“Around here, we don’t look backwards for very long…
We keep moving forward,
opening up new doors,
and doing new things,
because we’re curious …
…and curiosity keeps leading us down new paths.”
Sometimes I wish Mike and I could both stay home with Ryan all day. Not just because, duh, two against one, but also because there are so many moments in a week, in a day, in an hour, when that little boy surprises me, makes me laugh or does something so, so brave that I grin and I clap and I cheer and then I think: Darn, I’m the only one who saw that.
I’m the sole witness to so much of his life. It’s a terrible burden for me, on account of my goldfish-esque memory. I think that’s why my phone is permanently lodged in my right hand. Because I know at any moment, Ryan could be on the cusp of doing something amazing that must be remembered and I have to capture it before it floats off into the clouds forever.
He climbed that rock wall with NO hesitation. I kept hitting the camera button on my iPhone, thinking I really should be doing a better job of spotting him and waiting for him to glance over his shoulder to make sure I was still there.
He never did. In fact, he got to the top and took off running without ever pausing to note my coordinates.
He’s grown up so much this summer. As little as a year ago, he stood on the playground sidelines and watched other kids play, too cautious or intimidated or bashful to join them. Now, he’s the kid who goes in search of a new friend everywhere we go, approaching the first kid he finds with, “Hi! My name is Ryan. What’s your name? Want to play with me? Come on, let’s go!“
When I try to get him to do something he doesn’t want to do, he placates me with, “maybe tomorrow, Mommy … maybe tomorrow.” He thinks if you are watching a movie, you should also be eating popcorn. He kicks his shoes off as soon as I put the car into drive. He scolds me if I say “pretzels” when the proper terminology is obviously “pretzel goldfish.” He tells me if I get scared of the shadows while I’m sleeping, to call to him and he’ll come scare them away for me.
He must always know where I am. If I’m out of his sight for more than 2 minutes, he yells across the house to confirm my location. If he sees a beach in a commercial on TV, he yells for me to come see it. His favorite job is to sort the recyclables. If I make a dinner he doesn’t like, he runs screaming from the room and throws himself onto the couch in despair; but he almost always comes back to try it.
He’s freakin’ hilarious and part of me wishes I could bottle him up, press a giant pause button on the way he is right now.
Then again, Walt is right. I want him to keep moving forward, opening new doors, doing new things and following his curiosity down new paths.
I have to have faith that even if I forget the details, I will always remember how he kept surprising and amazing me.
For nearly four years, I have been mesmerized by my son’s eyes.
When he was brand new, he had those deep blue newborn eyes that are so common. They were a beautiful nighttime ocean blue, but we knew they wouldn’t stay that way.
Since then, it’s been a gradual yet persistent change as new colors creep in. By sixth months old, green was pushing the blue to the edges.
By the time Ryan reached 1 year, his eyes had turned a deep green unlike anything I’d ever seen, earning him the nickname “green eyes” for a while. A camera never could quite capture their magic. His one-year photo shoot was closest we ever came to documenting them.
But soon, a rich brown began pushing against the green and by age 2, most people were commenting about his “beautiful brown eyes.”
We thought maybe that was it, but the brown somehow lightened and the green around the edges became more defined.
Now, his eyes look different every day. The color changes or deepens depending on the light or his outfit or his mood.
Case in point: these pictures were taken on the same weekend trip to Cape May earlier this summer:
What has remained consistent is that regardless of their color, his eyes have always brimmed with emotion, intelligence and passion. I often turn to him with a thought, a reprimand or a compliment, and stumble in thought when he meets my gaze with such intensity.
He’s my little blue-eyed/green-eyed/brown-eyed wonder.
I’ve been taking a bit of a break from blogging this summer. I haven’t totally abandoned it – I’ve tried to throw out a few sensory or craft ideas here and there, but most anything of substance is sitting half-written in my “drafts” section.
It wasn’t a conscious decision, at least not at first. At first, it was mostly due to a time crunch. Having Ryan home with me all day (preschool starts back up in less than six weeks, not that I’m counting!) at a time when my freelance writing business has picked up steam has proven to leave me maxed out at the end of most days.
I’m tired, guys. Not in a I-just-need-a-couple-extra-hours-of-sleep sort of way but in a bone-tired-brain-fried sort of way. I don’t have the energy at the end of the day to sit down and write anything of substance for myself, not if I want it to make any sense. I don’t mean that as a whine, simply as a fact. I love what I do at home — both with Ryan and with keeping my career alive. But it takes stamina, and things must be prioritized.
It’s not just that, though. I find that the older Ryan gets, the more carefully I’m choosing my words. My friend Kate said it perfectly in her “goodbye, blogging” post – it’s like the stories are no longer mine to tell. I’ve blogged about Ryan since I was pregnant with him. But those posts were really about me. Posts from when he was a sick baby, a silly toddler, even a tenacious three-year-old still seemed like they were more about me, about how I handled each new stage of baby/toddlerhood, reaching out to others for reassurance that we’ve been there and this is normal and omg, me too. I get to choose what I share about myself, what I leave out and what I gloss over.
While Ryan has always technically been his own person, the depth of that truth hits me more and more each day. I find myself stepping into his shoes more often. How would I have felt if my own mom had written about her adventures as a new mom? My god, I would have loved to read that.
But how would I feel reading about my own mom’s struggles parenting me as I reached an age where I finally needed real parenting? The point where Keep The Baby Alive And Call It A Good Day turns into Dear God She’s Moody And I Hate Age 3. Furthermore, how would I like for it to be permanently recorded on the internet for all my future teenage friends to find and use against me? Yeah, no.
This isn’t to say I’m not going to blog anymore. I love the creative outlet, I love the community. But I need to figure out a way to turn the lens back on myself. It probably means posting less often about more thoughtful topics.
Which brings me back to my above-mentioned point re: lack of brain power.
So, who knows.
While I figure it out, shall we look at some cute photos of my kid sleeping? Cuz, apparently, the more tired I get, the more pictures I take of him getting the rest I crave.
That yellow blanket you see wrapped around him in almost every photo? That’s Jigga-Jigga Blankie. Ryan named it that and we have no idea why, but it is his absolute favorite thing In The World and must be protected At All Costs.
(I hope he doesn’t get teased for that one day … but I had to say it.)
It starts with the obvious.
This is the last time we’ll stay in this house when we visit my family in Ohio.
It moves on to the slightly ridiculous.
It’s the last time we’ll order pizza from Marsella’s. The last time Dad will make chocolate milkshakes in this kitchen. The last time we’ll grill in this backyard. The last time I’ll walk barefoot up this driveway.
Hey, this is the last time I’ll take a shower in the basement! (Yay!)
It ends with the sentimental.
It’s the last night I’ll sleep in my childhood bedroom. The last time we’ll all be here together.
Last weekend, I said goodbye to my childhood home.
After 19 years, my parents are leaving the house we moved into the summer before my 8th grade year. It’s the house I have the clearest memories in, the one I most associate with growing up.
I can still picture the way my bedroom looked when I was a teenager who blasted angsty music on a loop from my sleek(ish) black boombox. I can see the X-Files and Jim Thome posters scotch-taped to the back of the door. The hand-me-down 13-inch black and white TV propped up on the wooden bookshelf. The impressively vast collection of pink stuffed pigs.
I remember the morning I hugged my brother goodbye in the kitchen of that house as he packed up and left for college. I remember navigating my first car up the driveway of that house 15 minutes after proudly buying it. I remember eating cheesecake squares in the basement of that house during my high school graduation party.
I remember the day I packed up my bedroom to move to Arizona. I remember the time I brought my six-month-old baby back to that house and introduced him to his cousins.
It’s a three-bedroom ranch, the perfect house for a young family of four. But young families age and change, and the house is no longer perfect for a couple with two grown children, their spouses and four grandchildren. For one thing, the dining room can only hold about half of our crew. (A good problem to have as far as problems go, but still, it makes everything from a casual pizza lunch to a full-on holiday dinner somewhat of a challenge.)
It’s time for my parents to move on.
I’m excited for them to get everything they want and deserve out of their next home, a brand new house that will come equipped with the exact layout and countertops and flooring and paint colors they choose. (Also, I don’t mind that the set-up in the new house is going to be more ideal for us when we visit with our kid.)
Still, my heart ached a bit at the end of the weekend as we packed up our car and began to pull away.
I rolled down my window and called out to my parents, “It’s the last time we back out of the driveway!”
My mom sighed and rolled her eyes as my dad called back, “If you ever want to do it again, just drive by and pull into the driveway. I’m sure the new owners won’t mind.”
Good point. Maybe I will.
We’re still sensory-activity’ing it up around here. In case you were wondering.
I am particularly loving right now because sensory activities take much less planning and happen much more organically when you can, you know, go OUTSIDE.
(I’m officially reacclimatized to the East Coast, taking a jab at winter when it isn’t even winter.)
First and foremost, nothing entertains my kid for long stretches of time like a sandy beach and an ocean shore:
Unfortunately, we live a few hours from the beach, so that can’t happen every day. But what can happen practically every day (as long as it doesn’t rain) is this:
If it does rain, we ditch the pool in search of the neighborhood’s best puddles:
Yet, it’s July already (wha-huh?), so even those activities are starting to get a bit redundant. So back to Pinterest I go, in search of outdoor sensory activities. My new favorite is …
I used an old muffin tin that was long past its prime (you could also use a leftover plastic cupcake holder from a store/bakery or a bunch of disposable plastic cups). I filled the cups a little less than halfway with corn starch, added an equal amount of water and then several drops of food coloring.
The more food coloring you use, the more vibrant your paint will dry. I added tons of color for the yellow paint thinking that color might be too light on the sidewalk … it turned out to be the most brilliant of the batch.
This looks like a messy project, but it really wasn’t. I kept wipes nearby for our hands and a downpour the next day washed away the rest.
I’m not done, though. I also want to do:
And on and on and on. I hope that one day, many years from now, Ryan will look back on his childhood and say, “Wow, my mom dreamed up some wildly random activities for me as a kid.”
For more sensory (or just plain fun) ideas, visit my Sensory Play Page on the blog or my Activities for Kids board on Pinterest where I pin all the awesome sensory magic I can find. Also, if you have a fun summer craft/activity idea for kids, please comment here so we can all benefit from your creativity.
Ryan isn’t even four years old yet and I’m already starting to feel like I’m getting close to using up all my sentimental / affordable / unique / easy gift ideas for his dad.
I’ve designed photo books filled with pictures of Mike and Ryan together. I’ve made photo cards and photo plaques. Cards that Ryan has colored, cards with painted handprints. One time, in a rare moment of creativity, I dreamed up a pretty cool hand-painted DAD stencil print.
I thought long and hard about Mike’s Father’s Day gift this year. I had no new ideas. Therefore, I decided to steal my friend’s idea, something she has done for her husband every year since her oldest was born: a little D-A-D photo shoot.
I like that this gift is something you can easily update every year. I like that the pictures show their personalities and how they’ve changed during the past 12 months. I like that once you buy the letters (a few dollars each at any craft store) and a picture frame (I scored this one for $4), the gift will only cost you about 15 minutes of time and less than a buck in prints in subsequent years.
But the best part?
Oh, the best part is the outtakes…
I really need to create a folder on my computer labeled “Pictures for Ryan’s High School Graduation Slideshow” so I can add that last one to it.
What are your favorite DIY gifts for Dad? Mike has a birthday in a few months and now I’m really out of ideas.
“But you have to let me watch a show, Mommy! You HAVE to!”
“The only thing I HAVE to do is die and pay taxes,” I shot back without thinking.
Did I really just say that?
Did I seriously just channel my father* with one of those phrases? One of the most sigh-inducing, eye-roll-worthy phrases of my childhood?
He’s not the only one I channel lately. You should see how I open my mouth and my mother comes stumbling out.
I never, never, never thought I would demand that Ryan ask for something nicely by saying “Please, beautiful Mommy.” Because Oh For The Love Of All That Is Holy, It Is So Annoying.
Yet, I do. And unfortunately, I was outed when my mom recently asked Ryan to say “Please, beautiful Grandma,” and he repeated it so quickly and easily that she peered at me out of the corner of her eye and mumbled, “Hmmm … seems like it wasn’t the first time he was asked to say something like that …”
All of a sudden, the because-I-said-so’s and the when-you-grow-up-and-have-your-own-kids-you-can’s are flying out my mouth.
We do become our parents, don’t we?
I think I know why that is. I think it’s because our kids become us.
Ryan is blessed to grow up smack-dab in the center of Middle Class America, just as I was, just as my husband was. We have enough money to meet every one of Ryan’s needs and a decent portion of his wants. Basically, he gets just enough to leave him perpetually wanting more.
Middle class kids whine because they have a pool but not a sprinkler. A tricycle but not a bike. They have their own little watering can but, oh tragedy, they don’t have their own little rake. So they sit and fume in their personal kid-sized adirondack chairs, unaware that other kids around the world are working their childhoods away in sweatshops. They sob because you put the ketchup on the wrong side of the dinner plate while other kids their age starve.
It’s a little bit infuriating. Because as an adult, I can appreciate how hard it is to work and provide. As a wife and a mother, I know I was lucky to be born into a loving, two-parent family. I read (and write) the news, so I know a happy, easy life is not a given. I’ve worked with kids who battled cancer, so I know a healthy childhood should never be taken for granted.
I didn’t know any of those things as a child, and I’m glad Ryan can grow up innocently enough to not know them either. Even so, when he tells me I have to put a cartoon on TV for him, I become the tiniest bit outraged. Because actually, NO, I don’t. I don’t have to put on a show. I don’t have to take you to the playground. I don’t have to take you back to Disney World. I don’t have to buy you yet another giant ball – in addition to the two you already have – to kick around the backyard as you complain that I am, once again, not playing the game right.
All I have to do is die and pay taxes.
*Technically, Benjamin Franklin said it (or a variation of it) first. But kudos to my Dad for helping keep the sentiment alive for another generation.
I posted last month about how Ryan adamantly does not want to grow up.
I should have titled that post “Things Ryan Insists Upon On a Daily Basis, Part 1″.
Part 2 would be this:
His. Name. Is. RYAN. You ignorant fool!
It began innocently enough. We’d call out to him with something cute like, “Come on, ya little tater tot, let’s go!”
And he’d respond with unexpected fury: ”I. Am. Not. A. Tater. Tot! My. Name. Is. RYAN!”
Or we’d give him a compliment:
“Wow, you look so tan!”
“I’m not tan! My name is Ryan!”
Or we’d demonstrate respect:
“Oh, yes sir!”
“I’m not a sir! My name is Ryan!”
Naturally, as soon as we discovered the heightened level of annoyance he felt at being called a random name, we could no longer control it. Cutesy nicknames began flying about with abandon.
On any give day, he might be a Hummus Head, Stinker Face or Buster Brown. We might make reference to the fact that he appears to resemble a hot dog, a rhino or a snicker doodle.
Each name is met with the same sort of infuriated resistance. “I. Am. NOT. A. Potato Chip! My Name is Ryan!”
I have good news, though. Occasionally, at the end of his rant, he adds that he is a “big boy.” For example: “I am not a little beach bum! My name is Ryan The Big Boy!”
Perhaps we’re making progress on Part 1?
When Ryan was a baby, I couldn’t wait for him to talk.
I wondered what his voice would sound like and how he would pronounce things.
I thought it would be so funny when we hit the phase of the incessant questions.
When they can’t talk, notions like that seem so quaint, don’t they?
You think you’ll be the first mom who won’t get annoyed with the bam-bam-bam-bam-bam rapid fire questions minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day after day. Cuz, aw, they’re just curious and we want to encourage that curiosity and someday they won’t care what the heck we think so let’s appreciate it now.
Well, we’ve arrived and it turns out I’m not one to traipse along the side of the high road on this one. Instead, I’m snapping things like “Good lord, no more questions!” and “BecauseBecauseBecauseBecause!”
We had our house ducts and vents cleaned out today. (Which, by the way? When you move into a new home, do this right away. You don’t want to live with the knowledge that you’ve been breathing in someone else’s dog’s hair for 10 months. You just don’t.)
Anyway, after the nice duct-cleaning gentlemen left, we jumped into the car to head to tumbling class as Ryan asked a question that I naturally couldn’t answer: “But … where are the cleaning guys going now?”
I could have been honest. I could have simply said, “I don’t know.” However, this not being my first rodeo, I know that “I don’t know” only prompts him to repeat the question over and over until we’re yelling at each other, “BUT WHERE ARE THEY GOING?” / “I. SAID. I. DON’T. KNOW.”
So, I made something up. I told him they were going home.
Ryan: Where do they live?
Me: Uh….. Allentown.
Ryan: But what street do they live on?
Me: Uh….. Allentown Street.
Ryan: Oh. Where is Allentown Street?
Me: In Allentown.
Ryan: Oh, right.
(There is a brief moment of silence; I begin celebrating internally that I have somehow managed to satisfy his curiosity on the topic of Where the Duct Guys Live.) But then…
Ryan: Wait, where is Allentown?
Me: Sigh. West of here.
Ryan: West of here??
Ryan: WEST of here?!
Me: Yes, west of here.
Ryan (pointing out the window): Wait, is THAT their house?!
Me: No, that can’t be their house. Because they live in Allentown.
Ryan: Ohhhhhh, right.
Finally, he was satisfied. That satisfaction freed him up to spend the remaining 7 minutes of the 10-minute ride asking me who was going to coach his tumbling class today and where was Coach Jen last week and why was she busy last week and where would the new coach lady be today if Coach Jen was back at his class and why why why why why?
On the plus side, at least I know that his voice is cute and he does pronounce certain words in a childishly endearing way. So there’s that.
Time passes so quickly in a place with four seasons. The heat melts away as vibrant leaves fall from the trees; then sheets (upon sheets upon sheets) of snow finally relent to make way for budding flowers, signaling the fast approach of the same heat you started with.
It’s a bit of a whirlwind. I’d sort of forgotten that.
East Coast seasons mark the passage of time in a way that the endless summers of the Southwest can’t. Each season is beautiful in its own way and they all feel so fleeting, so I find myself desperately attempting to commit every detail to memory.
I’m the idiot you see driving around, wide-eyed and swerving, marveling at the trees, the sky, the flowers, the everything. It changes so fast; I don’t want to miss a moment.
Right now, I’m in awe of the way the large trees are forming a green, flowered canopy over every side street. I take deep breaths as Ryan and I drive around town with all four windows down and the music blasting. I’m loving the way it feels humid after it rains, the smell of fresh cut grass, the way the sun warms my bare feet.
Also? Ryan’s first year of preschool has come to a close. As of Friday, we are officially on summer break.
How is that possible? Didn’t I just take this picture:
(Those shoes look so new and HUGE on him … Now they are faded, worn and small.)
Before I knew it, I was taking this picture:
I thought I was going to be a little wary of the school year coming to a close. After all, having a few mornings to myself each week to grocery shop, run errands, watch Real Housewives, etc, is not entirely unpleasant.
But I’m excited to have the extra time with Ryan. He had a bit of a rough year in preschool. In hindsight, maybe he just wasn’t ready for it this year. The summer break feels like the perfect chance to regroup, slow down and refocus on having fun and allowing him to be a kid.
In preparation, I did what I do best: I came up with a plan for how we should spend all this extra time we’re going to have together.
The 2014 Phase Three of Life Summer Bucket List
I love mini seasonal bucket lists. I think the key with these is to not live and die by them. If I don’t make homemade crabcakes all summer, I’m not going to berate myself. These lists simply help me focus on what is really important at the beginning of a season and provide me with creative ideas on those inevitable boring, uninspired days.
Each change of season feels like you’re trading in one kind of awesome for another. Before we know it, the outdoor BBQs will give way to indoor pots of soup, we’ll trade in our ice cream for hot cocoa, and Ryan will be slinging a brand new school bag over his shoulder every morning.
So for now, I’m going to focus on the awesomeness that is having my son home with me every day to be lazy, to explore, to enjoy the outdoors and to create memories.
I'm Meg. An Ohio girl who relocated to Arizona after college and met a Pennsylvania boy. Married him and had a kid. After nearly a decade in the desert, we moved Back East to be closer to family and changing seasons. I'm a freelance writer and a stay-at-home mom. I'm a good baker and a mediocre cook. I am too organized and too sarcastic for my own good.
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