Little Things

"At school, we learned about Adam and Eve," my four-year-old tells me from his seat in the back of the car. This is a relief to me because last year, when I first told him that Bible story one night at bedtime, he liked it so much that he asked me to repeat it the next night. "Tell me again about Adam and Steve. I love those guys!" So the fact that they're teaching the correct names and genders at school and that he's picking up on them is promising.

"We learned that Adam had to name all of the animals. THAT was a big job," he tells me, obviously appreciating the magnitude of Adam's endeavor.

Yes, indeedy. That was a big job, and one that God knew better than to give to someone like me, who becomes overwhelmed at the outset of mind-numbingly enormous tasks. I'm afraid that that's due to both my ADHD tendencies and my propensity to be something other than detail-oriented.

I'm also a tiny bit concerned that Emily has inherited the inclination to skim over minutiae from me. One day last year, I told her to read down her list of spelling words and use them in a sentence, since she'd already spelled them correctly.

"Cement..." she read.

"Um, no, that's 'smart,'" I corrected.

"Cement, smart, whatever. It doesn't matter."

Of course it doesn't. No need to get bogged down in useless details, like the difference between man-made concrete mix and God-given intelligence.

But I'm working on it (getting to the details, that is), because I've learned that when one doesn't notice details, one can't appreciate the beauty woven into the small things that make up the big things in our lives. And certainly, I want to remember every little detail of this sweet, happy baby we've been blessed with. Because I realize now that I'll blink and this baby person will be a preschooler and I'm afraid I'll turn around again and he'll be off to college with his siblings. This time, I'm determined to remember every little noise, every baby expression, every nuance of who Ethan is right now.

"Mommy, can we keep having babies and we'll have a lot of kids?" Jackson asked me several days ago. Hmmm...that would be one solution to missing my babies--always having one around!

"Mom, you had the best baby," Emily tells me quietly, as we both gaze happily at Ethan. Maybe having them around to notice the little things with me is all I need.

Advice

Last week, Tim and I managed to garner both praise (thank you, kind K4 teachers!) and criticism for a single, small parenting decision. Now, as those of you who are parents already know, people love to give parenting advice and everyone has an opinion. In fact, in my dad's words, opinions are like...well, nevermind.

Anyway, what is interesting to me is that, as those who don't know us can tell from the picture at the top of this blog, this is not our first rodeo. In fact, we've been parenting with somewhat surprising consistency for 8 years now, so it's pretty unlikely that the criticism we draw from certain constituencies is going to change anything. But the critics somehow fail to recognize this and keep slogging on, hoping, I guess, to chip away at what they consider inept parenting.

So, what is it, you ask, that we're doing so wrong? We like being with our children.

That's it. They're young, and we want to be there for them now, today, while they still want and need us there. We're in no hurry to make sure they're independent, knowing that the solid, self-assured kind of independence develops in its own time, on its own schedule.

I know, I know. Children are needy, in an omnipresent sort of way. They're messy, and they spill things you didn't realize were spillable. They have no concept of personal space, and they can resort to violence to make a point.

But they're funny and heartbreakingly sweet and smart and sincere and intuitive. Mothering them, I realize in selfish moments, makes me who I want to be. Prior to becoming a mother, I'm confident that no one had ever complimented my patience. In fact, I'm pretty sure "patient" is right there at the very end of the list of words that could ever be used to describe my former self, falling just after "orderly." But in these recent years, especially since I've had three babies, strangers have commented on my patience, my calmness--several times over the past month even. I didn't know I had it in me. But wanting to be the best mother I can be to my children forces me to push myself, to try to be a better person, to try harder, and to love more.

The most absurd piece of parenting advice I ever received, and I am not making this up, was this: "You can't let having a baby change your life." Well.

I identify more readily with the wise words of British author and Ph.D. (in child development and psychology) Penelope Leach, who said, "If you really, really don't want having a baby to change your life, perhaps you should consider not having one." And closer to home, with the wise words of my sweet husband: "If having a baby doesn't change your life, you're doing something wrong."

All said, I just can't get too wrapped up in the advice I'm given about parenting any more. I mean, I'm too far up the stream to change courses anyway, and the reality is that I'm enjoying these days with these delightful children, and that is what matters to me. And while the ultimate judge of good parenting is, of course, the Holy One, second on my

list is my great-aunt, Ethelyn. When she complimented both my children and my parenting recently, I knew everything was going to be just fine.

Pirates and Princesses

"I hate being a kid," our daughter announces from her seat in the back of the Civic.

"You hate being a kid? You want to be a puppy dog or a horsie? A Santa Claus, or a scary monster?" our son queries, honestly questioning her motives.

"No, I hate being a kid!"

"You not hate being a kid! It's fun being a kid!"

As the debate rages on in the back seat, Tim and I realize we've said too much in front of Emily about her upcoming tonsilectomy. And as necessary as I've come to believe the surgery is, I feel for her. It's not fun being told what you're going to do, or what's going to be done to you.

Emily seems to have inherited both my monstrous tonsils and my need to control the situation in which I find myself. From a young age, I always looked forward to being an adult, able to mind my own business and manage my own affairs.

Regardless, I've done the research and the tonsils need to come out.

Ah, the post above is one that I began back in December 2008 and never finished. Suffice it to say, the tonsils did come out. Emily will be the first to admit today that she's even glad that they did, despite the long and often painful recovery.

"Rok me Mom," reads a note that I found just the other day, one she wrote during the time she spent healing from the surgery and one I saved to remind myself of these days when my ability to comfort her is enough.

My princess is finding her own way amid the pirates, who both adore and torment her. As one of three sisters, I often wondered what it would be like to have a brother. Or two. And now Emily can answer the question for me.

"I can tell you're going to be like your big brother," she tells baby Ethan while holding him on her hip, stroking his downy head. "You're going to hurt me, too."

In the news just yesterday was a study suggesting that simply having a sister, regardless of other factors such as socioeconomic status or education level, makes one a happier person. If any sister will do, then I am the mother of two extraordinarily lucky little pirates.