October 1, 2015

October 1st, I-Hop, and Cottage Cheese Pancakes

As always, since 2012, on October 1st - I took my children to I-Hop.  It's a bit difficult, explaining to the host, that we did not come to eat.  We came seeking out an elderly person or couple - for whom we could buy dinner.

I-Hop was one of my grandma's favorite places - and probably one of the last places we sat with her, all together in our extended family.  So, my children and I go to I-Hop each year looking for someone to buy a meal for.


Sometimes we tell them we'd like to buy their dinner, and sometimes - like tonight - we just do it anonymously.  If I do speak to the person, I always tell them - though we are buying their meal in honor of my grandmother, they are far too young for her.  :)  Tonight, our gift was anonymous, but we told our story three times - to the host, to the chef, and to the server.




Ah, grandma!  I came home and made gf pancakes and (non gf) waffles for my children... and cottage cheese pancakes (a gram-ma-ma specialty) for myself.  I must admit - I made the cottage cheese pancakes gluten free, and as soon as I noticed that they became a bit rubbery as they cooled off - I quickly gobbled them up - slathered with jelly the way a cottage cheese pancake is supposed to be eaten.  All 24 or so of them.  Yep.

I crave the wisdom of my grandmother and wish I'd had the energy for more and deeper conversation.  What did she think as a young mother raising three boys?  How did she feel as a young widow, living so long without my Poppy Harold and waiting anxiously to 'join' him again?  What was life like?

To me - she was my grandma.  Always happy.  Always giving.  Always watching.  Always loving us.  

What was it like when she finally had to stop working?  When she realized she wouldn't travel anymore?  What did she think about?  Wish for?  Dream of?

Grandma always said it straight.  "Lisa-luh, looks like you put on a few pounds."   Aw!  If grandma said it, it was probably true. 

In some ways, it seems such a short time ago and, in other ways, it seems like she's been gone for so long.  Every year, I have to sit and think about how many years my grandma has been gone from this world.  

I reach for messages.  Guiding wisdom about my life.  Inspiration to move forward and stay positive.  Answers to unknown questions.  Miraculous insights.  Whenever I ask, I am given - a heart rock.  My mom?  A blooming flower in a plant that hasn't bloomed in years... or ever.



I can't believe it is the end of another October 1st.
I'm not ready.
I didn't say enough.
I want more time.
To reflect.
To be.
To love.



March 23, 2015

The Anticipation is the Worst Part

I had to wait until spring break when my husband was home with me. I carefully mentioned it once, weeks before so the knowledge of it would be buried before we had to go. I dodged the question "what are we doing today?" As long as I possibly could. 

My intention is not to lie about it but to avoid disclosing it until I had to. If that disclosure could occur in the parking lot - the better it'd be. 

But it happened beforehand. Anxiety rose - his and mine. He says no. He refuses to go. He says "I'm not doing it".  I stay patient. I say we have to do it. I try to disengage. Luckily, I had him showered and ready to go - the must do's before playing on the computer on this morning. It seemed like a normal parental request but - truly - it was my ploy. Get him ready and keep him preoccupied. 

The time had come to go. Voices had to raise and demands had to be made. There was almost a chase around the house. But I took his hand and led him to the car and he came - all the while saying he's not doing it. 

The blood draw. You'd think it were life or death and he assumed death. He doesn't like to learn about the body. He doesn't like needles. Really, doesn't like needles. 

Last time, it took me holding him on my lap and three others holding him in addition to the technician. "Im not ready," he says. "Give me a minute. I want to go second."

I learned last time that a minute would extend as long as he could make it. That time, about 40 minutes. And he still wasn't ready. 

This time, I was ready. I brought my man power. I informed them at check in that we had a very reluctant child. Electronics were brought into the waiting room. I had his music and ear buds in my bag. I even did EFT tapping to calm him (tapping on myself) while he was absorbed in a video game. 

Finally, it was time. Thirty minutes of waiting even with an appointment!  As we pulled him in, he reminded us that he didn't want to do this. I sat down to hold him in the chair and quickly relinquished that spot to David. We battled more of wait, I'm not ready; and I want to go second before we - four of us - finally had him secure. David - holding him in a bear hug, legs wrapping his lower half and arms wrapping his unpoked arm. I helped hold that arm and his head which I turned away from the poke. The third person held his poking arm and the fourth did the draw. 

Once the stick was in, the saga continued. He screamed - really? Was he in pain? Or freaked out? He cried. He did not like it and the tension and refusal to breathe made it harder and slower. 
And then it was over. Well, kind of. He didn't like the bandage. Nor would he move his arm for the next 30 minutes. 
We told the techs we were going for a drink and they asked if we could bring them back something. I told them we'd deliver some "coffee" in a few minutes. 


The anxiety. The anticipation. It's the worst. For both of us. 

January 29, 2015

Birthdays, Einstein, and Flashcards

All year long, I have dutifully signed my daughter's homework packet to indicate that she had completed her weekly tasks.  Only last night did I realize that I had stopped reading the assignments long ago… and only last night did I realize that she was not participating in her homework assignments fully and completely. 

She was picking and choosing, as we all do.  In life, in religion, perhaps, that is okay.  In second grade schoolwork? Not so much. Practicing math facts is an important stepping stone to future levels of math.  Recording reading time in a daily log helps teachers, librarians, and parents figure out what kind of books said child likes to read - helps ensure that said child actually finishes a book and - for the teachers - shows that there is daily reading taking place - another important stepping stone to… everything else in life.

Child number four is now the first pink-ii to own flashcards - something I have avoided and spoken out against quite adamantly. I don't believe in flashcards.  Einstein didn't use flashcards (good book)  (no, seriously - a great book).  We found other ways with the boys, but girl wanted flashcards so girl got flashcards.  We didn't even make them.  It's so much easier to learn when they are shiny and laminated and all written in the same font. 

Picking and choosing is a part of life.  We pick and choose our battles.  We pick and choose what really matters.  And, sometimes, our preferences take a back seat to the choices that are best suited to our children. 

There are 310 days until my next birthday, and I am looking forward to it.  On my birthday, I can relax from motherhood.  Well, at least I could this year.  My mother in law took our children for the night.  I didn't have to make dinner, or tuck into bed, or entertain, or break up fights.  Not only that, I didn't have to answer the "Mom, where is my…";  "Mom, he is bothering me…";  or  "Mom, can I have a… " that normally pelt me at least 3 million, one hundred and ninety nine thousand, six hundred and seventy two times a day.  Literally.  I counted once.

I got to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted and not have to return home to a messy, destroyed-by-children house.  That was happiness.  I'm still working on how to carry that into searching for flashcards, and helping with projects when it's past my bedtime, and telling children to do something for a third time before it even registers a response, and responding to grunts and groans when I announce it's shower time, and, I'm sure the picture is clear and needs no further clarification.

Two nights ago, I looked at boy-entering-middle-school-and-better-work-on-time-management-or-homework-will-be-a-bear as I ran the glue gun when he told me to and ONLY when he told me to.  (This required 17 minutes between glue-ings for him to sit and think and measure and cut and assess) - but I looked at him and I allowed it to warm my heart and melt my frustration.  I took a deep breath and began to appreciate that we were having this moment.  Then I checked email, Facebook, and Pinterest while I waited the 17-minutes for the next moment I was to appreciate.

310 days.

Then again, there are 142 until Father's Day.  And, Father's Day is Mother's Day.  Another story for another time.