Practically Laura

Sadly Back to Normal

My children drove me a little bit bonkers this past summer.

They’re four and a half years apart in age, you see…and they often have problems getting along.

Their differing genders probably fuel the misunderstandings…I guess.

However, I know how I feel about it.

I just want them to STOP IT!

We would talk about their arguing…and they would agree with my reasoning…and five seconds later one of them would correct the other…and the other one would load up and fire back.

But in one of those crazy, miraculous things about parenting…when the buses came to pick them up for school this week, I felt like crying…even though we all needed a sanity break.

So I went off to jog and then to do some volunteering.

I miss them, but I’m doing fine.

Yet the summer wasn’t all bad.  We had some lovely moments.  

Like the day early in the summer when I took them to the zoo despite the scorching heat.  Super Girl and I took our cameras (Snap, click, snap!), and we made sure we got around to see all our favorite animals. When my contact lens started bothering me, they were concerned and helpful.   In fact, they didn’t argue all day.  It was fantastic.  We sweated, but we worked together to have a good time.

 
Together

Our vacation, by the way, was awesome.  We were in Washington State for almost two weeks.  We found out our kids like art museums…and we already knew they liked towers and cupcakes and aquariums and bagels and all things city.

And they can hike…especially C.G.  Craig and I were carrying heavy backpacks full of water, food and camera equipment along the trails.  At one point on a particularly steep trail…when I needed a break, I handed C.G. my backpack, and he took off up the hill with all the energy and enthusiasm of a nine-year-old boy…which he is.  During our explorations, we shared and appreciated visual experiences like banana slugs; water in all shapes, forms and sizes; craggy, powerful mountains; and moss without end.

 When we were at Olympic National Park and walking on the beaches…and Craig and I were overwhelmed with the beauty of God’s creation (with me manifesting my joy by constantly jumping up and down, whirling and throwing out my arms toward the sea stacks and telling the kids to Look around! for the five hundredth time), they were pretty quiet with their complaints despite the blisters forming on their feet, and the tides being too high to see the sea urchins we had hiked two miles out to spy (okay, C.G. shed a few tears over that one…He LOVES tide pool creatures).

Then we had quiet moments...moments when I would read aloud to them while we were sprawled all over the furniture.  My inner actress would manifest, and they laughed at all the right places, enthralled.

We’ve still not finished that book, and I’m wondering if they'll be too old for it next summer.

I hope not.

Super Girl started Tae Kwon Do.  It was so fun to see her doing kicks.  She looks like a natural to me…of course.

And C.G. earned his blue belt.  I have a picture of him…beaming…his face is the sun…his pride illuminates our everything…if only for that frozen moment.

So as the groaning buses rounded the corner taking them away…maybe it wasn’t so surprising I was sad.

Maybe it was right.

Maybe it was terribly right…to be sadly back to normal.

 
A Slug You Could Saddle Up

Name-Calling or Nickname?

As a family, we’ve had some of our most meaningful conversations in the car.

We’ve discussed various historical, theological, political and social concepts like basic manners, the deficit, World War II, human reproduction (I kid you not!) and the Trinity.

However, we’ve also had our fair share of disharmony in the back seat.  For example, the other day we’re driving to C.G.’s and Super Girl’s various activities…one minute we’re happily belting out “Yellow Submarine” and the next…I hear name-calling.

“Well…you’re old and moldy!” C.G., my almost nine-year-old boy, shouts at his sister.

“Well…you’re a little wee baby!” Super girl, my thirteen-year-old, exuberantly responds.

“Whoa, whoa, guys! Stop the name-calling!” I command and then continue, “You know I have a very low tolerance for arguments.  I can’t believe you’re actually calling each other mean names.”

Surprisingly enough, I hear lots of laughter from the back seat.

“No mommy.  We’re just kidding around,” my oldest replies.

“Yep. Daddy gave us those names.  He calls us by them all the time,” the other proudly declares.

What?

I need time to process this little tidbit.

*******

The next night, I finally think to ask Craig about it.

He’s just gotten home from a long day at work, so, of course, it’s the perfect time for me to ambush him with my incredible interrogation skills.

“No.  I don’t remember calling them those names,” he absentmindedly answers.

“Are you sure?”  I say in my most skeptical tone.

“Okay, okay…wait.  Yes, now I remember.  Yes, we were joking around and I did call them by those names…the little beggars.”

At this point I’m thinking I should just give up.

I mean, if you can’t beat ‘em….you know the rest.

So when bedtime rolls around, instead of calling out their names, I decide to use a few I’ve come up with over the past few hours.

“Hey, Quasimodo and Esmeralda, get in beh-ed!” I sing-song up the stairs.

I know I’ve left something out so I pause to think on it before adding, “Oh yeah.  I almost forgot!  I love you!”

*******

Authors note:  I’ve used a bit of artistic license to round out the ending of this story, but the name calling did happen…and it originated with Craig.

A Toe Named Chester

My eight-year-old (the Canadian Geographist or C.G. for short) recently let me in on a little secret, and I’ve received his permission to share it with you.

So the other day, we’re clipping his toenails (I know, I know…it’s one of those parenting things no one ever talks about) and he says, “Mommy, can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure,” I promptly reply.

“I name all my toes,” he tells me unexpectedly.

Well, my mind quickly veers off into fanciful tangents.  I imagine a Penelope toe and a George toe and a Chester toe and maybe even a Hortense toe.

“Wow!  What are their names?” I ask.

“Well, the big toe is the Daddy toe.  The next biggest is the Mommy toe.  The middle one is the teenager toe, and the next to the last is the kid toe.  The smallest is the baby toe, of course.”

“Of course,” I respond and then continue after a pause, “Thanks, C.G., for sharing your secret with me.”

“No prob…,” he kindly answers.

To sum up:  Secret sharing = awesome.

For now…I’m off to go and name my own toes.