Flashback

Yesterday, dropping Griffin off at school was a sweet experience.  It is not always so...actually, it is not usually so.  Most of the time it is hectic and rushed with a dose of tongue lashing thrown in.  We are dealing with my Griffin, after all. 

My Griffin who marches to his own drummer.  My Griffin who would rather be in the present moment than preparing for a future one.  My Griffin who has trouble staying on task.  My Griffin who forgets important details--alot.  Details like--oh, I don't know--lunches, homework, jackets, books, underwear...those sorts of details.  My Griffin who, by the time we reach school, makes me want to pull all my hair out, dance crazy on it, and take a Xanex.

But that wasn't the case yesterday.  Yesterday, when he got out of the car after his sister, he said, as he usually does, "I love you, Mom,"  and as I watched him walk away, the view of his untied shoes, legs that are quickly outgrowing his pants, and that rooster tail on the back of his little red head pierced my heart with an aching tenderness.  Before I could stop myself, I honked the horn.  He turned, his face a question mark until I blew him a kiss, and fast as lightening his hand shot out to grab it, his expression turning to delight.  Our little sign from preschool days, remembered.

In that flash, I glimpsed that little person, my baby boy:  He is still there.  I could see him.  And he is, always to be, My Griffin.

Soccer 2010

It's over. (Sigh of relief.)  It's not that I don't like soccer...well, maybe I don't like soccer.  But as long as my kids like soccer I'll be out there.  Even if I alledgedly say something like, "Hey, Griff!  I did not come out here to watch you stand around."  Maybe I might have said that...once. 

 

Funnies

On Saturday, as we were shopping for Father's Day:

Logan:  ugh...we're not going in there! (Seeing Bed, Bath, and Beyond.)

Me:  No.  I've got to go into the next store and see if I can find some shoes for Daddy.

Logan:  Shoes?

Me:  Yeah.  He said he needed some new shoes.

Logan:  Can we get some with taps on them?



Yesterday, while watching a History Channel program on the Revolutionary War:

Griffin:  C'mon!  We just gotta' win!...Mom, do we?  Do we win?

Celebration

Last night, when Mr. Wicke got home from work, we took our little family out for a end-of-the-school-year celebration.  Logan had reached her personal goal of breaking 700% for her assigned reading goal and Griffin...well, Griffin had improved his classroom deportment from near-criminal to at least acceptable.  We'll take what we can get.

I had to laugh when a friend told me that her son got a yellow card (gasp!) the other day, an unheard of incident in their household.  So unheard of, actually, that when--as she was tucking him into bed--she asked if he had gotten a green card that day and he shook his head, she automatically responded with a delighted, "Did you get a purple card?"  See, that made me laugh right out loud.  Really hard.  Of course she'd ask that.  He has actually received a few of those commendations.  I, on the other hand, didn't even know purple cards existed!

But, I have to hand it to my Griffin.  He's come a long way this year.  No more sticks.  No more special timer.  Only a couple of (well-deserved) yellow cards in the last couple of months.  And that is to say nothing of his academic performance which has always been excellent.  We are very proud of him.  I give him a purple card in my heart; how about that?

And Logan, as her teacher announced yesterday at their class awards program, received the "Voracious Reader" award; according to the computer's count, she has read 944,000 words in her outside reading this year!  Her teacher told me we should be very proud as that was an outstanding accomplishment, and we are.

So pleased, in fact, that we celebrated with bean and cheese burritoes, quesedillas, and churros at Rubios.  Then it was off to the mall where they each picked a Webkinz.  If ever I let Logan choose a reward, she suggests a Webkinz, and Griffin follows along in her footsteps.  Logan chose the Portuguese Water Dog (us and the Obama's) and Griffin got the Golden Retriever.  I'm not sure how many Webkinz Logan needs before she reaches the saturation point, but so far we have not met it.  She is "collecting" them, as she told us very matter-of-factly.

And while she is busy collecting stuffed animals, I am collecting a heartful of memories.  Yesterday, when I bumped into a couple of women from church, they both commented how they would love to go back to when their kids were little again.  How those were the sweetest, golden years.  I thought of that while I watched Griffin's end of year slide show that he brought home yesterday, and I got a little teary-eyed.  All those happy moments come and gone. 

Already my children are changing.  Learning.  Growing.  Exactly as they should be.  Yet I know it is just a blink and a breath before the children in front of my eyes are gone.  In just a couple of years, she won't love Webkinz anymore.  And Griffin, while still having a mischievous twinkle in his eye, will no longer poke his teacher's bottom (I HOPE!) or come home covered in mud.  I cannot stop it, but I can celebrate it.  We can celebrate the milestones, the happy moments, the changes, and the growth. 

There is never too much celebration.  Never too much of telling them how proud we are to be their parents.  Never, never too much love.

Spring: Officially Broken In (the finale)

I was jumpy.  Like a battle weary soldier who expects another attack at any moment.  Every ten minutes I took the temperature of the situation.  "How's everybody doing?  Logan?  Good?  Griffin?  Emily?  Everybody good?  Okay.  Just checking."

Ten minutes later, "Griffin, Logan, Emily?  Everybody still doing alright?  Okay.  Good."

Ten minutes after that, "Everybody still feeling alright?  Logan?  Griffin?  Emily!"  Catching her reflection in the riewview mirror, I saw her holding the licorice bucket, which I, by the grace of Heaven, had left accidentally near her.  "Ems.  Why are you holding that bucket?  Are you feeling sick?"

"No," she meekly answered.

"But...why are you holding that bucket?"  I was confused.  "Are you going to throw up?"

"No," she quietly answered again.

"But..."

Griffin piped up, "She already did."

"What?!  Emily!  Why didn't you say anything?!"  She is the first stealth puker I have ever encountered.  I hadn't heard a thing.  "Mercy!  You have got to tell me when you feel sick, honey," I said as I again pulled over.  I opened her door.  "Watch out Griff," I instructed as I popped his seat forward.  "Here, honey.  Hand me that.  You can't have a bucket of vomit on your lap all the way home."  Without a word, she shyly handed it over.  I dumped it and cleaned it out.  Wet wipes have won my heart forever. "Do you want to get out?  Walk around for a little bit?  Get some fresh air?" 

"No," she quietly replied.

"Okay, no.  You  need to get out and get some air.  C'mon.  Walk around a little bit."  Griffin gladly bounded out to join her.  After a few minutes I asked, "Okay, Ems.  You feeling a little better?"

She nodded.

"Alright then.  Let's get back in the car.  You want to sit up front?"

She shook her head.

"Okay, no.  I shouldn't have phrased that in the form of a question.  You need to sit up front.  Okay?  Okay.  Logan, honey?  Move.  Emily needs to sit there."

We made the necessary seating adjustments and were off once again.  For the next ten miles I ruminated over the oddities of the whole situation.  Finally I couldn't take it anymore.  "Emily.  Emily," I repeated as I pulled the earphone out of her ear.  "Am I scarey?"

She just looked at me with her big eyes.

"I mean are you afraid I'm going to get mad?  Like, 'Arrrrrrrgh!'" I said growling at her.

She giggled and shook her head.

"You know I love you, right?"

She nodded.

"You know that if anything happened to your mommy or daddy I would take care of you like one of my own babies, right?"

She nodded.

"Okay then, you need to talk to me.  I know you get shy around everybody else, but I've known you since you were born, and I think I've seen you almost every day since.  If there is a problem, you've got to tell me.  Maybe you don't talk to everybody else, but you talk to me, okay?"

She nodded.

"Nope.  I'm waiting for words here.  You are actually going to have to say some words."

"Okay."

"Okay!  We're going to shake on it, right?  We have a deal, right?  From here on out."

As I reached over, took her hand, and shook it hard, she responded with a simple, "Okay."  She put her earphone back in, and I quietly shook my head.  Sometimes dealing with children is like unwrapping an inigma inside a conundrum.

It was only a few miles before the sites of Mesa began springing up around us.  In that time I reflected over the events of the last few days.  Looking at it with my adult brain, I considered the possibility that we may have been better off staying at home.  Perhaps we had bitten off more than we could chew here.

As we pulled into our subdivision (and never had it looked so good to me) I turned off the sound, flipped up the TV and said, "Okay, guys.  On a scale of 1-10, how much fun did you have on your vacation?"

"A 10!" Logan enthusiastically yelled.

I admit, I was shocked.  I was leaning toward a 4.

"An 11!" Griffin cheered.

"A 9," Emily added.

"Did you miss your mom a little bit?" I questioned.

"Yeah."

"Yeah.  I get that.  But if your mom had to work anyway and you could have been at home or the cabin, which would it be?"

"The cabin!" she smiled.

And that's when I knew with certainty that children and adults do not see the world in the same way.  Not at all.  And that's a great thing.  Because while I take away some battle scars from this trip, they are simply taking away great memories.  And that makes it all worth it.  Every little bit.

Spring: Officially Broken In (part 3)

The stop seemed to do Lincoln some good, and he was more content as we began driving again. I was just starting to breathe easier when I heard Logan from the back, "Mom. I don't feel good."

"Oh, no. Okay. Come on up front. Look at the road. Griffin, hand me that tub. Take deep breaths honey."

She fought off the nausea, and it wasn't too long before she reported that she felt better, but then she said, "Uh, Mom?  Emily's trying to talk to you?" referring to her best friend that was riding along with us.

"What?" I couldn't hear her clearly.

"Emily is trying to talk to you."

"Oh, sorry, Em. What did you say?" I heard only muffled phrases from the far back seat. "What?"

This time I heard her loud and clear: "I just threw up."

"What?!"  No warning.  No I-don't-feel-good.  Just threw up?  "Oh, my goodness. Okay...Okay...um, just a minute, and I'll find a place to pull off." I figured I'd better let Jen know in the car ahead and called her. "Hey, Jen. Yeah, I'm going to have to pull over. Em just threw up," I said scanning the roadside for a possible stop.

"Oh, no. Is it bad?" she questioned.

"I don't know. I can't see back there."

"Well, do you want me to stop?"

Truthfully I did, but realistically, what could they do?  Moral support at best, right?  "No. That's okay. We'll be fine." I felt brave just saying it. I spotted a little grassy outturn and slowly pulled over as I hung up. "Okay. Don't worry, Em. Everything is going to be fine. Just let me get back there," I said as I stepped out of the van. Walking around, I pulled open the opposite door, and said, "Alright, kids. Get out so I can get back there. I pulled the seat forward, and my bravery fled.

She was covered in vomit. How a child can throw up that much so silently is still beyond my comprehension. It was all down her shirt. Some of it was still cupped in her hand. It was covering her blanket, pooling between her legs and all over the floor. At that moment I looked up and saw Erin, in the third car, blow past us.

"There they go," I said to no one in particular, but watching their vehicle disappear into the distance I knew with a certainty that comes in specific moments of motherhood that I was indeed the mom.  You know how I knew?  No one else was going to clean up this mess.  No matter how gross is was.

I looked into Emily's eyes, those big, imploring eyes, and said--both to her and to me-- "Aw, honey.  It's going to be just fine.  Don't you worry."  But as I looked for any useful items in the car, I realized just how unprepared I was.  I had wet wipes.  That's it.  "You know what?  We are going to have you cleaned up in a jiff.  I have got to have a plastic bag in here somewhere...don't I?  Don't I?" I said as I looked under seats, in the glove compartment, in the stowaway bin, in the door pockets...nada.  "My kingdom for a plastic bag!"

"Mom.  The baby's crying."

"Yes, Logan.  Thank you.  I am well aware of that."  How could I not be?  Every time a car whizzed past, he screamed with fright.  There were a lot of cars.  The noise, the smell, it was all a little too much.  "Okay.  Okay." I just had to figure out what to do.  I pulled the baby out of his carseat.  "Logan, you watch the baby way over here," I said, plopping him in a patch of grass far away from the road.  "You keep him here and don't let him anywhere near the street.  Can you do that?"  She assured me that she could.  "Okay.  Now there has got to be something useful back here," I stated assuredly as I opened the trunk.  Rummaging through the box of food I had brought to the cabin, I found a package of hotdog buns.  "Okay.  This will work," I declared flinging hotdog buns over my shoulder.

"Mom!  What are you doing?" Griffin demanded.  "Why are you throwing those away?"

"Because I need the bag, son."  As if wasted food was my biggest problem.

"But--but--I could have eaten those."

I stared at him incredulously.  "You want a hotdog bun?"

"Yeah."

"Right now?"

"Yeah."

I snorted derisively.  Spotting one bun lodged in the twiggy branches of a stubby tree, I said, "There's one in that tree.  Do you want that one?"

"Yeah."

Shaking my head in disbelief was the only argument I could muster.  "Fine.  You want to eat a hotdog bun out of tree?  Fine by me," I said as I dislodged it and handed it to him.  "Go to it.  And leave me alone for a minute," I added.

Griffin was busy munching on stale bread; the baby and Logan were busy inspecting wildflowers and blades of grass; time to get to work.  "Okay, Em.  Why don't we get rid of that blanket first..." I removed it gingerly and tossed it outside.  "Alrighty.  Hmmm...where to begin?" I started dabbing at her with the wet wipes.  They seemed incredibly small.  A thousand wetwipes later, we had her cleaned up well enough to get her out of the vehicle.  "Okay.  You stand right there for a minute, and I'm going to find you some other clothes.  You'll feel a lot better in no time," I added as I unpacked the trunk.  Of course her bag had to be at the bottom.  I couldn't help but wonder at the sight we must have been making.  Kids everywhere.  Bags everywhere.  Other travelers must have talked about us for at least two miles.

Having finally found another change of clothes, I said, "Okay, sweetie.  Let's just get these dirty clothes off of you.  Careful now.  Let's try not to get it in your hair."  I cleaned her up as best as I could.  The person who invented wet wipes deserves a Nobel Peace Prize.

"Hey.  That's better.  Right, Em?"  She nodded.  "Well, you go over there with Logan while I take care of the rest of this, okay?"  She ran off and I stared into the backseat of hell and tried to think of anything else.  That's the key when dealing with vomit.  You just can't think about it.  Taking a deep breath of fresh air, I cowgirled up.  "Okay.  Let's go," I said to no one but myself.

After cleaning off the blaket as well as I could, I put it and the dirty clothes in the hotdog bag.  I pulled out the booster seat and the floor mat, and was thrilled to discover that none had gotten in the carpet.  I wiped down the leather seats (which have been worth every penny, I might add) and the wall, and then finding a water bottle half-full, used the rest of its contents as sparingly as possible to clean both the booster and floor mat.  It was at this point, while on my hands and knees cleaning out the grooves of my all-weather car mat with a wet wipe that I noticed the girls had wandered away leaving my baby to crawl dangerously toward the street.

"Logan!" I scolded as I picked up baby Licoln.  "You are supposed to be watching him!"

"Why do I have to do everything?!" she whined.

(I'll let the irony of that statement just settle for a moment.)

"I tell you what," I barked. "I'll trade you!  I'll watch the baby and you can come and clean up vomit.  Okay?  How does that sound?"  On the Richter Scale of Irritation I was at a 9.0.

She was silent.

"Alright,"  I said through clenched teeth.  "You keep him with you and don't take your eyes off of him.  I am almost done."

I finished as best as I could, repacked the car and called the kids.  "Alright kids.  Let's get going.  Back in the car.  Emily?  Do you want to ride in front?"

"No," she responded quietly.

"Okay, but let's put you right in the middle so you can see the road, alright?  How does that sound."

And we were off.  Again.  Almost home.

...but I forgot.  Almost only counts in hand grenades and horseshoes.

(to be continued...)

Spring: Officially Broken In (part 2)

I had a feeling it was going to be bad when the older children went home early with their friends leaving me with five children under eight in my vehicle. I suspected it could be a very long three hours, but as I told the other moms the night before, "It's probably going to be fine. You know how you visualize the worst case scenario? That's probably what I'm doing, and in reality it's going to be fine."

It was worse than the worse case scenario.

Just getting out of town took 45 minutes. First we had to haul the garbage out as there is no garbage service at the cabin, which is really no problem except that one of the bags flew off the roof of my car. The good and bad of caravaning is that someone was behind me to retrieve it. Good for me, bad for them.

Next was a stop for gas. While filling up the cars, Erin informed us that her tire pressure light was on. Luckily I always carry a tire gauge (in the glove compartment, not my pocket), and after a quick inspection found that two of her tires were indeed slightly low. "Just pull over to the air station, and I'll put some air in for you if you want," I offered. I pulled in and parked, turning in my seat to field yet another request from the back seats.  When I, at last, turned back, wondering what was taking so long, I saw what I hoped I wasn't seeing...but, sure enough, Erin had backed into a little white car that had pulled behind her to fill a propane tank.  Luckily, his car was not damaged, but Erin's bumper had taken quite a little hit on the corner. There was a good five minutes when I think Erin temporily lost her mind: "I hate this car! I didn't want this car in the first place! Ethan is going to kill me! I have the worst luck in the world! My house flooded! Aaaaaaarrrrgh!"  (Jen and I refrained from mentioning that the house flooded 5 years ago.)  While Erin blew off steam, I stood mutely by while Jen thanked the gentleman for his kindness and understanding. When Erin had recovered herself--which she did in an admirably short time--she said, "Oh, forget the air! Let's just get home!" Unfortunately, it was going to take us a while.

We pulled into traffic and set our course.  By this time, as we had driven a total of 15 minutes, a child in the head vehicle was already carsick, of course. We pulled into CVS for a little Dramamine. Looking back on it, we should have insisted ALL the children take it, but we were under the scenario that the worst had already happened. Oh, little did we know.

Finally, forty-five minutes after beginning and 5 miles later, we hit the open road.  Fifteen minutes after that we were pulling over again.  Erin stepped out of her vehicle and I rolled down my window.  "Griffin says he's feeling really carsick and wants to ride with you."  She had graciously offered to take him in her car to help relieve me and had bribed him with video games, which is like crack to Griffin.  If he wasn't interested in a DS, I knew he was really not feeling well.

As he stepped into the van, he was ashen.  "Hey, buddy.  Are you alright?"

"I don't feel good."

"Okay, I want you to watch the road for a while.  Let's put this vent right on you and take some deep breaths okay?"  Looking around I spotted the Costco licorice tub.  I emptied out the last few pieces and handed it to him.  "If you throw up, do it in this, alright?"  He nodded, and we pulled back onto the highway.

Already tired of his car seat, my baby started to bellow. "Hey, guys. Guys! Guys!!!" One look in the rearview mirror confirmed that the children had fallen into a TV trance. They were glassy-eyed. Their mouths were hanging open. They were oblivious to the screams of a baby. "Logan!!  Logan!!!"

"What?!"

"Where's the baby's bottle?" I said trying to sound more gentle than I felt.

"I don't know."  She hadn't taken her eyes off the TV.

"Well, look."

"Here it is," she sighed.

"Could you give it to him?"

It quieted him for a moment. Only a moment.  The children have an uncanny ability to block out his wailing.  I do not.

"Logan."

"What?! Jeesh!"

"Honey. I'm sorry, but you are going to have to help me. I have to drive. Here," I said handing back a baggie of Cheerios, "give these to the baby--one at a time, please."

"Why do I have to do everything?" she muttered under her breath.

There was a whole string of things I was tempted to mutter under mine.

The baby was not going to be appeased.  The screaming continued.  The only thing left to do was to check his diaper, although I had just changed him before we left.  "Logan.  Logan!!"  She tore her eyes from the screen momentarily.  "Is the baby stinky?"

Her eyes drifted upward again, and leaning only marginally to the left she made a face. "Yeah."

"Great."  I muttered.  I phoned Jen in the car ahead.  "Hey, sorry, but I think I've got to pull over and change a diaper."

"There's a town coming up in about a half hour.  Do you want to wait 'til then, or--"

"No.  He's really screaming.  I'm afraid if he's poopy he might be getting a rash."  I needed a second opinion.  "Just a minute, Jen.  Hey, Griff!  Griffin!!"  Then back to Jen I complained, "I swear!  Nobody is listening to me."  I moved the mouthpiece away from my lips.  "Hey, Griffin!"  He finally stirred.  "Is the baby stinky?"

He, too, did not make eye contact.  Leaning slightly to the left, he muttered, "No."

"Oh, boy.  I don't know what's going on, Jen.  Just a minute."  I was getting irritated now.  Yelling over the baby I said,  "Hey!  You guys!  Look at me for two seconds!  I need to know if the baby is poopy."

No answer.  No movement.  To hear Jen tell it, this is possibly where I lost my mind.

"Somebody put your head down there and smell the baby's crotch!  Smell the baby's crotch!!!"

They never did come to a consensus, and when we pulled over and I unstrapped the baby and tugged him out of his seat, no poop.  None whatsoever.  If my children read this as adults, they may want to consider writing Jen a thank you note for her sense of humor.  It may have saved their lives.  So as not to waste yet another stop, we made everybody use the outhouse at the rest stop.  We were determined that we would cover more than 20 miles before we stopped again.

(to be continued...)

Ugh for Two Different Reasons

Monday Morning:

Me:  Griffin!  Go get dressed.  You are going to be late.

Griffin:  (dawdling)

Me:  Griffin.  Go get dressed!

Griffin:  (distracted by something shiny)

Me:  Griffin!  I swear, if I have to tell you one more time!  Go--get--dressed!

Griffin:  (disappears into his room)

(Much time passes.)

Me:  Griffin?

(silence)

Me:  Griffin!

(silence)

Me:  (yelling downstairs)  Is Griffin down there?

Griffin:  (Walks out of his bedroom--completely naked.)  Sorry I didn't answer you.

Me:  Griffin!  What have you been doing?

Griffin:  Getting dressed.

Me:  (Walking him back into his bedroom.)  No, you haven't.  I've told you a million times to get dressed and you're still naked.  What is taking so long?!

Griffin:  (pointing with wide eyes.)  This book.

Monday Night:

Logan:  Mom?  Did you ever have a crush on someone when you were my age?

Me:  Oh, sure.

Logan:  Who?

Me:  Rod Winland.

Logan:  Was he a nice boy?

Me:  Of course.  He was my very good friend.  We even shared the same birthday.

Logan:  Why didn't you marry him?

Me:  Well, he moved away and went to a different school, and things were different when we got older, you know.

Logan:  Oh...well, if I had a crush on a boy would you help me know how to get him to like me?

Me:  (gulp)

Halloween Retrospective

Shower the People

The rain pelted the window at a loud slant, blown sideways by the howling wind. As I laid the baby in his crib a flash of lightening lit up the room spotlighting his chubby legs and his thick hands tightly gripping his bottle. Gratefully his eyes remained closed as his little body jerked with the accompanying roar of thunder. I nestled him in under his warm, fleece blanket, kissed his forehead, and started down the hallway toward Logan's room. Knowing how both she and Griffin hate these evening storms that only seem to begin as they are trying to fall asleep, I was sure that they were wide awake and in need of comfort.

As I stepped inside the dark room, I found both of them sitting up in bed caucusing. "Hey, guys. You should be going to sleep. What's going on?"

"He's scared," Logan stated matter-of-factly. Griffin didn't deny it. I noticed he wasn't about to lie down either.

"Well. You two are safe and--"

"I was going to tell him he could sleep with me in my bed." Only the intimate circle of our little family understands the true generosity of this offer. Logan's good will has already been stretched by the trespasses of her younger brother who has a designated room of his own; he just refuses to sleep there. Instead, he prefers her company and the extra twin bed her room offers. It's been going on for almost four years now, and Logan's patience is thinning. Nearly eight, she is ready for her own space--something she reminds her brother of often.

Her offer caught me off guard. "Really?" The question was punctuated by another sharp thunderclap.

"Sure. If he's scared he can come sleep in my bed."

Knowing he was not about to weather the storm alone and that he was either my bedfellow or hers, I was hoping he'd take her up on the offer.

"What do you think, Griffin? Do you want to do that?"

Carrying his blanket clutched tightly to his chest, he quietly slipped off the side of his bed and crawled in beside his sister. She moved over to make room for him, a tight squeeze in a small twin bed, but as she did so she gallantly said, "You can stay here until you feel safe."

My heart melted a little. There is nothing I want more than for my kiddos to stick together for always and forever. I know they'll need each other in all kinds of storms from here on out. Then I said, "You have nothing to be afraid of. Mommy and Daddy are here..."

"Yeah," she interrupted again. "And you've always got me."

I tucked the blankets up under their chins, kissed their cheeks and, before walking out of the room, turned for one last look at the two of them huddled close together. Silently I thanked the rain. Thanked it for watering the roots of the grass and roots of the trees, the roots of the flowers and the roots of this little family. Deep roots and broad branches. All showered and made strong with love.

Picking Sides

The minute the kids walk in the door from school, it's my job to do backpack check. While they raid the pantry, I thumb through notices, notes, old assignments and homework packets. I find out a lot about my kids during backpack check. Like Griffin's tendency toward getting yellow cards for talking, or not lining up after recess, or not standing by his desk as he has been told. Of course I always find out that these things "are not his fault," and that it doesn't really matter because every day, when he goes back, "it's always back to green." See? I told you backpack check was enlightening.

The other day I read through one of Logan's old assignments which asked her to answer the question, "What is your favorite thing about home?" to which she answered, "My parents are always on my side." This statement, for better or worse, gave me pause; it struck me as a sort of double edged sword.

She is right. Ultimately I am always on her side. I will always love her, I will always root for her success, and I will always do what is best for her. But does that mean always choosing her side? Because that can morph into a dangerous area. An area where a parent can not see her child's weaknesses. An area where her child's misbehaviour is someone else's fault, and therefore, somehow, excusable. We've all seen those parents who, in an attempt to protect their child, attack anybody else--friends, other parents, and teachers to name a few.

What I've come up with after some thought, is that always choosing her side is not really being on her side at all. If I am so caught up in her immediate happiness, I can not clearly see the end of the road I am hoping for her. What is best for her sometimes is dealing with consequences; it is sometimes dealing with pain; and it is sometimes dealing with unfairness.

Being on her side means I help her navigate those tricky waters; it does not mean I protect her from them. To do so would mean hindering her growth and development of character. And when I try to picture the end of the road I am hoping for her, that is all that matters. I need to be very clear on that because it's going to be a long trip. Until we get there, I am totally and completely on her side and by her side, right there, until the end.

Misty Me

I got misty-eyed tonight. It's true. Even though over the last two days it has become abundantly clear that we could all use a little time away from each other, and even though our poor attitudes have inspired in my heart of hearts a countdown until school starts--despite all of this--I got misty-eyed tonight.

Tomorrow school begins, and tonight we packed the backpacks and laid out the first day school outfits, complete with their carefully selected new shoes. When all the business was done, Mr. Wicke gave Logan and Griffin father's blessings, asking our good Father to watch out for our little ones, to protect them, inspire them, and to bless them with goodness. And although I had a new little baby squawking in my arms, protesting his oncoming sleepiness, I suddenly couldn't believe my other baby boy was already following his sister's footsteps and leaving my little nest.

After his blessing ended, I called Griffin over, and with the beginning of tears in my eyes I said, "What am I going to do without you all day?" I hadn't expected to feel this sadness, having gone through this with Logan already, but there it was. That feeling of wanting to hang on just a little bit more; that feeling of already missing what I probably hadn't fully appreciated regardless of my best efforts. That stuff gets me misty, what can I say?

Griff put his arms around my neck, and I buried my face in his, swallowing hard at that lump in my throat. He held me longer than I expected, and when he finally let go, I noticed him wiping his own eyes as he quickly turned away.

Boy, can he get to me. I'm going to miss that little man.

Fly on the Wall

Things overheard at the Wicke house:

Logan: Mom? Why do you walk like that? With your bottom going back and forth?
Logan: Mommmmm...you're doing it again.

Griffin: (at 3am) Dad! My tooth just fell out!

Logan: I don't think Griffin is giving me enough respect, and I don't know how I'm ever going to be able to babysit if he doesn't show me a little more respect. He makes me feel, like a...like a...a...piece of garbage!

Logan: Oh--my--gosh, Griffin! (said ad nauseam)

Mom: Just a minute Griffin and we'll hear your side of the story.
Griffin: Well, one time a loooong time ago...but you said I could tell my story!

Griffin: Dad! I'm making toast on my lamp!

Just Keep Swimming

The kiddos are in swim team this summer. For the last couple of summers, we have done a lot of swimming in our backyard and, of course, the kids have had lessons. I thought they were quite the little fish, and they are...Logan seems to be born for the water, but Griff? Well, let's just say he is more of a utility swimmer at this point than a finesse swimmer. He is only five, and I have to give the little guy credit. He is hanging in there!

At our first swim meet last Thursday, Griffin finished 7th in his heat of 8. I was thrilled, but when he asked what his purple ribbon said, I got a little nervous. I just knew that when he heard "seventh place" he would be disappointed. So I really sold it. In my most enthusiastic mommy voice I said, "It says 'City of Mesa Summer Swim League (silent drumroll) SEVENTH PLACE!'"

"Seventh place??" he repeated.

"Oh, no. Here it comes," I thought.

But before I could even head him off at the pass, he said,"Seventh place? I'm good!"

And that, my friends, is the winning spirit! I hope he keeps it always. Here he is in action:





I know it may look like he is drowning in that last shot, but never fear. That is just his winning, signature freestyle stroke.

Cookies on a Summer Afternoon

Talking "Boy" on Mother's Day

It is coming up on one of my favorite days of the year. You know why? I don't do any of the cooking or cleaning up, and I don't even feel guilty about it. One totally guilt-free day? Heaven. I can see why a couple of years ago Logan, in exasperation, asked, "When is it going to be sister day?" What I thought, but didn't say out loud is, "Are you kidding me? It's sister day every day of the year! Give me your life, I beg you!" Like I said I just thought it because I am supposed to be the adult around here, but I would love for someone to tell me to go take a nap. You know? It's true: Youth is wasted on the young.

But I digress. This is supposed to be about why I love Mother's day. In addition to being relatively self-indulgent and guilt free, I also get terrific cards, gifts, and pictures from my kiddos. Like the one I got today:



I'll admit, at first glance it's a little tough to take. "90 years old?! I guess that eye cream isn't working," I can't help but think. "And c'mon! I don't go to Taco Bell all that often, do I? Do I?" Hmm...so much for guilt free.

Then, when I ask Griffin to tell me about the picture he says, "It me and you. Boxing. And you're winning."

"Oh, wow...We're...boxing? And I'm winning?" Seems a bit violent. Would Freud say there is some underlying aggression in our relationship, I wonder? Maybe this whole card thing isn't so great after all.

Then he interrupts my indulgent self-analysis with, "Yeah, I'm letting you win 'cause I love you."

Oh. That's right. I have to remember to speak boy. It's a totally different language. Like when I wonder how I can possibly thank him, all I have to do is look at the last line. In boy-speak it's all about the belly. Food equals love. Definitely a boy thing.

With that in mind, I just have to read between the lines. Ah, there it is: He's nuts about me. Man, I love this holiday!

Hello, Snow. Nice to meet you.

Over the vacation we drove six hours round trip to do this:











What I learned? I don't miss snow. It's fun to visit, but I'd rather shovel sunshine any day. My kids on the other hand wish that it "snowed in our swimming pool." Go figure.

I think Girls are Born with It

While doing Logan's hair today (a lot of interesting conversations happen while doing hair) I said, "What the heck are we going to do with two whole weeks out of school?!"

Her reply came way too easily. "We could go shopping for Griffin's present," she said.

"Yeah, we need to do that."

"...Or we could just go shopping for fun. Or we could go shopping for clothes 'cause I need some new clothes."

"Okay there, Big Spender! So you're saying you might want to go shopping?"

And I know what you're thinking, but I swear, I'm not really a big shopper. I think she was born with the girl gene, that's all. It's a well known anthropoligical fact: Men, hunter-gatherers; women, shoppers. She can't help it.

A Girl by Any Other Name

A few days ago, as I was doing Logan's hair in the morning, she said, "Mom? Yesterday Emily and I tried to make a new friend..."

"That's terrific!" I encouraged.

"But she didn't want to be our friend."

"What? I can't imagine anyone not wanting to be friends with you!"

"I think it might have been the outfit I was wearing."

"Oh, I doubt that. You looked so cute yesterday. What happened exactly?"

"Well, we went up to her her at recess and asked if she wanted to be our friend, and she said, 'No way, Jose!"

"Well...that was kind of rude."

"Yeah! And you'd think she would be a lot nicer. I mean her name is Mary!"

You Know the Problem with Grace Under Pressure? You Get No Credit.

I think every mom--shoot, make that woman!--can relate to the following senario in some way:

Consider that in the last two weeks, in addition to the normal running of the household, I have:

-cleaned the house top to bottom--including underbeds and washing windows inside and out. (I won't mention that it rained the day before company arrived anyway.)

-finally decorated and painted the woodwork in the guest bathroom that has been sadly ignored for the last 3 years.

-housed and fed 12 of my favorite people in the world over the Thanksgiving weekend.

-cooked Thanksgiving dinner for 19 adults and 5 children and enjoyed every minute we spent together. (I also won't mention the unbelievable size of my swollen elephant ankles and troll feet.)

-created, printed, and addressed all the Christmas cards.

-decorated the house for Christmas. (I won't mention that Mr. Wicke had a meeting that night and that our kids were wired on Christmas spirit. I mean WIRED!)

-did a lot of Christmas shopping. (I won't mention that Logan changed her mind--AGAIN!)

-planned a progressive dinner for our women's group at church.

-and still managed to keep the children alive, fed, dressed, and clean.

Then consider three nights ago when Logan casually mentioned this over dinner:

"Mom, I've noticed something...since you've been pregnant you haven't worked that hard."

Obviously I'm making this gig look too easy. (I won't mention how tired I feel.)