Tangly yarn and lots of love

  

          My middle child has a blanket- well it used to be a blanket anyway.  When she was just a few months old she became very attached to a beautiful handmade blanket crocheted lovingly my grandmother just for her.  It was a regular sized blanket and my little one wanted to carry it with her everywhere we went.  

Between the diaper bag full of: toys, extra clothes, snacks, wipes, and diapers for both her and her brother –and- the car seats all three of my children had to be buckled into whenever we went anywhere, I could not handle having to cart around a big blanket too.  So, I had my grandma and my mom both crochet a few “blanket squares.”  They were portable versions of the big security blanket and thankfully, my daughter soon took to them.  It wasn’t long before she grew to love the blanket squares even more than the original full sized blanket.  Soon we had blanket squares in various colors all over the house.   

Her favorite blanket squares were made by my mom.  There were two of them.  They were a dusty pink color and eventually all others were either lost or cast aside in favor of the most special ones which came to be affectionately known as the “Mama Bankies” (after the name the kids call my mom).   Some years ago one of the “Mama Bankies” disappeared, leaving only one special blanket square left.  

Crocheted blankets are not the most durable things.  They are not designed to be carried around everywhere.  They are definitely not designed to have little fingers woven through them night after night after night….. even if there is something incredibly sweet and comforting and familiar in the feel and smell of the soft worn yarn.  

My daughter has fallen sleep with that marvelous “blanket” for nearly ten years now.  For the first eight years or so, she had the habit of sticking her fingers through the holes created by the crocheting and then sticking them into her mouth, sucking her fingers with the blanket hanging between her hand and her mouth.  Even after she quit sucking her fingers, the beloved “bankie” was wrapped around her fingers and held very close as she drifted off to sleep.  It still is.  Every night.

The bankie has been repaired countless times.   It has been re-crocheted, sewed, and then sort of patched around the outside in the hopes of keeping it together.  It is a sad sorry looking sight as all beloved blankets are eventually.  It is dirty even though we wash it often (very carefully), it is dingy, it is unraveling.  It is really just a tangled mass of faded pink yarn at this point.  Someday I fear that beloved piece of tangly yarn will finally disintegrate into nothingness right in my daughter’s hand as she grasps it in sleep.  

     

But for now it is loved.  So very loved.  And it is needed.  So VERY, VERY needed.   So I pray it is stronger and sturdier than looks......

A decade of fun!

            Today we celebrate a joyous event at our house!  Today, my middle child--the little girl who looks most like me, who is my most sensitive, most social, hardest-working, and a marvelously imaginative child-- is ten years old.  As I think about this milestone (I now have more children in the “double digits” than the single ones!), I can’t help but think about what life was like when I brought my second baby girl home from the hospital a decade ago…..  

The day we brought our third baby home-- big sister and big brother watch over her

             She came home to a big sister who was 4 years old and a big brother who was just a year and a half.  My life was very full and very busy!  Every day was a challenge that included juggling two little ones in diapers, nap times and sleep schedules that were never consistent, and demands of a pre-schooler, a (very active) toddler, and a newborn that seemed never to end.  But our third child just added more love and more joy to the happy chaos we were already accustomed to.  

I remember being asked, quite often back then, which transition was hardest to adjust to- the first child, the second, or the third.  It was not a difficult question.  For me, without a doubt, going from no children to one child was infinitely more difficult than any other adjustment in my life- ever.  In fact, I recently found an old journal I kept when my first child was just a few weeks old.  As I read my own words, I was struck by how hard the struggle was to find peace in my imperfect mothering.  I wanted so much to feel confident and to truly master the art of parenting.  The old journal made it all come rushing back and I wished I could tell that young new mother that I once was—to relax, trust in herself and just enjoy all that motherhood had to offer.  

Thankfully, by the time I welcomed my third beautiful baby, I had learned a lot.  I was much more relaxed, much more trusting in myself, and much, much better at laughing at and enjoying the ups and downs of motherhood.   

And, now, all these years later, I have learned that you NEVER really master this parenting stuff….but motherhood is an adventure that is **almost** all fun!        

****almost—which means, whenever I remember to relax, trust, laugh, and enjoy the happy chaos****

A disappointing win

            I normally do not like the summer reading programs our local libraries have each year.  The idea of bribing kids to read by rewarding them with little plastic toys or pieces of easily breakable junk just bothers me.   You can read my whole summer reading program manifesto here.

This summer though, my children learned about a library not too far away that offered free books as the prize for their reading program.  Since the premise behind this was one I agree whole-heartedly with (that the true reward of reading is the joy of reading), I allowed my kids to sign up.   All summer we drove passed the closest library, just five minutes from our home, to go the one that gave away free books.  It was about 25 minutes away but, for my children, I was willing to make the trek each week.

My children have all always loved books.  This summer, I noticed that my middle daughter, at nine years old, really took off in her reading for the first time though.  She used to prefer to be read to, but this summer she discovered the enjoyment of reading to herself.   
 This summer, she seemed always to have a book along with her.  Every night when I tucked her in, I’d find her curled up in bed with her nose in a book.   She would announce every few days that she had finished another great story and was anxious for a new one.   It was really cool to see her take off with her reading skills and join her older siblings in their favorite pastime of reading.  

The library's reading program ended last week.  It was a successful summer from our point of view.  We have lots of new books on our book shelves (so many we cannot shelve them neatly anymore) and we have a brand new voracious reader on our hands.  That was enough for us.  We were all happy.

Then, last Friday afternoon the phone rang.  It seemed my middle daughter’s name had been chosen for an end-of-the-summer-reading-program prize from the library.  We went to the library curious as to what the prize would be.  

As it turned out, not only did my daughter win a prize, she won THE prize, the grand prize of all the summer readers.  Her award?  The entire collection of Diary of a Wimpy Kid books.  Eight brand new hard cover books full of disrespect, crude humor, and bathroom references.

I may be *a little* picky about summer reading programs but I am *really, really, really* picky about my children’s choice of books.  Call me a literature snob—but Diary of a Wimpy Kid is not appropriate reading material for my children.  My daughter knew this and as we drove home with her new books stacked in a bag next to her, her little face showed nothing but disappointment.  

We have decided that this is not quite fair.   

No grand prize winner should be without a prize.   

No avid reader should be left with substandard stories.   

So Diary of A Wimpy Kid will be donated to someone who will appreciate their children reading anything.  And my little winner will be treated by Mommy and Daddy to a trip to Barnes and Noble for a few good books she can choose herself.... with final approval from the purchasers, of course.

Nine years ago....

             Nine years ago, March 5th happened to fall on Ash Wednesday.  When I woke up that morning, all I had planned was attending Mass and going to a doctor’s appointment.  I was pregnant with my third child and the doctor’s appointment was supposed to be only an ordinary pre-natal visit.  

Mass was fine, quiet and uneventful.  I received my ashes.  I’m sure I prayed for my unborn baby who was due in a few weeks.  Like so many things in life, and especially parenting, nothing else that day went according to my plan.

Off I went to my appointment, as Tim stayed home with our 4 year old daughter and 1½ year old son.  My pregnancy had been relatively normal up to then.  I had had not one, but two bouts with the stomach flu, probably due to the germs my oldest daughter picked up at pre-school and brought home to share with us all, but I had recovered from both illnesses pretty quickly.  The second one had been just a few weeks before and at the check-up following it, my doctor had noticed my belly measuring a little less than before.  Of course, babies (and bellies) are supposed to grow during pregnancy so she was a little concerned but I was not too worried.  They had done an ultrasound and found the fluid levels low and the baby a little on the small side but still active and healthy.  It had been a few weeks since then and baby had continued to be active.  I was not overly concerned about it as I entered the doctor's office that March 5th, nine years ago.  My doctor decided to do another ultrasound after measuring me again and finding the results not to her liking for a second time though.  There was some mention of intrauterine growth retardation and dangerously low fluid levels but what I remember most was the doctor coming in after that ultrasound and announcing, “That baby needs to come out now, he or she will be safer on the outside than on the inside.”

I drove home instead of straight to the hospital despite my doctor’s initial instructions.   I had to get my older children settled with a sitter, and get my bag for the hospital stay, and prepare myself emotionally to welcome my baby three weeks early and under unexpected, worrisome circumstances.  

My mom was supposed to be in town for baby’s arrival but her flight was not for two and half more weeks.  My neighbor who had agreed to be our back-up childcare was out of town and though she would be home that day, I wasn’t sure what time exactly.  Tears ran down my face as I drove along full of anxiety and fear.  Thankfully, the neighbor was in her driveway unpacking the car from her trip when I pulled up.  Tim and the kids were there too, talking and playing with the neighbor’s children.  “Better just stay there,” I told the kids, “mommy and daddy have to get to the hospital within the hour and go have a baby tonight.”

So we went.  Once I was dressed in my hospital gown, settled in a cozy room, and hooked up to all the tubes and wires- Pitocin, I.V. fluids, baby’s heart monitor, another monitor for the contractions- I finally stopped crying.  After that, it was actually a beautiful day.  Labor progressed nicely, I got my epidural before the pain was too bad, and delivery was a breeze.  We welcomed a beautiful baby girl with big brown eyes and a full head of black hair at 11:18 p.m.  She was 6 lbs. 9 oz. and was perfectly healthy and so, so sweet.  She spent the first month of her life sleeping almost constantly.  She was such an easy newborn, I decided all my babies should come three weeks early.

March 5^th, 2012 finds that tiny, sweet baby a big sister two times over (neither of her younger siblings cooperated with my plans either and I have never again had a baby come three weeks early).  She is now taller than all her friends and quite feisty when she wants to be but she is still a sweetie and still such a blessing in our lives.  Happy Birthday Pumpkin!

Family Reunion-- chaos and joy!

    Growing up, the third child in a family of four children, I had some “middle child” issues.  Sometimes, I felt a little left out.  Sometimes, I felt like the “black sheep” of the family.  I was always a little shyer than everyone else, a little nerdy-er than my popular, social sisters and brother.  Still, my family has always been pretty close.  And though I didn’t always feel like I fit in with my siblings, I have many wonderful memories from my childhood-- of family vacations together, family holiday celebrations, family parties and even plain, old family dinners at home. 
    This week, my whole family is in the same state for the first time in years.  We are celebrating my mom’s birthday with a family reunion.  My sisters arrived with their families over the weekend, but we have yet to be ALL together.  We are scattered along the Gulf Coast of Florida-- my brother & his family live in the Ft. Myers area and my closest-in-age sister is staying there with her family.  My parents live on beautiful Anna Maria Island and my oldest sister and her family are there.  My family, of course,  is here at home in Clearwater.  Even when we are all within a mere 3 hours of each other, it is hard to get together.  Thursday is the “official birthday party” but Tim has to work and cannot make it, my sister-in-law has jury duty and may be unable to attend also.  There are just always so many unavoidable things pulling us all in different directions.  Friday we have planned a family photo with EVERYONE in attendance.  We did this one other time, about 7 years ago, but between my sisters and I we have added 5 more children since then.  There will be 22 of us, all dressed in blue jeans and white shirts, hopefully smiling happily, despite the inevitable chaos of getting everyone ready and in the right place on time.  I am praying it will work out and we will get our picture.  It is what my mom wants most for her birthday, next to having all the whole family together to celebrate. 
    It has been two years since we have been able to pull off a whole family get together like this.  We celebrated my dad’s birthday in Gulf Shores, AL in 2008, renting a house that fit us all (only 20 ½ of us then, oh and my grandmother- so 21 ½.  If you count Ike, the hurricane that blew by a few hundred miles to the south, the number goes up to 22 1/2).  We had a whole week ALL together.  It was a wonderful week of happy chaotic fun.  My kids still talk about it all- swimming with their cousins, staying over night together, and playing, playing, playing.   One afternoon , my sisters, mom, and I talked about leaving the men with the kids and hitting the outlet malls.  Our husbands warned us if we tried it they’d give the kids beer and cigars all afternoon.  Of course, we assumed they were joking.  A few days later we followed through on our shopping plans, only to come back to pictures of the kids all lined up on the front steps holding plastic beer cups and cigars, as promised.  My nieces and nephews were happy to pose, excited about holding cigars and pretending to drink beer.  My own children were traumatized by the whole event though the cigars were wrapped in plastic and the cups were completely empty.  Years ago I would have seen this as another example of me being a little different but this time, Tim and I just laughed.  It was nice to know we were raising our kids with such strong views of right and wrong that they were afraid to go along with the joke, but it was just a joke, and a funny one at that! 
    Anyway, I’m not sure any of us appreciated our growing up years when we were all under the same roof-me, least of all- but now I can see just how precious time together truly is.  Despite our differences, I am so very grateful for the family God has made me a part of.  And, I am looking forward to all the memories we will make together this time around!

In the middle

        Growing up I was the middle child in my family.  I mean, technically because their were four of us, I was not exactly the middle child.  I was third and mathematically speaking there was no actual middle but I always felt like the middle child.  I was not one of the oldest so I felt left out by my two sisters.  I was not the youngest.  My younger brother, the only boy in our family, had that honor.  So, at least emotionally speaking, I was the real middle child.  And my behavior and self esteem reflected that in every way.  I was sensitive, cried easily and was teased by my siblings all the time.
    Now I am all grown up.  I do not cry very often (at least not because of things my siblings do or say to me).  I have not been teased much lately unless you count Tim’s silly flirtatious joking, which though it is teasing, is flattering and enjoyable.  Now instead of being one of the kids, I am the mother.
    Of all my children only one looks just like me, my seven and a half year old daughter.  My middle child.  She has inherited not only my dark curly hair and brown eyes but also my middle child status and my sensitivity.  I am very strict about not allowing any teasing in my house, but somehow it happens anyway.  And being the middle child, and the most sensitive, my little look-a-like tends to be the victim.  She may be sensitive but she is also feisty and has held her own around here pretty well up to now.  Lately, though, she seems to be struggling a little more.  She seems to be more easily frustrated, more easily provoked.   It just isn’t easy to be the middle child.  I know.  I still remember.
    I have been a lot more aware of her struggles lately.  I have been watching her while she interacts with her siblings and friends and I see so much of me in her.  I see her trying so hard.  Trying to fit in, trying to get attention, trying to feel special.  I see her trying to mother her baby sister, who clearly prefers big sister #1 if mommy is not around.  I see her getting frustrated with school when she watches her older brother do his work effortlessly as she struggles to master her spelling words and tries to read chapter books that she is just not quite ready for.   I see her enviously watching her little brother as we cheer for his reading successes, which consist of about 7 page Hooked on Phonics books.  I can see that she feels like she is in the shadow of her talented older siblings who get all the privileges and her super cute younger siblings who are praised just because they are little.    

     So, how does a sympathetic mother make the middle child see what a beautiful and special little girl she is?  Amazingly, it is not so hard.  I have noticed, as I watch her with the other kids, that she, herself, shines with even the smallest amount of praise and attention.  A note from daddy telling her she is a great kid.  A hug from mommy when she finally aces a spelling test.  An invitation  to be my little helper when I bake home made bread.  A chance to help keep an eye on the baby while I grade math workbooks.  It doesn’t take much to make her feel special, just a little acknowledgement, just a little encouragement.  But, though it doesn’t seem like much to me, it means the world to her to know she is loved and valued.  I know.  I still remember.