kids say

"Do you ever write these things down?" I was asked while relaying one of my son's recent quotes. I got sort of sheepish... "Well, yes, sometimes I blog them, but I haven't done that much lately."

I've received a few comments from folks this week who think I should write more. Thing is, I don't have much time, so it may not be very well edited or considered. Still, these comments did highlight my week for different reasons...

It was evening, and Obi-1 was going to a kids' program with our neighbor while the rest of our family went to a small group time at a friend's house. I fed Obi-1 cereal for dinner, and was explaining to a hungry Obi-2 that he would get "breakfast for dinner" at our friends' home... let's call the friend Monica. Obi-2 wasn't pleased with needing to wait. Obi-1, meanwhile, decided to be helpful and explain the up-side of his little brothers' patience with dinner.

"You'll get dinner at Monica's, Obi-2," says the kindly older brother while scarfing down cereal.

"I want dinner here, now" replied the 4-year-old.

Obi-1 searched for a good selling point, and came up with this:

"But Monica is a better cook than Mama, Obi-2."

"WHAT?!?" I didn't contain my surprise from across the kitchen counter.

Assuming I hadn't heard him properly, Obi-1 repeated, "Monica is a better cook than you, Mama."

"But she's vegetarian!" I sputtered.

"What's that?"

"She doesn't eat meat. You like meat!"

"Oh." Obi-1 paused, enough for him to think about how much he likes meat and me to regret pulling that out as the only reason I can possibly be a better cook than our friend. Ironically, the whole conversation had apparently appeased Obi-2, which further frustrated me. After considering the new information about vegetarianism, Obi-1 drew a conclusion. "Well, she's still a better cook than you."

Evidently he's not as attached to meat as I thought. He also doesn't seem to follow that the butternut squash recipes I've been trying to talk him into trying come straight from her kitchen. I was thinking all of these things when my oldest child noticed I was pouting. He offered a sort of consolation-prize compliment. "But Mama, you make better Cheerios."

Gee, thanks, kiddo.

Now, this... I recently put up a little chart of "feelings" pictures to help my kids increase their vocabulary and recognize their emotions. Especially when dealing with Obi-2, I'll take him to the chart when he's upset and try to get him to concentrate on finding a match for his feelings. It gives us a springboard to work together and get him calmed down. From there, we can negotiate a solution without him launching into a fit.

So today, I was checking email and he was coloring a picture. Out of nowhere, he walked over to the chart and started scanning through the clip art images. After a few moments, he called to me.

"Mama, do you know how I'm feeling?"

"No, Obi-2, what are you feeling?"

He smiled, pointing to two pictures. "Happy and Loving."

Awwww.... now I feel happy and loving, too. I swooped him up for a big hug and told him awesome it is to be his Mama. It just makes me want to go make some of my special Cheerios for him.

what is christmas

Obi-1 was recently asked to write an article for the school newspaper. The topic is "winter holidays," and other students are writing about Hanukah, Kwanzaa, and possibly some Chinese holiday. Given that it's a public school, they're trying to keep things pretty equal. Go figure the principal would ask a kindergartner to think about the Christmas piece!

Let me just say that Christmas is a complicated holiday in some ways. Since having children, Mr. Kenobi & I have tried to keep a focus on the incarnation of Christ in Christmas - remembering that God chose to come to us, that He gave Himself as an extravagant gift, and that His presence is not limited to a season or holiday. In past years, we've used resources from Advent Conspiracy to help focus us and remind us of the true reason we celebrate.

This said, we (or at least I) also enjoy "Christmas" carols & music (including the ever-popular Elvis rendition of White Christmas), all things cookie, and the joy of sales - er, gift-giving - of this time of year. I also think that the magic and imagination of Santa Claus and his little elves are good fun, as well as impetus for excellent manners while out in public. Frankly, I don't mind a bit of help in having fun or keeping the troops in line! All to say that I enjoy the holiday season, but we try not to let Santa and gifts become the focus of our December.

Anyway, Obi-1 set out to write on the subject, "What is Christmas?" In listening to his ideas and talking through things with him, I was struck by how hard it was to succinctly explain this holiday to the general public of our city (or anywhere). If asked, what would I say? What would I leave out? What makes sense for put in a public elementary school newspaper? (It feels like Charlie Brown music should be playing in the background...)

So, I helped him think through all of his ideas, but I wasn’t here for the composition. I got home from a meeting tonight to find the following short article hand-written on a piece of paper. I had promised to type it for him if he wrote it by hand, so I did that and sent it over to the principal. The newsletter is supposed to be published later this week, and I don't know what or how will be included. While I'd love to take credit, it's definitely with his own perspective and writing on the topic. It's also much more brief than my little write-up here!

If you’re up for the challenge, write your own and send it my way or link it in comments... What is Christmas?

***********************************
Christmas
by Obi-1 Kenobi, Kindergarten

I like Christmas. Not just like Christmas. I love Christmas. It’s special because it’s Jesus’ birthday. It’s also (my friend) Rafael’s birthday. Our family celebrates it together. My Daddy sings special songs with us at night. We give presents to show people love. Christmas day is always on December 25. It’s about God’s gift to the world. If you want presents, give Santa cookies.
***********************************

Merry Christmas!

Love, MamaToo

who's your reason

It used to be a way of life, but somewhere in the past 70 years it became a day of celebration, and then a day off. Today, I ask you to join me in returning to remembrance and appreciation - for our veterans.

It's amazing to think that many of us aren't sure who to celebrate or thank today. Yet I'm pretty sure you know a veteran... maybe several. They were part of your graduating class. Many have gone to wars, and most have come home. They work beside you, worship with you, raise children with yours, and live just around the corner. They park next to you at the grocery store, hang out at your favorite coffee shop, and bring business to your workplace. They are friends on your facebook page, read your blog, and their number is on your caller ID.

They may also be perfect strangers, covered in a dark and damp blanket as you scurry in and out of errands.

They have served our country in times of peace and times of war. The work that qualifies one as "veteran" was, and often still is, their job and calling. Today, your job is to find them and thank them.

I know the veteran I honor today. My brother has recently departed for his third war effort. He is the kid who made us all laugh while growing up. He's the guy who dazzled on the soccer field, and whose smile could work his way out of most trouble. Smart and witty, talented and tenacious. DJ has always been loyal to his friends, loved his dog, and let his heart endure pain as it hung on his sleeve. While still all of this, he's also an honored and capable veteran. This time, he's off to a different location with same goals: do his job well, come home safely. He will join the thousands there, thousands who've just come home, and thousands who will go when he returns. They are willing, ready and able. They will rise above news feeds and poll numbers to serve, defend and protect freedom.

My brother's wife and children will serve with him, too, though they won't leave home. They quietly and steadfastly offer their own sacrifices. They will once again try to keep their focus on school, home, work, and family. They will also support other families who miss their veteran for the first time, and celebrate the others who come home before DJ. As a collection, military families like my brother's offer all of us a glimpse of work ethic, grace, and humility that might otherwise go unnoticed, if not for a day like today.

I know support for a veteran's work is linked inextricably with the politics of the moment. Yet many have served in order that we might live with freedom in this time. Many have sacrificed so that our sacrifices might be over paychecks and new comforts, rather than over life and freedom. They risk their life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness in order to ensure these remain available to all. Perhaps for just a moment, we can all lay down our opinions over healthcare, wall street, unions, or personalities and just be thankful.

Today, I honor my brother, DJ, and his deployment during the months to come. Who is your reason to celebrate Veterans Day?

why are you here

"I think I'm going to become a stay-at-home mom," I declared to a few people this morning. Some of them were puzzled, while others some could relate to my sentiments. What does it mean, anyway, to be a "stay-at-home" parent?

Whatever prompted it, I'm back in a season of critically thinking about my life and purpose. Perhaps it's the feeling that life is zipping by at an unparalleled pace. Or the words of a mentor earlier this week, reminding me that I really won't remember all of these details of life, and it's worth a few seconds to write (or blog) them down. Perhaps it's that I'm working part-time and bringing home a small income. Or maybe it was the rush of happiness I got when I cancelled out of a meeting this morning to stay home and bake cookies with my 4 year old.

In any case, I set out to enjoy my job today. I made my family a good breakfast. We walked to school in the morning, taking in the autumn crispness and good exercise. I made oatmeal-raising-craisin-chocolate-chip cookies with Obi-2, and sat down to write stories with him. After taking Obi-2 to pre-K, I joined Obi-1 in the cafeteria for lunch (a weekly tradition we've started on the day I volunteer in his class). He's always happy to see me, as are many of his friends, who scoot over on their little bench so I can sit with them. I smiled, thinking warmly of the impact stay-at-home parents can make in the little (and big) lives around them.

And then I faced the honest inquisition and quit wit of kindergartners. Over our sandwiches, the kid across the table looked at me, squinted his eyes, and said, "Why are you always here?" Conversation stopped at the table. Earnest little eyes stared up at me, eager for an answer. I searched for the right, concise reply to show them that they are loved and valuable, even to those who aren't paid to spend time with them. In the moment I paused to think, an answer rang out beside me.

"Because she doesn't have a job."

Ouch. The words may have come from a 5-year-old, but they stung with the fortitude of looks, back-handed compliments, and outright criticisms I have received from so many adults. All of the challenges in articulating what I do started to creep in and spoil my day. I reeled, and meekly replied, "this is part of my job."

It didn't matter. The darling girl next to my son had answered the question to everyone's satisfaction. Everybody, that is, except me. In an effort to force myself to have a sense of humor, I texted her quip to my husband and a couple friends (who were all at work). Surely this would prove funny to me in the future.

My phone rang with a message; a friend whose marriage is struggling needed an ear for a couple minutes. Without noticing that this, too, is part of my work, I excused myself from the rest of lunch and stepped out to take the call. After volunteering my Friday evening to help with childcare for their family, I returned to help in the kindergarten classroom, sounding out words like "car" and "green" with children who struggled to stay seated around their little tables. Later, I moved into the pre-K class to draw circles of glue and shake glitter over shape cutouts.

All the while, I felt a bit deflated, like I wasn't sure it mattered as much as the time of somebody working in a cubicle or corner office. Why was I here? Wasn't I busy with real work? Didn't I have something to do?

All of my answers seemed hollow, and I was stewing over it because a 5-year-old said I didn't have a job. Well, that, and because so many friends, family, and perfect strangers have said or implied the same.

After school, I headed to the car with the boys and checked my phone. I realized I had missed a reply from my husband, shortly after I sent him that little boy's question and little girl's reply. It just took a moment, and I smiled with tears. He gets me and my job, even when I don't.

So kid, why am I there all the time?

"because she loves her kids so much that she'd rather be with them in a noisy cafeteria than do anything else for any amount of money."

noah's wife

In the familiar story of Noah, his wife's name is never mentioned. She's just "Noah's wife." In our house, we call her "Yesah." Anyway, I've been thinking about her a lot today.

First, in case you missed the news, we got a dog this weekend. He's a lovely 5-year-old spaniel and wonderfully laid-back... a good fit for us. Oh, and yes, Wesley is a "HE" dog, so I'm even more outnumbered. Last night, Mr. Kenobi and I were day-dreaming about buying a house in the country, where our kids (and dog) could run around outside and I'd have a big vegetable garden and lots and lots of wonderful "farm" animals, like chickens, sheep and maybe a cow.

We smiled wistfully at the thoughts of a farm house... a rambling road to our place... wood-burning fires and home-canned jams... me knitting and baking whole-grain breads and planning out homeschool lessons. The boys making tree-houses and fishing in the creek. Mr. Kenobi chopping firewood and tossing hay into the barn, just like Pa Ingalls. Everyone just happy as can be.

Ahem... back to reality today.

I have two mouse traps set, one on each side of my piano. I also have a bruised finger from getting it caught in not one, not two, but three snaps of the trap. Thanks to Mr. Kenobi for talking me through the process over his cell phone, as I cursed at that stupid trap and thought about selling the house. He kindly offered to come home from work, but I really didn't want to wait (and risk that mouse going anywhere else). I will, however, definitely let him do the "man's work" of taking the (hopefully single, dead) mouse out of our house after he gets home. Please pray that it does its work.

The fact that I'm only setting traps at 11 am is a bit disconcerting, considering I thought I saw a black flash on the floor when I was nursing the baby several hours ago. I tried to look around, but figured I must have just had a weird angle from the side of my glasses and a reflection. Not sure how long this visitor has been in our home, but I'm going to try not to think about it.

Oh wait - life even gets better...

Obi-2, Wesley, and I went out the front door (Obi-3 is sleeping upstairs) to play a bit in front of our house. Turns out Wesley is definitely a cat-chaser, and Bill (the spunky cat next door, in a house approximately 25 feet from ours) is not excited about the new neighbor. Perhaps I can plant daisies in my garden instead of forks next year? Wesley practically tore my shoulder out, so we went back inside.

As I turned on the front hall light switch, I saw a swarm (yes, swarm) of ants crawling all over the front wall (inside) of our house. One is even inside a picture frame. How does this happen!?!? They are covering the soccer ball, the shoes, the bench. It's disgusting. I sprayed down and cleaned everything with tea-tree oil cleaner and baking soda, which is supposedly toxic to ants. All of this while trying to keep silent so as not to spook the mouse out from the piano, and keep Obi-2 from opening the door (thus letting more ants in, and Wesley out to find Bill). I scrubbed the front hall walls, then the floors, and I'm still not confident that this is over.

I'm not sure I can stay in my own home today, even though it's pouring and forecasted to keep raining all week. If one more animal invades my space, I may turn in MY resignation. :-)

obi-1 goes to kindergarten

When Obi-1 was born, I received and read a lot of advice. Today, a couple snippets stood out in my memory. This, from a well-referenced author:

"...studies have shown that toddlers who have a secure attachment to their mother tend to adapt easier to new play situations and play more independently..." (Dr. Sears on attachment parenting)

And this, from a good family friend:

"...encourage your child to have other people involved in his life. It will be a blessing to both of them and create a well-rounded young person in your family..."

I received this advice with skeptical ears. Obi-1 was the baby who would cry if I left the room or even set him down. I wondered if I'd ever have a moment - day or night - apart from him. My adjustment to motherhood had many speed bumps, and I felt awkward and tired, trying to balance my own identity with a baby who didn't want to leave my arms.

Today, he was the boy I could hardly keep up with as he ran down the hall into kindergarten.

It's the First Day of School. It's been on our calendar, and now it's arrived. It's a day full of squeaky new sneakers, freshly cut hair, and a new lunchbox. A chance to sit at a new table with friends, new and old. A start with a teacher who has a soft and kind voice and has raised boys of her own. A return to a school we love and a principal who always seems freshly caffeinated and ready with a smile and high-five.

All summer, Obi-1 has been so excited for the all-day program at this wonderful little neighborhood school. As the months sped by, he got more and more eager to get into class. He hasn't quit smiling when he thinks about it. While he woke up early and dressed in the outfit he'd set aside last night, I took advantage of a little quiet time to get my spirit prepared for this day. I'm excited for Obi-1's excitement, but if I'm honest, I'm also sad to see him head into classes every day, all day.

For six years, I've been the primary teacher in his life. In the deepest parts of my heart, I'd love to homeschool. However, the more shallow parts of me know I can't do everything well, and I don't want to put my child in a little experiment when it's neither needed nor wanted. So, I am thankful that we have a good school and teachers to influence him in this season.

Today we packed a lunch, ate breakfast, and walked to school. Obi-1 went skipping and running, talking about all of the wonderful things he looks forward to in kindergarten. Obi-2, running to keep up, was excited to start Pre-K later today (which is, in itself, an exciting first!). And I, MamaToo, was pushing Obi-3 in a stroller and grabbing my camera to capture the memory.

happy birthday obi-1

All he could think of wanting for his birthday was a party at the park (“the one with the rose gardens and soccer fields”), with Eddie’s Pizza and carrot cupcakes. He imagined a party with his best friends and family in attendance, and everyone playing games outside and loving his cupcakes.

His best friend moved to St. Louis this summer, and for the first time ever, won’t be at Obi-1’s birthday celebration. A few additional friends and grandparents are out of town for the Labor Day weekend, and others can only come if the party is early in the day.

So, we scheduled the party for lunchtime.

Eddie’s Pizza doesn’t open until late afternoon.

So, we found an alternative pizza place.

I promised I’d make the cupcakes myself. I may have accidentally doubled the amount of carrots required for the recipe.

He declared he prefers carrot muffins better, anyway.

And, today we woke up to pouring rain, which is supposed to continue all day long.

So we’re having the party in the pizzeria, where kickball and water-fights won’t be part of the celebration.

Though this sixth birthday seems to launch my baby ever closer to independence, many of his own ideas for the day have not come to pass. He could be mopey. I could be mopey. But instead, we’ve figured out each challenge together and come up with alternatives. We’ve prioritized and re-prioritized as a team. The process of planning a celebration reminds me of how much older he - and I - are getting. I am proud of him for the maturity and grace he’s shown at every turn. He’s transforming in front of my eyes, and I can hardly blink because I know how quickly time passes.

There are many “firsts” for the firstborn. Next week, we’ll enter a new season as Obi-1 starts kindergarten. The baby who could never go more than a couple hours without me will be with classmates all day, every day. The child who has ushered me into motherhood will continue to propel us into the grade-school years. I still think of him as a little boy, but even that is quickly changing. In his eyes and words are hints of a young man - charming and smart, thoughtful and loving. The infant who wanted nothing more than his mother’s constant hold is giving me a hug and rushing off into childhood.

So as I enter a day full of “other” plans, I hope both he and I can enjoy some moments of sheer celebration. May memories be sweeter than preparations. Happy Birthday, Obi-1.

I love you,

MamaToo

there's a vegetable in my cookie

Each summer, I seem to post a few new ways to use zucchini. Why? Well, if you're asking, you don't grow zucchini. Anyone with one (or more) zucchini plants is bound to start looking for ways to use the gignormous produce that can surprise and overwhelm an urban farmer. Hence, there are literally thousands of zucchini recipes, often including my favorite ingredient: chocolate. This is one of them (passed on to me by a friend, who made a few modifications before sharing, and then I made my own). I'm not sure where the original is found.

Chocolate Zucchini Cookies

INGREDIENTS
1/2 cup butter
1/2 cup white sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar
1 egg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour (I substituted whole-wheat pastry flour, which is just as good)
1/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 3/4 cups grated zucchini (after making two batches, I liked it better when the zucchini was "pureed" in a food processor & drained, but both are good)
1 C chocolate chipes

DIRECTIONS
Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Grease cookie sheets.

In a medium bowl, cream together the butter, white sugar and brown sugar until smooth. Beat in the egg and vanilla.

Separately, combine the flour, cocoa, baking soda and salt; gradually stir into the creamed mixture. Fold in the grated zucchini. Gently mix in the chocolate chips.

Drop by rounded spoonfuls onto the prepared cookie sheets.

Bake for 8 to 10 minutes in the preheated oven. Allow cookies to cool on baking sheet for 5 minutes before removing to a wire rack to cool completely.

o mama where art thou

So, it seems I have fallen away from updating this little spot of internet. Guilt could overrun me, but there is so much going on that I can hardly take the time to feel guilty. Here's a sampling of what has kept me from blogging lately...

Gardening.

We officially have a garden this year, and it's actually producing veggies! Our lot is quite shady, with many trees. As nice as that is to hide out from the heat, it has made growing sun-loving veggies nearly impossible. In years past, I planted tomatoes in pots, hoping to keep them in the sunshine to ripen. I ended up hauling them around to different spots in the morning and afternoon, finally moving them to my neighbors' yard! This year, in a final attempt to grow my favorites, I talked Mr. Kenobi into a planter box in the one consistently sunny area of backyard. Then, we talked our neighbor into letting us trim her maple tree back so that more morning sun could get to our spot. Last week, I hauled several tomatoes over to her in appreciation!

We have lots of tomatoes, peppers, zucchini, cucumbers, peas, pole beans, and a large herb garden, and harvest season has begun!

Projects.

When my parents came out to meet Obi-3 and visit us, my dad (Papa) helped Mr. Kenobi reconfigure our deck and build new stairs. Mr. Kenobi then stripped the whole thing, and we've nearly finished staining it. Before, the deck was basically a large pass-through to the yard, and I couldn't see the kids if I was inside. Now, our deck has become an elevated part of our small landscape, and flows right out the backyard for fun times I can oversee while making dinner!

Dad also taught me to spray paint while he was here, and I'm just a bit more crafty now! At only a month into his little life, Obi-3 slept for over an 8-hour stretch. It was the first time since early pregnancy that I'd had such a nice night sleep! I woke up so energized that I pulled out two sets of chairs we'd stopped using, setup a little shop in the backyard, and began painting. Now I have "new" chairs, and we're in process of finishing the wooden seats for the white ones so that set will sit on our "new" deck.

Running Around.

With capital letters, no less. I signed the boys up for swimming lessons, which are every day around noon. It is a lot of running, but they're loving it and I'm happy to see them really learning to swim. In one summer, they've gone from reluctant to get their faces splashed to full-on crawl strokes and easy floating. Meanwhile, I sit by the side of the pool with baby Obi, and chat with other parents I would never have met otherwise.

In addition, to go with that fresh produce from our yard, we've done lots of fruit picking at local farms. Strawberries, blueberries, a few raspberries, and even peaches - and the jams, frozen fruit, and pies to go with them! Picking is all within a few miles of home, and yet so rural you can really feel like you've traveled far.

Receiving.

This is the hardest part, quite frankly. Nearly all of my summer has been filled with receiving grace, help, meals, and love from others. Why is that so hard?!? We had meals delivered for nearly a month after Obi-3 was born. We have had parties planned and hosted to celebrate our family. We've had, (as mentioned), neighbors and family help us create backyard space to enjoy together. Friends have taken the noisy older boys (another post entirely) so that I could relax, take a nap, or return to staff meetings.

Reflecting.

Honestly, it's overwhelming to receive such help. At times, I just want to be self-sufficient. I want to be able to do everything myself. To have it "together," whatever that looks like. To make fantastic homemade meals with fresh produce, and sit on freshly redone furniture in a sparkling house, and have everyone smiling after every day. I'd like to do it all, do it well, and do it all myself. It seems I'm not much better than a toddler when I think about it that way!

Truth is, I don't have it together. There are mornings that getting everyone - including myself - breakfast is a major accomplishment. There are moments when I am filled with frustration at young behavior, and have to remind myself that my children need a lot of help and grace, too. There are days when I sit down and cry because it's harder than I thought it would be to be a mama of three. There are evenings when I reflect on something from the day and think, "I should really blog this."

Some things can only be done by me, like feeding Baby Obi, blogging, or sleeping. So I think, "blog, or sleep?" And the answer to that - well, you can tell from the post lists around here... Thanks for understanding.

Love,

MamaToo

to coffee or not to coffee

That is the question.

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

the potential of infant insomnia and baby acne breakouts,

which may or may not be related

to a nursing mother's caffeine consumption,

Or to begin the day at half pace,

struggling to catch up to the energy and ideas

of three young boys.

And by not partaking in a morning cup?

To sleep-walk through a routine of breakfast,

eaten standing at a kitchen counter while rocking a baby,

leaving one to find herself eating that same,

though unfinished, cold toast five hours later at lunchtime.

To long for the snapping brain synapses

that only seem possible with the aid

of a full night sleep, or a cup of joe...

True confessions:

With my firstborn, Obi-1, I did not drink coffee through an entire pregnancy and the year I nursed him. Never. I even kept away from most opportunities for chocolate. As I recall, my reasoning was something about caffeine and its impact on brain development. Something like that...

With my second-born, Obi-2, I did not drink coffee during the pregnancy, nor the first month of his new life. After that, I sparingly had a cup of coffee - no more than a couple times a month. Usually this was when I met up with other, more seasoned moms while they enjoyed a beverage at our local coffee shop. My reasoning had to do with the brain development concept, as well as avoiding food sensitivities in my newborn.

This time, with Obi-3, I cut back on coffee through portions of my pregnancy. By cutting back, I mean I had a cup of coffee a few times each week. I cut it out completely mid-pregnancy, but returned to the land of the caffeinated in when my midwife said it may help me cope with allergies. I also ate chocolate liberally (I love chocolate). By late in the third trimester, I'd enjoy a homemade latte or coffee several times a week. Once Obi-3 was born, I settled back into routine. With Mr. Kenobi home from work and my parents in town recently, there was always coffee flowing every morning, and I enjoyed it daily.

This time, I reasoned that an alert and happy mama is a safer, more fun mama. Safe and fun makes it more likely that they'll have a happy childhood. You pick - brainy & pretty, or happy? I thought so!

Problem is, Obi-3 has suffered from that horrible affliction called "baby acne," which I'm told is normal, but unnerving. It leaves me wondering about the causes. One source claims that caffeine can create break-out reactions in a baby's skin. The last thing I need right now is to be the reason my poor darling is all pimply.

So, this week, I said "goodbye" to coffee. Note: I said goodbye to coffee at the same time as I said goodbye to the help and love of my parents, and goodbye to the daily attention and capable hands of Daddy Kenobi. Not. Good. Timing.

Here's the rub: Obi-3's face is looking better. Or, perhaps I'm getting so bleary-eyed that my judgement is fuzzy. Yet it does seem improved. Could a cup of coffee each day make a difference, or is it that nifty new calendula cream? I'm not sure.

Today, however, I returned to the caffeine-induced perkiness of motherhood. Honestly, I needed it to get everyone out the door and to a doctor appointment on time. The morning went well, and everyone seemed mysteriously happier.

So, now I'm musing over the days ahead: to coffee, or not to coffee? I think I'll ponder this more after I've finished my latte & brownie...

success and perspective

Some days, success is defined with a "yes" to this one simple question:

Is everyone still alive?

Today wasn't neccessarily one of those days, but it got close at times. My parents, who were here for a week, left yesterday. Mr. Kenobi, who had Obi-3's first week of life fully off from work, plus several days of vacation over the past two weeks, left early for a full and hectic week at his office.

The boys and I were truly on our own, and I was determined to try as normal as possible of a routine as I could. I'm still learning what it means to have three children, and I'm also re-learning the nuances and needs of living in Baby Standard Time. Normal days don't always include meetings or outings. However, today was the staff meeting for my part-time work, so off we went.

The morning hadn't really started well and I'd barely eaten a bite of breakfast in the midst of managing three hungry children in need of my attention. Fortunately, I get to bring my children with me to staff meetings, and at least they were well-fed. On a good day, they play and read in the adjoining room (or nuggle in my arms, in the case of Obi-3) during our meetings. Today started out as a good day, but soured sometime after Obi-1 decided to curtail the game of "Battleship" he had going with his younger brother, and Obi-2 decided to start crying and protesting loudly as Obi-3 drifted off to sleep.

I lost any profession image I might have had when we arrived. The scene drained most of the patience and remaining energy. I started the day with good intentions, but now wondered if I could keep perspective through lunchtime. Instead of cheerily leaving the meeting as a capable and well-adjusted mom, I left carrying a crying 4-year-old on one hip, a diaper bag trailing behind me, and gratefully accepting help from a friend who carried the crying baby. Uffda.

It would have been humiliating, had everyone not been so gracious. I was also so exhausted I really didn't have the energy to get embarrassed. In that loud and sad march to the minivan, I remembered why I originally left full-time employment, and why I'm grateful my family doesn't need a second full-time income during this season of life.

Once home, we regrouped. I fixed the noisy older Kenobis PB & honey sandwiches, and a "fuzzy milk" with our espresso machine as a special treat for lunch. Once everyone was eating, I made an announcement: immediately following lunch, we would have rest time - for all of us. Sometimes, the boys protest naps. Today, either they were feeling as tired as I was, or they realized that protest might send Mama beyond the end of her rope. Whatever the motivation, I received boyish cooperation at exactly the moment I needed it, which is nothing short of a divine intervention.

This is why the day wasn't the hardest I've ever faced (or probably anything to compare with what's ahead someday!) We all napped. You know that phrase, "sleep when the baby sleeps?" Let me expand that advice: Sleep whenever you can. As much as you can. Always.

I slept, Baby Obi slept, and big boys slept. It is amazing what a little rest can do to renew your patience & perspective. Our late afternoon had a fair share of challenge, but these were more private (loud protests in my home are a little kinder to my ego than the same protest in front of friends & coworkers). When Daddy got home, clearly exhausted, he had just missed our neighbor, who had brought us a delicious and satisfying meal for dinner. Wahoo!

As I write this, knowing I have little time to edit, Mr. Kenobi has begun reading the fifth book in the Little House series. He's holding a sleeping Obi-3 in his arms, I've just finished dishes, and we may have a few moments together before he tries to catch-up on a bit more work. We are all alive, and tomorrow is a new day.

he's here

Baby Fig is here!!!

Born June 20th, but I'm just getting things posted. I'm now Mama to 3 sons, and completely and hopelessly outnumbered by handsome. adoring guys around here. I love it.

For statisticians out there:

8 lb, 4oz

22 in long

14 1/2 in head (really the most important stat)

1:07 pm

Truly beautiful according to everyone.

I will try to post a couple photos when I don't have Obi-3 in my arms. For now, love to you from the Kenobis!

nope, not yet

I've never been this pregnant.

I know... one is either pregnant or not. There is no "more" or "less" pregnant. Still, I've never carried a child for this long, so I feel it's accurate to say I'm the most pregnant I've ever been. Today is one week past my due date. Rather than going through all of the reasons this should not be concerning or even abnormal, I'm just going to say this: I'm well within a healthy window of time for this pregnancy.

However, the fact that I haven't had the baby yet is concerning for many other people. Their concern is starting to give me a bit of an identity crisis. Daily, sometimes more like hourly, certain folks check in with me "just to see if anything is happening." One of these people is a relative who will definitely be called when labor begins, since we're planning on her staying with the boys. I have explained more than a few times that she needn't worry about missing the news, but still she gives us a ring just to see if there are any changes.

Here's the thing: if you're one of these people, I like hearing from you. I'm not asking for you to stop getting in touch, because I don't really mind the calls or emails. I actually like hearing from you! The identity crisis begins when there is nothing else to talk with me about, once I reply that I'm (still) not in labor. The conversation looks something like this:

(phone rings...)

Me: hello

You: hi, just checking to see if Baby Fig has arrived yet.

Me: nope. No baby today. I will let you know when it happens. I promise!

You: Really? Are you having any signs of labor at least?

... sidenote: This is sometimes phrased even more personally. I've heard things like, "Are you dilating? Are you effaced? Has the baby dropped?" I'm not sure that people (including some that I don't know very well) realize they are asking about a gynecological exam result... Seriously?

Me: Nothing to get excited about. How are you?

You: Oh, fine. Just wanted to call to see if there was any news.

Me: Oh.

You: Oh. Well, bye, then.

Here's the problem. A few weeks ago, I was an interesting person (or so I told myself). I had people call me occasionally, and they weren't asking about medical results. They, and I, found something else to talk about. When I asked them about life, they had things going on. It was... well... normal.

Suddenly, once I got close to my due date, every reason to visit with me started to fade. I now receive phone calls with a single question. People email or call other people to get an update, so a few folks seem to be designated carrier pigeons. There is no, "How're ya' doin?" with most of these friendly check-ins. There is no, "How are the boys?" There is rarely any news about their lives. It's all about my cervix, and I'm starting to get annoyed at the thought of lots of other people thinking about that too much.

In fact, the extra time has given us Kenobis a chance to get out and have some adventures while we await our littlest Obi. Lately, fewer people have stopped in our home just to chat or have a latte, so we've been sitting outside and catching the neighbors for afternoon playtimes. Since our routine of school and activities ended last week, we've enjoyed a pace of life that includes strawberry picking and museum days. These have been sweet, and given me much to visit about - if only somebody were more interested in those topics.

So, in case you were wondering: No. Baby Fig has not arrived yet. However, I am certain we will meet this little one soon. Very soon. I will not offer more details on why I'm so certain, except to remind you that no woman stays pregnant forever, even one who is this pregnant, and I'm not that exceptional.

grinchy

With only a week to go before my due date, I'm ready to meet Baby Fig. People keep asking Mr. Kenobi if I'm "nesting." While the inner pits (a.k.a. inside our house) could definitely use some cleaning, I have been ferociously working (and delegating) outside work. This has led to some crazy moments that should be chalked up to "nesting" - or something other than sanity.

Take, for example, my beautiful gardens. The newly planted flowers and greenery are actually surviving. This is a miracle unto itself, but the fact remains that I may actually get some blooms and vegetables on this shady property. Of course, much could still go wrong on this plan, but at least we've made it home with plants, put them into the freshly amended soil, and covered with what seemed like acres worth of bark dust. It looks nice, and things are growing.

The problem lies with neighborhood animals. Or perhaps, just perhaps, the problem lies with my present condition. I'm not admitting any intolerance, but have to confess to insisting that Mr. Kenobi string up makeshift fencing with stakes and bright pink twine to keep passing doggies from tromping through the itty-bitty plantings. My hope was, of course, that these fences would also restrain the mysterious kitties who frequent my yard as a litter box.

The fence has kept dogs off the gardens. That, and perhaps I'm biased, but it seems that most dog owners are more aware of their pets' activities, since dogs are usually on a leash while moseying about the neighborhood. Cats, meanwhile, seem to roam unsupervised, especially at night.

I have a problem with this. First, if you're a cat owner, please know that I love you (if I know you) and even like your animal. I'm allergic to him or her, so I probably won't ever be a "cat person," but I am an animal lover in general. However, I also recognize that your beloved animal is put at risk when you open the door, shoo him outside, and wait until morning to welcome him back for a can of tuna. There are predators, cars, and other dangers that, in my opinion, are reasons enough to keep a litter box & pet indoors or supervised on leash. That, of course, and municipal codes requiring your responsibility.

Ah, but yes. Cats like to roam, don't they? Well, then somebody is going to be unhappy: you, me, or your kitty. See, maybe it's pregnancy brain, but I have come to the conclusion that your cat's right to roam ends where my mulch begins. Especially when cat poo is a known risk for health. In particular, my health and little Baby Fig. Herein lies where I'm toeing the line of becoming the neighborhood crazy lady.

Let me be clear: I like animals, and don't want to harm anyone or their pets. So, I've looked at humane, kind, even loving ways to keep the kitty poop out of my gardens. I've used spray bottles and shower settings from the water hose. I've tried cayenne pepper. (Incidentally, this does work, but cayenne must be purchased in bulk if you ever water things and/or have more than a few square feet of garden space.) I've had Mr. Kenobi put up fences, both with string and stakes, as well as fully fencing the back yard. I've even tried - gasp! - directly telling neighbors that I don't like the cats roaming about.

Still, kitties and their souvenirs pepper my flower gardens, scratch up baby blooms, and generally annoy me. I used to have some measure of perspective, but the recent season of allergies (intolerable, especially since I can't take any real medications right now!) and daily growth of my tummy have somehow diminished my sense of humor. Recently, a friend recommended an eco-friendly, creative solution: plant plastic forks, handle down, in the soil. Evidently, the forks won't hurt the cats, but discourage them from littering about in the gardens. I'm game to try anything.

So, (and yes, this is where "crazy" and "nesting" start to flow into the same sentence), I have planted dozens of forks around hostas, impatients, roses, and petunias. What once looked like a nicely manicured garden now looks like a curiously planted picnic remnant. And I, the once patient and well-humored lady next door, have plastic forks planted amid flowers, in hopes that I can deter my neighbors' cats from doing business in my gardens.

Lovely. When Baby Fig arrives, perhaps my patience and perspective will return. In the meantime, I'm hoping the kitties will make some new habits or at least we can all laugh a bit at my version of "nesting."

book of rocks

Today I began to pile rocks.

A wise friend recently suggested that I write my prayers in a book. This isn't another journal to feel guilty about, a baby book to neglect, or a structured religious exercise. Rather, I hope it gives space for an occasional or often-stepped-on smooth, safe rock of rememberance. Whether lists, fully written letters, or simply notes in the middle of a mixed day or night, this book will contain - but not confine - personal moments of faith.

My friend suggested I not think too much about order or organization. She said to make no distinction between general hopes for other people, worldly situations, or personal dreams. Neither should I neglect those prayers that urgently cry for myself or others. Write it all - or write some - but write it down and record when and how it is answered. See, in my own handwriting, if there is an audience for my prayers.

I have confidence that God is faithful and real, and that he makes himself available to cradle even the most cautiously uttered prayer. Sadly, I often do not pause to consider his past faithfulness as I move forward. Sometimes I do, and it is always encouraging. However, there is so much reaching for my attention and memory that I can hardly remember the pressing issues of yesterday while looking at the present. I long for more consciousness, and I am certain it would be encouraging to recognize God's hand more often.

So, the book of rocks begins... I hope to look back periodically to see where I've come from and note where I'm going in the whispers of my heart. I will also record when and what answers - whether miraculous or seemingly mundane - are given. These will be my rocks - "ebeneezers," if you will - to remind me that thus far, the Lord has helped me.

mama, too

Love your Mama.

Mine is amazing. She's the reason I've often been afraid I won't measure up in motherhood, because she set the bar conspicuously high. She's also the reason I have confidence that somewhere in the depths of my being, being a mama just fits. Perhaps - just perhaps - I've learned a thing or two from her.

There is probably no weekend each year that I'd rather be back in Dakota with her. It's not because my dad would make some grand breakfast, or there would be a fancy brunch after church, or that roses and jewelry are handed out en masse. Rather, I'd be sleeping in after a weekend of spring ballet performances and planting flowers with my mom. Simple time spent with a woman I love and admire, and miss terribly. I get more homesick than ever on Mother's Day, because my mom, who teaches, choreographs, and operates the town's top school of dance, has always spent her Mothers' Day weekends devoted to others. For nearly 60 years, she, and her mother before her (my mom follows in legendary footsteps, too) have dedicated this weekend to The Recital. Unfortunately, I can't go back most years, and it's bittersweet to plant my own flowers and hum ballet tunes from 1000 miles away.

While it's hard to journey through motherhood without her here beside me, I've been blessed with other women to love and model life. There's Grandma, (the "original" Mrs. Kenobi), whose generosity toward her boys, their wives, and their boys, teaches me the Kenobi family secrets of love and humor. And, when I'm feeling like I need somebody who understands me like a mom, there are beautiful women like Grandma Vicki, Auntie Barbara, or Miss Beverly, among other gems, walking beside me.

Other mamas are placed in my life as friends, but they often mother me. They help me through the transitions of life with grace I couldn't learn in a ballet studio. They love my children as grandmas, aunts, and angels. They, like a good mother, call me out when I need correction. They, like my mother, know how to enjoy the fine "S's" in life: shopping, sitting, and snacking. They, like mothers I often admire, balance full lives that reflect more than "just" being a mom, and yet they don't, as our culture sometimes does, resist thinking motherhood is a worthy highlight.

As I've said in my little profile, I never set out to be "just a mom." I never wanted to be called "Mommy" or "a mom," but I've have grown to treasure being called "Mama." In a few weeks, I will again introduce myself to a little Obi, and remember what that name means. My family will rely on me in new (and hardly remembered) ways, but we will also rely on the other mothers in our life. They will cook a meal, speak a kind word, hold somebody when there aren't enough hands, and celebrate this transition with us. They will demonstrate that our heavenly Father understands how precious, practical, and necessary mamas are for His children in this world.

I am often accused of "doing" much, juggling the ever-evolving needs of my family and myself. I spend time getting and keeping connected, and try my best to be who I'm purposed to be. I don't always feel worthy of a celebration, but I'm going to enjoy this day anyway. Mamas are special - and if you let them, there are many who will offer their gifts and enrich your life. Whether it's the mother we are given at birth, those who walk ahead of us, those who walk beside us, or the one who may join motherhood in years to come...

... love a Mama today.

winning

A principle of engineering is this: great constraints promote great creativity. Whether you're tackling a towering structure, a shrinking household budget, or a personal goal, difficult challenges seem to bring out the best design.

My challenge: make it through the week without a trip to the grocery store. We're leaving for a little mini-vacation, and I am pretty certain I can stretch things in our pantry and freezer to fill a shortened week's menu. Unfortunately, my 5 1/2 year old, "Obi-1," has recently developed a slightly picky streak. While we're generally not accommodating to picky eaters, I also didn't want to enter battles unnecessarily. So, last night I made orange chicken with cauliflower and rice. We've had it before, and all liked it. Honestly, I was feeling (perhaps overly) confident about dinner.

My confidence waned as Obi-1 looked at his plate and announced that he didn't like this meal. We ignored him, and continued passing dinner around the table. He announced louder. His voice got whinier. Finally, I looked directly in his eyes and calmly replied, "I heard you. That is rude to say when somebody makes you a meal. Now, let's eat."

Silly Mama... I thought that was the end of the discussion. Ha ha ha ha ha. Obi-1 looked at his plate. He looked at me. He looked at Mr. Kenobi. He did not eat. Beside him, little brother Obi-2 picked up his fork, took a bite, and said, "I love it, Mama!"

After about 10 minutes of dinner conversation and eating, Obi-1 asked to be excused. The plate hadn't been touched. This is not normal for our household, and I knew he was hungry. Still, I don't force food into my kids - if they're hungry, they eat, and if not, they don't. I don't make alternatives, but I've reckoned with enough stomach flu-ridden nights to know that forcing a child to eat can often come back to haunt you... literally.

We excused Obi-1 to get ready for bed, but informed him of one condition: "You are welcome to leave without dinner, but this is the food I've prepared. The next time you're hungry, you may eat this. You will not have other options until you've had this meal."

He looked a little skeptical, so I went on... "this will be available at breakfast, Obi-1." He shrugged and scooted off to jammies. We had a nice night of book-reading, singing, and sleeping, and this morning Obi-1 came toddling downstairs to let me know that his stomach was "grumbling."

"I bet it's hungry!" I smiled. "I'll go get your food for you." I warmed up the plate from last night and set it on the table in front of me.

Obi-1 turned to look at me with wide eyes. "I don't want this! I wanted oatmeal!" Of course. I had expected this, and would make oatmeal because his brother & I would also like that for breakfast. He was invited to have oatmeal after he ate this food. We had a bit more discussion, but I stuck my ground, calmly. He looked at his food, looked at me, and sat unmovingly.

I phoned a friend, who assured me that this is completely within bounds of motherhood. She then warned me that I may need to stick it out yet another 12 hours or so, if my son is nearly as stubborn as hers. Yikes! I received a message from another friend, who assured me this was a completely reasonable battle. It takes a village, people, and their reassurance encouraged me to stay the course.

Obi-1 stared at his food, meanwhile, and then informed me he wasn't going to eat it. I let him know that if he didn't feel hungry enough for it this morning, he could have it at lunchtime. If he didn't eat it before school started at noon, he could take it for snack-time. He didn't have to eat it right now, but there are no alternatives. His eyes grew very wide, probably imagining Teacher Nancy handing out graham crackers to every other pre-K child, and then handing a baggie of cold chicken and cauliflower to him.

Slowly, over the next two hours, my son ate his dinner/breakfast/morning snack. We're not talking about a lot of food. It was simply a lot of hesitation & procrastination. When he finished, I asked if he had liked it. Of course he did.

My dad claims there's a principle about parenting well that is similar to engineering. You're tested in the tough times and circumstances. Some of these challenges are handed to us, and some we choose. As dad says, "Choose your battles wisely. The ones you enter, you must win."

Winning tastes good.

firsts

It has been a while since I could take the time to properly update things here. Much has been happening, so I'll try to create a few highlights for all who faithfully check in on the Kenobis.

It was a Monday evening, and we'd just finished dinner. I was literally on my way out the door for a meeting. Because of our schedules, other people's schedules, and distances across this urban area, I often have to plan meetings for evenings. Thus, it was about 7 pm and I was just leaving the house. The boys had a special "movie night" planned with Daddy before bedtime, and Mr. Kenobi had just finished making popcorn for the occasion. Always eager to help in the kitchen, Obi-2 was getting up on a stool to help pour the melted butter over the bowl of popcorn.

Suddenly, I heard a scream of pain and Mr. Kenobi say calmly, but quickly, "put your hands under the water." I quickly returned to the kitchen to find that Obi-2 had lost his balance a bit and caught himself by setting his hand on the still-hot cooktop. (Sidenote to say: I really dislike glass cooktops. I know many people love them, but I am not a fan for many reasons. For instance, even when it's turned off and it looks "off," a burner remains blazin' hot for a while.)

In near-perfect cooperation, Mr. Kenobi handed Obi-2 off to me and an ice pack, while he went to get our book of health concerns from the shelf. Within minutes, we read the first instructions: do not put ice on a burn. Back under running cold water for little Obi-2's hands! The next thing we read is that burns on hands, faces, or soles of the feet require immediate medical attention, regardless of how serious they appear.

We looked at each other with dread: here we go, on a Monday evening, to an urban emergency room. In between my son's cries, a call to cancel my meeting and ask for prayer, & quickly organizing our family exit from the house, I could only imagine the germy, lengthy, and gruesome scene we'd be entering at the hospital. Honestly, my compassion for my son was only slightly greater than my dread of an emergency room on a Monday night.

The boys instinctively sensed our nerves, and began protesting the hospital visit as well. Obi-2's only experience in a hospital was visiting a friend and her new baby. Obi-1 has him slightly beat, as he was actually born in the hospital. Both were positive experiences, but brief encounters nonetheless. Neither has spent much time in a medical facility (yet?), which is a blessing but also leaves them with great unknowns.

Mr. Kenobi scooped the freshly buttered popcorn into a ziploc bag, and promised all would be okay. We gathered our shoes, coats, and a couple books to keep us company, and set out on the short distance to our local trauma center. I took Obi-2 inside while Mr. Kenobi parked the car and brought Obi-1 in behind us. As we entered the doors, we were greeted with a few questions about the "victim" and his medical needs. Then, as quickly as everything else, we were whisked into a separate "children's ER" area.

I walked in and realized many of my worries were unfounded. Sure, the place was probably covered with viruses, but it was not filled with inebriated folks, gang-related injuries, long lines, or barfing patients. Rather, "Hannah Montana" was on a TV, and cheerful children's posters decorated the walls. We were basically the only people there. No sooner had we seated ourselves to wait than we were greeted by a nurse and ushered into "triage," where she assessed how the evening's events, Obi-2's basic information, and the type of care needed. She was so patient and clearly skilled with little ones, and everyone felt immediately at ease.

From triage, we were escorted into an exam room, where a doctor cheerily greeted us, took a careful look at Obi-2's hand, and began to explain the needed treatment. He was compassionate and patient, distracting Obi-2 and carefully asking questions. Obi-2 had suffered a second-degree burn, which is fairly serious. However, the doctor didn't believe there was nerve damage, and the burns were fairly isolated, which was very good news.

He then explained that he'd have a nurse come in and bandage it up and be given some medication for Obi-2's pain. I know I had a slight grimace at the thought of Tylenol with Codeine, which the doctor recognized immediately. We don't do many medications around here, and this one sounded pretty serious. The doctor perceived my slight resistance and quickly commented that it is only humane to take care of my child's pain...

Thanks. Humane. I felt bad enough that my poor baby was hurt. I hardly needed to be accused of inhumane treatment of my son. Drug him up, Doctor!

So, a nurse handed Mr. Kenobi a dropper of orange medicine for Obi-1, began to clean & dress his hand, and another doctor conferred with our original doctor on the diagnosis. As the nurse wrapped gauze around his hand, I was instructed on the daily care and follow-up treatment. Meanwhile, another person entered the room with a rolling cart and computer. She gathered gather all of our information, insurance card, etc from Mr. Kenobi.

Only then did I realize we had never been asked to fill out a form, let alone the expected pile of triplicate forms, during this whole ordeal. We never actually had to let go of our kiddos, and they'd been so quickly cared for that most of that popcorn remained untouched! In fact, every thing I'd dreaded about an emergency room visit had been nearly wiped away with reality.

The nurse had one more surprise for us. She handed each boy a popsicle as the doctor handed me a prescription for pain medication (so I could continue humane treatment every 6 hours, as needed). We were also given follow-up instructions with a Burn Specialist appointment in a couple of days.

In just over an hour, we had entered and exited the emergency room on a Monday night. Our son was well cared-for, and on his way to a full recovery. He now loved hospitals, because he had a cool "glove" on one hand and a popsicle in the other, and was intensely proud of how everyone told him he was "Very Brave." We were able to stop by the pharmacy and still get home in time for a decent bedtime.

The days since this ordeal have proved just as good. Obi-2's hand is now almost fully healed, with no long-term injury or complications. Both boys think the Emergency Room (and hospital) were nothing to dread, a useful perception as it probably won't be the last time we end up there. We always figured Obi-2 would be the one to introduce us to the local ER, and I'm thankful that it's taken nearly 4 years of his life for our first experience.

Here's to your health & wellness!

not speaking

I'm still not speaking. Technically, I am... but only when I have to. When I do try to speak, my voice is small & scratchy-painful sounding. When I don't, I have gotten quite good at pantomime & general hand gestures (no, not those hand gestures!)

I've had 5 days without a real voice. Five. Days. I have been flat-out sick for a few of those days, though today I'm finally able to get up and around a bit. I'm still hardly able to talk. Five days without reading stories. Five days without singing. Five days of headaches. Five days of missing most of the noisy, silly moments in our life, and five days without laughing out loud. Five days of drinking twelve million cups of tea (which may only be a slight overstatement).

Five days isn't a long time, but it's long enough, in my opinion.

I've learned some rather ugly things about myself, in the midst of my silence...

1. I raise my voice to get the attention or obedience of my children. This must happen more often than I realized. Far. Too. Often. Hopefully we've built some good new habits over the past five days.
2. I am not a very sympathetic sick person. When Mr. Kenobi came down with a similar cold a couple days ago, I actually felt annoyed with him for getting sick at the same time as me. As if I have "dibs" on sick time around here.
3. I do not like sitting quietly, nor laying down, especially for long periods of time. I get cabin fever easily.
4. I am willing to watch TV, even when I'm not interested in the show.
5. I have a limited attention span for chicken soup.

On the other hand, I've learned some really beautiful things about people around me. My neighbors are gems; they've taken the boys to school, play dates, and generally out of the house so I could rest. They've offered dinner and grocery trips. I love living here! Moreover, in the midst of being sick, I've been nurtured and loved by my family. In particular, I was blessed by a sweet moment of thoughtfulness from Obi-1 yesterday.

It was around 8 am, and I dragged myself out of bed so I could get the boys ready to go (with a neighbor) to a kids' program. Mr. Kenobi was stuffed up and miserable, and didn't want to get out of bed. The boys needed breakfast. They also needed sack lunches made for later. They needed to get dressed. Mr. Kenobi needed some hot tea to help him find his way back to the land of the living. Somebody had to do all these things... NOW.

So, I grumpily pulled myself out of bed, coughed and wheezed downstairs, and put on some oatmeal for the boys and turned on the kettle for hot water. I tromped back upstairs, helped the boys get some clothes out of drawers & on their bodies, then pointed them to brush their hair. I collected their school bags, activity bags, and made sure I'd unloaded the old projects before they went back for refills. Barely able to whisper, I instructed the kids back downstairs for breakfast, and began fixing their lunches while brewing a cup of tea for Mr. Kenobi. The dishes hadn't been finished last night, so I started loading the dishwasher & cleaning the counter. I was grumpy, and sick, and tired. So tired, in fact, that I hardly noticed as Obi-1 watched me with great interest. Finally, he spoke...

"Mama, what are you doing?"

"I'm getting breakfast for you, making tea for Daddy, and trying to get things done so you can start your day."

"Are you sick, Mama?"

"Yes, honey. I am. But somebody needs to take care of this family." I hoarsely reasoned with a 5-year-old.

He was thoughtful a moment. Then, the gem: "but who will take care of you, Mama?"

That is the question, isn't it? Who will take care of Mama? I thought of all the times my own mother, and hers before her, and many mothers I know, have struggled through illness or exhaustion to take care of others. This seems to be one of the least-glamorized pieces of motherhood. His question, and the thoughtful love behind it, moved my heart. He was worried about his Mama. Who would take care of her?

I struggled to give an adequate answer. "God will take care of me, sweetie. I'm going to be better, soon." I turned to continue the peanut-butter sandwiches, thinking my little Sunday School answer would satisfy him. Of course it didn't.

"But... who will make you tea?"

He is wise, that Obi-1. Wise, and loving. :)

The reality is, I do have to take care of myself. (Frankly, that's why I was sending him & his brother off with the neighbor and going back to bed soon.) The reason I got this sick was because I was going, going, going... 104 miles an hour, and a minor cold caught me in the midst of exhaustion. I knew I was more susceptible to illness when I'm pregnant, yet I didn't really stop to take care of myself.

Getting sick, and losing my voice, and having to be reminded of basic values by my five-year-old... Maybe the past five days weren't a total loss, after all. It is a good reminder about caring for my children & family. If I'm going to be of any good to the Kenobis, I need to be healthy. If I'm going to be healthy, some things will have to wait. Somebody has to take care of Mama, too.

ye of little voice

I do not have a voice.  

Perhaps more accurately, I have a very soft voice.  This is unusual, as I'm generally easy to hear (understatement) and frequently heard (although understood may be less frequent).   Right now, I can barely whisper.  My vocal chords have just ceased to function.  

This happens to me from time to time.  It's usually due to a combination of a cold, stress, feeling nervous about needing to speak in front of a group, and lack of sleep.  Check, check, check, and check.  So, while I'm slightly annoyed at my current predicament, I'm not too concerned.  It's nothing some rest and time won't cure.

I lost my voice on my wedding day.  It was highly ironic, considering it was the one day of my life that seemed really important to say something.  The mere fact that my voice was gone added to my nerves, which of course eliminated my voice altogether.  By the time of our evening wedding, I couldn't create more than a breath of sound.  Our pastor reassured me that he'd hold his microphone close to me during the vows...  and, he reasoned, God hears our hearts - not just our voices.  That part seemed highly philosophical to me at the time, and not very reassuring, so I was glad for the mic that meant at least my groom (standing inches from me and holding my hand) would be able to hear me say, "I do."

And so, as our wedding began and I entered a place one last time as a single woman, I remember feeling a rush of calm and joy.  From the moment I saw Mr. Kenobi standing a few short yards from me and married life, I no longer worried about details, or other people's happiness or accommodations, nor even how anyone might hear that I love this man and want to combine my life with his.   It was good.

So, I wasn't worried anymore when asked those fateful (and careful chosen) words of, "do you...?"  For the first time in nearly two days, I opened my mouth to speak and words came out - clearly, loudly, and enthusiastically.  I think I was as surprised as anyone, and especially because (with that lovely mic), it was really loud!  I Do.  I really, really, do.

With that, my voice came and went.  Like a divine provision, I was able to speak two words - highly significant and timely words - and then resume a scratchy, barely audible level of conversation for the remainder of the evening and weekend.  Friends and family mostly read my lips as I thanked them for being part of our celebration.  Parents hugged me and understood that I loved them, even if I couldn't say so out loud.  

In some marriages, a bride retains her vocal functions, but loses her voice after a wedding.  Many women around the world know this fate.  There are times when I wish I couldn't speak - or wouldn't have spoken - but I'm thankful to be allowed a strong, opinionated, and mostly joyous voice in my life and relationships.  I'm also afforded the gift of gracious ears from many others - especially Mr. Kenobi & the Obi's.

So, today my voice is gone.  Tomorrow, perhaps, I will speak again.

benefits of socialization

One of the most frequent benefits I hear about sending my children off to this program or that experience is "socialization."  Loosely defined, this is the knowledge of proper social interaction, appropriate friendship-building skills, empathy, appreciation of diversity, and ability to work together with others.  You know - the kinds of things you wish your coworkers had learned as children...

Anyway, I don't argue with the idea that it's good for my children (and everyone) to gain an appreciation for others, an ability to adapt, and an understanding that the world really doesn't revolve around them.  I'm not always sure these values are best taught in a classroom or on a field, but there are good also other good reasons to get out and get involved with others.

So, Obi-1 is at a local public school, enjoying a "pre-K" program immensely.  As far as we can tell, he's been learning all sorts of wonderful new things... Always a social bug, I've seen socialization work in ways I never considered.  Who would have thought I was depriving my child of important social skills (some of the same ones, in fact, which my own parents somehow kept from me!) - like every character's name & description from all six episodes of Star Wars (useful, I suppose, if he ever starts reading this blog?!), or fun facts about Pokemon cards, and words that he didn't know, but has seen by example that they are inappropriate (like "stupid" and "hate").  

What's more, his socialization has given him a new appreciation for diversity... in food.  He gets to try snacks that are from other cultures.  Some of these foods, he likes.  Other times, he prefers our options (case in point here).  

However, I was a bit unprepared to hear the that he no longer liked popcorn.  In readying for a recent "family movie night" in the Kenobi household, we thought the boys would be excited for fresh-popped corn.  Then the request came:

"I want cheese on it," announced Obi-1.

"What?  Cheese on it?  Hmmm..." I tried to figure out how we could grate a little parmesan or something to accommodate his request, only to be cut off with his specifics...

"Not that cheese.  I want orange popcorn.  Like we have at school."

Orange popcorn?  As in, orange-colored puffs of whatever-it-may-be.  As in, my son no longer likes real popcorn nearly as much as the manufactured stuff.  We, by design, don't have that around the Kenobi household.  Many of you have (privately perhaps, but often right in my living room) chided me about the values on nutrition around here.   When thinking about my children's need to appreciate diversity, I hadn't realized that this, too, is a benefit of exposure to other cultures & group dynamics.

Left out of a proper socialization opportunity like pre-K, he may never have tasted that orange popcorn.  It might not be the only benefit, but you have to admit that his life would be a little less-than-full without orange popcorn.

Okay... off with my sarcasm, now.  Just thought you might enjoy a laugh at me once in a while.

mamathree

The name won't change, but the household will.  The Kenobi's are having a baby this summer... and while our "real life" friends (hopefully) already know this, other readers may not have heard the news.

We are waiting until we meet Baby Fig (the current nickname) to find out if we'll have a daughter/sister or son/brother.  So, for those of you who are itching to send us pink or blue items, well... hold onto it a while longer.  I'm not one to decorate a nursery or stock up on a brand-new layette, anyway

I'll admit, not knowing our baby's gender before he or she arrives does raise some interesting challenges.  For instance, we've now used two of our favorite boy names.  The list of potential names seems a bit shorter and more difficult this time around.   Plus, more people seem to have imput this time.  Obi-2 wants to name a baby "Goliath."  Mr. Kenobi likes "Obadiah."  I share this because neither will make the short list!   For fun with current events and biblical trivia, we've told some of our more "red state" friends that we're looking at Judges 4 for names.

Anyway, we won't call our children "Obi" in real life around here.  It is a good bet, however, that Baby Fig will be featured here as "Obi-3," thus continuing on our long and odd tradition on this blog.  If you're wondering why in the world we ever started this tradition, enjoy a little review...

Here's to growth!

-MamaToo

  

beautiful mess

The pressure of writing to "catch up" has kept me from writing at all.  Our life is a wonderful adventure, and sometimes it leaves this mama with more experiences than commentary.  I've also had so much work to do on my computer lately, I just haven't wanted to sit and update the blog.  Oh - but I've wanted to write out my thoughts and memories, as they are so much fun!  So, today I'm sharing a little moment of motherhood that I hope to treasure a while...

Baths, in the Kenobi household, happen at least once a week.  Some families do this ritual daily, but in our house it seems that it's an "as needed" occasion.  The boys have been a little stuffed up lately, so I decided to put them in a steamy bath this morning.  They were less than thrilled with the idea.  Obi-1 and Obi-2, it seems, wanted to do something messy.  Thus, a compromise arose which was entirely fun and photogenic.

I taped pieces of paper to the walls of the bathtub, and got them down to their skivvies before setting them in the (empty) tub.  The hot steam vaporizer was turned on to quickly warm the room, and I filled four plastic bowls with finger paints.  They were a little incredulous that I would let them paint on the walls or in the tub, but quickly and joyously started creating.  While I watched and snapped photos, they painted masterpieces (or at least painted) with increasingly messy hands & environment.

I can be known to be one of those moms who resists messy art projects, because... well... they're messy.  In this case, I embraced it!  By the end, they had filled several pieces of paper with their designs.  We had all laughed and enjoyed the moment.  When the art was cleared, I simply filled the tub with sudsy water & bubbles, gave them two clean washcloths to "clean" the tile, and let them play.  Within moments, everyone (and everything) was sparkly.  

It's ten in the morning, and I'm updating this blog, enjoying a latte and admiring some small things:

1. Squeaky-clean boys before lunch.

2. Boys who can take deep breaths through their nose.

3. Tile and tub that's cleaner than when the day started - and I didn't have to do it.

4. Beautiful pieces of childhood art.

5. Fantastic (mostly unpostable, due to the skivvies) photos of childhood.

Here's what I want to remember about this season of my life:

Sometimes you get discouraged,

because I am so small

And leave my little fingerprints

On furniture and walls.

But everyday I'm growing

And soon will come the day

That all those little fingerprints

Will surely fade away.

So here's a little handprint

Just so you can recall

Exactly how my fingers looked

When I was very small.

(I don't know the author of this poem.  It was on a project I did in nursery school...)