child

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It’s The Little Things: Small Artwork And I Need Help

Okay. Not necessarily help. I kind of need you to take my side. In a disagreement.

With my husband.

It has been going on for over a month.

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My daughter recently finished these two art pieces. I love them. I think they are so cool. They are pen on burlap. And I enjoy all of the details she put into them. When I look at them, I see the pure joy of a teenager.

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However, I have a dilemma.

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My husband wants to hang them askew. So that one is taller than the other.

Can you imagine what that does to my OCD?

You guys, it can’t happen!

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They will probably go underneath the painting of the vineyard my daughter did in fourth grade.

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There is so much detail around all of the sides, I do not know how to hang them.

But, I do know my heart cannot take unevenness. Especially since I would see these from my place of worship my bed.

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What should I do? Is there any other way or place we can hang them? I think side by side is fine, but they have sat on that chest for over a month, because we cannot make a decision.

Please help!

It’s the little things: well, this painting has little things all over it. But really, I need some advice. I cannot keep walking by these another day.

The guilt.

It.

Is.

Too.

Much.

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And also, he left the hammer in the corner until we could reach an agreement.

It’s been there for over a month!

Things are gettin’ crazy around here!

That hammer is no accident.

It is almost worse than paintings hung at an angle.

Folks.

He’s playing dirty.

And.

I.

Hate.

To.

Lose.

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Dear Children: Halfway

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Today you have to go back to school after your long winter break. I just want to wring my hands and cry. I am not ready for you to go back. I have enjoyed every single moment of you being at home with me. Please don’t tell anyone this. I am afraid they will kick me out of Lazy-Mothers-R-Us. Although I was always too lazy to go to those meetings anyway (Do they even have meetings? Does the imaginary club I invented in my head carry on secret meetings? Must find this out…someday).

Halfway.

How is this school year halfway over?

The other night we spoke of homeschooling. Not seriously. I am not equipped to take on such a task. First, my knowledge is not up to par with today’s standards. Second, because I fear that we would have one hour of studying and seven hours of recess. Because that is what I am good at. This is perhaps why both of you were so gung-ho with the idea.

I asked you both what subject I would be capable of teaching and you both replied, “cooking.”

Awwww… Yes. Who needs math or english or science?

Let’s just all major in mashed potatoes.

Do they give scholarships for that?

Is it paid in potatoes or butter?

Halfway.

We are halfway through. But it means so much more than that. It means that in six months I will officially have no children in elementary school. Both of your schools will have the word “high” in them. I cannot see why, as it makes me feel so low.

And old.

Halfway.

It means that in six months, you, my daughter, will only have three years left at home with us. Three years! How am I ever going to manage this? It makes me want to hide in bed and never leave. And on some days I do just that. The idea of you leaving me is as foreign as the languages I will never homeschool you in.

Last night we gathered together backpacks and binders. Old lunches were found buried in the bottom of bags. A pleasant reminder as to why I joined Lazy-Mothers-R-Us in the first place. Inventory was taken and it seems that of the 2,587,463 pencils I purchased you at the beginning of the year, we have two left. Two! It also seems that both of your folders have been gnawed on and chewed then spit back out and mauled again. How else to explain the full lunches in both of your bags and the decrepit state of your folders? Maybe I’m not qualified to teach you cooking after all.

Halfway.

That is the status of my heart right now. Frozen between breaking in your absence and rejoicing in your return. It is in a stasis period. It seems to be the only thing not moving. For Time certainly has not stopped.

June. I try not to curse on this blog, but there never was such a bad four letter word as that one. The end of the school year. I always think of it as the end of yet another year that you will be with us. But maybe I am viewing this all wrong. It is, basically, the very beginning of a whole summer spent at home with me.

Maybe June isn’t such a bad word. In fact, maybe halfway isn’t either. Maybe this school year is halfway full instead of halfway empty. Oh, never mind, that analogy is useless with anything other than a glass.

Halfway.

Well, we are here whichever it may be. And, I, for one, am not even halfway ready for it.

Is it too late to stay home and make mashed potatoes?

I heard they taste better than binders.

And tears.

by

Dear Daughter: The Happening,

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I have a secret tornado that swirls in my chest at night. It twirls through my heart and stomach. Back and forth. Again and again. Until it finally dislodges the lump in my throat. The storm turns to rain. Will it ever not be cloudy when I think of you leaving me? My sunshine. Gone.

I tried to write this during the day, but much of what I want to say to you only comes to me at night. When the comforts of the day are gone. When it is quiet in the house. The darkness staking claim to my thoughts. Allowing my mind to wander to circumstances that hide from the light of day.

At night, I lay awake and the “what ifs” come tumbling into me. But the “what ifs” are not as scary as “the happenings.” Things that are going to happen that I desperately wish were not. At least the “what ifs” might never happen.

But “the happenings” are true. Not nipping at my mind like the “what ifs.” They have a cocky sureness that is unnerving. They do not call for attention. For they know they do not need to. No need to make a fuss. No need to stamp around my mind for a glance or a scratch. They are solid. Always there. They know attention will be brought to them however they act or proceed. So, they lodge themselves comfortably in my throat. Escaping only through hot tears that trail down my cheeks into my pillow in the night.

Now let us address this happening. The one that keeps me awake at night.

Unable to swallow.

It cannot be ignored any longer.

Each day that passes, I know that it is one day closer to you going to college. One day closer to you leaving us. You start high school in one week. “The happening” of it all is too much.

Where did all of the time go?

There are so many things I still want to teach you. Memories we have yet to create. You going to high school feels like a new door is opening for you. And I am desperately trying to keep it closed.

But it is one of those automatic doors. It has seen you coming. Felt your presence. It has swung open and there is no way for me to close it.

I just have to watch you go.

Hope that the years will slow down just a bit. Allow me to catch up. My heart is still trying to understand what my eyes have all ready realized. You are growing up.

I just want you to know…

What? What is it that I want you to know? Need you to know?

Let us start with the stupid little things: Cooking is not hard, as long as you follow the recipe exactly, the first time you make it. Never be late on a bill. Fabric softener is unnecessary. Always keep tissue in your purse. And breath mints. And a hair tie. And bandaids. And headache medicine. And your wallet. And lipstick. Okay, just keep a purse. And put everything in it.

Because you never know what life is going to throw at you.

Boys are going to break your heart. Some of them on purpose.

Girls will, too. Most of them on purpose.

People are going to disappoint you. I will probably be one of them.

You are going to disappoint people. I will not be one of them.

You are going to try for things. And you are going to fail.

You are going to try for things. And you are going to succeed.

Which of these outcomes you choose to dwell on will decide the course of your future.

But the most important thing I want you to know is: I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

And I want you to not worry about telling me anything, because I love you.

And I want you to not worry about life, because I love you.

And if you are ever in trouble, I love you.

And if you ever need anything, I love you.

I am so proud to be your mother.

I love you.

I realize you are just as nervous as I am for you to be starting high school. As much as I am dreading it, I cannot wait to see how you are going to handle your future. You are so clever and sweet. So beautiful and kind.

“The happening” is happening whether I wish it to or not. I can see it around the corner. Its form growing more solid with each passing day. It can now be felt in daylight, as well as at night.

I will watch you walk through those high school doors. It will “happen.” I have walked through them myself. I know the trials that await you. The victories, too. I cannot follow you. But I will still be behind you.

Every step.

Every stumble.

Every “happening.”

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* I have recently learned my children are googling my blog. Which is sweet. Very sweet. But I also want to know that they are learning something from me besides simple recipes and pretty clothing. These letters are real letters to my children. From their mother. You might not agree with my message, but please respect my sentiment.