Life with KiDs

A Kindness Countdown to Christmas

Somehow I’m always a week or two late with this post– but not this year! Thanks to Snovember and all of those days we were trapped inside, The Kindness Countdown to Christmas is happening right on time! I asked my girls if they were up for this again and got a resounding YES! We hope you decide to join us for what ends up being a very fun and thoughtful way to count down the Christmas season.

Every year I have such mixed emotions about the holidays. Of course I want to enjoy them with my kids and family and friends, but sometimes there’s a sticky gap between expectation and experience. The busyness and exhaustion of the season and all that it requires gets all jumbled up with the ghosts of Christmas past, loss and grief (December was the month I lost my first husband…and then buried him on New Year’s Eve), stress over broken and tricky relationships…and the holidays can feel like The Hot Mess Express. Bleh. Skip to January. PLEASE?

And I regret this. I hate it, actually. Because in the deepest parts of my heart and soul,   Christmas is all about the birth of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Advent, the 25 days leading up to the celebration of the birth of Christ, represents the darkening of winter and the whole world as it awaits a savior. A yearning. A recognizing of the ache for something more that what this life has to offer. And then He came. On a glorious star-filled night. And nothing would ever be the same. Including my life. Surely, this is a reason to celebrate, rather than dread.

So. A few years ago I stumbled upon a simple, fun and creative way to help nurture more happiness during December. I will forever wish I had thought of this myself, but imitation is the sincerest form of flattery… so it’s on! 25 Random Acts of Christmas Kindness. Yep. Everyday in December, the girls and I perform a random act of kindness accompanied by a card that says, “You’ve been RACK’ed”. The card has an explanation of what we are doing and why. The sentiments are small–so far they’ve included candy, fun trinkets (think Target dollar aisle) and $5 Tim Horton’s gift cards, paying for the car behind us in a drive-thru, doing little favors and chores for neighbors…But the return for us has been priceless. It feels good to give, but it feels even better to see how happy it makes the other person. Kindness. Just. Feels. Good.

In a season when children (and adults) spend a lot of time thinking about their own wish lists, intentionally planning a daily way to think of others is now a precious pause we take. I know there will be days we accidentally forget, but that means we get to do it twice the next day. And right from the start of this, my kids caught the concept: Kindness matters. Even teeny tiny acts of kindness matter. And what if the people we surprise decide to do it too?  Now we’re part of a kindness chain. And what if we do it every day, instead of just at Christmas time? Then what? Could we change our little part of the world with our little random acts of Christmas kindness? Well actually, I think we can.

And in reality, we ARE part of a kindness chain. It started with a baby born 2000 years ago. In the hustle and bustle of the Christmas season, may my exhaustion come from kindness. I will gladly work full-time to keep that spirit alive in my heart and in my family.

It’s perfect timing to participate! Click here to find the link for free printable cards.

Hungry For More

Up until now, The Hunger Games in my life went something like this: It’s late. I’m laying in bed, I promised myself I would NOT eat another thing tonight. But now I’m hungry. And so the battle begins–To get up and get a snack or not to get up and get a snack? Last night my mental arch enemy was a Rice Krispy treat.
But now. Now I have literally just finished reading the REAL Hunger Games and I’m hooked. I’m a fan–and it’s surprising me a little bit. I read a lot. As in, probably a book a week. And normally, books that even hint of fantasy or science fiction would NEVER grace my nightstand. It’s just not a genre I enjoy. And on top of that, word on the street was that The Hunger Games were written towards and marketed towards a younger crowd–and this reminded me of Twilight. And I wanted to throw up in my mouth a little bit. I read Twilight. And I wish I could get those hours back. (Sorry-you’re reading Real Life. Truthfully. Remember? It’s true!)
The Hunger Games was riveting. It was a genuine page turner. Because I love to read so much, I normally “restrict” my reading hours to bedtime–but I found myself drawn back to the book all day long, thinking about the story and the characters and anxiously anticipating what would happen next. It did not disappoint.
But here’s the other really surprising part of The Hunger Games for me–in some of the circles I travel, there had been talk that this book was not great reading material for Christians. I honestly hate to even broach this topic because after reading the book (and I’m not certain that everyone involved in those conversations had), it’s a little embarrassing. From my humble and albeit limited perspective, the prevailing theme of The Hunger Games is the indomitable power of the Human Spirit. It is the triumph of good over evil. It is a showcase of our ability to endure horrific circumstances long after we think we’re able to. It is the glorious display of an incredibly strong and level-headed young female heroine. Unlike the Twilight series, Katniss Everdeen cares less about romancing her male counterparts and more about fighting for her life and not allowing the evil empire of government to change the essence of who she is. I don’t know about you, but that’s a story that’s worth my time. And although much has been made about the “kids killing kids” aspect of the story–that is not nearly the central theme the reader comes away with, nor a part of the story that is emphasized, dwelt upon, or championed.
I want my 14-year-old daughter to read this book, and my younger daughter when she’s of age. Not just for the brilliant and thrilling storyline, but for the inspiring and empowering role model of The Hunger Games’ rock star girl character. There has always been a shortage of these girls in our movies and our books and I want them to see her fierce ability to triumph over adversity. Unlike their mother, who caved and ate the last Rice Krispy treat.

Post Traumatic Bird Stress Continues…

In case anyone is wondering how I’m doing post-bird trauma, here’s an update– they’re stalking me. At least it FEELS like they’re stalking me. As Emery was waiting for the bus this morning and riding around the driveway on her scooter, I was standing on the front porch, minding my own business. I just happened to look over at my spring wreath, only to see that a bird’s nest is being built IN THE WREATH. ON MY PORCH. RIGHT NEAR THE DOOR. I don’t need to imagine the possibilities of a bird’s nest near the door– I’ve already lived it. And as we know, it was not pretty. Soooooo, as you might imagine, I was not happy to see this. I was actually, um, a little nervous. 

Me: Oh, Em! You will not believe this. Look at the wreath. Do you see that? Birds are building a nest in it!

Emery: (Eyebrows raised. Look of concern for her mother’s mental health and stability.)

Me: Do you think there’s a bird in there? Should I bump the wreath and check?

Emery: (Struggling under the weight of her mother depending on her for safety) 

Emery: (Tentatively) Okay Mom! And if a bird flies out, you can get away on my scooter and I’ll just run.

Me: (Feeling totally embarrassed and glad to have the scooter offer.) Okay. Sounds good.

Then the bus came. So none of it actually came to pass. I think I’ll go out there with a broom right now and maybe the Mets apron. Thank God she left the scooter near by.

A Bird in the Hand…Probably Would’ve Killed Me

Yesterday, a bird flew into my house. Apparently it had been hanging around in my garage and when I opened the garage to let the dog out, I scared it. The irony. Because then, it flew straight into my house, into my kitchen, and terrified me. Yep. I completely freaked out. It headed straight for my sliding glass door, thinking it had found a fast escape, only to bump and flap at the glass and cause me to scream. And shriek. In hindsight, it’s all a little humiliating but in the moment, I was completely hysterical. Really, only for one reason- my hubs had already left for work. Why do all the good things happen after he’s gone?
Had Allen had been there, I still would’ve been a little nervous, but instead of holding a Mets apron over my head for protection, I probably would’ve been just watching, jumping around saying things like,”Get it Baby!” and “Honey, you are so brave! How do you know how to do these things?” And then Allen would’ve gotten rid of the bird and I would’ve spent the rest of the day thinking about how great he is. Instead…I acted like a maniac, ran out the front door, talked myself down a little, ran back in, (grabbed said apron for protection) and called him. I might’ve cried for a second. I know. Epic. Failure.
All this was happening while my daughters were halfway upstairs, halfway downstairs. I’m not sure what was more frightening for them. Me or the bird. I’m such a role model. Me and all my fitness and workout quotes that inspire me-“I don’t run to be thin. I run to be fierce” and “Strong is what happens when you run out of weak.” Blah, blah, blah. Wow. Keep running, eh? My one daughter actually said,”Oh, it’s a bird? From the way you were acting I thought there was a masked man in the house!” Um, hello? Is anyone else out there remotely with me on this? The bird was now perched on top of my refrigerator while breakfast was about to burn on the stove. And of course I couldn’t turn the stove off because then I’d have to go near the bird. And it might do something crazy like- I don’t know- fly at me- or peck my head to a nub. Or get caught in my hair. (Caught in my hair feeling like the most likely scenario)
Thankfully, sweet and calm husband on the phone gave me some tips, such as open all the doors- which, to my credit, I had done. Then, after closing some other doors to the living room and dining room, the bird flew out the sliding glass door. I didn’t actually SEE this with my own eyes, so I had to ask my youngest daughter approximately 237 times if she was SURE the bird had flown out the door. And then, this same child looked me square in the face and said….wait for it…”You didn’t handle that very well.” Wow. Insult to injury. And then came the re-enactments of mom freaking out. The made up songs about birds in the house and a crazy mother. Sigh…it was not my finest hour.
BUT! My chance to save face came a little later in the day when that same sweet child had a fly in her room and called me for help. That’s right- a measly, teeny, tiny little fly. Puh-leeeze. Who would be scared of a fly? I ran in like a champ and let it out the window. And we didn’t even have to call Dad.

3 Kids Later…Still an Amateur…

Last night, the Tooth Fairy was supposed to come. But she didn’t. Until this morning. And even then, she had to send in a sub because she choked. It went something like this: Woke up. Saw the clock. Started to drift back to sleep. Sat up in terror and whisper screamed at husband, “THE TOOTH FAIRY NEVER CAME!” (While violently shaking his arm) I have no words for her. 3 kids and 20 years later, she still doesn’t have this routine down? Over the years, the excuses we have had to make for this chick are unreal- Apparently, she doesn’t work weekends, holidays, certain weeknights, Passover, Flag Day, in extreme weather conditions or on Oscar night. Seriously? 

Soooooo. When she went in there at 6:35 this morning, she knew the odds. They weren’t good. It was very possible that Cindy Lou Who was going to wake up. And she did. She woke up and LOOKED at me. Looked at me as if to say, “What are you doing in my room standing there just looking at me?” It was almost a little humiliating. And so like any good mother, I whispered, “Go back to sleep. I was just checking your window.” Yep. That’s what I said. Deer in headlights. Cash in hand. Tooth under pillow. I choked. That was it. I tiptoed right back out, deed undone.

That’s when I called in the back up. I begged. I pleaded. I might’ve promised rewards. I did casually mention she’s awake. And then I got back in bed. He had to. Now he had no choice. But he went in like a pro and got the job done. Phew.

I have been bamboozling these kids for 20 years. And I have to admit, I’m one of those moms who loves it. The lengths I have gone to over the years to maintain the charade of Santa and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy and the Leprechaun…it’s a full time job. And I have loved it. Probably to the point where I have wondered if the kids are now just humoring me and don’t want to disappoint me by letting on that the gig is up. 

At one point, one of our kids had reached an age where, by all accounts, she should no longer think it possible for a teeny tiny fairy to flutter into the house and replace teeth with money. And in the interest of      fairness and her sanity, finally, when she asked me the truth about the tooth fairy, I was almost relieved. “Mom,” she tentatively said. “I just don’t see how it’s possible. The little fairy and all.” “You don’t?” I replied. “Alright then. Okay. Well, how do you think the money gets there? Who do you think does it?” Slowly, a smile spread across her face and she lifted a finger up and pointed to me. “You?” she whispered. “You’re the Tooth Fairy?” “That’s right!” I smiled. “It’s me.” But I could see her excitement and where this was headed. I had evidently been such an expert swindler that this child thought I was THE Tooth Fairy. Like FOR THE WHOLE WORLD. I was slightly flattered for a minute and even considered going with it…but alas…I let her down easy. “Not for everybody honey. Just for our house.” We both exhaled a sigh of relief. That really would be a lot I guess. (Especially considering I couldn’t manage one kid this morning.) 

All’s well that ends well. The little one has her money this morning and I’ve got another shot tomorrow morning with the Leprechaun. I’m ready with the Lucky Charms, the green crepe paper, the green food coloring. It doesn’t matter that we’re not Irish. We’ve got traps to set tonight and this just might be the year we get that little guy.

 

The Memory Jar

I’ve come to accept that I will never really be a “Scrap Booker.” (Such a tough realization…) Now I know that legitimate scrapbookers are going to think that the idea I’m about to present is a far cry from scrapbooking and not even remotely comparable. I KNOW. I GET IT. It’s not supposed to replace scrapbooking, per se. Well, it sort of is. But hear me out. It’s a Memory Jar and I have totally fallen for this idea. Mainly, because it’s simple. And easy. And not at all expensive or time consuming. Sound good?

Here’s the deal. Find a jar. Any jar. I think I’ll probably need a bigger jar soon, but the one I started with is just fine for now. Throughout the year, you just add things to the jar that you want to remember. Movie tickets, sporting event or other ticket stubs, hotel keys (are you supposed to turn those in? I’m never really sure…?). Really, any small mementos that will fit. I’ve also jotted down some memories and events on post-it notes. Then, during the last week of the year, or on New Year’s Eve, or whatever works for you, dump out the jar and reminisce about the year. When you’re done, put the lid on, set it on a shelf, and eventually you’ll have a collection of memories from years gone by. See? Easy. And not a single cut or paste or sticker required.

So far my jar has Sabres tickets, a lift pass from Colden Tubing Company, a note about the Super Bowl party we had, a note from a day when Allen took the girls sledding, and some notes about a few milestones for the kids (“Emery started gymnastics” “Casey and her best friend went ice skating and had a sleepover”). There are also a few movie tickets, the ticket from a banquet we attended this past weekend, and yes, our hotel room key.

Granted, there are no pictures in the jar. But I COULD put some in if I wanted to and even add some notes to the back of them. I do take pictures of our life all the time- I just never get around to doing anything with them, other than feeling guilty that I’m not doing MORE with them. Here’s another catch- realistically, even if I WAS a Scrap Booker, many of the things in my Memory Jar thus far are probably not picture-worthy events, and yet still things I’d like to remember. I like the daily-ness of some of the contents- “Super fun game of Scrabble” and “Family dinner with cousins”.

I should’ve posted this in January- or better yet, toward the end of December so you would be ready with a jar. Sorry about that. BUT! It’s not too late to start! Grab a jar! Rinse out the jelly if you have to! Trust me- you will be totally thankful a few months- and years- from now when you have jars full of memories to sort back through. You’re welcome.

No, thank YOU.

For the past 10 years I have run the Thanksgiving Food Drive at my children’s elementary school. It’s a small but heartfelt operation that provides all the typical Thanksgiving dinner fare, including a turkey and hopefully a few extra pantry staples thrown in. It’s incredibly meaningful to me because it serves families who have fallen on tough times right in our own school–as in, boys and girls that might be sitting next to my daughter.

But yesterday was a first.  The school nurse, who is in charge of identifying the families and distributing the boxes operates under the utmost of confidentiality and discretion so as to maintain privacy and dignity for the recipients. So in my ten years of running this event, I have never known or seen a single family receive a box. But yesterday, during the sorting and packing and boxing up, a woman introduced herself to me and followed up by saying,”Every year I receive a box. This year, I’m still receiving a box, but I decided to help.”

Wow. What could I say? I didn’t want to lose this sort of intense moment by talking too much or too soon or sounding too…whatever the word is. Like a superficial suburban mom who might be somewhat out of touch with the reality of my neighbor’s hardships? I still haven’t really found it. Because in my heart of hearts, my intentions are good. And I just wanted her to feel like we were friends, working side by side at school PTO event. Because really, isn’t that what we sort of were?

In all of the humility it took for her to reveal herself as a recipient, ironically, I felt humbled. Very humbled. I thanked her for coming. And she thanked me back. And it’s hard to feel simultaneously thankful and a negative emotion at the same time. Such as judgmental or critical or resentful or whatever other emotion either one of us could have chosen for our own private reasons.

We wished each other a Happy Thanksgiving. And then we continued to work side by side. A little awkward. A sort of weighted silence. But still just two moms trying to show our kids and neighbors what Thanksgiving is all about. Choose to be thankful this week and watch how easily everything else falls away.

The Rest of the Story…

I was humbled and overwhelmed by the response to my last post, An Open Letter to My Daughters Bullies. Including, But Not Limited to the Mean Girls. Thank you for your support, your re-posts, and all the love and encouragement you sent our way! It meant so much to me, and to Casey, as well. I was struck by the number of you who told me your own stories of having been bullied and stories of the way your children have suffered and been victimized. But it’s that last phrase, “victimized”, that compels me to write a follow-up blog; Because even though Casey was, perhaps, a victim at the time, that isn’t the case today and that blog wasn’t the end of the story.

Casey is thriving. Period. Although ideally, she would rather be in school, not having to contend with so much high school level drama, intolerance, and exclusion has been a huge relief for her. It’s given her mental and emotional space to bloom. She feels free. She feels relieved. But best of all, she’s happy. She currently has a 95 average. She understands her math.  (Sorry, this may be my own issue  here…I’m always totally impressed when people understand Algebra. And any math. This could be why I married an accountant.) She has kept up with cello through private lessons. She takes Karate. She attends a youth Bible Study and Youth Group at our church .  She’s part of a weekly home school co-op group with other high school students where she participates in a Phys Ed class and takes two other courses- American Government, and Literature- in addition to her own 9th grade academic schedule.  She absolutely loves it. This past weekend, a treasured girlfriend  invited Casey to her school’s Homecoming Dance- an event that she was originally very disappointed at the thought of missing. It is priceless that this friend thought of Casey and knew how much it would mean for her to still have the chance to go.  She had a blast.

It has not changed her. Bullies have not changed her. It hasn’t ruined her. She is not a victim. Was she hurt? Yes. Was it painful? Yes, and still is some days. Would I rather it wasn’t part of her story? Absolutely. But if you ask her about it, she’ll tell you she’s stronger for it. Kinder yet, if that’s possible. She is the girl who will notice someone sitting by themselves and go sit with them and chat because she hates to see them alone. She hates gossip. She hates all things mean. It’s true, I am her teacher. But while I am busy teaching her about life, she’s teaching me what life is all about.

As an end note–If you’ve had a bad day, had your heart broke…or been bullied…there’s a Taylor Swift song for that! And we adore her. Click here to see Taylor’s total victory over her bullies.

An Open Letter to My Daughter’s Bullies. Including, But not Limited to the Mean Girls.

On my best days, I pray for you. I feel bad for you. I wonder what your home life has sown into you that is now reaping such ugliness. I wonder if your mom and dad know the things you say and do.  Maybe you only have one or the other? Maybe they are the ones you have learned this from? Or would they be shocked and disappointed?  I work hard not to judge them. Would they say things like, “This is not how we have raised you”?

I wonder who’s been mean to you. Have you been bullied too? I remind myself that hurting people hurt people and you are simply acting out of your own pain. I feel a spark of compassion for whatever pain you carry and I feel strangely curious about your internal life–Are you mad? Are you sad? Do you know you’re being mean? Is it on purpose? Do you ever feel guilty? Do you ever feel bad? Do you ever think of my daughter and wonder how she feels? Ever?  You didn’t have to be her best friend–just friendly would have been enough. But either way, it’s your loss. She would’ve had your back. She’s loyal. She’s kind. She’s true. She’s brilliantly clever and creative. And funny. But apparently those qualities aren’t trending these days.

On my worst days, I hate you.

I hate what you’ve done to my daughter.

I hate the way you’ve made her feel.

I hate the things you’ve said and done– all the eye-rolling, the smirks, the huffs and the knowing looks between you and your friends. The outbursts of laughter at her expense. The way you have excluded her. The way you have made someone so beautiful and shiny and precious feel so ugly and dull and worthless. The school day memories you have stained with a thousand tears. Hers and mine. It’s petty and wrong and right on your level-but it’s human:

There are moments when I want you to be bullied

and excluded and hurt the way she has been.  

I don’t understand you. I don’t understand how on earth you have been tricked into thinking your behavior is okay. I wonder where your parents are. I think things like, “The apple must not fall far from the tree” and I wonder if anyone has ever told you, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” And I think about karma. About what comes around goes around. And I think, I hope  you get what you deserve. And then I stop. Because I wasn’t raised that way. Because that isn’t the person I want to be. Because I can’t be the mom I need to be if I’m too busy being bitter and wishing you pain.

But truthfully, most days I don’t have time to let you take up too much space in my head.  The day my daughter came home from school sobbing, literally falling through the door and choking out the words, “I can’t do this anymore”, we decided to home school her. That’s right–even though we pay school taxes in one of the most highly ranked districts around, we home school her. You go. She doesn’t. You’ve made the price not worth the cost. The suicide of a local boy last month and the deaths of other kids your age are stunning reminders that for now, we have done the right thing. We have made the right choice.

We are not hiding our daughter from the reality of life–we are protecting hers. I know you are not the first or last mean person she will meet, but we are giving her a reprieve from you.

The school can potentially keep you from being mean by imposing rules and consequences, by  initiating expensive anti-bullying campaigns and promoting clever anti-bullying rhetoric, but they can’t make you be nice. And there’s a big difference. They can’t make you like her. It’s not their job to sow love and kindness into your heart so that your life will reap goodness and mercy and grace towards others. But along with reading, writing and arithmetic, that is my job. And I take it very seriously.