Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Flight of the BG

We call our oldest son B.G. for big guy. Last night it was the maiden flight of the BG.

It began innocently enough. I found my son folded into an empty cardboard box. As we are still in the 'Movement' there are many laying about.

Then he asked me to build a 'jedi fighter' for him. B.G. is obsessed with the mind numbing, drool inducing, kid cartoon, "The Clone Wars". He has been taken over by the latest marketing gimmick by the Lucas franchise.

He asked me to build a jedi fighter. Not a plane. Not a space ship. A jedi fighter. Oy.

To stall, and hope I would benefit from five year old amnesia, I asked him to find me a picture of what he wanted. He did. I still had no idea what I was going to do.

Thankfully with packing tape, the remnants of other boxes, a couple glue sticks and some aluminum foil one can make a five year old very, very happy.

The magic happened while we watched him 'fly' around the house. He wasn't the quirky five year old with the crooked teeth and funny lisp. He became a jedi warrior shooting down dinosaurs and other 'weally' bad guys. He looked taller. He looked older. He looked intent. He WAS a jedi warrior, until, of course, it was bed time. Then he was having a tantrum, that's another story.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Time After Time

It's October 21st already. We have been in our temporary home for nearly 4 months. We're talking about plans for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Where did the time go?

My baby. My first born, IS READING! He's five. For some of you, that isn't remarkable as your little prodigy was reading a long time ago. For us, it's been a product of hard work, bribery and lots o' cheering. It's a miracle.

How did my little guy. My sweet baby B.G. grow into this funny, quirky little boy? Where did the baby go with the cheeks and the drool and the smile that could light a room? Oh, the baby is now the lean fella who doesn't drool unless eating cereal and a smile that lights a room and highlights delightfully crooked baby teeth.

The L.G. or little guy? He is a baby who already lectures us regularly with gestures and speeches. Okay, he lectures the vacuum more than us but that's hardly the point. Where did the Anne Geddes baby go? The one I had to buy nearly preemie sized clothes for? He's been replaced by a rough and tumble giggle box.

It is the blessing and the burden of mother hood to be at the mercy of time. So often we are rushing people out the door to be 'on time'. We have to get up 'on time' and get children to the bus stop. We have to be 'on time' to client meetings. We have to put in 'time' to managing the finances and the house and the bills and the endless list of to dos for which there never seems to be enough 'time'.

We are also blessed to see our children grow over 'time'. We see the struggles, the victories, the tears, the smiles and the growth 'over time'. We have the privilege of standing in the church and seeing our babies walk down the aisle, taking their first steps into 'their time'.

I am making a promise to myself today (for today is the only day this week I have 'time' to make new promises) to take some 'time' to stop and watch and listen and cuddle and maybe, cry.

I'll take some time, before it becomes just a story of, "Remember that time?"

Monday, October 6, 2008

Crossing the Ma'am Divide

It's official. I am old.

I tried not to take offense when I saw, "AMA" splashed all over my obstetrical charts. AMA is advanced maternal age. It means any woman over 35. It means dire warnings, lots o tests and sometimes looks by younger mommies at PTA meetings.

I can handle AMA.

I can handle meeting former students who are now parents, business owners and fellow grocery shoppers. I can handle they were born in the late eighties.

I cannot handle being called Ma'am.

Ma'am is what I call my own mother (where she and I to actually speak).

Ma'am is what I would call my grandmother or some other octogenarian.

Ma'am is how you refer to someone who is OLD. I AM NOT READY TO BE OLD.

I will be 38 on my next birthday. There I said it. The earth didn't collapse (though if my 'girls' droop any further I'll be in real trouble!).

However, I just want the cute, young, italian college kid working at Starbucks to NOT CALL ME Ma'am.

I am MATURE (NOT OLD) enough to know I cannot do anything about it. I will not become like one of those mothers who shop at the same stores as their teenage daughters. I will not be like the women who inject, slice and dice their way into pinched youth. (Though I wouldn't rule out one of those micro-lifts....).

I will not rage against the inevitable march of time (too much). I'll take it like a woman.

I will begin to be one of those women who is aging gracefully. I will smile, my best, "Aren't you adorable?" smile at those that insist on calling me Ma'am.
There was an error in this gadget