first day

Tuesday was the first day of school.  I had such good intentions of everything going smoothly.  I spent the night before planning what needed to happen and when.  I'd get up early, have everything ready, make a nice breakfast and we'd enjoy walking to school.  

Everything was going fine, until I asked McKay to practice piano while I made him eggs and toast.  The world pretty much fell apart right at that moment.  Whines like I'd never heard escaped my boys mouth.  I tried to be patient.  I did.  The whines- so high pitched and squeaky that I could almost not understand the words- continued.  

My perfect plan was not panning out.  I left the eggs on the stove and went in with him to the piano. The piano that I know nothing about.  I know he likes to have someone sit with him and help him along with every step, so still trying to hold on to our peaceful morning, I tried.  The trouble is, I cannot be that person.  I chose patience, and patience failed me.  Or I failed, rather.  

I'll skip to the end and say that things escalated, tears were shed- not by me, threats were made, pleads were ignored and I marched like a two year old all the way up the stairs making sure each step made and exaggerated stomp and put myself in a time out.  

This was not the first day of school morning I had in mind.  My son was crying and with each tear I had gotten more and more mad at him for crying because IT WAS THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL! YOU CAN'T CRY ON THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL!  I did NOT want to be that mother who sends her boy to off to school with anything but a happy morning.  We both felt horrible.  I actually felt like I was the worst mother in the world, yet simultaneously knew that I was right and it wasn't me who started this.  That's called pride, I'm learning.  I finally decided we weren't walking- we needed the time to calm down- and I had to do my best to make it right.

I went back downstairs and hugged my boy and told him the things I needed to tell him for us both to feel better.  We worked on getting his tear marks off his face and tying his shoes tight so they wouldn't come undone.  Pretty soon it was time for him to go and we walked him to his classroom.  He was a little nervous, but still excited.  He fell in line behind his classmates and walked into the second grade.  

I still felt awful.  I felt so guilty, mad, frustrated, horrible and did I say guilty?  It continued to ruin my day.  What kind of mother sends her kid off to school in tears?  My day did not improve much, and I kept worrying about him and if our sour note had affected his day too.

At 3:42 he came bounding in the door.  He was smiling- his eyes bright with anticipation for the chocolate chip cookies he knew would be waiting for him.  I sat down next to him while he stuffed cookie, after cookie into his mouth.  He had a great day.  He was fine.  He was happy. He recovered and most importantly he forgave me.  In fact, he wasn't even thinking about our morning.  He was completely over it.

It was yet another lesson my children teach me over and over again.  You can mess up and be a bad parent and be embarrassingly immature and ridiculous and when you decide to grow up and be sorry they will almost immediately forgive you.  And forget.  

I think of those scriptures that teach us to become as little children and I wonder how much more peaceful our lives would be if we could actually do that.  How peaceful it would be to forgive so easily and move on.  McKay and I had the same morning, yet his day was remarkably better than mine for that reason alone.  I held on to guilt, anger and regret; he did not. 

Even though he didn't practice that morning and piano remains to be a source of frustration for me 

right now, I'm grateful for that morning and what it taught me and I'm grateful for children who are so willing to forgive their less than perfect mother when she makes mistakes...over...and over...and over again.

just like me

The first time she asked me, I really had no idea where it came from.  I didn't know the reasoning behind it or what that question really meant to her.

"Mom, when I grow up what size will I be?"

My "I don't know, sweetie," did not satisfy.

"But mom, will I be like your size?"

Remembering a pediatrician telling me once that children's weight and size often reflects that of their parents, I told her, "Yes- you will probably be my size."

Satisfaction washed over her face.  

* * *

The next time she asked me it all made sense.  

We were in Home Depot walking by the popcorn machine.  A morbidly obese lady was sitting next to the popcorn table.  

I saw her look, just like kids do, and we continued on our way.

Not thirty seconds later she asked me again.

"Mom, when I grow up what size will I be?"

This time I saw the worry in her eyes.  I saw that she was scared.  She wanted reassurance.  It all made sense to me now- the questions, the concern.  When I told her she would probably be my size relief instantly replaced the worry.

I don't write about this because of the effect it had on Ellery, quite the opposite actually.  This was a huge wake-up call for me.  She wants to be like me.  She feels relief knowing that she will be my size.  She wants to be my size.  

She doesn't see my love handles, my giggly belly or my square torso.  She doesn't worry about having my unshapely rear or bowed legs.  She's not scared of my back-fat.  She wants to be like me.

I recently read an article on Facebook about the power mothers have on their daughters regarding body image.  It was powerfully written from the perspective of a child thinking her mother was the most beautiful person in the world, then that perspective being tainted with the mother's self depreciating comments and obvious distaste for her body.  

That article struck me too, and I found myself at a crossroads with my own little girl.  I try to be careful about what I say about myself out loud.  I don't want my kids to hear how I think I'm overweight or how dissatisfied I am with my non-existent abs.  But somehow, that article and my Ellery's longing to look like me when she grows up put it all into perspective for me.  'Fake it 'til you make it' might have to be my motto- but I am determined to do all I can to help my girls hang on to their positive body image...and their positive body image of me.  That means I have to do some serious self acceptance and work hard to change my thought process.

I want to celebrate the body God gave me.  I want to work hard to keep it healthy, not to make it thinner or firmer, but to make it healthy.  I want the words healthy and unhealthy to obliterate the words skinny and fat in my home.  

This will take work.  This will take changing a lot of my thought patterns and ideas that have been ingrained in me since I was a child.  But thinking about my girls, how they look up to me and how they could quite possibly think that I am the most beautiful woman in their world, it is worth it. 

Because if they think I am beautiful, maybe- just maybe- they will be able to continually see that in themselves throughout all sizes and weights that they as women will experience.  

This is my hope, anyway.

And maybe- just maybe- if they can accept me for how I am right now, I will be able to too.

my baby is a big girl

When Layla broke her arm from jumping out her crib, I knew it really was time to get her into a big girl bed.  It took me a few months to make the transition- mostly because I wanted to finally decorate the girls room before I did it.  This meant paint the walls, re-do furniture and find bedding.  It took longer than I thought, but towards the end of July she finally made the switch! 

I had to take one last picture of her in the crib- and wouldn't you know it, she was in a swim suite when I did it.  Lucky for us it was the swimsuit that she has created for herself out of an old tankini top and a swim diaper bottom.  She doesn't know it's a swim diaper.  I love when she finds this ensemble, which is often.  I love that she thinks its cute.

  

It was a bit hard for me to say goodbye to the crib.  It's just the end of so much.

We had been building this up for months- she probably never thought it would actually happen.  That's probably why she was so excited when it finally did.

She did really great the first night!  She only came out once, right after we said goodnight, to get a drink.  After that she went right to sleep.  

Luckily she is in there with the pro sleeper in our house- Ellery.  Elle rarely complains or whines about going to bed, rarely comes out once we've put her to bed, and now never has problems in the middle of the night (now that she's not throwing up anymore).  So we are happy that Layla gets a roommate that is the perfect sleeping example for her.

It's been about a month since that first night and she's done pretty well.  She comes out occasionally, but it's really been a smooth transition and she is thrilled to be a big girl. 

  I probably confuse this girl so much because I am always telling her how big she is, yet in the next breath hugging her and calling her my baby.  But she is.  She'll always be my baby, so I guess she better get used to it.  I really love her.