When I Move Away

My six year old is asking me about moving away. She wants to know if when she is an adult if she can move away.

This line of questioning is irritating me, considerably.

I mean, of course she can move away. She will go to college and then probably have a job I hope, some career time, a life of her own before she mets the right girl or guy and settles down for whatever version of adult life she really wants.

She's making a list of the things she's going to take, apparently MY jewelry is going with her. "You aren't taking my jewelry," I said dryly and she's taking inventory of my possessions. "What about if you're dead?" she asks.

I pause and respond that if I'm dead she can have some of my jewelry but she should ask Louis if he wants any of it. "He's a boy he won't want it." I reiterate that she will be required to ask Louis.

She concedes this and returns the the picture of the castle that she's going to move into, when she moves away. She says she's going to have it built special, as she's going to be a real princess when she doesn't live here anymore. With pen in hand, she says "Can you please tell me the number of the moving company? I want to have it handy when the time comes."

Now this is serious. She's making plans.

I told her it was 1-800 Move and she got it pretty close to right I am impressed.

The thing is, I'm nowhere near the neighborhood of ready to consider this. She's making her six year old life plans of castle dwelling and jewelry pilfering and I'm getting choked up because some version of this very thing is ACTUALLY going to happen to me. It's going to happen FOR her and TO me. That sucks a lot, in my opinion.

Except that it doesn't. It's the point of raising humans. You raise them tall and strong and you teach them to think and you send them out in the world to do things. I am struggling with the idea that the last bit is unavoidable, even as much as I know it truly is.

She came back by, with her paper and phone number, and asked me how many suitcases I thought I would need. I asked her what for, and she replied "Well Mommy you have to come live in the castle with me. How can I live somewhere without my Mommy?"

Indeed.

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When I Move Away

My six year old is asking me about moving away. She wants to know if when she is an adult if she can move away.

This line of questioning is irritating me, considerably.

I mean, of course she can move away. She will go to college and then probably have a job I hope, some career time, a life of her own before she mets the right girl or guy and settles down for whatever version of adult life she really wants.

She's making a list of the things she's going to take, apparently MY jewelry is going with her. "You aren't taking my jewelry," I said dryly and she's taking inventory of my possessions. "What about if you're dead?" she asks.

I pause and respond that if I'm dead she can have some of my jewelry but she should ask Louis if he wants any of it. "He's a boy he won't want it." I reiterate that she will be required to ask Louis.

She concedes this and returns the the picture of the castle that she's going to move into, when she moves away. She says she's going to have it built special, as she's going to be a real princess when she doesn't live here anymore. With pen in hand, she says "Can you please tell me the number of the moving company? I want to have it handy when the time comes."

Now this is serious. She's making plans.

I told her it was 1-800 Move and she got it pretty close to right I am impressed.

The thing is, I'm nowhere near the neighborhood of ready to consider this. She's making her six year old life plans of castle dwelling and jewelry pilfering and I'm getting choked up because some version of this very thing is ACTUALLY going to happen to me. It's going to happen FOR her and TO me. That sucks a lot, in my opinion.

Except that it doesn't. It's the point of raising humans. You raise them tall and strong and you teach them to think and you send them out in the world to do things. I am struggling with the idea that the last bit is unavoidable, even as much as I know it truly is.

She came back by, with her paper and phone number, and asked me how many suitcases I thought I would need. I asked her what for, and she replied "Well Mommy you have to come live in the castle with me. How can I live somewhere without my Mommy?"

Indeed.

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Flatwear Developments

My everyday flatwear is a hand-me-down from my Grandma Drake. She bought it collecting Betty Crocker points off the top of cake boxes and what not, and given the amount of baking she did for the church and the Eastern Star, it's unlikely it took her long.

I have this set, as pictured except I have a grapefruit spoon vs soup spoon - the rest are fork, salad fork, teaspoon, long handled teaspoon, table spoon, and butter knife & make a complete set that my Grandma had intended to take with her and Grandpa to Florida when they retired. They had a lot, somewhere near Ft Myers, which was far enough inland for alligators to eat your dogs but to not see the beach. You can see why they were going to need the grapefruit spoons. Florida, lotsa citrus fruit.

I'm not terribly picky about which utensil I use for what. My mother had the good breeding and manners to make sure I not only can set a table properly but that I actually do in fact know what's what. But, as I've aged, I don't really mind or notice what I'm using. I can use a salad fork or a regular one, or any old spoon to deliver my food. I just rather want it to be clean, and I'm set.

My oldest boy is going through those rites of passage where these distinctions suddenly matter SO MUCH. For instance, we tend to give the wee ones a salad fork for their dinners. He's announced, he's big, he doesn't want a baby fork. Part of me wants to go "IT'S A SALAD FORK YOU CRETIN" but he's my little cretin and I should probably go easy and just teach him the difference, eh?

I'd be more likely to blow this off as "You are being ridiculous use the utensil I give you and be thankful it's not a spork" except that, I remember my own rites of passage - the things that were important to me. Everyone has those things, the things that MARK you as big vs. little.

When I was little, the STANDARD GROCERY STORE was just beyond a field behind my Grandma's house. The two little girls in the adjacent houses to my Grandma's, who played with me because they HAD to from what I can tell, were about 8 years older than me. Maybe six years. IT WAS A LOT AT THE TIME.

They were old enough, when I was not, to take their allowance and walk back to the Standard grocery story and buy candy. They would then stand back beyond where I was allowed to go, and eat their candy, in plain site. I could watch them walk away, and sit at the line of demarcation of my boundaries, waiting desperately for these two horrible little girls to return. Most of the time I'd end up running inside and sobbing, because they were laughing and eating candy just beyond where I could go.

My thing then, was that some day, I was going to be big enough to walk to Standard. I was going to walk there and I was going to get candy and I wasn't going to give them ANY. Every day I got older, I got closer to the day that I just knew my parents would say I was big enough.

Mark you, I was about 5 at the time.

Standard closed, before I was ever old enough for that satisfaction.

But I can promise you this, when I made his stuffed French Toast this morning, I made sure I gave my son a big fork.

Because some things matter more than any rational adult can ever understand.


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Flatwear Developments

My everyday flatwear is a hand-me-down from my Grandma Drake. She bought it collecting Betty Crocker points off the top of cake boxes and what not, and given the amount of baking she did for the church and the Eastern Star, it's unlikely it took her long.

I have this set, as pictured except I have a grapefruit spoon vs soup spoon - the rest are fork, salad fork, teaspoon, long handled teaspoon, table spoon, and butter knife & make a complete set that my Grandma had intended to take with her and Grandpa to Florida when they retired. They had a lot, somewhere near Ft Myers, which was far enough inland for alligators to eat your dogs but to not see the beach. You can see why they were going to need the grapefruit spoons. Florida, lotsa citrus fruit.

I'm not terribly picky about which utensil I use for what. My mother had the good breeding and manners to make sure I not only can set a table properly but that I actually do in fact know what's what. But, as I've aged, I don't really mind or notice what I'm using. I can use a salad fork or a regular one, or any old spoon to deliver my food. I just rather want it to be clean, and I'm set.

My oldest boy is going through those rites of passage where these distinctions suddenly matter SO MUCH. For instance, we tend to give the wee ones a salad fork for their dinners. He's announced, he's big, he doesn't want a baby fork. Part of me wants to go "IT'S A SALAD FORK YOU CRETIN" but he's my little cretin and I should probably go easy and just teach him the difference, eh?

I'd be more likely to blow this off as "You are being ridiculous use the utensil I give you and be thankful it's not a spork" except that, I remember my own rites of passage - the things that were important to me. Everyone has those things, the things that MARK you as big vs. little.

When I was little, the STANDARD GROCERY STORE was just beyond a field behind my Grandma's house. The two little girls in the adjacent houses to my Grandma's, who played with me because they HAD to from what I can tell, were about 8 years older than me. Maybe six years. IT WAS A LOT AT THE TIME.

They were old enough, when I was not, to take their allowance and walk back to the Standard grocery story and buy candy. They would then stand back beyond where I was allowed to go, and eat their candy, in plain site. I could watch them walk away, and sit at the line of demarcation of my boundaries, waiting desperately for these two horrible little girls to return. Most of the time I'd end up running inside and sobbing, because they were laughing and eating candy just beyond where I could go.

My thing then, was that some day, I was going to be big enough to walk to Standard. I was going to walk there and I was going to get candy and I wasn't going to give them ANY. Every day I got older, I got closer to the day that I just knew my parents would say I was big enough.

Mark you, I was about 5 at the time.

Standard closed, before I was ever old enough for that satisfaction.

But I can promise you this, when I made his stuffed French Toast this morning, I made sure I gave my son a big fork.

Because some things matter more than any rational adult can ever understand.


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She Had A Dream

It's not her first dream, but it's the first dream she ever talked with me about. At far too early on a Saturday I was changing the twins and getting them dressed when the little blonde princess who was asleep, woke up and rubbing her eyes says "There's animals in there."

I laughed a little, and asked "What baby?"

She looked around, "Mommy where all animals go?"

I told her it was a dream, but she kept looking around, unsure at the age of two that the wonderful world of her sleep wasn't part of her waking world too. Finally as I was strapping up my foot (totally different blog post) she walked over to her Daddy's closet and pointed, "Animals asleep in there. Shhh Mommy don't open door."

Ah she sorted it out. The animals had gone to sleep. 

I agreed not to open the door and we went to make breakfast.

Now I'm wondering what sort of animals are sleeping in there.

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She Had A Dream

It's not her first dream, but it's the first dream she ever talked with me about. At far too early on a Saturday I was changing the twins and getting them dressed when the little blonde princess who was asleep, woke up and rubbing her eyes says "There's animals in there."

I laughed a little, and asked "What baby?"

She looked around, "Mommy where all animals go?"

I told her it was a dream, but she kept looking around, unsure at the age of two that the wonderful world of her sleep wasn't part of her waking world too. Finally as I was strapping up my foot (totally different blog post) she walked over to her Daddy's closet and pointed, "Animals asleep in there. Shhh Mommy don't open door."

Ah she sorted it out. The animals had gone to sleep. 

I agreed not to open the door and we went to make breakfast.

Now I'm wondering what sort of animals are sleeping in there.

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Every Year They Walk Away

As a parent, that's supposed to mean you're doing it right. Your children fearlessly walk ahead of you, confident, strong and not afraid of the world. You hold to yourself all the fears and worries and the what if's of the world because it's your job to make them tough.

It's your job to make them ready TO DO IT WITHOUT YOU. Whatever IT is.

If it's possible, I'm simultaneously thrilled and saddened every year as they need me less. Sometimes, I will absolutely burst into tears because the big boy ESPECIALLY will just want to do it himself. Whatever he is doing, he doesn't need me. He's got it. He doesn't need my help. In fact, he's fairly sure I need help most of the time.  And he is mostly right.

It's the end of summer now. Monday we send three boys to three different schools in three different towns and they begin that journey away from me again. So I'll savor the moments I can say "OK EVERYONE GO SIT WITH THAT BIG WOODEN FROG!" and they actually do it.

Because I think these days are fleeting.

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Every Year They Walk Away

As a parent, that's supposed to mean you're doing it right. Your children fearlessly walk ahead of you, confident, strong and not afraid of the world. You hold to yourself all the fears and worries and the what if's of the world because it's your job to make them tough.

It's your job to make them ready TO DO IT WITHOUT YOU. Whatever IT is.

If it's possible, I'm simultaneously thrilled and saddened every year as they need me less. Sometimes, I will absolutely burst into tears because the big boy ESPECIALLY will just want to do it himself. Whatever he is doing, he doesn't need me. He's got it. He doesn't need my help. In fact, he's fairly sure I need help most of the time.  And he is mostly right.

It's the end of summer now. Monday we send three boys to three different schools in three different towns and they begin that journey away from me again. So I'll savor the moments I can say "OK EVERYONE GO SIT WITH THAT BIG WOODEN FROG!" and they actually do it.

Because I think these days are fleeting.

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What Is Wrong With Your Underwear?

I've never been one of those hippie, let's all be naked and sing kum-bah-yah parents. But I do think it's important not to make being naked a big deal. I don't ever want my kids to think being naked is "dirty" or "bad". So consequently, while we don't PRANCE naked,my kids have always been welcome in the bathroom with me - ok that part is getting old seven years later, and while I'm changing or showering etc etc etc etc etc.

I just don't care.

Obviously the oldest boy is getting "older" and so, I'm trying to temper it a bit. I'm not making a BIG deal out of it - but we're kind of getting to an age where it's not going to be completely appropriate.

My proof of this are the two recent comments we had about my underwear. The first time,I was changing into comfy pants after work - and he comes up to tell me something random about STAR WARS and says "Ummmm, MOM - WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUR UNDERWEAR?"

I look down (I could still see my underwear then) and said "Nothing."

He rolls his eyes and says "It's got HOLES IN IT!"

I look again, and explain "Sweetie those aren't holes - it's lace. I'm wearing lace underwear."

More eye rolls as he declares ,"Mom, I can see your BUTT! It's SEE THROUGH! Who would want to see your BUTT?"

Then - the thunderbolt about those talks about WHERE BABIES COME FROM and they WHY of Why he can't ALWAYS sleep with Mommy and Daddy hit him from above. You could SEE it on his face and he gives a disgusted grin,"OH! I know! DADDY!"

Ahem. Yes. Daddy.

Two days ago, again, I'm changing clothes and he's upstairs in my bedroom talking to me about something and he says "WOW Mommy you're so big your underwear is stuck in your butt!"

Ummm, no. I was wearing a thong.

He laughs at me when I explain what I am wearing - announcing that "It looks kinda silly your butt hangs out." And he then runs OFF laughing at my butt.

Yeah.........I am going to need some privacy when changing from now on. I don't even want to know what he'll think of my giant maternity underwear.

Yes, that's my ass. SUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURE it is!

What Is Wrong With Your Underwear?

I've never been one of those hippie, let's all be naked and sing kum-bah-yah parents. But I do think it's important not to make being naked a big deal. I don't ever want my kids to think being naked is "dirty" or "bad". So consequently, while we don't PRANCE naked,my kids have always been welcome in the bathroom with me - ok that part is getting old seven years later, and while I'm changing or showering etc etc etc etc etc.

I just don't care.

Obviously the oldest boy is getting "older" and so, I'm trying to temper it a bit. I'm not making a BIG deal out of it - but we're kind of getting to an age where it's not going to be completely appropriate.

My proof of this are the two recent comments we had about my underwear. The first time,I was changing into comfy pants after work - and he comes up to tell me something random about STAR WARS and says "Ummmm, MOM - WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUR UNDERWEAR?"

I look down (I could still see my underwear then) and said "Nothing."

He rolls his eyes and says "It's got HOLES IN IT!"

I look again, and explain "Sweetie those aren't holes - it's lace. I'm wearing lace underwear."

More eye rolls as he declares ,"Mom, I can see your BUTT! It's SEE THROUGH! Who would want to see your BUTT?"

Then - the thunderbolt about those talks about WHERE BABIES COME FROM and they WHY of Why he can't ALWAYS sleep with Mommy and Daddy hit him from above. You could SEE it on his face and he gives a disgusted grin,"OH! I know! DADDY!"

Ahem. Yes. Daddy.

Two days ago, again, I'm changing clothes and he's upstairs in my bedroom talking to me about something and he says "WOW Mommy you're so big your underwear is stuck in your butt!"

Ummm, no. I was wearing a thong.

He laughs at me when I explain what I am wearing - announcing that "It looks kinda silly your butt hangs out." And he then runs OFF laughing at my butt.

Yeah.........I am going to need some privacy when changing from now on. I don't even want to know what he'll think of my giant maternity underwear.

Yes, that's my ass. SUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURE it is!

Stretching His Wings

My oldest child is not at home. He is spending the night at a friend's house tonight.

It is the first time he has done such a thing.

He's not here telling me about various inconsistencies in the Star Wars the Clone Wars vehicles episode to episode. He's not telling me a joke he made up which is not a joke.

He's not here.

I don't like it.

I won't lie and say I've never been without him - I have. I've travelled for work and stuff and been away from him. But he was HERE. He was home. If I am here, he's supposed to be HERE.

Now he's at the home of one of his very good friends, with a wonderful family and I hear there is pizza and ice cream sandwiches going on tonight and I KNOW that this is going to be a night he talks about forever. He is doing what I did so many times, over and over and over.

He's having a sleepover.

He's never had sleepovers at grandparents or relatives, no one ever lived close to us. He's never had friends to have sleepovers with until now - so I never had to cross this bridge.

I didn't know I wasn't ready when I said yes. I didn't know I wasn't ready when I rolled up his sleeping bag or packed his backpack and picked out jammies. I didn't know I wasn't ready.....until we drove away.

I don't like it because it's the first of 1000 steps that will take him away from me into his own life. And I don't begrudge him or want him to have anything BUT his own fulfilling independent life.

But he's 7. And frankly, I just wasn't ready.

Stretching His Wings

My oldest child is not at home. He is spending the night at a friend's house tonight.

It is the first time he has done such a thing.

He's not here telling me about various inconsistencies in the Star Wars the Clone Wars vehicles episode to episode. He's not telling me a joke he made up which is not a joke.

He's not here.

I don't like it.

I won't lie and say I've never been without him - I have. I've travelled for work and stuff and been away from him. But he was HERE. He was home. If I am here, he's supposed to be HERE.

Now he's at the home of one of his very good friends, with a wonderful family and I hear there is pizza and ice cream sandwiches going on tonight and I KNOW that this is going to be a night he talks about forever. He is doing what I did so many times, over and over and over.

He's having a sleepover.

He's never had sleepovers at grandparents or relatives, no one ever lived close to us. He's never had friends to have sleepovers with until now - so I never had to cross this bridge.

I didn't know I wasn't ready when I said yes. I didn't know I wasn't ready when I rolled up his sleeping bag or packed his backpack and picked out jammies. I didn't know I wasn't ready.....until we drove away.

I don't like it because it's the first of 1000 steps that will take him away from me into his own life. And I don't begrudge him or want him to have anything BUT his own fulfilling independent life.

But he's 7. And frankly, I just wasn't ready.