Category Archives: Mom

Lego My Legos!

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I am not sure that there is a better toy in all creation than Lego. Seriously. And yes, I’m a girl.

I don’t know why it is that Lego is considered a “boy” toy. They are making more “girl” Lego now, and in a way that irritates me. Girls don’t need pink bricks in order to enjoy the full goodness that is Lego!

I also have an issue with the fact that it’s almost impossible to buy just plain Lego bricks. I was talking about this with my pastors the other day. (Yes, Lego is a good topic to talk about with pastors – all theology all the time is overrated.) I don’t want so many kits! I don’t want a kit to make the Millenium Falcon, or a set to create Hogwarts Castle. Just give me a plain old box of bricks. (My son loves the kits, though. He definitely would disagree with me on this!)

What I really wish I could get now is the kind of sets I had when I was a kid. The sets of pure, unadulterated Lego bricks. The four-ways (as we called them), the squares, the three-ways, the precious (and fairly new, back in my day) one-ways. Or the skinny pieces, the fat flat pieces, the shingle pieces.

Or what about the clear pieces? Those were precious because I had so few of them. And I needed them because they made the perfect sliding glass doors for my orphanages. That’s right. I was an orphanage architect. That’s what I did with my Legos. I built orphanages for my Fisher Price people.

You know the ones – the wooden ones that, supposedly, caused babies to choke and were discontinued somewhere in the 90’s. I had a lot of those and they all needed places to live. (Yes, I had the Fisher Price houses and such too, but somehow I always had more people than beds.) The idea of them living all together in a giant orphanage was so appealing to me – they had no adult supervision – and they’d go on crazy adventures all over the hearth bench in front of the living room fireplace.

A couple of my old Fisher Price people. Yes...these guys really were mine!


The bummer about building my creations in the living room, was that, inevitably, mom would tire of the mess and I’d have to take it apart…or, conversely, carry it whole down to my bedroom.

That was a bit of a trick. I loved my orphanages and I didn’t want to dismantle them. So I would attempt to move them. Trouble was, I built them out of every single piece of Lego I owned – and they were huge, sprawling mansions, filled with Lego beds, Lego pottys, and Lego floors, all pieced together like many-splendored quilts.

I would take a few steps down the hallway, and, virtually every time without fail, they would fall apart over the indoor garden.

My grandparents built our house and they put in an actual 6 foot long by 4 foot wide indoor garden – full of dirt and plants – which was flanked on either side by glass and which formed the Grand Canyon, the yawning pit of doom, the Lego magnet, which lay between the living room and my bedroom.

Suffice it to say, it’s not too fun digging Lego out of the dirt. I am quite certain that the current owners of the house would have a fairly good Lego collection if they dug up that dirt, thanks to my broken orphanages.

A very simplified version of my old Lego orphanages - mine had high walls, many rooms, and lots of furniture. They were awesome!


I did have an actual pre-fab set or two of Legos. I had the Coast Guard station, and I had a fork lift that ran on a battery. When I opened that on Christmas morning I thought I’d be the one to put it together. I was wrong. My sister and my dad swiped it and they put it together for me that afternoon. I was slightly put-out and slightly pleased, because it meant I didn’t have to follow all those boring directions.

Because, after all, building orphanages took no directions. It was all up to me. Teetering turrets, sliding glass doors, kitchens and bathrooms and closets – I could do anything I wanted with no directions to limit me.

I still don’t like following directions. That’s why I don’t outline when I write. I need space, man! Don’t tie me down!

I do follow recipes, though, because I’ve learned the hard way that when I wing it in cooking it mostly turns out dreadfully.

I bet if I made a Lego cake, though, it would be awesome.

Practice, Practice, Practice

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My daughter is gearing up for her Spring Piano Recital. This means that, though I have never played her two pieces, I have heard them enough that, I’m fairly certain, I could sit down at the piano and play them through with nary an error.

This is a nice way of saying I’ve heard them so much I sing them in my sleep.

Which is a nice way of saying I’ve heard them ad nauseum.

Which is a nice way of saying I’ve heard them so often it about makes me nauseous…which really isn’t true so I didn’t say it.

My daughter, like her mother before her, dislikes practicing greatly. G.R.E.A.T.L.Y.

This is a much nicer way of saying that she hates it.

She does, however, love performing. In other words, she wants the glory but doesn’t want to do the work.

I can relate to this.

Glory is fun. Work is work. I like attention. I like praise. But I get impatient with the process sometimes.

So I find it extremely weird that I’m a writer. Because writing is a lot of process with very little to show for it at the end of the day. Hours and hours and weeks and weeks and yes, years and years of work – with, if you’re lucky – a 400-page novel at the end of it. If I got paid by the hour I’d be a wealthy woman.

But back to piano practice.

I get so frustrated when she fusses about practicing, because I know – I KNOW – that it’s worth it despite the pain. I KNOW that she will regret it later if she quits. I KNOW that virtually every adult who took lessons when they were young and then quit, wishes that they had continued. I also know how she stared at my friend Mandy, as she sang and played piano at the Good Friday service at church; how she admired her; how, in her mind, she was imagining herself there, years from now, singing and playing and moving people’s hearts.

But moving hearts takes practice.

Oh, how I remember loathing piano practice. I loathed the monotony. I loathed the theory. I loathed the drills. I even loathed the recitals.

But I loved it when my dad would make up silly words to my goofy little songs. “The Neat-O Barn Song” remains a family favorite.

And I loved being able to sit down and play a song, to sight-read hymns, to play the theme from “Exodus” that I’d admired my sister playing years before. Or remember Music Box Dancer? (I don’t think I could actually ever play that one.) Or, of course, Fur Elise, that standard of young female piano players…and who knew it had more parts to it than just those first few notes?!

Sticking with it is worth it. Not giving up is worth it. Learning to fight through the pain is worth it. Learning the self-discipline of doing a job despite the bits you don’t enjoy is so very worth it.

But do I want my daughter to harbor loathful memories of practicing when I’m cross with her for not wanting to do it and she’s cross with me for making her and “ain’t nobody happy”?

But am I being a Tiger Mother if I keep on making her play?Heaven forbid. We read Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua in book club a year or so ago. I NEVER, EVER want to be that mother. HOWEVER, I agree with her that we “western mothers” tend to be too lax in a lot of things.

Which is a nice way of saying we let our kids get away with too much.

If we let our kids quit just because it’s “not fun” then how are they going to learn self-discipline?

My mom let me quit lessons after I’d taken them for seven years and I was facing my 4th teacher (after 2 moves away and 1 teacher dropping me as her student!) and when the issue of finding a new teacher came up and I looked at her and said, “Mom, please don’t make me do it anymore.”

And she didn’t. Thank goodness.

So, my dear daughter, I promise: in 5 more years…I’ll consider letting you quit. But for now, the Tiger’s claws (albeit short ones) are out and you’re stuck with it.

Love you.

A Musical Weekend in Worthington, MN

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My family recently spent a lovely weekend celebrating the musical talents of students in Worthington and the surrounding area. On the evening of Friday the 30th of March, my son played tuba in the 6th grade jazz band at Ben Lee’s Café – which just happens to be the place I live and write every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning while my youngest daughter is in pre-school.

I love Ben Lee’s.

But enough about that.

The 6th grade jazz band wasn’t the only band that played. Also performing were the 7th, 8th, and high school jazz bands, as well as a hand-picked group of 5th grade band students. It was a fun, loud, cozy, (did I mention it was fun?!), excellent night of music. Truly, the kids were fantastic (am I biased? Probably.) and their directors definitely deserve a round of hearty applause for their commitment to our kids that goes far beyond the classroom.

The 6th Grade Jazz Band! I'm particularly fond of the tuba player in green.

The 8th grade Jazz band.

The Trojan Jazz Band

It was a packed house!

Deb, the owner and very capable proprietor of Ben Lee's, along with some of her friendly employees.

We really enjoyed ourselves that night, but our musical weekend was only beginning. The next day, for the first time ever, my 4th grade daughter played in the Worthington Area Piano Teacher Association’s Piano Festival. She was tested in theory (I always HATED theory back in my dismal piano lesson days) as well as playing two pieces before a judge. She did quite well! In fact, she was asked to play one of her pieces in their Honors Recital the next day, which was lovely.

My favorite pianist. It's not a great picture - indoors, telephoto, no tripod. Not a good combination.

A good friend of my daughter's.

Good friends and piano teacher, Diane!

I think that, aside from hearing and seeing my kids perform, the next most fun thing about the musical weekend was seeing their friends playing along with them. In a small town, this isn’t unusual, but as my kids are just reaching the performing age, it’s something I’ve not experienced a lot. It makes me thankful for the good friends they have, for the good teachers in our area, and for the wee bit of musical talent that God has blessed them with.

Now if I could only get them to believe that practicing is fun.

P.S. – not all of these are great pictures – the telephoto lense (especially indoors and dark) needs a tripod and I didn’t have mine with me – it was with my husband in Germany!

Not Easter Lillies, but Still Lovely for This Day!

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I did a science project with my 5 year old this winter/spring. We planted my two Amaryllis bulbs and measured their growth every day – (for full results see my other blog, A Fine Day For an Epiphany.  http://http://afinedayforanepiphany.wordpress.com/2012/03/ - there are three posts about it – four if you include one similiar to this one today – that you can check out!)

On the most exciting day we measured four inches of growth! These blooms are the culmination of our project…and a very lovely one indeed.

Don't you just love that color?

 

Gorgeous, yes?!

I Knew there was Some Reason that I Never Learned to Sew

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I’m becoming resigned to the fact that there simply isn’t enough time to do everything that I want to do. That I will die without having a gorgeous garden. That I will never learn to sew. That my photos will remain in disorganized boxes and never see the light of a beautifully produced scrap book.

Bother.

We all have choices, yes? Choices of how we spend our time. Choices of how many books we read, how many television shows we watch. How many snacks we eat.

I choose to spend my time writing.

The problem with writing, of course, at least for someone like me who is a stay-at-home mom, is that I can do it always, or I can do it never. I can spend any spare moment at the computer on any given day…or I can find no time, ever, to write. In other words, without a set time and place to write…it becomes both impossible and perpetual. I can never do it – yet I am always doing it.

Everything else – the garden, the sewing, the organization – falls to the wayside.

Does that mean my life is not balanced?

Possibly.

Probably.

So what am I going to do about it?

Become a Renasaissance Woman? Learn to garden, sew, cut and paste and, while I’m at it, polish my long-rusted piano-playing skills?

No. Not likely. Because it all comes down to where my heart is. Yes, I’d like to have lovely scrapbooks, filled with ticket stubs, photographs, and zig-zag-edged polka dotted papers. But I don’t want it enough to actually do it.

Or, looked at another way, I want to write more than I want to garden.

Everything else just has to be set aside.

Let it go.

That’s the mantra of my life right now.

Just let it go.

Let go the need to be right.

Let go the sense of inadequacy.

Let go the pressure to be the person other people think I should be.

Besides, turns out they all think I’m eccentric anyway. Why not just embrace that?

I’m willing to embrace the writer-image.

At least to a degree.

Just don’t expect me to start smoking and wearing berets.

Scarves, though…

I’m all over the scarves.

Who Needs “Z” Anyway?

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We have a set of magnetic letters on our fridge. You know the ones: boxy, plastic letters in solid primary colors, with hollow backs where rectangular magnets nestle. The same exact kind we had when we were kids. No house of preschool children is complete without them.

We have other fun sources of alphabet learning in our house, many of which have added nutritional benefit. Haribo gummy letters. A-Z Spaghettios. Alphabet soup. These learning devices are suspect, in my mind, however. It’s hard to learn the letter “H” when it’s drenched in orange, tomato- based sauce.

But those cheap, thin little letters on our fridge: those are classic. They’re also very easy to lose. How many times have I picked those letters up off our floor? How many times have they gotten in the way of the vacuum? The broom? The baby?

These dangerous cleaning methods threaten the integrity of our alphabet set. Over the years we have found – and returned – numerous letters to their rightful place on the fridge. But now, finally, I am forced to admit defeat.

We have lost the letter “Z”.

Yes, if you're planning on looking, the lowercase "z" is in here. That's because these letters aren't mine. I found it at http://www.lakeshorelearning.com/seo/ca%7CproductSubCat~~p%7C2534374302176200~~f%7C/Assortments/Lakeshore/Promotions/promo/magneticletters.jsp if you're interested.


I’m thinking this isn’t too big of a deal. I mean, really, who needs “Z”, anyway?

I can go to the “oo” to look at the “ebras” and it won’t ruin my experience. I can “ip” up my coat’s “ipper” in chilly weather. I can even “ig ag” on my sewing machine, if I’m ever brave enough to attempt it. Someday, I might go to New Ealand, and I don’t think I’d feel any differently about it without that pesky “Z”.

It’s possible, even, that I could appreciate the angles and history of an ancient Mesopotamian “iggurat” or the historical significance of the German “eitgeist” during the mid twentieth century without any real harm being done. I admit, though, that it might get a little confusing if I have to say “Any Eus oomed to Ion” and expect people to know what I’m talking about.

As for those “ombie” books that are out there right now…well, I guess they don’t sounds quote so scary without the “Z”. And if I ask the florist for an “innia” she’ll probably look at my funny and I’ll get all embarrassed.

Shoot. I guess that the upshot of this discussion is that I realize I must go and purchase yet another set of those magnetic letters. How else will my youngest child learn about the number “ero”?

Perhaps I could just make one out of a dried up Spaghettio noodle? That would be attractive.

For the Love of Snowsuits

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One of the biggest jobs a mother faces is that of getting her young children into snowpants, boots, hats, scarves and mittens on a snowy Saturday morning. When the job is finally complete, and the happy children waddle out the door with their designated supervisor (aka, bigger siblings, resigned Daddy or some other conscripted adult) then Mama can collapse on the couch to rest after such a grueling workout.

This I did on a recent Saturday. After shoving my children out the door, I heaved a sigh of exhaustion, only to have the door open seconds later to everyone’s favorite news, “Mom! There’s a dead mouse on the doormat!”

“Better dead than alive! Scoop it up with the shovel and toss it in the dumpster.”

I waved from the window at my happy progeny. I turned away. The door opened again.

“Mom! I have to go to the bathroom!” Of course it was the small one. The one who needs help.

Oy, vey. “Really? You can’t hold it?” I didn’t even wait for an answer, as I began to unzip her snowpants, remove her mittens, untie her scarf, take off her boots.

Snowsuited girl...though she appears to have lost a few of her accesories...


Eight minutes later I was, once again, waving from the window at one happy small girl and her (by now very impatient) siblings. They headed to their sleds. I headed to the kitchen.
I poured my coffee. I retrieved my book. I sat.

A knock on the door. Okay, seriously?
Tears. Red cheeks. Cold hands due to lost mittens. Hugs. Kleenex. Open door, insert child in snow.

I sat down again. I read 1 ½ paragraphs. I sipped my coffee. The phone rang. I talked as quickly as possible. I sat back down. I re-read previous 1 ½ paragraphs.

A bedraggled child knocked at the door. A voice called through the glass, “I want to come in now.”
I looked at her from my place on the couch. She smiled. Curls poked out of her hat, her nose dripped and she was covered in snow.

I got up. I opened the door. I wiped her nose. I did the mom thing. Then she wanted cocoa.

Twenty minutes later, I sat on the couch. I picked up my book. I read the next ½ paragraph. She came to sit beside me, her cocoa too hot, her world too myopic.

But that’s okay. I’ll miss all this someday, right? And my book can wait.

Besides, my coffee is already cold.

Now…and Later

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Since my first child was born, 12 ½ years ago, I have not heard an entire sermon on a Sunday morning. I have not caught an entire radio broadcast. I have not read an entire chapter of a book, page by page, sans interruption. Well, at least not during daylight hours.

I have not been able to fit into the same jeans. Or the same shoes. Or the same category.

I have gone into the grocery store and bought things that, prior to motherhood, I would have never bought before. Things like Captain Crunch. (Yes, I’m that kind of mother.) Or whole milk. Or Fruit Snacks by the dozen.

I have, possibly, finished a cup of coffee while it was still hot. Possibly. I have learned to make Halloween costumes because I’m THAT kind of mother. I have decided that Ramen noodles – as long as you add frozen peas to the hot water – are a legitimate food group. I have, once or twice, sat though movies I found to be unpallatable, simply because my kids thought that they were wonderful.

I have become a Girl Scout leader (albeit a fairly lame one) because someone needed to do it. I have waited in the line to pick up my children from school day after day after day because having my child come home from school happy rather than in tears is worth the time and gas. Yes, it interrupts my afternoon, especially as we live 10 miles out of town, but I’m a stay-at-home mom and this is my job. This is my calling.

I have had, in these 12 ½ years, more hugs and kisses than I’d had in the previous 29 years. I have had more stress. I have had more satisfaction. I have had more heartache. I have had more joy. I have had more interruptions. I have had more affirmation.

I have become more impatient. I have become more compassionate. I have become more…complete.

The diaper bag in question. Still complete with diapers and Desitin.


And so, in the interests of completion, I now complete a job I began when my first child was born. I now, in the presence of you witnesses, officially relinquish my youngest child’s diaper bag. I have not needed to carry a diaper bag for more than a year, however, I recently found said bag shoved in a corner of my bedroom where it has waited for months because I wasn’t ready to face the truth that she doesn’t need it anymore. That my smallest child is getting big. That I no longer need this link with her babyhood.

I hereby admit that I am grieving a ridiculous loss.

In light of this admonition, I promise that I will now strive to embrace the next 12 ½ years – in which I’ll see my kids go to school dances, learn to drive, apply for colleges, perhaps even get married. I’ll see two of them graduate, and I’ll face the specter of the empty nest.

I will not promise not to hoard their scribbled notes. I cannot promise that I won’t cherish their handmade gifts, their family portraits, their outgrown socks. And I fully anticipate that I’ll shove something away in a corner of my room – a drawing from pre-school, or a report card, or a forgotten permission slip – because I won’t be able to admit that they are really gone.

Because to admit that will mean that I am old.

And then I will be the one fidgeting on the pew next to their father.

Then again…maybe we’ll take off for Italy and thank our lucky stars that we are free.

Nah.

Well…maybe.