Right after Christmas my husband and I spent three full days cleaning out our attic and storage space.  It was a job that was long overdue and was absolutely necessary if we didn’t want to outgrow this house before the market has a chance to improve.  We cleared countless boxes of toys, clothes, books, old computer equipment, and baby items.  A couple weeks after finishing that I went around the house and removed all the baby safety latches on the cabinets, drawers, and doors.

I never thought about any of that while I was in the midst of doing it.  But, I realized recently exactly what an amazing and terrifying milestone it was.  I haven’t lived without safety latches for the last eight years.  Every time I wanted to open a cupboard or drawer I had to remember to reach in and push the latch down before it would give.  There hasn’t been a time in 8 years that the attic hasn’t been filled with baby clothes, baby toys, highchairs, bounce seats, and potty training gadgets.

Not anymore.

Sure, we saved the crib and a few sentimental toys and books for our future grandbabies.  But everything else is gone.  Donated.  Given away.  Removed from the house.  And the whole thing is bittersweet.

Our family is a family of five.  We are what we are and I wouldn’t change any of that.  Maybe someday we will adopt, but I feel pretty certain that our family is complete – that one Jacob, one Amelia, and one Charlotte is what the Lord intended for our homestead.  I’m a good mother for them and they are the perfect little babies for me.  But, in the moment of removing the relics of their baby years I realized how fleeting it all was.  My days of mothering babies is gone.  I’m beginning my own growth phase of parenting children of a different age – an age of sleepovers, homework, extracurricular activities, sleep away camp, and personal opinions.

It’s magical, this phase.  It blows my mind everyday as I watch them grow into these incredible people that follow most statements with “No, I can do it myself, mom!” or “I can figure that out!” or “I can read that on my own!”

Exciting, really.    And absolutely worth it.

But, I wonder how long I’ll continue check the attic for that certain baby onesie or reach in the cupboard for that little white latch that has stopped me in my tracks for the last eight years…

and maybe I don’t need to stop reaching for it anyway.

I have mentioned before how much I’m not a fan of kid birthday parties.

My feeling haven’t really changed about the whole kid birthday party thing – if anything I’m probably more cynical about it all. (at least more cynical about the whole class party thing!)  Within the first month of school we got about 4 invitations to class parties.  I rolled my eyes, RSVP’s ‘no’, and continued about my business.

Today, though, I came face to face with the guilty aftermath of not jumping on the class party bandwagon. This note was in my son’s backpack this afternoon…

I don’t remember the Challenger explosion or the Iran Contra Scandal or John Lennon’s assassination.

I don’t remember my 3rd grade teacher or what I had for dinner last week or where I put my copy of Little Women.

But, I remember this.

Thank you to the firefighters, the citizens, the policemen, the soldiers, and the unknown individuals that helped to raise and rebuild our peril.  And, a special thank you to my brother and sister-in-law for their multiple tours to Afghanistan and Iraq.  I’m so glad you both were among those that arrived home safe.

I recently entered a blogging contest with Real Simple Magazine.  The topic was 300 words or less on an unexpected friendship.  I didn’t win.  I didn’t even make it to the finals.  But, that’s ok.  I’m kind of proud of myself for just taking the chance and entering.  And, even though I didn’t win the contest, I’m still glad I wrote this piece…


An Unexpected Friendship

At first our relationship was touch and go. Here I was – a young bride, barely twenty-three, capturing the heart and time of her son. There she was – a mother twice over realizing she was no longer the woman in her son’s life. And, there he was – beginning a life long adventure with the girl of his dreams while reminding his mother she’d always be the woman in his heart. There we were – the three of us looking for balance and acceptance between what used to be and what was beginning.

Tumultuous might best describe those first few years together as we all struggled to change and grow into a family. But, as one grandchild arrived and then another (and finally another!) we began to realize that our relationship and understanding was beginning to bridge with the next generation. Suddenly helping with a fussy baby or bringing by a meal was no longer a sign of her disapproval, but rather a sign that she sympathized with all that I was trying to undertake with three young babies. Our ways were certainly different, but our goal of a loving, trusting family was the same.

As time passed and my babies shared in the joy of family, my relationship with her grew even more. The laughter, the shopping, the evenings on the phone, the help when my husband traveled and I returned to school all fed into a friendship I never expected. And the strength of that friendship was solidified in mutual love and respect for family. Perhaps I should be surprised by a friendship with my mother-in-law and, once upon a time, maybe I was. Not any more. Now I’m just grateful that after nine years of marriage she is just as much my mom as she is my husband’s.

The first week of August is always a little rough for me.  Usually we are trying to prepare for school to start and trying to stretch our summer activities as long as possible.  We are usually trying to prep for my son’s birthday and coordinated festivities.  This is also when I’m usually (minus a break this year) headed to my favorite blogging conference with all my buddies.

The first week is August is also when I reach yet another anniversary.

Of my hysterectomy.

Now, I don’t want to get all girly and weird and sentimental about my lady business.  But, that’s usually what happens.  I usually try to take a moment for myself to remember.  To be thankful for my children.  And sometimes to be angry that it had to happen in the first place.

Then I usually put on my big girl britches, get over myself, and move on for another year.

The importance of this day never really occurs to anyone but me and I wouldn’t expect it to.  When I mentioned the date to Hubby this year he suggested I make a tradition and go out and do something womanly.

I pondered this all day and couldn’t come up with anything that wasn’t stereotypical: pedicures, shopping for a new outfit, coffee with a girlfriend, having some charming shape waxed into my nether regions commemorate what used to be “down there.”  (what the hell shape would that be anyway – a cervix?!)

No, none of that feels quite right.

Instead I’m going to sit here on my couch and writing about feminism.  I’m going to write about feminism and feminist theory in an attempt to remember those before me and those that created the path I so openly walk. I’m not sure how girly that is, but for today it’s all I’ve got.

and, p.s. – don’t google the shape of a cervix.  it only makes you realize that your chosen waxing shape will make your vagina look like a SingAMaJig.

You’re welcome.

The kids start back to school a week from today.  I woke up this morning with a mile-long list of errands I needed to run to finish all those last minute things that one remembers right before school starts.  We had plans for kid haircuts and hunting for the perfect water bottles for them to take to school.  We had also planned to stop by to gather information about one of the kids starting music lessons.  And, I had an appointment at the Genius Bar to figure out why I keep getting the rainbow wheel of death of my beloved Macbook.

We got up, ate breakfast, and dressed to be out and about for several hours.  Somewhere in there the kids decided they needed to play fort under the bed sheets.  That led to Amelia scratching Jacob in the eye with her germ-infested, dirty fingernail.

I looked at his eye and thought it looked a little red.  We ran and got haircuts and he kept complaining about how much his eye hurt.  It was watering and looking more red by the minute.  I made a spur of the moment decision to swing by the eye doctor to have him checked out.  Of course they offered to work us in when they had time.  I’ve been there so many times for my own eye related injuries that they tend to know me, shake their heads, and say hello with the phrase ‘Back again?!’

We ended up waiting so long to be squeezed in that I had to cancel my Genius Bar appointment.  While waiting for the doctor to confirm that Jacob, indeed, had a scratch across his cornea, Charlotte decided it would be a wonderful idea to dance around the waiting room doing some strange combo of ballet pirouettes and karate knife hands.  This was just before she asked the only Black man in the waiting room why his skin was so dark.  He laughed and talked to her with good humor – even after she announced that he would look so much better if he were purple.

At that point I skipped the rest of the errands, took the kids home for lunch, and double checked Charlotte’s closet for secret pointy hat before putting her down for a nap.

Monday, you’re kind of a bust.  Tuesday, can you be better please?!