Thanksgiving Mornings

I've always been a morning person, but never quite like this.

That's why it's 5:30 am on Thanksgiving and I'm wide awake.

My first day off since starting a new job, and I'm wide awake.

One husband and three children snoring away, and I'm wide awake.

There's nothing but the occasional sound of the furnace to disturb me as I sit writing by the glow of the baby monitor. It is by far my favorite time of day.

In the years B.C. (Before Children) the early mornings consisted of a cup of tea, a daily devotional with my breakfast, and a quick workout before heading to work.

One child only changed the routine a bit. Even before he was sleeping through the night, even when I was working crazy hours and only had a few to sleep, I almost always found a way to get up early and get that time to myself before getting to the rest of the day.

Two children made it tougher. Two children and a collection of part-time jobs that had to be stuffed into whatever free moments could be found made it next to impossible, but still, most days the morning routine remained in place.

Now, with three children and a new full-time job, mornings are a little bit different, but I cherish them all the more. Forget about "bright and early": two mornings each week the mere goal of getting to work by 9am requires a visit to the Dark Side. It goes something like this: get up at 5am, wolf down that tea and breakfast, gobble up a devotional, fly through the shower, throw on some clothes, nurse the baby, wake and dress and feed the two older ones, change clothes because inevitably baby's radar has detected the presence of dry clean only clothing and thus has spit-up, get everyone in the car, go back into the house to change a diaper because baby's radar has detected the need to leave the house and thus has pooped, drive 20 minutes in the wrong direction to preschool/daycare, give at least 4 rounds of goodbye hugs/kisses to each of 3 children, drive 45 miles to work, make milk for baby in the car, walk 3 city blocks to office carrying a laptop, a purse, a lunch bag and a breast pump to arrive at my desk and "start" my day. Phew.

But in the midst of what may seem like chaos, there are moments of bliss. Moments that make it all worthwhile, moments that I savor so deeply I actually wake up even earlier so as not to miss.

First, the baby. My sweet littlest little one is already five months old, and nine nights out of ten will sleep through the night. He no longer "needs" that early morning feeding, and would sleep right through it if I didn't get him up. Maybe he doesn't need it, but I'm just not quite ready to give it up. So on those mornings I creep into his room and take a few minutes to just stand watching in silent awe. As big as he seems the rest of the day, in the early morning hours he's just a tiny spot in the middle of his crib. A perfect little bundle of warmth and love, curled up on his belly with his arms tucked underneath. Every once in a while he lets out a little sigh or a tiny giggle and I pray that sweet dreams are filling up his little head. I pick him up and hold him close, trying to memorize the feeling of his fuzzy little head on my chest and his tiny fingers wrapped around my thumb. If I can just hold onto that feeling, I tell myself, it will get me through the day. Maybe if we both hold each other tightly enough, we can stock up on the love we need to weather the time apart.

Once he is fed and back asleep, it's on to the next child: my oldest, my four-going-on-12-year-old. He, too seems far too big for his age during the day, too grown up, too mature, but in the early morning hours the proportions seem to fall back in place. It's amazing to me that this big boy with his long, lean limbs that stretch across the bed was once a tiny bundle in the middle of his crib.

Sometimes when I come in he's all askew: arms on one side of the bed, legs in two different directions, head nowhere near the pillow and Thomas blanky tangled up in a heap on the floor. I can't help but laugh at the jumbled sight. But most of the time he's a bigger version of the boy in the room down the hall: flipped on his tummy, arms tucked underneath him, breathing slowly in and out. We share a special wake-up song, some silly tickle time, a few snuggles for good measure. I hug him close before he goes to brush his teeth, inhaling his sweet smell. Maybe if I hold him close enough he'll stay my little boy forever.

Last it's on to wake a tiny princess from her sleep. My 2-year-old ball of sass: she is funny, she is feisty and she is SO 2 years old. But in the mornings all I can see are her tiny little toes peeking out from the bottom of the blanket and a wild mane of hair sticking out the top. She sucks on one thumb and twists her hair around the other, never motionless, not even in her sleep. When I wake her, she smiles. Her sassy side doesn't get up this early, so she's still all cuddles and giggles and hugs and kisses. I pick her up and brush her hair out of her eyes while we rock together in her chair. Maybe if I hold her tightly enough she'll know how much I love her, sassiness and all.

The rest of the day is a blur. The new job is still so new, with so much to learn. Evenings are so busy, with meals to prepare, dishes to wash, laundry to do, baths to take and bedtime stories to read. By nighttime it's all too much for me: I'm too tired, too worn out, too worried. Worried about the kids, worried about the parents, worried about the job, worried I've forgotten something I should be worried about. Sometimes I just lie awake waiting for morning.

And so on this Thanksgiving I give thanks for mornings: the lazy ones, the crazy ones, the hazy ones.

Yes, I've always been a morning person, but never quite like this.

On feathers and letting go

When October hits Michigan you can usually count on a sharp chill in the air, dragging out the sweatshirts, and maybe even some frost on the grass. But not this year. This year we've been blessed with nearly two straight weeks of sunshine, temperatures in the 70s and even 80s and extended time with our shorts and t-shirts. In the heat of the afternoon, if you ignore the changing leaves and close your eyes you can almost trick yourself into believing it's still July, so that's how we've been acting: going barefoot in the grass, soaking up the sun on the deck, and eating ice cream in the afternoon.... just because.

Late last week we decided to head to one of our favorite spots for people and duck watching: the Mill Pond in downtown Brighton. With the big kids back in school, we found we had the place virtually to ourselves (not counting the feathered population). We spent a glorious few hours there just watching the ducks go by, playing tag around the rocks and savoring sweet treats from a local shop. At one point, my 2-year-old became quite preoccupied with picking feathers out of the grass and throwing them into the pond.

"Here you go, Mama!" she said, holding a feather out for me. "This one for you!"

So I slipped it in, somewhere between the lollipop wrappers, my cell phone, a 4-year-old's pet rock and a kleenex of questionable cleanliness, fully expecting to throw it away when we got home.

But somehow that feather made its way out of my pocket and when I got in my car the next day, I found it sitting on my seat, waiting for me. And as silly as it may sound, I think that feather was trying to tell me something.

You see, I've been walking around with my head in a bit of a fog lately, and not just the usual sleep-deprived-mom-of-three variety. It's been a heavier, heartier fog, the kind that comes with a major life change.

Tomorrow I'll be starting a new job, a new career even. It's an unexpected opportunity that came along at the most unexpected time, the kind that makes you sit up from the couch where you were happily nursing your baby boy and say "Maybe I should turn my life upside down and figure out a way to make this work thing work!"

It's been two and a half years since I left the full-time work world, not completely by choice. Like many moms, I faced a situation where the financial and emotional cost of having children just didn't compute with anything I'd be bringing home. Since we're blessed to be able to make ends meet on one salary, I decided I'd give the whole stay-at-home-mom thing a try.

It lasted all of about two weeks. That's when I began accumulating part-time job after freelance gig, working nights, middle of the nights, weekends, and many places in between. I felt guilty when working, guilty when not working, guilty when thinking about how guilty I felt about working or not working. Guilty for secretly loving the times I left the house for work, guilty for not wanting to spend every waking moment with my kids, guilty for wanting more. Guilty for being more. Or not being more. Guilty for being me.

So when this opportunity came along I weighed all the options, considered the pros (including an arrangement to work two days/week from home) and cons (including dragging a breast pump around the rest of the time), and eventually decided to give it a try. But instead of alleviating the guilt, it seemed the decision has only intensified it. Now I feel guilty for pursuing my own passion, guilty for leaving my kids, guilty for the seismic change this decision, MY decision would bring about in our family routine.

And then there's the fear: fear of failing at this new venture, fear my kids won't love me anymore, fear my husband and I will become strangers, fear of forgetting that grown-ups close the door when they use the potty... er... bathroom in public, fear that maybe, just maybe, I'll end up with exactly what I've wanted and then what will I complain about?

Between the guilt and the fear and the stress and the thoughts and the decisions and the blah, blah, blah... I'm over it! I'm over myself. I'm over the over-analysis and resulting paralysis. It's time, in the words of my favorite running shoemaker, to Just Do It!

So as this new chapter begins, I will carry that feather with me to remind me of sweet, carefree days- the ones we've already had and the ones that lie ahead....

To remind me that our hearts and minds don't need to be so heavy....

That time does fly, but if we don't get so hung up on the clock it will take us on a pretty amazing ride...

And that we need to let go of the guilt and the fear and all the rest, because deep down, we're all meant to fly.

This too shall pass

I made it almost eight weeks.

Eight weeks into life with a newborn, a toddler and a preschooler. (That's three kids ages four and under, if you're keeping score.)

Eight weeks which also included 3 birthdays, one anniversary, a large family wedding and a new job working from home.

Eight sleep-deprived weeks of nursing a baby on the playroom floor while refereeing a fight between two toddlers over a plastic caterpillar that neither one cared about until the other touched and it became the most important toy EVER....while working from home.

Eight socially-deprived weeks that lacked what had come to pass for stimulating adult conversation, as no one in the confines of my home cared to ask if I preferred paper or plastic. And did I mention I started a new job working from home?

Yes, I held it together for almost eight weeks before having a massive, Chernobyl-style meltdown. Or maybe it was more like a Category 5 hurricane: bands of tears gathered strength and eventually morphed into ugly sobs. Flailing arms and angry words carved a path of destruction through the house. I took shelter in the bathroom shower, where finally alone, I sank to the floor and curled up in a ball. Seconds later, I heard a gleeful giggle and looked up to find my 2 year old with her tiny button nose pressed against the glass door.

"Mama so silly!" she laughed. "Why you have you clothes in the bafftub???"

I opened the door and brought her into my cave, burying my head in her soft, wavy hair. I was just about to tell her something deep and meaningful about how sorry I was for the Mamapocalypse she just witnessed when she got very still, looked right into my eyes and yelled "BEEP BEEP!" as she pushed on my nose and ran away with a squeal.

I took a deep breath, gathered up my thoughts and my weary bones, and silently repeated the words that lately have become my mantra: "This too shall pass."

It's been comforting during these past eight weeks to remember that these tough times won't last forever. That there will come a time when my services are not quite so in demand at every moment of the day. A time when everyone in the house can wipe his/her own bottom. Now that's something to look forward to.

But later that night when I dragged my tired bones to bed for the four hours that currently constitute "nighttime" I stared at my sweet baby boy's tiny chest moving up and down as he slept in his bassinet and it hit me: this too shall pass. All of it.

This is most definitely our last child, so this time around when the baby phase is done, it's done for good. No more diapers and wipes, but also no more gummy, toothless grins or naps on the couch with a tiny little body swaddled against my chest.

I know that there will come a time, sooner than I might expect, that the little boy who begs for just one more, PLEEAASSSEEE one more hug at bedtime will be embarrassed by the very thought of embracing his mother in public....

That his constant stream of talk from the backseat of the car that never, ever seems to end (no, I do not know the name of the driver in the lane next to us on the highway, and I'm really not sure how many pieces of brick it took to build our house, or the name of the dinosaur with spiky things on his head) could someday be replaced by grunting and the sound of thumbs texting "OMG, my mom is sooooo annoying."

That the little girl who is right now attached to my side for 95% of her waking hours and can not seem to start a sentence without "Mommy!" will one day put her hands on her hips and roll those big blue eyes skyward with an exasperated "Moommmm!" because I have said/done/breathed the unthinkable.

That the kids who sob at the door on the rare occasion I leave the house to go somewhere very exciting like CVS will one day ask me to drop them off a block away from wherever their friends have gathered so that I do not risk contaminating their images with my inherent lack of cool.

That the baby boy who keeps me up all night with feeding and crying might one day keep me up all night with worrying and crying.

That I will no longer be able to pin my lack of muscle tone in the abdominal area on children unless I legally adopt Ben and Jerry.

That the boo boos will one day be too deep for bandaids and too painful for me to kiss away.

That the kids who right now seem to need me for everything one day won't.

Yes, all of "this" too shall pass, and when it does, there's no getting it back.

And as difficult, as demanding, as exhausting as it can be, I know that I shall miss it when it does.

An anniversary promise to my husband

Recently some family friends told us they will be renewing their wedding vows in honor of their 10th anniversary. They are doing it up Las Vegas style, complete with the drive thru wedding chapel and all the essential Elvis accoutrements. That, and the fact that today my husband and I celebrate our 8th anniversary (and by "celebrate" I mean he is at work and I am at home with our 3 kids), got me thinking that maybe we could use a little renewal of our own.

"Renewal," however would not be the right word, as we never exchanged vows in the first place, at least not in the traditional Western World sense. We were married in a traditional Eastern Orthodox ceremony in which there is no exchange of vows. It is a ceremony rich in symbolism and packed with ancient traditions, none of which include the bride or groom speaking a single word. (But you do get to wear a very cool cape and a crown, which allowed my husband to finally live out his super hero fantasy.) There's no discussion of having or holding, we don't actually believe that death will do us part, and because the sacrament is considered to be between God and the couple, just showing up constitutes your "I do."

So we did, 8 wonderful years and 3 beautiful children ago. And we still do. But what relationship couldn't use some freshening up around the edges, a little spritz of marital Febreze if you will? So while they're not traditional vows, I thought I'd take this occasion to examine a few issues and make a few promises to the one I love.

So here we go. I, Mona Shand, being of sound mind (OK, I realize we're already off to a shaky start, given the toll that the 4 nonconsecutive hours of sleep I am currently getting each night is taking on my already tenuous grasp on sanity) and body (and 5 weeks after giving birth to baby #3, let's not even go there), do hereby promise:

To continue to stick it out in sickness (our own and that of others, which of course includes but is not limited to stuffy noses, earaches and heartaches, diapers of pooptastrophic proportions, boo boos and ouchies, bruised knees as well as egos, and that disgusting green gunk that showed up on the baby's sheets, and the exact source of which we're yet to identify), and in health (especially those 3 days in winter when everyone in the house is actually healthy at the same time), for richer (I think it's best if we just focus on being rich in love, because let's face it this economy stinks) or poorer (did I mention I stopped at Target today?)

And I promise that:

I will always be your wife,

I will love you all my life.

I will love you in the rain,

I will love you on a train.

I will love you at our house,

I will love you with a mouse.

I will forsake all others here and there,

I will forsake all others everywhere.

And I also promise that next time we're at the library, I will get myself some books that were not written by Dr. Seuss.

I promise to love (OK, how about "try to appreciate"), honor (OK, maybe "not mock so loudly"), and cherish (OK, that one's a stretch) your inexplicable fascination with UFC wrestling matches on pay-per-view.

I promise to try much harder to obey a Closed Door Policy when it comes to the bathroom, because as close as we are, there really are a few things that should be left to the imagination, and when I said I wanted to know what was going on "inside" I really meant your head and heart more than your intestines. And there's just no justifiable scenario in which a grown woman should ever turn to a grown man and say "Mama has to go potty." I'm also guessing my giant pink plastic shower cap doesn't exactly make you want to have or hold so maybe we should try to return that time in our lives when there was a tiny bit more mystery and a whole lot less hair removal cream between us.

And I hereby promise, before the dearly beloved gathered here today (which at 4am include one stuffed moose, 2 teddy bears, a naked baby doll and a basket of dirty laundry) in the warm glow of our love and my laptop, from this day forward, to do my best to focus on the better and not the worse, because my life is so much better and Lord knows I never dreamt I'd find someone to put up with the worst of my worse. So that means more listening and less talking over you. More days when I don't use up all the good, squeezy, super tender hugs and kisses on the kids and leave you with just the little pecks. More "Thank you for putting away the laundry" and less "Where the *&^) did you put my blue tank top?"

Because I couldn't and I shouldn't and I wouldn't imagine a life without you in it.

No I couldn't and I shouldn't and I wouldn't for a minute.

(But I can and I should and I will follow through on that whole "reading books that don't rhyme" thing, I promise once again.)

So, unless anyone gathered here has any objections (Zip it, Moose.) I'm going to go ahead and kiss the groom.

Just as soon as he comes out of the bathroom.

Happy anniversary, my love.

Bringing Home Baby: When Time Means Nothing

There's nothing quite like having a baby to make you lose all track and all concept of time. I took my watch off in the delivery room, as per the nurse's orders, and haven't put it back on since. In fact it's still tucked in my purse, right alongside other things I haven't touched since the big arrival, like my favorite lipstick and one of the many rolls of Tums that got me through a whole lot of heartburn.

Partly the watch has stayed put because I fear it will scratch the baby in all the picking up, putting down, changing, rocking, bouncing, and cuddling my watch-wearing arm is once again engaged in. And partly it's because time, as measured by my watch, just doesn't seem to accurately reflect the current state our life.

By the clock and the calendar, our baby boy is two weeks old today. Two weeks? How can it be that I have soy milk in my refrigerator that has been with us longer than this sweet little creature? Maybe it's the 13 nights of sleep deprivation, but I already have trouble remembering a time he wasn't part of our family. His movements, those jerky arms and legs, the way he rests his left arm against his head... it all just seems so familiar. Granted, he and I did spend 40 weeks together in rather close confines, so technically this I guess this is week 42 of our lives together. But even that doesn't seem like long enough. No, there is definitely something about having a child that reaches beyond the weeks, months and years. Something that makes you say with absolute certainty, "I have always known you."

This is our third child and my husband and I are much more relaxed in our role as parents. The "baby" side of the equation, while still a physical and emotional ordeal, is infinitely easier than in the past. I no longer need my watch to count every minute baby's been nursing or to mark the exact time of the last poopy diaper. What I do need is a third arm to work a puzzle with a 4-year-old and a 4th arm to help a 2-year-old dress her doll while nursing said baby from the comfort of the playroom floor. And as long as I'm dreaming, how about a 5th arm to make dinner, a 6th to get that unidentifiable sticky gunk off the kitchen floor, a 7th to tackle various forms of DNA in the laundry basket and an 8th to type should a coherent thought actually enter my sleep deprived brain? Apparently I want to be the Octomom.

The weight of it all began to set in shortly after the euphoria of delivery (and that lovely epidural) wore off. I sat stoic in my hospital bed, listening to the doctor explain that for the next several weeks I should really just devote myself to caring for the baby and leave everything else to "everyone else." I double checked the painkiller prescription she scribbled out to see if by chance it included housekeeping and babysitting services. Seeing none, I tearfully turned my attention to the discharge instructions she handed me before saying goodbye. Surely they contained some words of wisdom to help navigate what would lie ahead?

"Resume your daily activities at home when you feel ready. Let comfort guide you." Really?? Comfort??? If that's going to be my "guide," we're in big trouble. We'll just skip that one.

"Avoid heavy lifting (anything weighing more than your baby) until you feel up to it." Once again, this could prove problematic, and not just due to the combined weight of roughly 56 pounds of children who have patiently (and not so patiently) waited several months for a bona fide Mommy cuddle. The burden of physically lifting the three of them is still far lighter than the weight of lifting of their little spirits, of carrying their hurt and shouldering their hearts. My arms, already weak from several months of gym neglect, nearly fell off at the thought.

"Nap when possible. Sleep when the baby sleeps." I'm not even going to go there.

"Keep baby away from second-hand smoke." Well finally, there's one I can do. Second-hand smoke, consider this fair warning: I am your arch enemy. Baby, since I seem to be incapable of doing much else, I will devote myself to shielding you from second-hand smoke. Now if only I could do the same for off-handed comments that leave a sting, split-second reactions that go wrong, and smoking hot tempers.

Feeling more terrified than ever, my husband wheeled me out of the hospital and into the bright sunshine of the outside world. Hands shaking, heart quaking, and head throbbing, we tucked the papers away and loaded this precious miracle into our car. And then, we did the only thing we could: we went home.

Back to our same house, but a whole new home.

The place where we'll have to make our own rules to get by.

The place where time now means nothing.

We'll just have to take it one day...one long, short, mixed-up, confusing, messy, exhausting, but wonderful day at a time.

"Look at me!"

"Look at us, Mama!"

The first time it was cute. The fourth, fifth, and maybe even 18th time: still cute. But when your child yells out "Look at me, Mama!" for the 847th time- that morning alone- it becomes remarkably easy to overlook the cute factor and lose your temper. Or your mind. Or both.

It happens a lot when I'm cooking dinner. "Look at me, Mama!" he calls out excitedly. So I leave the pot on the stove, pop my head into the playroom and oblige him with the requested look. Usually he wants to show off a big accomplishment in Almost 4-year-old Land, like how high he can jump, or a particularly impressive bit of chalkboard art, or (unfortunately) something that came out of his nose. Or some other exit hole.

It happens when we're outside. "Look at me, Mama!" he yells with every slide down the slide and each bubble blown.

And it happens when we're driving in the car. "Look at me, Mama!" I hear from the backseat, despite numerous explanations of how Mama really needs to keep her eyes on the road. (Forget texting- I say parenting while driving is the ultimate distraction.)

Sometimes the verbiage differs; there's "Watch this, Mama!" and "Mom!!! COME SEEEEEE!!!!" Even his not quite 2-year-old sister gets in on the action, with her own version of the call to action. "Yook-ah-meee, Mama!" she yells, usually when she's just standing there sucking her thumb in her particularly adorable way. The words may differ slightly, but the underlying message is always the same: do you see me? Aren't you proud of me?

And yes, I absolutely am. I am so proud of the beautiful little spirits they possess, the amazing people they continue to grow into every day. I am humbled and amazed to think that I had any part in any of it. But honestly, there are times when I just can not muster up the excitement at the sight of a little boy who has just figured out how to stick three fingers into one ear.

"AND?????" I sometimes want to yell out of frustration over the fact that we did not buy a house with an open floor plan and so the journey from kitchen to playroom now means we will be eating The Black Substance Formerly Known As Marinara on our pasta.

Usually I bite my tongue and try to be pleasant and encouraging as I catch sight of his eager, expectant little face. "Nice job!" I tell him. "Now see if you can get your elbow in there while Mama finishes making dinner."

It's just part of being a good parent, I tell myself through clenched teeth. But sometimes I worry, am I creating little monsters? Applause junkies? Kids who desperately need approval to validate their very existence? Kids who are never told the cold, hard, truth about their performance until one day they show up on the audition episode of American Idol singing "Shebang, Shebang!" completely unable to grasp why the judges won't put them through to the next round?

I remember a time shortly after our first child was born when my husband and I spent most of our time shouting "Look at him!" to each other. As a new parent, everything, and I do mean everything your first child does, tends to amaze.

"Look at him! He sneezed!!!" (Translation- "He's a genius!")

"Look at him! He put a crayon in his mouth!" ("What a brilliant artist!")

"Look at him! He's sticking his fingers in his...!" (OK, that's just gross. But we still felt the need to ooh and ahh over it.)

And just "Look at me" now. Most days by the umpteenth shout-out I find myself wondering when the "Look at me, Mama!" phase will end.

And then one day I realized, it really never does.

I like to think of myself as pretty independent. My parents could not have been further from the "helicopter" model that hovers over many schools today. They had demanding careers and trusted that life would go on if they were not in attendance at every orchestra concert, school play and science fair. And they were right. Add to that a different cultural model of parenting that does not include heaping praise upon a child and "Look at me!" was not even an option.

But deep down, I know I've always yearned for, and not often known if I had, my parents' approval. Before getting married I lived on my own for many, many years, in many, many different parts of the country and the world. I'd like to think they watched with a mixture of fear and slight amusement as I continent and career-hopped across the globe. But most of the time I felt like the black sheep of the family. No focus, no direction. I was proud of myself for being willing to take risks, to push myself far beyond any physical or mental comfort zone, but always worried I was letting them down. It wasn't anything we ever talked about (see above re: cultural differences) but I always felt my lifestyle didn't scream "Look at me!" as much as "Don't look now!" If only I could have been a doctor or a nurse or a teacher or an engineer, or anything on the Parental Preferred List of Careers. Maybe then I could have shouted "Look at me!" and known for certain they were beaming with pride.

I convinced myself over the years that I didn't need anyone to look at me. I was confident in myself and told myself that was all that mattered. Put on a thick skin that has served me well in my chosen career (which doesn't even come close to the Preferred List, or even the Understood List). Look at me if you want, I told myself, but if not, I'm OK.

Eventually, I did settle down (with an engineer, no less) and had two...perhaps by the time you read this...three kids. And I've found that there's nothing quite like becoming a parent that makes you want to shout "Look at me!" to your own parents.

There are the lessons you learned from your parents that you consciously or unconsciously pass along to your own children. There are the things you choose to do differently. And then there are the things you swore you'd never do when you became a parent that you now realize just have to be done. It's hard not to want to show off this newfound wealth of information and understanding in the form of your little ones.

My own parents still lead busy lives and we don't see them nearly as often as we, or our children, would like. But when we do, and when I see my dad with his grandchildren, I see a look in his eyes that tells me all I need to know. Maybe I've finally become confident enough in myself to not need to hear it, or maybe I just know He sees what I see, and through those kids, I finally have no doubt, he sees me.

So the next time I hear my son yell out "Look at me, Mama!" I will do my best to respond appropriately. No, I can't drop everything and run to him every time he puts crayon to paper. And no, my little girl doesn't need a round of applause to know she's done well sticking the wooden cat in the designated puzzle slot. No one wants a child with skin that thin.

But there's got to be a balance, because I've been looking at myself a lot more lately and realizing that at some point, a thick skin becomes a barrier to keep others away. And that wanting to be seen doesn't necessarily make you weak.

As it turns out, sometimes it really does feel good to know that big brother, or Mama, or someone you love is watching.

Sometimes it just feels good to be seen.

Ice Cream Moments

There's nothing quite like that first really warm day of the year, the first time you shed those layers and let your skin soak up the sun. And there's nothing like celebrating it with a cool, creamy treat: an ice cream cone.

We had just such a day a few weeks back. It wasn't exactly hot, maybe 72 degrees, but after the cold, snowy winter and virtually non-existent spring we've endured in the Midwest, it was enough to send us scurrying through drawers, desperately seeking shorts and t-shirts, before frantically running to the local ice cream parlor.

My husband, son and I all dug immediately into our treats, but in between greedy bites I noticed our little girl staring at her baby-sized cone somewhat quizzically. It occurred to me then that while she's tasted ice cream off a spoon before, this was her first ever cone, and she wasn't quite sure what do to with it. A little coaxing from her big brother (at almost 4 years old, an ice cream cone veteran), a few tastes of the sweetness and she was on her way. Big, sticky, drippy smiles all around. It was another "Ice Cream Moment" in progress.

The term came to me last summer while watching my little boy eat ice cream with my dad. He was staying with us for a few days while my mom was out of town, and we were enjoying a carefree, delicious moment together. It was probably past his bedtime, it was certainly not the healthiest choice, but WOW did it taste good, and I don't just mean the Moose Tracks.

There's just something about eating ice cream, particularly off a cone, that brings out the kid in all of us. It's hard to worry about much, if anything, other than slurping up each delicious bite before the dripping sets in. It's one of those rare moments we suspend our usual routines, forget about our typical rules and simply enjoy. They are moments so sweet and yet so fleeting, so deliciously simple and rich.

There's a large portion of being a parent that involves imposing structure and rules, and that's not a bad thing. Kids tend to thrive on a predictable routine and certainly need to learn right from wrong. Not to mention that between work and all our other responsibilities, our "free" time seems to consist of a whole lot of errand running on a parent's part and time spent in shopping carts for the kids. It's the Ice Cream Moments that help balance it all out. Every once in a while when we're playing together with abandon, when we're out for a walk, when we're in the middle of a major tickle session, I think to myself "This is an ice cream moment. Eat it up."

I don't remember having too many of those moments with my own parents, who remain so serious, so hard to break out of their routines. As immigrants who came to this country with nothing but their educations, the majority of their energy went toward building a future, which didn't seem to leave much time for eating ice cream. Even today, it's difficult to get them to just relax, to just come over and BE with their grandchildren. To savor a second chance at an Ice Cream Moment. Perhaps that's why seeing my little boy share such a rare instance with my dad was all the sweeter.

My aunt passed away last week at the very young age of 54 after a horrific (but blessedly brief) battle with cancer. In her final weeks one of the few things she could stomach and actually requested to eat was a milkshake. Melted ice cream. Rationally, I know the creamy texture was all her broken body could handle, but in my heart I like to believe she wanted to share a few more Ice Cream Moments with us before she left.

So as summer finally begins to arrive my wish is that we all savor the Ice Cream Moments we've been given and strive to create more delicious memories. Take off your shoes and walk barefoot in the grass. Blow bubbles just because. Ditch your dinner routine and have a picnic in the park. Just don't let the chance to savor an Ice Cream Moment pass you by, because just like the real thing those times will melt away far before we're ready.