This week has been full of cute and sweet moments.
Mak:
(Sorry for the TMI, but Mak is obsessed with his penis and the word penis.)
Tuesday (to a fellow 2-year-old):
"Do you have a penis? I have a penis." At which point, the little boy began to show him his. I am very glad we caught this before it escalated into anything more.
Tuesday night (right after Brian walked in the door at 5pm):
"**** has a penis, I have a penis, you have a penis. I need to see a penis." We are schooling heavily on "private" parts and keeping them covered.
Wednesday morning, before school:
"Sophia, I have two cars, a button, and a penis."
Wednesday afternoon:
Me: "Mak, did you poop? I smell poop."
Mak: "Nope. Maybe it's just pizza."
Me: "Nope. Pretty much smells yucky. Pretty much smells like poop."
Mak: "Nope. Pretty much smells like pizza."
After the diaper change, he made me show him his poop to prove that it really wasn't pizza. Forthelove.
Wednesday night:
Me: "Mak, what's in my belly?"
Mak: "A BABY!"
Me: "What kind of baby?"
Mak: "A red and green one!"
Let's hope not.
Today: Soph, in time out. Crying. Mak walks up to her, crouches down, rubs her back, and tells her, "It will be alright. Calm down. It's ok. I'm right here. It's ok. I'm here now." Moment pretty much rocked, even though I usually make them leave each other alone during time out. My heart melted.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Saturday, February 12, 2011
The date
Ever get so consumed by your roles that forget the rest?
Under all of the practicality, the eye cream, and hair smoothers, the dental floss and concealer, I'm still a girl that wants to be dated. I still want someone to look at me with a little wonder in his eyes, wondering if he'll kiss me. I still want someone to reach for my hand, to tell me I look great, to say I smell good. I still want someone to remind the waiter of the water I'm waiting for without me asking him to do it.
It's so few and far between that these dates happen, yet when they do, they change me. Make me into a better housekeeper, better helper, better mom, a more patient person, more kind. I have more tolerance for my husband's faults after he's taken me on a good date. I feel giddy the next time the next time he reaches for my hand.
In this rapid trip toward aging and middle age, these dates reverse the clock for me. They make me feel 17, again. They make me feel young and vibrant and happy. If only the men in our lives knew how easy it would be to recreate this; if only they believed it was so simple.
A little noticing, a little hand holding, a little eye contact and laughter at something we say would surely do wonders. Let's hope a guy reads this and takes notes. We all know the dividends it would pay....
Under all of the practicality, the eye cream, and hair smoothers, the dental floss and concealer, I'm still a girl that wants to be dated. I still want someone to look at me with a little wonder in his eyes, wondering if he'll kiss me. I still want someone to reach for my hand, to tell me I look great, to say I smell good. I still want someone to remind the waiter of the water I'm waiting for without me asking him to do it.
It's so few and far between that these dates happen, yet when they do, they change me. Make me into a better housekeeper, better helper, better mom, a more patient person, more kind. I have more tolerance for my husband's faults after he's taken me on a good date. I feel giddy the next time the next time he reaches for my hand.
In this rapid trip toward aging and middle age, these dates reverse the clock for me. They make me feel 17, again. They make me feel young and vibrant and happy. If only the men in our lives knew how easy it would be to recreate this; if only they believed it was so simple.
A little noticing, a little hand holding, a little eye contact and laughter at something we say would surely do wonders. Let's hope a guy reads this and takes notes. We all know the dividends it would pay....
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Slow it down, savor it.
It's so funny how life experiences, that remain mostly the same over time, change as you age. With my first pregnancy, I wanted it to go fast, fast, fast. I wanted her to come early, wanted her to eat foods early, wanted her to crawl early, talk early. I wanted to get to the next milestone before we hit the first.
I'm older, wiser (I'd like to think). I love the Bible's reference to Caleb's "ripe" old age. I hope I'm ripening. I know I have a long way to go. There is nothing worse than a peach that is consumed before its flesh has softened and sweetened with time. And, while it takes patience to wait for something to ripen, I think that's what I'm gaining now. Patience for others, patience for myself.
I can wait. I want to. I want to relish the moments when I feel this baby's swooshing flips in my belly. I want to enjoy the times I dream of who he or she will be. I want to imagine what color their eyes will be, or if they will have hair when they're born, or dream of what their new baby grunts will sound like. I want to ready my heart, to get it to a place where I will enjoy every moment, savor it, even the sleeplessness.
I can say for me that in immaturity, there seems to be a sense of entitlement: of searching for a husband, wanting to be married; of wanting to own a house, or a car, or take trips; of wanting a baby, to start a family. None of these things are bad, it's in the wanting that they can be corrupted.
Life has changed me. Although I still want, I also know that the bigger blessings lie in the savoring. The striving, pushing to gain what you don't have, changes the blessing into an entitlement, a gain. Something you've earned, worked for. So then, it can't be a true blessing. It has become a paycheck. How we diminish what is beautiful in our life by making it our reward for our hard work. I have learned that, if we let ourselves see it, everything is a gift. Even the hard work without gain. Even the suffering.
This baby is a gift. It came nearly unexpectedly after a loss. The loss is bittersweet in that, should I have never experienced it, I wouldn't have this baby now. I wouldn't be slowing getting to know this tiny being growing in my belly and loving it. How do you choose one blessing over another?
I'm so thankful for the suffering of the loss. I learned that the plans that have been laid for my life are good, are purposeful, but also enable me to counter loss with blessings. If there was no loss, how would we know to call "good" "good"? How would I recognize the happy times if there were no sad times to compare them against?
This baby is good. This baby is a gift. This baby was wished for, prayed for, hoped for, but was never an entitlement. This baby is direct evidence of a wonderful, lavish God who redeems loss. I thank Him, because opening this gift has been even more wonderful than before: I know now how perfectly it all is a miracle. I know that no work on my part achieved it. And I won't scarf down this meal; I plan to savor it. Every bite.
I'm older, wiser (I'd like to think). I love the Bible's reference to Caleb's "ripe" old age. I hope I'm ripening. I know I have a long way to go. There is nothing worse than a peach that is consumed before its flesh has softened and sweetened with time. And, while it takes patience to wait for something to ripen, I think that's what I'm gaining now. Patience for others, patience for myself.
I can wait. I want to. I want to relish the moments when I feel this baby's swooshing flips in my belly. I want to enjoy the times I dream of who he or she will be. I want to imagine what color their eyes will be, or if they will have hair when they're born, or dream of what their new baby grunts will sound like. I want to ready my heart, to get it to a place where I will enjoy every moment, savor it, even the sleeplessness.
I can say for me that in immaturity, there seems to be a sense of entitlement: of searching for a husband, wanting to be married; of wanting to own a house, or a car, or take trips; of wanting a baby, to start a family. None of these things are bad, it's in the wanting that they can be corrupted.
Life has changed me. Although I still want, I also know that the bigger blessings lie in the savoring. The striving, pushing to gain what you don't have, changes the blessing into an entitlement, a gain. Something you've earned, worked for. So then, it can't be a true blessing. It has become a paycheck. How we diminish what is beautiful in our life by making it our reward for our hard work. I have learned that, if we let ourselves see it, everything is a gift. Even the hard work without gain. Even the suffering.
This baby is a gift. It came nearly unexpectedly after a loss. The loss is bittersweet in that, should I have never experienced it, I wouldn't have this baby now. I wouldn't be slowing getting to know this tiny being growing in my belly and loving it. How do you choose one blessing over another?
I'm so thankful for the suffering of the loss. I learned that the plans that have been laid for my life are good, are purposeful, but also enable me to counter loss with blessings. If there was no loss, how would we know to call "good" "good"? How would I recognize the happy times if there were no sad times to compare them against?
This baby is good. This baby is a gift. This baby was wished for, prayed for, hoped for, but was never an entitlement. This baby is direct evidence of a wonderful, lavish God who redeems loss. I thank Him, because opening this gift has been even more wonderful than before: I know now how perfectly it all is a miracle. I know that no work on my part achieved it. And I won't scarf down this meal; I plan to savor it. Every bite.
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