Ethan started another year of pre-school today.  But it was big boy's pre-school this time around.  The final heave-ho for my December-just-missed-the-cut-off-baby before he makes the final ascent into kindergarten.

I tried to make it abundantly clear to him that behavior was going to be big emphasis this year.  The kid can already read (are you paying attention Mr. Superintendent of schools who decides the cut-off is a hard and fast rule???) so, there's not much left to perfect except...um...behavior, I guess. 

At any rate, he's got a great teacher and she has some great rules on behavior.  She communicated them so perfectly to my son, that when I picked him up today he repeated them verbatim from the sheet she handed me in the morning.  He listed all the consequences of bad behavior up and until the final consequence of being sent to the Principal's office.

To which he than adds, "And I think I have to stay there all day and night because the teacher made it sound like a horrible place.  Right Mommy?"

"That's right, honey.  All day and all night without any food or water."  What?  I thought it'd be funny.  My boy usually knows when I'm joking so I left it at that and we moved on.

A couple of hours later, Daddy called and asked Ethan how his first day went.  Ethan proceeded to tell Daddy (on speakerphone) all about the rules and then ended, very dramatically, "And I'll be sent to the Principal's office to sit and suffer all day long without any food or water."

"Wh-wh-what?"  His Daddy asked.  "Um, honey (talking to me now), are his teachers allowed to do that?" 

Well, I have to get my entertainment somewhere. 

Every now and then I start to wonder about life.  Not so much about mine, not so much about yours, but about life as it is general.  I was driving home around half past noon.  The same way, the same way always.  But, at high noon, in the middle of summer, some things look crisper, some things look duller.

An old house, small on a big lot of full of dry grass, looked crisper.  It is quite old.  Its lack of size dates it to a time when big things did not matter; the chipped white paint and a shutter hanging by only a single brace also dates it to time’s past.

As if the perfectly centered sun in the sky illuminated only the house itself, I took a good long look at it.  There were four vehicles lining the dirt driveway.  All, too, were from a different time than the one I find myself in the throws of.  One word came to me, one word for the house, the land, and the vehicles.  Neglect. 

Judging by the design of the vehicles, such material treasures would have been popular in the late seventies, early eighties at the latest.  Coupled with the house, the era made sense.  Only after this time did size start to matter so much.  Only after this time was it inconceivable to not have separate rooms for each child and their toys. 

What was the property like, then, in the late seventies?  Full of energy, vibrancy, meaning?  And if so, what had happened in the interim?  Some could say life happened.  Some could say it was simply time.  I, myself, did not stop to ponder as much.  As with a great many things in this world, I inevitably come to the point where I ask, “Will this happen to me?”

Will my home succumb to just passing one day to another for the next thirty years?  Will such be a reflection of my life and attitudes?  Another word came to me.  Complacency.  It usually predicates neglect, does it not?  And a step further in that direction is pride.  

My imagination, overactive to be sure, started to put together a story behind the little old house and the vehicles so untouched their windows were caked with dry dust from year after year of fall breezes. 

A family.  Father works hard, mother raises children.  Most did in those times.  There was always enough money.  Enough for the cars, enough for the food, enough for the heat in the dead of winter, and a little extra for a brand new pair of roller skates at Christmas.  But faith was misplaced.  It was put in the now, the have to haves, and of course, their youth. 

And yes, life happened.  Time happened.  Pride, then complacency, then neglect.  And finally, the warning.  Best transcribed by Solomon for his closing remarks in Ecclesiastes:

“Remember now your Creator in the days of your youth,
  Before the difficult days come,
  And the years draw near when you say,
  I have no pleasure in them”

           * * *
  “Then the dust will return to the earth as it was,
  And the spirit will return to God who gave it.
   “Vanity of vanities,” says the Preacher,
   “All is vanity.”

        & nbsp;   * * *

“Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter:

 Fear God and keep His commandments,
 For this is man’s all.
 For God will bring every work into judgment,
 Including every secret thing,
 Whether good or evil.”

        & nbsp;       &n bsp;       &nb sp;       &nbs p;   Ecclesiastes 12:1, 7-8, 13-14

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When you know the difference between plagiocephaly and craniosynostosis before your baby is six months old, you've earned it.

When you know three different ways to cure diaper rash, you've earned it.

When you take the time to draw a happy face out of ketchup for a corn dog, you've earned it.

When you know the only option of carpet color is anything dark, you've earned it.

When you sacrifice clean for clean enough, you've earned it.

When you can bite your tongue when a window gets broken, you've earned it.

When you designate one thermometer in the house to be the rectal thermometer, you've earned it.

When someone in your household misappropriates the rectal thermometer and uses it to take their temperature orally, they've earned it. 

Go ahead, call yourself a parent, you've earned it!

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Ethan's been potty trained for almost two years now but recently we've been working on him doing the, well...um...the wiping.  I should say, however, that we were working on the wiping.  After a few botched attempts I told Ethan we would go back to Mommy doing it and try again next month. 

But he wouldn't have any of it.  Thus, he makes secret trips to the bathroom to hone in on his skills and only calls on me when he's tired of trying to get the job done.  Usually, the aftermath is nothing bad at all.  But today, oh dear Lord, today was utterly unspeakable. 

The toilet seat was....  And in between the sheets of the roll of toilet paper....  He told me he had stuck his finger in....  I had to wipe down his lower back....  Unspeakable things.  Such unspeakable things. 

The climax of it all was the very poor timing of serving him a piece of chocolate frosted cake immediately prior.  There was a certain smudge below his bottom lip.  As we were washing his hands I asked, "Is that poop or chocolate by your mouth?"  The child proceeded to stick his tongue out and lick at the smudge with both a look of necessity and hesitation until he smiled and said, "Nah.  It's just chocolate."

Thank God for small miracles, thank God it was just chocolate.  The only thing left from the debacle is trying to strategize a plan of anti-bacterial attack for that toilet seat.  Otherwise, I'm afraid I will never use it again. 

Oh, nostalgia.  It came for a visit today when all I wanted to do was to put the laundry away.  The baby is almost four months old and it was time to move through the newborn clothes to the next size up.  I had a box ready to put the old away in, to get it ready to be sold at the next baby items consignment sale.  I didn't realize it would be so hard. 

It wasn't just Aidan's clothes.  It was a combination of both all the new items I had bought for him and the best of the best of his older brother's outfits from almost four years earlier.  When I put my older son's clothes in a box four years ago, I knew I was safekeeping them, storing them for the next bundle of boy that I innately knew would eventually bless my little life. 

But, this time, it was different.  There aren't going to be any more babies in this house, and I am likely to never see these tiny onesies and rompers again.  They are getting boxed up to depart forever and I was torn.  Each piece has a memory.  I can't, for the life of me, recall what exact memory goes with each piece.  I simply have this fuzzy little notion that goodness, joy, and love are somehow interwoven in each outfit.  Like the blue sleeping gown that both of my sons wore.  It looked so good against their blue eyes, those extra-long lashes, I just couldn't put it in the box.  Nothing special happened when they wore this gown, but I had to keep it.  I knew there was something about it.

Maybe it was on their little bodies when I fell in love with them.  Maybe they wore it when I whispered in their ears for the first time that I'd die for them.  Maybe I spent twenty minutes trying to spot treat either poop or throw-up on it in the middle of one night, realizing for the first time that all my labor is well worth it.  I don't know which one of these things it might have been.  May have been all of them.  Maybe none of them.  But I plan on keeping that gown. 

It is a symbol of love only a parent knows, a piece of time that will remain precious even when I am old and alone.  And now, the gown has a new meaning.  Not of the perfect and small bodies that once were clothed in it, but of the realization that being a parent comes with a price.  That at some point in time, whether we like it or not, we have to say goodbye.  Not to everything, but most of it. 

  I was a lucky recipient of a family four pack to the  Sesame Street Live production of Elmo Grows Up.  I wanted to express my thanks to the Northwest Voice for offering such wonderful things to us, its readers.  I took my four year old, and had my three month old strapped to my chest in his sling.  We had great seats and Ethan (the four year old) constantly waved at his friends, Elmo and Big Bird. 

It was, truly, a bonding experience.  At the end of the show, Ethan, who is only prone to holding my hand these days out of threat or coercion, grabbed my hand softly, yet tightly.  He wanted to hold my hand as he told me I was the best mommy ever. 

This was, of course, the best part of the night.  Thus, I am grateful to Dana Martin and her wonderful endeavor in making the Voice an intricate part of our daily lives.  From providing a haven for our written words, to being a literary accomplice in our community involvement, to an outlet for entertaining the whole family. 

Thank you!

I was perusing on Youtube and stumbled across a video regarding random acts of kindness.  The gentleman, in monologue form, went on for over seven minutes about making the world a better place though one small kind act after another. 

In the middle of his lamenting over all the tragedy prevalent in the world today, he said something that struck me to the core like little has recently.  He said, and I quote, "What can we do about it?  What can we do to make this world a  better place? I kind of feel helpless.  I kind of feel like I can only do so much.  If I ever have children, I can raise them a certain way...." 

But, I, I do have children.  It took this man on YouTube to remind me the obligation within my hands, within my voice, within my actions.  If I ever have children....  This man was quite astute in concluding that the power to make the world a better place is truly one child at a time.  

To teach our sons to respect women.  From holding the door open for them, to never pressuring them into physical acts.  To teach our daughters to respect themselves.  From having a mind of their own, to accepting they are beautiful just as God made them.  To show our children that lying is lying from saying they're younger than they are at the buffet, to missing curfew.  To instill in our children that everyone is loved and precious because God loves them all and finds each precious.  

What a power, don't you see?  What a tremendous privilege.  If one man thinks he can change the world if he ever has children, what are we parents waiting for?

The camera is ready.  Ready to capture you over and over again.  From your smiles to that way when you furrow your brow because something has definitely captured your attention.  You are only three months old, but I know your older brother has had three times as many pictures taken as you have. 

I said I would never be one of those parents.  What you are soon to find out about me, is that you can easily call me an "Even Steven."  This is why the camera is always ready.  Something in me triggers this sense of injustice if I do not give you the exact same things your brother had.  What can I say?   I'm a middle child.  Bring it up with Gammie. 

Remember the time I fell asleep feeding you those first few weeks?  It was because mommy had stayed up late one night when I should have been sleeping, just so I did not have to endure one more day without an even number of pictures hung around the house of the both of you.  Three of your brother, three of you.  It could not be any other way.  So, the camera is always ready.  But why are there still fewer pictures of you?  Because you are my last baby.

Something occurred to me today, when I was holding you and I was singing and you were smiling.  If I reached over for that camera, I would have broken the moment.  You would no longer be staring at mommy's face.  You would be staring at a gray box placed in front of mommy's face.  I guess this is why I rarely capture you on film with that gorgeous smile.  

You do not want to look at the camera, you want to look at your mommy.  I can not miss these opportunities.  But, they are in my mind.  Yes, they are there.  I want them there so badly, to enjoy and savor every moment; even though the camera is always ready, I dare not pick it up.  I want to see you through my eyes, not the camera's.  You are the last chance I get to store direct contact, direct memories, of a gift so preciously given over to me. 

Thus, one of these days if you have inherited mommy's unrelenting, meticulous, and obsessive fairness gene, (and poor daddy if that happens), and you ask why there are more pictures of your brother than of you, this is my explanation for it.  I feel a need to offer it to you.  It would only be fair that way.  

(I thought I'd add this to my blog as well.)

I saw, I saw some beautiful things, when first I opened my eyes on something other, other than me. 

An elderly couple holding hands on a wrap around porch.  Still loving each other, still liking each other.  How tender.

A passenger on a bus shaking the driver's hand upon exiting.  How deserved.

A mother pushing her child in a swing, both smiling.  How natural.

Neighbors talking to each other over the fence.  How retro.

A young man with a cap, a gown, and a bit of hope.  How promising.

I saw, I saw some beautiful things.  Will they see these same things when they look back at me? 

I thought with the addition of the third male in the house, and me being the only female, our second bathroom needed an overhaul to make it less feminine.   So, I wholeheartedly meant it when I asked the whole family to go with me to the store and help pick out colors and patterns.  But then, I saw it.  The shower curtain of my dreams.

I couldn't contain myself.  I had to make it mine.  My husband tried to steer me towards shower curtains that were striped and not too different in style from most of the shirts he wears.  I poo poo'd them all.  I just had to have that shower curtain; almost as if my self-identity was interwoven in its majestic silky threads and Bohemic style embroidery. 

My husband reminded me the reason we were redecorating in the first place was to find something less frilly, not more frilly, since the boys will be primarily using the bathroom.  "But our guests use that bathroom too!"  I cried out with my fingers crinkling the silk curtain in a panic.  "I don't want our guests to think my tastes are defined by anything other than this shower curtain." 

"What about the boys?"  He asked. 

"One is too young to care and the other one just picked out a plastic curtain with dancing monkeys on it!"  I replied.

"What about what I want?"  He asked.

And though I was desperately trying to not throw out the gender card, I did.  "Between all the burping and farting and wrestling and dirty clothes thrown all over the house, I feel so outnumbered!  Please let me have this." 

He finally succumbed.  Later, when I was putting up my shower curtain, my eldest was patiently watching me, cheering on my good tastes.  When I thanked him for his support, he simply responded, "Yeah, because I know I want dinner."

I was touched.  They get it when they're young and somehow...it just disappears.