The choices we make

Someone said to me the other day, "Our life is not our own." Now to put context to this assumption, it was said in regard to taxiing our children around to their activities. So I got to thinking, which always leads to writing simply because I can formulate my thoughts much better than when my fat tongue gets in the way of actually speaking. Plus, have I mentioned my eighteen month old son does not sleep through the night yet? Sleep deprivation and verbose don't mingle. But, that's another story...

See, for me its simple: my life is MY own; my children are now my life so therefore they are two in the same. Call it 'child centric' rearing if you will but I have embraced motherhood and my role of providing opportunities for my children. If that involves me driving my kid to piano lessons, attending library story time or packing dinner in order to eat at the soccer fields after practice -- I'm game.  I am comfortable in knowing that I have achieved in my short lived career, advanced my education and traveled. I feel very fortunate TO be with my children at this time, raising them as a full-time mother. Full-time not because working moms are somehow deemed part-time mothers when they step into their office after dropping their kid off at daycare, but because I am with my children every waking moment--did I mention my son doesn't sleep through the night?

I was work centric, always striving to be the best for so very long. It took a few missteps and an exit from that lifestyle to truly understand "my own life." When my husband and I tried to have a baby for over one year, it became an intangible yearning, an unattainable goal. And so I, striving to always achieve applied my work ethic to that of the biology of my body. Researching infertility and going to see a specialist, I began our determined quest which would eventually lead us to our happily ever after. After much sticking, probing and monitoring there was nothing to diagnose. A realization set in: control was not to be had, time and patience would prove true. A sentiment golden with both making babies and raising them. 



My first born: Anderson

When my son was born, so was I-reborn in a sense. My "own life" was in the mercy of this child. In my previous life I might have done a happy dance given the project was successfully executed. This however was the ultimate project, HE would have my time and everything that I could provide him-his emotional, spiritual and material needs met for his taking. Followed by his sister twenty-two months later, and then with no special help we were surprisingly blessed with another baby boy, twenty months later. Yes, your math is correct three babies in four years! Yes, I am a self admitted overachiever.

 

I believe our lives are our own. "Your own life," is defined in the choices we make, in concert with those things we cannot control.

 

 

 

Our personal cheerleaders!

Today, I wrestled the Christmas tree. It was a lot easier to put up than take down.  It eventually met the curb but not without sparing the carpet of a sticky, sap water (stains to remember the pain) bath. While I was silently cursing to myself, I heard Anderson, who was watching from the stairs as the tree enveloped his mummy say, "Just do your best Mummy!"

This spirited chant reminded me of the time I scaled a ladder to the very tall roof, last October.  My mission was to remove the stellar anniversary gift I bought my husband; a toy helicopter that is controlled by an ipad/iphone. After its initial ascend, within minutes it met its demise straight in the gutter-which as you presume is attached to the very tall roof.  The helicopter controlled by the "ican't" more appropriately. 

I started my own ascend, Andrew held the foot of the ladder. I volunteered. I know, right!? Anyhow, I heard Anderson cheering from the yard "C'mon Mummy, you can do it!"  It was that cheer that I heard while I nervously carried on, upon hesitating half way up. I didn't want to disappoint him (he was more excited about the helicopter than my husband) or in some ways show him fear. Not only did I retrieve the helicopter in one piece, but I succeeded in showing my son an example of bravery. I know its JUST a tall roof, and worst case scenario I could have fallen (Andrew would've caught me, disguised as a knight in shining armor-no doubt) or possibly worse failed at our rescue mission. 

With personal strength we can manage and overcome larger challenges than our perceived undertaking. In a symbolic sense - the monstrous Christmas tree versus my 125lb, 5' 5" (5' 6" on a good day) frame - well I was definitely the underdog. 

We can overcome our subjectivity and exemplify traits within reach. Just as the toy helicopter sat snug in the gutter waiting to be freed, the feeling of fear was put to bed and the action of bravery awoken.

We should feel satisfied knowing we have tried our best, put our steady foot forward on the way up (sometimes those ladders are tall) and most importantly having a cheerleader helps the cause.  

Thank you, son! In my view, there is no tree taller than you, your established roots are strong and spread so very far. 

Originally written: January 3, 2013

A lesson on savings, and tractors

We Live in a town where we see at least a dozen different tractors chugging down Main Street in the Christmas parade. I grew up in a city that has been dubbed the most populous city in all of Ohio, and is ten minutes from downtown Cleveland. Needless to say, I haven't experienced a lot of tractors or farm equipment in my time. 

When I was a working woman, not to say what I do now is not work, but you know what I mean when I actually had business cards, my big girl job. Anyway. I used to make the ninety minute commute to Columbus through some well, you could say scenic roads. To pass the time, I observed the world of farming unfold: the same old dairy cow out to pasture every morning just as the sun was rising, cattle rumps side-by-side along the trough, the seemingly stray chickens that loitered dangerously close to the road and my favorite -- the changing fields as the seasons played out, barren brown transformed to lush green followed by rows of gold-waving, as I sleepily went to or fro my big girl job. My colleagues that I carpooled with on occasion we're even considerate enough to let the city girl in on what a combine harvester was. Those things are massive!

 

Which brings me to the tractor that is for sale just down the road from our home and has caught the eye of my five year old son.  "How much do you think that tractor costs, Mummy?" "I'd really like to buy that," says an intrigued Anderson.  I respond:  "I'm not sure, maybe you could pay for it with the savings in your piggy bank. Silence from the back of the minivan. Obviously, my jesting wasn't detected. So, I ask, "What would you use it for?" Promptly and matter of fact, "No. Daddy has a bigger piggy bank than I do. So he should buy it. We can paint it red and blue and use it to cut grass."

 

Who is Santa anyway?

Around this time, every year our home transforms from pumpkins to pine, autumnal spice to peppermint, flickering jack-o-lanterns to twinkling lights, "Monster Mash" to "Jingle Bells." A waft of magic touching on every sense, awakening memories and feelings.  I love holidays.  Actually, I love creating an experience, memories for our children.

In all honesty, I find the Santa gig extremely difficult at times. Times, when my very logical five year old son, Anderson, asks, "Well, how does Santa really fly around the world in one night?" Or, "Why would Santa forget to bring toys to some boys and girls?"  My daughter, Alex, is three now, but has always had many reservations about Santa...I think it is primarily the beard.   The difficulty, lies in the fear of spinning a web of fibs that one day I will have to own up to.  Or the conundrum of peeling my daughter off my leg to place her next to a stranger, despite us telling her not talk to strangers. 

Yet, there are times when I hope the Santa gig doesn't run its course.  You know when Santa has my back, and I'm caught saying,  "You know Santa is watching, and he knows whether you've made good choices."  Now we even have a tangible, little elf named "Toby" - who is Santa's direct report.  All, I have to do is remember to move him each night.  For one month I like to think of him as my enforcer.  When Anderson asks, "Mummy, are God and Santa singing 'Happy Birthday' with us, when we sing?" I see the resonation. The powers that be at work.

We have the magical aspect of believing in something that we cannot see.  We feel the spirit and show remnants of Santa: the milk glass empty, half eaten cookies and carrots come morning; the sugary boot prints leading from the fireplace; the tiny bells dropped on the deck (Santa must work on his dismount); the gifts and full stockings.

We went to see Santa as we have done the past few years in our town's Christmas festival.  I find this particular Santa genuine, a little more magical than the average mall Santa.  He offers some validity since Anderson has concluded that the mall Santas must be helpers to the real Santa simply because Santa can't be everywhere at once.

In order to prevent Alex from running the other way of the big man, we tried to prep her.
Me: "So, I hear Santa will be in our town tonight - before he gets really busy after Thanksgiving."
Alex: "I do not like Santa because he wears red!  Who is Santa anyway?"
Anderson: "Well, Alex. Santa brings toys to all the children around the world.  You can ask him for something, but DON'T ask him for poop!" Yes, he just said that and no we don't have prune issues. 

Proof that memories are definitely made in the moment!  Kids, unbeknownst to them, create the experience - no mummy help needed.

This is our Santa photo from this year - 2013.  We've come along way in just one year:

2012