Risk

This story happened several months ago, but something made me remember it today...

This summer, Davis's new preschool class (aka "the Blue Dolphins") held a playdate prior to the first day of school so the kids could meet one another. Davis was very excited to meet all the Dolphins, and the morning of the playdate, he set to work making something for each one. This something was a piece of construction paper on which he carefully drew a rainbow. Then he poked both ends of a pipe cleaner through to make a handle of sorts. It took him quite some time to make all 11 of these, and the last one was just being finished as it was time for us to go.

My heart was both bursting with pride and sinking with fear as he collected them to bring to the car. I did know that my sweet boy is pure of heart, and these little gifts were made with genuine enthusiasm, acceptance, and trust for the members of this new community. What I didn't know is how the other Dolphins would receive his gift...or what it would do to his heart, or mine, should the gift be ridiculed or rejected.

The gifts were a hit, as he knew with confidence they would be. The Dolphins immediately began to run around the playground, their contruction paper rainbows held high with the pipe cleaner handles. My heart soared, too, relieved that the inevitable day when Davis's little heart will be broken was put off for a time, glad that his gift was received, able to just enjoy the fluttering construction paper attached to such dear little creatures who, like my boy, were pure of heart.

Dreadful

This is the most recent eyebrow-arching word of my almost-3-year-old Zoe. I can't remember the context in which she used it today except that it wasn't especially forceful. Something was dreadful, and I was pleased and surprised that she knew that word.

But dreadful is also probably the best word to describe her behavior in the last week or so. Dreadful. Full...of "attitude" and negativity and contrary-ness. She just hasn't been a pleasant little person to be around.

But here's the dilemna. I've been very consumed by matters outside my own home for the past days, matters too close to my heart to include in this blog post, matters involving people I love and waiting and death and grief and all the logistics that follow. So even when I've been home, I haven't been fully present. Daddy has been fully on-duty, and he's an amazing Daddy, the kind who doesn't need instructions to care for his kids. But Mommy has been MIA, and I think that's partly to blame for some of the dreadful behavior around here.

So, now to the promised dilemna The dilemna is that when I spend time with my friends who work outside the home, part-time or full-time, or who spend significant time working for clean water or organic living or world peace, I feel like my life is sort of small. Honestly, I sometimes don't have lots to talk about outside the world of my home, and I am ashamed of that. I worry that I'll become the sort of woman who never "has a life" outside her kids and that when they leave home, I'll realize I have no idea who I am and that I've stunted my kids' emotional growth by being too available, too enmeshed.

As my kids are getting "older" (if 1, 3, and 5 count as "older"), I'm becoming more involved with things outside my home, and those activities are enjoyable to me and do give me some outlet for gifts I don't use in the course of my mommy-life. But there is a cost to those activities, and the cost is either time to myself or time with my family. Sometimes the time away from my family seems to cause more imbalance than I'm comfortable with. Sometimes it seems like my energies would be best spent poured into family and home life, with whatever time is "left over" spent on sanity-producing activities like exercise and writing in my journal. But how selfish! I do care about things and people outside my home; I want our family to include more than just the five of us.

I just can't figure out which voices to listen to. Hmmm...I've heard about this one still, small voice...

And Some People Say There's No Difference...

between boys and girls.

We are at Monkey Joe's. Monkey Joe's, the land of giant inflatables where children run free. They climb and jump and slide surrounded by primary colors and flashing lights and the whir of the air-blowing machines. It's heaven for Davis, a giant indoor playland. He could spend the whole day there, red-faced, sweaty, and happy, and I wish we could, because it costs an arm and a leg to get into that place. We go once or twice a year for a special treat.

Zoe, though, is getting whiny. It's a bit much for her. She is clinging to me. "Mommy," she intones, "when are we going to do something special?"

I look at her. "Zoe, we're at Monkey Joe's."

"No," she explains, "something special. Like a craft."