{pretty, happy, funny, real} (Vol. 3)

September 26, 2013 / Julie / 2 Comments

In all honesty, I write this on one of those evenings when “contentment” doesn’t seem like the most natural thing to focus on. Not for any major reason; it’s just been one of those evenings when Daddy was home late and boys were challenging. (“They have been driving! me! crazy!” is how I put it to my husband.)

So. I sit here kind of huffing and grumbling and guiltily remembering how I yelled tonight.

Sigh.

But… contentment: this week’s contentment for {pretty, happy, funny, real}. It is, of course, something I should focus on. Especially at moments like these.

{pretty}

I’d do best to think of my big boy this way on evenings that frustrate me. Aren’t sleeping children always so pretty? He sure is, with his soft, round cheeks and his long eyelashes. Each time I catch him like this, I fall in love all over again.

I do the same with his brother, of course. He’s got the prettiest blonde hair and the sweetest little lips. And I just love his chubby, scraped-up, little-boy hands.

{happy}

But, motherly mush and all, do you know what really made me happiest this week? This little scene:

We have a bedroom on our second floor that you have to walk through to get from one side of the house to the other. So it’s not exactly very private. And since we don’t need all of our bedrooms right now, I’ve made this one into a catch-all room of sorts. It’s for craft supplies and wrapping paper and sewing stuff and laundry sorting and ironing and file organizing – and it’s where everything gets dumped until it finds the right home elsewhere. I can’t tell you how much I love having such a room. It’s a homemaker’s fantasy, that’s what it is.

Anyway, up until this point its primary purpose has been the last one I mentioned. It’s where stuff gets dumped. So you can imagine what it’s been looking like, can’t you? It’s been pretty bad. Boxes, piles of papers, bags of forgotten things, random items scattered around the surfaces… and everything seems to be overflowing.

But! This past weekend I got a few hours to myself and I started to tackle the mess. I got this whole lovely corner clear, I set out a few pretties, and I (gasp!) even organized the closet:

I’m far from done, but I cannot describe to you how happy this progress makes me. Now all of my *wrapping materials, at least, are organized and in reach. So are our lightbulbs. And paper. And baby books. So now if I want any of these things, all I have to do is reach in and get them! I don’t have to fish them out from underneath a pile! What a concept. Now every time I walk through this room, it’s as if I’m taking in a breath of fresh air. It feels so good to have accomplished something, even if the something is very little in the scheme of things.

* What do you think of the cabinet I’m keeping my wrapping paper in? Isn’t it silly/wonderful? I’d been looking for something, anything to suit the purpose, when the people we bought our house from offered to sell us this cabinet for – get this – $20. (They’d felt bad selling it for more, as they’d drilled it full of holes, to fish Christmas lights through it.) I jumped at the offer. I couldn’t have found something ugly and poorly-made for that price, let-alone a hand-made, glass-fronted cabinet. Score!

{funny}

Yes, they’re scrubbing the floor. Yes, they’re only 2 and 3 years old. Isn’t it funny? They have this pair of black-soled “fireman” rain boots that make terrible scuffs on the floor. Yesterday they ran loops around the kitchen while wearing the boots and I needed something to occupy them for a few minutes anyway. So I handed each a wet paper towel, asked them to clean up their mess, and they happily got to work scrubbing the scuff marks. Their work didn’t accomplish much, but they seemed to enjoy it and I sure did!

{real}

We have a lovely yard, but it’s not the easiest to take small children out into. Mostly because our house is set into a hill, so most of our property is either sloped or terraced. And also because we have a lot of brick patio, surrounded by brick walls. Here’s an example:

Beautiful, yes. But also dangerous. So when I take the boys out, I like to move them away from all the hazards and give them an open space in which to play.

They’re completely uninterested in this. The boys like the hazards very much and try to escape back to them whenever possible. Of course when I’m keeping tight enough control to prevent them from accessing the big hazards, they seek out little ones wherever they can find them.

It’s a constant struggle and to be honest, I really dislike taking them outside because of it. The other evening when I attempted some outside time, I sat in the grass and tried to soak it all in. It was a lovely evening. The boys were so happy to be out. I tried really, really hard to enjoy it too. But one boy or another kept running away. They kept not listening. They kept pouring dirt over each other’s heads. They kept throwing rocks. They kept fighting with sticks. They kept trying to love (i.e. squish) poor, defenseless caterpillars.

The evening was yet another reminder that I’m mothering boys here. Sometimes they seem like foreign creatures to me, with their drives to escape and tackle and tear down. I love them deeply; I love watching their faces light up with wonder and joy. And I know it’s good for them to be out here. But – as good as I know it to be – sometimes it’s hard for me to enjoy this outdoor time with them. Sometimes the real gets ahead of the contentment.

Sometimes.

Be sure to stop by Like Mother, Like Daughter to see everybody else’s {pretty, happy, funny, real}!

Monday Morning Miscellany (Vol. 6)

September 23, 2013 / Julie / 2 Comments

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, I promised myself that I would stick something, even if just a bunch of miscellany, on the blog every Monday morning. I like myself some fresh reading material on Monday mornings, when I’m working to recover from the weekend and gear myself up for the week ahead. I thought perhaps you good people would too.

But more Mondays than not lately, it seems, I’ve written nothing. I blame morning sickness. And boys. But mostly morning sickness. Now that that fog is (hopefully? please?) beginning to lift, I’m trying to get back into it. I’ll start with a couple of updates:

— 1 —

That whole fiery, electrical knives stabbing me in the side of the head thing? In case any of you (maybe as many as two or three?) were wondering, it’s been resolved. I gave in and took myself to the doctor’s on Friday, who diagnosed my usual nemesis: sinus infection. She said that the faulty sinus was probably pressing on a nerve, thus all the burning, shocking, stabbing pain. Three days into my five-day antibiotic, I’m feeling worlds better. What a relief!

— 2 —

I still haven’t read that America piece on the Pope. Maybe this afternoon? After I’m done I’ll have to read a handful of the reactions/explanations, to get a little lay of the land on the controversy. I’ve been holding off on these pieces until I take a look at the original. Which is, I think, a good thing to do. Except that by the time I finally get through it all, I’ll be a good week behind everybody else. Such is how I roll.

— 3 —

My three-year-old had a massive temper tantrum on Sunday – possibly his worst ever. It couldn’t help but make me think of Ana and her girls’ expert tantrum-throwing abilities. (My sympathies, Ana!) But I have to admit that, ugly as it was, I couldn’t help but find some humor in the whole thing. Mostly because of the underlying reason for this tantrum: he did not want to be home.

This kid never wants to be home; every time we’re out somewhere, whether a play date or the doctor’s office, he wants to stay. In fact, he has never once asked to go home. Ever since he was a baby, he has fussed and whined (or worse) as we drive into our neighborhood. He knows the signs: x scenery = almost home. Nooooo!

This Sunday’s tantrum started on our way home from church, when the little guy asked, “Can we get wunch on da way home?” He didn’t like our answer. So we heard variations of “Wunch! I wan wunch out! Not at home! Don’t go home! Picnic wunch! Wunch at park! Paaarrrk! Go back! Not home! Stop! Stop dwiving, Mommy!” (when I wasn’t even the one driving) punctuated with sobs, for our entire twenty minute drive. He grew absolutely desperate as we came up the driveway: “NO! STOP! DON’T! GO BACK!”

We had to wrestle him out of the car seat (he tried to stop us from unbuckling him) and drag him into the house while he tried to throw himself on the ground and/or escape down the driveway. It only got worse when we came inside. He was inconsolable: lots more shouting and sobbing and thrashing around on the floor and trying to get out of the house.

I suppose I’m fortunate in that tantrums have no power over me. I think I see them as something distinct and separate that (so long as no one is getting hurt), I can just ignore. I tend to just zone out and wait for them to end. But I could tell that this one was starting to get to my husband, so I tried to calm my boy down. I held him on my lap and did my sweetest best, but it was no good. I finally had to carry him upstairs and put him in his crib. (Yes, he’s still in a crib. Yes, he’s three. I like to keep them contained as long as possible.)

Anyway, to make a long story less long, I’ll just say that the crib only served to kick his tantrum up a notch. He went wild. I’ve never heard him scream like that: I thought he’d lose his voice. But he also began to tire himself out. So after a while, I was able to bring him downstairs and start feeding him his “wunch” and the tantrum finally, finally broke. Whew.

— 4 —

There were, however, two upshots to the tantrum. First, this:

They almost looked drugged, don’t they? My mom says it looks like I slipped something in their milk. But on my honor, I swear that it was nothing more than a missed nap on the little one’s part and The Big Tantrum on the big one’s.

— 5 —

But better than that short-break-because-the-boys-fell-asleep-on-the-sofa: we got a dinner invitation out of the tantrum! Woo-hoo! I complained about it on Facebook (of course) and one of my aunts commented something to the effect of: “Don’t make dinner tonight, Julie. Come over here. We’re eating at 5:30.”

Seriously? I complain about a tantrum and a boy who doesn’t want to be home and we get a dinner offer out of it? Yes, please! It was great: lots of yummy food, adult conversation, and lots of space and toys and cousins for my boys to run around with. I love this living-near-family thing. I did not grow up with it, but I feel oh so lucky to have it now. Thanks again, Aunt Barb!

— 6 —

To shift gears quite a bit here, what awful news we got this weekend from around the world, didn’t we? First (and still!) the attack on the mall in Nairobi, Kenya. And then yesterday, the attack on the Christian church in Peshawar, Pakistan. At least 60 people have been killed in the former, at least 80 were killed in the latter. Such horror. To suffer a shocking, sustained tragedy on what you thought would be a cheerful Saturday? It’s almost unimaginable. And worse yet, to be targeted in church, while you were worshipping God? It’s a special kind of horrible.

Do you know what I regret at this moment? I regret my reactions to these two terrible events. I normally feel such things acutely; they normally get to me regardless of how far away they seem. But this time, my reaction was muted. I said a few prayers, but mostly, I didn’t want to think about it. I was tired of tragedy. After Egypt and Syria and the anniversaries of September 11 and the 16^th Street Baptist Church bombing, after the Navy Yard shooting last week, after hearing of a few very sad local deaths and incidents, I guess I was just tired of grieving.

I don’t want to live like that. I don’t want to be numb to sad news and indifferent to others’ suffering. There’s quite a lot I need to work on right now, spiritually. I’ll be adding this one to the list.

Please, join me in praying for those affected by the awful attacks in Kenya and Pakistan.

— 7 —

Have a good week, everyone. I’m hopeful for a brightness, a lifting of my own mood. And I hope to be back in this space a few times in the coming days. ‘Till then, be well.

7 Quick Takes Friday (Vol. 15) / {pretty, happy, funny, real} (Vol. 2)

September 20, 2013September 20, 2013 / Julie / 1 Comment

— 1 —

I’ve got one complaint to get out of the way, and then I promise that the rest of this post will be kinder/gentler/sweeter. Probably somewhat mushy, but hopefully not altogether sappy. That’s the goal.

But first, the complaint: Between the morning sickness and a cold my three-year-old brought home last week, I’m feeling pretty awful at the moment. I keep telling myself that I shouldn’t be feeling so bad: “Buck up, Julie! You’ve got things to do, boys to care for! You’re almost done the first trimester anyway! Your hormones can’t be making you that sick anymore! And it’s just a silly cold! Get with it!” So I go forth and try to seize the day or something, and then I come home and collapse and I’m no good to anyone for 24 hours. Repeat.

Tuesday it was a board meeting/reception with the boys in tow. Thursday it was volunteering at my son’s preschool. Both times, I deluded myself into thinking it would be no big deal. Both times, I arrived back home overwhelmed, exhausted to the point of numbness, and pretty much unable to move.

The morning sickness would be bad enough, but this stupid cold/infection/whatever is pushing me over the edge: sneezing, blowing the heck out of my nose, sore throat, head congestion, and now this stabbing/burning/shocking pain all over the right side of my head. Woe is me.

Last week was a good week for the blog: Even through the morning sickness I was able to write four posts, that people liked. And people I don’t even know were stopping by to read my stuff. I should have capitalized on my temporary surge in numbers by writing several meaty posts this week. But given the fiery, electrical knives that were attacking the side of my head, the best I could muster most days was to lie on the sofa and plead with the boys to not wrestle on top of me. I’ll say it again: Woe is me.

— 2 —

Okay, I’m done now. I have enough perspective to know that (a) all of the above is temporary, (b) I could be feeling significantly better as soon as next week (I’m almost at 12 weeks! Woo-hoo!), and (c) my life is full of good things. The best things, like love and family and God’s blessings and security and friendship and hope and grubby little boy faces.

I think I might have had three days this week without any nausea – the first in over a month. So there’s a light at the end of the tunnel! I’m hoping that I’ll fully turn the corner next week. Not only am I just plain ol’ ready to be done with it, but I have a few serious blog posts in my head that I’m itching to get started on. I also want to tackle (i.e. carefully read) the America piece on Pope Francis that everyone’s talking about. Maybe nausea/fatigue/burning head aren’t the best reasons to not have read it yet, but I have a feeling that I’ll need to have some clarity of mind in order to take it on. So c’mon, good health and decent energy levels! I know you’re out there! Come to Mama!

— 3 —

As you see in this post’s title, I’m kind of cheating this week. I’d started writing my {pretty, happy, funny, real} Wednesday evening, but quickly found that I just couldn’t do it anymore: sleep beckoned. And it beckoned again Thursday afternoon, when I’d hoped to have time to finish the post.

And then Thursday evening, when I began thinking about what I’d write for my 7 Quick Takes, I kept coming back to contentment. As in,
{phfr} contentment. (Okay, okay: contentment and that one complaint in #1.) That evening as I watched my little boys play so well together on the playground, I mulled all the little signs lately of how deeply they love each other. Yes, they fight and wrestle and get angry, but they also seem to be each other’s greatest delight.

Witnessing my boys’ growing love for each other just wows me. I never imagined what a joy it could be. Talk about contentment.

So, enter {pretty, happy, funny, real} for Quick Takes 4 through 7:

— 4 {pretty} —

The boys and I were in Annapolis Tuesday evening for the aforementioned meeting and reception. We don’t get there too frequently these days, given what a hike it is for us, but each time we’re there, I’m struck with how pretty that place is. And how blessed we are to get to spend any time there at all.

— 5 {happy} —

I’m not sure that 2- and 3-year-olds are capable of experiencing elsewhere the unadulterated happiness they find on a playground.

— 6 {funny} —

We spent our time in Annapolis this week at the Charles Carroll House and Gardens, the Annapolis home of Charles Carroll of Carrollton, the only Catholic signer of the Declaration of Independence. Fittingly, the boys were gifted with a pair of tricorn hats and Revolutionary boy dolls. They were so funny running around with their hats and dolls. Of course they’re too little to have any concept of American history and what those gifts represented. Rather, by their cries of “Aargh!” as they ran around, I realized the boys thought those hats made them pirates.

— 7 {real} —

I have this dream of being a farmer, or at least a major gardener. But I (big time!) lack the knowledge base to get me there, and at this point in my life (that is, a chaser of small boys every time I’m outside), I don’t have much time to practice the little I do know. But I figured I could handle some tomato plants this summer, so I sweet-talked my hubby into planting six different and interesting varieties for me.

I did a decent job of tending them at first and I was overjoyed when they bore their first fruits. But then I was struck with a powerful, pregnancy-induced aversion to the things. I can hardly stand to look at the little beauties right now. Goodbye, dreams of tomatoes with fresh basil, fried tomatoes, BLT’s! Hello (because of both the aversion and the morning sickness), neglect and waste.

Which is why I now have a garden full of overgrown, collapsed tomato plants, full of fruit that will mostly go uneaten. (My husband has no great love for tomatoes and most of our local friends/family seem to have their own gardens.) Ah, well… maybe next year.

To end with a bit more contentment, though, let me give you a peek of the view from one side of my garden and another of the view from behind it. I have great hopes for this spot.

Have a great weekend, all! Please be sure to stop by Conversion Diary’s 7 Quick Takes Friday and Like Mother, Like Daughter’s {pretty, happy, funny, real} to see how everybody else is wrapping up their week!

Rules For (My) Life With Toddler Boys

September 18, 2013 / Julie / 1 Comment

Frequently when I find myself yelling out one of our household rules to the whirling dervish that is my pile of rowdy, wrestling boys, I think to myself, “Oh my gosh that is so a rule for a house of boys.” Or even (I’m not too ashamed to admit) “That is so a rule for a mom who just can’t deal.”

Yep, that’s me. A mother to a three- and an almost-two-year-old, with another on the way. Who hopes that this baby isn’t her last – even though she generally thinks herself incapable of dealing with her household’s current level of noise and activity.

Here’s a list of the rules I find myself repeating on a not-irregular basis. It may be long, but it’s far from exhaustive. (Fifty-three, schmifty-three – I’m sure I could come up with dozens more.)

What would you add?

No sitting on your brother’s head.
No standing on any part of your brother’s body.
You may not ride on your brother’s back, even if he is pretending to be a horse. (Though sometimes I make an exception when the little guy is the one doing the riding, because it’s just so darned cute.)
No rough-housing on the stairs.
No rough-housing on Mommy.
Do not cover your brother with pillows and then lay on him. (I ignore most mid-wrestling cries/screams, but I respond quickly to the muffled ones.)
No sitting or standing on tables.
No jumping off of tables.
No climbing on bookcases.
No climbing onto the TV console.
No bringing spiders into the house.
No bringing rocks into the house.
No throwing rocks at your brother.
No throwing anything inside the house.
No moving chairs, boxes, etc. to give yourself access to up-high things Mommy doesn’t want you to have.
No moving any other furniture either.
No whining in the kitchen.
No large toys in the kitchen.
No baskets of toys in the kitchen. (Can you tell where I spend most of my day?)
No lying between Mommy’s feet while she’s cooking.
No refusing to eat food that you specifically requested that Mommy make for you.
Yes, you must actually be sitting (not standing, not kneeling) on your chair during mealtime.
No toys on the kitchen table.
No roaring at the table.
No making monster noises at the table.
No making siren noises at the table. (My parents used to have a “no singing at the table” rule, so I don’t feel at all bad about these last few.)
No climbing onto the kitchen counter.
Do not touch scissors.
Do not touch knives.
Do not touch the toaster.
Do not stick knives into the toaster while trying to turn it on. (Yes, that one happened.)
Do not sit on the dishwasher door.
Nevermind – don’t even touch the dishwasher.
Do not open the refrigerator door without a parent’s permission.
Do not leave the refrigerator door open.
Do not put your toys in the refrigerator.
Until you’re old enough to wash them, do not put your hands into the dirty dishes.
Any toy/cup/piece of food you drop into the dish-filled sink shall remain there.
Do not play with the trash can.
Any toy/piece of food you drop into the trash can shall remain there.
Do not open the nozzle to the Brita container and let the water drain all over the floor. (Yes, that one happened too.)
You are only allowed into the bathroom to relieve yourself.
You may not unwind the entire toilet paper roll, even if you try to wind it back up.
You may not fill the bathroom sink with toilet paper, turn the water on full-blast, and leave it running until the water overflows.
When you do the above, you may not run away like nothing happened, so that Mommy is alerted to the mess by the sound of water splashing onto the floor.
When Mommy is on the phone, you must either remain quiet around her or go into another room.
If you insist on roaring/screaming/cackling/otherwise loudly chasing Mommy through the house while she’s on the phone, she will escape upstairs, past the baby gates and beyond your reach.
Temper tantrums will be ignored and/or removed to someplace away from Mommy.
Yes, you have to be nice to your brother.
No, your brother does not have to kiss you.
No, your brother does not have to let you kiss him.
But yes, you do have to give your Mommy a goodnight hug. It is important to have your last interaction of the day be a sweet one.
Daddy does bedtime.

They are somehow so much cuter when they're in-between Daddy's feet.

They are somehow so much cuter when they’re between Daddy’s feet.

Fifty Years From Birmingham

September 15, 2013October 7, 2014 / Julie / 1 Comment

This morning as I drove to mass, I heard this segment on NPR. I hadn’t realized beforehand, but today is the 50^th anniversary of the 16^th Street Baptist Church bombing in Birmingham, Alabama. Which killed four little girls. In a church. Sunday, September 15, 1963: The event has always stuck out to me as exceptionally horrible. Layer upon layer of horrible.

I can only barely, a little bit, understand how people could have fought so hard to maintain a system of segregation that is (to my eyes) so obviously unjust. I assume that fear played a role – fear of change, fear of losing power. I think those fears have motivated an awful lot of horrible over the course of human history.

I understand less how people could escalate their resistance to change to the point of undertaking violence. How does one make that leap from using speeches and meetings and rules and laws (however unjust) to causing physical damage to a person or his property? I can only assume that the original seed of fear must have been long overtaken by anger. And I think anger poisons people.

But I don’t understand at all, not in the least, how people could bring violence to a church. How could any person, who has ever possessed even a morsel of faith or morality, bomb a church? On a Sunday morning? On the church’s youth Sunday, when a bunch of little girls were in the bathroom, excitedly preparing themselves to take visible roles in that morning’s church service? No purely human emotion helps me understand that one. Even anger isn’t sufficient.

I can only see evil. I can only surmise that people let evil in when they decided to nuture their fear. That the evil grew with their anger, each feeding the other. And that evil finally made itself obvious in that horrible act. A church. Four innocent children. Preparing to worship God. Evil must have rejoiced.

I cried as I drove to mass this morning, re-learning the story of the four little girls. I cried because I knew it was unjust; I knew it was wrong; I knew how unfair it was to those girls; I knew it must have torn apart their mothers’ hearts; I knew it had impacted so many more people than the victims themselves; and I knew that evil had had a say.

It’s a sobering thought on which to end my Sunday. As I drove to mass this morning, I hoped that my pastor would acknowledge this horrible anniversary. I wanted to feel uplifted. I wanted us to make some effort to remember what happened to those girls, to make a statement that their lives mattered. It didn’t happen. In my little corner of the world, no one seemed to remember.

But I hadn’t remembered either, not before that NPR segment. Which is why I write this post. With it, I’m issuing my own little remembrance. In these last few minutes of Sunday, September 15, 2003, let’s remember what happened exactly fifty years ago in Birmingham. Let’s say a prayer for those who lost their lives. Let’s say another for the family and friends who suffered their loss. And let’s say one more for the many who lost something less tangible that day. Because when evil scored with that horrible act, so much was lost.

7 Quick Takes Friday (Vol. 14)

September 13, 2013September 13, 2013 / Julie / 26 Comments

This week’s Quick Takes is a little different. I’ve got a riddle for you:

— 1 —

When I told my boys that it was time to clean up, my older son turned around, surveyed the room, and quite sincerely asked, “Why?”

— 2 —

— 3 —

— 4 —

— 5 —

— 6 —

So… have you figured it out yet?

— 7 —

That’s right!

Items one and two are brought to you by morning sickness and first-trimester fatigue. (And really, I could’ve shown you much worse pictures to represent that lovely, ONGOING stage. But I decided to be kind.)

Items three and four are brought to you by pregnancy cravings. (Yes, really. But no, not at the same time.)

Item five is brought to you by my boys’ bath toys. No, seriously – we’re pleased to announce that we’re expecting our third child!

Item six: Baby Walsh is due April 11, 2014. Which is just one day past my 35^th birthday. (I was thisclose to escaping the “advanced maternal age” label.) To answer the obvious first question: Yes, I guess it would be kind of cool to share a birthday with my child. Except that I don’t exactly like the idea of being in labor on my birthday. Bah humbug.

Item seven: Isn’t it amazing to get a glimpse at that new, tiny little life? A life that, God-willing, we’ll soon wonder how we ever did without?

Please keep my wee little babe and me in prayer.

Love, Julie

P.S. Don’t forget to jump over to Jen’s to catch all the other Quick Takes!

{pretty, happy, funny, real}

September 12, 2013 / Julie / 9 Comments

I’ve been thinking about jumping on-board with Like Mother, Like Daughter’s {pretty, happy, funny, real} for some time, but I’ve had this notion that I needed to fully clean my house before I could do so. And then wait for a morning with abundant sunlight so I could take some really pretty, really perfect, really staged photos. Foolish, I know. Where’s the real in that mentality?

But LMLD’s photos are always so beautiful, and even though I’ve got a nice background to work with here, I feel like I’m always snapping pictures of clutter and wrestling boys. Oh, and boys asleep in places other than their beds.

I did, technically, participate in {phfr} that one time, right after I attended the “Crazy DC Meet-Up” with Auntie Leila, Suki, and Deirdre of LMLD. I wrote a post about the event and Auntie Leila kindly requested that I link it to PHFR. But anyway, here’s my first official {phfr}, and it’s rather more on the clutter/wrestling boys side of things than the pretty house side. It’s made up entirely of photos already on my camera, as I decided to do this post approximately 20 minutes ago. Here we go!

~ Capturing the context of contentment in everyday life ~

Every Thursday, at Like Mother, Like Daughter!

{pretty}

I stepped outside for a few minutes yesterday morning to try to get some cloudless-blue-sky pictures for this post. I was relieved to fail: there were just enough clouds to dispel my dread. And there were a few pretty sights to cheer me:

I loved the way the sun was shining on the upper part of the house. So pretty.

I loved looking up at our big, old white oak, which my husband recently estimated is 262 years old. I’m in love with it already.

And I don’t think I will ever tire of taking pictures of fields. (Though you, I’m aware, may tire of seeing my photographs of this same view again and again…)

{happy}

These boys are always so happy when their daddy comes home from work. So am I.

{funny}

There aren’t many things better than a box, are there?

And what’s funnier than pretending to scream-wake-up your daddy, who’s pretending to be asleep?

Oh, and pudgy hands contorting pudgy cheeks? Always funny.

{real}

My boys – even the little one – have mostly been going without naps lately. (They are some stubborn, stubborn little guys.) It’s not exactly a contentment-inducing scenario. Except for this inevitable side-effect:

Well, there are some glimpses at my contentment this week. Feel like sharing any of yours? Head on over to Like Mother, Like Daughter to check out the links or post your own.

The Blue-Sky Day

September 11, 2013October 7, 2014 / Julie / 8 Comments

Twelve years ago this morning, I was sitting at my desk in Crystal City, Virginia, about a half-mile south of the Pentagon. I was a month into my first job out of college, working in a government office, in a block of buildings filled to the brim with government and government contractor offices. I’d joked to my friends that I’d never frequented a more polite place in my life: Everywhere you turned, there were military personnel and former military personnel who held doors for you, offered you their seats, and called you “Miss” or “Ma’am.” To a nervous, small-town girl alone in a big city for the first time, it was reassuring.

The weather that day was absolutely gorgeous. I had noticed it on my metro ride into work. I’d blinked at the bright sunlight as my train emerged from its Washington, D.C. tunnel and climbed across the bridge over the Potomac, into Virginia. I’d searched the brilliant blue sky for a cloud and couldn’t find even one before we descended again, the Pentagon looming on our right.

Thank goodness today’s sky has a touch of cloud.

I had watched people get off the train that morning at the Pentagon station. I’d recognized a few of them; you start to do that when you commute on public transportation at the same time every day.

Sitting at my desk, happy and proud that I was settling into a real, grown-up job, I was unprepared for the horror and fear that the day would bring. Who wasn’t?

Along with the rest of the country, I soon began to learn, bit-by-bit, what was happening. First in New York. Then again in New York. Then horror turned to fear: There was an attack in my own backyard. Then – was another one coming? Would it hit the White House? The Capitol? If it aimed for the Pentagon, could it overshoot and get us instead? No, that one went down in Pennsylvania. Guilty relief. Are there more?

My boss made his way back from a meeting at our main office, near the White House. Roads were blocked and no public or private transportation was moving anyway, so he walked. He walked for miles, at midday, an overweight man nearing retirement-age. He looked so red-faced, exhausted, and stricken when he arrived that we were sincerely afraid he would have a heart-attack. But I suppose that’s what you do when structure breaks down, when you fear that the place you’re standing in at the moment might soon be under attack: You walk. Even if it’s from downtown Washington, D.C., across a bridge, to Northern Virginia. You walk a route that is normally only driven at high speed, in much traffic.

And then there was the heartache of the World Trade Center collapsing. The slow realization of the enormity of the event that was unfolding around us. The tears and the near-hyperventilation. The world turning upside down as I watched the streets outside my building fill with people, the highway clogged with cars that wouldn’t move for hours, police with big guns emerging from what felt like nowhere. And worst of all: the acrid smoke that hung in the air. In it, I felt the horror physically – stinging the back of my throat.

And there were the questions. Not just “Who did this?” but “Is it over?” And “Will our highways or our bridges or our metros be attacked next?” “Will we be able to get home?” “Should we scrounge for food and prepare to stay in the office overnight?” “Should we evacuate?” And the loneliest question: “Where will we be safe?”

Much later, when it had been hours since the last attack, a touch of the normal came back. The metro reopened, allowing me to return home, albeit via a detour. We were rushed, without stopping, through a Pentagon station that smelled strongly of smoke. All were numb, quiet. It was beyond strange to know that every single person I saw was thinking about the same thing. It was awful to know that our glances at each other were both sympathetic and suspicious. We didn’t know who was at fault, or if they were done. The weight of it all was oppressive.

But still, that sky was blue. It was blue and horrible and sickening. It shouldn’t have been so pretty. It should have cried.

That night I stood outside in the dark next to my uncle, looking at the big sky from the vantage of his small farm, where I was living at the time. He’d brought me out there to make me look at that awful, clear expanse. “Look; there are no planes in the sky. You’ll never see this again,” he told me.

I went back to work the next day, because We’re not going to let those terrorists get to us! I crossed that bridge over the Potomac once again. The sky was still blue, but this time I saw large white clouds of smoke or dust or steam billowing up from the Pentagon. We sped through the station again, smelling the smoke. We would do so — speed through without stopping — for days, perhaps weeks. Every time we did, I thought of the faces I’d seen getting off at that station that morning. I wondered where those people were, whether they were safe. I never saw them again.

The following day, I stayed home. I was exhausted and I needed to process what had happened.

I think I’m still working on it.

I know that my experience is nothing compared to that of those who escaped the Twin Towers, or who were injured in the Pentagon, or who searched frantically for information about their loved ones on that awful day and the ones that followed it. I don’t forget that thousands of people were lost and that thousands more continue to feel those losses acutely. I know that countless people feel like their lives were ripped apart that day.

Mine was not. I lost nothing more than some peace of mind.

And yet, to this day the sight of a clear, cloudless sky just about sends me into a panic attack. I don’t dwell on the yearly memorials, because I can hardly handle them. Re-reading my journal entry from that day, hearing a mention on the radio, seeing a “never forget” bumper sticker or Facebook meme – even just thinking about September 11^th – it causes the anxiety to mount. I have to switch gears before it overwhelms me.

Why do I write all this? Because oddly enough, it’s countering the anxiety that always rises to the surface this time of the year. And because it’s my way of saying “never forget” without relying on the memes that sucker-punch me. Never forget: that day was real; its impact lives on; those lives were valuable.

I suppose it’s some long-overdue processing.

God bless those who were lost that day. God bless those they left behind. God have mercy on those responsible.

And please? Don’t forget the Pentagon.

That Mommy Dance

September 10, 2013October 7, 2014 / Julie / 1 Comment

Have you seen this post on “Dating for Moms”? It floated around my Facebook feed last week and I just recently got around to reading it. It’s about striking up friendships with other moms, and how doing so can look an awful lot like dating. Pretty funny, to be sure. As I only have two very young boys at this point, I hadn’t given the subject too much thought. My boys aren’t into any sports yet, and my oldest only just started preschool last week.

I am, however, very familiar with a little dance that has always reminded me of trying to gauge whether that cute guy might be into you and whether maybe he’d like to hang out sometime. Only it’s way more transparent – and probably smacks more of desperation than you’d like. It looks something like this:

You’re at the park/grocery store/church/library and you see a woman around your own age, dressed in kinda sorta the same style and/or level of sloppiness as yourself, with a couple of kids hanging on to her (or being chased by her) that look to be about your own children’s ages. You give her some sort of sympathetic smile regarding whatever child behavior she’s dealing with at the moment. You glance at your own children to indicate that you are/have been in the same boat.

You find a way to walk over to her and inquire about her children. You say something about yours.

If she seems likeable and interested in chatting with you, you introduce yourself. This is where you almost stumble over yourself, asking “Do you stay home?” with a sort of wild-eyed desperation that you’re honestly only a little bit embarrassed about.

If she answers yes, your excitement jumps up a few notches because Your Schedules Might Be Compatible! And She Knows What I Go Through! And Maybe She’d Like To Do Play-dates!

You ask a few of the requisite getting-to-know you questions: how many children she has, their ages, where she lives, does she frequent this park/grocery store/church/library, is she from the area, does she know lots of people here, etc.

While one part of your brain is processing the information, another part is just about jumping up and down, singing “I think I like her! I think she likes me! We could be friends!” Another part of your brain is trying to stay cool and not freak her out with your enthusiasm.

If everything goes really well, you get up the nerve to exchange contact information. You’re still trying to be cool about it, but you’re already thinking about how much time is appropriate to let pass before you email her. You might even call a girlfriend on the way home, to share! your! excitement!

Please tell me I’m not the only one who does this little dance.

Because I did it this weekend.

And in all seriousness, though the “dance” or the “dating” seems funny when you look at it through the lens of your long-ago crushes, it’s not a game, nor is it insincere.

As a stay-at-home mom, you spend the bulk of your hours surrounded by little people, yet also somehow alone. When you stumble across someone who shares that experience, and in whom you sense a spark of something that could develop into friendship, you grab at it. Or at least I do.

I know that an awful lot of people are too shy to approach a stranger and strike up a conversation. I’m pretty darned outgoing and I still hesitate before doing so. But when it comes down to it, I understand that if I want to have friends in my life who are here, right now, in my own community, I have to do something about it. I have to put myself out there. I have to walk up to somebody and make the small talk. I have to risk embarrassing myself over an awkward, hasty “Sodoyoustayhome?”

Six years ago, I decided to just get over myself and try online dating. I figured that if it lead me to my future husband, it would be worth the hassle and embarrassment. Boy, did it pay off — big time. So now I remind myself to take those smaller risks on the playground, in hopes that they’ll pay off too.

So if you find yourself at a park/grocery store/church/library in these here parts and I walk up to you, please be kind. Take my attention not so much as a mark of crazy-eyed mommy desperation, but rather as a compliment. You must come across as a reasonable, pleasant person who takes good care of her children. Because I’m not going to bother with any other sort.

7 Quick Takes Friday (Vol. 13)

September 6, 2013September 6, 2013 / Julie / 2 Comments

— 1 —

Well, we survived the first day of school! Though by “survived,” I mean something different than most parents do in referencing that Big Day.

As expected, our big 3-year-old (and his parents) had no problem with the drop-off. He was so busy building with blocks that he barely even acknowledged our goodbyes. (Our 2-year-old, however, cried angry tears and shouted “No bye! No bye!”) Big boy did fine in class; I did fine without him (though it definitely felt strange to only have one child with me); and little brother did tolerably well. He was a little sullen and kept asking for “Beh boys” (his nickname for his brother), but there were no more hysterics.

So. No real problems there. It ended up being the pick-up, post pre-school day that we had to survive. While all of my boy’s classmates ran to their moms with shining, happy faces at pick-up time, my guy ran straight past me, grumbling and grumpy. As we neared the car, all became clear: “I don’t wanna go home!” Now there were tears. And wails. And refusals of my attempts to take yet more pictures of the poor kid: “You already did dat!” I had to wrestle him into his car seat (no small feat; the child weighs 40 pounds) as he continued to sob, “I DON’T WANNA GO HOME!” (What must strangers have imagined of our home life?)

On the drive home, he huffed, “But, I didn’t want to weave!” Once home, we barely made it through the door before he flung himself onto the floor – an action borne of exhaustion and an unwillingness to move himself further into the place where he did not! want! to! be! A few minutes later, when I told him that I’d missed him, he answered, “I didn’t miss you!” (Ouch!) It continued. Him: “Did Daddy miss me?” Me: “I’m sure he did!” Him: “Did my brother miss me?” Me: “He missed you very much. Did you miss him?” Him: “Nope.”

You’d think he’d take a really good nap after all that, wouldn’t you? You’d be wrong. Two hours! Two hours I left those boys in their room before I finally gave in and retrieved their annoyingly-awake little selves. They talked and whined the whole time, except for the few minutes, here and there, where they’d be totally quiet, probably teasing me: “Shhh! Let’s pretend we’re asleep… Shhh… Wait for it… Wait for it… Ha! We’re awake! Fooled her!” Their beautiful behavior continued well into the evening.

I’m now torn between wanting him to go back to school again ASAP because it’s clearly where he wants to be, and never wanting him to go back again, because then he’ll never want to leave.

Here are the before pics:

And here are the after:

Sobbing because he doesn’t want to leave.

— 2 —

Speaking of our 3-year-old and grumpiness… it’s been his M.O. lately. Evidence:

Nina, from the Sprout Goodnight Show: “Sproutlets, are you having a good night?”
Him: “No, I’m NOT havin’ a good night.”

He and I have been having a tough time of it the past few weeks. He shouts a mean-spirited “No!” or is otherwise obstinate in the face of my efforts to get him to… do normal things. Like go to the bathroom. Or wash his hands. Or eat. Or get in the car. So I get angry, and he gets put in time-out, so he melts down, and I get more angry… It’s been a little rough. (But please, do not tell me that “It’s not so much the terrible two’s as the terrible three’s!” At the moment, I cannot take the suggestion that this is going to last for another year.)

— 3 —

Per the above, the other day I happened to re-read a post I wrote a couple of months ago: A Love That Changes You. (If you haven’t read it yet, I hope you will. The re-read pushed it way up my list of favorites.) I wrote it right around my boy’s third birthday, and though the post hammers away at one of my favorite points – that each and every individual person is infinitely precious – it’s filled with love for this little guy in particular. It was good for me to revisit. In this season of “NO!” and “I didn’t miss you!” and “I don’t wanna go home!” it was good for me to recall that image of the rocking chair. It was good for me to read about my boy’s soft cheeks and long eyelashes. It was good for me to focus on my love for him, rather than my frustration.

— 4 —

That same post also touched me in a different, much sadder way, given recent events in Syria. More than a thousand people – many of them women and children – were killed in that chemical attack a couple of weeks ago. More than a hundred thousand have been killed in the two years since the fighting began. Millions have had to leave their homes, to live as refugees, to wander in search of safety.

I thought of them yesterday afternoon as I walked the trails of a local park with my boys. I looked out over the idyllic, peaceful scenery: forest, rolling hills, green farmland. I watched my boys run and squeal and crouch down to investigate small creatures, without a care in the world. We were safe. We were relaxed. We had the luxury of taking for granted our home and our family and our very lives.

Luxury. It’s easy to forget what a luxury such security is. But for millions of people living today, and for countless millions who lived before us, life has not been so much about seeking happiness as it has been about surviving.

There are mothers very much like me in Syria today. Mothers who dare not walk outside with their children for fear they will get caught in a crossfire. Other mothers who feel compelled to walk with their children, seeking refuge from a home that has become too dangerous. As I wrote in that post, “I hear about atrocities and I think of mothers rocking their babies.” It’s a powerful image for me.

I hope you’ll join me in answering Pope Francis’ call to prayer and fasting tomorrow, Saturday 7. Please pray for peace in Syria.

— 5 —

The reason I re-read “A Love That Changes You” the other day is because I heard a compelling, sobering program on NPR’s Fresh Air. The story, called “Program Fights Gun Violence Bravado With ‘Story of Suffering,’” focused on a program at Temple University Hospital in Philadelphia. “Cradle to Grave” brings small groups of at-risk youth into the hospital to show them the repercussions of being shot. It traces the story of a 16-year-old who was killed in 2004, sharing the gritty details of the treatment he received, the instruments that were used on him, and the impact his death had on his family. To me, the piece pounded away at the “every life is precious” theme from my June post. It was at once sickening, sobering, edifying, and hopeful. It did something to recognize the victims of violence in our own country, to remember the communities in our own backyard where people can’t forget that security is a luxury.

— 6 —

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I love Simcha Fischer. This week, I particularly loved her post, “The Allure of Either/Or.” In it, Simcha discusses recent debates regarding rape, modesty, men and women’s sexual attitudes towards each other. She notes how the debates tend to focus on one side or the other: either the burden for good behavior falls entirely on women or entirely on men. She writes:

Why does it have to be one or the other? Why does it have to be either/or? What ever happened to both/and? I have boys and girls. I tell my girls that they need to pay attention to what they wear, both for their own safety and sense of self-respect, and so as not to make trouble for people they meet. And my husband tells my boys that they must respect women no matter what they wear; that somebody else’s dress or behavior, whether it’s intentional or clueless, is never an excuse for bad behavior on their part. Both/and.

As Simcha points out, “both/and” applies to lots of issues. I feel her frustration all the time. Sometimes I shout at my radio: “Why do I have to choose a side? Why can’t both sides be a little right and a little wrong? Why can’t the answer be more nuanced?” I don’t feel that on every issue, of course, but there are an awful lot of political/societal issues that just aren’t easily answered. We shouldn’t feel compelled to answer them in an either/or fashion. I touched on this, on a very basic level, in my abortion post. One doesn’t have to be a pro-life Catholic or a social justice Catholic. It’s both/and. One is incomplete without the other.

— 7 —

Well, this 7 Quick Takes was a little heavier than my usual. So let me wrap up with a nice, simple little story.

Lately when we’ve encountered other families at the park (pretty rare, actually – we tend to go at everybody’s else’s naptime or dinnertime, I guess), we keep experiencing the same scenario: Our three-year-old is so excited to see the children that he follows them around, wanting to play with them. Inevitably he starts chasing them, roaring. He’s three. The kids, who are a few years older than him, plea to me with a whiny little “Can you tell him to stop chasing us?” I agree and then have to go break my little boy’s heart, because the wimpy eight-year-olds can’t handle some roaring. (Or more like it, they don’t want to play with a “little kid.”)

So when I saw a large group of older elementary and middle school kids, accompanied by a teenager, arrive at the park the other day, my heart sank. I braced myself for my little guy’s excitement and the big kids’ scorn. Perhaps with some disagreeable behavior and questionable language thrown in for good measure. But it never materialized. The big kids started straight in on a game and asked my boy if he wanted to play too. One took his hand and showed him what to do. They all talked to him and praised his ability on the playground equipment. (“Wow! That’s awesome! I can’t even do that!”) They commented, repeatedly, on how cute both of my boys were. Before I knew it, they’d taken the almost-two-year-old under their wings too.

Moreover, they were so nice to each other. There was no mean-spirited teasing, they were polite and kind, and they seemed genuinely concerned with each other’s wellbeing. It was enormously refreshing to witness – such a nice, simple little breath of fresh air for the middle of my week.

Well, I guess that’s it. Have a great weekend, everyone, and don’t forget to stop by Jen’s to see all the rest of the Quick Takes!

These Walls

Sharing stories from within the walls of my home; encouraging discourse on the wider world outside them.

Author: Julie

{pretty, happy, funny, real} (Vol. 3)

Monday Morning Miscellany (Vol. 6)

7 Quick Takes Friday (Vol. 15) / {pretty, happy, funny, real} (Vol. 2)

Rules For (My) Life With Toddler Boys

Fifty Years From Birmingham

7 Quick Takes Friday (Vol. 14)

{pretty, happy, funny, real}

The Blue-Sky Day

That Mommy Dance

7 Quick Takes Friday (Vol. 13)