I stumbled across this little post on Facebook today and of course I was drawn into it. It’s dead on with how so many of us “non crafty” moms feel. I’m convinced my husband had some hand in writing this as well. Take a moment to read it.
Enjoy!
http://accidentalmissionary.net/2015/05/22/to-the-moms-just-stop-it/
Last Thursday marked the end of yet another school year for Davey. When I woke him on Thursday morning to dress him for his last day, I asked him what he thought about it.
“I’m not so sure about this, Mommy.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“I’m just not so sure I want to leave Mrs. Norwood and Mrs. Whaling,” he replied. Mrs. Norwood and Mrs. Whaling were his school teachers this year and what a wonderful blessing they’ve been not only to him but also to me. To say I was sad about his last day was a bit of an understatement.
Thoughts began to swirl around my head, bumping into and shoving each other. It’s his last day, one thought exclaimed, while another reminded me that I would now have the ability to attend that class at the Y I’ve always wanted. Of course that thought bumped into the one that said I should feel guilty about selfishly looking forward to said class. And there was yet another thought that crashed down hard on all the others that said, “he’s not going to be your baby for much longer.” Yeah, that thought pretty much obliterated all the others.
I dropped him off that morning, being sure to take the obligatory “last day of school” pictures so that I could do what all other moms in the social media age do…OVERSHARE. He smiled happily, even waving and telling me to have a great day. I drove off to take care of my errands since I would soon hightail it back to participate in his class party, and what a treat that was.
My child is apparently loved by all. I’m sure every parent says that, but when his teacher informed me that her high school daughter would come in on her days out of school just to spend time with Davey, that warmed my heart. People genuinely love my child. Who couldn’t?
I suppose what conflicted me the most about his last day of school was to see how well he interacted with his classmates. I was impressed with his ability to share and play happily. I was in awe over the fact that his teachers didn’t need to tell him multiple times to sit down, criss cross apple sauce. No, they just did it once, and he would sit obediently during the entire story time on the mat. But all of this saddened me as well. He wouldn’t have these children to interact with again, at least not until next year. Would he be able to sit quietly for me? Would I be able to maintain some level of learning for him during the summer months? These teachers and children did so much for him, for me. I don’t want to fail any of them, least of all my son.
And so now, the dog days of summer are officially here. I’m in planning mode to make sure that Davey continues to learn, continues to be stimulated, and doesn’t get bored. My mind is already exhausted with all of the planning and all of the possibilities.
I’ve always had a bit of a love/hate relationship with change. In theory, I like the idea of it, but when confronted with it in reality, it’s a bit intimidating to me. My son; however, is either too young to understand the change, or he’s much more capable of going with the flow than I. We’ll see as the summer progresses. And truthfully, I’m already on a countdown for next school year!
Happy Summer, y’all!
And the flowers and the trees and the moon up above and a thing called Love.
For a chance at pride not prize, who can tell me who sang that song? Anyone? Well, maybe I’m showing my age after all. The correct answer would be a gentleman by the name of Jewel Akens from 1964, a mere 11 years before this world was graced with my presence.
I’m not going to spend my time telling you the story of the birds and the bees, as I’m hoping you all should know how that story ends. No, what I’m more concerned with is when I should have a conversation with my son about the male and female anatomy, more so than the other parts.
Yeah, yeah, I know he’s 3 & 1/2. Yeah, yeah, I know it’s not a good idea to lie to him. And I’m well aware of whatever I tell him will be spread across the schoolyard playground like butter on toast. I suppose that’s my biggest conundrum at this point…how do I explain to him the differences between the male and female bodies while also keeping a certain level of innocence in tact?
Why am I even talking about this right now? Well, I made the drastic mistake this week of darting into the bathroom as we were walking in the door from school. I was already in mid zip with my shorts, as I yelled over my shoulder, “mommy has to potty really bad.” Unfortunately for me, I had a momentary mental lapse and didn’t lock the bathroom door when I bolted in. This left the door wide open, no pun intended, for Davey to walk in and “keep me company” as he likes to say.
As I sat on the toilet peeing, my 3 & 1/2 year old is hovering above and peppering me with questions like,
“Mommy, why do you sit down to pee pee? Mommy, does your pee pee come from your butt like your poopy? Mommy let me see if you a boy pee pee that it comes out of?” And upon trying to scrounge up to me and literally look in that general down south vicinity of my body, he hits me with the following, “Mommy, it looks like you don’t have a pee pee like I do, so what do you have?”
Honestly, I just stared at him and we both listened to the last little bit of dribble. Alarm bells began screaming in my head, shouting and blaring over and over, “you’re in trouble, this is too soon, you must be honest with him, don’t you wish you’d have had a daughter?” They continued to swirl over and over, round and round until I literally began feeling dizzy as I sat on the toilet.
“So, what is it, Mommy?” Davey asks me again as he takes a few steps backwards and plants his little tush on the stepping stool as if waiting for me to go into a deep story.
“Um, well,” I stammered. “Maybe you should ask your daddy.”
Yeah! That was it! After all, since I have two boys that means I’ve immediately been given a “get out of jail” free pass on the this part of parenting. Right? I mean, it should be my husband’s job to explain this. Wouldn’t you agree?
Well, that’s what I kept telling myself as Davey persisted on and on (dang you, Bruce genes, for giving my son this characteristic). Really I can’t force my husband to be the only one to deal with this part of the parenting. So, I did my best and told Davey that girls don’t have pee pees (we’re not into using the word “penis” yet since I’m not exactly desperate for a speech of “I have a penis” every time we walk into a store.) Basically, I just danced around the question and told him girls have something smaller. He seemed to accept that as he walked out the door before quickly turning around and saying, “good girl, mommy, on pee peeing in the potty.”
I skirted by that one, although I’m sure there’s another question just like it lurking on the horizon. What am I so afraid of, you ask? I’m not afraid, I just want to get it right without being too technical and without spoiling the opportunity for other parents to explain this to their kids. I’ve already begun to imagine the phone calls from the parents of some of Davey’s classmates if I had used the “v” word, or if I’d started explain the urethra or the workings of the bladder.
I was able to wipe my brow and pat myself on the back for managing to duck and dodge this question. I can’t wait until he starts asking me where do babies come from…no not really.
“Is that a boy or a girl,” the man asked me. He sat perched atop his stool, behind his raffle tickets watching Henry has he ran back and forth. It took me a moment to respond and I was almost tempted to ask something about this man’s gender, considering his long gray and frizzing hair pulled back in a low ponytail.
Instead, I offered up a fake smile and said, “he’s a boy.”
How hard is it to tell Henry’s gender when he’s wearing little boy clothing? I know what the older gentleman was thinking. He was basically trying his hand at small talk, chit-chat (a complete waste of time in my book), and didn’t want to offend me. I can hardly blame him because at times I’ve wondered myself about the gender of children especially when those children have long hair.
I suppose it was this little “talk” that pushed me to finally cave and cut Henry’s hair.
I’ve waited so long. I’ve pushed it off and pushed it off and I don’t know why. I’ve always been one of those people who doesn’t like little boys to have long hair, but for some odd reason with Henry I’ve let it keep going and going. Some tell me it’s because at some point I subconsciously hoped Henry would have been a little girl. Pish posh! I love having two little boys. So, why have I waited so long?
I think it’s because his curls have just helped to keep him as a little baby. When I looked at him, with the little “wings” of curls tipping up at the top of his ears, and the tendril ringlets flowing down his neck, I saw a sweet, innocent little baby. I saw something that needed me, that wanted me, that hugged me. They made him angelic.
When I would put a baseball cap on his head, and the little blond wisps would escape out through the sides and opening in the back, I thought he was my little redneck baby. He was my little Southern country boy and it made me smile.
But now as the weather is warming up and old men with their own long hair are questioning my son, I decided it was time to cut his hair. I think I handled it well. Not one tear fell down my cheek, but a knot did form in my throat. I’m so proud of him. He sat tall and proud in my lap, while his hair was combed and then the first little snippet was made. I gasped and he quickly looked around at me and then placed a hand on my cheek as if to say, “it’ll be alright, mommy.”
After some more snips and cuts, and then a few minutes more of combing his hair to one side, a little boy emerged. A handsome little boy, no longer a baby, but a little boy who no one should ever question again.
Last night, as I watched him play with his brother, I couldn’t help but smile. He is quite the handsome little devil and I swear, that one little haircut makes him look like he’s grown three inches.
Dreaming Of Mommyhood 