Parenting Archives - Page 15 of 21 - Enjoying the Small Things

All’s Love in Fair and War

March 16, 2015 By Kelle

“This is a #@cking joke,” were, I believe, the exact words that came out as we were loading the van to go to the fair yesterday. Brett said them, I thought them. It was 92 degrees, there were 200 driveway toys scattered across our lawn, Dash had fallen hard and hit his head on the driveway, no one could find the ice pack, everyone was crying, and we had planned on leaving an hour earlier. Normally, I spread optimism on these occasions like butter on toast, but I was all out of butter. It was the underbelly of our family, definitely not the shiny side we like people to see. We were edgy, and it seemed a game of “Pick a person whose fault this is and silently let them know it” had broken out, and the entire family was playing.

Brett pushed a heap of my crap aside as he climbed in the van, and in the mature spirit of giving him the benefit of the doubt, I read it as “Your car’s a mess again; this is all your fault.”

“We should have left an hour ago. We were all ready, you know,” I replied, knowing he’d hear it as “Why are you always late? This is all your fault.” Checkmate.

We forgot to pre-order wrist bands–somebody’s fault, no doubt–so when we got to the fair, we stood in a long line to get them, dust sticking to our sweat and kids whining to get out of the stroller. We complained about the heat, about the fact that this year at the fair with Dash is a lot harder than last year at the fair with Dash, about how much everything costs, about the bathrooms being gross.

At some point, we got tired of complaining.

Going to the fair with three kids is supposed to be hard.
And raising a family together isn’t supposed to be easy.

But for years, this little fair has been something special to us, a place where–amid grease-thick dust and carnies hollering “Everyone gets a prize!”, between cotton candy stands and carousels and under the canopy of prize trinkets and ferris wheel glow–we find the pulse of our family. In the loudest, most distracting place, that pulse still shines brightest and sings above the competing sounds.

“Look at their faces,” I pointed out. We laughed at Dash’s amusement with the ride and both noticed Lainey’s nurturing scooch-in towards Nella.

We found the same taco shack we went to last year, ordered the same thing, sat at the same picnic table, took the same picture. Nella still loves the Fun Slide, Lainey still hates it. We drank cold beer, got the kids ice cream, finished half of our giant lemonade and threw the rest away because nobody wanted to hold it–all just like last year.

We played the same game–the one where everybody wins–and the kids proudly marched with their little prizes until someone decided their prize wasn’t as cool as the one next to them.

It was all a bit of a family fair deja vu.
Except some things are different. We’re in it deeper, the stakes are higher. Slowly, we’re all changing, swimming further away from the edges of the pool toward deeper water where life is richer but harder and changes can feel more recognizable. Before I could even feel guilty about the way our fair date started, I instead basked in funnel cake intoxication and gratitude for this moment–this recognition of our family and who we are, underbelly and all.

My two favorite moments captured from last night:

Lainey helping Nella off a ride…

And this look of Brett’s I’ve seen a hundred times–still kills me. When he’s watching the kids. I fell in love with him on this look alone.

We left the fair well past bedtime–dirty, tired, overfed and well-spent. Dash fell asleep five minutes into our ride home, his messy hair glued to the shiner on his forehead from his fall earlier in the day and his dirty feet crossed over the mess on the floor beneath them.

And just like last year, and the year before, I looked over at Brett, smiled and whispered, “That was fun”–which, in other languages, translates as “I’m sorry for earlier” and “It’s worth it” and “I like us.”

It’s not supposed to be easy. But I love when I feel the pulse of my family beating loud and strong above the noise and color and flashing lights of the world.

And if you can find it at the fair, you can find it anywhere.

Soul Food

February 27, 2015 By Kelle

During the witching hour of my home, my brain and my “calmly breathe and be grateful” strategies the other day, the noise became all too much. The kids, the chaos, the roofers pounding nails above us, the trucks in our driveway, the alarms in my head that pointed out messes and things I had to do, the voice of “pick up your shoes” and “put your lunch box away” that came out far more naggy than I intended, the phone that rang, the cries for more juice and go outside and mom, watch! watch this!. It was loud and chaotic, and in an attempt to quiet and calm, I piled everyone in the van and headed to the pool. Floats and pool toys blocked my mirror view on the short drive, and we turned around not once but twice to retrieve forgotten goggles and juice boxes. I clutched my poetry book–Soul Food–in my hand as I unloaded kids and dragged foam noodles across the parking lot to the pool where I’d soon sit on the step and watch happy splashers while Mary Oliver whispered me back into calm.

The water was warm and inviting, the pool patio almost vacant except for an older gentleman who looked up from his book only for a moment to confirm that we too wanted peace and that none of my kids looked like the cannonball type. Give Dash six more months.

Gracefully and barely disturbing the surface of the water, Lainey filled her lungs and slipped into the shallow end mermaid-style, a blur of blond hair and long legs disappearing underneath the water until she reemerged in the deep end moments later.

Down two steps went Nella–bravely venturing to the bottom stair, neck-deep, while she clung to the railing, and then back up to the top where she smiled proudly and turned around to do it again. Dash joined her, the two of them conversing through laughter and their shared accomplishment. Finally, quiet.

And then the pool gate opened and a trail of giggling children of all sizes–one, two, three, four, five of them–came skipping through, their mom trailing behind them hollering reminders not to jump. My kids all turned to look, paralyzed in amusement and intimidated by how many of them there were. The older gentleman in the lounge chair looked up from his book again. Cannonball type? Perhaps.

They didn’t cannonball into the water; they threw themselves into it–arms out, chests raised, squeals of laughter accompanying their splashes. There was nothing hesitant about any of it; rather enthusiastic, joyous, whole-hearted.

“We just got here,” their mom explained apologetically. “I flew alone with them, We came from the cold this morning, so we’re very happy to be here.”

“No worries, you’re fine,” I smiled. (“Speak for yourself,” thought the old man with the book.) “They all yours?”

“These three are,” she pointed to the older ones laughing in the deep end. “And these two–” she motioned toward two little blond girls on the steps of the shallow end. “These are my foster babies. They just returned to us two weeks ago.”

For the next forty-five minutes, I watched as this beautiful mother–certainly tired from her travels and worn out from the noise of five children and all that led her on this journey to this place–volleyed her attention between each child who called for her, needed her, wanted her to mom watch! watch this!. How patient and loving and all-embracing she was. Her smile never broke.

Between splashes and jumps, her older children swam to the little girls on the steps, picked them up, guided them through the shallow end, hugged them and praised them for their bravery. Love, security, belonging–it was palpable.

I never had a chance to open my poetry book. But there, in the loud and perfect chaos of eight kids in a pool, three different family stories and the shared experience of finding solace from the noisy parts of life under sunshine, with each other…I found my peace and quiet. I had my Soul Food.

Happy Friday.

More soul food from last night:

“Me Too”: The Humbling Moments of Parenthood

February 11, 2015 By Kelle

I took all three kids to Target the other day—alone—and I’m just going to pause here a moment for some clapping and confetti. I’m sure moms with eight kids do it all the time and whip right in and outta there, but three is tough for me. When I was a spunky young aunt, I used to beg my sister to let me take my nieces shopping. I liked the company. I liked the car seats in my car. I liked to pretend I had a different life than the one I had, which was alone, living with my dad, driving my duct-taped Ford Escort wagon to substitute teaching jobs and eating a lot of animal crackers on my breaks. Maybe I was more energetic back then (all those animal cracker vitamins). Maybe my nieces were saints. Whatever the case, trips to Target with my sisters’ girls always went well, and based on that, I threw that dream into the universe as one I’d enjoy with my own kids someday.

Here’s what I figured out.
I enjoy my three kids.
And I enjoy Target.
But I do not enjoy my three kids at Target.

I remembered that the other day, pushing my cart with one hand and reaching with the other for Nella to follow me—all the while fake-smiling one of those “I got this” looks while Dash’s shrill scream attracted the eyes and pity of every shopper (driver/mail carrier/traffic cop/mammal) within a three-mile radius. And this wasn’t the first time. Last time it happened, unbeknownst to me, my mother-in-law was shopping at the same Target at the same time. She found us. “I heard that scream across the store and knew it was Dash.”

The sad thing is, I not only used to pity those moms of screaming toddlers, but I judged them. I smiled compassionately, saying a prayer of gratitude for my girls’ good behavior, but secretly I assumed those moms let things get out of control—lacked good discipline. The fact is, Dash is a spirited child, and when life tells him no (or mom tells him to stay seated), he’s going to fight it, discipline be damned. This will serve as a gift someday, of course, propelling him to get back up when he falls down, to face rejection head-on—a persevering, purpose-driven fighter. But right now? It’s hard on me. So I tell myself “It’s not all about you” while I scramble to pull out a response in public—and believe me, I’ve tried them all. Lately, I practice breathing out frustration and calmly admonishing him while talking to the girls and continuing on my way, but I’ll admit sometimes I’m near tears. It’s hard when everyone is looking, and shrill screams have a way of penetrating even the Zennest of Zen.

Halfway down the diaper aisle this week and deep into the decibel scale of scream, another mom—young and pretty— paused and smiled at me—not condescendingly, but rather like a quick hug.

“How old is he?” she asked.

“Almost two,” I answered. “Funny and sweet and—feisty.”

“I knew it,” she added, “Mine’s the same age, same energy. Listen, I’ve so been there. Can I help you with anything? I have some marshmallows if he’d like some.”

I didn’t take the marshmallows, but I did walk away with something better. She gave me the “Me too” gift, perhaps the most valuable thing another mom can give you when you are pouring your all into motherhood and it’s not going like you planned (isn’t that what it often is?). No fancy stroller, no organic cotton swaddle, no cute headband and no marshmallow cart fit distraction can ever compare to “Hey, I see you. And you’re not alone.” It was no longer One Mom vs. The Citizens of Target. It was Us. Two Moms. Which might as well have been All the Moms of the World. She’s been here! Her kid does it too! She knows I’m one marshmallow away from snapping! One mom might crack under the pressure of a screaming baby and two kids sheepishly trailing behind the drama, but two moms? We got this. With a surge of gratitude for the sisterhood of mothers and newfound appreciation for the honor of raising an iron-willed son, I finished my shopping trip and kissed my tired boy’s forehead over and over during check-out while he exhausted the last of his vigor.

This isn’t the first time I’ve received the “me too” gift from another mom, but it definitely ranks as one of the most well-timed ones, consequently heightening my awareness of how important it is. I dropped Lainey off at school the day after the Target trip and bumped into a mom friend I’ve lost touch with. We’ve waved and smiled at each other a few times this year—and in that awkward recognition of “we don’t really talk anymore, do we?” I’m sure I’ve subconsciously retreated to mom default mode: We are good. We are happy. We are running this ship like a boss. I’m having a good hair day. This time we stopped to talk, and our conversation quickly fell where it needed to go—a shared “this is hard, isn’t it?” With babies on hips, we laughed about how tough mornings are, how frustrating fits are, how three kids is so much harder than two. We said a lot of “me too”s, and they felt like we were hugging. “I’ve missed you,” they silently spoke. Sure, we celebrate the good and high-five the times when friends are really acing it (Please, high five them! Notice them! They are few and far between, and we want to blast them to the world when they come!), but the invitation for sisterhood—whether it’s okay or not—is loudest during times of vulnerability.

Let’s be Marshmallow Moms more. Let’s find the screaming babies in Target, the moms dragging kids to school tardy the third day in a row, the straight-backed, hair-combed, keep-it-together ones whispering, “We are good, we are happy, we are running this ship like a boss” because they’re deluded into thinking that that’s what keeps you floating in the sea of womanhood. Let’s hunt them out and flood them with love. Let’s keep our eyes peeled for the tired ones, the lonely ones, the one-marshmallow-away-from-snapping ones. Let’s be quicker to say, “I’ve been there” and “me too”, knowing two moms is better than one mom and “us” can conquer the world.

As for screaming toddlers, I judge less now. Because I know that behind the stress and frustration of that public moment is a precious child with the great gift of unyielding determination, a gift his mama is trying very hard to funnel into all the beautiful things he will accomplish.

I know that behind the screaming toddler is a tender, loving, funny kid whose family loves him very, very much.

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A couple matters of business, real quick. I have three giveaway winners to announce.

Two NatureBox 6-month subscription giveaway winners:

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AND

The My Publisher $250 book credit giveaway: Comment #208 Tammy: “My youngest two (twins) are leaving the next to hike the Appalachian Trail. What an awesome way to chronicle their journey! (I’m sure going to miss them…)”

Congrats, ladies. If you’d please e-mail kellehamptonblog@comcast.net with either “Nature Box Giveaway Winner” or “My Publisher Giveaway Winner” in the subject line, we’ll get your prize codes to you as soon as possible.