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Why Life Is Like A High Dive

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Last weekend our friends invited us to their pool for the afternoon. We told our boys ahead of time that this “new pool” has a high dive and they could barely contain their excitement. When we walked up to the entrance and they finally saw the high dive, in the concrete flesh, they jumped and cheered and ran in circles like our pug when he chases his semi-curly tail. Can we go? Can we go? Can we go?

Oh the agony of adult swim!

The six-minute countdown was on and they stared at the clock, willing the second hand to go faster. Can we go? Can we go? Can we go? Eventually the lifeguard blew the whistle and the kids lined up at the ladder and began their ascents.

They didn’t even hesitate like I thought they would. They just went for it.

They walked to the end, looked out at the water below, gave a last minute glance to those of us on the deck cheering them on, and jumped. They threw their bodies into the air and their fears into the wind. They touched the clouds.

It was kind of amazing.

Because I expected some jitters and a few trips back down the ladder. I expected long pauses at the end of the board. I expected a one-and-done experience, maybe even a one-and-done-and-never-again experience.

But instead they kept going, over and over again, for hours. They climbed, they ran, they jumped. They never wanted to stop.

Except, of course, when one tried a “twister” and hit the water in a big back-flop. Then it was time for towels and tears and hugs.

My boys surprised me that day. More importantly, they taught me a lot about life.

Because life is like a high dive.

Life has climbs and planks and a lot of bounce. Life is scary but also exhilarating because it is so scary. Sometimes we keep going, over and over again. But sometimes we have to take breaks like vacations and naps and adult swims.

Life has risk and reward and choices. Sometimes we decide to turn around and return to where we started. But sometimes we take leaps of faith. We may surprise ourselves. We may surprise everyone.

Sometimes there are soft landings. But sometimes we flop and it stings. And then we cry and need a hand out of the water.

Thankfully, if we’re lucky, we have people on deck. They are the holders of the towels, the people who love us and encourage us no matter how big a splash we make, no matter how many times we screw up, and no matter how many times we turn around and go back down the ladder. They stand ready and they aren’t afraid to get wet.

Life is like a high dive, full of fun and fear and second chances. Sometimes we wince. But sometimes we soar.

Life is kind of amazing that way.

KID

Hush Little Baby

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New born baby hand

I was driving in the car with my kids and, in an effort to stave off some whining, I played a CD of nursery rhymes I found in the glove compartment. I’ve heard these songs a thousand times, most a thousand times too many. But sometimes a peaceful drive home is worth twelve back-to-back renditions of Itsy Bitsy Spider. It’s a close call, but it’s worth it.

When we rounded the corner onto our street the lullaby “Hush Little Baby” started to play. I smiled and sang along with my sons.

Hush, little baby, don’t say a word,
Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird
And if that mockingbird won’t sing,
Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring
And if that diamond ring turns brass,
Mama’s gonna buy you a looking glass
And if that looking glass gets broke,
Mama’s gonna buy you a billy goat
And if that billy goat won’t pull,
Mama’s gonna buy you a cart and bull
And if that cart and bull turn over,
Mama’s gonna buy you a dog named Rover

And if that dog named Rover won’t bark,
Mama’s gonna buy you a horse and cart
And if that horse and cart fall down,
You’ll still be the sweetest little baby in town.

I love this song. Whenever I hear it, I feel a surge of nostalgia. It reminds me of my babies when they were babies, when everything was brand new and scary and really hard and miraculous.

This song was my middle of the night anthem. It was my go-to. These lyrics were the only ones I could ever think to sing in those weary, ready-to-drop moments.

I remember trying to lull my boys to sleep while I paced in circles around our living room. I remember sitting and cradling them in our big blue rocker. I remember the swaddle blankets. I remember warming bottles in the dark kitchen. I remember the whimpers and the whines and the tiny yawns. I remember staring out at the nighttime street filled with sleeping houses. I remember all the phases of the moon. I remember the ticks of the clock. I remember thinking I was the only person in the entire world who was awake at that time.

But I also remember big blue eyes staring up at me. I remember that new baby smell and the feel of my boys’ cheeks against my chest. I remember the softness of their hair. I remember their little kicks. I remember the way their entire hands would curl around and grip my little finger. I remember how their bodies could fit in the crook of my arm. I remember the peace and the stillness and the quiet. I remember falling in love again and again.

Hearing this song now, years later, takes me back to those nights. It reminds me of drowsiness and exhaustion and desperation. But it also reminds me of tenderness and compassion and awe in those moments within the heavy moments.

I still can feel the fatigue in my bones. But I also still can feel the softness in my heart. I can feel the weariness, but also the wonder. I can feel the exasperation, but also the patience.

All of those feelings, all of those feelings, are equally important. They all matter. Of course, I never want to forget the tender moments. But I also don’t want to forget the not-so-tender moments. Because they are all part of our story. The good, the bad, and the magical.

I still have those moments today. Things have moved forward and changed and my kids have grown, but I still have those moments. I still find frustration. I still feel fatigue and desperation. I still throw my hands in the air. I still bury my head in my lap. I still wish I could close my eyes and go to sleep. The bottles and swaddle blankets and midnight pacing circles may be gone, but they’ve been replaced with new struggles. And the feelings are still the same.

But, thankfully, I still find the awe. I still feel compassion and unconditional love. There are heart bursts. There are twinklings of tenderness. There are moments of sweet affection. The baby smells and tiny yawns and little finger grips may be gone, but they’ve been replaced with new joys. And the feelings are still the same.

Even now, there are Hush Little Baby moments. Because it’s still brand new and scary and really hard and miraculous. Every single day.

KID

Happier Birthday

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Delicious birthday cupcake on wooden table

Last week we celebrated our twins’ third birthdays. It was a wonderful day filled with laughter, celebration, and sugar. They probably won’t remember the day, but I will.

I’ll remember they played with friends, they ate donuts and ice cream, and they cried happy, exhausted tears. We hugged and we sang and we spent the day reminding them of how very much they are loved.

On that day, shortly after I put them down for their naps, I received a knock at my door and a bouquet of flowers.

The flowers were a thank you, from my mother-in-law, and the card read: Thanks for being the best mom to Cooper and Crosby.

I was so touched by this kind and thoughtful gesture and this acknowledgement that this day was also a day for me.

It was, after all, another year.

It was another year of growth. It was another year of successes and failures and trying my best. It was another year of firsts and lasts.

It was another year. It was a gift.

They made it. I made it. We all made it.

The year’s days weren’t always graceful. There were stumbles and screw-ups. There were times when I wasn’t the greatest version of myself and there are a few days I wish I could take back for a re-do.

But there were also some Best. Days. Ever. There were baby steps and there were big steps. There were “I have to write this down” moments. We traveled and adventured. We had bellyaching laughter. We surprised ourselves. We had a whole lot of joy.

So on this day, this day that I thought had nothing to do with me, I celebrated alongside my boys. And I gave thanks for the gentle reminder that behind every child’s birthday cake stands a hardworking, hand-holding mom who deserves to share a little in the happy and a lot in the love.

KID

Making a Mess of Mother’s Day

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This year I wanted Mother’s Day to have a little creative flair and give the grandmas something other than my go-to gift of framed photos of the kids. Inspiration (or was it Pinterestspiration?) hit me on a recent trip to an art store. I bought some large white canvases and finger-paints and reveled a bit in my outside the (5×7) box idea.

Here was my vision.

Set up the three boys at the counter with the canvases and paints. After a few minutes, rotate the boards among the boys so that each painting had contributions from all of the grandsons. Voila! Beautiful homemade masterpieces made with love.

A few hours later, I saddled the boys up to the counter and explained the plan. Wide-eyed and strangely calm, they sat and watched me place six paint colors onto paper plate palettes. I gave them each a plate and said we would rotate paintings in a few minutes.

Voila! Right?

Remind me again of that saying about the best laid plans…

Of course the boys did exactly what I should have known they’d do. Exactly.

I watched my little Picassos dig in and as they did so, all the visions of handprints, stick figures, and flowers dancing in my head abruptly stopped.

In eerie synchronicity, all three boys put both of their hands down and mixed the colors together on both the plates and their palms, creating a putrid shade of brown with a tinge of purple. Seconds later, and giggling wildly, they slapped their hands all over the white canvases, which quickly transformed into the same lovely shade of prown.

Stop, I cried. I tried to rotate. I tried to wipe them down and start anew with fresh palettes, but the prown just became prowner. Their laughs became louder and the game became more fun. Once the canvases were filled they turned their sights (and hands) on the kitchen counter and then each other, coating their elbows, forearms, and eventually their hair and faces.

Voila.

Wide-eyed and not so calm, I halted the exhibition. One by one, I lifted each child up under the armpits, held him in the air, and carried him to the shower.

What a mess.

I sighed one of those “oh man” kind of sighs. Despite good intentions, this adventure had turned into quite the epic fail, a prown epic fail.

Three bathed children, two rolls of paper towels, and a bottle of 409 later, I resolved to head to the frame store the next morning.

But when that next morning came, a remarkable thing happened.

I went out into the kitchen, walked past the paintings, and stopped. I picked up each canvas, tilted my head to the side, and just stared.

The longer I looked at those paintings, the more I saw. And the longer I looked, the more I realized they were actually kind of…beautiful.

They were beautiful.

And right then it occurred to me why this was the perfect Mother’s Day gift.

In those paintings I saw a smattering of colors. I saw fire (red) and joy (yellow) and softness (blue). I saw growth (green) and wisdom (purple). I saw enthusiasm (orange) and innocence (white).

I saw fingerprints belonging to three one-of-a-kind kids who had chosen me for their mom.

I saw smudges and drips and smears. I saw mess-ups and uncertainty and failed expectations.

But I also saw laughter and happiness and togetherness. I saw a whole lot of love.

Those paintings were big, beautiful, brilliant messes.

And that’s exactly what motherhood is.

It’s unchartered and chaotic.

It’s full of clutter and noise.

Sometimes plans fall apart.

Sometimes there are epic fails.

Sometimes it feels like one big shade of prown.

But just like in the paintings, there is more to motherhood than meets the eye. And underneath the mess, there is something undeniably lovely and perfect.

There is a beautiful smattering of colors and qualities. There are smudges of mistakes, but also sparkles of joy. And woven in the fabric below is a whole lot of love.

Underneath that mess is a once blank canvas forever changed with little hands and hearts.

So on this Mother’s Day, I want to celebrate the brilliant beauty that exists in the messes.

May we always remember to take time to look for it.

KID

What It Takes

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Early this morning I was running on my treadmill in the basement, very excited about a guilt-free hour of bad TV. All of a sudden I heard what sounded like elephants running on an African plain upstairs above me.

Nooooo. Ugh. Too soon! I was only 12 minutes into my Real Housewives episode! I give my kids the post-sunrise hours, but this precious early one is mine.

First I tried denial. I ran on, convinced the thumping was just a figment of my imagination or static in my headphones.

I had about forty-five glorious seconds in Never Never (Heard Them) Land before it came again.

Still I ran on, reassured because I had put a gate in the doorway of my twins’ room. I knew they couldn’t get themselves into much trouble in there. I figured I had at least until the next commercial break. I fantasized they turned on the lights and were paging through board books, or, even better, had decided to get back into their beds and fall asleep.

But then the thumping got louder. And, unfortunately, broader. I could tell the jailbirds had busted out and were running wild every inch of our Suburban plain upstairs.

I quickly surveyed my house in my head, noting the dangers they could would probably absolutely encounter.

So, as all parents do, I reluctantly surrendered my time to theirs and resolved to set my alarm a little earlier tomorrow.

I jumped off, grabbed my sweatshirt, and headed upstairs to reign in my little rascals.

I opened the door to the basement and peeked out into the kitchen.

And then I witnessed some magic.

I saw my three kids walking from the family room to the kitchen, the six-year-old in front and the two-year-olds in line behind him, all with pjs, tousled hair, and blankets in tow. It reminded me of a mama duck and her ducklings.

From the mouth of my eldest babe, I heard these words:

Okay guys. What do you want for breakfast? Waffles or pancakes?

My jaw dropped. I stepped down a few steps, put my back against the wall, and closed my eyes. I smiled the biggest smile I’ve smiled in a really long time.

This was a big moment for me.

It was more than an “oh how time flies” moment or a “kids grow up so fast” moment.

In that scene, I saw glimpses of self-reliance. I saw glimpses of confidence. I saw glimpses of kindness and harmony.

I saw a little bit of what it takes—of what it will take for them to succeed in the big world.

The what it takes is what it’s all about.

It’s why we do what we do. It’s what makes it all worthwhile. It’s why we are able to let go, little by little.

That’s the gig for a parent—to pass on what it takes. And every once in a while we get to see that what we try to pass on, is, actually, passed on. There lies the magic.

Of course, our kids aren’t born with what it takes.
And what it takes doesn’t fall out of the sky into their laps.

So whenever we see a glimpse of it, we need to smile and give ourselves a little pat on the back.

Show me a man who has what it takes.

And I’ll bet that very same man once had a mom who smiled when she saw her little boy make his own waffles.

KID

Mom Knows Best

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I have known my children every little minute of their little lives. I understand their chemistries and their hearts. I know their nooks and crannies. I know their moods, their joys, and the precise locations of all of their freckles.

I know my kids. I know what my kids need. I’m Mom. And Mom knows best.

Except, of course, when she doesn’t.

Take one of those “fill in the blank” parenting problems-the overwhelming, exasperating kind of problem. The kind of problem with a variety of possible “solutions” from experts and friends. The kind of problem that comes with a lot of opinions.

I know that problem. And I know how it feels when I can’t fill in the blank. I know furrowed brows, tears, and a lot of guilt. I know times when I put my head in my hands and say I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know what to do. I. Don’t. Know. What. To. Do.

Sometimes Mom knows best. But sometimes Mom doesn’t have a clue.

There’s an expectation for parents to get it right all of the time because there’s an assumption that we have this special kind of knowledge.

Not only do we know our kids, but we are the grown-ups. We have decades of life experience on our sides. We have an understanding of the end game. We have learned from our own mistakes.

We are the Yodas to these young Jedis. Great knowledge we have.

But the truth is, we don’t.

Despite my decades of real-life years, my parenting years are pretty limited. I’ve only been a mom as long as my kid has been a kid.

There is still a lot to learn and a lot of ways in which to grow. Not just for my kids, but for me too. There are a lot of I don’t knows still to say and a lot of bad choices still to make. Not just for my kids, but for me too.

Kids grow up. But along the way, so do parents. And no one gets through it without a few scraped knees.

Moms may know best most of the time, but certainly not all of the time. We try and we try and we try. We pour and we pour and we pour into these kids.

Sometimes we hit it out of the park. Sometimes we swing and miss.

But we have this beautiful gift called unconditional love.

It’s a love with room for screw-ups, second chances, and forgiveness. It’s a love of duration without expectation. And it’s a love that knows we can’t possibly know best all of the time.

It’s also a two-way street.

No matter how often our kids get it wrong, we love them no matter what.

No matter how often we get it wrong, our kids love us no matter what.

In the end, that’s all that really counts. And that’s a better kind of best to know.

KID

Six Lessons in Six Years

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Birthday Cake - Six

There’s a big #6 birthday at our house tomorrow.

In recognition of the past six years and the six stripes we’ve both earned, I offer these six things I know to be positively, unequivocally, and lovingly true.

#1. Within all of the days and weeks of pure, unadulterated exasperation, there are itsy bitsy moments of pure, unadulterated joy. Those moments are the money shots, the memory makers, and the bridges that carry us over the mud.

#2. We pour and pour and pour and pour into our kids with no immediate reward. Our return on investment comes when they turn and pour into the world. We just need to trust them, trust ourselves, and trust the process.

#3. Building little people requires more patience than exists in this world. That is a fact. We need to give ourselves some grace.

#4. Our kids are these gorgeous mash-ups of their parents and their own unique chemistries. Sometimes the little (and big) things they do that drive us crazy are direct reflections of ourselves. We need to give them some grace.

#5. There is a Mama Bear inside of me. She’s fierce and she’s loyal and she’s protective. How very lucky I am to have something to love and cherish so much it can make me growl.

#6. Sometimes the very best (and often only) thing you can ever do is laugh. We all have enough in our lives that isn’t laughable. When you can, and sometimes when you least feel like it, you must.

Happy #6, #1. I love you.

KID