Here's What You Don't Do ...

Here's what you don't do on your oldest's 8th birthday, when you're already feeling all verklempt about him not being a little kid anymore, about time passing too quickly, and about your journey together so far.  You don't accidentally come across this Amy Tan quote (I've inserted "son" for "daughter"):

 

“…I love my son. He and I have shared the same body. There is a part of his mind that is a part of mine. But when he was born he sprang from me like a slippery fish, and has been swimming away ever since. All his life, I have watched him as though from another shore.”

 

Because when you do, you end up crying onto your keyboard, trying to catch tiny breaths between the tears.  It's hard - motherhood.  This eight-year ride has been beautiful, challenging, magical, heartbreaking, exhilirating, and everything in between.  And always, an incredible, incredible honor.

 

Eight years old?  Whatevs.  As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be.



This and That, with a Side of Weepiness

So, Ben turns 8 next week.  And I'm kind of weepy about it.  I know, they're getting older every day, but it's that marking of years that gets me.  And, I think, that his birthday happens to fall at the same time as the end of the school year.  I mean, EIGHT years old AND third grade??  Geeze, I may as well start shopping for his college dorm room.  Whoever said, "The days are long, the years are short," was, well ... clearly a Mom.

 

Thankfully, life has been insanely busy, so I really don't have time to sit around and cry in my wine (which would just be sad and inappropriate anyway).  Before kids, May was just a month.  Now, it is a marathon of sports, field trips, school projects, and end-of-year celebrations:

 See?  The very picture of busy-ness.

 But seriously, learning to wink is very time consuming.

 As is cheering on the Braves.

 The boys just finished a session of swim lessons.

Noah's coach wasn't an ugly human being (just sayin').

 And Eliza is finishing her first session of dance classes.

And the sports.  Oh, the gift that just keeps taking and taking (our time).

But then there's a post-victory dog-pile moment like this and you have to love it.  Ben's baseball team plays their post-season tournament this weekend.  (See?  Since when do we have a kid old enough to be playing a sports tournament?)

End-of-year chess awards ceremony.

And Noah's end-of-year class art show.

I drove Ben's class on a field trip last week.  When I asked to take a picture, I got this "Seriously, Mom?" look, instead of the smiley arms-around-each-other pose of years past (sniff).

 

And then this:

 The sniffer of all sniffers.  (Maybe that doesn't sound right?)

We celebrated our dearest friend Ava's first communion a couple weeks ago.  I mean, really now.



 

 Of course, there's always Mother's Day to put it all into perspective. 

 I like to think I set the mothering bar at an attainable reach for those around me.  You know, don't want to make anyone feel bad with my awesome parenting skills.

 But I don't know.  Eliza kind of nailed it with this gift:  I nice AND clean!  Occasional bathing AND Hungry Hippo skillz.  Sorry, moms - can't help but do what I do.

 

And, according to Noah, if it all just gets to be too much, I can always do a load of laundry to take the edge off:

"I love her one hundred thousand and around the world."

Best.  Words.  Ever.

 The days are long.  The years are short.

I'm blessed through all of it.

That's My Girl

Despite Eliza's 2-year-old stubbornness, angst, irrationality, and overall craziness, she really does have my heart ... and my back.  Most recent case in point:

 

She and I were finishing up our weekly grocery trip, standing at the cash register, while she and the bagger exchanged their usual pleasantries:

"Hi, how are you?"

"Good."

"How old are you?"

"Two."

"Did you help Mommy shop today?"

"Yep."

 

When I'd paid and started to push the cart away, Eliza dramatically pointed to the bagger and screamed, with the volume and urgency of someone who was about to be hit by a car, "YOU FORGOT THE WIIINE!!!"  I turned around and, indeed, there sat my bottle of wine in its brown paper bag, overlooked and left behind.  I realize that many (perhaps most) moms would have shrunk in horror that their 2-year-old had shrieked such a thing in public.  But nope, not this mama.  I cupped her little face in my hands, kissed her cheek, said "thank you," and went back and picked up my almost-abandoned bottle of wine.  God love that little girl.