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Sticky Stuff

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Yesterday morning I woke up to Aquaphor hieroglyphics on my wall. I tried to make out some star constellations, but upon closer examination, I just found a bunch of handprints and smears.

A few hours later, one of my four-year-olds came running in from outside, shouting that he had some gum in his hair. But upon closer examination, I found that “some gum” was a bit of an understatement. He had a big pink wad that looked to be about half of a roll of Bubble Tape.

Peanut butter is a popular choice to help ease gum out of hair. But a peanut butter/Aquaphor combination works even better.

I cleaned him up and the kids went on to search and destroy as they do so well.

As a mom of three little boys, I am quite accomplished when it comes to stuff that sticks. Name a surface, any surface. Pick an instrument, any instrument. Choose a substance, any substance. I bet I have a story for you.

Was it Colonel Mustard with the glue stick on the leather ottoman?
Yes. Only it wasn’t Colonel Mustard.

I have seen more than my fair share of sticky stuff. I have cleaned up more than my fair share of sticky stuff. I have cried and yelled more than my fair share about the sticky stuff.

Because most of the time, finding sticky stuff means finding mess and destruction and exasperation and a long, hard cleanup.

One time I had to go through four different cleaning solutions and a lot of research to discover how to get Pam non-stick spray off of every surface of my kitchen, including the cabinetry, the stainless steel, and the wood floors which had turned into a large skating rink. Turns out that even the non-stick stuff still sticks.

Later in this very same gummy Aquaphory day, I discovered some other sticky stuff. But this time it had nothing to do with mess or destruction or exasperation. And this time there was no long, hard cleanup required. This time I found something sticky that was so beautiful it eclipsed all of the other not-so-beautiful sticky stuff.

I walked into our front room and stumbled across a long line of gift bags that stretched from one end of the room to the other. The boys, on another one of their rogue missions, had discovered my wrapping paper and box of gift bags. They brought out all of the bags and lined them up from one wall to the other. They filled each of the bags with their own toys. I stood there in confusion and preemptive irritation but then they explained that their gifts were for “all of the kids who didn’t have any toys.” They wanted to hand them out to anyone who might happen to come to our door. They even stood on our front porch and yelled out into the world: “Hey kids who have no toys! Come get our toys!”

What made this moment beautiful was that the boys came up with this idea without my suggestion or influence or requirement. The moment was beautiful because of its independence and spontaneity.

What made this moment a gift was that it helped me realize that the good stuff sticks, too.

Our efforts make a difference. Our efforts to plant and build and pass along important values like kindness and compassion and generosity, those efforts make a difference. Our energy makes a difference. Our energy spent trying to teach our kids how to love, how to care, and how to serve, that energy makes a difference.

Even if we don’t see those differences most of the time. Unfortunately, we have to set aside the privilege of immediate gratification. We just keep planting and building and trusting that all of that good stuff somehow sticks somewhere.

Then we wait. We wait for moments exactly like the moment I had last night.

And while we wait, we clean up the messes and the destruction and we spend a lot of time on our knees.

Because the truth is that the bad stuff that sticks can usually be washed away.

But the good stuff stays around.

The good stuff gets stashed right where we want it to be. Inside. In those tiny corners of their hearts, those unreachable, unwashable, unchangeable places where stuff stays forever. It’s the kind of stuff that forms a character and guides choices and finds the good stuff in others.

The bad stuff that sticks eventually turns into good stories.

The good stuff that sticks eventually turns into good people.

So the next time I’m trying to figure out how to remove melted crayon out of upholstery fabric or how to remove play-dough from the inside of a door lock, I’ll remember last night. The next time I’m faced with a long, hard cleanup, I’ll remember last night.

I’ll remember how my boys reminded me that if I spend all of my time on the bad stuff that sticks on the outside, I just might miss catching a glimpse of the good stuff that sticks on the inside.

KID

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

Obvious

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Yesterday I played in a golf clinic and I learned a lesson that had absolutely nothing to do with golf.

There were a handful of us practicing chipping shots when a young man, around twenty years old, walked up to our green. He approached one of the ladies in our group and they spoke for a few moments. He turned and walked away and I overheard her say, “See you soon!”

The rest of us continued our practice but she stopped and said, “I have to head out now because I’m going to go play golf with my son. He just told me he wants to play and I have to take any chance I get to spend time with him.” She was sincere and excited.

I stood up and watched her leave and I thought about what she said. I thought about how tenderhearted it was that she dropped everything, left her own plans and her own time, and ran after her son who wanted to spend time with his mom. It was obvious how precious he was to her. And it was the obvious part I loved the most.

I thought about her the rest of the afternoon. I thought about being obvious.

Unlike that mom, I don’t really feel the same need to take any chance I get. My kids are young and underfoot and passionately needy. I get a lot of chances to spend time with them.

I don’t need to run to my kids because, frankly, they are always running to me. It’s a little hard to imagine a time when I’d take any chance I get. It’s a little hard to imagine a time when I’d want to drop everything, including my own plans, and run.

But I know that day will come. I know that’s certain.  I know there will be a time when I am on the other side of this time, a time when I’ll take any opportunity with them because they’ve chosen me over all of the other more interesting and less familiar options they have. There will be a day when I’ll get the chance to take the chance.

But until that time comes, and while I’m still standing on this side of that time, I can remember the obvious part. Until that time comes, I can still do the obvious part. I can do better at the obvious part.

Because those kids are so precious to me, no matter what time it is. I know this to be true. But it should always be obvious.

KID

The Road Never Traveled

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We recently returned home from a road trip with our three boys. It was our first true “vacation” as a family of five since our twins came on the scene almost three years ago. We decided it was time to be brave and help our little rascals off their beaten paths around our family room.

We chose a short(ish) road trip to New Mexico for the following reasons:

  1. Our destination hotel is kid-friendly with several pools, waterslides, trails, activities, restaurants, and, most importantly, other families with small children.
  2. A six hour car drive is shorter than a plane trip anywhere, given all of the logistics with flying and airports.
  3. If the kids scream and cry, we are the only ones to hear it.
  4. We can stop if we need a break.
  5. We can pack what and however much we want including: bags of snacks, a multitude of electronic devices and chargers, lifejackets, bike helmets, bottomless toiletries, and our very own outhouse bag with diapers, pull-ups, underoos, swim diapers, and wipes. A lot of wipes.
  6. Should disaster strike, we can always turn around and come home.

After forcing the boys on the trampoline for thirty minutes to burn off some excitement and energy, we packed up the car, buckled everyone, and backed out of the driveway with crossed fingers and hope.

The kids started crying and screaming and fighting approximately 45 seconds into the trip.

Ted and I looked at each other and simultaneously said, “Should we bag this?”

We didn’t. Instead we took a few deep breaths and turned up the radio.

We headed south on the highway and our expectations of a smooth travel headed in the same direction. But we went for it anyway. It was, of course, the time to be brave.

As it turns out, we didn’t need bravery. Despite our rough start and low expectations, our kids pleasantly surprised (read: shocked) us. We spent a total of almost fourteen hours in the car round-trip, and it was, for the most part, easy. Our kids were patient (gulp) and quiet (gulp) and peaceful (gulp gulp). Even with traffic. Even without naps.

The hotel also exceeded expectations. The kids loved the pools, the hallways, and the fries at every meal. The twins shouted, “We’re on a trip! We’re on a trip!” Big brother was helpful and happy and just as excited as his little groupies.

There were some road bumps, of course. We had a few rowdy and wolf-like meals, a couple of mishaps with an outdoor pizza oven, and daily “accidental” calls to the security desk due to an obsession with the hotel phones. We also had one midnight looting episode involving two kids, one crib, every coffee/tea/sugar packet in the room, and the hotel shampoos and lotions. Picture mud wrestling. Picture sugar scrub. Picture angry mom.

In the end, however, I’d call this trip a win-win-win. We all had fun. We all got sleep. We were able to finish meals. We smiled. We laughed. We praised. We didn’t have any trips to the emergency room. And we all made it home.

We proved they could do it, we could do it, and, most importantly, we’d even do it again someday.

My kids reminded me on this trip how easy they are to impress. They can find fun anywhere. Give them a long hallway or a telephone. Or a pack of sugar, but only if you’re brave.

One afternoon, a lady stopped us and told us she thought our kids were “so enjoyable.” So enjoyable. Now that was a first. But it was also a truth. They were. They are.

There really is a little magic in that place called When You Least Expect It.

Sometimes all it takes is an open road. And an open mind.

Happy trails.

KID

A Little Spark of Good Character

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A couple of years ago, I read the biography of Tim Tebow, an NFL football player, former college star, and celebrity well known for his public displays of faith. Tebow’s book resonated with me, but for reasons that have nothing to do with football or even Tebow himself.

What impressed me were Tebow’s parents and how they tried to teach their sons selflessness, kindness, and humility.

One example of how they accomplished this is that they gave their sons a dollar for every time they heard another person complement their good characters.

I love this idea. And I love to see sparks of good character in kids.

Thankfully, I’ve been blessed with a lot of great precedent.

I know several young girls who grew their hair long enough (sometimes for months and even years) just so they could cut it all off and donate it to Locks of Love, a non-profit organization that provides hairpieces to financially disadvantaged children suffering from medical hair loss.

I know a young boy who helped and encouraged a very nervous six-year-old in his first ever swim relay.

My friend’s ten-year-old son discovered The Golden Egg at this year’s Easter Egg Hunt and won a gift basket full of toys, games, and candy. Immediately after being presented with it, he began to hand out items to all of the kids standing around him.

I know an eight-year-old girl who once stood up for another kid at school when everyone else was making fun of his clothes.

I know some young boys who go out of their ways to be kind to my toddlers. They take a genuine interest in whatever it is they are doing at the moment. It impresses them that someone notices them. It impresses me more.

I know several young kids who volunteer at soup kitchens and homeless shelters.

I know a young girl who held a bake sale to raise money for an animal rescue organization.

I know a nine-year-old boy who decided to donate all of his birthday gifts to Children’s Hospital.

I know kids who place flags on gravestones on Memorial Day.

Just this past weekend, a friend’s young daughter carried fruit snacks in her pocket all morning, hoping she would see my kids. A few hours later, this young girl’s older brother stopped a basketball game just to run over and invite my son to play on his team.

Every year our family forms a team at a race to support ovarian cancer research and awareness. And every year, many young kids join us to walk or run this race in honor of my mom and other survivors. It’s not just our friends that show up, their kids do too.

I knew a fifth grader who went out of his way to make my kindergartner feel important this year at school, and in doing so made him feel a little less scared.

It is by good fortune and good friendship that I know these and so many other examples of kids showing good character.

The best part is these great kids are doing these great things without prompt, without instruction, and without recognition. They are acting out of the goodness in their hearts and with the kindness, selflessness, and humility that has been passed down to them by their great parents.

This is the stuff we need to celebrate. This is the stuff that matters. This is the stuff that should make us the most proud.

Yes, we need to strive for and hone good character in our own kids. We need to emphasize it, teach the big lessons, and demonstrate by example.

But–and this is the nugget–we also need to rally around other kids too, and in the parents who have planted those important seeds.

We spend enough time in the humdrum—talking about logistics and behavior and uncertainties. We spend enough time excusing and apologizing and trying to explain.  We spend enough time thinking about progress and accomplishment and comparison.

We don’t spend enough time thinking or talking about good character. And we should.

Not only because it’s a great thing to see, but also because it pushes this world in the right direction. And these little sparks are the kind of moments that assure a doubting parent that his or her best is well beyond good enough.

My six-year-old son is on a swim team. He practices early every morning and works really hard. It’s exciting to see him succeed and improve his times.

At last week’s swim meet, after one of his races, we stood at the end of the pool, bent over at him in the water shouting our attaboys. But he didn’t even acknowledge us. Instead, he immediately climbed out of the pool and sought out his friend who swam the same race. He went right up to him and said quietly, “Good job.”

It was quiet enough that no one really heard it. In fact, I’m not even sure his friend heard it. But those two words rang loud and clear to me.

In that moment, I forgot all about his swimming performance. I forgot whether it was first place or last place and whether his time was faster or slower than last week’s time.

Because in that moment, I saw a little humility and a little kindness. I saw him act on his own and from his heart. In that moment, I saw a little spark of good character.

And that little spark is priceless to me.

KID

Thanks Dad

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Thanks, Dad.

Thanks for taking care of me. Thanks for tying my shoelaces, helping with math homework, and standing on more sidelines than I could ever count.

Thanks for your guidance and all of the times you steered my shoulders.

Thanks for trusting in me. Thanks for caring about whether I made the right choices, but also for standing aside to let me make some wrong ones.

Thanks for believing in me and in my potential.

Thanks for being proud of me.

Thanks for setting high expectations for me and for teaching me to set high expectations for myself.

Thanks for reminding me that a little respect goes a very long way and a good work ethic will always trump talent.

Thanks for mustering up the strength and patience for road trips and Disneyworld.

Thanks for the carpools.

Thanks for enforcing curfews and requiring good manners.

Thanks for trying your best. Your best was pretty great.

Thanks for sending me off to college and off to marriage.

Thanks for showing me what it means to be a good man, so I knew what to look for in a husband and know what to help build in a son.

Thanks for showing me the importance and durability of family.

Thanks for helping create traditions that I will hold close to my heart for the rest of my life.

Thanks for loving my mom.

Thanks for loving my kids in the same way you love me.

And for all of the times I should have thanked you but didn’t, thanks for understanding.

I was always grateful. I always will be.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I love you.

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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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