What I See

“Tell Mommy what happened at church today,” Tyson said as he walked in the door with Nolan, who was fighting to get his jacket off. (“Work!” he cried, toddler-speak for, “This doesn’t work!”, used whenever he is stuck on either a physical or mental problem.)

I stood at the kitchen counter and cut up the pizza they’d brought home for dinner. “What happened?” I asked, distracted, wondering if Brooklyn would want pizza or something else to eat since she was sick. Her lethargy and almost fever were the reason we’d stayed behind.

“I fight. Kid,” Nolan said, (more toddler-speak), with a slight gleam in his eye.

My brow furled. I paused and turned away from the rainbow of plastic plates awaiting pizza slices on the counter. “Wait. You did what?” I met Tyson’s eye. Did I hear that right? His expression was half amused, half exasperated.

“Yup. They kicked him out. He hit another kid with a toy. Right on the nose. You should have seen the bruise; it was impressive.”

I finally moved to help my warrior-child with his jacket, noting the sticker on his back as I peeled it off his arms. JESUS IS A GOOD EXAMPLE! it proclaimed. The irony.

I probed for more details. No, he wasn’t exactly kicked out, but since it was almost the end of service it was just easier for Tyson to take him. No he wasn’t really in trouble, nobody was mad. In fact, some of our favorite volunteers were in the room and seemed more bemused by the whole episode than anything. Yes, he’d be welcomed back next week.

I sighed, watching this kid, this overly energetic, spirited, precocious, lively two-year old of mine eat his pizza in the messiest way possible. 30 seconds into dinner and he already had a dollop of sauce on his nose, toppings in his hair, more food off his plate than on it. There went our four-year streak of never being called back to the children’s area during church.

I wondered if the volunteers in the toddler room saw what I see: a lovable, unusually active even for his age, typically well-intentioned little boy who has an absolute overabundance of energy. Did they see that he hit the kid on the nose only because the other boy was trying to take the toy from him in the first place and this is how two-year olds solve problems? Surely that’s what happened. I couldn’t see him bopping a kid on the nose for no reason, but I knew he’d have no problem defending himself. Self-confidence was not something he lacked. Did they see any of his redeeming qualities or did all that energy cause him to be labeled only as “the naughty one”?

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Nolan gives me a grin across the parachute before he takes off at a run for the 14th time during circle time at open gym. I know the routine. It takes me less than half a second to bolt after him. He has such a hard time sitting still to focus. For anything. Outings I did as a matter of routine with the twins: library storytimes, visits to the local coffeeshop, the simple act of strapping them in the double stroller, are virtually impossible with this one rambunctious toddler. I don’t even try storytime with him anymore. Open gym is great, except for this 10-minute circle time. I look at the other 30 kids, ranging in age from babies to five-year olds, all sitting patiently as the gymnastics coach explains the rules for jumping in the foam pit. As I wrangle Nolan back in my arms, I notice another mom staring at me. Not staring, really it’s more of a glare. My cheeks get hot, hotter than they already are from running after him for the past hour. I meet her gaze, daring her to say something. She doesn’t, but continues to stare me down.

I feel like saying something, but everything I think of sounds pretty awful in my head. Do you have a problem? Too confrontational. What are you looking at? Not any better. Two-year olds, amiright? Too trite. I have three kids under five and I’m doing the best I can!!! Emotional overload.

I’d love to give this mother some grace, but I don’t have it in me today. I noticed her earlier, sitting calmly, while her own five-year old ran around to use the gymnastics equipment. Hasn’t he ever pushed the limits before?  What is she looking at, anyway? I realize that every other kid is sitting more or less patiently, but doesn’t she remember what two is like? I’m not sure what she wants me to do. He runs, I retrieve. He runs again, I retrieve again. I’m trying to teach him what it means to sit still and listen without causing too much of a scene. I’m doing what I can. I feel shamed and judged and hate that I feel that way as I take a seat again on the bright-colored mat.

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The park just down the street from our house is big. It’s one of the first things I noticed about the neighborhood. The giant blue plastic sea monster made it instantly distinctive and added to its charm. There are swings, plenty of slides, and lots of opportunities for climbing. It boasts a smaller, separate toddler area (“ages 2-5” proclaims a sign), and the large, main one (“ages 5-12”). Every single one of my kids has been pretty much over the toddler area since before they were two years old. But Nolan has really put those recommended ages to the test. He’s been able to climb up to the top of the tallest part of the playground since he was 14 months old. Yes, the part of the playground for the 5-12-year olds. My just barely one-year old thought it was no problem.

I used to run up there after him. I’d take a running start and dash up a slide as he climbed through the tunnels, up, up, and up some more, so I could meet him at the top to help him go down the tallest slides (one of which I’ve nicknamed “the death slide” for how ridiculously steep it is). Leggings and sneakers weren’t just the cliche wardrobe choice as a stay-at-home mom; they were a necessity for all I needed to do to keep up with him.

Now I stand with two feet planted on the ground as I watch Nolan climb the tallest ladder on the playground, one foot and then another. Last summer it was his entire life’s ambition to climb up there (“Do it MYSELF!”) and I wouldn’t let him. One wrong move would mean a twenty-foot drop to the ground and I wasn’t confident in my abilities to catch him. Two years old and I’m tired of fighting him. I don’t have it in me anymore to tell him he can’t when he’s so clearly confident he can.

Other parents will alert me sometimes to what he is doing, their nerves showing as they watch his tiny body climbing higher and higher in the air. I smile, thank them, and say I know. He has so much energy, so much drive, so much ambition. I know he’ll get to the top, turn around, and scream, “I did it!” with his arms raised in the air. Every time. It never fails. I wonder if they see what I see: an active, determined, persistent, daredevil of a two-year old. I wonder if they worry he’s setting a bad example for their own small children as he climbs the tallest ladder, jumps from a step you’d think is too high, dangles like a monkey and drops to the ground from a bar more than twice his own height.

I don’t care what they think. I know what he can do.

I watch him climb. Wait for him to tell me he did it. Watch for him to be proud.

Life Lately

Easter. Has it really come and gone already? Looking out the window it seems impossible (just leave us alone already, winter) but the gallon-sized Ziploc bags in my pantry filled to overflowing with jellybeans, chocolate rabbits, and pastel colors suggest otherwise. While we had a nice Easter, it also just didn't seem very Easter-y. I'd feel like we should have a do-over if I wasn't already burned out on holidays by this time of year. Halloween to Thanksgiving to Christmas to New Year's to Valentine's Day to Birthday Week to Easter is quite enough for me by now, and I'm happy to sit back and basically coast again until fall. Just yesterday Brooklyn asked me, "Which holiday comes next, Mommy?" and I thought for a moment before happily replying, "Mother's Day." I'll take it.

As for Easter itself this year? Less than two weeks ago and I don't have much to report. We dressed up, went to church, the Easter Bunny hid their baskets, Uncle Tyler hid a bunch of eggs, the kids gorged on candy and I bought tulips just to make it feel like the slightest bit of spring. Hahaha.

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Swimming lessons have commenced and you are looking at three little fish. With "Do we have swimming today?" being asked on the daily around our house, it's become the most highly-anticipated activity in our week. They've taken to the water with ease and you should have seen Nolan's enthusiasm for jumping into - and under - the water this week. (Unfortunately his attitude of no fear applies to water, as well. Great.) Just a few weeks in and Caden and Brooklyn have already progressed to using goggles (earned only by keeping their faces in the water to the count of "five bananas"). I may be projecting here, but maybe swim team will become our sport of choice? I'm all in just for the joy of sitting in the 92-degree heated pool area.

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We're into all things super heroes lately. We being primarily Caden, Brooklyn most of the time, and Nolan just because whatever his big brother and sister do must be cool. Batman, Batgirl, and Robin are the favorites (and the Halloween costumes for the year - or so they've told me and given the obsession lasts all the way to October) and Caden is rarely seen without his blanket cape.

"Mommy," he asked yesterday, sitting pensively on the couch, "Who is your favorite super hero? Batman or Batgirl or Superman or Elsa or Iron Man?" After further questioning, I figured out that Elsa is a super hero because she has a CAPE attached to her dress. Duh. 

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Have I mentioned the part where it's still basically winter here and everything is terrible? It's all anyone talks about lately. We're going on our sixth month of snow and cold and everyone is over. it. all. "Do you think it will ever warm up?" "Some winter, huh?" "Can you believe this winter?" " It's been a long winter" and "UGGGGHHHHH" (from the parents) have all become standard greetings around here.

Keeping the kids occupied, particularly Nolan, is my main challenge lately. At the beginning of the cold, I was eager for the chance to hunker down and be cozy. Let's snuggle up with blankets! And read books! And watch movies! And drink hot chocolate! And play with Plah Doh and build block towers and create art and do all the indoor things! Six months later and I'm burned out, I have no new ideas, we've gone to all the indoor play areas one billionty times and the TV has come to the rescue with more and more frequency. We. just. need. to. be. outside.

Don't let the photos above fool you. The train track and the Play Doh didn't keep that kid occupied more than a hot minute before he was over it and onto other things. I'm sick of looking at my house, I'm sick of toys strewn everywhere because the kids are bored to distraction, and I'm sick of trying to come up with new things to do. No one should have to parent three kids under the age of five through six months of snow and cold. This rant brought to you by: the longest winter EVER.

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In other news, we're on day 11 of Whole 30. So far so good. I guess. I still miss cream, sugar, pasta, rice, ice cream, and most other dairy products. Anyone who tells you otherwise or says "You won't even miss ______!" is a lying liar. I do miss those things. We have actually discovered some truly tasty recipes (such as the chicken fajita bowls pictured above) and I'm sure some of the recipes and changes will stick with us. But I can't wait for day 31 when real cream and sugar is going straight back into my coffee. Dairy-free creamers taste like lies and just aren't the same.

One nice change for me is a significant change in the amount of bloating in my body. As in little-to-none. I didn't even know I was bloated before, I just thought that was how my stomach looked after having three kids. My stomach area feels completely different now, in the best of ways. I was surprised at how soon I noticed that change, too, really only five days in. Otherwise I've felt mostly the same, thankfully avoiding the raging sugar-withdrawal symptoms that others warned me about. 

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Nolan calls buttons "butts". It's as hilarious as it sounds. "I push the butt!" "My turn to push the butt!" "My butt!" "I want to push the butt!" "Push this butt!" Etc. Insert all the laugh-cry emojis here.

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All these two want is to play together lately. All the imaginative play. Give them a couple of dinosaurs, Barbie dolls, or Moana figures and they're all set. Or sit back and watch the epic tales that ensue as they send their dinosaurs off on a spaceship where it meets up with an airplane, and the pilot loads every figure in existence in our house from Olaf to farm animals to all the Little People onto the plane, and then Elsa flies to the rescue (because she can fly with that cape, obviously) because they all get stuck in outer space, and afterwards they fly home to eat candy and go to bed because it's clearly time for nigh-night after such an exhausting day.

The Same Two Feet of Space (National Siblings Day 2018)

I always laughed last summer as I watched how my three kids approached others to play at the park.

“Hi,” one of my then three-year old twins would say, “What’s your name?”

The kid would respond with their name, before asking back, “What’s your name?”

Without missing a beat, the twin would respond with, “We’re Caden and Brooklyn and Nolan.”

Every time. They didn’t really take a break between the names, or make a distinction between the three of them. Just Caden-and-Brooklyn-and-Nolan like it was one word, all in the same breath.

I love that they think like that. That they have this bond together. Surely asking for one of their names is asking for all of their names, right? It would be simply unthinkable not to.

I’m used to having them all around me all the time. Having twins followed pretty quickly by a third, I had full arms right from the very start. Our house is rarely quiet as they run and chatter and fight and scream and sing. Usually at least one is underfoot while the other two are nearby. I’ve asked, “Why are we all occupying the same two-foot space when we live in a 2000-square foot house?” too many times to count, as I sit with one in my lap, another climbs up my back, and a third hovers an inch from my face.

Photo credit Prall Photography.

Read the rest over at the Twin Cities Moms Blog!

The Feminist Housewife

It can be hard to reconcile my outward image with my inner turmoil these days. I sigh and cry out, weeping and gnashing my teeth as I read the news. My heart is heavy over it all. Everything from the lack of paid family leave to the fact that climate change is an actual thing.  The explicit racism that seems to be taking over. The recent rash of natural disasters, the failure of our justice system, and the lack of laws for reasonable gun control. And at the head of it, most frustrating of all, that man in the White House (He Who Shall Not Be Named).

I cheer on our female leaders, soak up their theology, buy their books, laugh at the late-night shows, subscribe to the New York Times. I want to raise my young kids to know of the injustice in the world, to work for change, to talk and ask questions and be anything they want to be. I write and I read and I discuss and I work to understand the things I don't.

And I’m a housewife.

It may be a phrase reminiscent of the ’50s, but it’s true. Call it what you will: homemaker (yeesh, even more of a relic), stay-at-home mom, SAHM for us millennials. I cook, clean, fold laundry, match socks, and put away toys. I even enjoy some of these things. (Gasp!) I bake my own bread, cloth diaper those little bottoms, and host neighborhood playdates.

There’s a tension inside of me lately. If you peek in from the outside, everything about my life screams basic stay-at-home mom. One income, a house in the suburbs, three kids, a minivan; a woman who spends her days at playdates, running errands, cleaning house, and with our neighbors. Surrounded by people who, due to circumstance, mostly live and look just like us. This stands in stark contrast to my inner feminist, the one who devours the news and analyzes it each night with my husband or over (local, craft) beers on the weekend with my cousin.

Though maybe not such a stark contrast. I am the same person, both feminist and housewife, after all. These things are not mutually exclusive. They only seem like opposing views because society tends to box us in that way. As though I can’t be a feminist just because I am also a housewife.

My beer-loving cousin is a teacher—middle school social studies— and politically active. He's white, straight, and male. He told me that for the first time in his 15-year teaching career he let his students know who he was voting for before the last presidential election. As a teacher in a large metro area, his classes are a mixed bag of backgrounds and socioeconomic status. Many are Somali immigrants, mostly Muslim, possibly illegal. It was unthinkable to him that his students could think for a second that he supported a man who ran on a platform of kicking their families out of the country. Just because of who my cousin is, what he looks like, what could possibly be wrongly perceived from the outside.

So much grates on me for the very same reason. White, middle class, privileged. It feels that so much of me could be perceived one way when in fact I feel exactly the opposite.

If you dig a little deeper, you’ll find hints of rebellion in me. I’ve never owned an iron, for one. (Such a rebel.) Neither the kids nor I possess any clothing that requires ironing. Tyson works a flexible schedule from home, mostly in sweatpants, no traditional suit-and-tie 9-5 job here. (And the dry cleaner takes over those pesky ironing duties the few times a year he does wear a dress shirt.) While I handle most of the child and household-related tasks due to the fact that I do stay home, he is quick to take over everything from dishes to diaper duty on the evenings and weekends. This summer we attended our local Pride festival, joining in the fun of the family-friendly area, where my children played games and colored pictures and didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary besides the fact that everyone was wearing so many bright colors. My e-reader is filled with book titles that educate with humor or scream for change (or both): Jesus Feminist, Of Mess and Moxie, Hillbilly Elegy, The Unwinding, Love Warrior, Just Mercy.

I’m an iced-coffee drinking, JCrew wearing, Target shopping, fall-loving basic girl who also has a heart that screams for change. Who has wild thoughts in her head of running for office (I would hate it), writing a book (maybe), and taking her kids to protest marches (much more plausible).

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I don’t know what to do with this tension, except sit in it. The best I can do right now is educate myself, to read about my own privilege and the abounding injustice in this world, raise my kids, and work on living a life based on love and understanding. I continue to work on teaching and practicing empathy, compassion, discernment. Each afternoon, snack time finds me at the kitchen table with all three kids, reading aloud from our storybook Bible, answering their questions and talking it through, about the radical Savior who stood up to the leaders, sat with the sinners, and came along in love just in time to rescue us all.

I cringe sometimes, thinking how we must look from the outside, this neat and tidy “perfect” little family in our cheerful blue suburban home. I often feel like anything but. Still, my traditional stay-at-home mom life doesn’t confine me to one neat little box. I don’t want to be boxed in, but turning around and boxing up someone else is just as bad. And I am so guilty of that this time around. Writing off anyone who checked a different box on that ballot as "the other". I am working so hard to fix that.

In the end, this life as a housewife — the cooking and the cleaning and the laundry — really is the backbeat of our lives. Tyson and I show our children how our household runs, with love and respect and cooperation. There is an importance to these things, mundane though they may be. They keep our household running, functioning, ensuring that we are clothed and fed and happy so that we can go out and change the world. Or just get to preschool on time.

Besides, my inner rebel may be emerging a bit, if you happen to see me in that preschool drop-off line. I recently added purple streaks to my hair and a “Nasty Woman” pin to the diaper bag. Take that, stereotypes.