Sunday, September 12, 2010
Correlation
There is a correlation between the number of photos that I take of the kids and how crazy they get. I know that correlation doesn't always equal causation, but I think that sometimes it just might. (I originally got the camera out to take pictures of Manny and Iohan in their twin shirts; Jonah had to get in on the action, though he lacks a matching shirt.)
Smooth moves
For the finale of Jonah's summer camp at the beginning of August, his group of campers performed a little dance in the camp's talent show. He'd practiced his moves for me a couple times at home, but with no knowledge of the song to which they would be performing, or what the moves were actually supposed to be, I had no real way to evaluate his talent. Come of the day of the show, though, I saw that my little Birdie is a very enthusiastic, and maybe even first-rate dancer (you can see a leader doing the moves at the end of the line of kids; Jonah's keepin' up with him). He knew the moves so well; I was so proud of him that, yup, I got a little teary-eyed. I couldn't help but brag to the dad sitting next to me that, "Hey, that's my kid!" Jonah was apparently his group leader's favorite camper -- she told me so! -- which may be why he was chosen to lead the train. Well done, Jonah!
(Wondering about the costumes? We were told to dress the kids in 70's clothes, though, really, who has bell bottom pants for tots? Not I! The leader also suggested vests and buttondown shirts, both of which I was able to pick up at a thrift store. We turned the patterned side of the vest in; Jonah declared that, "My vest is special, because it has bricks inside!" I love his innocence, that he doesn't know when a vest is, well, just a little ugly. The beanie hat, a gift from Gabe's boss, was Jonah's own idea. 70's?, maybe not, but just right for a J-Bird.)
Body paint
A couple months ago, in the middle of a "great moms do fun things with their kids!" tizzy, I got out the ol' finger paints to do hand- and footprint paintings with the elder two boys. It was actually quite a bit of fun, and I'm sure that many of us know that unless a moment of fun is documented on digital camera, it never actually happened, right? I'd forgotten my camera upstairs, so I left the boys (briefly!) to get it. By the time I returned, the painting of small body parts had degenerated (or evolved?) into nearly full body painting. Like lightning, these kids!
Cuter by the month
Following are pictures of Iohan on his month-markers over the past few months. I keep trying to convince him to stay a baby forever, but he's denying my request.
June, 7 months.
July, 8 months.
June, 7 months.
July, 8 months.
August, 9 months.
September, 10 months. Into double digits!
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Magical day.
Jonah has said to me a few times lately, "Mama, I just love Chicago." Days like July 22 make me feel the same way. Can you see why?
Metra-watching.
Pedestrian bridge from the Art Institute to Millenium Park.
Lurie Garden.
Metra-watching.
Pedestrian bridge from the Art Institute to Millenium Park.Lurie Garden.
Pritzker Pavilion. Too loud.
Really too loud.
Chow hounds.
Brothers' construction biz. 
Really too loud.Chow hounds.
Brothers' construction biz. 
Crown Fountain. Too busy, for one little man.
Daddy attack, baby snack.
On not being Super-Mom, not even close
While on a playdate recently with a new friend, I let it slip that I'd gone to the gym that morning before packing lunch and bussing over to the park to meet her, her daughter and the little girl she cares for during the day.
"You WHAT?!?" my new friend practically shouted at me. "You went to the gym?! Oh, I hate you moms who go to the gym in the morning!"
Instantly, I realized how I'd unintentionally presented myself, and I could imagine the picture that I'd conjured in her mind: Perkily-ponytailed, clad in cute workout clothes, super-fit Super-Mom, bounding to the gym as the sunrise breaks over the horizon. Ta-da! She probably runs marathons, too. Or maybe Perfect-Life Mom: The children awake with nary a snarl, feed themselves, dress themselves and look at books for an hour so Mom can go to the gym and Dad can sleep past 6:00 a.m. Amazing!
Listing excuses, I struggled to kill these Super-Mamas-in-her-mind, my imposters. "No, no, I really don't enjoy going that early. My muscles aren't warmed up enough to really work out. I only go in the morning because it's too stressful to go in the evening: If I wait till then, it's right during the boys' bedtime, which Gabe has to do alone. And I feel like I always return to a messy house, which stresses me out." I rolled my eyes at this point. "I'm one of those moms: I mean, is there anything worse than walking on crumbs first thing in the morning?" To my mind, sweeping the floor is far less a tip-off to a lurking Super-Mama than is early-morning gym-going. I hoped to win my friend over on this one. It worked, at least temporarily. She corrected me a bit, claiming that waking up to a loose hair stuck tangled in the toes was the worst way to start the day.
"Still," she said, doubt returning. "You have three kids. That's pretty impressive." I changed the subject.
Oh, friend, I thought to myself later. Some days I feel like I could vanquish the world; many days I feel like the old man on a poster in my parents' house: "I've only been here a week, but the boss says I'm already two weeks behind." This friend is new. Not knowing me well, she may see me as a young mom of three who manages to keep her stuff mostly together, evidenced, for example, by the fact that I make my own granola bars. And of course by the fact that I go to the gym before my children wake. According to the face that I typically manage to present in public, I may as well be a Super-Mama. Those family and dear friends who have known me for longer and around whom I let down my guard have seen the reality of self-doubt, strained relationships, impatience with my children and husband, and cynicism. And the person that exists where only God can see can be downright scary, far more often than I'd like to admit.
My immediate defense of my gym-going on hearing my friend's reaction make me realize how much I want to be known and accepted for what I am, with all my imperfections and baggage. I am often guilty of assuming that other women, and other mothers, have it all together. I assume that they are invincible, that they are better people than me, that their lives smell like roses. All this I assume based on a single and surprising new piece of information, just as my friend did when I revealed my morning trip. She makes her own yogurt? She grinds all her family's grain? She works on the side? She lost all the baby weight in how much time? Who is she? As much as any of these bits may speak to a woman's drive and motivation, they are hardly indicative of the larger picture of one's life. Going to the gym in the morning doesn't speak to my superpowers or my perfect life at all. I don't go then because I want to: I go to make the evenings run more smoothly. I go because these extra 20 pounds that I'm carrying after my kids consistently do a number on my self-esteem. I go because I don't want to wake up to crumbs on the floor, even two mornings a week. I go, essentially, to smooth even a little bit a day that will inevitably have a bump or two. Or more than I can count. I imagine that plenty of other moms do what they do less because they want to than because they simply need to.
There are undoubtedly a few mothers out there who actually do have next to everything in their lives together. When I meet them, I want to learn from them: After all, they've got what I want. I expect, though, that many of the women I meet are like me, trying to figure out what works best for self and family, looking for grace and understanding from their friends, and hoping to pass that same grace and understanding along to others. I don't in fact want to wallow in the misery of getting up at 6:00 a.m. to go lift weights, which, let's face it, "misery" accurately describes the reality of some morning trips. Instead, I try to look at these mornings optimistically: I'm doing what I can to achieve what I want. I'm trying to live the life I want instead of complaining as it passes me by, out of control. Getting up to go to the gym doesn't make me Super-Mom or Perfect-Life Mom, but it does give me a chance to grow into the person I want to be. A person with more peace, more patience, more strength, and, as a bonus, more muscley arms.
"You WHAT?!?" my new friend practically shouted at me. "You went to the gym?! Oh, I hate you moms who go to the gym in the morning!"
Instantly, I realized how I'd unintentionally presented myself, and I could imagine the picture that I'd conjured in her mind: Perkily-ponytailed, clad in cute workout clothes, super-fit Super-Mom, bounding to the gym as the sunrise breaks over the horizon. Ta-da! She probably runs marathons, too. Or maybe Perfect-Life Mom: The children awake with nary a snarl, feed themselves, dress themselves and look at books for an hour so Mom can go to the gym and Dad can sleep past 6:00 a.m. Amazing!
Listing excuses, I struggled to kill these Super-Mamas-in-her-mind, my imposters. "No, no, I really don't enjoy going that early. My muscles aren't warmed up enough to really work out. I only go in the morning because it's too stressful to go in the evening: If I wait till then, it's right during the boys' bedtime, which Gabe has to do alone. And I feel like I always return to a messy house, which stresses me out." I rolled my eyes at this point. "I'm one of those moms: I mean, is there anything worse than walking on crumbs first thing in the morning?" To my mind, sweeping the floor is far less a tip-off to a lurking Super-Mama than is early-morning gym-going. I hoped to win my friend over on this one. It worked, at least temporarily. She corrected me a bit, claiming that waking up to a loose hair stuck tangled in the toes was the worst way to start the day.
"Still," she said, doubt returning. "You have three kids. That's pretty impressive." I changed the subject.
Oh, friend, I thought to myself later. Some days I feel like I could vanquish the world; many days I feel like the old man on a poster in my parents' house: "I've only been here a week, but the boss says I'm already two weeks behind." This friend is new. Not knowing me well, she may see me as a young mom of three who manages to keep her stuff mostly together, evidenced, for example, by the fact that I make my own granola bars. And of course by the fact that I go to the gym before my children wake. According to the face that I typically manage to present in public, I may as well be a Super-Mama. Those family and dear friends who have known me for longer and around whom I let down my guard have seen the reality of self-doubt, strained relationships, impatience with my children and husband, and cynicism. And the person that exists where only God can see can be downright scary, far more often than I'd like to admit.
My immediate defense of my gym-going on hearing my friend's reaction make me realize how much I want to be known and accepted for what I am, with all my imperfections and baggage. I am often guilty of assuming that other women, and other mothers, have it all together. I assume that they are invincible, that they are better people than me, that their lives smell like roses. All this I assume based on a single and surprising new piece of information, just as my friend did when I revealed my morning trip. She makes her own yogurt? She grinds all her family's grain? She works on the side? She lost all the baby weight in how much time? Who is she? As much as any of these bits may speak to a woman's drive and motivation, they are hardly indicative of the larger picture of one's life. Going to the gym in the morning doesn't speak to my superpowers or my perfect life at all. I don't go then because I want to: I go to make the evenings run more smoothly. I go because these extra 20 pounds that I'm carrying after my kids consistently do a number on my self-esteem. I go because I don't want to wake up to crumbs on the floor, even two mornings a week. I go, essentially, to smooth even a little bit a day that will inevitably have a bump or two. Or more than I can count. I imagine that plenty of other moms do what they do less because they want to than because they simply need to.
There are undoubtedly a few mothers out there who actually do have next to everything in their lives together. When I meet them, I want to learn from them: After all, they've got what I want. I expect, though, that many of the women I meet are like me, trying to figure out what works best for self and family, looking for grace and understanding from their friends, and hoping to pass that same grace and understanding along to others. I don't in fact want to wallow in the misery of getting up at 6:00 a.m. to go lift weights, which, let's face it, "misery" accurately describes the reality of some morning trips. Instead, I try to look at these mornings optimistically: I'm doing what I can to achieve what I want. I'm trying to live the life I want instead of complaining as it passes me by, out of control. Getting up to go to the gym doesn't make me Super-Mom or Perfect-Life Mom, but it does give me a chance to grow into the person I want to be. A person with more peace, more patience, more strength, and, as a bonus, more muscley arms.
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