Everyday memories

Life is punctuated with very specific memories – the images of people and places that commemorate an event that was meaningful in some way, for better or worse.  The family vacation where I saw mountains for the first time.  The time an unfortunate encounter with my birthday candles singed the edges of my hair.  The day my husband and I flipped over a jetski on our honeymoon.  The way each of my brand new babies looked in the first moment they were placed on my chest.  These moments slide into our lives like a happy pause or a dramatic exclamation point, and we remember them with very specific parameters.  We can point to a day and location and say, “this happened then.” 

But filling in the narrative of our lives aside from the noise of this punctuation is the every day.  There are people and experiences that enrich us over time and weave themselves seamlessly into who we are.  I grew up attending church with my family and my grandparents.  It was a traditional service where we sang hymns accompanied by the powerful tones of a pipe organ.  As a result, I have many of those songs committed to memory, and when I sing them today I cannot separate my own voice from that of my grandparents.  As the congregation sings, I can still hear the unique quality of each of their voices dancing through the verses – my grandpa’s syncopated baritone, and grandma moving in and out of soprano and alto as the range of the song requires. 

I don’t need to conjure a up a specific event to recall this or bring it back to the front of my mind; it appears automatically when we sing a classic hymn at the church I now attend with my own little family.  I don’t “remember a time,” really.  I feel those experiences enriching my current moments because they are so deep that they’re part of me.  This morning I had such a moment when we were singing “Praise to the Lord, the Almighty” during our church service.  In my head, my voice joined with my grandparents' to raise up the lyrics, “All ye who hear, now to his temple draw near; Praise him in glad adoration.” 

As I was enjoying this moment – this deep memory – I became aware that my daughter, propped up on my hip as she usually is, was staring intently into my face and watching my mouth form the words.  At the beginning of the next verse, she enthusiastically joined in.  She opened her mouth wide, making perfect O’s – one after another – as we continued with, “Praise to the Lord, who o’er all things so wondrously reigneth.”  At her age of approximately a year and a half, she was mimicking what she was seeing, and while no sound actually left her lips she became part of the throng.  I immediately smiled and got my husband’s attention so he could see what was unfolding, and this resulted in giggles on the part of our little performer. 

As simple and brief as that moment was, it struck me with a profound sense of joy.  I was simultaneously feeling a sense of closeness to a generation that came before me, and to the next one I’m preparing for the world.  I’ll cop to that sounding corny, but God puts together wonderful things if we only stop to notice. 

It occurred to me during the remainder of the service that moments like these, repeated throughout a childhood, could become part of the narrative of our children’s lives.  I watched my daughter wave to the people in the pew behind us, and my son step shyly through the rows to collect coins in a tin can for the noisy offering.  This church, these people, it all just made my heart so full.  This is the stuff memories are made of – slowly over time these moments will intertwine themselves into these little humans.  I am so privileged to contribute to who they will be, and for today, darn it, we’re doing a good job.   

Imitation

They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.  If that’s the case, then consider me flattered to have a 20 month old daughter who tries to mirror my every move.  It’s not just me, of course.  She’s learning from everyone she spends a lot of time with, including her older brother.  One habit of hers, in fact, is to sidle up to an open toilet, lift her shirt, and lean her hips forward.  This one first perplexed me, then horrified me, and now I just find it downright amusing.  Let’s face it – if I took myself too seriously as a parent to find that funny, I’d be in for a long road. 

There are times when I don’t realize something may actually be a habit of mine until I see her doing it and momentarily pause to wonder where she got it.  A few nights ago I observed her searching her room for her sippy cup.  She put her finger to her lips and lightly tapped as she said, “hmmmmmm.”  Hmmm, indeed, I thought, as I caught myself doing the very same thing the next day. 

Of course there are some moments when we see our children imitating us that are less than flattering.  Earlier this week I overheard my son in the next room admonishing his sister by using her first, middle, and last name, and then explaining in a very “parent-y” tone that we do not climb on the furniture.  It was parent-y and a bit mocking at the same time, as if he was simultaneously putting his sister in her place and me in mine.  Well played.

Because I’m a mom and I can’t stop my brain from thinking ten steps down the road, I naturally start to worry about the example I’m setting since they are clearly watching me.  But when that thought creeps in, I am choosing instead to embrace it.  Think of the power we have to shape these littles into people who actively love life, follow their curiosity, and feel good in their own skin.  If I nudge myself forward in setting that example for them, it helps me be more true to myself as well – win win. 

Regular dance parties are mandatory in this quest.  I’m not talking about turning on the radio in the background for the kids while I put away the dishes.  I mean crank up the Disney, grab their sticky little hands, and fly around the living room like your list of cares is as short as theirs.  When Elsa starts to sing, you better believe we LET IT GO.

Playing in the rain also helps.  Last night when we came home from an ice cream run, it was dark and damp and there were worms crawling all over the driveway.  The kids stood just inside the garage door, and I could tell from the way they were looking at those worms that they were feeling a mix of curiosity, intrigue, and uncertainty.  I realized in that moment that their reaction would likely be influenced by my own.  If I instinctively lingered back, saying, “eewww, worms!”, they may assume they were something to be feared (or at the very least, avoided).  I instead made a conscious decision to step out on the driveway, crouch down, and redirect the worms that were heading for the garage door in order to save them from a crushing fate.  As I lingered there, bent over in the light drizzle of rain that continued to fall, I looked over my shoulder to find my children emerging from the shadows to stand by my side.    

There are absolutely bigger and more vital things we can do knowing that the little ones are watching.  Being kind and patient, serving, and sharing with others are important examples as we face the enormously ridiculous task of shaping human beings.  However, I will always be a sucker for the small moments, and I believe there is great power in the lessons they can teach.  The way we respond to situations becomes a habit, and whether it’s the decision to splash in a puddle, try a new sport, or choose a career path, I want my kids to jump in.  Always.  Because it’s fun, because it’s life, and who cares if you get a little dirty.

Some day when my kids are grown and someone asks them what their mom is like, I would find no greater joy than to have them light up and say, “She dances like a crazy person and plays with worms.”  I take that back – my greatest joy will be when they find what makes them dance.

The little things

If there is one thing I hope to accomplish as a parent it’s for my children to notice, appreciate, and enjoy the little things.  When I was a kid we went on family vacations every summer, many of which involved long car rides.  This was of course in the days before cell phones, tablets, in-car DVD players, or portable electronics in general.  My brother and I had the old fashioned Auto Bingo game to keep us busy, and we read a lot.  But most of all, I remember spending a lot of time just looking out the window.  I loved to look at the trees, often eagerly waiting the landsape to change to the tall straight pines of the Northwoods, which are still a personal favorite. 

 

There was one type of tree with small rounded leaves that would reflect the sun in such a way that the whole tree looked like a collection of shimmering jewels.  The leaves danced in the wind, and I remember thinking that the tree just looked, well, happy.  I decided that if I could be a tree, that is the type I would choose.  To this day I don’t know what kind of tree that is, but I do habitually look for it along the highway when I’m riding in the car. 

That simple memory is one that was impactful enough to stick with me all these years, and one that still makes me happy.  On car rides today, when my son gets bored in the backseat or starts to ask how much longer it will be until we get there, I encourage him to look out the window.  If it’s daytime, tell me what the clouds look like, or yes, notice the trees.  If it’s nighttime, imagine what all those lights and buildings are in the distance or look up and enjoy the stars and the moon.

 

I’m not so much deliberately trying to teach my children anything as I am just enjoying experiencing these things myself and embracing the fact that little things really are the big things to me.  Yesterday I took my kids for a walk, and I was so happy when my son asked me about the seeds on the sidewalk that had fallen from a maple tree.  I was downright giddy to explain to him that these were called “helicopters” and then to demonstrate what happens when you throw them in the air.  He was giddy as well, watching in awe as it whirled to the ground and eagerly picking one up for himself.  If there is anything greater than witnessing a child discover something that we take for granted, I have yet to find it.  Those little humans are notorious for re-setting your perspective.

I deliberately pick out the “ugly” vegetables at the Farmer’s Market so we can laugh together over the carrots that are hugging each other or the green pepper shaped like a hook.  I delight in planting flowers with my kids, and explaining how things grow.  Rainbows, individual snowflakes, feeling a cool breeze on a warm day.  Strawberries that drip down your chin in June, sweet corn on the cob in July, and a sun-ripened watermelon in August.  Going so high on the swingset that you think you can touch the trees.  The warm feeling of hot chocolate filling your tummy after spending hours in the snow making a fort.  These are the things I want to mark my children’s memories as they have mine.

 

Nothing makes me happier than when my son excitedly tells me to look at a dragon-shaped white puffy cloud or randomly asks me to confirm his understanding of how potatoes grow.  Tonight as we were going upstairs to get ready for bed we noticed the pink and orange colors in the sky, and he said to me, “Mommy, I want to pray about the pretty sunset tonight because I want to thank God for giving it to us.”  And then I melted.  Because for all of the times I fall short as a parent, if my son notices a sunset I must be doing some little thing right.  And really, it’s the little things that matter.

My pump, my frenemy

I cannot think of another word more fitting to describe my breast pump than “frenemy.”  It has been an inseparable companion for a full, blessed year after having each of my children.  And at the same time it has also been a cumbersome inconvenience that has ruled my life for what often feels like far too long.  I have embraced it and cursed it, begrudgingly lugged it around, and marveled at its functionality.  I’ve desperately searched for an electrical outlet, only to end up willing the battery pack to buy me another 10 minutes.  Just this time, oh miracle of engineering you.  I love you.  I hate you.  Oh please don’t let me forget to bring you with me.  I wish I could leave you at home.

Why do it?  If I find it to be such a pain, then why bother?  It’s simple:  I just plain love nursing.  And thankfully, my babies always have as well, so it has worked for us.  I couldn’t care less if other people nurse or use formula, or give their babies goat milk or coconut milk, or milk derived from any other source, or heck, Fresca (do they still make Fresca?! Man, I bet the babies would love some Fresca).  And while I love nursing, I also love my job.  And I love the occasional freedom of being away from my child for more than 3 hours.   So….enter the pump: the single most magical and hated monstrosity for many a woman of child bearing age.

This little frenemy of mine has followed me to multiple states for both business and pleasure.  I’ve pumped in every office building my employer has in this town, as well as countless days in my own office (chair against the non-locking door, swirling in a sea of panic when someone knocked).  I’ve pumped in cars, on buses and airplanes, in the airport, in bathroom stalls, and in parking lots.  I’ve ducked out of weddings and funerals, planned meetings around my pump schedule, and dealt with the fact that I often just couldn’t plan around it.  I’ve filled the freezer with carefully labeled bags of liquid gold, and faithfully (with the assistance of my husband) gotten out the supply to thaw for the next day.

So today, as I recently celebrated the first birthday of another child, I also celebrate the ceremonial packing away of the pump.  I celebrate and reflect because I know there are many other mommas out there carting around their own frenemy, stressing about supply and mastitis and plugged ducts, and wondering if their next destination will accommodate the need to pump.  I know you, sweet mommas.  I know your challenges and worries, and I see the sacrifices you make.  I know you’re worried about what you eat and drink, constantly monitoring how it impacts that precious babe.  I know you’re afraid to take Tylenol, even though they say it’s safe.  I see you glancing at the clock, calculating the time to the next feeding and trying to recall how much milk is in the fridge at home to determine whether you can have just a few sips of precious red wine with dinner.  I applaud you for sticking with it, when it was so easy to give up so many times.  And whether you nursed for 2 weeks or 2 years, whether you gave your baby only breastmilk or 20% breastmilk, you did it.  It’s hard on your body, and it’s hard on you.  I get that.  Stop and take a minute to pat yourself on the back.  I will even allow myself that luxury today.  Damn girl, you done good.