can lead a baby to mashed peas, but you can’t make them eat.
16) A smile is just a frown turned upside down; however, it could also be gas.
17) A boo-boo bunny heals all wounds. (If you don’t know what this is, it is a soft ice compress with ears and a pink nose.)
18) The hand that rocks the cradle may rule the world, but she’s going to need a lot of coffee to keep her going.
19) The mantra of a two year old that every Mother should know is, “If at first you don’t succeed, cry, cry again!”
20 The strong will of a child turned the wrong way brings ruin, but turned for good it can become strong faith, believing in, and working toward the impossible. Hold onto that one the next time your toddler digs in their heals and gives you that defiant look!
Kim Mihelich
1) The road to Potty Training is paved with piddle.
2) Somewhere in this universe is a black hole where lost sippy cups go. However, you’d never want to go there. It smells like sour milk.
3) Some say the only 2 things in life that are inevitable are death and taxes. By that standard, Motherhood has the upper hand. There are lots of things inevitable in motherhood: dirty diapers, dirty laundry, dirty dishes, runny noses, skinned knees, and rewards beyond measure.
4) If you allow a behavior in one child it will be repeated in the siblings in exponential fashion.
5) If you give a child a fish it will occupy him for 10 minutes. If you bring a child fishing it will give you plenty of laughs for a whole afternoon and lots of material to journal about.
6) The best things in life are freely given: hugs, smiles, laughter, a warm hand and kisses from a child.
7) Many memories are made doing the most mundane things together.
8) If you’re easily embarrassed you get over it when you become a parent.
9) Most people don’t realize they can do so many things with one hand until they become Mothers.
10) “Diaper Bag” just does not do it justice. Let’s be real…it weighs 50 lbs, it’s survival gear.
11) Motherhood takes multi-tasking to a whole new level. Most people never knew they could do so many things with a free foot or their elbows… just because both hands were occupied!
12) To sleep or not to sleep….Ah! If that were the only question!
13) A pacifier in the hand is worth two left on the changing table at home.
14) It’s just spit, it happens.
15) You can lead a baby to mashed peas, but you can’t make them eat.
16) A smile is just a frown turned upside down; however, it could also be gas.
17) A boo-boo bunny heals all wounds. (If you don’t know what this is, it is a soft ice compress with ears and a pink nose.)
18) The hand that rocks the cradle may rule the world, but she’s going to need a lot of coffee to keep her going.
19) The mantra of a two year old that every Mother should know is, “If at first you don’t succeed, cry, cry again!”
20 The strong will of a child turned the wrong way brings ruin, but turned for good it can become strong faith, believing in, and working toward the impossible. Hold onto that one the next time your toddler digs in their heals and gives you that defiant look!
Kim Mihelich
Nanny and Bumpy
Nanny and Bumpy
I grew up in Cornish NH, a rolling Currier and Ives town situated on the banks of the Connecticut River. Its claim to fame is the longest covered bridge east of the Mississippi, St. Gauden’s mansion, and of course, the event that quickens every Grammar school kid’s pulse at the mere mention…the Cornish Fair. I grew up within ½ mile from my grandparents, my Aunt and Uncle and a slew of cousins. I didn’t know until much later what a lucky girl I was to grow up so close to so many people who loved me.
.
Most of the time when I would run into the old farmhouse to greet Nanny, I found her with a cigarette in one hand, a Harlequin romance novel in the other hand and General Hospital blaring on the TV. She would set her book down to receive my hug. She would ask me if I wanted a cookie, to which she would say, “Well go get them, you know where they are!” After snack time was finished she would ask, “Well what are we going to do now?” I always hoped to make something with Nanny. No one could create something out of nothing like my Nanny.
Nanny was the “McGyver” of Arts and Crafts. She could take a bit of felt, a pipe cleaner, 3 inches of rick-rack, an odd button, and “BAM”, we’d make a puppy dog change purse with a button nose. To collect her various craft treasures we would have to go “upstairs” which was a veritable potpourri of junk. Well, that’s what it looked like to the untrained eye. However, to Nanny, who saw a loose organization to all the chaos in her upstairs rooms, it was the starting point of genius. She saw potential in everything. As we stepped over strewn boxes of cut up egg cartons, wooden wafers, Styrofoam balls, Popsicle sticks, she was like a cat on the hunt. Over boxes of Harlequin romances she had already read, with long since forgotten plots, was the perfect shade of eggplant colored felt. If the going got too rough, she’d send my spindly frame diving over a heap, with orders to, “Open that box”. More often than not it would be just where Nanny had placed it years earlier, when others would have thrown it away. But Nanny didn’t throw away anything. She saw potential in it all.
Bumpy was a stoic man of little words. He was bald, with a bump on his head. So it was logical for all of us grandkids to call him “Bumpy”. He was the stereotypical Yankee, his mantra which he told me many times was “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.” In my eyes Bumpy could fix anything. When I was 16, we had to know the basic workings of an engine for Driver’s Ed class. My Dad was away on business trip and my Mom sent me to Bumpy. He cracked the hood of his old wood truck, and in an hours time he gave me a crash course in the workings of a carburetor, and alternator, the fan belt, sparkplugs and many other essential parts. As he rattled off the information I stood in awe of him. He would point and pry the different parts of the weather beaten truck with his worn and wrinkled hands. Oh how I wish I had taped recorded that conversation. The years have cruelly dimmed the soft sound of his voice in my treasure trove of memories. At the age of 16 the thought never occurred to me that he wouldn’t always be there.
Bumpy had a special love for the family dogs. He didn’t have one of his own, but he adopted ours. Many times Bump would show up in the driveway, and invite Sammy to ride to the bank with him. Sammy was our beloved wire-haired terrier mongrel, whose head was much too small for her bulbous body. She always loved going with Bumpy because he didn’t just give out treats, he gave out dog “cookies”.
My grandparents have long since passed away. As the years have marched on, adulthood has tarnished the pristine memories of these two people I held dear. Adulthood has a way of injecting a good dose of reality into many things we first see through a child’s eye. Nanny smoked too much. Bumpy was stubborn, and sometimes prone to a bad temper. But I never saw those sides of my grandparents. The Nanny and Bumpy I remember as a child were the most wonderful grandparents a girl could hope for. Isn’t that the way it should be? I hope that my kids can remember my parents in the unspoiled light of innocence. I hope they see all the wonderful and talented aspects to the prior generation and hold those memories tight for as long as cruel reality will allow. Someday, they will see them for the fallible people they are, like we all are. But I hope they always keep special memories that are unblemished and innocent, like the memories I have of my Nanny and Bumpy.
I grew up in Cornish NH, a rolling Currier and Ives town situated on the banks of the Connecticut River. Its claim to fame is the longest covered bridge east of the Mississippi, St. Gauden’s mansion, and of course, the event that quickens every Grammar school kid’s pulse at the mere mention…the Cornish Fair. I grew up within ½ mile from my grandparents, my Aunt and Uncle and a slew of cousins. I didn’t know until much later what a lucky girl I was to grow up so close to so many people who loved me.
.
Most of the time when I would run into the old farmhouse to greet Nanny, I found her with a cigarette in one hand, a Harlequin romance novel in the other hand and General Hospital blaring on the TV. She would set her book down to receive my hug. She would ask me if I wanted a cookie, to which she would say, “Well go get them, you know where they are!” After snack time was finished she would ask, “Well what are we going to do now?” I always hoped to make something with Nanny. No one could create something out of nothing like my Nanny.
Nanny was the “McGyver” of Arts and Crafts. She could take a bit of felt, a pipe cleaner, 3 inches of rick-rack, an odd button, and “BAM”, we’d make a puppy dog change purse with a button nose. To collect her various craft treasures we would have to go “upstairs” which was a veritable potpourri of junk. Well, that’s what it looked like to the untrained eye. However, to Nanny, who saw a loose organization to all the chaos in her upstairs rooms, it was the starting point of genius. She saw potential in everything. As we stepped over strewn boxes of cut up egg cartons, wooden wafers, Styrofoam balls, Popsicle sticks, she was like a cat on the hunt. Over boxes of Harlequin romances she had already read, with long since forgotten plots, was the perfect shade of eggplant colored felt. If the going got too rough, she’d send my spindly frame diving over a heap, with orders to, “Open that box”. More often than not it would be just where Nanny had placed it years earlier, when others would have thrown it away. But Nanny didn’t throw away anything. She saw potential in it all.
Bumpy was a stoic man of little words. He was bald, with a bump on his head. So it was logical for all of us grandkids to call him “Bumpy”. He was the stereotypical Yankee, his mantra which he told me many times was “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.” In my eyes Bumpy could fix anything. When I was 16, we had to know the basic workings of an engine for Driver’s Ed class. My Dad was away on business trip and my Mom sent me to Bumpy. He cracked the hood of his old wood truck, and in an hours time he gave me a crash course in the workings of a carburetor, and alternator, the fan belt, sparkplugs and many other essential parts. As he rattled off the information I stood in awe of him. He would point and pry the different parts of the weather beaten truck with his worn and wrinkled hands. Oh how I wish I had taped recorded that conversation. The years have cruelly dimmed the soft sound of his voice in my treasure trove of memories. At the age of 16 the thought never occurred to me that he wouldn’t always be there.
Bumpy had a special love for the family dogs. He didn’t have one of his own, but he adopted ours. Many times Bump would show up in the driveway, and invite Sammy to ride to the bank with him. Sammy was our beloved wire-haired terrier mongrel, whose head was much too small for her bulbous body. She always loved going with Bumpy because he didn’t just give out treats, he gave out dog “cookies”.
My grandparents have long since passed away. As the years have marched on, adulthood has tarnished the pristine memories of these two people I held dear. Adulthood has a way of injecting a good dose of reality into many things we first see through a child’s eye. Nanny smoked too much. Bumpy was stubborn, and sometimes prone to a bad temper. But I never saw those sides of my grandparents. The Nanny and Bumpy I remember as a child were the most wonderful grandparents a girl could hope for. Isn’t that the way it should be? I hope that my kids can remember my parents in the unspoiled light of innocence. I hope they see all the wonderful and talented aspects to the prior generation and hold those memories tight for as long as cruel reality will allow. Someday, they will see them for the fallible people they are, like we all are. But I hope they always keep special memories that are unblemished and innocent, like the memories I have of my Nanny and Bumpy.
The Virtues of Bag Balm
The Virtues of Bag Balm
My youngest son is a little monkey. He is 2 ½ years old, tall and thin with an impish grin and long eyelashes that could charm the pelt off a hungry wolf. He has always amazed us with his climbing feats. A few months ago he used his agility to perform some delicate scientific research. I wish to share my newfound knowledge with parents all across the Suncook Valley so you may also know the virtues of bag balm.
As he often does, my son woke up before the crack of dawn. As I usually do, I set him up with reading books quietly on his bed so he didn’t disturb the rest of the Mihelich hooligans before Mom has her opportunity to imbibe her first cup of coffee and face another day of running after my boisterous bunch. I jumped into the shower leaving him to peruse “Cat in the Hat” and “Bob the Builder”.
Last fall our son got a “Big Boy room”, minus the crib and changing table. He slumbers proudly in a “Big Boy bed”, and was good not to disturb the diapering shelf which was 4 ½ feet off the floor. This shelf contained diapers, wipes and of course, enter the star of this tale…bag balm.
As I hurried to dress and get ready, he took apt advantage of his time. He pushed a “kiddy” table we had over in the corner of his room under the diaper shelf. He then set a “kiddy” chair on top of the table. He then proceeded to climb on top of this tower he created to obtain the salve in question. I would have loved to actually see the whole scene unfold. By the time I came back…about 10 minutes later all I saw was a table, not where it’s supposed to be, a chair placed where it doesn’t belong, and a tiny figure in the middle of the room, facing the wall saying in a low voice “I can’t see!” In front of him sat a nearly empty tin of bag balm, which had been nearly full.
As I looked at him, I could see the problem immediately. He had slathered himself so thickly with the bag balm that his eyes were nearly glued shut with it. His hair was covered so thickly that he looked like a baby bird that had just hatched from his shell, dripping with his protective ooze! But that was just the beginning.
As I looked around the room I could see he had wasted no time in his Bag Balm Escapade. He had put a nice sheen on his wooden headboard with the goo, which by the way lasted for several weeks. He also slathered a lot randomly around the rug, which also lasted for weeks despite lots of elbow grease. Many toys were covered. We discovered that if you grease the axles of matchbox cars with bag balm it makes them go faster. However, if you grease the track of battery operated trains it gums them up and the train doesn’t like to go.
Because he didn’t eat a good breakfast and kept saying it tasted “yucky” I called Poison Control. They told me that Bag Balm causes diarrhea. We can definitely attest to this. However, because he covered himself from head to toe so well, he did not develop any of the nasty rashes that frequently accompany this malady!
My advice for getting Bag Balm out of rugs and a child’s hair is very simple: Lather, rinse and repeat. In the meantime live vicariously through your little greaser and think back to a simpler time when all you had to do to be cool was to plaster your hair to your head.
If you are looking for a fountain of youth, or just to maintain that youthful glow, Bag Balm can’t be beat. My son’s usually radiant complexion was doubly so.
To get bag balm out of sippy cup lids I found that scalding hot water melts the stuff away and won’t do any harm to those sippy cups that are often lost in Sippy Limbo under couches and chairs left undiscovered for weeks to ferment.
Of course our little acrobat has fully recovered and the traces of his adventure have long since been scrubbed away. He does not have a kiddy table in his room any longer, now that we know he can use it as an implement of mischief. He still has a diaper shelf, despite our attempts at potty training (another episode!). However, now there are only diapers and wipes and some Bob the Builder underpants placed on this shelf. Perhaps the lure of forbidden fruit will work in our favor this time.
Kimberly Mihelich
My youngest son is a little monkey. He is 2 ½ years old, tall and thin with an impish grin and long eyelashes that could charm the pelt off a hungry wolf. He has always amazed us with his climbing feats. A few months ago he used his agility to perform some delicate scientific research. I wish to share my newfound knowledge with parents all across the Suncook Valley so you may also know the virtues of bag balm.
As he often does, my son woke up before the crack of dawn. As I usually do, I set him up with reading books quietly on his bed so he didn’t disturb the rest of the Mihelich hooligans before Mom has her opportunity to imbibe her first cup of coffee and face another day of running after my boisterous bunch. I jumped into the shower leaving him to peruse “Cat in the Hat” and “Bob the Builder”.
Last fall our son got a “Big Boy room”, minus the crib and changing table. He slumbers proudly in a “Big Boy bed”, and was good not to disturb the diapering shelf which was 4 ½ feet off the floor. This shelf contained diapers, wipes and of course, enter the star of this tale…bag balm.
As I hurried to dress and get ready, he took apt advantage of his time. He pushed a “kiddy” table we had over in the corner of his room under the diaper shelf. He then set a “kiddy” chair on top of the table. He then proceeded to climb on top of this tower he created to obtain the salve in question. I would have loved to actually see the whole scene unfold. By the time I came back…about 10 minutes later all I saw was a table, not where it’s supposed to be, a chair placed where it doesn’t belong, and a tiny figure in the middle of the room, facing the wall saying in a low voice “I can’t see!” In front of him sat a nearly empty tin of bag balm, which had been nearly full.
As I looked at him, I could see the problem immediately. He had slathered himself so thickly with the bag balm that his eyes were nearly glued shut with it. His hair was covered so thickly that he looked like a baby bird that had just hatched from his shell, dripping with his protective ooze! But that was just the beginning.
As I looked around the room I could see he had wasted no time in his Bag Balm Escapade. He had put a nice sheen on his wooden headboard with the goo, which by the way lasted for several weeks. He also slathered a lot randomly around the rug, which also lasted for weeks despite lots of elbow grease. Many toys were covered. We discovered that if you grease the axles of matchbox cars with bag balm it makes them go faster. However, if you grease the track of battery operated trains it gums them up and the train doesn’t like to go.
Because he didn’t eat a good breakfast and kept saying it tasted “yucky” I called Poison Control. They told me that Bag Balm causes diarrhea. We can definitely attest to this. However, because he covered himself from head to toe so well, he did not develop any of the nasty rashes that frequently accompany this malady!
My advice for getting Bag Balm out of rugs and a child’s hair is very simple: Lather, rinse and repeat. In the meantime live vicariously through your little greaser and think back to a simpler time when all you had to do to be cool was to plaster your hair to your head.
If you are looking for a fountain of youth, or just to maintain that youthful glow, Bag Balm can’t be beat. My son’s usually radiant complexion was doubly so.
To get bag balm out of sippy cup lids I found that scalding hot water melts the stuff away and won’t do any harm to those sippy cups that are often lost in Sippy Limbo under couches and chairs left undiscovered for weeks to ferment.
Of course our little acrobat has fully recovered and the traces of his adventure have long since been scrubbed away. He does not have a kiddy table in his room any longer, now that we know he can use it as an implement of mischief. He still has a diaper shelf, despite our attempts at potty training (another episode!). However, now there are only diapers and wipes and some Bob the Builder underpants placed on this shelf. Perhaps the lure of forbidden fruit will work in our favor this time.
Kimberly Mihelich
The Rules of the Table
THE RULES OF THE TABLE
I’m not exactly sure how it all started. It just evolved and we had to keep adding unthinkable rules to the rules of good table etiquette, until now when I am left with my head spinning, and I feel much more like a drill instructor at a military commissary. In all other areas of our life we try to govern with general principals like, “love your neighbor”, “obey your parents”, and “everything you do must be done in love”. But somehow to keep order and sanity at our dinner table we have needed to construct a complex set of rules that I never imagined having to set down. I imagine we are not alone. There are probably lots of families out there who have had to come up with a list of “dumb rules” to keep some order and peace in their home.
I think the first dumb rule came about after our oldest son learned his animal sounds. He would repeat his repertoire at dinnertime. At first it was cute and entertaining. But since moderation is never in a child’s programming, it quickly became apparent that we would have to say, “No animal noises at the table”. We had to reinforce this during the Jurassic Age when our two oldest boys began having carnivorous dinosaur battles, and carrying them to the dinner table. Of course then we also needed to clarify this rule definitely included extinct animals.
Some of the behavior that prompted these rules is promising and good. For example, our oldest was so excited to start learning to spell words last year. He would sound out words and we would help him. But when dinnertime came he wouldn’t discontinue his scholastic pursuits. His steaming dinner plate would grow cold with his enthusiasm for spelling. Soon it became apparent we would have to make a rule. “No more spelling at the table, we will do that when dinner is done.”
Shortly after came the rule, “no math problems at the table, we’ll talk about schoolwork when dinner is done”. Now, it is wonderful that he is so excited about school. We definitely don’t want to discourage that. If he were an only child it would probably not be an issue. However, every parent of multiple children knows…if you allow one child to have a certain behavior it is repeated in the other children in exponential fashion!
I think it was the youngest who decided to use his utensils for a musical instrument. Of course that prompted a rule about not touching your utensils until the meal is served. Multiple cups of spilt milk have prompted the rule, “Put your cups at 12:00!” In case they forget the rule about swinging their arms at the table.
Once in a great while I will feed the kids early and prepare a really special meal. My husband and I will sit down across from each other and peer into each other’s eyes through the candlelight, and think, “Who are you?” “I don’t think we’ve eaten together before!” It just doesn’t seem like dinner. It’s so tranquil and serene. Our beloved dog is very disappointed on such occasions, as her job is to clean up the mess on the floor when we’re all done.
I had a suspicion that my family wasn’t the only entity that needed to make up dumb laws. I looked up a website dedicated to outdated, outlandish laws and here are a few of my favorite. In New Hampshire did you know that it is illegal to pick seaweed up off the beach? In that case my two year old should be brought up on charges. I think he snuck some seaweed home in his shorts when we went to the beach the other day. Also, it is illegal to sell the clothes you are wearing to pay off a gambling debt. Apparently this was a big problem. And my favorite, it is illegal to tap your feet, nod your head, or in any way keep time to the music in a tavern, restaurant, or café. Perhaps they also had a problem with people clanging their spoons in time to the music before their meal arrived.
I’m sure fifteen years from now when Peter and I are able to have intelligible conversations at dinner we will miss the rousing and exciting dinners we have now. I hope that we will enjoy each other’s company immensely and we won’t become bored. However, if it does get too quiet maybe we’ll clang our spoons against our plates just for old times’ sake.
I’m not exactly sure how it all started. It just evolved and we had to keep adding unthinkable rules to the rules of good table etiquette, until now when I am left with my head spinning, and I feel much more like a drill instructor at a military commissary. In all other areas of our life we try to govern with general principals like, “love your neighbor”, “obey your parents”, and “everything you do must be done in love”. But somehow to keep order and sanity at our dinner table we have needed to construct a complex set of rules that I never imagined having to set down. I imagine we are not alone. There are probably lots of families out there who have had to come up with a list of “dumb rules” to keep some order and peace in their home.
I think the first dumb rule came about after our oldest son learned his animal sounds. He would repeat his repertoire at dinnertime. At first it was cute and entertaining. But since moderation is never in a child’s programming, it quickly became apparent that we would have to say, “No animal noises at the table”. We had to reinforce this during the Jurassic Age when our two oldest boys began having carnivorous dinosaur battles, and carrying them to the dinner table. Of course then we also needed to clarify this rule definitely included extinct animals.
Some of the behavior that prompted these rules is promising and good. For example, our oldest was so excited to start learning to spell words last year. He would sound out words and we would help him. But when dinnertime came he wouldn’t discontinue his scholastic pursuits. His steaming dinner plate would grow cold with his enthusiasm for spelling. Soon it became apparent we would have to make a rule. “No more spelling at the table, we will do that when dinner is done.”
Shortly after came the rule, “no math problems at the table, we’ll talk about schoolwork when dinner is done”. Now, it is wonderful that he is so excited about school. We definitely don’t want to discourage that. If he were an only child it would probably not be an issue. However, every parent of multiple children knows…if you allow one child to have a certain behavior it is repeated in the other children in exponential fashion!
I think it was the youngest who decided to use his utensils for a musical instrument. Of course that prompted a rule about not touching your utensils until the meal is served. Multiple cups of spilt milk have prompted the rule, “Put your cups at 12:00!” In case they forget the rule about swinging their arms at the table.
Once in a great while I will feed the kids early and prepare a really special meal. My husband and I will sit down across from each other and peer into each other’s eyes through the candlelight, and think, “Who are you?” “I don’t think we’ve eaten together before!” It just doesn’t seem like dinner. It’s so tranquil and serene. Our beloved dog is very disappointed on such occasions, as her job is to clean up the mess on the floor when we’re all done.
I had a suspicion that my family wasn’t the only entity that needed to make up dumb laws. I looked up a website dedicated to outdated, outlandish laws and here are a few of my favorite. In New Hampshire did you know that it is illegal to pick seaweed up off the beach? In that case my two year old should be brought up on charges. I think he snuck some seaweed home in his shorts when we went to the beach the other day. Also, it is illegal to sell the clothes you are wearing to pay off a gambling debt. Apparently this was a big problem. And my favorite, it is illegal to tap your feet, nod your head, or in any way keep time to the music in a tavern, restaurant, or café. Perhaps they also had a problem with people clanging their spoons in time to the music before their meal arrived.
I’m sure fifteen years from now when Peter and I are able to have intelligible conversations at dinner we will miss the rousing and exciting dinners we have now. I hope that we will enjoy each other’s company immensely and we won’t become bored. However, if it does get too quiet maybe we’ll clang our spoons against our plates just for old times’ sake.
Purse Predicaments and Pocketbook Progression
Purse Predicaments or Pocketbook Progression
Now I know what all you guys are thinking. You read the title, thought “doesn’t apply” and you’re getting ready to read the editorials. But I have seen more than my fair share of burly bearded ones sheepishly pacing back in forth in stores and in the corridors of malls stuck “holding the bag”. You know who you are. You have adopted a code that is more secretive than previous presidential administration’s “Don’t ask, Don’t tell” policy. You don’t even make eye contact. There is a false belief lurking about that if you don’t look at another man left holding a purse that it never happened.
You have your reasons for undertaking this practice. At first it seemed like a romantic thing to do. With love-struck stars in your eyes you didn’t blink twice at holding your beloved’s pocketbook. However, now the “twitterpated” stage of love has progressed to love that withstands the long haul, and you’re wondering if you’ll get stuck holding the bag until the cows come home, or at least until “She” is done shopping. Some of you practical guys, the analytical engineering types, did a time-motion study on the whole concept and decided that if you held the pocketbook “She” would get done shopping sooner, and you could therefore get home sooner. Hmmm. Good luck!
My husband doesn’t know what to think. I’m not much of a shopper, but on the rare occasion when we do go shopping together I have this slightly oversized purse that is not quite a diaper bag, not quite a pocketbook. It could be a backpack, but not really. Since the identity of this bag is undetermined he takes the safe road and doesn’t make eye contact with the other guys stuck holding bags.
It is a celebrated rite of passage for a woman to give up her diaper bag. B.C. (Before Children) I was happy to travel light. I was a minimalist. However, with three children came the stark reality that I’d better be prepared for anything. A few disastrous events added to my Mommy memories prompted me to fortify my diaper bag like a tornado bunker. I had enough provisions in there to feed, clothe and if necessary make temporary shelter for a few days for a gaggle of kids.
However, as our youngest son became potty trained I began looking at the old green monster I was schlepping around with disdain. A few months ago I treated myself to a new bag, a slimmer, sleeker, neutral colored, stain resistant, kid proof bag. I couldn’t quite get rid of the “green monster” though. I put it in the trunk of the van. I’m still prepared, but not for “everything”.
Last month we went to a concert with friends and the attendants who took our tickets also did a security sweep on everyone. As I opened my “purse” there were baby wipes, matchbox cars, and a small change of clothing for a little person, lots of Kleenex, and hand cleaner. There may have actually been some lip gloss in there, but I think it had been contaminated with Teddy Graham crumbs. Anyways, I was thinking to myself, “Wow, I don’t even have any kids with me tonight; I could have carried a real girl bag!” But like many other things, it’s a habit. Luckily no one at the holiday concert needed a change of clothes, and I didn’t hear any rumbling tummies in need of nourishment.
Someday when the kids are all grown I’ll go back to being a minimalist. But my pocketbook has changed forever. I’ve seen grandmothers carrying around extra provisions, “just in case”, and I’ve seen grandfather’s pacing outside the store left holding the bag. The only difference is they seem to have a twinkle in their eye, they aren’t afraid to look at you. You see, they have learned the secret. As long as they are holding the bag they aren’t home working on a “Honey-Do” list and that’s alright by them.
Kim Mihelich
Now I know what all you guys are thinking. You read the title, thought “doesn’t apply” and you’re getting ready to read the editorials. But I have seen more than my fair share of burly bearded ones sheepishly pacing back in forth in stores and in the corridors of malls stuck “holding the bag”. You know who you are. You have adopted a code that is more secretive than previous presidential administration’s “Don’t ask, Don’t tell” policy. You don’t even make eye contact. There is a false belief lurking about that if you don’t look at another man left holding a purse that it never happened.
You have your reasons for undertaking this practice. At first it seemed like a romantic thing to do. With love-struck stars in your eyes you didn’t blink twice at holding your beloved’s pocketbook. However, now the “twitterpated” stage of love has progressed to love that withstands the long haul, and you’re wondering if you’ll get stuck holding the bag until the cows come home, or at least until “She” is done shopping. Some of you practical guys, the analytical engineering types, did a time-motion study on the whole concept and decided that if you held the pocketbook “She” would get done shopping sooner, and you could therefore get home sooner. Hmmm. Good luck!
My husband doesn’t know what to think. I’m not much of a shopper, but on the rare occasion when we do go shopping together I have this slightly oversized purse that is not quite a diaper bag, not quite a pocketbook. It could be a backpack, but not really. Since the identity of this bag is undetermined he takes the safe road and doesn’t make eye contact with the other guys stuck holding bags.
It is a celebrated rite of passage for a woman to give up her diaper bag. B.C. (Before Children) I was happy to travel light. I was a minimalist. However, with three children came the stark reality that I’d better be prepared for anything. A few disastrous events added to my Mommy memories prompted me to fortify my diaper bag like a tornado bunker. I had enough provisions in there to feed, clothe and if necessary make temporary shelter for a few days for a gaggle of kids.
However, as our youngest son became potty trained I began looking at the old green monster I was schlepping around with disdain. A few months ago I treated myself to a new bag, a slimmer, sleeker, neutral colored, stain resistant, kid proof bag. I couldn’t quite get rid of the “green monster” though. I put it in the trunk of the van. I’m still prepared, but not for “everything”.
Last month we went to a concert with friends and the attendants who took our tickets also did a security sweep on everyone. As I opened my “purse” there were baby wipes, matchbox cars, and a small change of clothing for a little person, lots of Kleenex, and hand cleaner. There may have actually been some lip gloss in there, but I think it had been contaminated with Teddy Graham crumbs. Anyways, I was thinking to myself, “Wow, I don’t even have any kids with me tonight; I could have carried a real girl bag!” But like many other things, it’s a habit. Luckily no one at the holiday concert needed a change of clothes, and I didn’t hear any rumbling tummies in need of nourishment.
Someday when the kids are all grown I’ll go back to being a minimalist. But my pocketbook has changed forever. I’ve seen grandmothers carrying around extra provisions, “just in case”, and I’ve seen grandfather’s pacing outside the store left holding the bag. The only difference is they seem to have a twinkle in their eye, they aren’t afraid to look at you. You see, they have learned the secret. As long as they are holding the bag they aren’t home working on a “Honey-Do” list and that’s alright by them.
Kim Mihelich
What Do You Want to be When You Grow Up?
What Do You Want to be When You Grow Up?
You can tell a lot about what is swimming around a child’s brain by asking them what they want to be when they grow up. I periodically ask my children this question and I am always amazed. I feel as if I am lifting the tops of their precious little thinking caps off, and peering into a secret place.
For many years our oldest son has been enthralled with the work our pediatrician does. He loved all the tools of the trade: the reflex hammer, the thermometer, the blood pressure cuff. He thought he might want to be a “children’s doctor” and make sick kids feel better. My maternal hopes swelled with the aspirations of my son. I had visions of him walking down the graduation aisle at Dartmouth accepting his medical degree. However, the first week of kindergarten last year Mrs. Holmes assigned him “Trash Patrol”. He came home so excited that first day. He concocted a scheme with his younger brother to buy a garbage truck and make a family business out of it. He even suggested their future wives get in on the act. Although inside I was a little disappointed, I mustered a talk about how every job is important and they can become anything they want to be, as long as they work hard at it and do their best.
However, our middle son was not going to follow that dream for very long. When he learned that being a garbage man is very hard work, and sometimes you get wet, and you have to work in the cold and the snow, he fell back to his original plan of being a rock star and a superhero. He is very secretive about the details of this superhero, so I suspect that he will also have a secret identity, which may be very difficult to maintain if he is moonlighting as a rock star.
Our youngest son currently tells me he wants to be a policeman. That is indeed a noble calling to protect the public. When I mentioned this, our middle son changed his mind and decided he would be a fireman. Oh what brave little boys I have!
Not to be outdone, our oldest son decided he wants to be a civil engineer. He likes the idea of bossing people around and telling them how to build roads, which is what he does a lot of now in the sandbox in our backyard.
As I think about my own children’s dreams I can’t help but recall a funny memory as a teenager. I was ten years older than my youngest brother. As we went down the highway we passed through a toll plaza. My five year old brother’s eyes got as big as saucers and he exclaimed, “Mommy, I want to be a toll collector when I grow up!” I could see the look of disappointment wash over my Mother’s face. Upon further questioning, it seems my brother Tim thought the toll collector’s got to keep all the money they collected. Now years later, at the age of 25, my beloved younger brother is a professional student. He has changed his major more times than some people change their underclothes. If you were to ask my Mom, she would jump at the chance for him to make an honest living as a toll collector.
I have done many jobs in my life, from cleaning dog kennels, to washing dishes, to my current career, secondary to motherhood; being a nurse. However, no matter what job a person chooses to hold in their life, it is the hearts you touch and the integrity with which you live that really defines your life.
If I am blessed to raise kind and hardworking little men, then I will be truly proud, whether they are driving a garbage truck down the street or changing into their superhero outfit in a public restroom. In fact, if we looked around us, we would probably find a lot of superheroes doing the most ordinary jobs imaginable. The next time a waitress serves you coffee, check to see if she has a cape tucked behind her apron!
Kimberly Mihelich
You can tell a lot about what is swimming around a child’s brain by asking them what they want to be when they grow up. I periodically ask my children this question and I am always amazed. I feel as if I am lifting the tops of their precious little thinking caps off, and peering into a secret place.
For many years our oldest son has been enthralled with the work our pediatrician does. He loved all the tools of the trade: the reflex hammer, the thermometer, the blood pressure cuff. He thought he might want to be a “children’s doctor” and make sick kids feel better. My maternal hopes swelled with the aspirations of my son. I had visions of him walking down the graduation aisle at Dartmouth accepting his medical degree. However, the first week of kindergarten last year Mrs. Holmes assigned him “Trash Patrol”. He came home so excited that first day. He concocted a scheme with his younger brother to buy a garbage truck and make a family business out of it. He even suggested their future wives get in on the act. Although inside I was a little disappointed, I mustered a talk about how every job is important and they can become anything they want to be, as long as they work hard at it and do their best.
However, our middle son was not going to follow that dream for very long. When he learned that being a garbage man is very hard work, and sometimes you get wet, and you have to work in the cold and the snow, he fell back to his original plan of being a rock star and a superhero. He is very secretive about the details of this superhero, so I suspect that he will also have a secret identity, which may be very difficult to maintain if he is moonlighting as a rock star.
Our youngest son currently tells me he wants to be a policeman. That is indeed a noble calling to protect the public. When I mentioned this, our middle son changed his mind and decided he would be a fireman. Oh what brave little boys I have!
Not to be outdone, our oldest son decided he wants to be a civil engineer. He likes the idea of bossing people around and telling them how to build roads, which is what he does a lot of now in the sandbox in our backyard.
As I think about my own children’s dreams I can’t help but recall a funny memory as a teenager. I was ten years older than my youngest brother. As we went down the highway we passed through a toll plaza. My five year old brother’s eyes got as big as saucers and he exclaimed, “Mommy, I want to be a toll collector when I grow up!” I could see the look of disappointment wash over my Mother’s face. Upon further questioning, it seems my brother Tim thought the toll collector’s got to keep all the money they collected. Now years later, at the age of 25, my beloved younger brother is a professional student. He has changed his major more times than some people change their underclothes. If you were to ask my Mom, she would jump at the chance for him to make an honest living as a toll collector.
I have done many jobs in my life, from cleaning dog kennels, to washing dishes, to my current career, secondary to motherhood; being a nurse. However, no matter what job a person chooses to hold in their life, it is the hearts you touch and the integrity with which you live that really defines your life.
If I am blessed to raise kind and hardworking little men, then I will be truly proud, whether they are driving a garbage truck down the street or changing into their superhero outfit in a public restroom. In fact, if we looked around us, we would probably find a lot of superheroes doing the most ordinary jobs imaginable. The next time a waitress serves you coffee, check to see if she has a cape tucked behind her apron!
Kimberly Mihelich
Grocery Store Chronicles
The Grocery Store Chronicles
To most people it is merely a mundane place to visit periodically and buy food. To a mother of small children, the grocery store is a scary and foreboding place. Danger lurks around every aisle, not to mention public humiliation. Let me tell you about one such shopping trip that I didn’t soon forget. .
Logan was sound asleep in his infant seat as all good babies should be when Mom is grocery shopping. Isaac was 4 ½ and Caleb was 2 ½. All started out seemingly well. They each sat in the little racecar carts at Shaws (Hey…by the way best invention in the world in my opinion!) drawing with their portable etch-a- sketches.
The produce aisle was uneventful. There were admiring glances from other shoppers over my precious sleeping baby. I tried to soak it all in and imagine this tranquility could possibly last for 30 more minutes. But I had been shopping with my crew too many times. I was taking bets that by aisle 9 it would all start coming undone. I have left a grocery store more than once to correct behavior problems. However, then you are left with the stark reality…still no groceries and you have to go back!
We arrived at the deli…also known as “Bribery Stop #1” because they always give the kids a free slice of cheese. I placed my order after breaking up a small skirmish between the 2 oldest as to who would hold the deli number. Moments later as I turned away, I heard the distinct sound of a child wretching. A second distinct voice saying, “Oh Caleb that’s gross”, immediately followed this.
For a nanosecond I considered not turning around and claiming responsibility. I thought I might be able to make a break for the seafood department and hide my face in some of those plastic bibs they give away when you buy lobsters. I could feel all the eyes of everyone who mingled around the deli piercing through me, as if saying, “What kind of terrible mother brings her sick child to the grocery store!” I considered diverting the attention away by announcing “WHAT KIND OF CHEESE ARE YOU FEEDING THESE POOR CHILDREN!” But in the end, my maternal instincts kicked in, I summoned the clerk for a roll of paper towels and promptly went to the bathroom and got everyone cleaned up.
Motherhood has taught me to be prepared for every contingency. That is why you see mother’s carrying around diaper bags with 50 pounds of gear. I changed Caleb’s clothes, got him cleaned up and had the cart totally disinfected with antibacterial baby wipes. I considered just leaving and going home. But now I had a sick child on my hands and I would need even more provisions. I couldn’t wait all day until my husband arrived home from work. I glanced at my list and decided on some bare essentials, and went back out into the grocery jungle to brave the terrain. Caleb held an empty deli salad container pathetically near his face in case there was a Round 2. Isaac had elected to walk next to me, barring any other unforeseen expulsion of body fluids from his brother.
I moved quickly up and down the aisles to get all the essentials for a sick child: juice, soup, Pedialyte, saltine crackers and Popsicles. All the while I was coaxing Isaac to keep up and not to touch anything. I comforted Caleb, “We’re almost done honey, hang in there”. I tried to ignore glares from passersby who had no idea of the circumstances I found myself in. Suddenly, a kindly old gentleman tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me Ma’am, but your baby can’t breathe!” I turned around in a gasp; Baby Logan had awakened and pulled his sun hat over his face. He was struggling to pull it off. I lifted the hat and there sat a cooing and smiling baby, almost as if he was playing peek-a-boo. “Great!” I thought, “Not only did I bring a sick kid into the store, but I had to be told by a stranger my baby needed me!”
By now I was feeling like an utterly exhausted failure. Somehow I made it through the checkout and started for home. As we passed the ice cream shop Caleb was teasing for a cone. It was the miraculous “Soft-serve cure.” Almost as quickly as it had begun, it ended. Everyone was back to their pre-grocery status, except me.
As everyone napped in the afternoon, I told my cousin and dear friend Willow about all the excitement. She could hardly contain her laughter. Suddenly all the embarrassment and inadequacy I felt earlier didn’t matter… Hey, this was the stuff of life. Sometimes as parents we are too deeply affected by other’s perceptions. We forget to Whom we are ultimately responsible for our children’s care. When all is said and done we will not be answering to some lady at the grocery store. Some days are better than others. But if you’re blessed you can put your head on your pillow each night praying tomorrow you’ll do the best job you can. And if you’re doubly blessed, some days you can make it all the way to the Bakery (Bribery Stop #2) for the free cookie with kids in tow, and they really will deserve it.
Kimberly Mihelich
To most people it is merely a mundane place to visit periodically and buy food. To a mother of small children, the grocery store is a scary and foreboding place. Danger lurks around every aisle, not to mention public humiliation. Let me tell you about one such shopping trip that I didn’t soon forget. .
Logan was sound asleep in his infant seat as all good babies should be when Mom is grocery shopping. Isaac was 4 ½ and Caleb was 2 ½. All started out seemingly well. They each sat in the little racecar carts at Shaws (Hey…by the way best invention in the world in my opinion!) drawing with their portable etch-a- sketches.
The produce aisle was uneventful. There were admiring glances from other shoppers over my precious sleeping baby. I tried to soak it all in and imagine this tranquility could possibly last for 30 more minutes. But I had been shopping with my crew too many times. I was taking bets that by aisle 9 it would all start coming undone. I have left a grocery store more than once to correct behavior problems. However, then you are left with the stark reality…still no groceries and you have to go back!
We arrived at the deli…also known as “Bribery Stop #1” because they always give the kids a free slice of cheese. I placed my order after breaking up a small skirmish between the 2 oldest as to who would hold the deli number. Moments later as I turned away, I heard the distinct sound of a child wretching. A second distinct voice saying, “Oh Caleb that’s gross”, immediately followed this.
For a nanosecond I considered not turning around and claiming responsibility. I thought I might be able to make a break for the seafood department and hide my face in some of those plastic bibs they give away when you buy lobsters. I could feel all the eyes of everyone who mingled around the deli piercing through me, as if saying, “What kind of terrible mother brings her sick child to the grocery store!” I considered diverting the attention away by announcing “WHAT KIND OF CHEESE ARE YOU FEEDING THESE POOR CHILDREN!” But in the end, my maternal instincts kicked in, I summoned the clerk for a roll of paper towels and promptly went to the bathroom and got everyone cleaned up.
Motherhood has taught me to be prepared for every contingency. That is why you see mother’s carrying around diaper bags with 50 pounds of gear. I changed Caleb’s clothes, got him cleaned up and had the cart totally disinfected with antibacterial baby wipes. I considered just leaving and going home. But now I had a sick child on my hands and I would need even more provisions. I couldn’t wait all day until my husband arrived home from work. I glanced at my list and decided on some bare essentials, and went back out into the grocery jungle to brave the terrain. Caleb held an empty deli salad container pathetically near his face in case there was a Round 2. Isaac had elected to walk next to me, barring any other unforeseen expulsion of body fluids from his brother.
I moved quickly up and down the aisles to get all the essentials for a sick child: juice, soup, Pedialyte, saltine crackers and Popsicles. All the while I was coaxing Isaac to keep up and not to touch anything. I comforted Caleb, “We’re almost done honey, hang in there”. I tried to ignore glares from passersby who had no idea of the circumstances I found myself in. Suddenly, a kindly old gentleman tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me Ma’am, but your baby can’t breathe!” I turned around in a gasp; Baby Logan had awakened and pulled his sun hat over his face. He was struggling to pull it off. I lifted the hat and there sat a cooing and smiling baby, almost as if he was playing peek-a-boo. “Great!” I thought, “Not only did I bring a sick kid into the store, but I had to be told by a stranger my baby needed me!”
By now I was feeling like an utterly exhausted failure. Somehow I made it through the checkout and started for home. As we passed the ice cream shop Caleb was teasing for a cone. It was the miraculous “Soft-serve cure.” Almost as quickly as it had begun, it ended. Everyone was back to their pre-grocery status, except me.
As everyone napped in the afternoon, I told my cousin and dear friend Willow about all the excitement. She could hardly contain her laughter. Suddenly all the embarrassment and inadequacy I felt earlier didn’t matter… Hey, this was the stuff of life. Sometimes as parents we are too deeply affected by other’s perceptions. We forget to Whom we are ultimately responsible for our children’s care. When all is said and done we will not be answering to some lady at the grocery store. Some days are better than others. But if you’re blessed you can put your head on your pillow each night praying tomorrow you’ll do the best job you can. And if you’re doubly blessed, some days you can make it all the way to the Bakery (Bribery Stop #2) for the free cookie with kids in tow, and they really will deserve it.
Kimberly Mihelich
Some Assembly Required
Some Assembly Required
Christmas afternoon in our house was filled with many delicate engineering feats. I retreated to the kitchen and busied myself with cooking. My husband and sister-in –law set up Lego construction camp in the living room. Now two weeks after Christmas the Lego Knight is missing an arm and the Lego Pirate Ship has an odd looking appendage coming off the starboard side. This is what happens to toys when there is some assembly required.
Now I am not opposed to assembly. I think it’s a great way to spark imagination and encourage creativity (in parents). I suppose I should be grateful that there are only boys in our house; otherwise we would be finding Polly Pocket dolls with Lego Knight’s armor coming out of their purses.
Every year my husband and I plan to complete the assembly of all toys prior to wrapping them so that Christmas day is more peaceful and void of all toy construction. The only problem is our kid’s birthdays also land in the last quarter of the year. So in the rush of organizing birthdays and preparing for Christmas, the toys get wrapped as they are sold, with “Some assembly required”.
One could really get stumped by that little adjective “some”. Some toys come ready to snap together with only a few parts. But more than once our kids have unwrapped a toy that looks great on the cover of the box, but inside
is a treasure trove of odd pieces shaking in the package like a festive castanet. My husband usually disappears downstairs to his workshop to completely build the toy that was sold with “some” assembly required. Moments later I hear the familiar droning of power tools. Now a disclaimer; I’m not sure if the toy actually requires the use of the power tool, or my beloved husband merely takes every opportunity at his disposal to a) retreat to his testosterone sanctuary and b) operate a power tool. I suspect an ordinary tool would do, because in a pinch I have repaired many a toy with the lone all purpose screwdriver I keep in our “junk drawer” in the kitchen, the last bastion of female ingenuity that has not crossed over to the other side. I attached a pink ribbon to it in hopes of discouraging any tool migration down to the inner sanctum of power tools. So far so good. No self respecting weekend tool warrior walks around with tools with frilly embellishments.
Now it isn’t only toys that require some assembly. Household goods of all kinds come only partially ready to use. There are two schools of thought on assembly instructions. For the most part my husband dives right in and doesn’t even look at the instructions. Usually his keen engineering prowess is right on and everything comes out just as it’s supposed to. I’m from the other school; I read carefully and proceed with caution. I recently assembled a laundry hamper and shelf unit. I bent three screwdrivers trying to get the hardware unscrewed from the frame so I could properly assemble it, my decorated screwdriver not withstanding. I was following the instructions to the letter. I gave up, raised my domestic white flag, and asked my husband for help. In a flourish, the power tools came out. He began assembling my laundry cart with all of the exuberant glee of a NASA engineer constructing a lunar landing pod.
I have a maternal fantasy about how to keep toys with many pieces together. I’m hoping it will catch on with all the toy manufacturers. Using computer chips, magnets, and a series of light sensors, I think that toys that have been torn asunder in the daytime should slowly make their way back to the “Mother Ship” when the lights go out. How wonderful it would be to turn off the lights and tuck the kids in amidst chaos and in the morning find order and sanity. The farm animals would go back to the Fisher Price Farm to graze, the plastic food would make its way back to the pretend grocery store. The Bionicle arm stuck carelessly on the Lego fortress would make the journey back to the robotic man, snapped snugly in place and ready to do battle in a new day. However, like all technology, I’m sure there would be problems and occasionally the Lego Knight’s sword would make its way into Barbie’s Dreamhouse. Barbie could rest assured her new toy would be safe. All she would have to do is tie a pink ribbon around it. No self respecting knight would carry the sword back to the Lego fortress with such frilly embellishments. Hey, it works for me.
Kim Mihelich
Christmas afternoon in our house was filled with many delicate engineering feats. I retreated to the kitchen and busied myself with cooking. My husband and sister-in –law set up Lego construction camp in the living room. Now two weeks after Christmas the Lego Knight is missing an arm and the Lego Pirate Ship has an odd looking appendage coming off the starboard side. This is what happens to toys when there is some assembly required.
Now I am not opposed to assembly. I think it’s a great way to spark imagination and encourage creativity (in parents). I suppose I should be grateful that there are only boys in our house; otherwise we would be finding Polly Pocket dolls with Lego Knight’s armor coming out of their purses.
Every year my husband and I plan to complete the assembly of all toys prior to wrapping them so that Christmas day is more peaceful and void of all toy construction. The only problem is our kid’s birthdays also land in the last quarter of the year. So in the rush of organizing birthdays and preparing for Christmas, the toys get wrapped as they are sold, with “Some assembly required”.
One could really get stumped by that little adjective “some”. Some toys come ready to snap together with only a few parts. But more than once our kids have unwrapped a toy that looks great on the cover of the box, but inside
is a treasure trove of odd pieces shaking in the package like a festive castanet. My husband usually disappears downstairs to his workshop to completely build the toy that was sold with “some” assembly required. Moments later I hear the familiar droning of power tools. Now a disclaimer; I’m not sure if the toy actually requires the use of the power tool, or my beloved husband merely takes every opportunity at his disposal to a) retreat to his testosterone sanctuary and b) operate a power tool. I suspect an ordinary tool would do, because in a pinch I have repaired many a toy with the lone all purpose screwdriver I keep in our “junk drawer” in the kitchen, the last bastion of female ingenuity that has not crossed over to the other side. I attached a pink ribbon to it in hopes of discouraging any tool migration down to the inner sanctum of power tools. So far so good. No self respecting weekend tool warrior walks around with tools with frilly embellishments.
Now it isn’t only toys that require some assembly. Household goods of all kinds come only partially ready to use. There are two schools of thought on assembly instructions. For the most part my husband dives right in and doesn’t even look at the instructions. Usually his keen engineering prowess is right on and everything comes out just as it’s supposed to. I’m from the other school; I read carefully and proceed with caution. I recently assembled a laundry hamper and shelf unit. I bent three screwdrivers trying to get the hardware unscrewed from the frame so I could properly assemble it, my decorated screwdriver not withstanding. I was following the instructions to the letter. I gave up, raised my domestic white flag, and asked my husband for help. In a flourish, the power tools came out. He began assembling my laundry cart with all of the exuberant glee of a NASA engineer constructing a lunar landing pod.
I have a maternal fantasy about how to keep toys with many pieces together. I’m hoping it will catch on with all the toy manufacturers. Using computer chips, magnets, and a series of light sensors, I think that toys that have been torn asunder in the daytime should slowly make their way back to the “Mother Ship” when the lights go out. How wonderful it would be to turn off the lights and tuck the kids in amidst chaos and in the morning find order and sanity. The farm animals would go back to the Fisher Price Farm to graze, the plastic food would make its way back to the pretend grocery store. The Bionicle arm stuck carelessly on the Lego fortress would make the journey back to the robotic man, snapped snugly in place and ready to do battle in a new day. However, like all technology, I’m sure there would be problems and occasionally the Lego Knight’s sword would make its way into Barbie’s Dreamhouse. Barbie could rest assured her new toy would be safe. All she would have to do is tie a pink ribbon around it. No self respecting knight would carry the sword back to the Lego fortress with such frilly embellishments. Hey, it works for me.
Kim Mihelich
Everything I've Learned about Fishing With Preschoolers
Two weeks ago we bought worms to take the kids fishing on the pond. Everyday it's either rained or I've worked or it just didn't work out. Today was the first opportunity, but Peter had to leave for work early. I got brave and brought them myself. I found a great spot that has cement steps where people sit all the time and cast off, and if someone fell in it wasn't a sheer drop and they could stand up. I put sunglasses and hats on everyone to protect from stray flying hooks . I put a life preserver on the little one amongst a full out 2 year old temper tantrum. The following is what I learned:
1) If you're a Mom and you take anything gooey, slimy and wiggly and run it through in the presence of boys you are a hero
2) Two year olds scare fish away
3) It's a good thing we were wearing our safety goggles
4) If your son catches a fish that swallows the hook you should just cut the line and hope for the best (My Dad tells me that the hook will rust and the disintegrate and the fish will probably be ok) Do NOT practice your skills as an amateur surgeon hoping to be a hero and save the fish. I unhooked it from the gills with my plyers and thought it was ok, but on the way up I disenboweled (sp?) the fish and it was not pretty! Isaac said "Oh I wish Grampa was here, he is much better at getting hooks out of fish!"
4) If your 4 year old spills the bucket of worms it only takes those suckers 30 seconds to start burrowing for safety . I had all ten fingers wrapped around those slimy things pulling them out of the ground by the time I rescued them. Come to think of it that was after the fish incident, maybe they saw what happened to the others.
5) If you must store your bait in the refrigerator for long periods of time you should put some cornmeal in there for nourishment (which I didn't do--but found out later when I called Mom and Dad and told them this tale) Does the fact my family even know this stuff make me a redneck? This also explains why the worms were nice and plump when we bought them ( 2 WEEKS AGO!) And now they looked like little emaciated Sub-Sahara earthworms!
6) If you take a bunch of those jelly lures with no hooks in them and squish them all together you can make one big scary looking bug (Thanks Logan)
7) You can keep a 4 year old busy for a long time if he's hooked on a tree limb and he thinks he's caught "THE BIG ONE!" He was encouraged by his brother's cheers--"Caleb you must have caught a shark!"
8) Fish die with their eyes open. Isaac insisted the fish was still alive because his eyes were open .
9) Sometimes God does not answer prayers to save fish. The boys each said a little prayer that my surgical skills would be on par...obviously not. We saw a family of geese a little while later on the pond with some fledglings so we had a big discussion about the "Big circle of life" and how that fish could be food for that family and God must have known those babies were hungry.
10) Babywipes do not take away fish stench from your hands. Purell hand sanitizer does a little better.
11) Fish blood is red. Thanks for that astute observation Isaac.
12) and the biggest thing I learned about life from fishing with my preschoolers is : You can give a man a fish, but it sure is not as entertaining as sending his kids out to catch it.
:-) Happy Summer to you all! Kim
1) If you're a Mom and you take anything gooey, slimy and wiggly and run it through in the presence of boys you are a hero
2) Two year olds scare fish away
3) It's a good thing we were wearing our safety goggles
4) If your son catches a fish that swallows the hook you should just cut the line and hope for the best (My Dad tells me that the hook will rust and the disintegrate and the fish will probably be ok) Do NOT practice your skills as an amateur surgeon hoping to be a hero and save the fish. I unhooked it from the gills with my plyers and thought it was ok, but on the way up I disenboweled (sp?) the fish and it was not pretty! Isaac said "Oh I wish Grampa was here, he is much better at getting hooks out of fish!"
4) If your 4 year old spills the bucket of worms it only takes those suckers 30 seconds to start burrowing for safety . I had all ten fingers wrapped around those slimy things pulling them out of the ground by the time I rescued them. Come to think of it that was after the fish incident, maybe they saw what happened to the others.
5) If you must store your bait in the refrigerator for long periods of time you should put some cornmeal in there for nourishment (which I didn't do--but found out later when I called Mom and Dad and told them this tale) Does the fact my family even know this stuff make me a redneck? This also explains why the worms were nice and plump when we bought them ( 2 WEEKS AGO!) And now they looked like little emaciated Sub-Sahara earthworms!
6) If you take a bunch of those jelly lures with no hooks in them and squish them all together you can make one big scary looking bug (Thanks Logan)
7) You can keep a 4 year old busy for a long time if he's hooked on a tree limb and he thinks he's caught "THE BIG ONE!" He was encouraged by his brother's cheers--"Caleb you must have caught a shark!"
8) Fish die with their eyes open. Isaac insisted the fish was still alive because his eyes were open .
9) Sometimes God does not answer prayers to save fish. The boys each said a little prayer that my surgical skills would be on par...obviously not. We saw a family of geese a little while later on the pond with some fledglings so we had a big discussion about the "Big circle of life" and how that fish could be food for that family and God must have known those babies were hungry.
10) Babywipes do not take away fish stench from your hands. Purell hand sanitizer does a little better.
11) Fish blood is red. Thanks for that astute observation Isaac.
12) and the biggest thing I learned about life from fishing with my preschoolers is : You can give a man a fish, but it sure is not as entertaining as sending his kids out to catch it.
:-) Happy Summer to you all! Kim
The Perfect Christmas Tree
The Perfect Christmas Tree
Every year I gaze up at our Christmas tree with the twinkling lights and think to myself, “I think this is the most beautiful tree yet!” Of course a Christmas tree is not just a finished product, symbolic of the season. It is a process. Part of the magic of the Christmas tree is the experience of obtaining it.
In “lean” years in the past we have obtained a Christmas tree off some property relatives own on old farmlands. We would trudge through the fields looking for the perfect tree. At best there was usually one side appropriate for display. The rest could be filled in with evergreen garland and a menagerie of ornaments to fill the gaping voids the tree had developed as it singularly braved the elements, while its fine manicured counterparts were getting TLC in Christmas tree spas across the state. But even in those times we have been enamored with our scraggly “Charlie Brown” tree.
Some Christmas tree farms make the whole experience into a wonderful family outing, with hot chocolate and goodies to share. It’s always more pleasant when there is a soft blanket of snow covering the frozen tundra when you’re on an expedition to pick out the perfect tree, not too deep; But just enough to give you the feel of winter, and put you in the Christmas spirit. I relish just enough nip in the air to give your frosty fingers a warm hug as they grasp the hot chocolate mug and as the warm gooey marshmallow sticks to your chin.
My least favorite part of the whole process is the, “leveling of the tree.” I’m in charge of making sure it’s straight, while my husband crouches down under the tree and makes the necessary adjustments. Since I’m much more inclined to literary endeavors than geometry, my judgment is inevitably off. My poor husband will crawl out of the evergreen cave under the tree, utter that sigh of disappointment and crawl back under to make up for my lack of perception.
However, I may be onto something. When you have children you have to account for the concept of “Clumping”. They seem to get fixated on one branch and most of the ornaments they select end up there. It’s the parent’s job to distribute the weight of the ornaments evenly so the tree angel, perched on her evergreen thrown, doesn’t go plummeting to the floor kamikaze style. When you account for clumping, the tree always ends up leaning one way anyways. If we could only set it in the tree stand to offset the weight of the ornaments, then we could have the “perfect” Christmas tree.
We have a small train that goes around our Christmas tree. My husband purchased it about 6 years ago. As the festive chime of the cash register went, “Ka-Ching” he eloquently reasoned it was for the kids. At the time we only had one son who was barely walking. I shook my head knowingly and played along with the charade. My husband has had lots of fun running that train every year. But in many ways I think that is the key to why every year the trees look more beautiful. It’s those annual traditions that become part of your families’ identity, a faithful part of who you are.
Christmas is steeped with tradition, and for us, remembering Christ’s birth and what he did for mankind. Each year there are layers of memories that are added to this event. Every year more home made ornaments from the kids find their way to our tree. Each year as we gaze at the tree, there is a greater history to recount. More answered prayers, more trials endured. There is a greater realization of what an unspeakable gift the world was given.
So perhaps I am not looking at a Christmas tree that is indeed more beautiful than any other year. I am just looking through eyes that have seen one more year of our families’ story unfolding; one more year of a ship tossed at sea with its anchor holding fast. And though clumps of shining ornaments may weigh down one side of our tree, and there may be holes in the greenery, or an occasional burnt out bulb, it still looks perfect to me. I can’t help but wonder if that is what God sees when he looks at us in our inadequacy. I am grateful for the annual reminder of this miracle. Merry Christmas and God Bless Every One.
Kimberly Mihelich
Every year I gaze up at our Christmas tree with the twinkling lights and think to myself, “I think this is the most beautiful tree yet!” Of course a Christmas tree is not just a finished product, symbolic of the season. It is a process. Part of the magic of the Christmas tree is the experience of obtaining it.
In “lean” years in the past we have obtained a Christmas tree off some property relatives own on old farmlands. We would trudge through the fields looking for the perfect tree. At best there was usually one side appropriate for display. The rest could be filled in with evergreen garland and a menagerie of ornaments to fill the gaping voids the tree had developed as it singularly braved the elements, while its fine manicured counterparts were getting TLC in Christmas tree spas across the state. But even in those times we have been enamored with our scraggly “Charlie Brown” tree.
Some Christmas tree farms make the whole experience into a wonderful family outing, with hot chocolate and goodies to share. It’s always more pleasant when there is a soft blanket of snow covering the frozen tundra when you’re on an expedition to pick out the perfect tree, not too deep; But just enough to give you the feel of winter, and put you in the Christmas spirit. I relish just enough nip in the air to give your frosty fingers a warm hug as they grasp the hot chocolate mug and as the warm gooey marshmallow sticks to your chin.
My least favorite part of the whole process is the, “leveling of the tree.” I’m in charge of making sure it’s straight, while my husband crouches down under the tree and makes the necessary adjustments. Since I’m much more inclined to literary endeavors than geometry, my judgment is inevitably off. My poor husband will crawl out of the evergreen cave under the tree, utter that sigh of disappointment and crawl back under to make up for my lack of perception.
However, I may be onto something. When you have children you have to account for the concept of “Clumping”. They seem to get fixated on one branch and most of the ornaments they select end up there. It’s the parent’s job to distribute the weight of the ornaments evenly so the tree angel, perched on her evergreen thrown, doesn’t go plummeting to the floor kamikaze style. When you account for clumping, the tree always ends up leaning one way anyways. If we could only set it in the tree stand to offset the weight of the ornaments, then we could have the “perfect” Christmas tree.
We have a small train that goes around our Christmas tree. My husband purchased it about 6 years ago. As the festive chime of the cash register went, “Ka-Ching” he eloquently reasoned it was for the kids. At the time we only had one son who was barely walking. I shook my head knowingly and played along with the charade. My husband has had lots of fun running that train every year. But in many ways I think that is the key to why every year the trees look more beautiful. It’s those annual traditions that become part of your families’ identity, a faithful part of who you are.
Christmas is steeped with tradition, and for us, remembering Christ’s birth and what he did for mankind. Each year there are layers of memories that are added to this event. Every year more home made ornaments from the kids find their way to our tree. Each year as we gaze at the tree, there is a greater history to recount. More answered prayers, more trials endured. There is a greater realization of what an unspeakable gift the world was given.
So perhaps I am not looking at a Christmas tree that is indeed more beautiful than any other year. I am just looking through eyes that have seen one more year of our families’ story unfolding; one more year of a ship tossed at sea with its anchor holding fast. And though clumps of shining ornaments may weigh down one side of our tree, and there may be holes in the greenery, or an occasional burnt out bulb, it still looks perfect to me. I can’t help but wonder if that is what God sees when he looks at us in our inadequacy. I am grateful for the annual reminder of this miracle. Merry Christmas and God Bless Every One.
Kimberly Mihelich
That Was the Farm to Me
That Was the Farm to Me
In the gentle rolling hills I hear echoes of
Cousins giggling and a families' love,
Family picnics on Nanny's lawn,
Wide open meadows that we trampled on,
Big wheeled farm tractors,
Spreading pungent air,
The tinkling kick of the can,
And jingling of change for the fair.
I see dust rising off the road
In gentle billowed clouds.
I see birches, pines, and maples
Standing tall and proud.
Sap lines running 'long the road,
And jagged stone walls too,
And the ominous point of barbed wire,
Poking out at you.
I feel gentle rain, booming thunder,
Shaking the whole hill,
I feel warm sun, crinkly fall leaves,
As I jump in for the thrill.
I feel a grandmother's arms around me,
I hear her voice, just as before,
"Well you know where they are,
Get the cookies out of the drawer!"
I feel my grandfather's hand encircle mine,
With fingers calloused and hard,
And a shiny, round, soft head,
So perfect, no hair to mar!
I hear two dogs scampering,
One--pretty,
One--not so much.
One is muddied, the other proper,
But both loved their Bumpy's touch.
I hear children running in the worn path,
And scampering up the road,
I see bits of felt and buttons, and paper,
And fabric to be sewed.
I taste the gooey ambrosia...
Ahhh, maple sugar on snow,
I see the old sugar house,
with weathered, creaky boards,
And it's home, I just know.
I see my childhood in a plastic paperweight,
That I can never retrieve again.
When the world was safe and we were together,
When there was no one to grieve or blame.
I see innocent dreams, and untarnished hopes,
I feel a heart that was filled with glee.
I didn't know I was different,
I didn't know of this trouble,
That was the farm to me.
In the gentle rolling hills I hear echoes of
Cousins giggling and a families' love,
Family picnics on Nanny's lawn,
Wide open meadows that we trampled on,
Big wheeled farm tractors,
Spreading pungent air,
The tinkling kick of the can,
And jingling of change for the fair.
I see dust rising off the road
In gentle billowed clouds.
I see birches, pines, and maples
Standing tall and proud.
Sap lines running 'long the road,
And jagged stone walls too,
And the ominous point of barbed wire,
Poking out at you.
I feel gentle rain, booming thunder,
Shaking the whole hill,
I feel warm sun, crinkly fall leaves,
As I jump in for the thrill.
I feel a grandmother's arms around me,
I hear her voice, just as before,
"Well you know where they are,
Get the cookies out of the drawer!"
I feel my grandfather's hand encircle mine,
With fingers calloused and hard,
And a shiny, round, soft head,
So perfect, no hair to mar!
I hear two dogs scampering,
One--pretty,
One--not so much.
One is muddied, the other proper,
But both loved their Bumpy's touch.
I hear children running in the worn path,
And scampering up the road,
I see bits of felt and buttons, and paper,
And fabric to be sewed.
I taste the gooey ambrosia...
Ahhh, maple sugar on snow,
I see the old sugar house,
with weathered, creaky boards,
And it's home, I just know.
I see my childhood in a plastic paperweight,
That I can never retrieve again.
When the world was safe and we were together,
When there was no one to grieve or blame.
I see innocent dreams, and untarnished hopes,
I feel a heart that was filled with glee.
I didn't know I was different,
I didn't know of this trouble,
That was the farm to me.
Snakes and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails
Snakes and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails
I’m not sure when my sons’ affinity for bugs and Ugh started. However, I’m pretty certain that the “Y” on half of their DNA has something to do with this condition. I have learned to adapt to the presence of creepy crawlies. Fortunately, I was raised in the country. I’m not afraid to get dirty and I have hunted down my share of garter snakes with a pair of salad tongs.
One of my earliest memories of one of my boys discovering the insect world was when our middle son was just starting to crawl. I brought him outside on a blanket peppered with many interesting toys while I worked in the garden. As I weeded he would coo, and look cute and play with his toys. He got adventurous once in awhile and would meander off his safe haven. I would turn around and find him with a mouthful of grass. I’d brush him off, pick the blades of grass out of his two teeth and give him a stern” No”. After a repeat of that episode we changed our tactics and I strapped him into his stroller. But the damage had been done. He didn’t eat well all day. He just was not his usual cheerful self. After dinner I thought I’d put him in his Johnny jumper. This was one of his favorite spots. Surely that would cheer him! As he began to bounce a smile came back to his face. But before too much time elapsed I could see the cause of his angst. With one quick “BLURP” there on the floor in front of his Johnny jumper lay a whole, intact glowing green caterpillar. According to the Poison Control Center that particular specimen causes nausea and vomiting. Indeed!
Our oldest son has an affinity for capturing insects as pets. Although, this has definitely decreased since we got a dog last year, I still occasionally find crispy fried insects in little containers with bits of grass and sticks. His intentions are very good. He cares for them tenderly for a long time, making sure the grass is moist, and they aren’t in the sun. However as little boys often do, he gets distracted and off to his next adventure, leaving his arthropod prisoners to their slow demise. At least he gives them air holes now with a little help from me. That is definitely an improvement in the living conditions. However, I’m waiting for my husband to ask why all the Tupperware containers I send to work with his dinner in them have holes punched in the top. I always thought I would tell him “that it aids in the even dispersal of the microwave energy which results in more consistent heating of the food.” It sounds plausible. I’m sure he’ll buy it.
I suppose it’s partially my fault these little creatures are forgotten, since I put a moratorium on these kinds of pets from entering the house. I made that rule after the spin cycle caterpillar soufflé that I found one laundry day. That happened one warm spring day when our lawn was just crawling with caterpillars. I think the boys were having a contest to see who could fit the most caterpillars in their pocket. I caught them in the act, and thought they had emptied their pockets well before they shed their clothes. But it seems we forgot about the really squishy ones in the bottom of their pockets. Well by the time they got through with the spin cycle in my washing machine, they were a lot squishier than when they started.
For awhile our oldest son was bringing his specimens in to school for show and tell. That is always an educational experience. However, as I was driving him to school one day his caterpillar escaped in the van somewhere. He was afraid he wasn’t getting enough air from his aerated lid, and he lifted it off. There were lots of tears that morning when we never found “Squirmy”. But after a quick surveillance of the van we found a dead beetle and that sufficed for the job. Although I do vacuum the van on a semi-occasionally rare basis, I do hope that my youngest never mistook it for a petrified French fry. But, if he did, we will just chalk it up to extra protein.
I have given up long ago on this issue. It’s just part of the charm of raising little boys. The song is right. “Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails… That’s what little boys are made of!” I guess this “sugar and spice” Mama is just going to have to live with it!
Kimberly Mihelich
I’m not sure when my sons’ affinity for bugs and Ugh started. However, I’m pretty certain that the “Y” on half of their DNA has something to do with this condition. I have learned to adapt to the presence of creepy crawlies. Fortunately, I was raised in the country. I’m not afraid to get dirty and I have hunted down my share of garter snakes with a pair of salad tongs.
One of my earliest memories of one of my boys discovering the insect world was when our middle son was just starting to crawl. I brought him outside on a blanket peppered with many interesting toys while I worked in the garden. As I weeded he would coo, and look cute and play with his toys. He got adventurous once in awhile and would meander off his safe haven. I would turn around and find him with a mouthful of grass. I’d brush him off, pick the blades of grass out of his two teeth and give him a stern” No”. After a repeat of that episode we changed our tactics and I strapped him into his stroller. But the damage had been done. He didn’t eat well all day. He just was not his usual cheerful self. After dinner I thought I’d put him in his Johnny jumper. This was one of his favorite spots. Surely that would cheer him! As he began to bounce a smile came back to his face. But before too much time elapsed I could see the cause of his angst. With one quick “BLURP” there on the floor in front of his Johnny jumper lay a whole, intact glowing green caterpillar. According to the Poison Control Center that particular specimen causes nausea and vomiting. Indeed!
Our oldest son has an affinity for capturing insects as pets. Although, this has definitely decreased since we got a dog last year, I still occasionally find crispy fried insects in little containers with bits of grass and sticks. His intentions are very good. He cares for them tenderly for a long time, making sure the grass is moist, and they aren’t in the sun. However as little boys often do, he gets distracted and off to his next adventure, leaving his arthropod prisoners to their slow demise. At least he gives them air holes now with a little help from me. That is definitely an improvement in the living conditions. However, I’m waiting for my husband to ask why all the Tupperware containers I send to work with his dinner in them have holes punched in the top. I always thought I would tell him “that it aids in the even dispersal of the microwave energy which results in more consistent heating of the food.” It sounds plausible. I’m sure he’ll buy it.
I suppose it’s partially my fault these little creatures are forgotten, since I put a moratorium on these kinds of pets from entering the house. I made that rule after the spin cycle caterpillar soufflé that I found one laundry day. That happened one warm spring day when our lawn was just crawling with caterpillars. I think the boys were having a contest to see who could fit the most caterpillars in their pocket. I caught them in the act, and thought they had emptied their pockets well before they shed their clothes. But it seems we forgot about the really squishy ones in the bottom of their pockets. Well by the time they got through with the spin cycle in my washing machine, they were a lot squishier than when they started.
For awhile our oldest son was bringing his specimens in to school for show and tell. That is always an educational experience. However, as I was driving him to school one day his caterpillar escaped in the van somewhere. He was afraid he wasn’t getting enough air from his aerated lid, and he lifted it off. There were lots of tears that morning when we never found “Squirmy”. But after a quick surveillance of the van we found a dead beetle and that sufficed for the job. Although I do vacuum the van on a semi-occasionally rare basis, I do hope that my youngest never mistook it for a petrified French fry. But, if he did, we will just chalk it up to extra protein.
I have given up long ago on this issue. It’s just part of the charm of raising little boys. The song is right. “Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails… That’s what little boys are made of!” I guess this “sugar and spice” Mama is just going to have to live with it!
Kimberly Mihelich
Confessions of Cookie Thieves
Confessions of Cookie Thieves
The temptation was too great for them. We were playing outside as homemade chocolate chip cookies cooled on the kitchen counter. I sent a 2 ½ year old Caleb and 4 ½ year old Isaac into the house to wash up for lunch with instructions to leave the cookies for dessert. I scooped up baby Logan and a basket of laundry and headed in to make grilled cheese sandwiches. I immediately noticed something missing from the shiny cooling racks which had been covered end to end with pure temptation.
I had no trouble tracking the thieves. Their fingerprints were everywhere...on the walls, down the hallway, on doorknobs. The trail of mischief continued as I saw the telltale sign of chocolate chips that had fallen to their death and were trampled by pattering feet on a beige rug. Oh, and there was the giggling…the distant giggling like little hyenas that had come upon a fresh find. I arrived in Caleb’s room to find the two culprits standing there, dumbfounded. Isaac, the oldest, quickly swallowed the evidence. However, Caleb who was less practiced in this deception stood there with his little round cheeks filled. He couldn’t even utter a word, for he knew his secret would be discovered.
It didn’t take a brilliant private investigator to crack this case. The two suspects had chocolate smeared all over their faces. They had tried to hide under the covers and their little faces had smeared chocolate all over Caleb’s pillowcase.
Biting my lip so as not to crack a hysterical laugh, I said in a stern Mom voice, “Boys, there are some cookies missing from the kitchen, do you know anything about that?”
Caleb looked terrified. He hadn’t expected this interrogation. His cheeks were still puffed out like a little chipmunk. Ah, but big Brother Isaac would save the day.
“I think Caleb’s teddy took them!” Isaac replied without skipping a beat.
I had to bite my lip even harder not to laugh at these two little cherubs. Especially when I saw the look of disdain Caleb gave Isaac for that comment. I just knew he was thinking, “Why are you making MY Teddy take the rap?” But Caleb was still hiding his secret tucked away in his cheeks. He couldn’t protest because then he would surely get in trouble. He conceded and allowed his beloved Teddy to take the fall. The only thing he could do was silently agree. So, with a beautiful round face smeared with chocolate and cheeks full of cookies he shook his head with a decisive “Yes!”
“Hmmm, I see. “ I said, as the wheels in my brain were spinning with the need to teach my children honesty and obedience balanced with the desire to catch these two on videotape and possibly win thousands on America’s Funniest Videos.
“Well, I’ll tell you what boys, since you were here and saw what happened I’m going to get the video camera so you can tell Daddy about it when he comes home.”
I ran to get the camera, focused it quickly on the two suspects and asked them to tell their story. The chocolate was still evident on there round little faces, but Caleb had finally swallowed the cookies he was saving for an opportune moment.
Just then, a timid little voice spoke to me through the video camera.
“Mommy, I want to tell you something.”
“Yes, Isaac, what is it?”
“Mommy, Me and Caleb took those cookies.”
Caleb saw his chance to put in a word for his trusted companion. “Yeah, Teddy didn’t do it!”
“Ok boys. I’m very glad you decided to tell the truth. That was the right thing to do,” I said.
At the pivotal moment, my boys had chosen truth, just like we had taught them. Sometimes as parents we struggle to teach our children what is right, to avoid things that will hurt them, to have integrity. We wonder if when the heat is on, and a real life decision confronts our children if our training will pay off. I have a videotape of two little cookie thieves with chocolate smeared on their faces, confessing their crimes, that I will always treasure. It is in these small victories character is built, memories are made, and Teddy bears are vindicated.
The temptation was too great for them. We were playing outside as homemade chocolate chip cookies cooled on the kitchen counter. I sent a 2 ½ year old Caleb and 4 ½ year old Isaac into the house to wash up for lunch with instructions to leave the cookies for dessert. I scooped up baby Logan and a basket of laundry and headed in to make grilled cheese sandwiches. I immediately noticed something missing from the shiny cooling racks which had been covered end to end with pure temptation.
I had no trouble tracking the thieves. Their fingerprints were everywhere...on the walls, down the hallway, on doorknobs. The trail of mischief continued as I saw the telltale sign of chocolate chips that had fallen to their death and were trampled by pattering feet on a beige rug. Oh, and there was the giggling…the distant giggling like little hyenas that had come upon a fresh find. I arrived in Caleb’s room to find the two culprits standing there, dumbfounded. Isaac, the oldest, quickly swallowed the evidence. However, Caleb who was less practiced in this deception stood there with his little round cheeks filled. He couldn’t even utter a word, for he knew his secret would be discovered.
It didn’t take a brilliant private investigator to crack this case. The two suspects had chocolate smeared all over their faces. They had tried to hide under the covers and their little faces had smeared chocolate all over Caleb’s pillowcase.
Biting my lip so as not to crack a hysterical laugh, I said in a stern Mom voice, “Boys, there are some cookies missing from the kitchen, do you know anything about that?”
Caleb looked terrified. He hadn’t expected this interrogation. His cheeks were still puffed out like a little chipmunk. Ah, but big Brother Isaac would save the day.
“I think Caleb’s teddy took them!” Isaac replied without skipping a beat.
I had to bite my lip even harder not to laugh at these two little cherubs. Especially when I saw the look of disdain Caleb gave Isaac for that comment. I just knew he was thinking, “Why are you making MY Teddy take the rap?” But Caleb was still hiding his secret tucked away in his cheeks. He couldn’t protest because then he would surely get in trouble. He conceded and allowed his beloved Teddy to take the fall. The only thing he could do was silently agree. So, with a beautiful round face smeared with chocolate and cheeks full of cookies he shook his head with a decisive “Yes!”
“Hmmm, I see. “ I said, as the wheels in my brain were spinning with the need to teach my children honesty and obedience balanced with the desire to catch these two on videotape and possibly win thousands on America’s Funniest Videos.
“Well, I’ll tell you what boys, since you were here and saw what happened I’m going to get the video camera so you can tell Daddy about it when he comes home.”
I ran to get the camera, focused it quickly on the two suspects and asked them to tell their story. The chocolate was still evident on there round little faces, but Caleb had finally swallowed the cookies he was saving for an opportune moment.
Just then, a timid little voice spoke to me through the video camera.
“Mommy, I want to tell you something.”
“Yes, Isaac, what is it?”
“Mommy, Me and Caleb took those cookies.”
Caleb saw his chance to put in a word for his trusted companion. “Yeah, Teddy didn’t do it!”
“Ok boys. I’m very glad you decided to tell the truth. That was the right thing to do,” I said.
At the pivotal moment, my boys had chosen truth, just like we had taught them. Sometimes as parents we struggle to teach our children what is right, to avoid things that will hurt them, to have integrity. We wonder if when the heat is on, and a real life decision confronts our children if our training will pay off. I have a videotape of two little cookie thieves with chocolate smeared on their faces, confessing their crimes, that I will always treasure. It is in these small victories character is built, memories are made, and Teddy bears are vindicated.
Potty Nanny 911
Potty Nanny 911
What is it about potty training that turns a normally sane mother into an obsessive wreck? For example, I can tell you to within seconds how long it takes to get to the bathroom from every department in Wal-Mart.
The other day the trainee in question and I watched the video “Once Upon a Potty”. Great flick, but I doubt the Academy will be clamoring to give it an Oscar anytime soon. However, it does contain a great, age appropriate anatomy lesson. We’ve had this movie on our shelves since our oldest went through this rite of passage. It didn’t work for him, or the middle child. But the process of potty training can make a Mom believe that the pivotal moment is just one melodious “Potty Song” away. As my son watched in rapt attention I imagined a Juilliard School of Music voice major calling home to tell his parents he finally had work. “How wonderful!” They must have exclaimed. “What is it son?” “The Potty Song” he would reply in a muffled indistinguishable voice. I laughed at the thought of it.
I think one reason potty training is so draining is the emotional highs and lows it sends you on. Yesterday afternoon Logan had been successful in his potty endeavors. To celebrate our whole household had a “Potty parade”. If you haven’t been in a potty parade, well then, you just haven’t lived. The trainee is the leader of course. He is draped with an Olympic style gold medal cast of the finest plastic and easily obtainable in the party supply aisle at Wal-Mart (which is about 32 seconds away from the nearest bathroom, barring any large crowds). Everyone in the household is issued a kazoo. The whole entourage parades up and down the hall chanting, “Yeah for Logan!” and “Logan used the potty”. Ah, yes. This was a great moment of victory in the potty wars.
However, later that night I found Logan had missed the mark and I was swabbing the deck, and the rug etc. etc. etc.
The season for this endeavor is ideal. Because it is summer I can let him run around in hardly anything. However, I know from past experience that if you want to potty train in the winter you had better move to a warmer climate. It’s bad enough when you have 30 seconds tops to find bathroom accommodations, never mind peeling off a snowsuit and a full set of clothes.
I don’t have a lot of enthusiasm about this undertaking. Mostly, I’m just tired. I somehow thought the 3rd child would be a breeze…that somehow I would become a wealth of Potty knowledge. But the only thing I have learned for sure is it takes incredible patience, nerves of steel and an aptitude for cleaning.
I recently saw this show called “SuperNanny”. The premise is that desperate parents with unruly children call a professional Nanny in to help them recapture control. I’m not crazy about some of her techniques. First of all, most of the kids I’ve seen on that show are a little beyond a “naughty chair”. However her ideas about consistency and maintaining a schedule definitely ring true. As I watched her I was thinking there should be a new reality TV show called “Potty Nanny 911”. Desperate, worn out mothers could farm out their little toddlers for a few weeks of Potty Boot Camp. They would return as perfectly trained, hygienic little angels. I’m looking for a producer, director and a star Nanny….any takers?
Kimberly Mihelich
What is it about potty training that turns a normally sane mother into an obsessive wreck? For example, I can tell you to within seconds how long it takes to get to the bathroom from every department in Wal-Mart.
The other day the trainee in question and I watched the video “Once Upon a Potty”. Great flick, but I doubt the Academy will be clamoring to give it an Oscar anytime soon. However, it does contain a great, age appropriate anatomy lesson. We’ve had this movie on our shelves since our oldest went through this rite of passage. It didn’t work for him, or the middle child. But the process of potty training can make a Mom believe that the pivotal moment is just one melodious “Potty Song” away. As my son watched in rapt attention I imagined a Juilliard School of Music voice major calling home to tell his parents he finally had work. “How wonderful!” They must have exclaimed. “What is it son?” “The Potty Song” he would reply in a muffled indistinguishable voice. I laughed at the thought of it.
I think one reason potty training is so draining is the emotional highs and lows it sends you on. Yesterday afternoon Logan had been successful in his potty endeavors. To celebrate our whole household had a “Potty parade”. If you haven’t been in a potty parade, well then, you just haven’t lived. The trainee is the leader of course. He is draped with an Olympic style gold medal cast of the finest plastic and easily obtainable in the party supply aisle at Wal-Mart (which is about 32 seconds away from the nearest bathroom, barring any large crowds). Everyone in the household is issued a kazoo. The whole entourage parades up and down the hall chanting, “Yeah for Logan!” and “Logan used the potty”. Ah, yes. This was a great moment of victory in the potty wars.
However, later that night I found Logan had missed the mark and I was swabbing the deck, and the rug etc. etc. etc.
The season for this endeavor is ideal. Because it is summer I can let him run around in hardly anything. However, I know from past experience that if you want to potty train in the winter you had better move to a warmer climate. It’s bad enough when you have 30 seconds tops to find bathroom accommodations, never mind peeling off a snowsuit and a full set of clothes.
I don’t have a lot of enthusiasm about this undertaking. Mostly, I’m just tired. I somehow thought the 3rd child would be a breeze…that somehow I would become a wealth of Potty knowledge. But the only thing I have learned for sure is it takes incredible patience, nerves of steel and an aptitude for cleaning.
I recently saw this show called “SuperNanny”. The premise is that desperate parents with unruly children call a professional Nanny in to help them recapture control. I’m not crazy about some of her techniques. First of all, most of the kids I’ve seen on that show are a little beyond a “naughty chair”. However her ideas about consistency and maintaining a schedule definitely ring true. As I watched her I was thinking there should be a new reality TV show called “Potty Nanny 911”. Desperate, worn out mothers could farm out their little toddlers for a few weeks of Potty Boot Camp. They would return as perfectly trained, hygienic little angels. I’m looking for a producer, director and a star Nanny….any takers?
Kimberly Mihelich
Purple Kisses and Other Gifts
I am eternally amazed at how much insight our children give us into life. More often I feel that I am the one learning life’s lessons through my children as I try to teach them. One such lesson was reinforced to me in such a vivid way last fall when my son Caleb who had just turned four, reminded me of something I had been taught all my life. However, in the daily practice of the mundane, sometimes these important truths are lost and swallowed up in mountains of laundry and washed away with the suds of a continual parade of dishes. Caleb reminded me that the most exquisite and precious gifts we give in life are free.
It had been a particularly rough day. For one thing, it was a grocery shopping day. For any of you who have experienced this seemingly ordinary feat with small children in tow you will understand immediately that this act in itself is enough to summon the Calgon and calls for deep cleansing breaths to relax away the tension. But, for those of you who are not familiar with this, we shall save this adventure for another episode, for it surely deserves its own paragraph.
Then, there were the little squabbles between brothers that seem to henpeck away at a mother’s sanity. It had been raining and I hadn’t been able to send the boys outside for their daily release of excess energy. My husband had recently changed jobs and my oldest son had just started kindergarten, so we were adjusting to those new schedules as well.
By the time I tucked the boys in that night I was ready to collapse in a heap of exhaustion. As I went in to kiss Caleb goodnight and say his nighttime prayers with him I lay my weary head upon his pillow. When the final “Amen” was said I remained there for a long time just enjoying the quiet and cuddling with little Caleb. After awhile he asked me, “What’s the matter Mommy?” because I usually didn’t linger that long. I told him that Mommy was just very tired and it had been a long day. He thought for a moment, his huge brown eyes were pools of deep thought. He was always so sensitive to everyone’s feelings.
After a bit he said, “Mommy I know what will make you feel better.”
“What’s that?” I asked curiously.
“Here Mommy,” he said, as he leaned over to give me a kiss.
“Thank You Caleb, I think that will make me feel better.”
“It was a special kiss”, he said.
“Oh, was it Caleb?” I asked.
“Yup, It was a purple kiss Mommy, because purple is your faaavorite color”.
Tears came to my eyes as I instantly felt the relief from the day’s insignificant pressures. A single act from an innocent little 4 year old boy put it all into perspective. He didn’t have the money or resources to buy a gift or card, or fix me a cup of tea, or anything else adults do to make each other feel better. But he had his heart. I marveled as I thought of the loving care that went into that gift.
Every bedtime since then, my son Caleb has given me purple kisses. Sometimes I get purple and pink kisses simply because he’s under the impression that girls like pink. He always tells me how many he’s “made” during the day and on several occasions I have gotten the very last purple kiss, until tomorrow when he will “make” more.
We all receive gifts like this from the people we love and the people we touch in our daily life; a child’s smile, a pat from a wrinkled elderly hand thanking you for kindness, a familiar hug and kiss goodnight, or a telephone call from across the miles just to see how you’re doing. These are gifts of the heart. Purple kisses are meant to be passed on; it’s the only way they grow. We have to make the time to receive them and the space in our hectic lives to savor them, and the inclination of our heart to give back freely the precious and priceless treasures we are given.
Go ahead…give someone in your life a purple kiss today!
I am eternally amazed at how much insight our children give us into life. More often I feel that I am the one learning life’s lessons through my children as I try to teach them. One such lesson was reinforced to me in such a vivid way last fall when my son Caleb who had just turned four, reminded me of something I had been taught all my life. However, in the daily practice of the mundane, sometimes these important truths are lost and swallowed up in mountains of laundry and washed away with the suds of a continual parade of dishes. Caleb reminded me that the most exquisite and precious gifts we give in life are free.
It had been a particularly rough day. For one thing, it was a grocery shopping day. For any of you who have experienced this seemingly ordinary feat with small children in tow you will understand immediately that this act in itself is enough to summon the Calgon and calls for deep cleansing breaths to relax away the tension. But, for those of you who are not familiar with this, we shall save this adventure for another episode, for it surely deserves its own paragraph.
Then, there were the little squabbles between brothers that seem to henpeck away at a mother’s sanity. It had been raining and I hadn’t been able to send the boys outside for their daily release of excess energy. My husband had recently changed jobs and my oldest son had just started kindergarten, so we were adjusting to those new schedules as well.
By the time I tucked the boys in that night I was ready to collapse in a heap of exhaustion. As I went in to kiss Caleb goodnight and say his nighttime prayers with him I lay my weary head upon his pillow. When the final “Amen” was said I remained there for a long time just enjoying the quiet and cuddling with little Caleb. After awhile he asked me, “What’s the matter Mommy?” because I usually didn’t linger that long. I told him that Mommy was just very tired and it had been a long day. He thought for a moment, his huge brown eyes were pools of deep thought. He was always so sensitive to everyone’s feelings.
After a bit he said, “Mommy I know what will make you feel better.”
“What’s that?” I asked curiously.
“Here Mommy,” he said, as he leaned over to give me a kiss.
“Thank You Caleb, I think that will make me feel better.”
“It was a special kiss”, he said.
“Oh, was it Caleb?” I asked.
“Yup, It was a purple kiss Mommy, because purple is your faaavorite color”.
Tears came to my eyes as I instantly felt the relief from the day’s insignificant pressures. A single act from an innocent little 4 year old boy put it all into perspective. He didn’t have the money or resources to buy a gift or card, or fix me a cup of tea, or anything else adults do to make each other feel better. But he had his heart. I marveled as I thought of the loving care that went into that gift.
Every bedtime since then, my son Caleb has given me purple kisses. Sometimes I get purple and pink kisses simply because he’s under the impression that girls like pink. He always tells me how many he’s “made” during the day and on several occasions I have gotten the very last purple kiss, until tomorrow when he will “make” more.
We all receive gifts like this from the people we love and the people we touch in our daily life; a child’s smile, a pat from a wrinkled elderly hand thanking you for kindness, a familiar hug and kiss goodnight, or a telephone call from across the miles just to see how you’re doing. These are gifts of the heart. Purple kisses are meant to be passed on; it’s the only way they grow. We have to make the time to receive them and the space in our hectic lives to savor them, and the inclination of our heart to give back freely the precious and priceless treasures we are given.
Go ahead…give someone in your life a purple kiss today!
Butterfly Blunders
Butterfly Blunders
If you are fortunate enough to walk the corridor of York’s Wild Kingdom Butterfly Conservatory next summer you may well see the portrait of an innocent looking toddler smiling down upon you. Don’t be deceived by his rosy complexion, and large eyes. His picture is there for the same reason the grocery stores in town display bad checks. He broke the rules.
It was a beautiful summer day when we made the trip to York. The children enjoyed the animal shows and watching all the different species on display in the zoo. They were particularly enthralled by the new butterfly conservatory. The whole space is like a beautiful garden. Luminescent winged butterflies flit among all the flowers and soft music played in the background. One blue winged butterfly from Costa Rica made a landing in the walkway. Our youngest son was very taken by how brightly colored his wings were and he stooped down to get a better look. He was trying to be so careful, and his movements were exaggerated by his caution. I stooped down beside him, camera in hand, and snapped a precious shot of our son’s curious wonder as the Blue Morpho butterfly stretched out its’ wings. As our son went to stand up he lost his footing and tripped, stepping on the poor butterfly.
I stood there in shock. Our son stood there with his bottom lip pouting and tears welling in his eye. He was almost three, and he realized what he did. As my husband realized what happened he said, “Oh No!” Those words reverberated off the glass walls of the conservatory into everyone’s ears. The reaction of the entire visiting audience was they turned around and looked at our small son in the middle of the conservatory, woefully watching the struggling butterfly lying on the walkway.
I quickly went to get some professional help. As I scooped up my young son and left the scene I left my bewildered husband to fend off the accusing glances on his own. It didn’t help when our 4 year old son said in a loud voice, “Hey, there was a sign that said, “NO STEPPING ON BUTTERFLIES!” “ How very helpful this proclamation was!
As the zookeeper gently lifted the injured butterfly off the walkway onto a comforting leaf she tried to reassure us. “It happens all the time”, “accidents happen”, “I’m sure he’ll be fine” and my favorite, “Don’t worry, there are three more left in Costa Rica, I’m sure they won’t mind giving us one.” Okay, she didn’t really say that. But I imagined it in my head. I also conjured up an international incident that ended in environmentalists picketing at our driveway. But, luckily I reigned in my imagination before it could be expressed on my face.
As we left the conservatory there was a heavy lull in the air and the poor little butterfly was in insect ICU. As we walked down the mirrored corridor exit our little toddler was trying to absorb it all. “Mommy, I killed the butterfly” he said sadly. We tried to distract him with other exhibits. And as 3 year old children do, he recovered quickly and was on to the next adventure in no time at all.
A few weeks ago my husband and I got away for a weekend to ourselves. As part of the trip we stopped at another butterfly conservatory in Deerfleld, Massachusetts. Beautiful benches graced the walkways, arbors dripped with flowering vines, soft classical music played in the background. A thick mist rose up from the walkways and the small pools of water, filled with brightly colored fish. The whole scene was breathtakingly serene. My husband and I sat on a bench, enjoying the beautiful winged flowers flitting about us. As we took in the whole experience someone’s kids came running along the wooden path, with no caution about the delicate creatures all around them. For all they knew rugby season had opened. I looked at my husband. We were keenly aware we were on vacation this particular weekend. “Not our problem now” I said. “Nope, not this time!” We sat back and breathed an audible sigh of relief. If there were any “Oh No’s” uttered this time they did not belong to us.
Kimberly Mihelich
If you are fortunate enough to walk the corridor of York’s Wild Kingdom Butterfly Conservatory next summer you may well see the portrait of an innocent looking toddler smiling down upon you. Don’t be deceived by his rosy complexion, and large eyes. His picture is there for the same reason the grocery stores in town display bad checks. He broke the rules.
It was a beautiful summer day when we made the trip to York. The children enjoyed the animal shows and watching all the different species on display in the zoo. They were particularly enthralled by the new butterfly conservatory. The whole space is like a beautiful garden. Luminescent winged butterflies flit among all the flowers and soft music played in the background. One blue winged butterfly from Costa Rica made a landing in the walkway. Our youngest son was very taken by how brightly colored his wings were and he stooped down to get a better look. He was trying to be so careful, and his movements were exaggerated by his caution. I stooped down beside him, camera in hand, and snapped a precious shot of our son’s curious wonder as the Blue Morpho butterfly stretched out its’ wings. As our son went to stand up he lost his footing and tripped, stepping on the poor butterfly.
I stood there in shock. Our son stood there with his bottom lip pouting and tears welling in his eye. He was almost three, and he realized what he did. As my husband realized what happened he said, “Oh No!” Those words reverberated off the glass walls of the conservatory into everyone’s ears. The reaction of the entire visiting audience was they turned around and looked at our small son in the middle of the conservatory, woefully watching the struggling butterfly lying on the walkway.
I quickly went to get some professional help. As I scooped up my young son and left the scene I left my bewildered husband to fend off the accusing glances on his own. It didn’t help when our 4 year old son said in a loud voice, “Hey, there was a sign that said, “NO STEPPING ON BUTTERFLIES!” “ How very helpful this proclamation was!
As the zookeeper gently lifted the injured butterfly off the walkway onto a comforting leaf she tried to reassure us. “It happens all the time”, “accidents happen”, “I’m sure he’ll be fine” and my favorite, “Don’t worry, there are three more left in Costa Rica, I’m sure they won’t mind giving us one.” Okay, she didn’t really say that. But I imagined it in my head. I also conjured up an international incident that ended in environmentalists picketing at our driveway. But, luckily I reigned in my imagination before it could be expressed on my face.
As we left the conservatory there was a heavy lull in the air and the poor little butterfly was in insect ICU. As we walked down the mirrored corridor exit our little toddler was trying to absorb it all. “Mommy, I killed the butterfly” he said sadly. We tried to distract him with other exhibits. And as 3 year old children do, he recovered quickly and was on to the next adventure in no time at all.
A few weeks ago my husband and I got away for a weekend to ourselves. As part of the trip we stopped at another butterfly conservatory in Deerfleld, Massachusetts. Beautiful benches graced the walkways, arbors dripped with flowering vines, soft classical music played in the background. A thick mist rose up from the walkways and the small pools of water, filled with brightly colored fish. The whole scene was breathtakingly serene. My husband and I sat on a bench, enjoying the beautiful winged flowers flitting about us. As we took in the whole experience someone’s kids came running along the wooden path, with no caution about the delicate creatures all around them. For all they knew rugby season had opened. I looked at my husband. We were keenly aware we were on vacation this particular weekend. “Not our problem now” I said. “Nope, not this time!” We sat back and breathed an audible sigh of relief. If there were any “Oh No’s” uttered this time they did not belong to us.
Kimberly Mihelich
A Blogger is Born
A few weeks ago a friend suggested I start a blog. I love to write. I caught the bug in 3rd grade when Mrs. Schuschu would praise any silliness that I would put on her desk when we studied poetry. My idea of a good poem was that it rhymed. Content was not important--but that last syllable had to be spot on. A few years ago I wrote a regular article for the Suncook Sun. That was when Peter was working 2nd shift. I would tuck the kids into bed, then go into the office and start pattering away on the keys. The mayhem of the day with 3 kids under the age of 6 seemed to melt on the page into some kind of order--even if before my eyes it had been a blur of scurried motion that day. It just all seemed to make sense. So here I am. I have books in my head and here and there on lost computer disks. This is where a blogger is born--and perhaps if anything good comes of it, more.
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