As I am sitting there at my dining room table, I’m thinking about the joy of drinking coffee and reading the Sunday paper, and then it hits me like a lightning bolt. Do people with iPads read the Sunday paper?
Last week my son started first grade. I cried. He was fine. He looked handsome in his uniform. “William, you look like a future CEO!” my friend exclaimed.
My daughter climbs the stairs of the playground equipment. The wind wraps curls into her eyes and she turns to me and smiles. “Look at me, Mommy!” It is then I see a butterfly lying in the sand.
I used to be a professional who worked in an office building in downtown Chicago. I had a boss who told me I had strong leadership skills. Now I am a stay-at-home mother. I have three kids and two dogs and a 100-pound puppy.
I am intense about peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Actually, I‘m intense about a lot of things, like balsamic vinegar, coffee, butter, duvets, donuts, socks and calculators. I know just what works and what doesn’t.
I miss a lot of things about working. I miss the energy of being downtown and the smell of coffee in the lobby of the Sears Tower in the mornings. I miss micro-managing my staff. I miss having a pen.
If cancer is actually linked to cell phone usage, I figure my husband’s got seven, maybe seven-and-a-half years left.
I am dialing Donna’s phone number as I am scraping some food stuff off the table with my fingernail. She is out. I am sure doing something productive like swimming or taking her son to a skating lesson
I am a stay-at-home mother of three children, in my early 40s, and last year I decided I wanted something which involved goals and a feeling that I was accomplishing something other than matching socks and making jelly sandwiches.
I make a lot of parenting mistakes. Some are minor, like forgetting we need ketchup or, in a moment of desperation at the ice rink, putting Diet Coke in Emma’s sippy cup. Now she loves the stuff. This week I made a major mistake.
I put my son’s lunchbox on top of the cubbies where the children hang their coats. I want to keep these lunchboxes, this moment, this amazing life, here, now, just the way it is.
I’m a big fan of the drive-thru experience. As I am eating fast food, contemplating alternative ways to stay off the cholesterol medications, my 8-year old asks, “Mom, why do we have to go to McDonalds, we go there all the time?”
My family is on library probation.
Today is Tuesday. My son isn’t wearing underwear.“So, why aren’t you wearing underwear?” I ask. “Mom, it’s Tuesday.”
I have read, many times, that families should eat together. Lots of sociologists, psychologists, behaviorologists, lots of “ologists,” say so. I can only conclude that none them ever had children.
During the years of my life right after college, I rode currents of expected norms. I focused on accomplishments.
I have two basic dreams of parenthood. One is that I get to go back to bed.
This advent season I was struggling with how to incorporate Christ into our Christmas traditions.
While driving around town in my minivan I stop at many lights, park in lots of parking lots, spend hours waiting for children to finish school or other activities. I have a great deal of time to notice the cars around me and read bumper stickers.
I have noticed, just as matter of interest, that you never see a pro-choice sticker on a minivan. I have also noticed a rather popular bumper sticker that reads “Who would Jesus bomb?”…
I am picking up sand-covered toys that the children played with all summer. Many are broken, some are faded by the sun, others missing some crucial attachment that holds water for blasting a sibling.
Last week I attended a seminar with my daughter, “First Reconciliation Workshop.” The gist was that God has rules just like our parents have rules, and if you break God’s rules He will forgive you and always love you, just as your parents do.