Just a warning

While babysitting at a friend's house the other day, Stella and her friend were filming a little movie.

At one point, she came to me and said, "Mom, this is just for the movie...but when I go upstairs, I'm going to yell, 'There's a dead body up here!'  But don't worry...it's just for the movie."

Thank you, Stella, for worrying about me and my sanity.

Easter flowers

I signed up to bring Easter flowers to church, figuring on an Easter lily.  I wrote on the little slip of paper that it would be in honor of John's mother.  At the grocery store, Stella and I stopped to pick it out.  She pointed at the pink tulips.

"Definitely those," she said.

"You think?  I was going to get a lily."

"No, let's get the tulips.  The pink color is perfect."

And she was right.  Just like she was probably right when I said I'd like to get my hair highlighted again soon.  She said I shouldn't bother before summer, and said it looked nice how it was.  I looked at hers, and how our coloring is so similar.  And how her skin and hair are lovely together, just the way she was made to be.

I bought the pink tulips.  I left my hair alone.

I love to listen to her thoughts on beauty and what is pleasing to her.

Advent

I love the sense of wonder and anticipation.  I love the kids counting down the days til Christmas.  I love that the things I need to get done are things that will bring people happiness.

We should always live life this way, looking forward to the good things to come.

Another sick day

With a little one not feeling well, the season of Christmas is quickly put into focus.  All I want is for her to feel better.  The tree is up, shining its white lights.  The advent calendars have begun, each morning chocolates and Legos.  This year we are lighting advent candles, too.  Mac lit the first one, hope, and last night TJ lit the second one, peace.  But while we wait and plan, I just pray for her to feel better.  We mothers wish we could take the pain and discomfort of our children and bear it ourselves.  The struggle is that we can't.  So it's another day of waiting and snuggling her on the couch and bringing food and water.  Maybe today a Christmas show on t.v.  I will hug her, smooth her hair, run a bubble bath for her.  Though I hate that she isn't well, I am so grateful I am the one to care for her.

Five years later

I have been thinking about blogging, and writing in general.  The writing that has become the norm for me lately is writing that no one else will ever read.  While that has an important role, it is so different than writing for an audience.  Today, a sick day home with Stella, I found my old blog after exactly five years.  So much is the same and some things different.  But the thing that remains is how I want to remember.  I read some of these posts out loud to Stella (and some from my old column at the Patch), while she soaked in the tub.  We laughed so hard at some things she'd done and some things her brothers had said.  A few times I had to stop reading because I was going to cry.  These were about my mom or about times when I admitted how hard it can be watching your kids change and grow.  But I was so happy to have these memories to share with Stella today.  Even though my children are a little older now and the sharing will be different, I want to continue here.  On this day with quiet Christmas music playing, thoughts of the season on my mind, and a sweet eight-year-old girl in her jammies, I am reminded that my children are the most important audience of all.

A story about Stella and the bus stop

http://stonington.patch.com/blog_posts/the-ever-changing-routines-of-motherhood

Ready or Not

Eight years ago, my son T.J. was born.  Outside of the hospital.  In our Blazer.  Front seat.  From the start, he was in a rush to get here.  Conceived when our oldest was only 9 months, T.J. wasn't waiting around.  Then, on his birthday, he came after only two and a half hours of labor.  As a toddler, he was in a rush to do everything himself.  He was often angry with me.  Even now, he makes his own way, and I admire him for it already.  He writes comic books, draws pictures, pens his Diary of a Wimpy T.J., makes up stories to act out in the yard with his brothers and still has time to make his little sister happy with a tea party.  Don't be in a rush to grow up, dear T.J.  You are so very special just the way you are.