What If I Said...: February 2015

This past week the kids reached their 100th day of school. Atleigh's class, especially, made a really big deal out of it. They encouraged them to dress up, to bring in 100 items, to make it a big celebration. "I'm 100 days smarter!"

That's how I found myself, at 1am the night before the 100th day of school, scrounging through my bathroom drawers for Q-tips. Chloe had spilled the box in one of the drawers months before, and instead of picking them up, I'd just left them. I desperately picked them up by twos, sticking them in a Ziploc, and knowing that there was no way I would reach 100.

That's when I started detailing in my mind the 100 things I'm bad at. Surely a good mom would have had her child's one hundred things for 100 Day already bagged and labeled and sent in to class before the day of. Surely a good mom would have already picked up the Q-tips up and put them back in the box, or thrown them away, or done whatever it is that good moms do. They certainly don't find themselves crouched on the floor in their pajamas while the whole household is asleep, freezing on the stone tile and counting Q-tips by twos.

The truth is, there are 100 things I'm bad at. Good God, there are probably 10 times 100. 100 times 100. I could, unfortunately, list them all, starting right then with "poor planner". I don't volunteer at my kids' school enough. I'm a terrible housekeeper: it's a toss up over whether I hate cooking or laundry more. My stress threshold is low. My sleeping patterns are ridiculous. I could go on and on, from the little things, all the way down to the deep, dark things that plague me from the inside out.

But why?

Why do I need to list those things? And why was my first instinct to remind myself of the hundred things I'm bad at? I make my kids laugh. I sing to them. I can do a mean British accent. I take pictures of them, little random memories that they'll be able to look back on and smile over. And God knows I love them. I love them so much my heart breaks with it, pouring down their heads like oil, like perfume from the alabaster box. They may not be able to feel it now, but one day they will. My question is, why don't we list these things first?

Moms. Dads. Parents. Let's do this for each other: let's clasp hands. Let's love each other, encourage each other. And for every one thing one of us finds wrong with ourselves, someone else should be there, saying, "But there are a hundred things you're doing right!" Whatever is true. Whatever is noble. Whatever is right, and pure. Let's think on those things. Let's grace each other, stand shoulder to shoulder, and raise these kids who are going to be directing our world in a few years in a way that shows them it's okay to mess up, it's okay to fall down, as long as you get back up and remind yourself you have a hundred reasons to.

Those are the 100 things I'll think on.

{{And at the very top of the list of things I do right, is throw together a costume for events like 100 Day. Scroll down for this week's photo dump and Atleigh's 100 Day photo session.}}

If you can believe it, I've been mentally composing this blog for over three months. The fact is, once school started, it was all a downhill slide from there. Then came fall ball, and birthdays, and Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and you may as well just kiss any free time goodbye right about then.

So much has happened since my last blog (has it really been six months?), but sometimes it feels like nothing. 5th grade has been kicking Ashton's butt, consequently, my butt. I hate 5th grade. I don't want to do it anymore. And the realization that it will most likely only get worse until - unless - I learn to relinquish control and let my son face the consequences of his choices isn't an easy one. Not something I'm great at.

In early August of last year, my sister in law was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. These past few months have been some of the scariest of our lives, but thank God she is done with chemo and officially diagnosed as cancer free as of this week! You don't know courage - you don't know a person - until you've seen them walk through a fire like that and come out refined.

In September, we started school, and we started a whole new normal at the Box House. A world of never enough sharpened pencils, never enough Cheez-It crackers, never enough patience for homework, and WAY too much homework. Things have evened out now, thank God. Atleigh has adapted well to Kindergarten. While she still looks back at me every morning to wave goodbye, it's never in fear or worry. It's never a "promise you'll come back?" wave. It's always a "I promise I'll be here waiting for you, and I'll always be your baby" wave. That's my favorite kind. Along with all that, my sister-in-law began her aggressive chemo regimen. One of the most precious things to me was being able to be there for every single treatment, from start to finish. Yes, it was hard. Sometimes agonizing. There were days when I left in tears, and came home so emotionally wiped that I didn't know if I could do it again. But every time, I told myself, "If she can go through it, I can sure as hell be there to watch and hold her hand." I now know more about chemo terms and procedures than I ever thought I would. But I got to really know my sister. I got to see and learn her heart, her strengths and dreams, her weaknesses and faults. And that's something I wouldn't ever trade. That's something I'll take with me for the rest of my life.

In late September Ashton ended up goofing off with a soccer ball in the house, and fracturing his foot, with three weeks left in the baseball season. That was a hard blow for him, but I don't think he'll be playing with the ball in house anymore.

October saw Atleigh's 6th birthday and her first real sleepover. Her dinner request was rotisserie chicken, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, and stuffing. Basically she wanted Thanksgiving dinner for her birthday. Not pizza. Not hot dogs. Five course Thanksgiving dinner. That's my Atleigh for you.

In November, Ashton and I FINALLY made our long awaited trek to The Wizarding World of Harry Potter in Orlando, for his 11th birthday. This was an epoch in our lives. We went with a friend and her son, but for it to be just the two of us with no other kids... It was like a return to those days of early motherhood, when my son was my best friend. Except now he could actually talk back to me. He laughed at my jokes. He made his own. It was truly magical getting to know him outside of who our household expects him to be.

December = Christmas. I don't think I need to add anything to that. Throughout the fall, my nephew and niece stayed with us a good bit while my sister recovered in between chemo treatments. You'll see them in a lot of photos. Atleigh is in heaven whenever Hannah is around... Until Hannah does something Atleigh doesn't like, then all hell breaks loose.

I took Chloe on a date to see The Nutcracker, just the two of us, after the heartbreaking revelation that she had felt neglected by me. That was a hard, hard pill to swallow, although I'm sure there are many of you nodding sagely and thinking to yourselves, "I knew it!" What can I say? I'm human. I fail. I fail more than I want to, in more important areas than I should. I'm trying to fix some of those failures.

After the ballet, I asked Chloe where she wanted to go for dessert, and she told me she'd rather go to the store and bring ice cream home so everyone could have some. Where did this angel come from? Certainly not from me. If I bring ice cream home from the store I hide it in the back of the freezer and eat it sitting in a corner of the bathroom with the lights off and the door locked in the middle of the night. I don't know where she got this generous sharing gene, but I can appreciate and respect it.

What is all this newsy update for, you ask? The answer is I don't really know. But I feel if I don't record these tiny pieces of our lives, they'll drift off into oblivion. And when my kids ask me, "Mom, what did we do when we were little?", all I'll be able to do is give a feeble shrug and tell them I wish I remembered.

I'll wish I remembered the mundane and the madness and the magic.

This way, mundane or no, mad or no, I've recorded a little of the magic. I've pressed it between these proverbial pages, saving it for a later date.

This way, when I tell my kids these everyday stories... "You wanted chicken for your slumber party", or "you wanted to buy ice cream for everyone instead of just yourself", or even "you broke your foot because you're a dummy who didn't obey house rules!"... When I tell them these stories and they roll their eyes and ask me, "That's it? Where's the drama? Where's the magic?", I'll tell them what I've learned myself these past few months: Magic is as magic does. Magic is what you make it. Magic is where you choose it, and how you live it. And we are magic.

{{This may not quite be the largest Photo Dump I've ever done, but it's close. Kudos to you if you get all the way through them.}}

AUGUST