Eloise Wilkin, Stories May 16, 2008

In this family, we are die-hard bookworms.

 

But with limited shelf space and resources otherwise allocated, we haven’t bought many in the last few years.

 

Children’s books are the GIANT exception to this rule! We’ve got loads of them. They’re piling up in the basement. Spilling out of baskets. Taking over a trunk. Upstairs books, downstairs books, car books….As a former elementary school teacher, I acquired a great selection of children’s literature, both fiction and nonfiction, through great resources like Scholastic. Add that to the books my mom has saved from decades past, a fantastic library sale several years ago, the book club my mother-in-law has recently enrolled our toddler in — listen, I should really hang a sign out the window, start lending, and plan for the awesome things I’m going to buy with those late fees (more shelves).

 

With all of that selection, there are a few books that seem to push their way through the literary flavor of the week and can nearly always be found out somewhere.

 

One of these is Eloise Wilkin, Stories. It’s a Little Golden Book Treasury containing several stories and poems written and/or illustrated by Eloise Wilkin (mid 1900’s).  The stories are sweetly told and beautifully illustrated. The detail is gorgeous. This is a lady who had her eye on the mind of a child and  *got it*. My toddler has loved these since he was just over a year old. He’s nearly two and a half now and is a busy, busy boy….but he’ll sit in my lap and listen to all 206 pages of stories and poems…and then say “Mommy read it again?”.

 

This one is worth owning. We’ll be reading from it for years to come!

 

Tune in every Friday for more of our favorite library picks….our in-home library, and the big brick one that really should feature our name on the front, owing to our excessive generous fines donations….er…..

Sticky Baby May 15, 2008

I’ve got a clinger.

 

He’s 9 months old, and he loves me, his Mama, more. than. anything.

 

He’s always been attached, as babies are, and affectionate, as they learn to be, but more recently has moved into a new level of awareness concerning who’s around and who is not. He goes to others with no problem, for the most part. But if I re-enter the scene, it dawns on him….my Mama is not holding me. In fact, maybe she hasn’t even been here, this whole time!  Oh nooooooo!!!!

 

Anxiety. Tears. Fat little arms reaching my way.

 

And as I sigh a little and wonder if I should just cut an extra neckhole into my t-shirts for him, part of me knows what will happen in just a few months. And so I squeeze him and kiss him and close my eyes to try to capture what this holding-of-him feels like.

 

He will get bigger. He won’t have the patience to be held for quite as long. He won’t fit neatly against my upper body anymore. He will follow his Daddy around with the same curiousity, intensity, and enthusiasm that his big brother does. Mama’s place in the center of his universe will shift just a little. And over the next few months, a little more.

 

I’ll tell myself, like I did with his big brother (and I’ll be right, you know) that these shifts are positive and healthy and good.

 

And for today, I am patient with my sticky baby.

Works For Me Wednesday: In Which I Experience A Cleaning Frenzy May 14, 2008

I’m cheating on my Bissell.

 

Shhh!

 

I don’t want to hurt its feelings, but I’ve found something so much….well….better. Something that makes me want to vacuum.

 

See, there’s a dyson in the extended family. It arrived last year. On one of its first visits to my home, it reached deep into the guts of my couch to suck out a really gross and giant spider. Well. Talk about gestures. It had me at hello.

 

So….now it comes over more often. We spend a little more time together each visit. A couple of months ago, I discovered that the dyson can be used to clean just about everything. With it’s excessive attachments and extensions it can not only vacuum into my furniture, but way up into the corners of my stairwell ceiling where growing cobwebs lure spiders to rowdy parties.

 

It cleans my blinds.

 

It grabs the dust from the tops of doorframes and windowsills.

 

It gets the fuzz off of lampshades!

 

It banishes forgotten dirt from behind the TV.

 

And once I’ve gotten immense satisfaction (or, am completely appalled) from seeing all the crud that used to be on my walls and on my stuff swirl around inside it….with the push of a button part of it detaches and I walk it over to my trash can, push another button and ….tada! it’s all cleaned out.

 

Back for round two.

 

Oh Bissell, I do appreciate you. But I’ve got a savings plan, and someday your place in the pantry will be taken by another. Don’t worry. You’ll be placed gently into another loving dirty home. Take heart. Meanwhile, grateful applause to friends and family who generously lend out their dysons.

 

It works for me!

Being Mom May 11, 2008

This morning as I was served a feta, bacon and veggie omelet with a gooey lemon poppyseed muffin, I thought about the probable fact that all around America, moms everywhere were having a similar sort of experience. Whether it’s breakfast out, breakfast in bed, breakfast with china and crystal, or breakfast delivered in the midst of the normal morning chaos like my own, there’s a universal appreciation happening. Call me a sap. That makes me happy.

 

While my husband chopped and stirred and fried, I attempted to honor his wish to serve me by keeping out of his way. You can’t just turn off the mom button, though. Fruit had to be tossed in the blender for the baby’s breakfast. The two-year-old refused to eat his scrambled eggs. Sippy cups needed refilling and a fork retrieved from the floor.

 

Even now, as I sit at the computer away from our normal, happy morning brouhaha, I hear a small voice asking, “Where’s Mommy? Where’s Mommy?”

 

You can’t escape being Mom. But that’s ok. I don’t want to. I appreciate that I am appreciated and love being the one who gets to take care of them, to meet needs daily. Needs sweet, fun, tedious, gross, exhausting, simple, and unnoticed.

 

And cheers to my own mama, who continues to mother and meet the needs of her children, even as we are all grown up.

 

When I was very small, she taught me to tie my shoes, to love books, to roller skate, to hold a paintbrush. She took me to the park and to the library, kept me away from Santa’s lap after my first tear-filled experience there, and let me build fortresses out of couch cushions.

 

When I was a little older, she taught me to shave my legs, to let the boys call me instead of vice versa, and the ability of good chocolate to make any bad day better. She took me to visit colleges, sent me cards and care packages while I was away, and drove hundreds of miles each spring to help me cram a ridiculous amount of stuff into one brave lone Jeep for the journey home.

 

More recently, she’s taught me how to make a tender and juicy roast, how to paint neatly and spackle perfectly, to find joy in an identity that no longer involves a profession. She watches my kiddos so I can tackle the grocery store in peace. She reassures me over the phone at 7 am that the bumps on my toddler are probably not the plague. She stops by my house to bring me chocolate.

 

When I grow up….I want to be just like my mama.

Looking Up May 10, 2008

I eat too much dark chocolate.

I’ve never used the self-clean button on my oven. Or cleaned it the hard way.

I think of what I should’ve said after the moment has passed.

Sometimes I speak in frustration and see those pairs of big eyes looking up at me, worried.

The last time there were two pieces of pie left, I took the biggest one.

I compulsively clip coupons and organize my dishwasher.

I have dust bunnies under my bed. And behind my desk. And in that corner over there.

I dance badly to the music I hear and enthusiastically to the tunes playing only in my head.

I sing loudly and happily, with mad motions.

I stir the soup and blend the smoothies, bake the pies and flip the omelets.

I rescue abandoned crayons from the kitchen floor.

I fold the diapers and put them carefully into their baskets.

I do it again after my 2-year old has proudly put them into a towering pile on his rug.

I buy surprise pizza for my husband, the pizza gourmet.

I collapse into the Psalms, dig into the words of Jesus, wonder about the story of Israel.

I am beloved, and I don’t understand it.