Clothes Minded

Mornings are a battle at our house. "Eat your breakfast." "Drink your milk." "No you cannot have candy for breakfast."

Because I like to lay in bed until the last possible second, I have one hour to feed myself and two children. In that hour I must also make sure that they and myself are dressed. I almost wrote "dressed properly" but that is not the case. Maybe dressed for the weather? That is closer to the truth.

Of course I'm the easiest to get dressed. I grab a sweater and jeans. Usually off of the floor but that's okay because they are clean. Okay cleanish.

Bunny is 5 so you think she could handle getting herself dressed. That is not the case. If left to her own devices, I would find her playing with her toys without having picked any clothes out. So I have to "help" her.

"Skirt or dress" I ask her when we get into her room. Because clearly pants are out of the question. "Leggings or tights" is the next question. Once she chooses we can get the ball rolling. She then picks between the options in her drawer or closet and the clothes are laid on her bed.

You would think I could then leave her to get ready on her own. Um no. "Momma! Momma!" "What sweetie?" "I want you to keep me company." I return to her room to find her still in her pajamas. So I have to sit with her to make sure she gets dressed properly. And I usually have to help her a long.

Lion in a way is easier to get dressed. No he's not. He is two nothing is easy with him at all. He insists on picking out his clothes himself. He also insists on putting his clothes on BY HIMSELF. If you try to assist him in any way, he will throw himself on the floor and cry. But you also can't get up to do something else. You have to sit next to him and watch. All so you can see him throw his hands up in the air and say "Ta da" when he is finished.

The real problem with Lion lies in his clothes choice. He has definite opinions on what he wants to wear. The shirt must have dinosaurs. If it doesn't then it must have a car, truck or other vehicle. The pants must not match the shirt in any way. Track pants are worn with a train sweater and polo shirt. Tan corduroys are worn with a mismatched t-shirt, long sleeved shirt combo.

Next is the footwear and outerwear choice. Boots are his first choice. Snow boots are preferable but if they have been hidden by his mother, then rain boots are it. Or maybe hiking boots but not usually. His yellow rain slicker is the coolest coat he has ever seen. He demands to wear it always. However if his mother is mean and says he must wear a warmer jacket he will not be happy about it. All of this is topped off with his sister's white hat with pink snowflakes or a red knit hat about 2 sizes two big.




The effect is homeless fisherman, don't you think?

Sideline Reporter

I love capturing moments in my kids' lives. I always have my camera or my phone with me, ready to snap away.

Trips to the park often result in photos like these, capturing the joy of the moment.







I cherish these photos I really do. But often I wonder if my kids will look back and wonder, "Momma where were you? Why aren't you in any of the pictures?" And I wonder if my explanation that I was behind the camera will suffice. Why wasn't I in the picture? Why wasn't I in the middle of all the fun?

So last weekend I decided to place myself squarely in the middle. I ran. I played. I slid down the slides. And I have the pictures to prove it.






Or maybe I should just let Frink take the camera every now and then.

Faith

I recently read a beautiful post by Stacey at Is There Any Mommy Out There. It got me reflecting on my beliefs, on what I would want my children to believe.

For a long time I accepted the existence of something, a power greater than myself, but I did not believe. I did not have faith.

I wondered how could god allow terrible things to happen; war, disease, death and destruction. How could god allow people to kill others in his name. How could god allow others to hate in his name. I could not, I would not accept that god would want that. I did not believe. I did not have faith.

The world was in chaos. We were alone. I did not believe. I did not have faith.

I also wondered why god had not shown himself in my life. How could I be alone and lost? How could I be struggling and in so much pain? I prayed the prayers I was taught. I asked for help. No help came. I did not believe. I did not have faith.

I was in chaos. I was alone. I did not believe. I did not have faith.

Then something wonderful happened. I was lost, struggling and in pain and help came. I found people who had a calm and a peace that I wanted. I asked them how this was possible. I wanted to know their secret. Their answer was simple. They had belief. They had faith.

But how can you believe in a god that is vengeful? How can you believe in a god that allows atrocities to be committed in his name? How can you believe when, in god's name, people will tell you what to do and who to love? In the face of all of this, how can you believe? How can you have faith?

Again their answer was simple. If your God does not do these things, what does your God do? What type of God would you believe in?

I would believe in a God of love. My God believes in equality and the goodness of everyone. My God would want us to work for justice, to help those less fortunate. My God is a God of peace and understanding.

Good, they answered. Place your belief and faith in that God. If you truly accept and believe, you will not struggle. You will find peace.

So I did what they suggested. I placed my belief in the God of my understanding. I found peace. I found hope. I found belief. I found faith.

I will teach my children, despite what people say and do in the name of god, there is a God of love and peace. They can believe. They can have faith.

I'm Still Here

I walk past the office a hundred times a day. I could go in and type even if it's just for a few minutes. There must be a story I have to tell floating around in my brain. I'm going to do it.

"Momma!"

Maybe if I ignore the call, they will figure out their issue on their own. It's possible, right? Other people's children do it, why not mine?

"MOMMA!!! He hit me."

"Momma! I neeeeeeeeeeed you."

"Momma! I miss you."

"Momma? What are you doing?"

"Momma. Can I play a game on the computer?"

No. Not now. The time isn't right. I'll get to it. Later.

Later becomes tomorrow. Tomorrow becomes soon. Soon becomes next week. Next week becomes ...

There are stories, beautiful stories, I want to share. They dance like fireflies on a summer evening. I chase them, laughing. I hope to catch one and put it in a jar so I can watch it's glow.

I put the jar on a shelf so you can see it when you enter the room. It is so beautiful. I think about it, the glow lighting a spark in my imagination. Posts are composed in I head.

Yes. This is it. It's time. I head towards the room hoping to open the door without anyone noticing. Hoping for a few minutes in which to share my story with the universe.

But I can't. The chorus starts again. I save it for later, hoping against hope that the story will still be there.

The next time I see the jar a few days later, there is no glow. The firefly has escaped and gone back to that summer evening. Maybe I can catch it again. Maybe. But most likely it is gone forever.

So I wait. Wait and wonder will my fingers ever get the chance to dance over the keyboard. Will my words ever be heard. Will I ever share a story, a piece of my soul.

"Momma! Momma! MOMMA!!!!"