One Big Happy...

All parents have a variation of, "As long as you're living under my roof, you will follow my rules." Of course, this is another phrase I told myself I would never utter to my own kids that I now say on a pretty regular basis. But the time it came in really handy was when my parents moved into my house last summer.

My mom and step-dad both retired a few years ago. Retirement came easy for my mom, but for dad...not so much. He ended up taking a job at The University of Arizona and they moved to Tucson. That lasted only a few years before they realized that Arizona is not an easy trip from Michigan, and they couldn't see their families as much as they liked. They wanted a warm climate that was closer to family, and they needed a place to stay temporarily while they looked around and decided where to settle.

We didn't know how long "temporarily" would be, but we offered up our basement to them anyway. We called it The Semi-Private Deluxe Poolside Suite. They offered to pay us rent, which we normally would have turned down. But my husband works in the auto industry, and at the time his company, a small supplier, had many ups and downs. We gladly took the extra income to save for a rainy day. It was a win-win.

It was an interesting summer. Not many people have the opportunity to live like this while their parents are still young and able to care for themselves. The kids loved having gramma and grampa available any time. Many mornings they would head straight downstairs for toast and conversation. We loved having live-in babysitters.

We tried to respect each others' privacy as much as possible, but since our main floor is open to the basement, it was hard to really achieve. They ended putting a big privacy screen at the bottom of the stairs—when it was up that meant they were “closed”. Sometimes I’d catch the kids sitting on the top step just waiting for them to be “open”.

I bet my brothers that my parents would make it a month here, but they actually lasted about three months before they finally got sick of us. I doubt it’s very quiet having the five of us banging around above their heads. And every time my mom got on my nerves or spoiled the kids or had some crazy new decorating idea, I got to say, “My house, my rules.” That just never gets old!

They ended up buying a house and moving just across town, and plan to spend winters someplace warm. My husband’s company did end up closing, so we had six weeks of uncertainty—but that is a story itself. Ultimately, I think we all came to know and appreciate each other a little more. But the best part is that when my parents actually are older and may need extra care, I’ll give one of my brothers the opportunity.

I’ve had my turn.

Soccer Dog

I haven’t mentioned our dog yet because I was waiting for just the right moment to share her story. But I am mad at her today, so she is getting an early mention.

So the kids wanted a dog. Of course…what kid doesn’t? My daughter's birthday list last year looked like this:
1. dog
2. dog
3. dog
4. dog
5. hamster

We held off until we thought they’d be responsible to at least pick up poop (which they do not do, by the way). Then we started looking at dogs without telling the kids. Turns out, adopting a rescue dog is not as easy as it would seem. We tried all the local shelters and rescue sites online and filled out countless forms and applications. People who rescue dogs are selfless and compassionate and serious about whom they let these animals ultimately live with, so they scrutinize and question. Every time I found a dog that seemed a good fit for our family, by the time I got through the process he or she would already be adopted. I was glad we hadn’t yet let the kids in on it.

This was in the fall, so my daughter was just starting her soccer season. She plays forward but hadn’t yet scored, so we offered an incentive: once you score we’ll get a dog. That girl grew wheels! She was suddenly faster and more aggressive, and practiced dribbling and shooting nearly every day. But two more games passed and she still hadn’t scored. Now she had the added pressure of her siblings, who blamed her for remaining dog-less.

It wasn’t looking too promising the day they played a team clearly out of their league. Our girls were down 9-0, when from way down at the other end of the field I saw the ball go high into the opposing net. I didn’t see who scored, but the mystery was soon solved when the entire team started jumping up and down screaming, “Cory! You’re getting a dog! Cory’s getting a dog!!” No one cared that the score was 9-1. Cory was getting a dog.

Our search got more aggressive then. Every spare weekend minute was spent scouring shelters and adoption events. After just a few more weeks, we walked into the empty back area of a Salvation Army where a local group takes adoptable dogs on weekends. Taking a quick glance around, were ready to walk back out the door when we spotted a beautiful dog in a crate in off to the side. This poor pup was just 7 months old and recovering from multiple illnesses, including parvo—from which she almost died—and kennel cough. She wasn’t adoptable yet. Her rescuer just wanted her to have a change of scenery, but we weren’t giving up. We all fell in love with her that day and aggressively stayed in contact with her rescuer in order to prove that she belonged with us. Two weeks later, after a clean vet evaluation, we picked her up and she became ours. We renamed her Angel, because she obviously had one looking out for her. She’s even the color of my carpet—a white husky-lab mix. Super-smart and easy to train, she’s never given us any trouble. Truly an angel.

Until this week, that is. I stumbled into the kitchen to make the coffee this morning, and our little “Angel” had her nose in the trash and recycling. It was all over the floor—chewed up plastic and stinky rotten food spread all over the wood. The bins pull out from a kitchen cabinet, so either we left the door ajar or she’s smarter than we think. Regardless, I startled her and she scrambled out of there, clearly admitting her guilt. I wouldn't be so mad, but she woke me up at 4am a few days ago with the same offense. That time I forgave her easily because she had never done anything like that. This time I am taking it personally.

Washing the floor twice in one week is just not cool.

Pumpkins, tomatoes, and corn...oh my!

I have a yellow thumb. This means that I tend to kill about half of what I attempt to grow. Consequently, I buy a lot of $5 plants at Home Depot. We live out in the boonies and I have several garden areas, but I tend to get lazy as summer wears on and forget to water them, so only the drought-tolerant survive. A few weeks ago I hit the jackpot at Walmart--shrubs for $2.75. I can kill twice as many for almost half the cost, I guess.

A few years back, I really wanted to make a pumpkin patch and sunflower maze for my kids. My husband cleared about an 8 x 10 section of land for the pumpkins, and I spent an afternoon on my hands and(bad) knees next to it digging a hundred holes, and adding sunflower seeds and water. We ordered a bunch of topsoil and seeds and I imagined dewy summer mornings, watering and weeding and teaching my kids to be one with the earth.

The problem was, this garden area was way too far away from the house and the hoses--by about 75 yards. My kids were too little and my husband worked too many hours and I just didn't get over to that side of the driveway often enough. The birds (I think) got to the sunflowers--not one came up. The pumpkin patch was a dud, too. But we did end up with two small pumpkins I proudly displayed on the porch for Halloween. Needless to day, we dug up the topsoil and moved it away and never ventured over there again.

Last year my kids begged for a vegetable garden, and we meant to get to it but just never did. We promised we'd for sure do it this year, so as soon as they saw the seed display in Target they started making their plans. This time we're older and wiser--we dug the garden much closer to the house, making it easier to water and weed. And we even fenced it in to protect it from the critters. The kids took charge, mapping out where each fruit and vegetable would go. They even made their own little pumpkin patches right next door, all on their own.

So far so good. They water every morning, even before school. When they got home today, they ran right over to check, and sure enough, there are new sprouts that weren't there this morning. We see the corn, cucumbers, beans, and zucchini popping through. And even better, the pumpkins and watermelons they planted in their own individual patches are coming up, too. They can't wait for the day that most of our dinner comes from our own yard.

I love to watch their excitement for these little miracles that grow right in front of their eyes. Now maybe they'll understand a little of how I feel watching them.

Can't Wait 'Til Monday

I know, crazy, right? Who looks forward to Mondays?

But around here, weekends are packed. Between dance and sports, we, like everyone else, always have a project list on the fridge. This spring the list is exceptionally long. We didn't get much done last year, so we're making up for lost time.

We high-fived at dinner tonight (yep, I even made dinner) because we got two weeks worth of work done in two days. And we're feeling it. We moved dirt, opened the pool, planted a vegetable garden, moved more dirt, planted some shrubs, moved some bulbs, moved some topsoil, and planted some more shrubs. We even managed to make it to church, dance pictures, and an away travel soccer game.

Thank God for Mondays.

Peace

It’s 6am. The house is quiet, the kids are still sleeping. Or at least they are supposed to be sleeping. My middle child, the early riser, I suspect, is reading her latest book with a flashlight under her covers. I don’t mind, as long as I have a moment of peace. I don’t always have this much time to prepare—I tend to stay under the covers too long—but this morning I could see the sun through the crack of the door, and decided to take advantage.

The kids aren’t allowed to come downstairs until 7am. We got them each digital clocks for their rooms as soon as they knew their numbers. We figure that they need their sleep, so this might encourage them to sleep longer without feeling as though they’re missing something. It doesn’t really work that way, it turns out, but at least they stay in their rooms. Before the rule, we had kids coming down at all kinds of crazy hours ready for the fun to begin.

Before I had kids I’m sure I would have thought this a selfish rule. Why even have kids if you don’t want them around? My mom’s standing rule was that we couldn’t bother her until she had her first cup of coffee. I hated that one.

There are two things I know I need: a good sleep, and a few minutes of wake-up time before I start my day. I remember more than a few days during their early years where I just felt cranky and resentful. I’m sure it was because I was never really able to sleep a full night, and I felt as though I did most of the child-related work. Those days and bad feelings are mostly a blur now, but the lessons learned keep me sane. It really is true: If momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

When my little traveling circus comes bounding down the stairs in a few minutes looking for food, I’ll be ready for them. They’ll know I’m anxious to see them after a whole night apart, and we’ll start our day in a positive way. Time to refill my coffee.

The Clean Plate Club

I'm almost certain that if not for peanut butter, at least one of my kids would have starved by now. They put it on pretty much everything: bread, waffles, celery, apples, graham crackers, bananas, ice cream. I can't imagine how I would cope if one of them had a peanut allergy. I do buy the kind with no trans fats, just to make myself feel better.

We’ll even let them have a peanut butter sandwich for dinner, at times, if they really don’t like what we’re having. Sometimes we make them clean their plates—my husband doesn’t remember any other option when he was growing up—but I usually remember my vow to not torture the children if they absolutely can't eat something I lovingly prepare. I try not to take it personally.

There was one Christmas season way back when (I was in a high chair, so it was a loonnng time ago) and my brothers and I were so excited that Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer would be on television that night. Of course, there were no DVR's or any such modern conveniences, so if we missed it, we would have to wait the entire year before we could see it again.

Unfortunately, the rule in our house was that we had to clean our plates before we could do anything else. I wasn't an extremely picky eater, but there were a few things my mom made that I just couldn't stomach: stuffed peppers, spaghetti sauce with onions, and stew. Of course, my mom chose to make stew on Rudolph night.

I can still picture the dark lonely kitchen, and pathetic, pitiful me sitting alone in my highchair, full bowl of cold stew on the tray. I managed to swallow a few soggy carrots, but just couldn’t bring myself to consume the rest. I could hear the television in the other room, but couldn't see the show I waited for all week. It wasn't until the show was over that I was finally allowed out of my chair.

That's why, from time to time, I will let my kids make themselves a peanut butter sandwich for dinner. They need to take at least one "no thank you" bite of whatever we're eating, but I see no point in making them suffer. There will be plenty of other opportunity to torture them as they grow up.

The Disclaimer

I never doubted that parenting would be hard work. I just figured I would be much better at it than most people. After all, I spent a good part of my adolescence babysitting my little brother and neighborhood kids, so I knew all the tricks. I could clearly see what their parents did wrong, so I was convinced that by the time my own kids came along, I would be a pro.

I made particular note as a teenager of all the stupid things my own mom did—her rules that made no sense, the endless lectures with no obvious point, or her overuse of “because I said so” when she clearly lacked a good reason. I created a mental file labeled “Things I Will Not Do or Say When I Have My Own Kids.” I never hesitated to let my mom know when adding another of her offenses to my file. Her only comeback was, “You’ll understand when you have your own kids.” Oh please. I added that one to the file, as well.

As I matured, I watched as friends and relatives closer to my age started their families. I cringed at some of their parenting choices, again noting the things I would never do. How could they stand letting their child eat like that? How could they allow that four-year-old out in a Batman costume in the middle of July? Why do they sign those poor kids up for so many sports and activities? My kids would never act like that. My life would never be like that.

My fantasy family was perfect in my mind. I knew problems with the children would be inevitable, but we would calmly work them out and end up closer. My husband and I would be partners on the same page, backing each other up. The kids would learn to respect our clear boundaries and have no need to test them. I had it all worked out.

Then I had kids.
(The disclaimer: I am incredibly lucky to have a wonderful husband and three fabulous, healthy children. But they get on my nerves from time to time. Subsequent posts may reveal some of my frustration, but I am always aware of how blessed I truly am.)