As my chest heaved with heavy sobs, I heard the door open. My five-year-old, clad in pajamas, walked out of of his room. Seeing the tears streaming down my face, he stared.
“Your yelling woke me up,” he said. I just looked back without words, blinking.
“Mommy is feeling sad,” my husband said. He got up off the couch and ushered my son back to bed.
A wave of shame swept over me. Did he overhear me talking? My cry of frustration was over how my son had been treating me.
Shovel in hand, I scooped up clod after clod of dirt from our yard. My four-year-old self placed each scoop-full in a pile, leaving a hole in front of me. Each time, some fell on my pink sweatpants, but I just focused on my task. In the sandy soil, I encountered worms, pill-bugs, grubs. I looked at them and shrugged, placing them to the side. The word sustainability wasn’t in the parlance then. I didn’t know or care why it’s good for kids to play outdoors. I just knew that I felt like I was doing something powerful, even if it was only powerful to me.
Looking out on the vast, rushing waters, I realized that this waterfall is where I visit when life feels beyond my control.
I visited here not long after my older son was born. The days were long, spent with a baby who refused to be put down for even a minute without crying. Afternoons and evenings stretched out, just us together after we walked my husband to the subway for work. The nights were longer, up every few hours rocking and nursing, rocking and nursing, wondering when it would be over.
But I came here and found something bigger than the confines of my little home. I pushed him in the stroller and nursed him on the bench, letting the roar of the water fill my soul.
Don’t say anything, don’t say anything, I repeated to myself as I looked at my son’s construction paper pumpkin.
The pumpkin was a “family project” from kindergarten, a totally optional assignment for fun.
It started out simply enough. Cut out the template and trace it onto the construction paper. But as soon as he lifted up the template, I noticed something. There were huge gaps in the lines. This could be better, I thought. But I don’t want to tell him it’s wrong!
“How close is this house to the bus stop?” I asked the realtor as we looked for our house. While that’s not a typical question, it was essential for us. That’s because we only have one car.
People claimed that we’d have to buy a second car once we had kids – especially living in the suburbs. But even after having a second kid, we’ve managed to get by quite happily as a one-car family. It’s even possible to be a zero-car family – one of my friends has four kids and doesn’t own a car! Even if you own a second car now, you may want to consider not buying another one when you retire it. According to AAA, the average family spends $8,500 per car each year on payments, insurance, and gas.
If you’re going to make the leap – or just use the second car less – here’s what to consider:
My son recently changed his favorite toy and I felt rather bad for his previously-beloved bunny. So I wrote a letter to her.
Dear Snowball,
I swear I didn’t know this would happen. When I said we’d bring the kids to Build A Bear for the first day of school, I thought it would be a cute activity. I didn’t know that the new guy – and I’m so sorry for this – would replace you.
You’ve been my older son’s favorite for so long. Longer than any of the other animals, in fact. At first, you were the stand-in for his beloved imaginary friend, who was also a bunny. While he loved Bear and Woof Woof and Taco, he loved you more. You were the first animal he gave a personality to, told stories about, and even created a whole imaginative world for! His bed became Bunnyland, with houses and stores and even a roller-coaster.
Honestly, you becoming the favorite was a total surprise to us. One day, you were just that white bunny Grandma gave him one Easter. Seemingly the next, you were The Favorite. And so you hopped into our lives.
But now, it seems like you’ve been demoted. Woofie is now the king, with his dog bed and kindergarten cachet. He’s the one my son brought to school for stuffed animal day. Woofie’s the one my son frets about if he’s not in his bed at bedtime. Compared to his soft, fluffy coat, your not-so-white fur is looking the worse for wear. I’ve even seen my younger son walking around with you without my older son complaining. At least you still have the more creative name.
But what are we to do? I can’t make him love you more. I can’t guarantee you’ll ever be the favorite again. While I still have a few of my stuffed animals as an adult, I don’t have the relationship with them that I did as a child.
The only thing I can guarantee is the one thing I hold close as his mom – that he loves me. And he loved you too.
Because you and me and all of us are in this together. One day I’ll experience this too. One day, he’ll love someone else more than he’ll love me. And I’ll have to let go, just as he’s let you go.
We can’t stop him from growing up. The only thing we can do is love who he becomes.
Two huge sunflowers rose out of my children’s garden, their once yellow faces bending down towards the Earth. Holding a serrated knife, I wondered how on Earth I was going to get their seeds out. But I had promised my kids sunflower seeds and sunflower seeds were what I was going to deliver.
Despite my conundrum, saving and using seeds from your garden (or even farmer’s market purchased produce), isn’t that complicated. It’s a great activity to do with kids that you can use to illustrate the life cycle of plants and teach them how to use as much of the plant as possible. It also minimizes reliance on store bought seeds for your garden. After you’ve harvested the seeds, you can save them for next year’s garden, feed them to wildlife, or even cook them off and eat them yourself.
If you’re interested in saving seeds, here are the main steps:
“We’re going to be a little sad when you go to kindergarten,” I said to my five-year-old son at dinner one night a few weeks before school started.
His face dropped and his lip quivered.
“Oh honey! You shouldn’t be sad about growing up.” I paused, trying to figure out how to explain this. “Mommies and daddies get a little sad about their kids growing up. We know you’ll never be babies again. But we also love watching you grow up so much.” I smiled, then got up and hugged him in his chair.
What I didn’t tell him was this:
“But I want the cool sauce!” my five year old whined. We had just moved the container of ranch dressing closer to his two-year-old brother, so he could dip his chicken wing in it.
“Mine!” my younger son proclaimed.
“You guys need to share it,” I said.
“Then it should be in the middle!” my older son pointed out. To him, the solution favoring his brother was quite unjust.
Going for a hike on a brisk day, I asked my then four-year-old if he wanted his sweatshirt. “No!” he insisted. Nonetheless, I was going to be the responsible mom and bring it along anyway. Just in case.
Arriving at the hiking trail, he climbed out of his car seat and declared, “I’m coooold! So cold!”
Going to look for the sweatshirt, my smile dropped off my face. Nope, not there. Not there either. Crap, I forgot it.