Dandelions

Spring is here, which means more time outside with the kids, and more things for them to explore.  It means walks, bike rides, and wagon adventures.  It also inevitably means that my precious babes will be so thoughtful as to stoop down and excitedly pick as many dandelions as they can get their hands on and present them to me as if they were a bouquet of sweet smelling roses.  “Flowers!” they exclaim with enthusiasm whenever they come across a yard that has been fortunate enough to escape fertilizer and instead embrace its natural tendencies.

“Oh great,” I think to myself.  Dandelions stink, and they’re sticky, and they stain.  If I absentmindedly stuff them in my pocket and forget about them, they dry up and each individual yellow spike flakes away and finds hidden corners of fabric, all in an elaborate plot to invade my laundry.  As if I needed more invaders, what with the tissues and stickers and rocks and sand and beads and crayons and other paraphernalia of early childhood.  Also, it would be one thing if my children would actually gift me the dandelion with the stem attached – a long-stemmed dandelion, if you will.  It sounds fancier.  But no, most of the time I get the head of the flower, plucked off just below the base.  What am I supposed to do with that?

I admit, many times I nonchalantly chuck those dandelions as soon as my kids look away, hoping they don’t ask me later about the flowers they picked.  After all, I don’t want to end up in a laundry situation (see above).  I also have learned to keep my hands free at all times in case I need to swoop in and correct a misbalanced bike before it topples over, or re-fasten a seatbelt in the wagon for a certain stubborn two-year-old who I am convinced would stand up in the car with her head out the sunroof if we allowed it.  So, in the name of safety, and agility, and cleanliness, I discard that foul yellow foliage like trash.  After all, they’re just…weeds.

Today as I was driving to work I passed through a neighborhood with large front yards, the houses set back from the street with long, sloping lawns reaching toward the sidewalk.  The grass has greened up nicely with all the recent rain, and many homeowners have already completed their first mowing of the season.  But some lawns are still thick and long, alive from their winter slumber and yet untouched, blowing freely in the wind.  I noticed a stretch of these lawns and was struck by something – they were dotted with yellow dandelions that also swayed gently in the breeze, and the whole scene was, well, pretty.  The dandelions looked cheerful and bright, and they added happy little accents of color to the green background.  I don’t know that I’ve looked at dandelions that way since I was a kid.

And suddenly, I got it.  I understood what my children see when they come across a patch of weeds, err, dandelions.  After all, if you really think about it, what makes dandelions so different in appearance from a mum or zinnia?  Nothing, really.  They’re a flowering plant, and they’re pleasing to the eye.  A true sign of spring, renewal, and persistence.  So what is it about our children’s perspective that makes them see flowers where we see weeds?  They don’t know any better yet, and just as in many other cases, I think that plays to their advantage.  The ability to look at a lawn full of yellow flowers and see beauty rather than a chore is a true gift, one tiny way we can find joy in the simple everyday things.

As I was pondering this, I did a little light research on dandelions and found a few inspirational quotes (inspiration from a weed – who knew?!  Your kids did, that’s who.  Side note: I am a total sucker for inspirational quotes). 

“Some see a weed, some see a wish.” (no author given)

“Weeds are flowers, too, once you get to know them.” (A.A. Milne)

The rebel in me particularly likes this one:

“A weed is a plant that has mastered every survival skill except for learning how to grow in rows.” (Doug Larson) 

Go get it, dandelions.

I wouldn’t say that I suddenly love dandelions, or desire to keep arrangements of them in vases throughout my house, or would willingly invite them into my yard, but I do have a different perspective now.  The next time I see a collection of them dancing in a spacious front yard, I can just enjoy the beauty, and choose to see flowers rather than weeds.  The next time I see a stray dandelion creeping over the sidewalk, maybe I won’t cringe and hope my children don’t spot it.  And the next time one of my kids proudly transfers a mushed-up collection of dandelion heads from their hand to mine, I’ll keep the smile on my face longer than I usually do.  I won’t immediately throw them away, nose crinkled as I quickly rub my hands together to remove the remnants.  I will hold those spikey little petals tenderly in my palm, and treat them like the gift they were intended to be.  After all, I want my kids to see many more flowers and wishes and possibility in this world than they see weeds.  And when you think about it, that’s really just a matter of perspective.

The church whisper

Church on Sunday mornings has a unique way of putting your parental influence to the test.  Not only is it a public place, but there also tends to be a need for many quiet moments during the sermon and prayers.  The presence of other people and silence on cue – two elements that are enemies to parents of young children, particularly of the toddler variety. 

On a recent Sunday morning, my almost two-year-old daughter ended up back in the sanctuary with me after refusing drop-off at the church nursery.  I knew I wasn’t exactly setting myself up for success by including a toddler in the sermon portion of the church service, but I decided not to pick the battle.  After sitting contentedly on my lap for a few nanoseconds, she decided it was time to assert her independence and pop a squat beside me.  Fine.  I quickly wrestled away the markers she had found in the children’s worship bag and offered her crayons as an alternative.  When she expressed a desire for her art to stray from the paper, I began to look for other options that wouldn’t involve personalizing the newly upholstered pews. 

Somewhere in the midst of me pulling books, a sippy cup, and a baby doll out of her bag in a frantic attempt at entertainment, she removed her shoes and threw them to the floor.  I bent down to pick them up, and as I was slowing raising my head to avoid slamming it on the pew in front of us, I locked eyes with her.  I was crouched over and slightly below her eye level, and she had her hands on the toe of her right sock.  I froze.  She was looking down at me, an aura of confident superiority surrounding her.  In my best stern, church whisper I said slowly, “Do NOT take off your socks.”  She took a few seconds to consider her next move, or perhaps just to relish the action she had already decided upon.  She continued to look me in the eye, the expression on her face unchanging.  Then in one motion, she pulled off her sock and dropped it to the floor.  She quickly removed her left sock as well, smiling and wiggling her toes while I had no choice but to again retrieve her discarded footwear.

There’s an extra level of urgency and helplessness when you’re trying to entertain a child in church.  Essentially, you are trying everything possible to make them happy in an effort to avoid drawing attention to yourself.  (I will give you anything you want, just please don’t yell at me during the silent prayer!)  In this particular instance, my arsenal of tools was depleted.  We had burned through all the toys we brought, and my whisper had gotten as tense as I was comfortable with in church.  My methods had been ineffective, so I resigned myself to the fact that it would once again be a Sunday where she roams through the pews, barefoot and fancy free.  I’ll try to get the gist of the sermon, and mercifully we’ll soon get to a hymn.  Granted, she demands to be held during all standing and singing, but at least there is noise and movement involved.  I’ll take it.

I’m quite honestly at a point in my parenting journey where those moments don’t bother me that much.  It’s funny to sit back and reflect on the madness, but the one takeaway that does scare me is the realization that I have absolutely no control over my child.  I simply cannot MAKE her do much of anything, and regardless of the instruction I give, she can choose to disregard.  This concerns me as she nears two years of age, of course, but I can only assume the influence I have over her will diminish exponentially as she gets older. 

Sure, today I have a toddler flicking socks in my face at church, but will she become a teenager who decides I have nothing valuable to say, and makes choices for her life I don’t agree with?  Probably (sigh).  Those are different problems for another day.  I choose to trust that the big things will stick, that even if I can’t get her to keep her feet covered she will learn to be kind and to love, to be grateful and find the magic in simple moments.  She can run shoeless for the rest of her life for all I care if she is generous with her time and her abilities, and if she confidently becomes the person God intends for her to be.  Even if, or maybe especially if, that person is strong-willed and opinionated.

I could get caught up in thinking about what the future holds, but I was quickly snapped back to the present.  That little girl who looked at me in defiance just three minutes earlier, sweetly asked that I hold her as the sermon was reaching its end.  I propped her in the crook of my elbow like I have so many times before, and this time as she looked into my eyes it was not defiance, but pure joy and content.  She smiled at me, and I tickled her bare feet.  We giggled quietly together, and I decided it’s going to be just fine.  I don’t need to have control.

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.

Such a fun age

When you’re talking to someone about your kids and you mention how old they are, a common response is “Oh, that’s such a fun age.”  I’ve only been at this parenting thing for about 3 ½ years, but I’ve found it doesn’t matter what age your child actually is.  Someone will always comment that it’s such a fun age.   And you know what?  They’re so right.

I find myself often saying that about my own children, and I’m willing to get over my newly acquired parenting cliché manner of speech if you are.  Right now our oldest is at such a fun age because you never know what will come out of his mouth, and his personality is really starting to develop.  Truth be told, the kid cracks me up.  I don’t just mean he makes me chuckle in an “oh, that’s so cute for a three-year-old” kind of way.  I mean he literally makes me belly laugh, like we’re friends.  He’s witty, and he makes up silly stories that give me an excuse to embrace the world of make believe.  Spending time with him helps me remember and appreciate just how fun it was to be a kid.  Seeing the world through his eyes brings back memories from my childhood that I didn’t even realize were there anymore, and the prospect of reliving those glory days side by side with him makes me ridiculously excited to “grow up” again with him.  A second chance at being a kid?!  Yes, please!

And then there’s our daughter - that sweet, content, 7-month-old, toothless grin.  Man she’s at such a fun age right now.  She’s always excited to see me, to the point where her legs kick wildly and she starts to giggle and rub her face because she doesn’t quite know what to do with her hands.  Despite all that excitement in our presence, separation anxiety hasn’t quite set in yet, so we’re in that magical balance where coming and going are easy.  She’s also extremely curious and observant and engaged, always lunging for anything that is just inside her grasp.  But here’s the kicker – she’s not mobile yet.

She’s starting to babble more and string sounds together, but she doesn’t talk back; there is no need for discipline.  We’re past the sleepless nights (for the most part), and not yet worried about potty training.  She’ll keep her pacifier in her mouth on her own and we’re not close to a point where I feel we need to start weaning it away.  She’s gotten the hang of purees, so we’ve hit a new normal with her feeding schedules.  I could go on and on, but suffice it to say – 7 months: I like you a lot.

As one phase ends and we move into another, I mourn the quickly disappearing baby stage.  It’s sad every time I pack up clothes she has outgrown, and when my husband mentioned putting away the play gym I think I actually pouted.  However, the blessing of the second time around is that you know every stage ahead brings its own exciting experiences and opportunities for growth and learning.  When I realized we could get out the activity table to replace her play gym, I perked up again, remembering all the fun our son had standing with that toy as he built up strength in his growing legs that would eventually walk on their own.  I started to get excited thinking about our daughter taking her first steps, and eventually toddling around and making sentences.  Who will this little girl become?  Will she be like her brother, or completely different?  How will they interact together as they get older? 

I learn more about both of our kids each day, and it is such a privilege to watch them develop.  Some day they won’t be so little, and the things they need from us as parents will change.  And while that makes me sad, I also eagerly anticipate what is to come.  So far, every stage has been my favorite, and since our children are three years apart I always have two simultaneous favorite stages that are separated by exactly that much time.  Each period has its challenges, yes, but the rewards keep getting better.  The thought of cheering our children on at a future band concert, math club competition, or sporting event (I’m keeping all options open), makes me downright giddy.  I cried with the pride of a Harvard mom when our son recently went to the dentist, so I can’t imagine what it must be like to sit in a crowd and say, “that’s my kid out there.”

Regardless of what hobbies or interests our children explore and the talents and blessings they discover, I will relish each moment.  I consider it an honor to play a role in helping them become decent human beings, and it’s a responsibility I both take seriously and find to be outrageously fun.  And if I’ve done my job right, I hope someday they can look back at their childhood as a whole and say, “Man, that was such a fun age.”  I know I will.