eighteen hundred miles to happiness

Having just driven eighteen hundred miles roundtrip from Georgia to Wisconsin in a minivan with over two hundred thousand miles on the odometer and three rowdy school-aged kids in the backseat, (whew) I have decided to reflect on how we pull it off each year and why we continue to make that trip several times each year.

 A week before this year’s annual 4^th of July trip to see our family in Wisconsin I was mentally running through our packing list. Having taken this trip for the past thirteen years, you would think that I could pack with my eyes closed. Nope. I am continually amazed at how my packing list has morphed as twins were added to the trip, than a screaming baby daughter that hated every car ride – let alone a nine hundred mile one. I fondly recall the years before children that I would pack a bag of magazines, books, maybe my knitting needles, and a few crossword puzzles to distract me from the highway miles. In contrast, this year I spent an entire afternoon packing crayons, paper dolls, drawing pads and princess paraphernalia for my daughter, along with half a dozen new chapter books, an old fashion Star Wars video game box, my Kindle (newly loaded with Angry Birds), and four stuffed animals each for my eight-year-old boys.  

Never mind the backpack that each child packed secretly with things they felt they could not survive the week without.

 In case of quiet, rainy days I also pack a few favorite board games and (sigh) a new, unopened box of Legos. That was my husband sighing, by the way. He feels that the 5,768 Lego bricks that we already own should be sufficient enough to pack for a Wisconsin rainy day. I disagree. As a Lego aficionado myself, and cohabitating with two brainy eight-year-old boys who love the first assembly process almost as much as I do, a new Lego set at each of our vacation destinations usually turns out to be my favorite souvenir. I may be a middle-aged mother, but somewhere hidden beneath the newly developing wrinkles and insatiable thirst for coffee, a kid still resides.  

So the minivan is loaded up with every essential, and three extra backpacks. Our five bodies are stuffed like sardines next to suitcases, laptops, Coleman coolers, and pillows. We drive the first five hundred miles without incidence, other than the potty stops every forty five minutes for Daddy. Too much caffeine in one hit and that man leaks. We make it to Louisville, Kentucky which is our half-way mark, and we begin looking for a hotel.

 Let me first say what is obvious: children can be…let’s say, difficult to please. The wrong color of a lollipop, the wrong presentation of a sandwich, jeans with buttons instead of snaps – these are all things that can drive a kid insane and a parent to contemplate just how early in the day a glass of wine is deemed inappropriate. This fickleness does not apply to hotels, however. Just about any hotel on this planet is deemed awesome by the under twelve set. As long as there is an elevator and a free continental breakfast with one of those waffle makers that you get to flip over and wait for the beep, my kids are ecstatic. Add to the equation their mother’s promise that hotel beds are meant to be jumped on, and my children think they have died and gone to Heaven when we pull into Fairfield Inn.

After a wonderfully comfortable night in a bed with more pillows than I currently own in my entire home, and a morning where everyone wants to shower because it is a different and “neater” shower than ours, we resume our journey having Wisconsin on the brain. Mommy is in the driver seat with her cup of coffee, while Daddy is already nodding off again in the passenger seat. This is when things get unfair. As the driver, navigator, and ultimate authority in the vehicle, I really want to listen to a new Kenny Chesney CD that we purchased for the trip. The pipsqueaks in the back row, however, want to watch Spiderman on the DVD player. Upon hearing this, my husband awakens enough to haul his two hundred plus body into the backseat to watch it with them (while Mom gets to listen to Spiderman for the next two hundred miles.) A bag of M&M’s purchased by the grumpy mother in the driver’s seat seems to bring some comfort - until the backseat notices the M&M’s and requests the bag be sent back, never to be seen again. (sigh)

 That bag of M&Ms could be an entire blog by itself by the way, discussing the various methods of finding comfort midst the chaos that is Having Kids. (Use the COMMENT BOX to share your own comforts or let me know if you are interested in hearing mine in a future post.)

 The last two hundred miles of our trip take us up through the beautiful Windy City. Our somewhat unreliable GPS thinks we want to be Chicago tourists so we wind up ridiculously close to the heart of downtown, ambling along at 5mph on the expressway. Trust me, I do not miss the irony.  Lovely.

After having a five minute temper tantrum about something none of us can pin down, my daughter finishes her outburst and falls into a blissful sleep while the rest of us mend our bleeding ears for a bit. I am still driving due to my touch of motion sickness being exceptionally bad this trip when my hubby is behind the wheel. So I have not picked up a book, magazine, or even my laptop for the entire trip.

As we approach the Wisconsin state line, the excitement mounts. The boys are waiting to see the “Welcome to Wisconsin” sign they have come to recognize. Each of us begins to wonder what our destination will look like. No snow on the ground this time of year, but corn and soybean fields will dominate the landscape. Who will be there to greet us at Nana and Papa’s house? Will the cousins be coming? Will Papa have the waterslide up? Will Nana cook us the world’s best cheesy eggs? The underlying thought, the unspoken inquiry is will we have the kind of fun that makes this nutty drive worth it?

Our trip this year really did go off without a hitch. I remember last year when we were three hundred miles into our trip when my son Blake discovered that he was not wearing shoes. Nor did his mother think to pack extras. So a run to Famous Footwear was plugged into our detour feature on the navigation system. That was not as traumatic as our pathetically dying car battery in 2009, the flat in the middle of the night (God help us, on an interstate) in 2010. And thank goodness we have only experienced one Christmas blizzard where Kentucky closed down I-24, forcing us to spend a night in what has been called my Bate’s Motel. Picture a full-sized bed with twin one-year-olds tucked between their mother and father in a room with a broken room heater. We slept in our coats, our hats and our mittens. I remember crying on the toilet seat because I was: So. Damn. Cold. Relatively speaking, this trip was akin to a cruise to the Bahamas.

We do this drive at least twice each year. We do it rain or shine, through snow or ice, come hell or high water. Why? So our children get to see their grandparents while they share lives on this great earth. So they get to play with abandon surrounded by cousins. We do it to touch in with our own parents, our siblings, our dear childhood friends. We may live in a different time zone, and Brandon and I may get so carried away with our own life’s responsibilities for 50 weeks out of the year that we forget to call or forget to send birthday cards to those we love. But we budget, schedule and scheme to make it up to Wisconsin to see them.

My dear sister opens her home to us, knowing full well the chaos we will bring. A couple of my sister-in-laws make countless trips to our old hometown just to see us for the little bit of time that we are there. Parents accommodate our diet preferences, clean their homes for our arrival, and have been known to sit up into the wee hours of the night to greet us upon our arrival. An old friend adjusts his own travel plans so that we might see his little baby girl. Another friend opens up his lake home to us so that our kids might experience their first time tubing.

There are other friends and family members that we did not get to see this trip. Each knows, however, that they are on our short list when the holiday rolls around and we do this all again. We make this trip for so many reasons. We want our children to know how important family is. Through thick or thin, rain or shine, family comes first. We also want them to know what cornfields, ski hills, and trout fishing looks like. This is why we do it. And this is why we leave December 23^rd to do it all again.

she-monster meets dharma practice

I am fragile tonight.

Meaning I am feeling a little punchy, a lot exhausted, and I am seriously contemplating having a wine instead of a coffee during my weekly writing session with a friend.

I blame my daughter for this miserable state I am in. Wait. I do not mean that. I blame my own inability to handle my daughter's emotional highs and lows. I blame the button that resides in my psyche that she so eloquently pushes when my darling little six-year-old crosses her arms, stomps her feet, wails with indignation and generally gives off an ugly she-monster vibe.

I hate that button. In fact, I would give my right arm in order for that button to go away permanently. I have yet to find a surgeon who will perform the surgery and guarantee the desired effect, however. I suspect that doctor would be rich if the technique was perfected.

In the Great Quest for happiness and calm in my life, I have spent many years testing a number of techniques to curb my anger and frustration while increasing my patience and reason. Prayer has worked on several occasions, seeing me through my fears and uncertainties with a promise of protection and forgiveness. Mother Mary is my go-to gal when I need a little mothering myself, and if I feel threatened I have found that a prayer to my guardian angel is reassuring.

In my studies of the Catholic faith and through my (admittedly limited) Bible study I came to discover however, that despair - a feeling in which I am intensely familiar with - is considered to be a sin. Hmm. I would like to share an observation with you: when in the throws of despair the last thing you want to be told is that you are sinning simply by feeling the way you do. When I discovered this, I honestly felt like damaged goods. Pathetic and unworthy. This was not helping.

A few months ago I stumbled across a book club led by a dharma teacher. In actuality it is less a book club, and more a life coach session. She instructs us on the essential rules of a virtuous life. We talk about the human condition of self-grasping ignorance, meaning that it is our human nature to be more concerned for ourselves than for anyone else. This explains why we get impatient in the drive-thru line when the car in front of us takes a full eight minutes to put in their order because they are too busy chatting to the barista. Our internal conversation goes something like this, “Seriously!? I cannot believe this person does not care that there are three cars behind them. I mean what are they chatting about? Eight minutes! I cannot believe this! Great, now I am going to be late to work!!” Never mind that the woman in the car in front of you might have a child in the hospital, or might have just lost their job. Maybe they really needed to hear a friendly voice over the intercom asking if she's having a nice day. Maybe she did notice your car waiting and she felt so bad that she paid for your drink in order to make it up to you. This actually happened to me, of course.

Our instructor talks about dharmic principles such as patience, forgiveness, self control, honesty, and the absence of anger. All of which, if practiced regularly, result in greater happiness for me and for the greater world in which I live. She tells us that our lives inevitably have highs and lows. My husband will upset me or let me down, it is just a matter of time. My daughter will passionately disagree with me, showing anger and resentment, it is just a matter of when. My son will flop around in the restaurant booth, annoying me and everyone around him. Of course he will. The universe will always test us, and we must be up for the challenge. Our reaction is what is important. Dale Carnegie talks about this in his self-help books, he just calls it by another name. Knowing, no - owning that our current upset is only a transient state that will eventually resolve itself helps the despair factor and defuses our own reaction.

Admittedly, in these sessions we also discuss other Eastern principles such as reincarnation that I am slightly uncomfortable with. I am mature enough, however, to take what I need from these sessions and leave the rest behind. There might be Eastern terminology spoken, but I hear universal principles.

So the she-monster has nothing on me anymore. Her release of tension and frustration is a transient state that in no way defines my lovely daughter's soul. Reflecting on this for the past hour or so, I realize that I am no longer fragile. I am powerful. I possess the knowledge and the determination to meet that little girl toe-to-toe and to left hook her with a hug instead of a rebuttal. To show her unconditional love, patience and forgiveness. To practice this learning each and every time I am met with an inconvenience.

My children are the sand in my oyster. They may rub me wrong sometimes, but I cannot grow in virtue without them. They scrub away my rough spots with every trying moment they present. And just like the coffee drive-thru lady, they often reward my patience and restraint with loving acts of kindness. Brooklynn just told me tonight that I'm her favorite girl in the whole wide world. And she is mine.

dads: their roman catapults & nasty gym shorts

To keep with the spirit of the upcoming Father's Day weekend, my good friend John asked me to guest blog on the topic of fatherhood. Note: I am a mother. Now, this may be payback since he guest-blogged (marvelously, I might add) for my website on the topic of Mother's Day. He probably wants a turn to kick up his feet and drink a few Corona beers this weekend, or maybe he just has writer's block. Either way, I am happy to oblige.

Warning!(here comes the disclaimer...) No, I have not suddenly sprung a pair. Therefore I write this piece from an overwhelmingly estrogen/progesterone perspective. I do not hold an academic degree that makes me any kind of expert on fathers and will not pretend to know even a smidgeon about how it feels to be a father in these modern times. I will, instead, muse on what it looks like it feels like.

To read the full post, please click on John's blog link below...
http://dudeyoureadad.blogspot.com/

John Pfeiffer is the proud father of three and author of Dude You’re Gonna Be a Dad, available at amazon.com. You can check out his fatherly advice (and gripes) and ramblings at http://www.dudeyoureadad.blogspot.com/ and follow him on Twitter at @johnpfeifferdad .

Ode to Summertime

Hello friends,
I have been invited to guest blog on a local site called Peach State Moms Blog. Please click on the link below to read today's post "Ode to Summertime".
http://www.peachstatemomsblog.com/family-fun/ode-to-summertime/

i am mom, hear me purr

In case we have never met I am the woman with crumbs in my car, dirt under my nails, and worry lines on my face. My kitchen floor is sticky – okay, all of my floors are sticky - my furniture is dusty and my kitchen sink is always full. But if you are up for some boardgames Monopoly is set up on the porch, UNO is on the coffee table and Angry Birds is on my Kindle. I am a mom, after all.

I hope you enjoyed my guest blogger's post last week. John is a genuinely nice guy and is a very involved father who thinks he knows something about us mothers. Ha! Little does he know that we women prefer to keep our men guessing and therefore anything he thinks he knows about us moms is subject to change. Frequently.

Given that my entire blog page, book and Facebook musings are mostly devoted to the multifaceted subject of motherhood, I must choose carefully which bit of his writing to comment on this week. Although I definitely have some thoughts on more creative Mother's Day gifts, stupid bumble bee cards, and that cute little dress we reserve for date nights, I am going to address the question he posed, “But do [moms] want it all?” It seems like a nice place to start.

I was twenty-seven years old and six months from graduating chiropractic school with my doctorate degree when it was suggested that I not open a new office from scratch. The reason given by my professional consultant had nothing to do with the difficulty in attaining a business loan, the monstrous task of building out a space, hiring staff, or the hours required to run a successful practice. The reason he gave – the only one – was that he thought I might change my mind once I had kids.

To be fair, I was six months pregnant at the time and noticeably uncomfortable sitting for the duration of the twenty hour conference. I probably got up from my seat at least a dozen times attempting to increase blood flow to my lower extremities. Though I was trying to be inconspicuous about my discomfort, he caught on.

After picking my chin up off the floor at the pure audacity to assume that motherhood would cause me to stray from my professional goals (!!) I lifted my chin, gave him a quick shake of my head and said, “You don't know me. I'm driven. Stubborn. I won't change my mind.”

And then I did.

Many of us mothers find ourselves reevaluating things after our home is blessed with the pudgy munchkins of joy that are our babies. Partly we are just too damn tired to consider board meetings or deadlines. We also spend a lot of time sitting with our new baby whether we are nursing, feeding, or playing and we fondly begin to remember just how good it feels to sit down. We love the physical closeness we feel with our babies napping on our shoulder and the emotional connectedness when we catch their first smile or laugh. My babies are now eight and six, but when I watched this Johnson's commercial released for Mother's Day, it was as if all of those beautiful moments happened yesterday. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yotq4zr0dRc

Inevitably though, as the weeks become months, sitting becomes dull and the house becomes too quiet. Or not quiet enough because the poor little baby is colicky and the crying is driving us mad. We get tired of doing laundry, dishes, and mopping followed by more laundry, dishes and mopping. We begin to yawn during the Mommy & Me programs at the library because we have just sung Twinkle Twinkle Little Star for the (honest-to-goodness) 100^th time. Same hand gestures. Same off-tune moms. It is no wonder that we start to feel nostalgic for lunches with coworkers, happy hours, and even a good brainstorming session that involves something more complex than Dreft vs. Tide Free detergent.

It is my humble XX opinion that during these early years of motherhood women need to be intellectually challenged, emotionally and physically stimulated, and we need to keep our creative juices flowing. Probably for the entire duration of motherhood, in fact. This is why most mothers are not sitting at home watching soap operas and eating bon-bons. We are running half marathons and selling Mary Kay products while we lead 4H groups, Girl Scout troops, soccer teams, swim teams and volunteer in our children's classrooms. It is also why some mothers elect to go back to work. Our brains need flexing as much as our muscles do.

So do we “want it all”? Setting aside the very real possibility (and probability) that a woman returns to work because she has to help support the family financially, the answer is more complicated than yes or no. I believe that initially we do in fact want it all. We have been raised in a country where it is expected that we are better off than our parents were. We are told that any economical hurdle can be overcome with diligence and hard work. Ultimately we want the white picket fence in a gated community with tennis courts and a swimming pool. We want the minivan with dual DVD players, a patio table with a 13' umbrella and decorator pillows, and a cleaning lady to mop our floors and clean under our kitchen appliances.

We also want intelligent, talented, superior children and therefore we expose them to every sport, hobby and activity we can find. We sign them up for Baby Sign Language, piano lessons, football and chess club. We buy them bikes, skateboards, zip lines and ponies in case one of those things is their destiny. We spend five hundred dollars on a summer swim team membership and another three hundred on football gear for fall. All budgeted in under the category “Kids” on our Quicken program.

These years are fun, for sure. It is lovely and awesome to watch your child go into a hobby or sport as a beginner and come out of it truly talented. It is rewarding to see them open up and engage with the other players and to learn the meaning of teamwork and camaraderie. When our infants sign to us that they are hungry, we applaud. Yes, we want it all.

Or do we? I hazard a guess that some of us want less. We want fewer carpools across town, fewer Chuck E. Cheese birthday parties, and more time to spend with our children. Sadly, in the midst of our busy work and recreational schedules it is easy to forget to schedule in some play time as well. Not a play date. Just play time. Time to imagine, ponder and build Lego sets on the porch. Time to catch fireflies at dusk and chase frogs from the pond. Time to sit alone under a tree and just think about things. By the way... eight-year-olds will do this if given a chance.

How easy we forget that in the same way that parents want some time to relax and kick up our feet, so do our children. They want to play in their rooms without instructions or oversight. Maybe they just want a pick-up game of kick ball on the lawn. They want time alone to read, build puzzles, and to draw or create. These things don't cost a dime. And I would argue that they define a truly happy and carefree childhood.

No, I do not want it all. I no longer desire a “perfect” home, car or designer pillows. I want a few nice things, sure. It is easier to relax when surrounded by objects of beauty. So we have an old sun-bleached hammock hanging on our deck and a patio table on our screened porch to enjoy dinners outside. I appreciate fresh flowers from my yard and I display them in my kitchen, I love fresh fruit and vegetables from my garden to put on our plates. I want friends to come by for coffee dates and family bike rides to the park.

I keep myself mentally challenged by seeing a handful of chiropractic patients each week and developing my career as a writer. I also volunteer a lot of my time to my church and community. I take long walks with our puppy to keep my body flexible. And I have been known to sneak a Girl Scout cookie from time to time but have never indulged in a bon-bon.

No John, I do not want to “pump breast milk at the board of directors meeting” or break through a glass ceiling. Some women may and I applaud them. For their strength, their determination and their commitment to their children's health. I, however, have found a balance in my life that seems to work for me right now. I want less maybe, but I enjoy more.

Share your thoughts and comments, please!

a dad's musings on mother's day

Hello, how are you? Happy Mother’s Day! I was honored to be asked to be a guest on Kristi’s blog. She asked me to share a few of my thoughts as a dad about Mother’s Day. I hope I don’t get myself in trouble.

It seems to me that Mother’s Day started out as something simple and sweet when in 1914 Woodrow Wilson signed a bill recognizing the second Sunday in May as “Mother’s Day”. Perhaps mom got the biggest serving of porridge for dinner that night, or everyone chipped in to handle her chores. 

Eventually these quaint niceties changed. As we know, more recently creative marketers turned Mother’s Day into an opportunity to spend lots of money on Mother’s Day cards with cute insects on the cover proclaiming Mom is the “bee’s knees” and an excuse to go out to eat at your local “TJ O’Brady’s”. But now I think in light of our brave new world we have realized that those traditions are half baked like the meatloaf at your local chain, and aren’t really representative of what the day is supposed to be about.

As a function of its title, Mother’s Day has to be about women. Somewhere during the first Mother’s Day, some foolish Dad probably made a joke along the lines of, “A day just for Moms? What next? Women will get to vote? HA HA HA!” And a revolution was born. Now women, in my humble XY opinion, seem to have outdone themselves. Now you are waking up at 4 a.m. to train for your marathon and pumping breast milk during the board of directors meeting, you know, because you have “come a long way baby!” and you can “have it all”. Nice corporate marketing slogans, but do you want it all? I know men didn’t. Back 50 years ago when we were in charge we just wanted three martini lunches and a cute secretary. But since Dolly Parton made “9 to 5” and sexual harassment rules changed (for the better) women have made great strides for themselves.

Today the women’s revolution has progressed farther than the wildest of Suzie B’s dreams. But as a father to three daughters I think about what kind of world I would like my girls to live in with more than a passing fancy. Actually, it’s more like I think about it with abject fear. That is because women today still face a myriad of issues like breaking through the glass ceiling and/or being elected President, being told what to do with their body, pay inequality, discrimination, abuse in its ugliest forms, and being whistled at as they pass construction sites. Those are just the one’s I came up with as a man.

Whew. Just thinking about tackling those issues is exhausting. I don’t know how women got this far. But if nothing else we have learned just how strong and determined women can be. Just as I am determined to get back to the reason I have the opportunity to write for you: Mother’s Day.

As a dad, Mothers day can be stressful. It is yet another opportunity for us men to show that perhaps we do not understand you, and an opportunity for our ill-conceived expression of thanks to disappoint you. At least this is how things work in my world. So, keeping budgetary concerns in mind, I am always faced with an intimidating challenge: finding a meaningful Mother’s Day gift. All I know is to shoot higher than the lint in my pocket and lower than a new car. This is mostly because my wife would responsibly return the car so we could all go on vacation, not because she doesn’t deserve it. As for the lint, I just do not feel like I did my job as a husband if I show up with absolutely nothing. So it’s with that in mind that here I will make an attempt to thank Mothers everywhere with the cheapest and most powerful of gifts: words.

Mothers are awesome. You are caretakers, leaders, titans of industry and cleaners of spills and bedrooms. Although any involved dad knows parenting isn’t easy, you often make it look that way. You seem to have special reserves of patience and resolve we Dads wished we had. Moms have passed me on the road on their way to crossing another item off their list, and they have passed me on the trail, yet another “do it all” mom smoothly sailing by me during the Peachtree City 15k. Women, you have the power inside to accomplish anything.

Mothers are beautiful. Whether it is the pajamas you are wearing while you secretly put together Christmas gifts or the fancy outfit you put on when we finally get a date night, you glow with the vibrancy of a woman who knows who she is and is living life to its fullest, even if it is overwhelming sometimes (and it is!). As a mom you are sophisticated, refined, and just a little crazy. We can’t get enough of you.

Mothers are the core of the family. I feel like that is the essence of motherhood. Mothers are there for us not because of duty or responsibility, but because they simply couldn’t imagine being anywhere else than helping their children, young or otherwise. Whether their kids need an ice cream sundae or a kick in the pants, Moms seem to know just what to do. For this and everything else you do, we thank you.

So to any men, however many Mothers you find in your life, treat them a little extra special this year. Write them a story where they are the hero. Plant them the vegetable garden they have mentioned wanting a few times. You and your musically gifted kids get together and sing her an off-key song. Find a way to let her know she is special.

Besides, Father’s Day is just around the corner.

John Pfeiffer is the proud father of three and author of Dude You’re Gonna Be a Dad. You can check out his fatherly advice (and gripes) and ramblings at http://www.dudeyoureadad.blogspot.com/ and follow him on Twitter at @johnpfeifferdad .

and kisses for your mom

Each day that I spend with my children on this great Earth there are a hundred different ways that I tell them I love them. Speaking the words out loud comes very naturally to me. “Good morning, my love,” is usually whispered softly in their ears each morning as I rub my hand gently across their foreheads and down their cheeks.

Almost daily I tell them I love them through song. Now, I'm a pathetic singer. In fact, I'm the person that hums the happy birthday song at parties and silently mouths our hymns at church for fear of scaring people. My mother-in-law, however, assured me when my first babies came into this world that, “You are ridiculous. They do not care if you sing well. Mothers sing to their babies.” Point taken.

Little love taps as I walk by them in their classroom, ruffling their hair while they relax on the sofa, squeezing next to them on the chaise lounge while gathering them onto my lap are all tactile expressions of my love. Thankfully my kids are all young enough to enjoy these moments still. I'm nervously awaiting the first time I get The Look though, and I am already careful to rein in this demonstration of love when their friends are around.

If you have ever read the book The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman, you know that everyone feels loved in different ways. http://www.5lovelanguages.com/resources/books/

Acts of Service is one of my love languages, meaning that if my husband busts his backside cleaning up the house he is feeling especially loving that day. I respond accordingly, usually fulfilling his primarily love language of Physical Touch. Yes, ladies. Sex is an actual love language. If it happens to be one of your man's top love languages they will feel unloved without regular entertainment in the bedroom. Or shower. Maybe in the hammock, or car...whatever floats your boat.

Until recently I was not aware that there is an offshoot of the book entitled The Five Love Languages of Children. Essentially the same categories of love are discussed, with importance given to implementing them for small children. For example, my daughter does not consider my sitting around the breakfast table with her each morning as Quality Time, even though I categorize it as such. I'm oftentimes thinking that I could really, really use a shower right now if I'm going to get out the door on time and not wear pajamas through the car drop-off line at school. She is thinking that of course every other mother on the planet sits at the table with their daughter to chit chat each morning.

Quite simply, my children think it is my duty to feed, clothe, wash and take them places rather than an Act of Service which deserves appreciation. And in many ways those things are my duty. The above and beyond is my love. The extra time I spend preparing healthy food, clothes washed without harmful chemicals, or the special trip to the Herb Shop for toothpaste without fluoride is of limited importance in their mind. The love note I tuck inside their lunchbox, the special t-shirt I wash and have ready for Monday morning however, does get picked up on their radar. These are called Words of Affirmation and Gifts. Pure love to most children.

Gifts, gifts, gifts... it kills my husband that each of my children has a primary love language of Gifts. (Never mind how much I sometimes wish that his love language was Gifts instead of regular hanky panky...) Blame Santa, the Easter Bunny, and their gift-happy mother but these munchkins of mine do very much appreciate an unsolicited present from time to time. A prize for having learned the Star Wars Theme Song on your guitar? Sure! Here is a Star Wars toy! A dollar tucked into their pocket for a run to The Dollar Tree simply because I love you and it is raining out today? Why not!

Does it have to be your birthday to get a new box of markers, a packet of Bella Sara collector cards or a new stuffed animal from the local thrift shop? Hell no. Not in the Hellenbrand house. Have I created monsters? Maybe. On some days I would argue yes. On others I would say that I have some of the most happy and secure children on the block. They know they are loved. Without a doubt. On good days and bad. When they are right, and even when they are wrong, they know that I have their back. That has to be powerful.

Last night after homework and dinner hour I drove to our local library and participated in a writer's circle. Somewhat similar to a book club, there were a dozen writers gathered around tables set up in a large circle. Books, essays, manuscripts sat open before us. We had all come prepared to critique each others work.

One of the pieces we were reviewing was written by a woman originally from India. Her piece was a fictional story about a young lady who had reached the age where her father wanted to purchase a couple of pieces of beautiful pottery to commemorate her maturity. It is a cultural custom to do this, apparently, much in the same way that Catholic eight year olds are bought rosaries for their First Communion. Or American children are given a car when they turn sixteen.

In various places within the text the author inserted a bit of Bengali terminology. I suggested that the she use a few Bengali passages within the dialogue between the father and daughter as well. I though it might be a way to “show, not tell” the love between father and daughter. (This show, not tell thing is something every writer strives for and frequently stumbles on) After hearing my idea the author paused, hummed a bit and gently shook her head. “In my culture we do not say 'I love you.' Never did my mama tell me she loves me. She is gone now, but I know she loved me without her ever saying it. This is the way in India. “

I feel conflicted hearing this. I wonder if I tell my children too often how much I love them. I wonder if deep inside this woman wishes her mother had said those three little words “I love you”. Even just once? But then I remember as a young mother reading about the importance of teaching children to give and receive love. Marie Hartwell-Walker has written a beautiful article about this very topic. http://psychcentral.com/library/id445.html

She writes, “One of the most important things we can teach our children, perhaps the most important thing, is how to be loved and loving. We can't protect them from the many difficulties, even tragedies, of life. But we can teach them how to surround themselves with support and love. People who are loved have people around them to celebrate the good times, to share life's triumphs, and to manage the rough spots. People who have solid relationships are seldom lonely and seldom lost -- no matter how challenging or painful their life's course. People who are loved have a security deep inside that makes it possible to take risks and to accept defeats. People who are loved during life die satisfied.”

So... in the name of growing three satisfied and happy children who feel strength when they are right and support when they are wrong I am going to continue flooding my children with love. I will blow them kisses across the house and wink at them when no one else is looking. I will bake them cookies on any ole' weekday even if their Daddy thinks it is silly and should be saved for special occasions. I will hug them after a temper tantrum and tell them I love them anyway.

Each morning on our way to school there is a little song I sing as we pull into the school driveway. It is grossly simple, yet instructive. And it is wrapped with love. “Seat belts off, backpacks on, and kisses for your mom.” They haven't missed a day yet.