Amy Writes

I know the day is going to come. I know it. I live and breathe expectantly, anxiously. There will come a day when they won't want me around. I know that. I will be dropping off and picking up, instead of parking and hanging out. I'll be knocking before entering. I will have to call them to the dinner table rather than asking them to get out of the kitchen. I know there will come a time when they won't want to breathe my air or share my allotted cubic feet of space. They won't interrupt me to tell me they need to go to the bathroom/need a drink of water/heard a funny joke today/that they love me. They won't interrupt me at all. They won't come barging in to our bedroom before sunrise on Saturday mornings just to ask if they can put a movie on or start breakfast. They won't spill the mix while crowding me at the counter. They might not spill anything at all. We probably won't hear the same DVD playing over and over again. They probably won't enjoy (or ...

This was posted outside the kitchen this morning. Translation: Do not make my lunch, because it is Hot Dog Day.

Today was one of those days when God says: "THIS is why you have kids. You have kids because they're more effective than a mirror." I opted not to be Eden's piano teacher for a few reasons. Mainly, because, I didn't want to be her piano teacher. I desperately want her to learn, to embrace the gift that is music, to be able to connect with her soul and communicate the beauty inside of her to the world outside. I just didn't want to be the one fighting with her. I didn't feel like "because I said so" would motivate her as well as "because Dr. G said so." And that part was right. Those words, like they did with me 20 years ago, hold some serious weight. But the fighting? Oh, it's epic. I don't have to be her teacher. I have to be her practice buddy. Turns out, that's harder than being the teacher. Daily, I sit with her on the bench, patiently pointing out mistakes, counting along, singing the words. We talk about louds and soft...

I have a five year old. That is, WE have a five year old. For five years now, my life has more or less been about keeping this small person (and the subsequent small person) alive. And healthy. And happy. For 25 years, life was about us. Then March 7 came. We had celebrated our 3rd anniversary on Wednesday with a dinner at Carrabba's. I had another 3 weeks to go, we thought. At my weekly appointment on Thursday, the doctor had different news. Better news. "You're SURE you're not feeling any contractions or anything? Because you're between 3 and 4 centimeters...Go home, start timing, and I'll see you soon." We checked in at 4:30 the next morning and our first daughter was born by 11. I don't know if you've had the experience of being the main player of an attraction who is treated as if she isn't in the room, but it's pretty weird. I wasn't with it enough to ask a lot of questions but I heard things like "prolapse" and ...

I don't know if you know this, but the most exhausting activity under the sun is not an active one, but passive. And when I have been intensely engaged in the activity of "being disobeyed," I know I have earned my early bedtime. Want to try it out? Find yourself a relatively obedient preschooler - late 4, early 5 is best. Ideally, the child will have been spending some time with "other kids" recently, and will have eschewed a nap for the last couple days. It is also beneficial if the child believes him- or herself to be a civil rights attorney. Now: ask them to do something. Try something easy, like, "Come get in the car, honey." You'll have to ask again. "Come get in the car, please." For a really good workout, you'll get another 2 or 3 out of this one. "Right now, please. In the car." And finally, "Stop what you're doing and come get in the car RIGHT NOW." Apply this method to every activity for the next 5 ho...

About 117 times a day, I give my daughters the chance to choose to be obedient. There are various phrases that accompany these opportunities, things like "Make the right choice," "Be obedient," "When mommy asks you to do something, when are you supposed to do it?," and "Thank you for your obedience." Lately, because we have entered the exasperating stalling phase , I've added "Slow obedience is the same as disobedience." But every time I say it, I wince, because it's not my admonition to a 4-year-old that I hear, but the stern warning of the Holy Spirit in my own life. I wonder if God gets as huffy with me as I do with my kids when I send them to brush their teeth and enter the bathroom 15 minutes later to find them playing with bubbles in the sink, toothbrushes dry. Or if He mutters the words "slow obedience is the same as disobedience" like I do, when I hear the words, "not yet, mom," or "I'm COMIN...

A few months ago, Eden saw a Wonder Woman costume in a catalog. She cut it out, glued it to a piece of paper and affixed it to the fridge - a constant reminder of her big Halloween plans. To our knowledge, she had never been introduced to Wonder Woman - she just knows a cool costume when she sees one. And it is a very cool costume. We tell her that (every day) when she puts it on. She looks fantastic, ready for anything. So on Friday, she was thrilled to wear it to school. Wrist shields, gold headband & belt were in place - though we swapped the red & white striped boot covers that slide down her legs for her awesome cowgirl boots, which don't slide down her legs. She didn't walk through the hall - it was a confident, boot-assisted strut. We opened the classroom door to see... 9 girls dressed as Disney Princesses. 3 Belles barricaded her at the door, having perfected the Mean Girl snarl that says, "Didn't you get the memo? This is the year of the Princess....

(March 24, 2006) I'm sitting in this chair, watching my 9-month-old play on the floor. If you haven't spent much time around babies, don't worry - that's what they do. They play on the floor. All day long. When they're not eating or sleeping. Anyway, in my motherly opinion, this child wants for nothing. Within arms reach of her are any number of fantastic, brightly colored toys that blink, buzz, play music, squeak, do your taxes... but she insists on shunning them all in favor of tiny little pieces of lint from the carpet. No! I tell her. Stop it! I tell her. Lint is bad! Lint can kill you! Choking! Death! Look at your toys! Look at all I've given you! But she just looks up at me, smiles, waves, and starts searching for more lint. And I'm struck by how much my baby & I have in common. (outside of the obvious DNA similarities) I mean, isn't that the same interaction most of us have with God on a daily basis? God is shouting at us all day long - LOOK!...