The Day Eli's Heart Broke -- and Mine Melted

I don't pretend to be this awesome mother. I know I am not. I know that I daily fail my children. And I'm not saying (writing) that for you to say "Oh, Jeanette...you are a great mom." Because, Inter-webs, I'm not. My kids are the best gift I've ever been allowed to have. And at night, when I check on Eli after he's fallen asleep (when he's on his best behavior), I pray that tomorrow, I won't lose my temper or my patience. I pray that the computer doesn't take attention from me that should be for him. I pray that I can show him Jesus in how I love him. Because that's why I'm a mom -- so this precious young boy will grow up to show others how awesome his Savior is and personify love to others.

The other day, Eli said something to me that encouraged me as his mother...I mean after he pushed a child and made him cry...wait for it.

So, we were at a McDonald's play land (don't worry, snobs...we just had ice cream as a mid-afternoon snack) and Eli was playing in the super sanitary play structure (where healthy immune systems go to die), along with his cousins and another little boy (who we didn't know). At one point, stranger boy apparently set up camp at the entrance to the slide, thus preventing any one else from going down the slide. I hear Eli politely ask stranger boy to move so that he and his cousins could go down the slide. And ask again...and again. Each time a little (lot) less politely. Finally, the boy emerged crying. Followed by Eli avoiding eye contact.

Turns out Eli pushed the little boy down the slide so that he would stop blocking the entrance. I don't think Eli pushed him hard, but the boy was crying and it was due to my son. So, I told Eli to apologize, I apologized, gave Eli a stern lecture on not pushing/hitting and sat him in time out. The grandmother of the boy told me that stranger boy was overly tired and it wasn't a big deal, but I was still disappointed.

As we were we leaving, and I was buckling Eli into his seat, he looked at me and very seriously said, "Mom, my heart is just breaking. It really hurts."

Ohmygosh...he's having a heart attack...how quickly can I drive him to the hospital? (I irrationally thought).

I asked him why, to which he replied, "My heart is breaking, which means Jesus is probably hurting, too. And if Jesus is hurting, that means God is hurting. I didn't mean to hurt that boy's feelings. My heart is hurting because I hurt his feelings."

And then, as my heart was melting on to the McDonald's parking lot, he said, "I guess it's a good thing Jesus forgives us when we do things like that."

I gave him a kiss and told him he had a good heart and that both Jesus and I were proud of him.

I hope that was some sort of parenting win (through the grace of God).

I know that I am so in love with that kid.

Grandpa

Last week my ever generous grandfather flew us all out to California to celebrate his 85th birthday with him. His wife asked if I would say something at his party. After staring at a blank computer screen for what seemed like eleventy thousand years and rummaging through the spiderwebbed attic of my brain for something deserving of how much my grandpa means to me, I came up with this. It, by no means, does justice to the wonderful man that is my grandfather, but I hope it conveys at least a glimmer of how wonderful I think this man is.

I remember reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when I was little. And in that book, Charlie’s grandparents lived with him. They took up residency in a bed in Charlie’s living room. I remember thinking how cool it would have been to have my grandparents living in my house like Charlie did. I mean not in a bed all hours of the day…that would have been awkward when my parents had company over. But you know, like they had their own room in my house. I could come home from school and there they’d be. My grandma would be cooking or trimming her rose bushes and my grandpa would be watching his 49ers or fixing something or playing the organ that would have also been in my house if they lived there, because my grandpa could play the organ like no one’s business. Alas, Roald Dahl did not write my life and they never did live with us.  But, I consider the relationship I had with them a very close second to what Charlie experienced. 

My grandparents were such an integral part of my life. Some of my fondest memories from my childhood involve them. Holidays, summer vacations, band concerts, plays, my engagement, my wedding, my baby news. I knew I could count on them always. They were there cheering me on and celebrating with me.

And now, I consider it an honor and a blessing to be here today to help cheer on and celebrate with my grandpa.  My grandfather has been a steadfast presence in life. His generosity knows no bounds. He possesses strength and calm that both comforts and encourages. He is knowledgeable and wise. He has an air of cool and suave that rivals any member of the rat pack.  He challenged me to be fearless. He taught me to dive into the deep end (both literally and metaphorically), he let me drive his car when I was still a few years from 16. He took me on adventures through beautiful country. He played dolls with me (and even made me my own, gorgeous doll house), he read with me, he listened with a smile as I played, what I can only assume, a painful rendition of hot cross buns on my flute. He encouraged me to sing.  He took pictures and video and laughed until he cried with me. He is a giant among men, and I am humbled that I get to share in who he is…that I get to be his granddaughter.

I’ll end with this. My husband always pokes fun at me because I am constantly taking pictures. He tells me that I should enjoy the moment and not worry about being behind a camera trying to capture it to remember later. So, I try to take memory snapshots.  These are moments so precious that I know a camera would not be able to truly capture the pure emotion of the experience.  One of these moments was when my grandpa held my son (his great grandson) for the first time. It was a bittersweet moment,  as my grandma was not able to share in the experience. But sitting next to my grandpa as he held my son is a moment in my life I will carry with me until I take my last breath. It was a moment of pure happiness during an otherwise tragic time in the Rick family.  It was the moment I looked at my grandfather’s quiet strength and resilience and knew that we would carry on and continue to take adventures and make memories.

So today, I wish you a happy 85 years, my dear grandpa. Thank you for being an ever present member of my cheering section.  You are more wonderful to me than you’ll ever know, and I love you beyond forever. Happy birthday. 

Whitney Elizabeth - Year Two

"and though she be but little

she is fierce."

First off, let me say that I know you will be referencing this letter twenty years from now as you discuss with your therapist your mother's penchant for letting you down. Your brother had a letter every month from mom, but Whitney was forgotten, cast aside, forced to eat scraps whilst made to sleep in the ashes by the fire to keep warm at night. 

Okay. So I dropped the ball on your letters. But let me assuage your feelings of neglect. 1.) The amount of guilt I carry with me because of this causes me a diagnosable amount of anxiety, so there's that; 2.) I'm going to tell you something that I have revealed to no one: I still don't know how to juggle two kids. It's been two years and I still scream into a pillow weekly; so when I DO get a moment to myself, I binge watch Netflix to give my brain a break; 3) You don't sleep well. I'm sorry...that's a gross understatement...YOU ARE THE MOST HORRIBLE SLEEPER EVER TO LIVE...EVER!!! Your night time regimen rivals what I assume Beyonce goes through every night. You.are.a.diva. I am required to rock you for a MINIMUM of 30 minutes, and that's a good night. Then, when I do put you down in your crib, you wake up and cry unless I feign sleeping next to you on the blow up mattress that has taken up permanent residency in your room. Then, when I'm sure you've crossed into REM sleep, I sneak, Catherine Zeta-Jones-from-Entrapment-style out of your room. "Mom, just let me cry." Okay. Well, that goes on for several hours and usually involves you pooping your pants. So, my sleep has been robbed by both my obsession with teenage dramas on Netflix and your inability to sleep well. I know. I know. Your poor sleep patterns are a direct result of poor parenting. But, I'm tired. 

Anyway. I'm sorry, my precious girl. The thought that you may someday look back at letters I've written you and feel slighted makes my heart ache.  Because, you are precious to me. 

So, your second year.

I know I have said this about your brother, but one of my biggest life worries is that I would have serious children. And when you first meet people or are in a crowd, you are serious. I mean, you gotta keep your guard up...we do live in Jackson. But when you're comfortable, you are a regular Gilda Radner. You're a master of physical comedy. You go all out. You fall down, you use props, there's usually a costume change, you add music, there are silly voices. You are a master. And I applaud it.  I laugh constantly with you, and I hope that you nurture this ability to laugh and have fun. This world is a serious place and it can depress a gal. Don't ever stop laughing (eesh...sounds like a super lame country song). Also, don't listen to country music.

We've had some bumps and scrapes this year...all of which seemed to happen in one month. In May, you got two fingers slammed in a door, you ate Vicks Vapo Rub, and you fell into a stagnant pond after which I was convinced you had contracted a rare, water-borne bacteria that would leave you dead in a week. It did not happen. And I don't want you to think that I just let you wander around by yourself. "What, Whitney? Oh, she's in the basement playing with matches and turpentine." None of that. I was literally feet away from you when all three of these events occurred. Finger in door, I went into the other room to get my keys. BAM! Vicks Vapo Rub, I walked into your brother's room to grab something for you. BAM! Pond, I was millimeters away from you. BAM! I know you are going to break a bone before you get into kindergarten...and then the guilt will multiply exponentially.

On the lighter side, you love to dance. It is the most wonderful thing to watch...ever. Better than that sea lion who has rhythm. You bounce up and down, sway side to side, put your hands in the air, there are props. No genre of music is beneath you. Pop, R&B, Christian Rap...all is fair game. And you're not shy about it. Walking around the grocery store listening to smooth jazz. You don't care. A lot of times there doesn't even have to be music; you'll just start dancing. It is an immediate mood booster. 

You also are a definite nurturer. I'm amazed by how you and your brother have gravitated toward things that seem to represent your gender. Honestly, I haven't been shoving dolls in your face and making you watch Toddler in Tiaras (you totally flip to TLC on your own). You've had ample access to cars and trucks and dry wall...manly things. But you have preferred pushing your doll around in a stroller and "changing her diaper" and carrying her around. You like shoes and pink and purses and nail polish. You are a lover. You hug, you snuggle, you give kisses. You are not shy with your affection (unless I take your "pappy" (pacifier) away, then you're ready to throw down). It does my soul good to watch you want to take care of and comfort people. 

You are an incredible human being. You're fearless (unless I leave you in church nursery); you're gentle; you're hilarious; you're assertive; you're smart; you're beautiful. I pray that you will continue to grow into a confident, capable, loving, independent young woman. I pray that you will be centered on Christ in every aspect of your life. You are special, my love. I count being your (and Eli's) mama as my life's greatest achievement. I will never be able to tell you enough how much I love you. 

Happy two years, my Whitney Elizabeth. 

Whitney Parker -- A Year in Pictures

October 2012

• First Birthday
• Walking 
• Princess Leia for Halloween
• Still nursing

November 2012

• Endured torture of 10 ... TEN teeth coming in during one month
• Nursing has slowed way down to occasional snacking
• No more baby food

December 2013

• Would live on scrambled eggs and milk
• Nursing has stopped
• Into EVERYTHING!
• Says "Mama" and "Dada"

January 2013

• Playing on your own
• Obsessed with your pacifier
• Stopped sleeping through the night

February 2013

• Taken on role as resident comedian
• Can sign "more" and "all done"
• Still not sleeping through the night - Air mattress has taken up permanent residency in your room for mom or dad

March 2013

• Exercises with Mommy
• Obsessed with shoes
• Still not sleeping through the night

April 2013

• Wearing a cape pretty much every day
• Obsessed with Eli (who also wears a cape)
• Met your cousin Livia for first time
• Still not sleeping through the night
• Love being outside

May 2013

• Love getting in the dirt
• Ate Vicks Vapo Rub (you were fine)
• First trip to Urgent Care for potential broken finger after getting it slammed in the door.
• Fell into a stagnant, gross pond at the park...mother's anxiety level reaching breaking points
• Hate being left in nursery at church
• Still not sleeping through the night

(yeah I added two...because you're adorable)

June 2013

• Love accessorizing 
• Love being in the water
• Starting to become sassy
• Talking a lot more
• Daddy took a new job, which means we get to see him more
• Still not sleeping through the night

July 2013

• Favorite word is "No"
• Fireworks -- nailed it...loved it!
• Love being outside to the point of annoyance
• Fell in love with Lucy (grandma and papa's dog) while she stayed with us
• Face painted with Jello and then dropped a deuce in after-jello tubby
• Still not...wait for it...sleeping through the night

August 2013

• Loves to dance -- often when there is no music
• Loves taking care of your "babies" doll; cannot go to sleep without your baby
• Becoming more defiant/temper tantrumy 
• Still not sleeping through the night

September 2013

• Two...TWO trips to Grandma and Papa Parkers' house
• First night away from mommy 
• Don't want anyone BUT mommy
• Hair's long enough to do pigtails!!!
• Still not sleeping through the night

October 2013

A Decade in the Making

All kings, and all their favourites,

All glory of honours, beauties, wits,

The Sun itself, which makes times, as they pass,

Is elder by a year, now, than it was 

When thou and I first one another saw:

All other things to their destruction draw,

Only our love hath no decay;

This, no tomorrow hath, nor yesterday,

Running it never runs from us away,

But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.

                       John Donne

Dear Ben,

As you know, I love me a good celebration. Birthdays, anniversaries, the end of an iconic TV series. And a milestone celebration...the bigger, the better is my motto. So, here we are at the 10 year anniversary of the day of our betrothal. 10 YEARS!!! A DECADE!!  To that end, I have been trying to come up with some momentous gesture to demonstrate my love, like holding a boombox over my head outside our bedroom window (but you wouldn't get that reference because you're not a sucker for a good 80's romcom).  Then I thought about hiring a sky writer.  But I make $0.00 a year and those fools are expensive.  I don't scrapbook (you're welcome). And I could try to quilt your likeness, but I'm pretty sure someone would end up dead. So, I'll write something about you...about us.

I don't know if you remember this, but the day we met is forever etched in my memory.  It was the meeting that RomComs are made of. And not RomComs starring now-disgraced former child actors, but the RomComs that star an academy award winning actress who's going back to her roots for her fans. I was rocking an androgynous hairdo and probably a pair of overalls that I thought were in fashion but were, in harsh reality, absolutely not. I was with a fellow incoming freshman (who by all rights, should have a Barbie made in her likeness) and you (a sophomore) were with a female friend (who was equally gorgeous).  You both were doing some sort of welcoming thing for student development at our now beloved alma mater.  Anyway, your friend was actually a mutual friend of mine, as well.  She introduced you to me and my beauty queen friend. I thought you were muy guapo, however I think you thought I was confused about my sexuality.  You seemed as interested in me as one would be about an imminent colonoscopy. I quickly determined you to be a conceited, beautiful man and wrote you off as someone with whom I had NOTHING in common. I mean if you could not appreciate my Lillith Fair do, then you were obviously out of the loop.  Me and my overalls would just converse it up with someone else. Preferably, a Sarah McLachlan fan.

A few weeks later another mutual friend of ours stopped me on my way to class to inform me that she knew the man I was going to marry. Intrigued, I asked if his name rhymed with Shmohn Shmamos. She revealed that my destined groom was  you. Whilst I still thought you to be a beautiful, evenly tanned individual, your initial dismissal of me earned you a thumbs down. Obviously a defense mechanism, right?

Our paths crossed from time to time as we lived in the same dorm building; however we exchanged nary a glance. I did secretly send God props for creating such a beautiful specimen of a man, but I would not even say hi to you. Take that, person who didn't know I existed.

Then, our paths were FORCED to cross every Monday and Wednesday morning the second semester of my freshman year, as I was asked to join our school's chapel band as a back up singer (eat your heart out, one of the Supremes). A band of which you were also a part...as the suave acoustic guitar player. Be.still.my.heart.

Again, I feigned no knowledge of your existence and cursed the heavens when I walked out of practice one day to see you getting in your sporty looking car. Gah! Good looks, musically gifted and good taste in cars?

I prayed you had a flatulence problem or backne.

Enter sophomore year (mine) and you and I started to become friends...I think it was around our Death, Grief and Loss class? You know, something uplifting. I started to think of you as a (gasp) friend. We were both dating other people (your girlfriend looked like a print ad for Revlon), so, I really had no romantic notions about you. I still firmly believed you didn't find me attractive, and whilst I still thought you were God's gift to firm jawlines, I believed I wasn't your type.

Enter my junior year. December 2001, I received a call from your friend, Ben asking me out on a date for you. He said he was setting you up on a blind date and he thought I would be a good fit for you. I giddily agreed to meet up with you at his house. The whole walk over, I imagined the look of disappointment on your face when you realized that Ben picked me for you. When you opened the door, I think I said something like, "sorry." But you seemed happy to see me. "He must be self-medicating," I thought. But you were happy to see me, and we had a great time.

 And we went out again and again and again and then I fell in love with you.

In fact, I fell in love with the following things about you (in no particular order):

I fell in love with your perfect smile; I fell in love with your sense of humor; I fell in love with how much you loved Jesus and your family; I fell in love with how smart you were; I fell in love with your fart jokes; I fell in love with your eyelashes that you would later try to convince me earned you a role in a commercial for mascara; I fell in love with your mellifluous voice; I fell in love with your guitar skills; I fell in love with how you made it a point to visit your grandparents at least once a week; I fell in love with your forever love of the Detroit Tigers; I fell in love with your weird taste in Ernest movies; I fell in love with your penchant for adult contemporary Christian music.

And you fell in love with me, too...ahthankyouvevymuch.

Enter my senior year.  You were working for a small Bible college in Grand Rapids and we were weathering the somewhat long distance relationship.

And then Jesus smiled on me when on November 17, 2002, you popped a c.d. into our friends' "new stereo," and I heard your voice singing to a melody you wrote asking me to be your wife. I think I said something like, "shut up." I'm so eloquent.

And I knew, I was the luckiest.

August 9, 2003, I met you at the end of an aisle, held your hand and made the most important promise of my life.

And here we are ten years later. And the list of things I love about you has grown exponentially. I could write all of them down, but it may break the Internets.

But I will say this -- I love that here we are ten years later and you still make me want to be a better version of myself. Ten years later and I have discovered that the man I married is the MOST incredible father to our beautiful children. Ten years later and you still make me laugh. Ten years later and you're the person I can't wait to see.

We have been through a lot, including loss, new jobs, new homes, pregnancy hormones, pregnancy gas, the Twilight series, new friends, clogged toilets, SEVERAL cars, disappointment, my penchant for big sunglasses, illness, two Detroit Tigers World Series appearances, trips to various destinations, breakdowns over cheeseburgers, the births of our children, my loss of bladder control, and so much more.

And I cannot wait to add to our decades long story.

You are my favorite, and I will love you beyond forever.

Love,
Jem

Sometimes I Write Stuff

So, when people haven't written on their blogs in some time they feel the need to apologize and make promises that a myriad of brilliant posts are forthcoming (and you know what, Thoreau used the preposition "of" after myriad...so, you grammar snobs can just untwist your underpanties). However, by this point no one is reading this blog anymore. So, sorry, Internets...I'm sure you've missed my brilliance.  What? You couldn't care less? That's cool.

So, my point in making a writing re-commitment is three-fold (that's a fancy way of saying there are three reasons).
1.) I miss it.
2.) The nagging thought that one day, most of Whitney's therapy sessions will deal with the fact that her horrible mother wrote posts to her treasured older brother, but hers are sparse and isn't that just HORRIBLE? What kind of mother would show favoritism that way. She's totally going to buy a motorcycle just to spite me AND listen to smooth jazz.
3.) I'm not good at much, and I think I am a decent writer. And if you disagree, then go away, fool.

So, why the long absence you didn't ask? Well, navigating the terrain of Mom With Two Kids has been challenging. I've actually had a REALLY hard time with it. I have had a hard time with learning to manage my time and sleep training my youngest and making sure our house doesn't get condemned due to all the grossness and our archaic computer that moved with the speed and agility of a dead sloth and not working outside the home and realizing I have no marketable skills and then came Pinterest with all it's annoying reminders that I'm, in fact, not creative nor a DIYer and there's the knowledge that Beyonce and I will probably never meet.

I wish I knew Beyonce.

So, I haven't wanted to write because it would have ended up being all dark and whiny and Thoreau-y (two Thoreau mentions in one post...I'm so smart). Also, by the time I DO get Whitney to sleep at night, all I want to do is eat carbs and watch reruns of witty comedies.

But, I've read a couple books lately that have inspired me to write.  Because, honestly, I'm not making a bookcase out of some old milk crates I found down at the docks, thankyouverymuchPinterest, and I just finished watching all three seasons of Arrested Development on Netflix and I'm trying not to eat after 9:00...okay 10:00...okay 11:00 and we have a new fancy computational machine AND I read this recently:

I think God gives us each a gift or two so that we have something special to offer others. But sometimes we make the mistake of assuming the things we're good at are common to everyone. ... I think sometimes we get confused and believe that our gift must bring us money or success or fame...The only thing a gift needs to do is bring you joy. ... We are each an island, but he [God] gives us gifts to use as bridges into each other's lives.  -Glennon Doyle Melton

I've tried to embrace baking and crafting and athletic endeavors (stop laughing) and DIYing and basket weaving; but, Internets, these things do not bring me joy (I'm looking at you, basket weaving). And quite frankly, they usually cause me to break out in a severe case of the back sweats (I'm looking at you, hot glue gun that I forgot to unplug that one time.) I enjoy writing. I enjoy writing humorously. Maybe I'll make a bridge to someone else through my funny writing, because I'm definitely not doing it sitting on my bony bum watching reruns of Golden Girls (well done, TV Land). 

And maybe Beyonce will be on the other end of that bridge.  

I Suck at Life...Numbered Insights into my Stream of Consciousness

1. What? I haven't updated you on Whitney in ... ummm ... 4 months? No, no. Only a horrible mother would write letters to her first child and then flake out on them with her second.  So, I've got the bare bones of letters to Whit written, lo these 4 months (cough...almost 5...cough).  So, my gift to her for her birthday is to kick my procrastination to the curb and get those up to date...tomorrow...or Thursday...definitely by the time she graduates high school....is that an M&M by my keyboard...jackpot.

2. I have no clue what to get Whitney for her birthday (I mean, other than the gift of my words).  NO CLUE!!!!!! I bought her a baby doll today and just keep staring at it with any lack of enthusiasm about giving it to her.  A baby doll?  Where's the effort, Parker?  Meh. The kid pretty much goes into a frenzy whipping the toilet paper off the role (what? I don't let my child in the bathroom with me when I'm doing my business)...so, pretty sure she'll be content with whatever.

3. I should probably be watching the presidential debate...but, I'm having my own special debate with myself about finishing off the Cheetos...soooo...enough intensity for me tonight.

4. I should not be posting ridiculous ramblings about nothing right now and should be a.) doing the dishes; b.) folding the ever-growing pile of clothes sitting in my laundry basket; c.) finishing up Whit's monthly posts; d.) completing Whit's 1 year photo montage; e.) starting Whit's 1 year photo montage; f.) finishing the Cheetos sitting in a bag not 5 feet away from me; g.) going to bed.

5. Okay, motivation. Come and find me.

Eli the Explorer - Age 3 1/2

I was given this book by a dear friend that has turned into a go-to source for you, my wild thing.  It's called, appropriately, Wild Things: The Art of Nurturing Boys.  It has opened my eyes to the world of a boy (that and Wild at Heart).  I'm not sure if you know this about me, as I sometimes appear as some androgynous figure in your life who may or may not own a razor, but I'm a girl.  I liked Barbies and sharing/eating my feelings and My So Called Life and other girly things.  So raising a boy and getting to the heart of you has been a challenge for me.  A happy challenge.  A challenge for which I am over the moon grateful and honored to be given.  But nonetheless, a challenge.  Right now, according to my Eli bible, you are in the Explorer stage.  One of the best descriptions from the text for what this stage involves is this:

 It's a time when they show greater interest...in exploring the edges of their worlds...boys make fewer trips back to the reassurance of their mothers...as Explorers, boys live in their imaginations as much  or more than they do in 'reality'...their moods swing on a dime, and nothing compares to the joy that overcomes them when they make a new discovery.

If you were in a dictionary at this point in your life, this would be the definition found next to your name.  This time last year you were so fearful to leave my side, and now you are moving to the edges sans me.  You explore your world, and get very dirty in the process.  You live amongst the dirt and the grass and the rocks and the bugs.  I've told people that if I were to allow you to live outside, you would be perfectly content (as long as I provided some strong squirrel repellent).  The other day, your grandma Parker was watching you climb on anything that was a foot off the ground and commented, "he's all boy." 

 You're definitely more open to trying new experiences.  Initial timidity eases into excitement and cries of "again!" "more!" "no mommy...just me!" And then I go to weep in a corner or find something fried to eat.  You ride your bike off curbs, you climb anything that provides ulcer-inducing distance between you and the ground, you collect bugs, you pet dogs that are bigger than you (which may not seem like much, but last year a dog bigger than my toe would have sent you into a hyperventilating state of fear).  I was worried that the first day of preschool for you would have been short-lived due to not wanting to be away from me, but you looked at me and said, "You gotta run some errands?  Bye, mom."  It was a very nice way for you to tell me to leave.  So thank you.  As I drove home shaking with sobs and proving to be a hazard behind the wheel, I just kept thanking Jesus for you, my brave boy. 

Someone once told me that threes are harder than twos, and I remember thinking, "Dear God, I need to take up drinking if that's the case."  And honestly, you still have your occasional melt down, which tend to coincide with needing something to eat.  You are your mother and father's child.  But, you also seem to understand better why we've sent you to your room for said melt down.  For example, a month or so ago I had the audacity to ask you to leave your friends during a swim date before any of them had to leave.  I MADE YOU LEAVE THE POOL!!  You would have thought I told you Thomas the Train died and the police have no leads.  It was a tantrum fit for the gods.  You were hitting, you were screaming like a banshee, you were calling down a plague on my house, you switched to some foreign language, there was frothing, and wailing and gnashing of teeth.  Should I go on?  So in between screams, I explained that as soon as we got home, you would need to go to your room, as your behavior was inappropriate (we use multi-syllabic words in this house, young man).  You calmed down about 5 minutes into the ride home and said in between hiccuped breaths, "I'm sorry, mommy.  I go to my room for timeout?"  After I picked up my heart that melted all over my steering column, I told you that you still needed to go to your room, but I appreciated your remorse and loved you.  "I love you too, mommy. I'm sorry I hit and screamed."  There are still melted pieces of my heart stuck to my driver's seat.  It's a beast to get out of leather.

While you don't want me as much, you have fortified an incredible relationship with your father...your go-to guy when I'm disciplining you.  Your dad is your partner in exploration, your hero during midnight nightmares, your calming voice.  I refer to your dad as the Eli-whisperer.  He gets you in a way that I don't and long to.  Your dad's patience with you is enviable.  I pray daily that I can show you the patience that your father effortlessly demonstrates.  You are his little Opie.  I am immensely grateful that my little boy has been blessed with an exceptional father.  Your dad will always be your biggest fan, no matter what (it should be an implied fact that I'm the alpha fan when it comes to you, but I suppose your dad can tie with me). 

 Your life changed in a big way last year when I brought Whitney home from the doctor (that's how you think she came into existence...the doctor was just giving her away).  It's been interesting to see your relationship with her develop.  I think that it's natural for you to feel left out or not paid as much attention.  And for this I am forever sorry.  Knowing that you sometimes feel left out makes my heart hurt.  I try to arrange Eli/Mommy dates so you know that you are and will forever be my number one guy.  Despite your occasional feelings of frustration with Whitney, you have taken on this nurturing role with her.  You protect her (sometimes with more force than I would like, but nonetheless...) and show her things that you discover and give her a toy when she starts crying and show sincere concern when she falls or hurts herself.  It's a part of your relationship with each other that I pray will continue the rest of your lives.  I hope you turn to each other when life gets stupid or to complain about your parents or to organize elaborate celebratory parties in honor of your mother.  She lights up when you walk into a room.  And I know you get frustrated with her constantly gettin up all in yo bizness, but it's because you are the moon and stars for her. 

 Finally, your humor and imagination know no bounds.  You say things that demonstrate your unique perception of your world.  One night we were talking about how Jesus is always with us.  "Where is he? He's here now?" you asked.  "Yeah, we just can't see him. But you can always talk to him."  Fast forward twenty minutes later when you were being a tad sassy.  I told you that you needed to go to your room for a few minutes, to which you replied, "Okay, I guess I'll go to my room...come on, Jesus."  So great.  Sometimes you'll make these faces just to elicit a laugh from me.  You talk like George (you know, the monkey) randomly, you break out into song, you laugh for no reason, you make me say good night to your boogers, you assign different voices to things.  You're imagination is expansive and impressive.  I love that you love to laugh, as it is one of my favorite activities.  I hope that you never lose that fun side of your personality.  You are such a clever and creative soul. 

I love everything about you, my wild thing.  You are a blessing beyond belief, and I will work my whole life to prove that to you.  Love you forever, my sweet Elijah!

 

 

Other odds-and-ends about Eli at 3 1/2:

• You are pretty much a vegetarian, aside from a love of processed chicken.
• You DON'T LIKE PIZZA, which has had an adverse affect on my pizza intake. 
• You had three cavities crowned due to your love of lemons (apparently more dangerous to the enamel of your teeth than a can of coke).
• You weigh 36 pounds.
• You're scared of squirrels still and will tell them to "go see your mom!!!"
• You've now traveled to Boston, Chicago, and San Francisco (the latter two by train).
•  Your favorite shows include Curious George, Thomas, Phineas and Ferb, Jake and the Neverland Pirates, Bob the Builder, Chuggington.
• You love TV way too much (an addiction we're trying to eradicate...but let's be honest...I love TV way too much).
• You're basically potty trained. We're still working on a couple things, but in your own time, bud, in your own time.
• You are IN LOVE with your grandparents.
• You are IN LOVE with your cousins.
• Friends who you love to visit with include Benny, Bryleigh, Averi, Nolan, Jack, the other Benny, Abby, and Mia.  
• You love meeting new people and strike up a conversation with anyone who is willing to listen. 
• You and I have started discussing stranger danger. 
• You laugh when you fart, which is pretty much awesome.
• You love playing basketball.
• You love fixing things with your tools.

Eli's First Day

Today, my little guy started preschool...and I wept uncontrollably into my pillow all night leading up to it.  He's doing two days a week, 2 1/2 hours each day of preschool at a co-op called Jack and Jill.  This is a decision with which I wrestled for months and still am wrestling...this decision and I are in a half nelson right now and we're all sweaty and gross and people are all, "just pin her, already."

Here's the inner monologue that has been running in my head about this decision:
He's just three, why send him now? Yes, but it would be great exposure to some structure and instruction from someone other than the T.V. I know, but he's going to be going to school his whole life...just wait a year.  True, but it's just two days a week, 2 1/2 hours each day. What if he hates it and cries and writes about it in his journal so that he can tell his future therapist the exact date when his mother let him down and he lost his ability to trust. Okay, what if you did a co-op...you know something with which you could be involved.  Hmmm...maybe.  I don't know. What if...

So, I made the decision to enroll him in a co-op where the teacher is so incredibly wonderful that I'm sure even her farts smell like lavender and heaven.  (I hope she never reads this.) His teacher was placed on this earth to teach little 3 and 4 year olds.  I love her and will include her in my will.

He missed his first day, because he was sick (the first time he's been sick since March, but whatever).  So, today was the day. And he loved it!  He turned off the t.v. of his own volition so we could go. TURNED.IT.OFF.HIMSELF!!! And then it rained skittles.

We'll see how it goes.  That's my motto right now.  If today was any indication, I'm sure he'll be fine.

The (abridged) Story of Us

13 years ago, during the autumn of my freshman year at Spring Arbor College, my friend Jill Thompson announced to me that she had found my future husband.  Her "find", she proclaimed, was my best fit.  She couldn't imagine us not getting together.  Then, she said his name.  Ben Parker. I scoffed in her general direction and informed her that while I found him EXTREMELY attractive, his less than bubbly personality instantly deemed him a not-viable option.  He seemed too arrogant to me.  Plus, I saw him serenading a girl with his guitar once.  Fail.  I later found out that Ben was equally  turned off by my huge mistake of a pixie hair cut. 

Hours of chapel band practice, psychology classes together (his major, my minor), basketball games, more mutual friends later, it seemed our friend may have been on to something. December 2001, I accepted an invitation to a faux "blind date" with Ben Parker.  November 2002, I accepted his marriage proposal.  And August 9, 2003, we made promises to love each other forever.  And I can't imagine a day since or in the future without him. 

Thank you, Jill Thompson.

"I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life! and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death."  -e.b.b.

36 Years of Rick

Happy 36th Anniversary to my Marms and Dad

Love is all you need.

Plans are Made for Breaking

"For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future..."  -Jeremiah 29:11


I have a hard time with this verse.  Mainly because I want to know what these plans entail and how/when they will be brought about.  Being able to go with the flow and know that life is not in my hands is one of the most difficult lessons I have to learn.

This weekend has been trial by fire.  I had made all sorts of fun plans for the last two days and then life happened.  Eli got sick, Ben was gone for two days, Eli had night terrors two nights ago and woke up every hour, Eli was awake last night from 2:30 - 5 a.m. I am going on 8 hours of sleep in the last 48 hours (I need about 8 hours a night in order to not make people cry using just my words), my hair dryer quit mid-dry yesterday, and Blockbuster didn't have the second Sherlock Holmes movie yesterday. (I know you're thinking, duh, get Netflix.  We don't do fancy streaming technology in this house. So, just...okay?) Oh, the madness.

Reading this last paragraph,  I know you're saying to yourself, "Suck it up, Parker.  This is it?! Over-dramatic much?"

And then I would say, "Your FACE is over-dramatic, fart face."

And then I would acquiesce.  You're right.  It's not that bad.  So what we have no clean drinking glasses because they are all waiting to be cleaned in my kitchen sink.  So what I have a pile of clean laundry multiplying by the second. And a pile of dirty laundry, for that matter. That dirty diaper that's been sitting right smack dab in the middle of my living room like some crack den is not a big deal.  It will get thrown away.  Dishes will be done.  Fruit flies that are circling around what I think were once bananas will die.  Life will go on.  Eli will eventually decide that sleep is not the enemy.  And so will Whitney.  I will have a full night of sleep at some point.  Right?  RIGHT?!!

This is a blip -- a very undramatic, unnoticeable by any other full functioning member of the human race blip.

He takes hold of my right hand and says, "'Do not fear; I will help you.'"

**After publishing this post I thought I should add a couple post-scripts to clarify and add some sunshine.

P.S. I was able, thanks to my father, to attend a fabulous wedding of a dear friend today.  I also was able to catch up with some great people and spend some good quality time with my mater. 

P.P.S. Just in case you were thinking of calling CPS on me, the diaper was left by the couch in my haste this morning after changing Whitney quickly before running some errands this morning (like buying a new hairdryer).  And the bananas...well, the bananas are pretty gross.

Eli's First Completed Potty Chart

 WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS ANECDOTAL INFORMATION ABOUT POTTY TRAINING. WALK AWAY IF YOU CAN FEEL YOUR EYES STARTING TO ROLL.

If you've talked with me in the past 6 or 7 months, you've no doubt been tortured by my laments over Eli's lack of potty training.  I've been the parent who, honestly, has waited until Eli appeared interested to use the potty.  Lazy? Maybe.  But the way I looked at it is that I wasn't going to force potty training and then have to spend a year or more fighting with him to use the potty.  And if you've met my son, you know those fights would have been super fun.  They would have probably ended with me dead.  And, like my mama always says, "he ain't gonna start kindergarten wearing a diaper." (her speech is actually more refined than that, but I find hillbilly talk to be more humorous.)

So, we've waited and waited and prayed and waited some more and prodded and suggested and bribed and cried and prayed some more and made a virgin sacrifice to the potty gods and cried some more.  Then my brilliant husband (who should be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for Potty Training) bought him an Elmo potty video (Eli's very visual).  And then he wanted to do it.  That Elmo is a freaking mind manipulator.   I made a sticker chart that would allow him to essentially pee for a prize every five successful attempts (coming to a carnival near you). And now he just....goes to the potty.  

I should clarify that he goes #1 with ease; the deuce has yet to be dropped.  Which means this potty story is TO BE CONTINUED...

Update

Yeah...that whole blogging twice a week thing...didn't go as planned, soooo.  Below are Whit's 6 and 7 months posts.  Where are Eli's, you ask.  Oh, you didn't...that's cool.  Ummm...so I've been trying to write Eli's 3 year letter since he turned 3, lo these 3 months.  And I can't.  Two was a hard time for us.  A time when I daily felt like a failure as a parent.  And while I lean toward the hyperbolic more often than not, it's true -- daily failure.  My worst moments as a parent occurred during his third year.  I can vividly recall them.  So, I'm working on it; it's a hard one to write.   I will also post his 37 - 39 month letter soon.  Eli is using the potty, folks.  I know, right?  Just you wait to read all about it.  Cause I know you want to read about the bathroom going-ons of my three year old.  Stop shaking your head...it's going to happen. 

Whitney: a 7 month snap shot.

Seven months...look at you following the natural progression of time and stuff.  You get it, get it, girl.  Seven months and you don't look a day over six.  How do you do it?

 Look at them rolls...beautiful.

 I walked in the room once to find your brother swiffering you.

We'll do a bulleted  letter this month...mix it up a little.  Give you some fodder for future therapy sessions. "Mom did bulleted letters with me.  The injustice of it all!"

• Foods you've tried: rice cereal (to which we said adios), oatmeal,  green beans and peas.  
• Foods you will let me feed you without rubbing your eyes (the sign for get me outta this chair, woman!): oatmeal.  You read right.  You hate anything green.  Except for Kermit. 
• On deck: carrots
• You love to eat paper.  
• I think you have pica.
• You had a rash in one of your leg rolls this month. I'm so sorry.  I try to stay on top of making sure your nooks and crannies are clean, but your rolls are-a-plenty.  Don't you go getting a complex -- they are adorable.
• You finally have a high chair.  Lame parenting moment #2,246.  We had a high chair that we used with your brother, but it fell down on the basement floor this last summer and started growing mold colonies from all the dampness in our (at the time) air conditionerless basement, and I was all, mold colonies, you have to start paying rent for how many of you there are, and they were all like, deuces, woman.  So we parted ways, and the good boys of Emmons sanitation took them...it away. So, I was using your bumbo as a temporary high chair, which was not conducive for easy meal times. 
• The vacuum cleaner scares the tuna salad out of you (that's one of your brother's favorite sayings right now--it's from one of his favorite books), which was my cue to stop vacuuming; I aim to please. 
• Bedtime is a little rough still.  We'll get there.
• You have a clear tell for when you're tired and it's ADORABLE.  You scrunch up your eyes and rub your ears.  At first, I thought you had this perpetual ear infection that only bothered you around certain times that seemed to coincide with your nap times, but then I figured it out.  Can't get much past your mom.  She went to college...a college that turns no one away, but she went...so...
• You're about to go on your first real trip.  We're heading out to Boston for your Uncle Adam's wedding.  Two seven hour days in the car with you and your brother...I tear up just thinking about it.  
• Early on when you would get up from naps or for the day, I would say, "Hey, boooo. Did you have a good nap?"  Now, your brother says it.  He gets all up in yo bizness and says "Hey, boooo...did you have a good nap."  Even if you've been up for a couple hours.  Love it.
• Finally, you are loved.  By so many people.  Even weirdos in Target who won't leave you alone until you smile at them.

Those are balloons behind you.  Not an elaborate costume I made you wear.

Happy 7 months, boo!  Love you forever.

Whitney be 6 months, y'all

(pay no attention to the date on this post, which is 2 months PAST your actual 6 month birthday...I'm lame.)


You have graced this planet and our hearts for half a year, Scout. Cue Kool & the Gang.  What's that?  Oh, that weeping you hear is just me lamenting the fact that you're growing up at lightening speed rates.  You'll hear it a lot as your grow up. 

Biggest news this month: you can sit up by you's self.  It's true.  You seem way more comfortable with life now that you can sit up.  Maybe you felt too vulnerable in horizontal mode.  Now, you have a fighting chance against any small rodents or birds; you're at their level now, which is good, because you look like you're storing nuts in your cheeks -- I keep getting the stink eye from some squirrels in our yard.  Also, my life is a lot easier with this latest milestone.  And isn't that what it's really about?  Me?  I can just sit you down outside the bathroom whilst I answer my call from nature rather than hold you whilst I take the call.  Okay, I know that sounded gross, but sometimes when a mommy has two babies, she no longer has the bladder control that she once had as a youth.  So, she has little time to put you in your crib, and she feels too uncomfortable leaving you unattended whilst your big brother is around (he means well, bless his heart, but he sometimes forgets to not step on you).  And I only did it a few times, okay...so, take it down a notch.  

Other perks of sitting on your own: you can use high chairs in restaurants, giving you a bath is easier, taking pics of you is easier,  getting you dressed is a breeze, etc.

Also, this month, we're starting you on solids.  You were doing so well with nursing, and didn't seem to be hungry after you were done nursing, so I held off until you were 6 months to add anything else to your diet.  We started with rice cereal, but then your deuces said deuces, so we switched you to oatmeal, which seems to have eased things, bm wise.  On deck: green beans.  

Finally, we've mastered the two-nap-a-day routine, and it only took us 6 months.  You are actually a pro with the naps now.  You take one an hour after you get up in the morning and then another one around 2:00 p.m. (which is usually about 2  hours after you get up from your morning nap).  It's great, too, because I've discovered that when you don't get your solid two naps in, life, she-is-a-not-fun.  

Here's a condensed version of what else has hit the air waves this last month:

•  you weigh in at 18 lbs, 6 oz
• you are a snuggle bug -- when I'm rocking you before naps, you love to nuzzle your head right under my chin.
• your brother cracks you up.
• you are now smiling for strangers...I guess that rumor that you were a snob affected you.
• you'd rather play with your brother's toys.
• your brother gets upset when you try to play with his toys.
• you're super chill in the church nursery...a-thank-you-Jesus.
• you prefer to roll only from your belly to back...and actually refuse to stay on your tummy anymore.  
• you gnaw on anything you can get into your mouth, so I've moved the batteries and poison out of arm's reach. 
• you made yourself cry with one of your farts when I was changing you once...it was simultaneously awesome and heartbreaking.  

Six months.  I feel like life is starting to get into a routine now.  I'm a little slow on the uptake.  What would take a normal, full-functioning mom 3 months to master, takes yours truly slightly longer.  Sorry.  I feel like I'm getting the hang of mom-with-two-kids thing, though.  So hopefully, you feel a little bit more at ease with me.  No more paging that stork to come back and get you.  

I try to think back on life with one kid, when I thought managing was tough, and now I could probably gold medal in it in the Olympics of parenting (coming this summer).  Which also makes me think I should take up juggling.  And, honestly, adding two has been challenging, but I cannot...CANNOT imagine life without you (I used all caps, which means I'm being sincere...and dramatic).  Your sweet little, lights up your whole face, causes you to scrunch up your shoulders smile is the nectar of the gods.  It makes my soul melt...all over everything. Your coos and screeches, while they do attract dogs from near and far, are my favorites.  There's nothing about you that I don't love and want to freeze in time.  (Come on, flux capacitor, get invented.) You complete us. (Don't roll your eyes;  Jerry Maguire is totally underrated and one of Tom Cruise's finer films.  And I don't like Tom Cruise.)


Happy 6 months!  I love you forever, my precious Scout!

6 months pics taken by the fabulous Jen Decker...let's give her a hand, folks.

Happy Easter!

I'm in love with our Easter photo.  Not because it is perfect.  To assign that adjective to this picture would mean you are a.) blind or b.) my mother.  No, no, no.  Friends, the Parkers don't do cutesy family pics.  I believe it's God gift for my writing.  Plus, who wants some dumb ol' perfect picture, really?  Who wants something she can hang on her wall in a nice frame to look at and remember fondly?  I mean, not me! Pshh.  (silently weeps)

Okay explanation.  I would just like to note that I feel our individual personalities come across perfectly in this photo.  Let's go left to right.

1.) Whitney: not looking at the camera; not in her Easter dress.  Perfect.  Whitney had a poop explosion in her Easter dress and the backup outfit I had in her diaper bag hadn't been replaced in a while and it was too small for her (as you can see by her exposed legs).  Also, Whitney doesn't do anything she doesn't want to do, so don't make her look at some stupid camera.  Don't..DO.IT!  She's also a little bit of a snob.

2. Jeanette: Smiling because she wants a perfect family photo that she can hang on the wall in a frame to look at and remember fondly.  Oh, Jeanette, stop being anal, you silly girl.

3. Ben: When I want a posed pic, Ben usually humors me out of love with a complimentary eye roll.  He hates posing for pictures unless he can have his finger up his nose or can make some sort of tortured expression.  Also, he's trying to keep Eli from bounding out of his arms. 

4. Eli: Goofball, extraordinaire. When you ask Eli to smile, this is what he does.  He shuts his eyes and screams "CHEEEEEASSSE!"


He is risen! He is risen, indeed!

Happy Birthday, Dream Boat

Happy Birthday

to the love of my life!

  Love that man of mine.

March Mustache Madness

Oh, the madness.  At the beginning of March, my husband informed me that his employer had sanctioned a mustache growing contest and he would be taking part.  The catch -- he was not allowed to trim it, groom it, nothing.  He labeled it his "nice and nasty" mustache.  Nasty, indeed.

Below is a picture of Ben sans mustache.  He's quite the looker, no?  I should tell you that finding a picture of Ben where a.) his eyes aren't closed or b.) he isn't making a ridiculous face is like trying to find Bigfoot.  You can find one if you search, but they are elusive, my friends. (The preceding statement was in no way a confirmation that I believe in the existence of Bigfoot.)

He's mine, ladies.

Now, here is a picture of Ben and his mustache about 10 days in or so. All he needed was a creepy van and a pair of binoculars, and we would have had the makings of a terrifying Lifetime movie.

Aaaaand here is Ben at the end of his contest...practicing his pose for America's Most Wanted.

Now, these pictures do not do justice to what I was faced with.  He couldn't trim it, so when we kissed it was like I was canoodling with a Brillo pad.  Also, people with children would see us and turn and run. 

And here he is after shaving it off.  And the angels rejoiced.

I'm not sure if he won the contest or not, but it was a great time to be alive.