I hate to admit it, but more often than not I am one of those crass drivers in the morning commute.  Depending on how much sleep I had the night before, or how many times I got elbowed by a four year old in a bed he should no longer be sleeping in, I honestly do believe I can get to my destination faster by one car's length when not letting someone merge into my lane at a backed up red light.

This belief, which can more accurately be described as a poor attitude, is something I try to work on in hopes to eradicate.  One morning, I was doing just that.  The back up at the red light was not too bad and I was feeling charitable towards the young woman in the silver 4Runner trying to pull out of the Shell station into my lane.  I stopped well over a car length's distance behind the car in front of me, the classic indication of "go ahead and pull out."  She didn't.  But, seeing as I didn't  wake up once during the previous night's slumber, even when the aforementioned four year old apparently climbed over me to get to the middle of the bed, I continued to leave the space in front of me wide open. 

As the light turned green, I ducked my head to the side of my rearview mirror and gave the young woman the wave off to jump ahead of me.  What she did in return was what all of us with closet driving kindness pray for.  She waved thank you back.  And it wasn't just an obligatory wave.  The kind where you spike your hand up fast and only give it a second's thought whether or not the driver behind you can see your measly little hand through your tinted back window.  No, this was a great thank you wave. 

She smiled grandly, and waved so big her upper body shook and jiggled in glee.  Consisting of the sort of excitement that made me think it more aptly belonged in a situation where a thirteen year old girl had been staring at Johnny all through lunch across the track field, when Johnny finally gave her a nod to say hello and she reciprocating by waving wildly back. 

I couldn't help but smile.  In fact, I smiled the whole way to work.  Even while monitoring the three tenths of a gallon used to drive downtown.  I'm still smiling.  So, thank you Ms. Waver.  That was special of you.   

The older I get, the more old fashioned I want to be.  It's a wardrobe prerequisite to not wear skirts too far above the knee and I figured it's high time to join the ranks and start making my own jam with the abundance of June fruits and berries.  

It all started with an article in the June edition of Bon Appetit magazine about the simple and pleasurable art of canning.  I was inspired, I was intrigued, and I decided to make my own jam.  I found myself at Murray Family Farms on a day where it was already ninety-eight degrees at 9:30 a.m. with one son whose idea of berry picking was to whack the vines with a stick, while the other was sleeping in his sling, drawn close to me and making me even hotter in the unforgiving sun.  

Before I could voice my opinion about the miserable plight of migrant workers, I was distracted by a question directed to the Holy One in Heaven, my Lord God, about whether or not He had even intended man to partake of the beastly boysenberry.  For if He had, then why, oh why, would He put so many blasted needle sharp thorns surrounding the whole of the vine and the berry?  And at the moment I figured it would have been just as advantageous to be barefoot rather than messing with the useless flip flops I was wearing, I collected the last of my two pounds of berries and went into the general store where I also purchased a flat of apricots. 

Not three days later, I had two jars of berry jam and six jars of apricot jam.  In sum, jam is my new condiment du jour.  I actively search out items to spread and smother with jam on account of the very real difference homemade jam makes.  Would it taste good as a reduced glaze on pasta?  How about as a topping over cheesecake?  It would be so un-chic to merely put it on toast, but the best way to eat it, as we have found, is a shiny spoon thrust into an open jar.  Nothing more, nothing less, jam in its purest. 

I have never looked forward to June until now.  Thanks to Jammy jam jam.

Even when he talks in code, I can usually figure out what Ethan is asking me.  Most recently, he came into my office while I was working and asked me for his "pirate claw thing" and showed me his balled-up fist. 

"Huh?"  I asked and then went back to work.

He disappeared and asked me again when I was changing his little brother's diaper.  "You know, the pirate thing, where I say aaargh and I can slice it all up.  The hook thing."

"Oh! You mean your pirate hook that goes on your hand?"

"Yes, that's what I want.  Where is it?  Find it for me so I can play."

"You broke it.  It's gone."

"No.  I want it, find it for me, please."

"You broke it.  It's gone."

"No, I didn't break it. Find it."

"Last time I'm going to tell you.  You broke it.  It's gone."

'"Oh yeah!  Now I remember.  I took the black thing that goes on your hand and I tore it up real good."

"Yup.  That's what happened."

And then the cries began.  "My hook.  Oh, my hook.  I want my hook.  Please Momma, I want my  hook!"

"Sorry, you wanna make another one?"

"Make one?  How?"

I figured I could make him a temporary hook with tin foil, similar to the kind you'd see in a cheap production of Peter Pan.  As I pulled out a lengthy piece of foil, Ethan stood behind me saying, "Oh brother, this isn't going to be as good as a real hook."

I kept pursuing my make-shift idea.  Upon its completion I handed him the foil hook while he gave his lip a Billy Idol curl and said, "Yeah, that's not a real hook.  I can already tell it's not going to be fun."

"Sure it is.  It's sharp on the end and it's sturdy."

He took the hook and gave the dog a whack.  She ran away in fear and Ethan replied, "Okay, this'll work." 

I think it is fair to assume that all of us have our "things."  You know, a certain way any given "thing" has to be done.  For me, if I'm being honest, I have several things I have to have just so.  One of those things is Play-Doh.  As a child, I loved Play-Doh but would usually refrain from playing with anyone else's Play-Doh, even at school or church, because the world did not seem to rotate properly on its axis if a foul little child happened to mix the colors. 

Two years ago, I bought Ethan the gigantic tub of Play-Doh at Costco.  Something like twenty different colors.  It was so many colors they included not just red, but dark red and brick red as well.  Ethan was only two at the time.  I showed him how we can do our very best to not mix the colors.  Even by scraping off the tiny dried crumbs off before we play each time.  I also showed him how it's just better to play with one color at a time.  You know, resist temptation. 

For good reason, he never seemed to enjoy himself under mommy's regime.  Well, there was that one time during our bout of potty training where he seemed overly excited after I showed him how to roll the Play-Doh.  I found him at the table holding two rolled out pieces of dough, which he referred to as Mr. and Mrs. Turd.  He actually imprinted facial features on them.  The happy couple was always smiling.  Ethan was potty trained shortly thereafter. 

But, other than that incident, he's never really asked for the Play-Doh set to come back out until recently.  Figuring he was a big enough boy to play unsupervised, I found to my great horror a half hour later that he had mixed all the colors to a dull brown.  Before I got any grey hairs over it, I remembered that fostering his imagination is my most important role and my obsessive ness on matters of Play-Doh did not need to be re-introduced when he was having so much fun.  I ground my teeth, I tapped my feet insistently, and I even sweated a bit.  But, I said nothing. 

After all, Ethan already has his own "things."  That one is pretty obvious by the straight row of stuffed animals laying head to foot margining his bed at all times.

I'm severely confused on how some parents take their child's safety for granted.  The other day I was at the park and had struck up a conversation with a fellow mom, whom I had never met before.  She said she was going to go into the recreation center and said nothing else.  Leaving her child unattended at the park for almost fifteen minutes. 

Of course, I kept an eye on her child.  Though she didn't ask me to do it, I felt obligated to make sure he stayed safe.  But, she didn't know me from anyone. The next day, I happened by one of the elementary schools getting out at noon from summer school.  Child after child after child walking home alone.  They weren't even pairing up; every child fending for themselves.  I understand that many parents are at work when their kids get out of school, but there has to be a better way than letting them walk home alone.

My mother taught me to trust no one and she never let us do much without her eye constantly on us.  A bit overprotective, so I used to think when I was growing up.  Yet, she did manage to raise four children without even one of them getting lost, hurt, or innappropriately approached.  As a mother now myself, I'm thankful for the example.  My children won't be walking home by themselves, nor left to play on a playground while I disappear inside.  The way I see it, I only get one chance.  If I mess up and take my children's safety for granted, even once, it could mean the end of my child. 

On Father's Day, my husband got to pick out his favorite dessert for me to make.  Upon it's completion I let him take a gander at it and then said, "do you mind splitting it with my folks so we can celebrate father's day with my dad?"  He grimmaced a bit.  Not because he dislikes my parents, but because he's not what you'd call a willing sharer when it comes to my desserts. 

I told him that it was his day and he could make the ultimate decision.  I figured even though my own father was well deserving of some 'sweet' recognition, it was Charles who is currently waking up at six in the morning to change a dirty diaper; my dad hasn't changed one in almost thirty years.  Of course, Charles didn't mind sharing or going over to my parent's house. 

And, somehow, that topic came up again at my dad's house.  Who is more deserving of tribute on father's day?  The fathers who have already raised their children or the fathers who are currently in the process of raising their children?  My dad's point of view is that since his job is done, and was done successfully, the majority of tribute should be aimed at him.  My husband's and my point of view was that father's day is a respite for the dads who are knee deep in wants and needs at the present.  A break from diapers, a break from fixing toys, and a break from waking up early.  Or to put it a different way, is father's day a tribute to achievement or a break from the grind?  I think it's both. 

Maybe the difference in opinion only really boiled down to who would get the rest of the trifle I had made.  No argument there, it was going to be me.  

Oh, nostalgia.  It came for a visit today when all I wanted to do was to put the laundry away.  The baby is almost four months old and it was time to move through the newborn clothes to the next size up.  I had a box ready to put the old away in, to get it ready to be sold at the next baby items consignment sale.  I didn't realize it would be so hard. 

It wasn't just Aidan's clothes.  It was a combination of both all the new items I had bought for him and the best of the best of his older brother's outfits from almost four years earlier.  When I put my older son's clothes in a box four years ago, I knew I was safekeeping them, storing them for the next bundle of boy that I innately knew would eventually bless my little life. 

But, this time, it was different.  There aren't going to be any more babies in this house, and I am likely to never see these tiny onesies and rompers again.  They are getting boxed up to depart forever and I was torn.  Each piece has a memory.  I can't, for the life of me, recall what exact memory goes with each piece.  I simply have this fuzzy little notion that goodness, joy, and love are somehow interwoven in each outfit.  Like the blue sleeping gown that both of my sons wore.  It looked so good against their blue eyes, those extra-long lashes, I just couldn't put it in the box.  Nothing special happened when they wore this gown, but I had to keep it.  I knew there was something about it.

Maybe it was on their little bodies when I fell in love with them.  Maybe they wore it when I whispered in their ears for the first time that I'd die for them.  Maybe I spent twenty minutes trying to spot treat either poop or throw-up on it in the middle of one night, realizing for the first time that all my labor is well worth it.  I don't know which one of these things it might have been.  May have been all of them.  Maybe none of them.  But I plan on keeping that gown. 

It is a symbol of love only a parent knows, a piece of time that will remain precious even when I am old and alone.  And now, the gown has a new meaning.  Not of the perfect and small bodies that once were clothed in it, but of the realization that being a parent comes with a price.  That at some point in time, whether we like it or not, we have to say goodbye.  Not to everything, but most of it. 

Yesterday was day one of swim lessons.  The first day of the first session, no less.  I arrived early, the previous class was running late, and there wasn't enough chairs or shade for two groups of parents during the class change.  When I finally found myself sitting in the shade of a barely moving palm tree in 99 degree weather, something occurred to me.

These days would not last forever.  Yeah, one mother picked up my son's shirt and threw it on the ground so she could have his chair, and another mother parked so ridiculously close to me that I had to wait for her to back up in the blazing sun just so I could get into my own car, but I felt a sense of pride in the process.

I was doing what every parent inevitably finds themselves doing, I was trying to give my son a leg up in the world.  A class for this, a class for that, running here, running there.  And sitting there with all the other parents made me feel more normal than I ever have.  It makes me so aware of our club, our parenting club.  We don't all know each other, many times we don't like each other, but we all have one thing in common...we all want to be there for our kids.  It's a great thing.

And one day, our children will be grown and we'll be shielded from those busy sport games or lessons and all the parent driven mishaps that accompany each; we'll not be subjected to lessons in the scorching heat.  But, I have a feeling I'll miss it.  I'll miss that journey in clamoring with strangers for the best seat possible to watch our kids grow. 

I was perusing on Youtube and stumbled across a video regarding random acts of kindness.  The gentleman, in monologue form, went on for over seven minutes about making the world a better place though one small kind act after another. 

In the middle of his lamenting over all the tragedy prevalent in the world today, he said something that struck me to the core like little has recently.  He said, and I quote, "What can we do about it?  What can we do to make this world a  better place? I kind of feel helpless.  I kind of feel like I can only do so much.  If I ever have children, I can raise them a certain way...." 

But, I, I do have children.  It took this man on YouTube to remind me the obligation within my hands, within my voice, within my actions.  If I ever have children....  This man was quite astute in concluding that the power to make the world a better place is truly one child at a time.  

To teach our sons to respect women.  From holding the door open for them, to never pressuring them into physical acts.  To teach our daughters to respect themselves.  From having a mind of their own, to accepting they are beautiful just as God made them.  To show our children that lying is lying from saying they're younger than they are at the buffet, to missing curfew.  To instill in our children that everyone is loved and precious because God loves them all and finds each precious.  

What a power, don't you see?  What a tremendous privilege.  If one man thinks he can change the world if he ever has children, what are we parents waiting for?

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The Evidence of Love – A Father’s Day Tribute

Just because I'm married to him, it doesn't mean I naturally default in my opinion that he is the greatest father.  No, each father, like each mother, needs to earn that title.  My husband has.  My children have a great father.

One of the reasons I knew I wanted to marry him was how he interacted with children.  The first time he met my family, a Thanksgiving dinner many moons ago, not ten minutes had passed before I found him wrestling with my young nephews on the living room floor.  Through all the hooting and hollering, the choke holds, the tiny fingers clawing the carpet to get free from the big brute, I knew that was the man I wanted to be the father of my children. 

Two sons later, I feel no different.  And though I wanted daughters, Charles' wrestling moves make me realize why he needed sons.  I can't think of a happier boy in the world than the sons of Charles Ijames. 

A daddy who comes straight home each night and attends to his business in the same order since our first child was born.  Namely, giving mommy a kiss, putting down what's in his hands, and immediately engaging in play with the boys and the dogs. 

It's no wonder that the ten to twenty minutes after the end of his workday, even the dogs know that when the phone rings, it means daddy is pulling into the driveway.  No one bothers to answer the phone.  Those interested in roughhousing run to the door and anxiously await the tiny, tiny, click of daddy's car being put into park; the moment when they can open the door and run into the garage.  

My only involvement with any creature, either two or four legged, from that point on is saying any one of my token exclamations such as: Keep it down!; Please, my ears!; and No, not on the wood floors!

But, they're having fun.  The paint chipping on the walls, the tears in the furniture, the broken wall sculpture in the hall that no one will fess up to, and my precious, precious wood floors with all its divots and scratches can testify to such.  I can't help but think it's worth it.  Not all the time, mind you, because I do appreciate a fine looking house.  But, in the grander scheme of things, yes, it's worth it.  

For, one day, when my boys are grown and their father needs a cane to get out of his recliner, (on account of the weak knees, you see, from the natural course of twenty plus years of doing nothing in moderation with his sons), I will take comfort when my grandchildren are wrecking their mother's house playing with their fathers, my sons.  It will mean my boys love their children as much as their daddy loved them.

Oh, I nearly forgot.  How silly of me to leave this to the end.  It is, by far, the most important thing that makes my husband the best father.  He loves me.  He loves me unconditionally.  He thinks its cute when I snore, that I look beautiful without make-up, and am a great mother even when I hide in my room during a temper tantrum.  He says these things to me in front of my sons.  He treats me like a lady, admires me for being a woman, and loves me as his wife.  All in front of his children.  There is no greater gift for a father to give to his children, is there?  Happy Father's Day, Dear, you've earned it. 

The camera is ready.  Ready to capture you over and over again.  From your smiles to that way when you furrow your brow because something has definitely captured your attention.  You are only three months old, but I know your older brother has had three times as many pictures taken as you have. 

I said I would never be one of those parents.  What you are soon to find out about me, is that you can easily call me an "Even Steven."  This is why the camera is always ready.  Something in me triggers this sense of injustice if I do not give you the exact same things your brother had.  What can I say?   I'm a middle child.  Bring it up with Gammie. 

Remember the time I fell asleep feeding you those first few weeks?  It was because mommy had stayed up late one night when I should have been sleeping, just so I did not have to endure one more day without an even number of pictures hung around the house of the both of you.  Three of your brother, three of you.  It could not be any other way.  So, the camera is always ready.  But why are there still fewer pictures of you?  Because you are my last baby.

Something occurred to me today, when I was holding you and I was singing and you were smiling.  If I reached over for that camera, I would have broken the moment.  You would no longer be staring at mommy's face.  You would be staring at a gray box placed in front of mommy's face.  I guess this is why I rarely capture you on film with that gorgeous smile.  

You do not want to look at the camera, you want to look at your mommy.  I can not miss these opportunities.  But, they are in my mind.  Yes, they are there.  I want them there so badly, to enjoy and savor every moment; even though the camera is always ready, I dare not pick it up.  I want to see you through my eyes, not the camera's.  You are the last chance I get to store direct contact, direct memories, of a gift so preciously given over to me. 

Thus, one of these days if you have inherited mommy's unrelenting, meticulous, and obsessive fairness gene, (and poor daddy if that happens), and you ask why there are more pictures of your brother than of you, this is my explanation for it.  I feel a need to offer it to you.  It would only be fair that way.  

There's a Dixie paper plate commercial that I love to see.  It's a series of moms and their kids, with the point being that your time with your children is too important to waste it doing dishes.  Therefore, use Dixie paper plates and have more time playing with your precious angels.

Now, that's a commercial that makes me feel good.  Despite the fact that I'm just plumb lazy and don't like to do dishes (have been using paper plates since I left my mommy's house), I can actually convince myself that I don't like to do dishes for my children's greater well fare. 

Next, I need a commercial that makes me feel like a supermom when I accidentally fall asleep on the couch during my son's viewing of Go Diego Go.