Preschool Decisions and White Envelopes

everyone needs to play in a box turned into a car once in a while

Last year I hyperventilated over choosing a preschool for Abbey.  I fretted and made comparison charts and found a school I believed to be a just-about-perfect fit for our girl and for our family. 

And we lived happily ever after.

Until our school district (and likely our entire state) decided to move to mandatory all-day kindergarten, and conversation at preschool pick up shifted to kindergarten readiness and questions about whether or not Dylan would be attending the Tots program designed for under three year olds, which he'll obviously be in the fall.

Happily ever after shifted back into worrying mode as opinions flew back and forth about developmental milestones and socialization and sending my cute, little, just-got-his-first-haircut baby to school, albiet for four hours a week.

My mind skipped back and forth daily, my mental checklist of pros and cons balanced and even and utterly useless.  Ryan and I agreed and then didn't and basically couldn't decide, especially in conjunction with making a decision about whether to send Abbey for three or five days.

This morning I turned in our registration paperwork for next year, our decisions about both children sealed in a white envelope and handed over to the director of the preschool program while scooping Dylan away from the play kitchen in the classroom.

Advice echoed in my head all day, and I heard myself defend our decision to two different people.

With the kids in bed and Ryan studying, I left the house in the darkness to retreat to the gym for a treadmill run.  For one of the first times this winter, the air felt crisp and chilled, the full moon cutting silver streaks between the bare branches of the trees.

Thoughts of the white envelope flashed in my head, wind biting into my skin as I eased closed the car door, Dylan's window perilously close to the driveway.

Moonlight shone through the cold windshield, bright and unforgiving, the cold leather against my legs inviting me to feel the pangs of regret over the choice we had finally made Monday night.

But instead of regret, I felt at peace with our decision.

He will be staying home one more year.

It's the right decision for our boy and for our family.

Because the zoo is more fun at 9:00 a.m. when the only ones acting like bears are the bears.

Because he is my baby, and I love our slow, coffee infused mornings and the way his eyes light up when I announce it's time to pick up Abbey.

Because he is only two and has years of school in his future.

Because sending him would have meant that every morning one of them would have been at school but never at the same time.

Because I want as many moments like this as possible:

 

linking up with Shell, of course!

Overpacking Intervention

what I found after my shower one morning

perhaps I should implement a "no playing in Mommy's closet" rule

My closet is woefully small. The only things keeping the tears at bay are that Ryan has his own (matching, woefully small) closet on the other side of our room, and my wardrobe is, unfortunately, fairly small itself.

Abbey doesn't see the deficiencies in my closet and insists on playing shoe store and clothes store during naptime lately, in addition to her old favorites, makeup store and jewelry store.  Her ability to strip hangers and sweep shelves clean in record time make my mini-closet even more hazardous, especially when I'm in the midst of wardrobe evaluation.

I guess it's time to toss the maternity clothes, but I can't seem to part with my wedding shoes.

Despite a mish-mash of clothing lacking in key pieces (how do I not yet own a cute blazer?), I'm cobbling together my packing list for Blissdom, and I'm once again aware of my need to learn to pack.

I haven't even added the things I'll need for the rest of our week-long jaunt to Nashville, and my list is reading like a Christmas song.

12 Toiletry Products

11 Types of makeup

10 Pieces of jewelry

9 Workout items

8 Undergarments

7 Shirts and jeans

6 Pairs of shoes

5 Makeup brushes

4 Cardigan sweaters

3 Casual dresses

2 Fancy dresses

and

1 Fully loaded tote bag

My nerves are gathering together in the packing section of my brain, compensating for my other worries about the trip by trying to guarantee I have choices about what to wear.  I know it's not about the clothes, but I feel more comfortable when I feel pretty.

Hopefully by next week I'll have a better grasp on what I actually need and what I'm bringing as a security blanket. 

And I'll try to leave those things at home.

After all, I need room in my suitcase for the fabulousness of the Handmade Marketplace.

Every MONDAY join us…
Write, Post, Link-Up, share your story and your voice.
Be part of carrying the weight of confidence, empowerment and share our mission to empower, inspire,
and remind women, parents and children
that the time has come to celebrate ourselves!

What gives you that “be enough” feeling?

Tucked in an Envelope

Dylan mid-January

I've been ignoring the rumbles and the side glances, twisting the curls around my fingers while pushing long strands out of his eyes.  Unlike his sister, who was born with hair, his crept in slowly, silky strands that grew to curl at the base of his neck. 

Cutting it after it worked so hard to grow in seemed unfair.

Still, after a week's worth of pulling his hair out of seeping, weepy, pink-eyed, sinus-infected, sad blue eyes, I felt myself cave.  (And who let these germs loose on our house, by the way?)

Snow was falling as the four of us piled into the car, Abbey excited about getting her hair cut, my heart inexplicably heavy, as though his very baby-ness was woven into the locks curling softly against his collar. 

Reluctant to wear the cape, we coaxed it around his neck with a stuffed Mickey Mouse in one hand and a Peter Rabbit book in the other.  Knowing our squirmy boy, I held him on my lap as golden strands of his first two years fell to the floor, a few safely tucked into an envelope, unsure if their magic was lost or expanded as they left his head.

He grew impatient by the end of the cut, whining and trying to pull off the cape.  Unable to distract him with stories or pictures of elephants, we pulled out our trump card-the lollipop.  Mollified, he gripped it without licking it, thankfully, as a hair-encrusted sucker doesn't sound at all appealing.

I never thought I would be a mom who cared too much about hair.  Truly.

But this feels different than cutting hair.  He's our baby, and now suddenly he looks like a little boy.  I'm in love with this little man running around our house now, but it might be a few more days until I can admit to myself that we're slowly rounding the bend from having babies to having children.

Most moments, I'm excited about moving forward, about thoughts that we'll potty train this year and start taking family vacations that don't involve a pack and play.

But in the darkness, my head on my pillow, I think of the way they don't fit in my arms in quite the same way anymore.  And I'm thankful I have a certain envelope on my bookshelf, for the day when I can't quite remember the way his hair curled.



Dylan this Saturday

she wanted a hair cut, too

four inches for my almost-four year old

linking up with Shell
have you checked out her new design?

and with KLZ and Liz

Between Health and Weight

my favorite shoes, brand spankin' new

Sweat beads on my forehead, the whir of the treadmill belt muffled by The Black Eyed Peas pulsing in my ears. I’m finally getting accustomed to the monotony of my indoor runs.  I use the time to get lost in my music and my thoughts; my eyes slightly glazed as they focus on the glowing yellow streetlights, halos in the sky through the condensation on the wall of windows.

My runs have been more sporadic than I’d like, mornings thwarted by sick kids interrupting sleep, coaxed back to bed with glasses of water and smoothed brows and curling up in our bed when nothing else works.

My legs tire more quickly than they should, growing heavy as my eyes are drawn again and again to the numbers on the display. Three miles feels longer than three miles. Still, running is one of my safe places, something that makes me feel strong and sure, even when I realistically look at my abilities and know I may never meet some of my secret goals.

I leave my running shoes by the back door so my kids grow up knowing that part of my life, seeing the routine modeled the same way we brush our teeth or read books before bed. I envision myself at seventy, standing around at the beginning of a race, people thinking I am there to cheer on my grandchildren until they see the numbers pinned to my chest.

But there’s another reason I run, a reason I don’t mention to Abbey when we talk about my new running shoes. A reason that’s been sitting in the forefront of my mind since the beginning of the year.

Running burns calories, and calories and I are having an intimate relationship, carefully chaperoned by my new drill sergeant, My Fitness Pal.

I’ve hired (by that I mean signed up for free) My Fitness Pal to help me track my calorie intake. 

I truly wish I could say I’m tracking those calories for my health or to set an example of healthy, clean eating for my family.

I'm not.

I cringe when I see my calorie logs some days, particularly on the days when I am under or at my calorie limit but my morning is filled with French Vanilla Creamer instead of a nutritious breakfast.

I’m embarrassed to admit this, though it may not seem like a dramatic confession.

One of the things I desperately want for Abbey is for her to grow up with a respect for good health and a safe and healthy body image, because I know how difficult it is to struggle with weight.

Punching numbers into a computer or my phone and mentally trading out meal calories for an extra cup of coffee with creamer for the sole reason of dropping a jean size isn’t the example I want to set for her.

Teetering between weight loss and a healthy example, I’m trying to find my balance.

And it’s so much more difficult than I expected it to be.

as always, thanks to Shell for inviting us to pour out our hearts

Redefining Sundays

Vaguely, I recall Sunday mornings without Abbey and Dylan: long runs, hot showers, a nap in the middle of the day, cleaning the house to prepare for the upcoming week.

Responsibilities were cushioned with late brunches or nights wrapped around a warm mug of coffee at our favorite coffee shop.

Kids change the concept of a lazy Sunday.

After missing too many days at the gym, I hurried out this Sunday, throwing together a quick breakfast before leaving. Ryan and I talked briefly as I poured my coffee, and he rushed out the door for his soccer game.

Games and toys and puzzles and what seemed like a million beads were pulled from cupboards and baskets to litter the floor as I tried to contain the hurricane of toys propelled by two young children still in their pajamas at ten o’clock on a Sunday morning.

I realized my “safe” shelf in the downstairs linen closet was now reachable by Abbey’s growing arms when I came out of the shower to find Dylan playing his version of dress up.

The wood floors I’d steamed the day before were already showing the crumbs of meals eaten half in and half out of chairs, Dylan finding hilarity in pushing himself an arm’s length away from the table, precariously gripping the edge until Abbey or I got up to push him back to his placemat.

A bird lost its way into our chimney, unable to find its way out, flapping against the fireplace screen, scaring Dylan and fascinating Abbey, both of them unwilling to move from the living room or talk about anything else until it calmed down.

Around one o’clock, I could feel their energy levels reaching the fever pitch of kids dangerously close to lunch and nap time.

An image from Pinterest popped into my head, and I gambled that the novelty of hot dog octopuses would pique their interest and keep them at the dining room table for more than three minutes.

hot dogs and noodles-two favorites at our house

Ryan walked through the door as the spaghetti softened in boiling water, diffusing their energy to balance between the two of us, making it easier to burst into laughter when Dylan’s excitement about octopus arms slid to a halt when he figured out he was supposed to eat them.

cut raw hot dogs into segments, stick spaghetti through dogs

cook in boiling water for 7-8 minutes

Deftly, I slid food around plates, all of the octopuses on hers, all of the plain hot dogs on his. Over an hour later, we finally got them both dressed and out running errands.

Lazy Sundays will resume in approximately ten years.  Taking a nap in the middle of the day sounds lovely, but I might miss the octopuses.

Every MONDAY join us…
Write, Post, Link-Up, share your story and your voice.
Be part of carrying the weight of confidence, empowerment and share our mission to empower, inspire,
and remind women, parents and children
that the time has come to celebrate ourselves!

What gives you that “be enough” feeling?

Floundering

Snow fell in Michigan Friday, sparkling flakes that blew in the wind and barely coated the ground, brittle grass peeking through the white afghan.

We made tracks briefly as we walked to the car in the morning, but Abbey kept floating to the window, asking when we could go play in the snow. A simple request, especially considering it was the first real snow we’ve seen this year.

I dragged my heels, thinking of the pulling on of snow pants, the wrestling mittens onto Dylan’s unwilling hands, the way the cold would sneak through the loose knit of my grey cap.

Dylan resisted his nap, finally falling asleep an hour after I expected; I exhaled, calculating that darkness would be creeping into the sky by the time he awoke.

Cloaked in guilt, my shoulders sagged.

I’ve been floundering lately, inexplicably on the verge of tears, feeling overwhelmed despite being more on top of my streamlined responsibilities than I have in months. Instead of appreciating the fifty-four items checked off my list, I’m focusing on the two stragglers that remain unfinished. 

My patience is thin.

I avoided playing in the snow.

Abbey crawled in my lap to read a book, looking sadly at Dylan’s closed door, as though it was his fault that we weren’t bundled against the cold. Her weight on my legs surprises me lately, the way I have to strain around the soft hair that once fit so compactly against my chest.

There won’t be many more Januaries where she and Dylan are home with me, excepting a few hours of preschool each week. There won’t be many more Januaries where they look to their snow pants with excitement and not disdain for such juvenile trappings.

Pushing back my hesitation, I slid her off my lap, pulling jackets and snow pants and hats and mittens and gloves out of the closet, readying them for the moment Dylan began stirring in his room.

Gleefully, they played in the inch of snow, Abbey making snow angel after snow angel, not caring if she was on the grass or the driveway. Dylan shadowed her, cheeks reddening as dusk threatened to slide into darkness.

I wish I could end with the fading light, our moments of laughter crowding out the anxiety hovering somewhere in my chest.

But Dylan’s tantrum on having to go inside was epic.

Our public school district is moving to all-day kindergarten, which doesn’t affect us now but may change our plans for next year.

I need new running shoes.

All little bumps that shouldn’t add up to much stress at all.

My brain knows this.

But as rain turned to sleet outside my window today, tears pricked behind my eyes, reminding me that this feeling wasn’t so simply exorcised.

And I’m not sure why.

 

Thanks to Shell for Pour Your Heart Out.

I needed it this week.

Where Doubt & Bliss Collide

I've traveled to Nashville countless times. I've made the journey playing with my Speak & Spell in the very back seat of my parents' minivan, napping on a plane, and driving down with our kids and hoping they wouldn't freak out in the middle of the night.  My grandparents retired there years and years ago, and my Nan still lives there, along with an aunt, an uncle, and a cousin.

This February I'll be making the drive again, my kids strapped securely in their seats.  We're already anticipating our visit with my grandma, and Abbey is talking about the pool, but this trip will be different.

For a few days, I'm taking a detour, only a few miles from where we've stayed so many times before.  Abbey and Dylan will bask in the attention of my parents and Nan, without Mommy looking at her watch around naptime or rationing the juice, and I'll set up camp at the Gaylord Opryland for a few days of Bliss.

My first blog conference.

Writing sessions and Life Development sessions jump out at me from the screen; I'm motivated just reading about them. (And can't decide between all of them.  Help!)

Friends I've e-mailed and texted and chatted with on Twitter.  People whose blogs I've read and people whose blogs I haven't.  All of us gathered together to energize our blogs and ourselves.

My first blog conference.

Hundreds of bloggers and writers and photographers in one place.  Bloggers I admire and writers who bring me to laughter and tears with their words.  Photographers who create images I would be thrilled to frame and hang in my home.

I am terrified.

Doubts nag at me as I think about business cards and packing lists and what in the world I am going to do when no one talks to me.

Fear hides behind doubt, subtler and harder to face.

I'm afraid to walk into a room and call myself a writer, without the safety of my laptop to hide behind. 

I've called myself a writer here.  But I'm doing it from the safety of my house, with the power of the backspace key and the time to step back and edit and then, finally, put my heart out for the world to read.

This feels different, and I am afraid.

Dreams that are beautiful and possible and close enough to touch from the familiarity of my desk can seem to grow insurmountable in the dazzling light of day.

I've buried this dream before, this dream of making writing something more than a hobby.  I've let my doubts and my fear crowd together, and I've stepped aside and taken other roads instead of facing my fear.

I don't want to live like that any longer.

I've taken baby steps back to this path, and now it's time to take a leap forward.

So I will pack my suitcase with my sparkly cardigan and my best attempt at comfy shoes, and I will walk into that conference with a (nervous) smile.

(And I will do it with my wonderful friend Kir.  Because I've never had a single doubt about finally getting to meet her.)

who wouldn't want to hang out with such a cool girl, right?

Every MONDAY join us…
Write, post, link-up, share your story and your voice. Be part of carrying the weight of confidence and share our mission
to empower, inspire, and remind women, parents and children
that the time has come to celebrate ourselves!

What gives you that “be enough” feeling?

The Elevator Scrooge

Scrooges confuse me, too

Lights are twinkling on our tree, and I’m curled up on our couch, filled with pizza and a little wine and the contented feeling built on conversation with close friends.


We spent the day reading Abbey’s new Christmas book and making hair bows at a play date, and I finally felt like I was able to breathe and enjoy the chill in the air that signals it’s time to remember my scarf each time I leave the house.


Yet a few things linger in my mind, prompting me to purge my thoughts in the hope that they’ll be exorcised and allow me to enjoy my chopped-off-at-the-top tree with only the holiday spirit brewing in my mind.

Dylan and I waited patiently near the elevator door at our bookstore today, and anyone who’s been shopping with Dylan knows that patiently waiting isn’t his usual shopping demeanor.


When he happily says, “Tank oo” as the elevator doors opened and hold onto the rail on the side of the wall, it is a little out of line, Ms. Lady-on-the-Elevator, to shoot him a withering glance and say, “Well, THAT’S not necessary.”


He may not understand, but I do, and it makes me want to press the stop button on the elevator and make you late for your next stop.


Please know, as I attempt to explain to my daughter that the candy canes in the end cap are cherry and not mint, it is only partially an accident when my cart bumps into your rear end as you cut in front of me in the awkward line at the grocery store.

As an ambulance screams down the street and I pull over to the side and slow to a stop, don’t shake your arms and yell at me. I can see you in my rearview mirror.


I know it takes me a while to load groceries into a car and two kids into car seats. Honking at me as you wait for my parking spot doesn’t make wrestling a toddler in a winter coat any easier.


Holiday shopping and waiting in lines and driving in extra traffic are the dark side of the holiday hustle and bustle, and I know they can be annoying. And really, these things that struck me as utterly rude at the time really aren’t that terrible.


Still, as I run my errands tomorrow, I will try to smile and hope I’m not on someone else’s list of exasperating holiday shoppers.

Celebrating Victories with Cake

along with a birthday cake, my parents got a new kitchen this September

my dad's birthday celebration happened in the living room

cake tastes good anywhere

My dad is a cancer survivor.

Thanks to successful chemotherapy and radiation treatments, he beat cancer and has been cancer free for over twenty years.

That's more than twenty birthdays and more than twenty birthday cakes since a frightening diagnosis.

The American Cancer Society believes birthdays are special:

We believe every birthday you celebrate is a victory. Another year that cancer has not prevailed. Your birthday means everything to us. That's why we're dedicated to creating a world with less cancer and more birthdays. Thanks in part to our work, 11 million cancer survivors will celebrate another birthday this year. But we can't stop there. With your help, we can create a world with even more celebrations, more laughter, and more birthdays for all. Join us.

Every September 29th, my dad celebrates another victory.  I can't imagine my life without him, and I would love it if you would watch this video (it's under a minute!) and help The American Cancer Society fight for more birthdays.




This post is sponsored by American Cancer Society.
All thoughts and opinions expressed are my own.

I Never Knew I Could Miss Shoes

Sitting patiently on the stairs near the back door, my running shoes have been lonely lately.

 

Please visit me over at Just.Be.Enough. today, where I'm hosting the weekly link-up.  I'm talking about why I haven't been running and how I feel about that.