Just One Day a Year

Poor guy.

He's crying over his fruity Cheerios . . . because it's not his birthday.


His strongest fighting words have been, "Stop it, Tyler. It's not your birthday." As if it is still his, and as if any behavior is permissible when 'it's your birthday.' So, we needed to have a lengthy conversation this morning. No, it's not Tyler's birthday. But no, it's not Tucker's birthday anymore either. One day a year, kiddo. And it happened . . . last week.


Hence, buckets of tears. And even a pointed finger, if you look closely.


(He comes by it honestly, since his mother claims all of July.)


Sorry, Tuck. We can start a paper chain, if you want to.

359 links to go.

Mr. Morning Sunshine

(overheard morning conversation from the bunkbeds...)

Tucker: Tyler? Tyler. Ty. Wake up.

Tyler: No words, Tucker.

Tucker: Just a little bit.

Tyler: No. No words. Please. No words.

(They make me laugh. A lot.)

The Gift of Time

Confession.

Few things infuriate me more than a crystal clear picture in my mind of what I want to write about - descriptions, dialogue, or characters ruthlessly unfolding in my mind - coupled with a denied opportunity to write.

More specifically: when my children choose to play/talk/laugh through their naptime, it feels like a broken promise. Like I did my part to fulfill their morning, and they did their part to take away my afternoon.

Honestly. It robs my patience and seemingly my wisdom. This happened one day this week, and I was inordinately frustrated with their wakefulness. Did they not get the memo? Naptime is nonnegotiable. It belongs to me.

But, I am reading Simple Abundance, a book about embracing my creative, authentic self in the midst of my everyday realities.

This paragraph patiently waited for my discovery:

"If you're trying to bring forth a dream while caring for a family and holding down a job, you must set your own pace. You must generously give yourself the gift of time. The bottom line is not how fast you make your dream come true, but how steadily you pursue it."

And there it is. Perhaps someone else has tried to live inside the commitment of small children while pursuing goals outside of today. The generous gift of time.

And the hope for fulfilled naps. Tomorrow.

Los Ojos Nuevos

"Tuck, we're going to get your eyes checked today."


"No. No eyes checked."


"Yep. They'll take a look at your eyes and make sure they're working right. It won't hurt at all. They'll just play some games with you to make sure you can see, and we'll be all set."


He was not on board. Much later into our morning preparation, he was still agitated and concerned, arguing with me about getting his eyes checked.

Finally, I slowed down the breakfast and get-ready routine. "Tuck, why are you sad?"


He said, "Mommy, I just like my eyes. I don't want to get new ones."


Time to clarify. (No wonder he was concerned.)