Slow

Slow. That’s how we’ve been moving lately. My usual up and at ‘em, “where are we going today?”, ready and raring by 8:30 am children have settled this August into the ease of summer. Early risers to the core, they wake with the sun but have found contentment sitting around in pajamas, eating later breakfasts, and finding plenty to do in their own playroom, sorting through piles of books and choo-choo tracks and dolls and Moana figures.

It’s been a struggle some days to get out of the house before 9:30 - a first for us, really. Not that we have much to do. August makes me want to pull my hair out. This in-between period (summer activities having ended a solid six weeks before the fall ones begin) needs something - anything - to give us some routine. There’s no more t-ball or story time at the library, preschool and dance class have yet to begin. Thinking of something to do every morning and afternoon is proving to be a bit much, to put it mildly. Yesterday found me paralyzed by overwhelm on the couch, as the long stretch of afternoon lay before me: what on earth were we going to do for the rest of the day? Did I really have to entertain three little people for another three entire hours before dinner time? (Solution: pull out the pool and water table, invite a neighbor over, drink some water. But not before I lay there filled with dread for a few minutes too long. Jesus, take the wheel.)

Some days it’s as simple as that. And while I try to keep on top of planning playdates and giving some sort of structure to our days, five mornings and five afternoons is waaayyyy too much free time. One morning goes to grocery shopping, another one or two to cleaning, but after our 12th trip to the park in ten days I’m ready to move on to something more regular. Activities that require me to show up with children in tow and plan approximately nothing besides having snacks on hand for hangry toddlers.

In other news, living at the park for days on end means that your small children learn pretty fast how to climb up the death slide. 

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The upside to all this is that they’ve found their footing in independent play. Caden and Brooklyn rush away after breakfast to build elaborate train tracks that wind their way through the main level (a tripping hazard for the rest of the day), zoom their cars around the street-pattered rug, and play complicated games of “neighborhood” that involve going to the store, sleeping, waking up (“The sun is up! It’s morning!”), going to work, and giving each other time-outs (a three-year old’s perspective of Life As A Grown-Up). “Do you want to play neighborhood?” one asks the other, and they rush away, Nolan tagging along behind.

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So I don’t do super great with slow. I am more than ready for routine, a reason to be out of the house before the clock rolls over to 10:00. Summer is great and all, but even as a kid I was always ready for school to start back up again.

Fast isn’t exactly my speed either. Every-day-all-day-go-go-go sounds equally unappealing. I just need a bit more structure. Some options, so that the days we don’t have plans feel actually relaxing, instead of another in a long line of do-nothing days.

Can I crave something a bit more medium? Medium sounds good. A medium pace I can get behind. I think we’ve got that set up for fall. A few mornings of commitment, afternoons mostly free, one evening activity. The countdown is on.

Love ya summer, but I’m ready to move on. It’s not you, it’s me. (Well, maybe it’s a little bit you with that hot, humid weather and all. But mostly it's me.)

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This afternoon, I leaned into the slow a bit, as best I could. The semi-cool weather has me dreaming of fall, and with the apple orchard opening for the season, my destination was clear. We sure as heck weren't going to the park again. (Not to mention the apple orchard is a 30-minute drive. An hour in the car where it only feels like I’m parenting because Wheels on the Bus is on repeat? Yes, please.)

Fall hasn't quite taken over the orchard yet: the hayrides, props for photo ops, the elaborate stacks of hay bales and dried corn stalks were not yet the decor of choice. I knew as much, but also knew that an open field next to a lake would provide just as much opportunity for entertainment.

And a stop inside for the first apple treats of the season? Pretty much perfect. (Apple donuts FTW!)

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The phrases "Let's go!" and "Hurry up!" are going to be peppering my speech a bit more in the coming weeks. If you couldn't tell (ha!), there's a big part of me that's totally and completely fine with that. At least we embraced the slow today: throwing sticks in the lake, jumping off the giant tree stump, and enjoying the apple orchard pretty much to ourselves before it becomes completely overtaken for the season. And for now, I have three more fresh apple donuts to get me through the meantime. Or at least the next few hours.

Quiet Time for Mama

Earlier this year, I had a fairly established quiet time routine. "Established" meaning anywhere from two to five days a week. The kids went down for a nap or their own quiet time, I would eat lunch, pick up the main level from whatever havoc had been wreaked that morning, take a seat at my now-clean dining room table, and dive in.

Then I heard somewhere that I should do my quiet time when the kids were around. Which sounded like an oxymoron but okay. The reason being that the kids would see their Mama in the Word, it's a part of life even if you may be interrupted, did we mention that kids should see their mom reading the Bible?, etc. Sounds great, sure. I can get behind that. So I moved my Bible somewhere more "accessible". Except it wasn't. Because I never took it out. Not once. The kids and the chaos and the normal routine has already been established around here for quite some time and I couldn't figure out what this new rhythm was supposed to look like. So I lost a month.

Someone else told me that I should do my devotions in the morning, starting my day and filling my mind with God's word. Really I've been told this my entire Christian life, that this is the "right" way and time of day to read the Bible. So even though my kids already wake up by 6 o'clock, I set my alarm for even earlier. 

This is probably where I should mention that I have never been, am not, and never shall be that freak of nature known as a "morning person".

So - shocker! - this did not work well for me. I think there was maybe a morning or two that I managed to read that day's verses. Y'know, on my phone, still huddled under a mound of blankets, head on my pillow, through half-lidded eyes, well after my alarm first blared. Listen, I am a hard-wired night owl. Had God intended for me to read my Bible reverently at 6 in the morning, he would have given me the desire to go to bed before 11 pm. Scripture read by a bleary-eyed, half asleep mama who hasn't had her coffee yet does not a good Christian make. I lost another month. 

It took me awhile to get back on track.

I went back to my old routine.

Pause. Can we please take a moment to stop and admire how perfectly those tiny roses bring out the color of the peaches? And vice-versa? And then my Bible is like the same color?!? You don't even know the mood lift this gives me every single time I look at my kitchen counter. My designer's heart can't even handle it. *swoon*

Why did I stop in the first place? Because I was so busy listening to others tell me I was doing it wrong? Because it felt like just one more way as a mother that I didn't measure up?

I read my Bible during naptime now. Not every day. Two to five times a week. Do you know what that is better than? ZERO. It works for me. Why on Earth did I stop trying to do what works?

I don't know what your thing is, maybe it is reading your Bible, or to read anything, or finding a time to workout. It could be setting aside the time to clean, cook regular homemade meals, or fit in that yoga practice. There is no "right" time to do these things. If something is important to you, you'll find what works. Your friend meditates first thing in the morning while her kids eat their yogurt, but yours run around like crazy people and throw their breakfast on the floor? Don't do it then. And don't worry about it. Maybe you fit it in during naptime, maybe it's while they are distracted by Daniel Tiger on the TV, or maybe you are one of those crazy people who can get up a little earlier in the morning to get your groove on.

There's no big grand conclusion to this. I did something that worked, saw somebody else doing it "better" (emphasis on those quotation marks there), floundered for awhile, and then (duh) went back to what worked in the first-freaking-place. And the bottom line is this: we need to find what works and stick with it. No more second-guessing. No more looking at what this or that mom is doing. I've found what works and I'm staying in my lane. We don't need to make this any more complicated than it needs to be. Being the mama to small kids is already work enough.

(And all the mamas said "AMEN". *all the praise hands to THAT*)

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Pssst...while I was trying to figure all of this out, I did treat myself to a new Bible. Surely if I just got a new Bible that would solve my problem, right? Well, not exactly...but now that I'm back in the swing of things it does help, and I do love it! Find the She Reads Truth Bible here. (Not sponsored, I just really think they did a good job!)

The Importance of Baking M&M Cookies

Yesterday was the perfect sort of lazy day. Overcast, cool, as though it were already fall. I cozied up in one of my favorite oversized sweatshirts, sweatpants, a cup of chai. Though it’s hard to be completely lazy with small children around. They still want things like attention and regular mealtimes. Gone are the days of snuggling under a blanket for hours of reading and Netflix binge-watching, unless it’s a marathon of Super Why. It would be the perfect day for baking, the oven running all day long, full of breads and muffins and cookies. It was also hard to be completely lazy with the grim news splashed across my newsfeed and on the TV.

We talked about visiting the library in the afternoon. It sounded good earlier in the day, but when the time came I felt like tackling some of that baking. Tyson packed up Brooklyn, Nolan, and the diaper bag while Caden stayed behind. We set to work.

I told Caden I was sad because there were mean people in our country, mean people who had done bad things over the weekend. I told him I was glad that he stayed home to bake with me because it made me feel better. I got the ingredients ready. M&M cookies, his choice.

The hopeful pastel colors (*ahem* Easter leftovers) seemed out-of-place given the weight and heaviness of the news, still on my mind. Maybe out-of-place, but also totally and completely right. Baking with a three-year old took over my concentration, just as I hoped it would, removing me for an hour or two from an otherwise awful weekend. A step back and away from the news, away from the terrible, terrible pain and anger in our country.

“I’ll do one and you do one,” Caden told me, as we poured ingredients together. Three-years old and well aware of the rules regarding taking turns and sharing, of basic respect. I still felt sad, my heart heavy, as I thought of someone else’s child, suddenly taken away this weekend for standing up against hatred. My heart felt equally sad over the thought of another child causing this disaster, and I’m not sure which pain is the more difficult to bear. Caden and I watched as the mixer ran, combining the ingredients together into one homogenous, gooey mass. We stirred in the M&Ms and ate a few, straight out of the bag.

He sat in front of the oven to watch the cookies bake while I cleaned up, and as the water ran in the sink I overheard him, in a sing-song voice, “Mommy’s sad because people were mean...and she doesn’t like that...and I don’t like that ei-ther…”

It’s hard to tell him much, at three-years old. As much as I’d like to shelter him from terrible things, I also want him to know at least a little of the evil in the world, so his heart burns to stand up for what is right. It looks small, right now. We talk about bad people going to jail, that there are mean people in this country who don’t like other people. We talk about helping people on the playground, at school, in our neighborhood. We cook meals for friends who have new babies, shop for school supplies for kids who don’t have any.

We bake cookies.

It would have been easy in a way to ignore him this weekend, to get caught up in the swirl of yet another awful news cycle: more devastation, anger, hate, death, hurt, sadness. And it is very, very worthy of my attention. But to regard my own son as an interruption only means that I’m getting caught up in the hatred. It lets the bad guys win.

So we let the butter soften, use our fingers to get the grains of sugar that have scattered on the counter, dump in the flour and the vanilla, and you better believe that we lick the beaters. I put aside my phone and the news and choose to create joy for a little while.

After all, as Caden said, “Mommy, we make really good M&M cookies.”

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If you are interested, here are a few of the most thoughtful pieces I read regarding the tragedy in Charlottesville this weekend.

In Charlottesville, a reignited Civil War

What a presidential president would have said about Charlottesville

What U.Va Students Saw in Charlottesville

Summer

August. The last hurrah of summer. Though you wouldn't much know it looking out the window today (cool, clouds, rain). I don't mind it much. I'm ready to move on with it - let's get to fall already! - but the seasons aren't quite ready to shift yet. I know we'll have more 80 and 90 degree days in there somewhere. Probably in early September, when I really and truly am over it and ready for sweaters, boots, and cider-spiced lattes.

Whatever it looks like outside today, it is still summer. We still have plenty of time for late nights and ice cream, swimsuits and patio dining. 

We bottled up some of our summer a few weeks ago, during a fun photo session. Nothing fancy, nothing new, no insane online shopping sprees to find the exact right coordinating pi just a piece of our ordinary summer days in our own backyard. Major shoutout to Prall Photo for her talent once again! 

Also once again, I tried to narrow it down to just a few of my favorites. Impossible. Enjoy the photo dump.

Three (and a half)

I was warned about twin newborns. Not even warned, really. The chaos of the whole life-with-twin-newborns thing was obvious. Two times the nursing, the diapering, the diaper explosions, the laundry, the bathing, the dressing, the work of getting out the door.

“Just make it through the first year,” was the advice we received. “If you can survive the first year you’ll be fine.”

We did survive, all four of us. The first year came and went. We passed that magical deadline. It didn’t really seem any easier. I was glad to be done nursing, thrilled to finally be sleeping through the night, but it didn’t exactly get easier.

When the twins were small, we seemed to run into parents of twins all over the place. Or maybe we were just that much more conspicuous with Tyson and I each perpetually carrying a car seat. These other parents threw out all sorts of ages at us. The year mark was frequently mentioned. We were told that it all got easier once they hit 18 months, two years, when they turned three.

They’re three (and two weeks shy of a half).

It isn't easier.

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Nobody warned us about three. Double the three. Some days I actually dream about going back to the baby stage. Not newborns, (dear Lord, not twin newborns), but a few months in. I romanticize that into being easier than this whole two three-year olds thing. Three is hard.

I’m not sure what the big deal is about two. Terrible twos? Please. Terrible threes is far more accurate, though maybe not quite as catchy. There’s lots of drama, lots of tears, lots of emotions. Three is like the teenage year of toddlerhood. There’s truth to that whole “threenager” thing. They fight. With me, with their little brother, with each other. There are strong opinions on what’s for lunch and what’s for dinner, what beverage is in their cups. They actually have good comebacks.

“Y’know what? Some kids don’t have any food!” I told them the other day, as one rejected the lunch I had prepared. (Pasta with homemade tomato cream sauce, chicken, and topped off with Parmesan cheese. And you want to go back to my lazy-day staple of cheese and broken crackers. Seriously?!?)

“Know what? Some kids don’t love their mommies!” the offender shot back, immediately. (Though I had to hold back a laugh with that one. That was a good one. I was impressed.)

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We fight and make up. The kid with the comeback was snuggling with me on the couch not two hours later, all, “I yike snugg-ing wiff you, mommy. It’s my fave-it thing.” I remind them that I love them even when I yell, even when they don’t listen, even when they cry and cry and cry.

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I suppose it doesn’t get easier, not really. I’m not sure what my expectations for “easy” even are anymore. For awhile my sole idea of easy consisted of sleeping through the night. But we’ve arrived at that now, for the most part. My version of “easy” would sure as heck involve sleeping later. 6:00 am is something I have not gotten used to. I guess easier looks like getting up and making breakfast for themselves. Dressing themselves. Going to the bathroom 100% and completely by themselves. (We’re a bit back-and-forth on that one.)

That’s where the tension comes in. Because all that, what I just listed? That’s like big kid territory. That’s elementary school kid stuff. And I don’t want them to grow up, not really. Or at least not yet. We’re already more than halfway through these five short years before they escape to Kindergarten. And while sometimes that sounds reaaallllyyyyy nice, I know what’s up with these little kid years. I feel like we’re hitting our groove. I understand playdates and fruit snacks, Daniel Tiger and the soundtrack to Moana.

I don’t really want to give up my three-year olds. When it’s good, it’s good. The snuggles, the way they pronounce words, the questions they come up with, the pretend play. There are things I could do without, of course. Tantrums. Strong opinions on things like socks. I could definitely do without bedtime. (Bedtime. I mean really. Was it necessary to give us bedtime to deal with on top of all else that is three?) But I don't exactly want to trade in my preschoolers for pre-teens.

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I'd love to insert a neat and tidy ending here (and believe me, I've been racking my brain all week trying to come up with one), but it doesn't exist. Three year olds are hard. And there's a lot of three in our house. I hear that other ages are hard. I'm sure someday I'll miss it. Even some of the hard. But mostly the cuddles, the questions, the imagination, the helping, those little voices.

But when I'm reminiscing someday, about all the love and laughter and the fairytale that was three, please stop me. And pull up this post. So I remember. And in the meantime, I'm going to get in all the cuddles I can.

{All photos credit to Prall Photography.}