Just when you think bedtime's safe again...

...it's not.
Not at all, in fact.

We have, in the Richards house, a fairly firm and steadfast bedtime routine...bath, quick show on Sprout (boys love The Goodnight Show--and Brian doesn't hate the female host), glass of milk, story, quick song, prayers...and lights out. Whole routine takes about 30 minutes.
And it has, for the most part, been fool-proof.
Meaning...the boys go to sleep.

But somewhere around the time that Jonny learned to crawl out of his crib (days after he was born?)...the interpretation of bedtime has been a bit loose on his part. Up for debate.
Days when he's worn out and hasn't had a nap...goodnight.
But days when he's had the least bit of a nap...well...the whole "goodnight routine" is a mere opening act for his show.
I cuddle and sing to him, kiss him good night...revel in the sweetness of our goodnight moments and his soft skin, tuck him in with his favorite blankies, exchange I love yous, you get it...but for him, it's just the drop-off before a total party.

Antics have ranged from emptying out the contents of his drawers, baskets of lotions, etc....to sitting in our bedroom closet "reading books"...to full-on hanging out on our living room sofas, unbeknownst to us, only to eventually pop his head up and announce his presence to us--in the adjacent room, watching TV.

So when I got home from Meijer tonight, put the groceries away, got the down-low from Brian about how the boys went down, what cuteness occurred...and how long Jonny's usual game of whack-a-mole went on...you know the one, the state fair favorite, where the little mole heads pop up annoyingly (but happily) and no matter how many times you send them back into their holes with a mallet--they just pop the F right back up again.
That's Jonny...minus the mallet.
Anyway...so when I'm on my second bite of Meijer sushi, we hear a *clunk* from up in the bathroom. Non-plussed, we both shrug our shoulders and Brian heads up to put J back in bed.

Except...this time he's taken it to a whole new level.
This time he's gotten into my makeup...and is wearing it. Like...really wearing it. Smears of brown goo* are covering his face, neck, back of neck and of course, his hands. Brian appears in the doorway to the kitchen with him, and immediately--I'm a deer in headlights. I am just utterly stunned. On the one hand, TOTALLY freaked out at the appearance of this child...and on the other hand, wanting not to give away with my expression just how hilarious I think the situation is.
Oh, and I'm also reaching for the camera.

The pictures tell it all...you see the disaster all over his face...but you also see separate expressions: one of fear for the punishment to come, one of relief that his daddy and I are clearly not totally pissed--stifling giggles, if I'm being honest...and also, one of true Jonathan pride in the most recent of his stunts.

Only real thing I'm worried about at this point, as he's been cleaned up, changed into new pjs and plunked back in bed, is the sheer cost of replacing the makeup and brushes (those puppies aren't cheap) he ruined.

But for now, back to my sushi.
Oh yes, and that glass of wine.

And so it goes in this house of ours...*sigh*.

*origin of said "goo" on his face has yet to be determined by me...I don't own anything resembling foundation, only brown eyeliner, some concealer (that wasn't touched), loose mineral powder, and some random eye shadows...oh, and a lipstick that--yes--was completely and totally smooshed. But it was more of a pinkish auburn color...so basically, I'm stumped.
But, alas, I'm used to it by now.:)

"You Can Help Yourself..."

Can't say this isn't the motto in our house...but wow, pretty funny when it comes from your 4 yr old.

Benjamin and Wyatt are currently playing restaurant--well, Benjamin's working at a McDonald's (with the McD cash register in his lap) and Wyatt's working at the local grocery store (Jonathan's new grocery register in his lap).
Both boys are sitting next to eachother on the couch, which makes me wonder who's going to actually get the food prepared...or bought. But I play along anyway...

Walking up, on my knees, to Benjamin I say: "I'd like 3 cheeseburgers, two chicken nuggets, 4 fries and 3 drinks." I'm pretty hungry, after all.
Plugging the info into his register, he repeats my order like a pro...wonder if he's heard this done before somewhere.

"Anything else!?" he asks.
"Nope, that'll be it, sir!" I say.
Transaction of money and niceties follows...including a friendly "Have a nice day" from Benjamin.

I sit, expectantly, waiting.

"Mommy, that's it...next person is waiting!"

"But what about my food, Bud? Where's my food??" I say.

Wyatt looks at Benjamin, then me, then back at Benjamin...

Benjamin shoots his arm up, waves his hand in a circular motion, gesturing toward the play kitchen area.
"You can just help yourself...kitchen's open!"

Can't say I don't love the hospitality of said kitchen...but I think we need to sharpen our "playing restaurant" skills.
Clare and Addie would be good right about now...they are PROS.

Proof their ears DO work

Moments ago I overheard the following:

"C'mon, Jonny...you don't need to freak out about it--just listen!"

And in recent days, these lovely gems:

"Benjamin, I'm NOT going to want to be your friend if you act like that!"

"Mommy, I'm just really feeling frustrated with this." (Jonny, cleaning up a mess)

"Jonathan, you are SERIOUSLY out of control."


And then there are the times they use my words, yet not quite in context:

"This is so yummy it just kills me..." (Benjamin, giggly with his Krispy Treat)

"I very want to go, Mommy, I can't even tell you." (Jonathan, begging to go to pool)

"You don't know if you like it, Jonny, because it might have wheat in it." (Benjamin, attempting to keep Jonathan away from his finger paints)



And finally, my personal favorite--the blending of two separate Mommy-isms:

"I'm so totally serious about how fun it's going to be, Mommy...you'll just have to be kidding me." (Benjamin, on our way to Koetsier's for J's bday party)

Happy Birthday, Jonathan Christopher

Oh, my sweet, sweet boy...I cannot believe you are 3. And yet, in many ways...holy cow, I can't believe it's only been three years since you came into our lives.
Each day with you--as has been well-documented--is an adventure. From the very start, jusy by being you...you changed things. Made us more of a complete family...gave Benjamin a brother and me--your mommy--a whole new experience with raising a boy. I cannot begin to describe the ways in which I'm grateful for what you've brought to our lives...and to me.
But most of all, I'm grateful just to know you. To be able to witness all the changing you do on a daily--and often moment to moment--basis.
You are, without a doubt, fearless. Determined, full of energy, a bit accident-prone (cough, cough), fast, unbelievably curious, and truly unpredictable...you are a force to be reckoned with, dear Jonny. And yet it's what I love about you. I love how much you keep me on my toes...I love how even when I roll my eyes at the latest "stunt" you've pulled, catastrophe you've caused, or sheer fool you've made of me(as I've run down the street screaming after you)...I love that in those same moments I'm smiling on the inside, proud of the spitfire you are. Proud of your spunk, your will, and your true tenaciousness.

But most of all, I am in awe of your spirit.
Each day I spend with you I marvel at your positivity...how "up" you are for anything that comes your way, and how quick you are to recover from set-backs. I am endlessly proud of the compassion you've learned, the sensitivity you feel and, of course, your undeniable sense of humor.
I love that even when your brother is teasing you mercilessly, taking your toys, or simply bossing you around...that you refuse to stay beaten down and insist on hugging it out with him and kissing his cheek. Even when he's still miles away from forgiving himself.

Your sense of strength is, and was from day one, obvious to me...and I am beyond grateful for that. But what I am most grateful for is the love you have for yourself and others...and how freely you let it shine.

You have magic eyes, and I've told you this many times. From the first time I laid my own eyes on them...they danced. And they continue to give away exactly who you are...to anyone who takes even a moment to notice. Your heart is always on the surface, and I imagine it always will be...right there--open and giving and honest.

You are a treasure, Jonny...and I love you with all my heart.

To the moon and back, Bubbas.:)
Always.

God: the unseen parent.

Yet again we are hearing about God in our house. A good thing, yes? Reassuring, precious, and sometimes even a bit hilarious.
Today was no exception.

I'm quietly eating my lunch at the kitchen island while the boys *silently* (I swear I didn't drug them) colored at the train table. Benjamin walked over to me to show me the "sentence" he'd written...made no sense...and after a few of my supportive comments, went back to the train table to draw some more. I noticed him staring at his page for just a few moments, then witnessed him slowly underlining, ever so carefully, the entire sentence again. Very...slowly. And, as he was doing this, began to talk to Jonathan.

"Do you know what this really says, Jonny?"

No response from Jonathan, who was way too absorbed with his Curious George coloring book to manage a conversation with Mr. Chatterbox.
Can't blame the kid.

"What this sentence says, Jonny...well, I'll tell you. It says God loves us and everyone. Yeeeaahhh, that's what it says."

Still nothing from Jonathan.

"It also says that Jesus loves us and will be nice to everyone...he'll be our best friend..."

Jonathan suddenly decides that Curious George needs a purple hat and searches for the appropriate marker.

"And Jonny...Jonny!"

Jonathan looks up at him now, marker in hand.

"If you don't act nice to Jesus, God's going to spank you."

Jonathan: "No, Benny! I don't want a spanking!"

"Well," says Benjamin, cocking his head to one side for emphasis, "God will spank you if he needs to, you know. Because sometimes he just has to do that. Sometimes he spanks Jesus, too...ok?"

My eyes.
My eyes were huge.
Where did this come from?? The spanking talk? The naughty version of Jesus--the one who gets spanked? And a God who delivers the spanking?

For now I'm staying out of it.
I'm clearly a bit uncomfortable with the notion floating around in my child's head that God can deliver physical punishment...that he's not afraid to discipline like that.

But in another way, I gotta admit it, I think it's pretty clever.
Funny, even.
And oddly reassuring to know God's on my side with this one.

A Well-kept Secret

Several things come to mind:
The public park and beach off the Beltline, behind Blue Water Grill...the enormous paintings displayed on the underside of the State St bridge in Chicago...Golden Gardens in Seattle...the fun of teaching your 4yr old how to write, address, and mail a letter--and walking half a mile just to use the big, blue mailbox...Target brand coffee (recently discovered, comparable to Bucks)...about 90% of the "hidden Mickeys" at Walt Disney World...the wine enthusiast/expert who works at the Cascade Meijer...oh, and the entire city of Portland, Maine.

And also?
Youth Ministry. Being a youth leader...or, more specifically, being one at Westminster Presbyterian Church.

Now, before I go on, I must acknowledge the fact that, for me, even writing the word ministry in my own blog is a bit out of the ordinary for me. Anyone who knows me well at all knows that, while I go to church regularly and am dedicated to our group of high schoolers, I'm not exactly someone you'd call "religious". Spiritual? Yes.
But there's a difference.

And as tempting as it is for me to expound upon my feelings regarding said difference...for now, I shall refrain. But there's a good chance it'll pop up at some point in the future, I just have a hunch.

So where was I...yes, Youth Ministry. Ministering to youth...and all the churchy-ness it involves. This is where I'll mention, as yet another side note, how unique our church is...not once has it ever felt "churchy". And not that this would be bad, per se, but for me--and the many kids I've worked with, as well as the community of friends we have there--it's key. I'll also add (and this will be my last disclaimer...it's my blog, after all) that my feelings about my own church do not reflect any kind of arrogant certitude about the rights and wrongs of particular denominations, styles of worship, etc. It's hard enough to even mention church in today's society without invoking the kinds of images that are so far removed from the average individual experience. All I know is that I'm happy at my church. Happy to be able to think the way I do about the world and religion in general and still be welcome.
And involved.

I suppose this is where the irony--or secret priveledge--of it all comes into play. Most of the time, volunteer work (or service work of any kind) is something we do to help the situations of others. We pick and choose what ways to get involved based upon our own interests or skills, yes, but in the end--it's about making a difference.
Right?
That whole thing about "our greatest passion intersecting with the needs of the world"...this is what it's all about, no?

While I do agree with this sentiment--that being emotionally committed to a cause is important, that it enhances your ability to carry out the job...I feel like there are times when a few other things are true as well:
1. Putting yourself in situations that don't necessarily align with your own sensibilities or ways of seeing the world aren't always bad. They can challenge you, and you're often better for them in the end. The door shouldn't close at opportunities that just feel right from the start.
2. But also...also...and this just needs to be said, I'm afraid. Volunteer work is selfish. It's self-serving in the way it builds us up and makes us proud. Pure self-indulgence, to be sure. People who do the Peace Core, my brother who went to Africa, friends I know who tutor inner-city kids...all of them are feeding a need deep inside to feel better about themselves.
But that doesn't make them wrong. Nor does it negate the good that it does.
Not for a second.

I just think it's important to recognize who's really making the difference. And most often it's not the one doing the actual "work", but rather the one being helped.

Yesterday, minutes after pulling in the driveway from our long trek home, I was pulling weeds out front while the boys played. My neighbor was out front and began chatting with me...inquiring about where we'd been, for how long, how many hours in the car, etc. We chatted about the different ways of entertaining kids in the car, the inevitable meltdowns, junk food, you name it. And then he asked "what was in North Carolina" and I told him it was a church youth group trip.

He just gave me this "wow, better you than me" expression and said "You guys must be ready for a real vacation now, huh?!"
It was a fair thing to say.
We were/are tired. Our kids were put through a lot of change...day camps in a new place, with new faces...late bedtimes, early mornings...hot weather, unfamiliar beds, constant shuttling from one activity to the next (that usually meant being away from us)...and perhaps most devastating of all--not having the food they were used to having. And Brian and I went through a lot, as well. Physically, emotionally, you name it. But if I'm being honest--and I say this without an ounce of pretention, truly--it wasn't work. Not service work, not volunteer work--though, yes, we elected to go without force or pay...but no, it wasn't that kind of a week.

What it was...what it ended up being, was one of the greatest gifts we could've imagined. A gift to our kids (who, despite being tired and grumpy without their "Tommy yogurts", had the time of their lives), a gift to our own sanity (the setting alone did wonders), a gift to our marriage, and above all else--a boon to our faith. Yes, our faith.
Brian, who grew up in parochial school and studied the Bible alongside history, math, science and all other courses...is only now claiming to feel a sense of personal involvement and accountability.
And for me...well, I guess you could just say I've softened, become less militant about my "non-religious" religious side.:)

And you know what?
All of this happened in the presence of teenagers. Messy, loud, idealistic, self-absorbed (though rightfully so--it's biological, for crying out loud), awkward, insecure, emotional high schoolers. Time after time, I feel like I need to explain why Brian and I work with these kids. I'm sure anyone who teaches middle or high school, or works in any way with kids this age feels the same kind of thing. It's as though you must have some type of pre-existing condition that requires you to spend time with teenagers. Nevermind the possibility that you'd do it on purpose.
That you might want to be around them.

It surprises me, really. As a culture we are forever obsessed with the lives of teenagers--what they're doing right and what they're doing wrong (though I'd argue too much attention is placed on what they're doing wrong), what music they're listening to, what clothes they're wearing, etc. We even flock to movies that glorify, without the slightest hint of accuracy I'll add, the drama of their daily lives and attempt to make us all long for the days when we felt as invincible and carefree.
And sarcastically, we adults roll our eyes at teen culture...at the "drama" of it all. I'm implicating myself here, too. As recently as last week I gave a serious eye roll in the direction of one particular youth group kid, and definitely had my moments where I wanted to scream "C'mon!!! It's not ALL about you!"...but the irony of it all has never been lost on me. What I'm referring to is the high school model. The template. It's all around us, and always will be...in everything we do as adults: work, relationships, all of it. We may be a bit more self-assured---but not always. And as ridiculous as ever--some of us still compete as though we're still walking the halls to gym class.
It doesn't make us wrong...no, I don't think it does. But it would just be a whole lot easier if we could cop to it now and then. And at the very least, try not to villainize the teen population so much.

Because what people often don't realize is what stands to be gained by being around these kids. It really is one of the best-kept secrets around--and one of the surest ways to humble yourself. And you have to be careful, because it's not always easy. Striking that proper balance between friend and mentor can be tricky...and while it might take some getting used to, it's essential. Too much of a friend, and you lose credibility...not to mention the fact that you likely have issues of your own to work out. And too much of a mentor, and you risk not being relevant. Not being able to connect. It can be tough. Partly because it's such a fine line...but mostly because there's no greater fraud-detector than a teenager.

Needless to say, I'm a fan. I love these kids...and most importantly, I love watching them grow. I am 100% addicted to their energy, optimism, uncommon insight, wisdom, openness, sheer naivete and vulnerability. All of it. Their flaws and imperfections are humbling, while their maturity can be downright staggering. And I've found that what they seem to need from me...what they need the most...is not only the easiest thing for me to give, but is somehow linked to what I need as well. It's not a secret, really...it's actually pretty simple stuff. Being a good listener--and I mean really a good listener, the selfless kind. Being honest--and I mean really being honest, without agenda, but also with compassion.
And knowing how to love properly. Sounds ridiculous, but it's true. Because you can't love each kid the same...nor can you anyone in your life. Knowing what that person needs in order to feel loved is what it's all about.
Yet as much as I feel as though I've learned these important truths...I am, without a doubt, still learning.

I guess that's why I keep going back, why I keep throwing myself into the weeds. Because as much as I'd like to be able to say I'm "serving a cause" and making a difference with teenagers...what I know, what I am beyond convinced of, is that they are the ones making a difference with me.

Tummy Talk

No, I'm not pregnant.

But lately there's a focus on tummies in our house. Mostly from Benjamin, though Jonathan's taken to pulling his shirt up and smacking his repeatedly--for comic relief, of course, when he's either in trouble or wanting to distract me.

However, most of the "talk" is coming from Benjamin. How our tummies are feeling, what's in them, how babies get out, what babies eat when they're in the mommy's belly, the relative *mood* of babies while they're in tummies, and so on...
And I repeat: I'm not pregnant.
Nor have I been talking about the possibility of my being pregnant with Benjamin. Nonetheless, several conversations lately have begun the following way:

"Mommy? Do you have a baby in your tummy?"

"Mommy? If you have a girl baby, we'll have to name her Lampstead."

That's right, Lampstead. Not sure if this is a variation on lampshade...or homestead...or perhaps a combination of both--obviously making perfect sense. In any case, it's total nonsense...but, unfortunately, not the kind of nonesense that is ironic in an adorable or innocent way. But rather the kind that makes you reallly wonder WTH is going on in your kids' head.

Anyway. Other memorable conversation starters are as follows:

"Hey Mommay...is your tummy happy in those shorts?"

"Mommy? My tummy really loves this yogurt. It's sooo happy for it."

(as I tell Jonathan that if he doesn't eat his dinner, he's going to bed without a bedtime snack) "Mommy! Jonny's tummy isn't going to be very happy, is it?!"

(or my personal fave, yet no idea why) "Mommy?! After I eat this popsicle, the juice is going to go from my tummy down into my leg...is that right?"
Realizing how not far off he is with his understanding of the digestive tract, etc...I often consider explaining where pee-pee (and the like) comes from...but, in the interest of not confusing things any further, I leave it alone.
Letting him think the juice goes into his leg, that's right.

But then...then...there are the sweet moments. Like when he's going to bed, and he tells me that he's happy inside his tummy. Or when he's feeling brave, he'll tell me that he's "not so sad or scared" in his tummy.
Apparently, Benjamin's tummy is the place to be.
It's the place where all of his emotions are developed, contemplated and resolved. If he's going to come to a conclusion on how he feels about something, his tummy's gonna be involved. I'm starting to get it.

And then today there was the final straw, after we left the pediatrician's office. A moment I wanted to pull the car over and either reach back and hug him, call someone and tell them what he had just said, or even just cry at how precious it was. So I decided today would be the day I'd bring my blog back from the dead.:)

I took the boys into the pediatrician's office with me so I could drop off their health forms (for the day camp at Montreat--our upcoming youth group trip). Benjamin had to use the potty before we left, so we walked around the corner from the front receptionist desk to use the bathroom. As we passed a closed door of one of the doctor's rooms, we heard the worst, most painful and pathetic cries of a little boy...who'd obviously just had shots, or at least wasn't loving his doctor visit. Both of my boys stopped dead in their tracks, deer in headlights, their eyes searching for where the awful sound was coming from--Jonathan more curious than scared, Benjamin the opposite. They both asked, over and over, as we used the potty and made our way out to the car, "Why is that boy crying? Why is he so sad?"...to which I gave several responses, ranging from "Well, sometimes little boys don't feel very well when they come see the doctor and it makes them sad" to "Well, maybe that little boy is getting a shot--you know, you had those when you were a baby and you didn't like them either...but now you're a big boy and you're brave!"
But what I knew was that, for Benjamin, there was less concern over when he might have to endure another shot...or be sick...but rather a sense of empathy for the little boy, and a need to make sense of the whole situation.

Driving out of doctor's office parking lot...on our way to Target.

"Mommy, I think I know why that boy was so sad..." he says.

"Why do you think, Bud?" I say.

"Well, he was sad because he doesn't have God in his tummy."

??????? (me blinking and looking back at him, speechless)

"What, honey?" I ask.

"He doesn't have God in his tummy, Mommy...he doesn't have him in there keeping him safe."

And that is exactly how it happened.
I can't tell you what I said, or in what direction the conversation went from there, because I don't really remember. I'm pretty sure we talked about how no matter how sad we are, or how sick, God is always with us...that kind of stuff...but I can't be sure how much of it got through to him. All I know is that I spent the next few miles committing the whole exchange to memory, so as to write it down (or blog, if you will) later. Definitely one of those moments you want to always remember.

Such empathy in such a small person.
Amazes me all the time...and once in a while, I really am in awe. Not in a proud parent kind of way...no, not like that.
But in gratitude for having his little spirit in my own life, and having the chance to watch it grow.

The perfect Mother's Day card...and how it's like the Holy Grail.

I've often thought that the perfect career for me would be to write for Hallmark...American Greetings, something of the sort. Because, for me, there's nothing like the feeling of writing something well, or knowing that I've expressed my thoughts exactly as I feel them.
I've also considered this career for another reason: no one who actually has this as a job seems to be getting it done. Not well, anwyay. Unless you're lucky enough to have time to shop in boutique-like card shops, you're not likely to find anything original or even pallatable out there. And yes, I'm picky. I'm really picky. But it just continues to boggle my mind each time I go to buy someone a card. I either suck it up and get something that's just close enough to what I want...or I bag the whole thing and go home and write a note myself.

Motherhood. It's likely the worst topic--or should I say, topic least likely to be effectively characterized--out there facing the card industry. I suppose if I did work for one of the aforementioned greeting card companies, I'd probably call in sick that week. Or month. I'd find a way out of the assignment.
Because it's impossible to write for someone else.

I mean, am I just too picky? Has anyone out there found the perfect line of cards for this occasion (or any other for that matter, but that's for another time)? Or worse--am I the only one who recoils at the sight of a golden, embossed foil rose on a giant card...likely accompanied by the word "mom"--printed in some over the top, loopy script...is it just me, or is a card like this actually more of an insult than it is anything else?

Recently I found myself in CVS with Benjamin, waiting for a prescription, and I realized it was the perfect chance to buy Mother's Day cards. Most times I'm out shopping we have Jonathan in tow--so I had to seize the moment. Benjamin was happy to peruse the section of musical cards--you know, the ones that play actual bits of well-known songs--which afforded me ample time to find the cards I needed.
I wound up in the same predicament as usual. I'd find the perfect card, but it would be "from son to his mom"...or for my mother in law, I'd find just the right message on a card, but dammit, if they didn't F it up by writing "you've raised me to be blah, blah, blah" at the end of the card.
Nothing ruins a message more than claiming to have been someone's child from birth.

So I made do...found a few that will work. Found, in case you're wondering, the same kind I always do for my mother in law...the one with a message I'm willing to stand behind, but I'll have to go and write a little extra at the end to really get my point across. That, and because I can't help it, I'll have to go through and write "in law" and a little smiley face next to each "mom" in the card.
And not that I mind, because both of my own moms are worth the extra effort.
But I'll tell you what...the drumroll will keep on drummin until this Sunday, when I get a card from Brian. Ok, ok...don't call me ungrateful, please. Because I can safely say that Brian knows just how much I appreciate him and the many lenghts he'll go to for me and my happiness. But...and I'm seriously giggling right now...for some reason he manages to TOTALLY biff on the Mother's Day card thing.
Every.
Year.

I'll get whatever was left at D and W on Sunday morning...with an overpriced, slightly brown and somewhat wilted rose.
Grocery store flower.
I know it well.
Sometimes, if I'm lucky, I'll get a whole dozen GSFs...for my birthday, after a rather large F up...any kind of truly special occasion that calls for such extravagance.
Oh, and P.S.? The cards at D and W are waaay overpriced ever since they switched to the Papus/Papyrus (I always get it confused...but it's funny that in once case it's a Native American pouch for babies, and in the other it's the name for paper from ancient civilizations). But anyway.

What really matters, like on all the other Hallmark holidays, is knowing you matter. That you're appreciated, loved...seen. That you're not overlooked. And so whatever card Brian manages to snag from "The Dubber" (our affectionate term for the over-priced local grocery store--actually, we call it our party store--but again, anyway...) will no doubt make me happy. As will the one my mom brings over...because let's face it, getting cards--no matter how cheesey--is fun. Just having that person recognize you means something.

As far as my boys are concerned, they needn't ever worry about finding the perfect card. Just being who they are is enough...or maybe, at the very least, they could just get teachers like Miss Sue and Miss Sarah to always have in their back pocket. Today's "Mother's Day party" at Mayflower was beyond adorable, and I was--true to form--in tears at the end. All the kids in a circle, mommies sitting behind their child, and the class singing a song called "When Mommy comes in the room"...and when they get to the part where they sing "I tell her how much I love her", Benjamin turns around and hugs me tight and says, in an uncharacteristically quiet voice, "I love you, Mommy"...it does NOT get any better than that.
Except, um, the poem with his handprint that talks about how fast he's growing up, and that one day his handprint "won't be quite so small...but rather hard to recall"...yowzers. Waterworks.

Funny how that's all I needed for Mother's Day.

And if the Holy Grail really does exist (from what Dan Brown has me thinking, it's buried somewhere under The Louvre in Paris)...it's always going to be a bit tricky to get your hands on.

Most Myself

One of the questions that was passed around the circle last night at youth group was "When do you feel least yourself?". It was interesting, of course, to hear the kids' responses. Some of them felt the furthest from their true selves when around adults or teachers, others felt completely at home in the same situations. The answers ranged from very specific to very vague...surfacey to deep...but as with all discussions, it was the diversions along the way that gave the topic real value.

I swear. There is something truly hilarious about watching teenagers navigate a topic...their body language, etc...how much it reminds me of what it was like to be in that same situation. But the really great part about it, the part that keeps me doing this every week, is the way these kids keep me on my toes. And not in the way that my boys do--because this has nothing to do with physical endurance or multi-tasking. It's about maintaining a sense of complete and total vulnerabilitiy...staying honest, having integrity in what I say or how I express myself. For lack of a better word, just being real.

It's interesting.
Why is it I never wanted to teach younger children...you know, the ones who love and adore you the first day they lay eyes on you? Why is it I felt (and still do) a natural and almost primal draw toward the ones who practically hold your feet to the fire from day one? If you've ever taught middle schoolers, you know "the look".
It's the one that makes you feel, in one instant, completely vulnerable, stripped bare...and seriously uncool. You know, with every word that comes out of your mouth, whether they're buying your story or not.
It's the same way with teenagers, and I think it's what's kept me in the game for so long...this youth group thing. Watching these kids grow and change, get to know themselves, strengthen their relationships, etc...it's all fulfilling, and accounts for about 85% of why I do it.

But I'll be honest, there's that 15% that is really pretty selfish on my part. Because I continue to get something out of it. And last night was no exception, as we went around the room talking about the ways we stay connected and honest with ourselves. Listening to myself talking with these kids last night, I realized I was being up front and honest in a way that is sometimes even challenging with friends my age. I mean, talk about a context in which I stand a chance of being misunderstood...or worse, not understood at all. But for some reason, I make sense to them. And vice versa.

I'm rambling.
What I'm thinking about today, though, is the times at which I'm most myself. You know, whether I answered the question well enough last night. Ever the over-analyzer and reflective thinker...I spent much of my walk outside with the boys this morning thinking about it. Well, in between the "Yay, you're doing so awesome on your bike!" and "Out of the street! Now, Jonathan, out of the STREET!" comments.
And the way I figure it, I don't think I'm ever very far away from my truest self. There are just times where I'm more proud of who that is, I guess.

1. being with my boys, easy.
2. being with Brian, definitely easy.
3. with friends, almost always, pretty simple.
4. exercising, in classes or not, easy.
5. yoga, perhaps the simplest of all.
6. in front of a crowd, freaked out sometimes, but oddly enough very comfortable.
7. the list could go on...but is already a bit boring, I'm afraid.

It's just that there are things that are changing in my life that I'm finding more difficult to navigate. And it's weird. Because it's not about whether or not I feel comfortable in any given situation, it's more the matter of how to maintain that sense of integrity. How to stay myself.
With kids, middle schoolers or high schoolers, there is ironically much to be gained by being vulnerable...by letting them see that 6th grade picture of you...but admitting your weaknesses. The more you let them have of you, the more they trust and honor who you are.

Why is it so hard for adults?
And I'm not suggesting that it's easy for me. If anything, I'm just confused as to why it gets so much harder the older we get. Or maybe it's because kids are in the picture. It's simple enough for me to know how I feel and share it with others...but the minute I have to weigh those opinions against how they may or may not affect my kids, it gets murky. For instance, I can roll my eyes at the ridiculousness of the soccer-mom-phenomenon...but oh my gosh, holy crap, I'm suddenly one of them. Don't think for a second I won't have my video camera and cheesey grin ready for Jonathan's gymnastics show (p.s. have I mentioned this?--total PLG-fest...cannot wait).
But sometimes it's not quite as simple. There are times, I'm finding, when I'm not sure if my intentions are right on target. When I sign up for one more class for my kids..when I sacrifice time alone with Brian for time with 20 plus people at a bar...or when I check my reflection in the mirror before picking Benjamin up from preschool. Sometimes I just feel totally lost.
And it might seem ridiculous to some, or may even make zero sense.

But what I'm realizing is that parenthood is not the only "minefield" of life. Being yourself is most of all. I want every day to be able to "step to the front of the mat" (yup, yoga) and know that it will all make sense. That I'll be able to say yes to things that are good and healthy for me and my family, or no to things that are frivolous and of no value. But for crying out loud, sometimes these things are hard to decipher. The classes to sign up for, preschool teachers, which toys are going to better meet their needs (scooter or big wheel?) for the summer, or even which shows I'm going to allow them to watch...seemingly mindless decisions, but they matter. And then there are the bigger ones...which things to keep in the budget and which ones to cut, which vacations are justifiable, or even friendships. When am I closest to myself and the things that matter to me in each instance?

I recently took a trip by myself, for four days, to Portland, Maine to visit my oldest friend. It was a trip that I planned late last year, when she had her first baby, and the notion made perfect sense. And then, as the trip drew near, I started to feel less sure. My boys were, of course, suddenly behaving really well and bonding with me in new and deeper ways than before...things with Brian were great, but he'd been traveling so much and I was missing our "rhythm"...and I guess, overall, I just wasn't convinced that I had any right to be going. Mom guilt, whatever it was, I was panicked. And I ended up developing a serious case of anxiety over even FLYING out there. For the entire week leading up to the trip, my emotinal state was shaky, at best. And looking back, I'm not only embarrassed at myself for freaking out so badly...but disappointed in my ability to know what's best for me.
Because the minute I landed in Portland, it was obvious to me that it was the best decision I'd made in a long time. And off and on during my time there, which was full of wonderful, indescribable feelings of contentment...I felt this well of emotion stirring inside of me. It was a good thing, kind of like therapy...and on my last afternoon there, when I stepped out onto the rocky beach and took in the view of the Atlantic, I burst into tears.
Gratefully, I was in the company of someone who not only lets me be who I am without any explanation...but also someone who happens to feel the perplexities of life in the same way I do. I felt, and still do, that we'd grown closer in those four days than I ever imagined possible. All she did at that moment was link her arm in mine and just say "yeah, the ocean can do that"...and it was enough said.

So.
My point? I'm not sure where I started with this. Lord knows things don't always come out the way you intend when you're getting up five thousand times to deal with dirty bottoms, stubborn Lego container lids, and crayons about to be used on the wall.
I guess I'm several things right now: grateful for perspective, sometimes unsure of direction, but always certain of self.
And I suppose that's enough for now.

Now...is there someone I pay for this session?

Better late than never...

Finally got this little gem onto youtube this week and sent it out to Benjamin's "Muma". Can't seem to stop watching it and giggling. Had to share.

Happy Birthday, Benjamin Davis!

In so many ways I cannot believe it's been 4 years, buddy. But when I look back at how much you've changed, all of the stages you've gone through...and oh my goodness--the sweet little boy you've become, I can feel that much time has passed.

They say that our personalities are, in large part, written from the beginning...and with you, I've always known this to be true. I won't lie, buddy, you came out in a bit of a state...not so sure you were ready to be here, a tad cranky from time to time (hrrmph), and easily rattled. But from the minute you came into the world, you're daddy and I have been transformed...for the better. Because that strong sense of uncertainty and nervousness that you had at birth gave way to a remarkably sensitive, cautious, discerning, and beautiful spirit.

You are, no doubt, a true blend of your mom and dad. When people look at you, they immediately see your father. And in so many of your mannerisms, this comes through even more. Last night at Red Robin you were unusually quiet and unanimated...you weren't even eating much of your food. And once I thought about it, I knew--you were waiting to get the singing and clapping waitress routine out of the way. Last year it frightened you and made you cry...this year you wanted to get through it..so you were bracing yourself. You made it through with a half smile and a few mildly enthusiastic claps of your own...and once they planted down that sundae, you pushed it aside and finally dove into your mac and cheese. A broad smile across your face, your whole demeanor changed. While part of me wanted to cancel the whole birthday singing fiasco altogether, my wiser self told me to let it just happen...and it proved to be yet another milestone. Not a major one--and to some mommies and daddys--not one of any significance at all. But you are your father's son, and the deep sensitivity and cautiousness with situations like these is never lost on me. And I'm so grateful to see that beautiful part of your daddy living in you.

From day one, I've seen myself in you...and while I may have been--and still am--the only one, it's been unmistakable. For one, you bear a strong resemblence to your Grand Colonel (your mommy's grandpa)...which is fitting, as your middle name is a tribute to him. But when you laugh hysterically, spontaneously express affection, or even show concern for the most minor of things--ranch dressing on your sleeve, toothpaste on the side of your cheek, or the general routine of things...I know you are my boy. And I love how this sensitivity also shows up in your concern for others. You told me the other day, in fact, that "all the boys" from your preschool class should come to your party, because you didn't want any of them to feel left out. Last night at Red Robin, after you settled into your true self, you casually asked your Papa how old he was going to be (you share birthdays) as you dug into your sundae with your spoon. When Papa said "65", you did that low, hearty half-laugh, half-giggle of disbelief and said (out of the corner of your mouth while taking a bite), "Huh...wow, Papa...that must mean you're getting a LOT of presents!!!"

I so love you, Bubby. For your gentleness, the sensitvity of your little soul, the hugeness of your heart, and the purity of your spirit. You are a treasure.
Happy Birthday, Sweet Boy...I love you with all my heart--and "to the moon and back"!

A Reason to Blog Again

Great pictures.

Then a great entry...but first things first. Don't wanna go gettin ahead of myself or anything.

Here are some of our latest and greatest moments: Chicago with the fam (including my brother's fam!), Mark and Dina's visit (which included some karaoke with the Cavanaughs), and a quick hello in Chicago with Denise and Paul.

Being a Richards

There are so many reasons why I feel lucky to be one, the greatest of which being my friendship with my sister-in-law, which just seems to get better every time I'm with her...the affection I am able to muster for my father-in-law when he's driving too fast and almost kills us all...and the basic fact that no matter what, we always seem to have a good time.

But after this last weekend, I'm reminded of one of the greatest aspects of life in the Richards clan...laughter. I am, without fail, someone who loves to laugh. I'm almost always laughing...and most people know I'm near when they hear my horribly high-pitched, piercing, yet hearty bellow. This is likely because I grew up around funny people.
And so, as luck would have it, I've found more reasons to laugh by being a Richards. Yes, sometimes the reasons aren't supposed to be funny...and the sheer humor I find in them are just an example of the ways in which we cope with things we don't always understand (uukayy?!?--that was for you, Denise:) ).
But most of the time, I'm laughing because I'm having a damn good time. Each of my in-laws makes me laugh in ways that are new...which...is AWESOME.

I won't go into how funny Kathy can be...and almost always when she doesn't realize it.
Dave, Kath, Denise...and now Paul...they all have their own magical way of making me spit beer out of my nose.
Or wine.
Or sangria.

And so, to honor the most recent addition to the Richards clan...I would like to share with you (drumroll)...my brother-in-law, Paul. Since he joined the family, I know I've been laughing harder...and more often.

A Father

Among the many reasons I love, believe in and support Barack Obama...one of the greatest is his views on parenthood. The way he looks at his children, the hopes he has for them. The fact that he's just another parent like so many of us.

So, here's an article that embodies that...and is worth reading: http://www.parade.com/export/sites/default/news/2009/01/barack-obama-letter-to-my-daughters.html

"I'm still alive"

Yes, sung in your best Eddie Veder voice.

For many reasons, this particular statement applies.
The following have played a role in holding me hostage from my blog. I'm not saying they make sense, are justifiable, or even dignified...I'm just trying to maintain full disclosure.
(as though that's ever been a problem for me)

1. Holiday chaos fallout
2. Husband's travel...and my subsequent emotional fallout
3. Facebook (yup--totally undignified)
4. Slack-ass-ness
5. Book I got for Christmas--Audacity of Hope--wanting to finish before next Tuesday...I'm a slow reader
6. Video I'm putting together for youth group Pasta Dinner
7. General Blog apathy
8. More slack-assedness (had to have an even number in my list...totally O.C.D.)
Wait...
9. Benjamin not napping as much--too tired at night to Blog
10. Meijer...? Ok, this so isn't a good reason, but I needed to end my list with an even "10" things, and we all know Meijer works when nothing else does. At least it does in our family.

Peace out.