The Christmas Pudding

I may be unusual. Or potentially suffer from an early onset of Alzheimer’s disease. It could also just be the minor stresses of daily life taking their toll, but I can not recollect an impressive amount of detail or memories in general, from my childhood. If you or someone else brings it up, I will probably remember it, but I can not extrapolate these memories on my own. It's sad. I used to be the go to person of my friends who would remember 'who dated who' in high school. I could come up with that person across the room's name even though we hadn't seen them in over 10 years. Now I am lucky if I remember to pick up a gallon of milk on day three of being out.

Memories of Christmas are the exception, fortunately.

Some of my fondest Christmas moments circulate around my grandparents’ house. I am the oldest of their fourteen grandchildren. When I was born, the youngest of their five children was eleven years old. So, in essence, I became their ‘sixth’ child. My grandparents were the age that I am now, when I was born. Their Victorian house was the epitome of Christmas, decorated in Wedgewood blue and gold. The dinner table was always adorned with an heirloom tablecloth and set with fine china. The sterling silver freshly polished with the reflection of the twinkling lights on their prongs and handles, always grabbed and held my young attention.

My great-grandmother lived in an attached in law apartment of the house and she would bake hermits, spice cake, and dozens of varieties of cookies. My grandparents’ home was enveloped in scents of cinnamon and onions and balsam. I loved it. Upon our arrival, my grandfather would almost always be wearing his white apron, folded down to his waist, carving knife in hand, delicately sculpting the meat off of the turkey. My grandparents were caterers. They had owned their own catering company so food was important. It was the pivotal point between a good Christmas and a great, extraordinary Christmas. Family, food and faith were the cornerstones of their holiday.

I always looked forward to one tradition in particular at my grandparents’ home on Christmas. My modus operandi was: get in, give kisses and hugs all around and then off to the kitchen to help with the plum pudding. For those of you, not of English descent, plum pudding is a bread like dessert, with spices and fruit and nuts. Please do NOT call it ‘fruit cake’. It is lovingly mixed and steamed for hours. My grandmother had a plum pudding ‘can’. It was a long tube made of a silvery metal, which she would steam the plum pudding in. She knew exactly how long that can filled with delicious goodness needed to be exposed to the oversized pot of boiling water, by using her internal clock and her sense of smell. The best part for me, was mixing and preparing the sauces that dressed the plum pudding. ‘Hard Sauce’ and ‘Soft Sauce’. The hard sauce wasn’t really a sauce at all. It was spreadable, not saucy. It was the consistency of a sweet creamed cheese, made with whipped combination of sugar, butter and other decadent ingredients that were always taste tested by me, and whoever else was my partner in sauce engineering. The soft sauce was a buttery; warm, sweet concoction that I believe was finished off with a touch of rum. Once dessert was on the table, the soft sauce could be drizzled over the warm pudding.  I always had two pieces of plum pudding for dessert, because I could not decide which sauce I liked more.

 For our traditional Christmas dinner, my grandmother would always make her traditional bread stuffing. In addition she would also make an oyster stuffing, especially for my father, in the same bright blue baking dish every year. There were not many takers on the oyster stuffing, except for my Dad. But it was tradition, and there was always family banter as he tried to entice each one of us into trying an ooey, gooey oyster.

Each year, my grandparents would always buy my brothers and me our winter jackets. As a young child, I always looked forward to opening whatever they had picked out. I remember opening a very patriotic red, white and blue jacket one year.  Regretfully, as a grew older, I looked forward to someone else selecting my jacket less and less, because as a pre-teen and a teenager, I am sure the thought of it registered lower and lower on the ‘coolness’ meter as the years went by.

More than anything else, I remember a bustling home filled with laughter and shouting. Visual snapshots of remnants of red and white Santa themed wrapping paper and green pine needles, dishes of ribbon candy, tinsel strewn across a blue carpet and the propensity for story telling and ridiculous laughter that we all shared, scatter throughout the memory of each and every year.

Today, some of the traditions are the same and some are quite different. My family has dispersed as we are all raising our own children now and we live just far apart enough from each other to make it difficult to be in the same place for the holiday. In February of this year, my grandmother passed away at the age of eighty-six years old. Even though she had not been able to host a holiday for quite sometime, she and my grandfather will always be the heart and soul of my Christmas memories.

May each and every one of you have a blessed Christmas filled with peace, joy, laughter and a slice or two of your own plum pudding.

Thank You Notes

Sitting at my laptop, with a cup of coffee, on Thanksgiving morning is unusual for me. Normally, I would be prepping the turkey for its entry into the oven and starting my holiday dinner run around. Equally unusual is the fact that I am not cooking dinner today. Something that over the last 15 years I think has happened only once. And today, I am thankful for it. Thank you to my sister in law, who is hosting today, for allowing me this moment to sit with my coffee at my laptop.

As I sit in writers silence (only the sound of the keyboard), I can’t help thinking about the complexity of the world we live in and the life we are supposed to lead by design, if there is such a thing. My life, despite the ups and downs, is more than worth living. It may not be filled with travel (due to a serious fear of flying) and excitement, or thrilling expeditions, or zany antics or one laugh after the other, but it is my life and I am thankful for it. I will take the zaniness and laughter as it occurs, which is already not in short supply. The travel however? Maybe 2012 will be my year. The year of the valium.

The status of my relationships with friends, family or co-workers may change and ebb and flow. That is the nature of relationships. I hate to hurt people’s feelings. Hate it. And if I inadvertently do it, I feel terrible. This past year has been a learning experience for me in areas such as: How not to act. What not to say. Who to trust. At 42 years old, I still feel like a student.

But that is life and if I love life, I have to endure every part of it and be willing to embrace it. It builds people.

My husband and children. Now, that is where the greatest of the love and toughest of the tough happen. Raising kids and being a partner are the most fun, the best of the best but sometimes, the most difficult and challenging. With them, all of the things that make up the meaning of life get rolled out into the carpet. Year to year, we face new forms of utter happiness and frustrations. It seems to change as months roll by, what we focus on.  I am well aware, as I inch closer and closer, into the teenage years, that hormones change everything and I am awaiting for some big almighty switch to be flipped. So far, so good. But I am ready with my emotional suit of armor and my tough love badge, for the worst.

What am I thankful for?

My husband. He is the string to my balloon. There he is, on the ground, tugging at my hot air as I float back and forth. He reminds me to stay grounded when I am up above, in the distant clouds. If it weren’t for him, we’d be homeless living on the streets of Vegas.

My son. The person that made me a Mother. His sweet face and love of creativity, acting, music and football have brought me to places I never thought I would be and have regretted not going to until now. He is thoughtful, caring, intelligent, funny and stubborn. I love all of the things he is. I admire him.

My daughter. Her inner peace and kindness help me to be more giving. She accepts all people, no matter who they are. She is loving, kind, diplomatic, goofy and a crazy sports fanatic (Ugh). I overdosed on sports fanatics a long time ago, but for her, I’d sit thru 40 tee ball games in one day.

I am lucky to have extended family and friends who would walk through fire for me, and me for them. What else could you possibly want? I don’t care what kind of car I drive, how big my house is or what kind of ring is on my finger. The labels on my clothes don’t matter, the number of big screen TVs in my house is insignificant and the latest “thing” is just that. A thing.

All of this is normal, right? Of course I love my family and friends. Sure. The tragedy happens when I don’t let them know how I feel. That is regrettable. I can feel this all I want, but if I don’t say it out loud to the people that matter, then it’s all crap.

So, on this Thanksgiving, I will tell the people who matter the most, just why they matter. It doesn’t get old. And though the kids might roll their eyes because they have heard it a million times before, I will keep telling them.

I truly wish you a wonderfully joyous and meaningful Thanksgiving.

"What Have You Done For Us Lately"

The other day, I was fortunate enough to have one of the leading ladies of our local library come and sit down in my office. Mary and I began to chat about the usual pleasantries, when she informed me that she, and her co-worker, (two women that our community has the utmost respect for), would be retiring after 20 plus years of running our local treasure of a library. These two women are so close, that neither one of them could imagine working without the other by her side, so they decided to take the leap together, and retire.

This is a not just your every day run-of-the-mill town library. The children’s section was always a hub of excitement. The colors, learning, dress up, reading, educating, artwork, sculpture, themes, theater, cozy nooks, etc, just ooze from the room as soon as you walk in. As an adult, I would get excited to go there! It was fun! And the two amazing ladies that ran it, with the help of many other giving souls, became parental figures to us all. They were always coming up with some brilliant, creative way to pass on the love of reading and learning to our little ones. Now that my children are older, I, of course do not frequent the children’s section anymore and I have since moved to a neighboring town. But I have missed it. Just as part of me misses having children of the age who want to go there.

While talking to Mary, we chatted about some of the old times, and when I asked her what prompted her to retire at a younger age then most, she answered with a changed expression of sadness: “The parents are not the same. Instead of parents getting involved the way they used to, they only want to know what you can do for them and their children, not the other way around. It’s just not the same (shaking her head). The community feel has changed. It’s more about the individual and less about the community as a whole.”

This troubles me. How disturbing. How sad.

As we continue to isolate ourselves more and more and become increasingly electronic and downloadable, I ask us all: What have you done for your community lately?

How difficult is it to say: “I have a bunch of books that my kids don’t read anymore, let me donate them” or “I will bake muffins for our story time on Friday” or “Here is a $2 donation. Today I will forego my store bought coffee in a styrofoam cup.”

It doesn’t take a huge commitment. Just do small. Small things matter.

I know many volunteers that are involved with our kids, seniors, those that are homeless, unhealthy, those in need. But from what I am hearing and witnessing, fewer and fewer of us want to take the time and trouble to extend ourselves anymore. We have, on the whole, become a very ME driven society.

While my family and friends will always be on the top of my priority list, in fact, they are the only entries on my priority list, it is essential that I show my children how to give. And give without the prospect of ever receiving anything back. What I receive back is not always visible. It comes in waves of pride and heartfelt caring for those around me and for wanting my community to be just a little bit better, nicer, more welcoming. Without that feeling, where you live, work and play is less desirable to everyone.

On a different level, one of my good friends is a giver/volunteer/if I see a wrong, I must right it, type of person. She is proactive. She makes things happen. She builds playgrounds and football fields and running tracks and (tries wholeheartedly) to push for public kindergarten (which eventually came to be). Those that are uncomfortable with her passion label her as a “bitch”. Yup. She is. And our community is better because of that bitch. She has literally changed the face of our community.

Maybe that is why people are afraid to extend themselves. It brings them into the forefront of an issue. It shines a spotlight sometimes. It can be a burden if others criticize how you focus your passion or attention. So, ultimately, it could be that we shy away for fear of being judged. That is very unfortunate. Maybe it is a lesson to us all to be less judgemental of others.

So I ask, and if you don’t care to hear it, then hit the delete button: “What have you done to make your community, the life of someone around you, just a little bit better?”

Only you know where to go from here…

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. once said: “We are prone to judge success by the index of our salaries or the size of our automobiles, rather than by the quality of our service relationship to humanity.”

How is your relationship with humanity?

(* this blog is dedicated to my friend Lori, two amazing librarians, and all of the caring volunteers out there. Some names in this blog have been changed)

Ain't "No" Sunshine When Its Gone

I like to think of myself as an open minded person and someone who does not take pleasure in passing judgment on other people. I really do think this about myself, so I will be disappointed if it is ultimately untrue. It will take me a long time to recover if I learn through this blog, that I am a very disillusioned soul.

That being said let me talk about something I find utterly crazy.  I was recently made aware of a set of parents who decided that the word “No” would not be used in their household because they believe that saying the word and meaning it, would stifle the natural born creativity of their children, ages 4 and almost 2.

That will work, most certainly, as long as you plan on your two children living with you until the end of time.

I apologize for the candor, but I can not express just how much I vehemently disagree.

I believe that setting boundaries and being cruel (yes, cruel) by denying your children the right to behave a certain way and have certain things, sets them on a successful path. You can love them all you want. Kiss and hug them, too. Put paint brushes in their hands and sing every hour on the hour, for goodness sake, but please, please, please, don’t eliminate the word “No”. For crying out loud it is a STAPLE for me.

To elaborate further before I completely throw these two lovely, smart and caring people under the bus, let me explain.  They both believe that, essentially the process of redirecting, can take the place of the word “No”.

How…freaking…tiring.  Exhausting. I am breathing heavier just thinking about it.

I assure you “No, because I said so” is still alive and well in my household and I hope it is across this great big universe of ours. I hope it translates in every language. I will always sing its praises.

When my children were both toddlers, I was fortunate enough to be able to regularly attend parenting classes with a noted author, speaker and parenting guru, Bonnie Harris, M.S. Ed.  She was remarkable in giving the appropriate advice to me as a young mother with a very SPIRITED child.  I love the term ‘spirited’, because that is exactly what my eldest child was, and still is. I knew no different. He was mine. I absolutely loved his uniqueness and still do to this day.

I remember Bonnie, a lovely woman, explaining how to not allow your children to push your buttons, to get down on their level, look them eye to eye and explain the reasons behind your discipline. Explain, validate, and tell them why you are doing what you are doing.

I am sorry. That is the only thing I disagreed with in all the classes that I attended. Saying “No” without any explanation works for me. I believe that it is essential for my kids to know that my husband and I are both the boss.  If we say “No”, it is because we are the parents. Whether I know best or not, I could honestly care less. I said it, I mean it and you will listen to it.  Too much knowledge can be redundant if you do not respect the person behind the “No”. Sometimes, blind faith is good. Do so, because you have been told to do so by your parent.

And, besides, I have proven myself by pushing you out of my vagina. And that’s the end of it.

In all seriousness, there are plenty of appropriate times to explain, talk, listen, teach, advise, consult…but there are just as many times that a “No” without explanation needs to hold some serious water. Does this stifle the ability to question authority? Or paint on a canvas. Or play an instrument? Write a poem?

I am frightened that a person who is used to having an explanation for everything and/or has been spared the word “No” all their life, will not be able to function well in the work place, in school, on a date, at a party, and ultimately as a parent, themselves.

Loving your child enough to make them earn the right to do certain things, making them aware that it’s not a free for all, stopping them dead in their tracks and maybe disappointing them at times, gives them much needed psychological stamina. It plants the seed that grows in to emotional fortitude. It sets up the catch word ‘boundaries’.

Too much “No” can have the adverse effect. But in a “Yes, I have to have it now" society, a little “No” goes a long way.

I am not a doctor or a psychologist or even a mom with all of the answers. At times I can be a bit of a basket case.  I am just pretty damn certain that if I had never said the word “No” to my kids, that today we might not all be living in the same house.

I will continue to promote the climate where my children get the message that I love them and wish to enhance their physical, spiritual, cognitive and creative growth, all while subliminally yelling “Back off!” at the same time.

A Baseball Diamond

I am the coach’s daughter.  My father coached baseball for 37 years. He had a team of 13, 14 and 15 year old boys for almost his entire adult life.  His first baseball team draft, was the day after I was born.  He was 23 years old.

At the start of each season, once I turned around 12 years old, until the time that I was about 16, my father’s “first day of practice speech” always concluded with…"and if you want to do well on this team, then stay away from my daughter." Let’s just say there were a few courageous boys who ventured into that dangerous ‘territory’, but not without serious reservations and a baseball sized lump in their throat.

“Wild Bill” is what they called my Dad.  He was, for lack of a better word, extremely ‘passionate’ about the sport.  So passionate in fact, that at times he was ejected from the game for an overtly negative reaction aimed at an umpire’s call that he was sure was incredibly unjust. After finally leaving the playing field and entrusting the team in the care of his assistant coaches, he would still try to coach from the parking lot, and he would be thrown out of the game for a second time, if there is such a thing.

My Dad was a great coach.  He loved the sport and the kids who played for him.  To this day, he may not recognize their now adult and aging faces right away, but he could tell each and every one of them their most memorable moment, their stats, or the play(s) that defined them as if they were playing on a field right before his very eyes. He is a true lover of the sport of baseball and those who are involved with the game.

My father taught me and the rest of my siblings to be versatile when playing baseball/softball, any sport, really.  He had the philosophy that we should know the sport we were playing inside and out. We should also be able to raise our hand if any of our coaches was looking for a replacement or substitute, should a team member be sick, out for injury or for any other unforeseen reason.

When I got engaged to my husband, 17 years ago, after my father congratulated me, he then asked “When’s the wedding…not during baseball season, right?” We will never find out if my father would have been there or not, because I planned my wedding in the fall, for obvious reasons. Way ahead of you, Dad.

Now, I have two kids of my own who are involved in team sports: Football, Field Hockey, Basketball. I have witnessed what I will refer to as “adults behaving badly” on numerous occasions.  I have seen parents who yell at the coaches, or question their skills, or worse, parents who yell at their kids to the point of embarrassment while they are playing their sport. I have seen parents writing letters to heads of organizations threatening to pull their child from a team because their child did not play enough in that day's game. Ridiculous. There is more than likely a good reason for the lack of time on the field and that is the coach’s decision. This did not happen to my Dad often.  He was respected. People had faith in him. I learned from my Dad that, for that time of the year, when any kid is on a team, it is best for parents to hand their kids over to their coaches. 

I recently attended an Athletic Department meeting at my son’s High School. One of the things touched on was the value of the “one instructional voice.” Kids benefit best when they have one voice instructing them on a sport.  It doesn’t mean that you can’t play catch with your kid in the back yard or give them pointers. It means trust and let the coach make the decisions for what is best for them.  As long as my child is not in danger, I will always let the coach decide what is best. I will not question his or her decisions when it comes to the sport. Another lesson learned was that kids generally don’t like when we parents rehash the events of the game, after the game is over.  Going over plays, what went wrong, what went right, etc…let your kid lead you down that path. If they want to talk about it, then great. If not, zip it.

Something that really resonated with me was when we were told about one player who commented on how much he liked it when his grandparents came to watch him play.  He appreciated it so much because, quite simply, his grandparents would say to him “We love to watch you play”…and that’s it. Nothing else. He mentioned that as far as his parents were concerned, he would rather that they NOT come to his games. Ouch.

One young lady revealed that she chose a college on the other side of the country that offered her a basketball scholarship, so that she would no longer feel the pressure of having her parents attend her basketball games. They had been very vocal on her instruction of the sport in the past and she was happy to be free.

I really don't want my kids to feel that way about me. I have decided to take the advice of these wise teenagers. Yes, I said it...wise teenagers.

As parents, wanting what is best for our children is instinctual. Protecting their safety is present on a very cellular level. As long as a child will not be harmed by another adult, we must give them over to the care of their coaches and teachers.  Step in when the instinct tells you, but stay back when it’s your pride or ego talking. Kids will do their absolute best when they are able to feel free to make mistakes, take risks and learn what they love.

September Mourn

Most days blend from one into the next for me.  At some point, they all start running together in a blur.  I will often forget that I need to stop and get a gallon of milk, so my kids end up having toast for breakfast.  Occasionally I will totally space a doctor’s appointment and feel just terrible about it. I often forget to pay my electric bill until I get the shut off notice.  Not any of my other bills mind you, just the electric bill, don’t ask me why. Then there are those milestone and momentous days that will forever stand out when I am a beaming parent or my children have the best days of their lives. Those are embedded and burned into my brain in a very detailed fashion. Those aside, there are very few days that I recall so vividly and emotionally as September 11, 2001.

I, of course, will start off by telling you where I was. I pulled down the long driveway of my friend Lynn’s house, arriving a few moments before the start time of our 9 am playgroup, with my kids seated in the back of my green minivan. Nestled in their seats, sippy cups and goldfish crackers tucked beside each of them. The day was perfect. A beautiful, clear, blue skied day with the faintest chill in the air. Playgroup was a lifesaver of a gathering for me.  As a stay at home mother of two small children ages 4 ½ and almost 2, living in rural New Hampshire, I looked forward to these play times as much as my kids did, for the interaction. We met weekly with somewhere between 4-7 other mothers and a significant gaggle of kids, all under the age of 6 years old. To label them as a rambunctious crew, would have been a slight understatement. As I pulled in, I noticed that one of the other mothers was sitting in her car, her head down.  I released my children from their seats, grabbed my bag of goodies and began to make my way into the house. I noticed that the mother in her car had not moved, head still down. I stopped by her driver’s side window, waved, and she looked up at me with a blank look on her face. She opened the car door and said, “I am listening to the radio. A plane just struck one of the twin towers in New York.”

We both went inside amidst little bodies in full throttle, doing what they had grown accustomed to do.  It was loud and chaotic, but full of all the things kids do best.  The adults had begun to come together and talk softly about what was going in New York City and we decided to turn on the television in another room, away from the kids, to see what was going on. We were going to watch in shifts.  My friend Kim left to take the first shift. She was gone only a short period and when she returned, she had a grave look on her face. She quietly informed us that a second plane had hit the South Tower, and that more planes had reportedly been hijacked. Amazingly, collectively, we all had the same reaction: silence. More than silence it was pure shock. And nothing hit us mothers in the gut harder than being in a room full of children and getting this news. We, as a nation, were clearly under attack. The gravity of it paralyzed all of us as we watched our babies play without a care in the world.

Navigating the next few days was difficult.  Not being able to fully explain to two small children what was going on in detail, I felt compelled to sit in front of the TV (something that I rarely do) and watch every minute, almost in zombie fashion, experiencing periods of raw emotion, crying and utter disbelief. I didn’t want to leave my house.  I didn't want to eat. Nothing will stick with me more than the sight of that plane hitting the second tower. The underbelly of the plane looked so familiar.  I remember the eerie, silent skies above in the days after. I will forever remember the stories of those trapped in a stairwell together and surviving that horrific day. I will not forget the faces of the people who were frantically searching for loved ones.  I will not forget the calls from loved ones as they reached out to family to tell them how much they loved them as their planes hurled towards devastation. I will forever remember the bravery, the courage, the sacrifice.

In the days that followed, I did not care about my privacy, or profiling or being unfair. If I, or anyone else, needed to be inconvenienced at the hands of our government to protect more lives from being lost, then so be it.  The hard realization hit that we, as a nation of people, are hated by some, and there is very little protection against this extreme form of hatred, without some kind of cost. In some cases hatred is a necessary part of life. How can we possibly have intense love, without some form of hate. And, for the first time in my life, I felt true, deep hatred rise up within me.

In the weeks that followed, I remember hearing how there was a increase in the divorce rate, the break up rate and the reconciliation rate after 9/11 due to people realizing how important it was to not let those that they loved, or could love, slip away. It became equally apparent how critical it was to end relationships not worth being in. Letting people go is just as important as keeping those we love close to us.

In the years that followed the simple realizations became this: We are not safe without diligence. But more importantly, never leave anything unsaid. Especially when it comes to those that you love most. Say it.

In the last 10 years, I have slipped back into my same or similar day to day routine. So much of what I took away from September 11, 2001, has always stayed with me, but I have let some of the elements creep back in that I promised I would not.  I need to forgive more.  Say what I feel, when I feel it.  Never forget to say “I love you” when my heart says it and never take one single person that I have in my life for granted.

Let this tenth anniversary of the worst day in the history of our days be a reminder. Never forget.  Never forget those who used courage, bravery, strength, faith and love to its ultimate, fullest potential. Never forget those who sacrificed. Never forget all of the things that are worth remembering.

~<3

* feel free to use the comments box below to share your experience of where you were on 9/11/2001

Flight of the First Day

Alarm clock…snooze.

Alarm clock…snooze.

Alarm clock…2 feet on the floor.

Shower…thank goodness for hot water. Bathrobe. Hair wound tightly in a towel.

Two kids systematically running around the house making breakfast for themselves…hallelujah!

Empty lunch box on the counter.  Slap peanut butter and fluff on 2 pieces of bread and bag it up.  Bag goldfish. Wash apple. Granola Bar. Rinse, cut up, bag and LIGHTLY salt celery. Ice pack. Juice Box. Water bottle.

“Do you have your binders?”

“Yes, Mom”

 “Do you have your bus directions?”

 “Yes…”

 “Do you have ALL of your football gear?”

 “YES, Mom.”

 Write a check to be added to the hot lunch account.

Take a few pictures with fresh, clean back to school clothes, crisp back-packs and freckled, lightly tanned ‘little’ faces with evidence of past peeling noses.

Watch them walk down the driveway to catch the bus. Hesitate and stifle the desire to throw shoes on and walk with them. Notice the chill in the air.

Wave goodbye. Tug. Heart strings.

Get dressed, make up, blow dry, straighten. Prepare dinner in the crock pot.

Drive to work.  Watch other people’s children get on their school buses with clean sneakers and neon laces and fresh haircuts.

Coffee. Two cups.

Work a full day in a dental practice complete with “Why is my bill so high?”, “I forgot about my appointment.” and “I love my new smile…thank you.” Computer needs to be restarted twice. Boss needs to be redirected once. All the while wondering…how are the kids and their first day of school?

Punch out. Drive 15 miles. Pick up one child from school. Unplanned stop for more school supplies, just announced today.  Pick another child up from football practice. Reluctantly stop again for more school supplies, just added to the list.

Home for Crockpot dinner. Learned that Joseph is 2 inches taller and Morgan has a new horse.

The first day of school assessment: Two big thumbs up. Wait…what?

Paperwork.  Oh, paperwork.  General Information, Emergency Forms, Parental Permission Slips, etc. Read school handbook…again.

Dishes.

“What will I wear tomorrow?”

“I think I will use my old backpack instead of my new one.”

“Mom, how much laundry detergent do I use to wash my football uniform?” (there isn’t enough laundry detergent on the planet, my dear.)

Laughter, chatter, laundry…

Freshly showered daughter with wonderfully fragrant hair. One of my favorite smells.

Cuddle.

A warm bear hug from my teenaged son.  He still kisses me, without prompting. My heart smiles.

Goodnight, I love you.

Goodnight, I love you.

I am proud of you both.

Quiet…

How quickly things move. 

How grown up they have become.

How important some things are…

How trivial some other things are…