So, we sold the house, we got a storage unit, we are systematically (maybe it is more haphazard than systematic.... but we are doing it!) getting rid of excess stuff that inhabits every closet, cupboard, drawer and shelf in the house. It seemed like passports for the kids was a good next step to a travel based life. We couldn't all go together unless we went on a Saturday and since we were obtaining passports for minor children, both parents had to go. Never knew. In the entire city of over 400,000 people only one passport office is open on Saturdays. One. And apparently we picked the Saturday when a good portion of those 400,000 residents also wanted to get their passports. Actually, had that been the case, the 4 hours we spent there would have been more understandable. But it really wasn't all that crowded. It was just slow.
The passport office closed at 3:30. We picked up Noah from work and went straight there arriving at 2:18. Really. I know, because at 18 minutes past the hour I had to return to feed the one-hour-only parking meter three times!
At 2:30 a post office employee started working his way down the line passing out numbers. We got number 301 and were informed that we would be the last people to get passports processed that day. It was still almost an hour before they were supposed to close. Plainly he expected it to take at least that long to get to us.
Next they began setting up crowd control barriers around us with hand made signs proclaiming "NO MORE PASSPORTS WILL BE PROCESSED TODAY." But people did continue to show up (since they were still open after all) and since the post office employees had conveniently disappeared, those of us lucky enough to have received a number were left to explain--and apologize-- for them.
As we continued to wait in a line that seemed to barely move, outside a door that seemed to be staunchly closed against us, we began to look enviously at those who had thought to bring... or more likely had taken the time to run out and buy... snacks. Bugles and Sun Chips and whatever that koolaid like beverage that preschooler across the hall from me was drinking never looked so appetizing.
The children in line began to wander from their families. One young man began entertaining himself by playing a curling type game utilizing the long empty hallway and his sister's glasses. My children and their friends (because we blessedly ran into friends when we got there. They were kind enough to stick it out until the very end with us... ok, they're passport ordeal ended approximately 2 minutes before ours did) were definitely discussing if the smallest of them would fit into the big package drop off box. We discovered that one of the post office boxes had a small section crossed off enabling us to peer all the way through to the empty workroom. We also noticed that at least one sign on the wall was held there by velcro and could be peeled right off. We weighed water bottles, purses and phones on a scale that calculated the price to send them to any US zipcode or to Canada or Mexico. Liam made faces at the security cameras.
When we got towards the front of the line we realized that the door we were waiting outside of was labeled as only "Step One" in the passport process. This considerably dampened our enthusiasm about finally being admitted through that door. "Step one" turned out to be a post office employee looking at everything we brought with us to ensure that we had all the correct documentation. Probably it would have made the most sense for this to have happened a little less than 2 hours plus after we had arrived there. But I am not an expert in passport applications. Our documentation was deemed adequate and we were sent back out to wait in the official passport waiting room now. And continued to wait.
The waiting room had a "now serving" display, and every time a new number popped up there it was like someone had just won a grand prize. And when whoever was in charge of such things forgot to change the number on display when they took a new person back, it was an extreme exercise in patience not to totally freak out over the omission.
Eventually it was our turn. We signed papers. Four times we raised our hands and swore these photos were of each of our children and that all the information on their applications was accurate. The post office dude re wrote everything we had already written and did a lot of stapling and reorganizing of the various papers and then he typed it all again into his computer. Really it felt like it could have been more efficient, but by then we had been worn down, we didn't care, we just wanted to go home and eat some leftover pizza.
We may have panicked briefly when we discovered as we were leaving that the doors we had been using all afternoon were locked from the outside. We were trapped! And had already exhausted all forms of entertainment that the post office could offer us. But there were other doors. We made our escape.
Passports applications: check.
Saturday, March 4, 2017
Monday, February 27, 2017
I own what?!
We are in the midst of an extensive purge of stuff. The goal is to fit all our belongings either in a couple pieces of luggage each or in a ten by ten storage unit. It is an interesting project. And sometimes exhausting. Everyday I am snapping pics of furniture to post on craigslist and sending texts to my big kids asking if they want this book or these dishes, does anyone want my nightstands or a sewing machine or the kitchen table. Everyday we pack more boxes and sort through more clothing. We have organized piles of boxes around the house. This stack goes to grown kids. This stack goes into storage. That stack is to donate. That stack is to sell. And then there is the undecided stack. That's the tough one, all the stuff that will require further thought. And work.
There can be something truly liberating about letting go of things though. For reals. First there is the guilt complex that some of my stuff just radiates! Books I should have read. Projects I should have done. But as soon as I remove that book or that fabric or whatever it is from my house, that pressure to do the task that that thing was constantly reminding me I hadn't yet done is just gone. And it feels pretty good. I am no longer a bad mother whose younger children cannot remember ever having been camping with the family, I am just someone who owns no camping gear. A quilt I started to make more than 20 years ago which I have secretly hated almost from the beginning, but which I have felt all along that I 'should' finish it? Well it is gone. So there, I can't finish it.
Then there is just the responsibility and time involved in owning and organizing stuff. We went through all our games last weekend. We cleared out the cabinet in the dining room that housed all the little card games and travel sized games and chess pieces and dice (YES! we had a tub full of dice), as well as the big closet that had all the bigger board games. Now they are all in boxes to store or in a pile to give away and suddenly I don't need to spend another minute organizing the game closet for the millionth time, gathering up and properly distributing all the various game pieces that have mysteriously escaped their assigned box and are roaming freely on the shelves. It is almost as though I have gained hours of free time that used to be dedicated to putting things away or fixing things or finding things. Now I have some guilt free time to actually play the few games we kept out to use now.
Of course some things are harder than others to discard or even to put out of sight. Some of my books were hard... what if I suddenly need to look something up in that particular history book? What if I decide to re read all the Harry Potter books right now? What if I just like seeing my pretty books on the shelves? Or my cute little elephant collection for that matter? But its ok, I put those things in a box, I labeled the boxes, we will put them all in storage and I will see them again sometime.
There can be something truly liberating about letting go of things though. For reals. First there is the guilt complex that some of my stuff just radiates! Books I should have read. Projects I should have done. But as soon as I remove that book or that fabric or whatever it is from my house, that pressure to do the task that that thing was constantly reminding me I hadn't yet done is just gone. And it feels pretty good. I am no longer a bad mother whose younger children cannot remember ever having been camping with the family, I am just someone who owns no camping gear. A quilt I started to make more than 20 years ago which I have secretly hated almost from the beginning, but which I have felt all along that I 'should' finish it? Well it is gone. So there, I can't finish it.
Then there is just the responsibility and time involved in owning and organizing stuff. We went through all our games last weekend. We cleared out the cabinet in the dining room that housed all the little card games and travel sized games and chess pieces and dice (YES! we had a tub full of dice), as well as the big closet that had all the bigger board games. Now they are all in boxes to store or in a pile to give away and suddenly I don't need to spend another minute organizing the game closet for the millionth time, gathering up and properly distributing all the various game pieces that have mysteriously escaped their assigned box and are roaming freely on the shelves. It is almost as though I have gained hours of free time that used to be dedicated to putting things away or fixing things or finding things. Now I have some guilt free time to actually play the few games we kept out to use now.
Of course some things are harder than others to discard or even to put out of sight. Some of my books were hard... what if I suddenly need to look something up in that particular history book? What if I decide to re read all the Harry Potter books right now? What if I just like seeing my pretty books on the shelves? Or my cute little elephant collection for that matter? But its ok, I put those things in a box, I labeled the boxes, we will put them all in storage and I will see them again sometime.
Sunday, February 12, 2017
Road tripping
We recently arrived home from 3 weeks on the road. Three weeks in 2 vehicles with 10 people, 20ish pieces of luggage, 6 laptops, probably at least 2 dozen books and 10 lbs of rice. Yes rice. It actually didn't travel the whole way with us but was rashly purchased mid trip because I really wanted meatballs and rice for dinner and was at Costco, where, let's face it, I was probably lucky to get such a small bag. I couldn't abandon the uncooked rice. So, it traveled the rest of the way with us and has now happily joined the rice storage at home.
We have a decent history of road tripping. Sometimes the trip is about visiting people. Sometimes it is about an event. Sometimes it is just a cool place to see. And always we try to see some cool things along the way. Traveling to Florida we stopped to see New Orleans and have beignets at Cafe du Monde in the French quarter. On our way to Pennsylvania we visited the St Louis Arch. Visiting family in Arizona, we took an afternoon at the Grand Canyon. Frequently we have traveled with more than one toddler. More often lately with more than one teenager. We have even traveled with teenagers and toddlers at once. We have camped in tents en route (I really do not recommend this), we have stayed in cabins and hotels, and most recently we prefer to rent houses.
So here is how this particular trip went down though. Bright and early, only two days after Christmas my alarm went off at some cursed hour. I drug myself from my nice, warm bed and grudgingly showered and dressed in the clothes I had carefully put out the night before. Laying my clothes out is not a daily habit, (unless you count dropping my clothes on the floor next to the bed at night and donning the same thing the next morning) it is a traveling thing. Especially a 'we're leaving early in the morning before I am fully conscious' thing. We loaded the cars with all the luggage that was waiting in a stack in the living room. The general rule is each person gets one duffel bag and one backpack. The duffel is tucked away in the back, the backpack rides with you and that is where all those books were stashed away and where everyone carried their precious bag of snacks and where those of us who are artistically inclined have their sketchbooks and where at least a couple people had crammed pillows. We actually were out of here at almost precisely 6 am. Which was good cause we had 12 hours of driving ahead of us that day.
2 cars following each other is not really my ideal road tripping scenario. You lose one another. One car goes too fast. One car goes too slow. One car looks exactly like several other cars on the road and you don't realize until you have exited the freeway and entered a Costco parking lot that you are following the wrong vehicle and have been for who knows how long. But we reached our destination somewhere close to those 12 hours later. Ideally, I wouldn't drive that far in one day. No one is happy by the time it is over. But in this case we wanted to stay with relatives and that was how far away they were. Also; Cell phones, GPS and adult children who can take a turn driving are a huge advancement in road tripping conveniences.
We spent our first couple of days with family. Because when you plan a trip that takes you right by your sister's house or your in-laws' house, well its nice to stop. And its fun. And they feed you and let you sleep on their couch for free, even when there's 10 of you (we used more than one couch... and maybe the floor and some air mattresses too). After a visit in Phoenix (where a couple of my kids took that dare to jump into an unheated pool in December---brrrr) we moved on to an apartment on a beach south of San Diego. We spent a week walking on the beach and pier, building 'pompeii' in the sand, playing catch on the beach and cards in the apartment, sighting dolphins and seals in the water and looking in vain for the orca that supposedly inhabited the area. Oh... and passing around a nasty stomach virus and getting rained on. Then we 'moved' again and spent a week in a house near Anaheim. Two more flew in to join us. Our house here was huge with lots of bedrooms and even lemon trees in the yard. So we made lemonade. And went to Disneyland. And got rained on some more. Disneyland is still pretty fun, even when it rains. Except sometimes when your boat comes out of the Its a Small World tunnel and you realize it is raining *again* and they won't let you out of your stupid little boat quite yet and you sort of want to cry for just a minute or two. But most of the time, it is still fun. Just more wet. And way less crowded.
Then we came home. I can recall in the past arriving home from vacations and feeling like I could finally rest after all that vacationing! Coming home was a relief. But not so this time. Not really. I arrived home feeling a tad burdened by all the stuff I left behind that apparently I got along without just fine for those 3 weeks. I traveled with enough clothes for a week. And never wore half of it. And yet at home I had even more in my closet. It was so easy to pack up suitcases at the beach apartment, be at a new rental house that afternoon, and commence 'living' there. One trip to a grocery store and we were set for a new week in a new home. And it was fun. And I could have done it again the next week and the next and I am not at all sure that I would tire of it.
We have a decent history of road tripping. Sometimes the trip is about visiting people. Sometimes it is about an event. Sometimes it is just a cool place to see. And always we try to see some cool things along the way. Traveling to Florida we stopped to see New Orleans and have beignets at Cafe du Monde in the French quarter. On our way to Pennsylvania we visited the St Louis Arch. Visiting family in Arizona, we took an afternoon at the Grand Canyon. Frequently we have traveled with more than one toddler. More often lately with more than one teenager. We have even traveled with teenagers and toddlers at once. We have camped in tents en route (I really do not recommend this), we have stayed in cabins and hotels, and most recently we prefer to rent houses.
So here is how this particular trip went down though. Bright and early, only two days after Christmas my alarm went off at some cursed hour. I drug myself from my nice, warm bed and grudgingly showered and dressed in the clothes I had carefully put out the night before. Laying my clothes out is not a daily habit, (unless you count dropping my clothes on the floor next to the bed at night and donning the same thing the next morning) it is a traveling thing. Especially a 'we're leaving early in the morning before I am fully conscious' thing. We loaded the cars with all the luggage that was waiting in a stack in the living room. The general rule is each person gets one duffel bag and one backpack. The duffel is tucked away in the back, the backpack rides with you and that is where all those books were stashed away and where everyone carried their precious bag of snacks and where those of us who are artistically inclined have their sketchbooks and where at least a couple people had crammed pillows. We actually were out of here at almost precisely 6 am. Which was good cause we had 12 hours of driving ahead of us that day.
2 cars following each other is not really my ideal road tripping scenario. You lose one another. One car goes too fast. One car goes too slow. One car looks exactly like several other cars on the road and you don't realize until you have exited the freeway and entered a Costco parking lot that you are following the wrong vehicle and have been for who knows how long. But we reached our destination somewhere close to those 12 hours later. Ideally, I wouldn't drive that far in one day. No one is happy by the time it is over. But in this case we wanted to stay with relatives and that was how far away they were. Also; Cell phones, GPS and adult children who can take a turn driving are a huge advancement in road tripping conveniences.
We spent our first couple of days with family. Because when you plan a trip that takes you right by your sister's house or your in-laws' house, well its nice to stop. And its fun. And they feed you and let you sleep on their couch for free, even when there's 10 of you (we used more than one couch... and maybe the floor and some air mattresses too). After a visit in Phoenix (where a couple of my kids took that dare to jump into an unheated pool in December---brrrr) we moved on to an apartment on a beach south of San Diego. We spent a week walking on the beach and pier, building 'pompeii' in the sand, playing catch on the beach and cards in the apartment, sighting dolphins and seals in the water and looking in vain for the orca that supposedly inhabited the area. Oh... and passing around a nasty stomach virus and getting rained on. Then we 'moved' again and spent a week in a house near Anaheim. Two more flew in to join us. Our house here was huge with lots of bedrooms and even lemon trees in the yard. So we made lemonade. And went to Disneyland. And got rained on some more. Disneyland is still pretty fun, even when it rains. Except sometimes when your boat comes out of the Its a Small World tunnel and you realize it is raining *again* and they won't let you out of your stupid little boat quite yet and you sort of want to cry for just a minute or two. But most of the time, it is still fun. Just more wet. And way less crowded.
Then we came home. I can recall in the past arriving home from vacations and feeling like I could finally rest after all that vacationing! Coming home was a relief. But not so this time. Not really. I arrived home feeling a tad burdened by all the stuff I left behind that apparently I got along without just fine for those 3 weeks. I traveled with enough clothes for a week. And never wore half of it. And yet at home I had even more in my closet. It was so easy to pack up suitcases at the beach apartment, be at a new rental house that afternoon, and commence 'living' there. One trip to a grocery store and we were set for a new week in a new home. And it was fun. And I could have done it again the next week and the next and I am not at all sure that I would tire of it.
Sunday, October 2, 2016
To floss before... or after?
One evening last week we were having a discussion with a certain son of ours. The conversation was really about the fact that this particular child has always had way more energy than is normal for one human being and that by ten o'clock at night in our seventeenth year of living with said child, his parents are feeling way too old to deal with silverware juggling in the kitchen or dance moves in the basement that involve lots of banging against doors, walls and ceilings. What this conversation probably sounded like though was; "What the heck were you thinking?! Why are you being ... YOU.... at 10:00 at night?!" Yeah. That's about right. Then we learned a disturbing fact. He had been getting ready for bed. He had flossed his teeth. He had water pikked his teeth. He just needed to brush still. We were dumb founded. All the twerking and knife throwing was forgotten. He had flossed BEFORE he brushed?! Then he revealed that an older sibling had told him he should do things in that order. We dismissed the older sibling's advice as ridiculously ill informed and sent him back to finish his dental hygiene routine with strict orders to always brush first as all good citizens do.
But then I started to wonder. I texted the older sibling. Had he really told his innocent little brother to floss first? Yes, he had! "I always thought it made more sense than the other way," he texted back. And when I pointed out that the dental hygienist always finished up with the flossing he responded with a: yeah but, "It makes more sense to dislodge things first, then brush." Now I was very curious and began texting and interviewing all of my kids. At home I had one who still did it in the order I am sure we taught them when we deemed them old enough to be trusted to not strangle themselves with a length of dental floss, and three who insisted that it was disgusting to NOT floss first. Away at college we had 2 who floss after and 2 who floss first. I told them they were doing things all wrong and got texts like this back: "No we don't! You wanna get all the stuff out of your teeth before you brush" and "Sounds like you're the one doing it backwards."
I even emailed the missionaries, but while I waited for their Monday evening emails, I decided to google it. "Should you floss before you brush?" It turns out that this is a serious debate outside of my family too. And the majority of those who floss first agree with my children who think it is gross to brush before 'dislodging' any leftover dinner in there, while the rest of us think it is equally gross to stick your hands in your mouth and start 'dislodging' anything before a good, thorough, brushing. One link was to the American Dental Association page, I thought that here at last I would find vindication, after all, my hygienist DOES floss last when she cleans my teeth. But the Dental Association says, and I am paraphrasing here: "Please just floss! Before, after, morning, night; we don't care! But floss!"
So I retracted my earlier order to the child who had originally confessed and unwittingly subjected all his siblings to intense questioning. Floss whenever. There was much cheering that they had won the right to do what seemed right to them in the first place. Not that I believe any of them would have changed their ways anyhow, they just would have remembered to not bring it up anymore. I accepted long ago that my kids come up with their own way to solve math problems that frequently make little sense to me, and that they don't feel compelled to follow my recipe when cooking, and that when they clean the bathroom they don't fold the towels the same way I do. (Though I did put a stop to the bathroom cleaning method that involved dumping some of every cleaning product in the cupboard into the sink to make the perfect cleaning 'potion,' that is the sort of thing that could end in a 911 call). My kids don't do everything my way, and my life would be so boring and predictable if they all did.
Eventually the missionaries emailed back. One flosses after, and one companion thought she was weird for it. The other flosses first, and he asked the other 3 missionaries in his apartment and they all floss first too! Crazy kids.
But then I started to wonder. I texted the older sibling. Had he really told his innocent little brother to floss first? Yes, he had! "I always thought it made more sense than the other way," he texted back. And when I pointed out that the dental hygienist always finished up with the flossing he responded with a: yeah but, "It makes more sense to dislodge things first, then brush." Now I was very curious and began texting and interviewing all of my kids. At home I had one who still did it in the order I am sure we taught them when we deemed them old enough to be trusted to not strangle themselves with a length of dental floss, and three who insisted that it was disgusting to NOT floss first. Away at college we had 2 who floss after and 2 who floss first. I told them they were doing things all wrong and got texts like this back: "No we don't! You wanna get all the stuff out of your teeth before you brush" and "Sounds like you're the one doing it backwards."
I even emailed the missionaries, but while I waited for their Monday evening emails, I decided to google it. "Should you floss before you brush?" It turns out that this is a serious debate outside of my family too. And the majority of those who floss first agree with my children who think it is gross to brush before 'dislodging' any leftover dinner in there, while the rest of us think it is equally gross to stick your hands in your mouth and start 'dislodging' anything before a good, thorough, brushing. One link was to the American Dental Association page, I thought that here at last I would find vindication, after all, my hygienist DOES floss last when she cleans my teeth. But the Dental Association says, and I am paraphrasing here: "Please just floss! Before, after, morning, night; we don't care! But floss!"
So I retracted my earlier order to the child who had originally confessed and unwittingly subjected all his siblings to intense questioning. Floss whenever. There was much cheering that they had won the right to do what seemed right to them in the first place. Not that I believe any of them would have changed their ways anyhow, they just would have remembered to not bring it up anymore. I accepted long ago that my kids come up with their own way to solve math problems that frequently make little sense to me, and that they don't feel compelled to follow my recipe when cooking, and that when they clean the bathroom they don't fold the towels the same way I do. (Though I did put a stop to the bathroom cleaning method that involved dumping some of every cleaning product in the cupboard into the sink to make the perfect cleaning 'potion,' that is the sort of thing that could end in a 911 call). My kids don't do everything my way, and my life would be so boring and predictable if they all did.
Eventually the missionaries emailed back. One flosses after, and one companion thought she was weird for it. The other flosses first, and he asked the other 3 missionaries in his apartment and they all floss first too! Crazy kids.
Friday, July 1, 2016
Of Play Dough and Shoelaces
I never make play dough anymore. Never. We used to always have homemade play dough around. I used to buy cream of tartar in bulk, because my favorite play dough recipe uses cream of tartar. Now a small jar in my cabinet is sufficient to meet my occasional need for snickerdoodles or lemon meringue pie. I bought Kool-Aid packets because Kool-Aid not only gives your play dough fantastic vibrant colors but also makes it smell amazing. And probably encourages small children to eat it too, but, hey, let's face it, many of my kids probably stuck way worse stuff in their mouths than play dough. But what is truly sad is I don't remember when it was that I made that I made that last batch. One day I threw away the latest mess of play dough, the original vibrant array of colors all merged into one lump of grayish brown, and I never made more. And no one complained, because they didn't feel the need for play dough in their lives anymore.
And that is the way with so many things. When was the last time one of my babies crawled into my bed in the middle of the night? I don't give nightly baths anymore. I don't even check on Fionn to make sure she got all the shampoo out. I don't tie anyone's shoes but my own. I don't bounce toddlers into a pair of pants like shaking an overstuffed pillow into a pillowcase. I depend on them to brush their own teeth at night and can't recall when I last bodily pinned a kid to the ground and pried open their little jaws to make it happen.
I don't clean crayon off the walls anymore, when once it was part of my weekly cleaning routine. All these things have just faded away. Once they were each a routine, sometimes monotonous or even annoying part of my life and then one day, without warning, they stopped. I didn't know when I was cleaning the last crayon from the walls that it was the last. I didn't know when I tied my littlest's shoes for the last time, that it was the last time. I didn't know when I grudgingly rolled over and shared my pillow with a little person at two am that she wouldn't be back the next night (and the next... and the next).
The tying of shoes, the brushing of teeth, the sleepless nights with babies and toddlers have given way to endless rides to class, to work, to parties and activities; to late nights helping with papers or studying for tests and just listening to the adventures and frustrations and triumphs of teenagers. And I know that, just like the experiences incident to having babies and toddlers in the home, these too will fade away into the past. I know because they already have in some cases. I still give lots of rides, and because we have lived in one place for a long time, those rides are frequently to the same places, but different teenagers sit beside me now as I drive to the Y, or to various stake centers in the city or to one of the college campuses in town. Sort of like how, much to my husband's bewilderment, there was crayon on my walls for about 15 years... but, as I explained to him, different toddlers were putting it there.
And that is why, even though I do still like to give my kids a hard time about the hours I spend in the car with them and not home doing the laundry, I don't really mind at all. In fact I like it. Especially if laundry is the alternative. Because I am very aware that in another year or two I won't get to spend daily time of any kind with some of these kids because they won't be kids anymore and they won't be in my house anymore and they won't need me the same way they need me now. Just like they ceased to need me to tie shoes or make them play dough, eventually they won't need me to help with homework or give rides. And even though I may not miss the specific experience of staying up all night encouraging (read that 'forcing') a sixteen year old to just write something already so that they have anything at all to turn in by the 11:59 pm deadline, I will really, really, really miss the time I have to even be in the same room with this person.
And that is the way with so many things. When was the last time one of my babies crawled into my bed in the middle of the night? I don't give nightly baths anymore. I don't even check on Fionn to make sure she got all the shampoo out. I don't tie anyone's shoes but my own. I don't bounce toddlers into a pair of pants like shaking an overstuffed pillow into a pillowcase. I depend on them to brush their own teeth at night and can't recall when I last bodily pinned a kid to the ground and pried open their little jaws to make it happen.
I don't clean crayon off the walls anymore, when once it was part of my weekly cleaning routine. All these things have just faded away. Once they were each a routine, sometimes monotonous or even annoying part of my life and then one day, without warning, they stopped. I didn't know when I was cleaning the last crayon from the walls that it was the last. I didn't know when I tied my littlest's shoes for the last time, that it was the last time. I didn't know when I grudgingly rolled over and shared my pillow with a little person at two am that she wouldn't be back the next night (and the next... and the next).
The tying of shoes, the brushing of teeth, the sleepless nights with babies and toddlers have given way to endless rides to class, to work, to parties and activities; to late nights helping with papers or studying for tests and just listening to the adventures and frustrations and triumphs of teenagers. And I know that, just like the experiences incident to having babies and toddlers in the home, these too will fade away into the past. I know because they already have in some cases. I still give lots of rides, and because we have lived in one place for a long time, those rides are frequently to the same places, but different teenagers sit beside me now as I drive to the Y, or to various stake centers in the city or to one of the college campuses in town. Sort of like how, much to my husband's bewilderment, there was crayon on my walls for about 15 years... but, as I explained to him, different toddlers were putting it there.
And that is why, even though I do still like to give my kids a hard time about the hours I spend in the car with them and not home doing the laundry, I don't really mind at all. In fact I like it. Especially if laundry is the alternative. Because I am very aware that in another year or two I won't get to spend daily time of any kind with some of these kids because they won't be kids anymore and they won't be in my house anymore and they won't need me the same way they need me now. Just like they ceased to need me to tie shoes or make them play dough, eventually they won't need me to help with homework or give rides. And even though I may not miss the specific experience of staying up all night encouraging (read that 'forcing') a sixteen year old to just write something already so that they have anything at all to turn in by the 11:59 pm deadline, I will really, really, really miss the time I have to even be in the same room with this person.
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
Stuff I Say.....
Sometimes being a parent makes you say things, particularly to ask questions that you never expected to utter. A sampling of things I have actually said. Some of them more than once. Some of them frequently.
"Where are you going with that hot dog?"
"Stop licking your brother."
"Who peed in the trash can?" (or...the corner... or the bucket...)
"No you can't play on the roof."
"Yes I know Daddy just dumped water on you from the roof."
"Who flushed the capri sun down the toilet?" (or the lego.... or the Star Wars action figure...)
"Well, did you hit him first?"
"Who tried to put my drivers license in the computer disc drive?"
"No more hiding in the drier!"
"Stop taking all the pens apart!"
"The popcorn IS dinner."
"Don't sit on your brother's head."
"Why are the eggs under the stairs?"
"Are you stealing your brother's underwear?"
"No you cannot wear your pajamas to _____ (church, library, park....)" and also the opposite "Fine, wear your pajamas I don't really care."
"Did someone put a slice of cheese in the toaster?"
"Stop peeling the paint off the bannister!"
Yep. This is my real life folks.
"Where are you going with that hot dog?"
"Stop licking your brother."
"Who peed in the trash can?" (or...the corner... or the bucket...)
"No you can't play on the roof."
"Yes I know Daddy just dumped water on you from the roof."
"Who flushed the capri sun down the toilet?" (or the lego.... or the Star Wars action figure...)
"Well, did you hit him first?"
"Who tried to put my drivers license in the computer disc drive?"
"No more hiding in the drier!"
"Stop taking all the pens apart!"
"The popcorn IS dinner."
"Don't sit on your brother's head."
"Why are the eggs under the stairs?"
"Are you stealing your brother's underwear?"
"No you cannot wear your pajamas to _____ (church, library, park....)" and also the opposite "Fine, wear your pajamas I don't really care."
"Did someone put a slice of cheese in the toaster?"
"Stop peeling the paint off the bannister!"
Yep. This is my real life folks.
"Well, you can't never let anything happen to him. Then nothing would ever happen to him. Not much fun for little Harpo" (October 2014)
Ahhhh... the wisdom of an animated fish with short term memory loss.
I have been accused of being an over protective parent. When I discovered that my 2 year olds were sad in church nursery, I took them out. When my 3 year old didn't want to go to his primary (sunday school) class alone, Kris or I went with him. For months. "You really need to cut the apron strings." A well meaning (I guess), but seriously misguided (in my humble opinion) primary leader told me. We don't let our kids ride bikes until they are 8. They very seldom were ever babysat. They almost never are allowed to spend a night at someone else's house. I am seriously nervous when any of them climb trees. I don't like them to go anywhere alone. Ever. I regularly spy on my teenagers' Facebook activity... as in I actually have their passwords and can get in as them and see everything they see. And they can't even be on Facebook before they turn sixteen. When they attend youth activities we drive the leaders crazy asking for details. Heck, we don't even send them to school before they are about 16. When they are away from home, we text constantly, typically several times a day. Even those that live in a different state.
Now I have 3 children who have been away on missions for over a year now. This represents a new parenting milestone for us. We have done college before, but these are our first missionaries. Daily texts and phonecalls do not happen with missionaries. A once a week email that is frequently shorter than we would like and twice a year skypes or phonecalls, that are always much, much too short are all we have, but oh how we value those emails and those calls! Last week, I received an email from the Texas Houston East mission home asking for a few specifics so that they could arrange a flight home for Bayley on January 7th. I definitely DID NOT burst into tears attempting to read the email outloud to Fionnula. Because that would be silly. And Fionnula had no cause to say something like "I know you are happy... but you sort of seem sad..." Because, well, there were no tears of course!
I am frequently asked by others as they get ready to send off their own missionaries, or even by those who are just curious "Is it awful when they leave?" Once someone even said that she "could not believe I would allow them to go," yeah, that really happened. So, setting aside the obvious facts that my children were 18 and 20 and largely financing their own missions (sort of... but we aren't talking here about how our family mission fund works... it's clever though, and totally not of my design), and so really they were quite capable of going whether or not I or Kris 'allowed,' it... and yet, I guess we did allow them to go, we even encouraged them to go, we are proud of their decisions to go. But, yes, it was terrible when they left. We cried, they cried, their siblings cried...at the airport, on the way home from the airport, for days and weeks after at unexpected moments. A few days after they were all gone, I found a pair of running socks Rhys had left behind. It grieved me to no end that he forgot those silly, very replaceable, socks! A year out, we discovered a lifeguard whistle under the seat of my car, could have belonged to any of them, and yes it made me wistful and nostalgic and, at that moment, it hurt I missed them so bad! Some mornings Fionn wakes up crying because she dreamt they were home and woke to find them not. So yes, letting them go is hard.
You know what else is hard? When we receive emails from them that they are sick, that they are discouraged, that they have a difficult companion, that they aren't eating, their feet hurt, people are mean, dogs are biting, bees are stinging, boys are throwing rotting fruit at them. In the year (and a bit more) since the missions began, there have been fires and earthquakes in Kegan's mission, Rhys was seriously ill for months, was nearly mugged once, and lost his credit card and camera and Bayley broke her wrist and had to have surgery in the mission without us there. It is always hard to be a parent that cannot step in and fix things for your kids.
But what sort of mother would I be if I had told them that I couldn't bear to have them leave me, that they needed to stay here... for me? Because I would feel more comfortable with them safely tucked away in my basement or because I couldn't stand the loneliness. Would I sacrifice what they wanted and needed for me? Of course not. Would I rather Rhys be safe in my basement and far from the stray dogs of Argentina who chase him and bite his ankles but missing out on the adventures of living in Argentina for two years? Would I prefer that Bayley had been sent home for that surgery, so that I could be the one who sat by her side? Would I have her sacrifice the rest of her mission because I was too selfish to share her with the wonderful people of Texas who have taken such good care of her? Would I deny Kegan the chance to serve the people of Chile and help them re build their city after that devastating fire? Most of all, would I deny my children the amazing learning experience and the chance for exponential spirtitual growth that their missions have been and would I deny the people of Chile or Argentina or Texas the service and love of my children? No, I wouldn't.
I love my kids. I miss them terribly. I miss them like a piece of me is gone. But being a parent means sacrificing what would be most comfortable to me for what will be best for them.
I have been accused of being an over protective parent. When I discovered that my 2 year olds were sad in church nursery, I took them out. When my 3 year old didn't want to go to his primary (sunday school) class alone, Kris or I went with him. For months. "You really need to cut the apron strings." A well meaning (I guess), but seriously misguided (in my humble opinion) primary leader told me. We don't let our kids ride bikes until they are 8. They very seldom were ever babysat. They almost never are allowed to spend a night at someone else's house. I am seriously nervous when any of them climb trees. I don't like them to go anywhere alone. Ever. I regularly spy on my teenagers' Facebook activity... as in I actually have their passwords and can get in as them and see everything they see. And they can't even be on Facebook before they turn sixteen. When they attend youth activities we drive the leaders crazy asking for details. Heck, we don't even send them to school before they are about 16. When they are away from home, we text constantly, typically several times a day. Even those that live in a different state.
Now I have 3 children who have been away on missions for over a year now. This represents a new parenting milestone for us. We have done college before, but these are our first missionaries. Daily texts and phonecalls do not happen with missionaries. A once a week email that is frequently shorter than we would like and twice a year skypes or phonecalls, that are always much, much too short are all we have, but oh how we value those emails and those calls! Last week, I received an email from the Texas Houston East mission home asking for a few specifics so that they could arrange a flight home for Bayley on January 7th. I definitely DID NOT burst into tears attempting to read the email outloud to Fionnula. Because that would be silly. And Fionnula had no cause to say something like "I know you are happy... but you sort of seem sad..." Because, well, there were no tears of course!
I am frequently asked by others as they get ready to send off their own missionaries, or even by those who are just curious "Is it awful when they leave?" Once someone even said that she "could not believe I would allow them to go," yeah, that really happened. So, setting aside the obvious facts that my children were 18 and 20 and largely financing their own missions (sort of... but we aren't talking here about how our family mission fund works... it's clever though, and totally not of my design), and so really they were quite capable of going whether or not I or Kris 'allowed,' it... and yet, I guess we did allow them to go, we even encouraged them to go, we are proud of their decisions to go. But, yes, it was terrible when they left. We cried, they cried, their siblings cried...at the airport, on the way home from the airport, for days and weeks after at unexpected moments. A few days after they were all gone, I found a pair of running socks Rhys had left behind. It grieved me to no end that he forgot those silly, very replaceable, socks! A year out, we discovered a lifeguard whistle under the seat of my car, could have belonged to any of them, and yes it made me wistful and nostalgic and, at that moment, it hurt I missed them so bad! Some mornings Fionn wakes up crying because she dreamt they were home and woke to find them not. So yes, letting them go is hard.
You know what else is hard? When we receive emails from them that they are sick, that they are discouraged, that they have a difficult companion, that they aren't eating, their feet hurt, people are mean, dogs are biting, bees are stinging, boys are throwing rotting fruit at them. In the year (and a bit more) since the missions began, there have been fires and earthquakes in Kegan's mission, Rhys was seriously ill for months, was nearly mugged once, and lost his credit card and camera and Bayley broke her wrist and had to have surgery in the mission without us there. It is always hard to be a parent that cannot step in and fix things for your kids.
But what sort of mother would I be if I had told them that I couldn't bear to have them leave me, that they needed to stay here... for me? Because I would feel more comfortable with them safely tucked away in my basement or because I couldn't stand the loneliness. Would I sacrifice what they wanted and needed for me? Of course not. Would I rather Rhys be safe in my basement and far from the stray dogs of Argentina who chase him and bite his ankles but missing out on the adventures of living in Argentina for two years? Would I prefer that Bayley had been sent home for that surgery, so that I could be the one who sat by her side? Would I have her sacrifice the rest of her mission because I was too selfish to share her with the wonderful people of Texas who have taken such good care of her? Would I deny Kegan the chance to serve the people of Chile and help them re build their city after that devastating fire? Most of all, would I deny my children the amazing learning experience and the chance for exponential spirtitual growth that their missions have been and would I deny the people of Chile or Argentina or Texas the service and love of my children? No, I wouldn't.
I love my kids. I miss them terribly. I miss them like a piece of me is gone. But being a parent means sacrificing what would be most comfortable to me for what will be best for them.
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