Dreams Really do Come True

Can you tell what we've been dreaming of lately? Here's a clue...

Does that give it away? No? Then how about this?

Hmmm? Got it yet?

Well, when we woke up this morning, we had quite a surprise. There were seven inches of the white stuff piled in the front yard, on the street, on our back sledding run, on the cars, even on the bird feeder and garbage can lid. The weatherman told us only to expect an inch.

Aren't surprises wonderful?

So, instead of going to school, we did a little of this...

And we did a little of this...

We even (because some of us are crazy boys) did this!

Yes, those are icicles in his hands... (oh, brother!)

We had tons of fun playing snow tag and making snow angels so deep they almost buried us. Thanks to an industrious neighbor thrilled to use a brand new snow blower, we didn't even have to shovel the walk! (The driveway? That's another story... Hubby might need a hot bath later.)

All in all, there's nothing like a little fun to keep your mind off the heavy stuff. And a little dream come true never hurt anyone.

- Midwest Mom

Thank Heaven for Little Girls

We are two weeks into school, and while I am missing the fun of having my boys at home, I am loving the flood of "girl-time" I am enjoying with my daughter.

What is it about having a girl that is so different? We communicate differently, we play differently, she (obviously) dresses differently. I relate to her in an entirely different way than I do with my boys. Maybe the difference is me.

I remember feeling like I was having a girl when my daughter was not yet born. My husband and I had made the conscious decision not to find out the baby's gender. We hadn't with any of our children. And with the earlier two, I never had a clear feeling of what the child was. This time was different. Although I didn't share it, when I thought about the baby or talked to the baby, it was always a "she".

On the day we went to the hospital, even our doula said, "You know, I have a feeling this one will be a girl." Nancy, our delivery nurse said the same thing. I just smiled, telling them we would soon find out, wouldn't we?

Sure enough, it was my beautiful daughter, and I cried. I was completely unprepared for the flood of feelings I would have about this new little life, this girl.

I had always been a little afraid of raising a girl. Boys, I told everyone, are so easy. They are straightforward. They are fun. I had the impression that girls were temperamental, over-emotional, and tough to raise. After all, I was one. (And from what my mother has told me, I wasn't exactly pleasant to raise. Yes, the truth hurts -- especially from your own mother.)

But once I had my own delicate, tiny daughter in my arms, I didn't care about tantrums and stubbornness and drama. She just was so overpoweringly beautiful.

I still gaze at her in wonder when she's not paying attention and ponder the unfathomable gift of her. I say my silent thank-yous and try to hold that image of her in my mind to recall at those times when she's being impossible.

So, now that "our boys" are in school, I have all morning to put her, my youngest, in the driver's seat. She can pick out beautiful clothes. I can paint her toenails. We can pick flowers in the garden or water with her plastic watering can. We play dolls. (Don't tell her brothers, but Batman likes to ride around in the Barbie convertible with Polly Pockets... And Polly always drives.) We shop together and go to the playground together. We play soccer with the surprisingly girly Dora soccer ball.

But aside from the games we play and the feminine things like painting nails, I can't think of anything I'm doing differently with her. All the same, everything we do feels new. She is just such a blessing.

I jokingly call her "mini-Me" from time to time. My husband laughs and hugs us both. And I can feel our bond growing stronger. The other day, she put on her feathery pink princess cape, looked at me, and said, "Okay. All set!" She marched into our room and said, "Daddy, will you marry me?"

I thought my husband was going to cry. He said, "Of course, I will, princess!" And he picked her up and danced around the room with her, just like Prince Charming. Afterward, I think his smile lasted all day long.

I think I know just how he feels.

Midwest Mom

The Best Money I've Ever Spent

My children spent most of yesterday afternoon and this morning digging for pirate treasure next to our house.

Me: Hey, guys! Now don't get muddy over there!

Them: Mom! It's only dirt.

I shrug. They're right again. After all, I like playing in the dirt, too. I call it gardening.

The trio started digging holes to fill up colorful plastic buckets with dirt. Once the holes were about 6 inches deep, the fun started. Each one found a different 'treasure' -- a grime-caked penny, a broken piece of green plastic, and another grime-caked penny (possibly the same one -- no one knows.)

Their imaginations sparked.

Primo: Mom! Hey, Mom! Is our house, like 100 years old?
Me: Yep.
Primo: Did pirates exist a hundred years ago?
Me: Sure they did, but... goes on to explain the history of piracy and the sad fact that we live in the middle of the continent so pirate sightings are unlikely... stops when noticing reality does not register with this group.

They continued to dig, creating a fictional pirate who must have buried his secret treasure right on our property. When I asked questions, they had an answer for everything.

Big D: This must have been a real Pirate cove!
Me: But how would a pirate even have gotten here?
Big D: (looks at me like I have popcorn-for-brains) He walked, of course! He must have needed a rest from pirating, and he saw our cozy house...

Nightfall did not stop the speculation about the anonymous pirate. I heard them talking about it in bed. This morning, the talk continued. The children strategized at breakfast, guessing that since there were 'treasures' in each of the three holes, if they connected them, they might find a real pirate treasure! "Mom," they said, "we'll split the treasure since we did the work... but don't worry. We'll give you and Dad two gold pieces."

We went outside and back to work they went. There was much digging, but less finding. After at least 40 minutes, they started to get discouraged. No mom can bear to hear her children losing faith. I suggested that they go have a pirate voyage on the swingset in the back yard. They grabbed their nerf swords and ran. I told them I planned to continue weeding the garden.

What followed were approximately 67 seconds during which my whereabouts remain unknown.

Soon the pirate voyage was over, and here came the bunch hurrying up the driveway. "I'm the captain and this is my first mate," my son said, indicating his brother. Turning to his sister, he continued, "And this is my other first mate. We're ready to dig!"

I waited, continuing to weed (or pretending to). What followed was a wild series of whoops and hollers that could only mean...

"Treasure! Mom, we found it! We really found it!"

During the next half hour, 42 cents in all were discovered. My oldest divided it evenly among the crew. Big D said, "Sorry Mom, you can't have any because we did all the digging. Besides, you have a ton of money already."

That's alright. I think that was the best 42 cents I've ever spent.

Midwest Mom

What a Country!

You cannot beat Fourth of July in the Midwest. We had the best time celebrating. There was beautiful weather, fireworks galore, and family fun around every corner.

On Friday, our family participated in the neighborhood bike parade. It is a homegrown institution, started a few years ago by two schoolteachers in the neighborhood. We decorate all the children's bikes in the morning, and by ten o'clock 150-200 kids are lined up on a neighboring street to start the parade. This year, there was a fire engine at the front of the line and a cowboy on horseback carrying an American flag at the end of the parade. In between, there were decorated four-wheelers, golf carts, tricycles, bikes, wagons, even strollers. As the whole group processes through the neighborhood, we wave and wish people "Happy 4th". It is fun to see how many people bring out their lawn chairs to wave to all the children along the way.

The parade always ends at the same house, with an open garage door and a freezer full of popsicles for the parents and children. It is run entirely by families who have volunteered to make it happen, and it could not be more appreciated by the community. There is no profit, no angle, no politicians involved -- just a community of volunteers and families having fun and celebrating Independence day.

That was typical of the weekend, though. We went to fireworks and the children shared 'glow-sticks' with a little girl who had none, making a new friend in the process. We had a family barbecue on Sunday where everybody contributed to the feast. It was held in a park where almost every alcove was full of extended families doing just the same thing.

For me, the times we enjoyed this weekend confirm that we live in a truly great country filled with generous people. This weekend, it did not matter what Monday's headlines will say or how the stock market will go up or down. We were all members of a loving family, good neighbors in a healthy community, and friends having fun together.

Fourth of July in the Midwest shows the best of what America is. We are giving of our time and our talents. We are people who help one another and set aside our worries to celebrate together. It is an amazing blessing to live in such a rare and wonderful country.

Midwest Mom

The Making of Mud Puppies

Yesterday, we had friends from Ohio come to spend the day with us. It was hot, so in the afternoon, all the kids donned bathing suits to go out in the sprinkler.

They had a great time running and laughing, pouring buckets of water over their heads and over each other's heads. At one point, the four older ones got together to create a big mud wallow and heave gigantic rocks into it, just to see how big of a mud splash they could make. "Cannonball!" they all yelled together, then sploosh! Mud everywhere.

I let them do it. It's summer, after all, and I've heard mud is good for the complexion. Someday some spa will charge $100 for the same thing.

Once they had exhausted themselves we went indoors. Of course, we tried first to squirt the mud off their ears, foreheads, elbows, backs, and back sides. There was no way we could get it all, but we tried. Inside, bathing suits were put immediately into the laundry.

When our guests' mom came to get them, we laughingly told her about the afternoon's adventure. "Sounds like you had fun!" and then a whisper to me, "...thanks for washing the suits!" I sent them away with a basketful of dinner and hugs.

I'm hoping that a day of crazy fun was just what they needed. They were in town because their grandmother is sick in the hospital. So, when they arrived, they were pensive. There was none of that on their way out the door. Just laughter. I like that.

I think that kind of play is really therapeutic for kids. Sometimes you just have to let your kids go a little insane to keep them sane the rest of the time. And it feels so good to watch them be creative (even with mud!) and play themselves totally exhausted.

That is totally worth a little laundry.

Midwest Mom

Ants in my Pants

My oldest son cracks me up. His favorite toy is named "SuperBug". He loves bugs of all kinds. He sleeps with a bee and a ladybug. When we are outdoors, he studies ants, bees, spiders. Last year, he caught a grasshopper longer than my index finger and a praying mantis or two. He took them to school for show and tell. His entire kindergarten year was spent reading library books about the life cycle of bugs. We read about ants and butterflies, but also about termites and cockroaches. It was disgusting.

I can't stand bugs.

The reason I can't stand bugs is very simple. Of course, there is a story behind it. When I was in kindergarten, we lived in Southern California. Our street was, essentially, built upon a giant ant hill. Every week, a different house on the street was being treated for ants. They would make giant highways of ant bodies that would stretch up to an open second floor window because some child had left the cap off the toothpaste and they could smell the sugar. It was disturbing, but living there, you just put the ants at the back of your mind. I was, after all, in kindergarten.

Well, one day, a group of neighbors were in our back yard playing in the sprinkler. We were all in our bathing suits, and our moms were sipping iced tea in the shade of our back patio. We were having a great time running and being crazy and cooling off. I decided to take a short rest, sitting down on a small wall that separated the patio from the rest of the yard. There was a puddle at the base of the wall. I put my feet in it.

(Right now, something inside of you should be saying, "Uh-Oh...")

Well, the "puddle" was a collapsed ant hill. After a few seconds, I felt an itch inside my suit. I scratched, but the itchiness continued. I looked in my suit.

IT WAS FULL OF ANTS!

Screaming, I ran back into the sprinkler. (I had, of course, instinctively ripped off my suit and was bare naked and screaming until the ants were gone.)

Did I mention that all the neighbors were over?

Of course, my mother, laughing so hard that she was crying, rushed over to help. We got the ants off, but the laughter didn't die down until quite a while later. I don't care. I still blame those ants. Forever afterward, my dad and mom would rib me about my lingering bug phobia. On Saturday afternoons, Dad would turn on movies like "THEM". Talk about creepy.

But, fast forward to now. As a result of my son and his this love of all things buggy, I have had to temper my own distaste for the little beasts. We've come to a bit of a truce. In my generosity, I have decided to give the outdoors over to the bugs. (Inside the house is another story.)

I have to, grudgingly, admit that certain bugs DO serve a very useful purpose in my garden. Our wildflower patch and clover patch have been great places to see butterflies grow and honeybees do their work. We don't use bug control chemicals on anything at our place, so we even have predators, like the mantises. They are such fun to watch in action. And this time of year, the lightning bugs are out every evening. My son is very good at catching those, too.

"Hey, mom, do you want to hold it?" he'll ask me.

"That's okay, honey." I say. "You go ahead. I think I'll pass."

I haven't told him the story about the ants yet.

Midwest Mom

Life before Antibiotics

Two of my three children are currently battling strep throat. One is on his second round of antibiotics because the first didn't eliminate the infection... The difference after just one or two doses is remarkable. You would hardly know they were sick. I'm keeping them home and forcing them to rest -- just in case.

I spoke with my sister yesterday. Her daughter, age 10, complained of ear pain, so she took her to the doctor. Diagnosis? "Whoa! That's bad." said the Doc. Antibiotic in hand, she left the pharmacy, and 12 hours later her daughter is just fine. Forget Bayer -- the miracle drug seems to be Amoxycillin, or "Pink Drink" as my kids call it.

When I think about how sick my kids can get -- you know, the kind of sick where they're just willing to lay limp in your arms -- and I think about how difficult it would be to try to make them well without antibiotics, I am confounded. How did our grandmothers do this? No wonder they were totally gray by age 30.

But Antibiotics have a downside, too. For my kids, they probably won't even remember this bout with strep. I remember, "back in the day" when I was a kid, that strep throat was a golden disease... like pinkeye. It was guaranteed days off from school... Ten, to be exact. Pinkeye was a guaranteed three and you had to put nasty goo right on your eyeball. But hey, when you're 8 years old, three is better than nothing. Am I right?

Chicken pox was the same way. Of course, the killjoys in the medical establishment have come up with a vaccine for that one. What's the matter with them? Don't they realize, in this world of no vacation days, chicken pox is a person's last chance to have a good long undisturbed rest? Sure, you're itchy all over -- but that's beside the point.

I guess I can't complain with the medical people, though. They're helping my kids with this crazy strep. And they did invent antibiotics. So they can stay. (I can hear their collective sigh of relief, can't you?)

So, the upside to antibiotics is virtually instant cure to any infection. Downside, you don't feel sick, so you don't get your rest. But, I have often said that the goal of parenting is to raise your children to be healthy, decent adults. And adults right now have to work crazy hours with very little time off. ... So, maybe the antibiotics are just getting them used to life as an American Worker...

Which reminds me -- vacation policy in this country is lousy! But, that's a discussion for another time. ... I'd better get back to my "sick" children. They're bouncing on the living room couches again.

... Darn those antibiotics!

Midwest Mom
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How do you help kids deal with fear?

We are a news-watching and news-reading family. Between the recent earthquakes in China and tornadoes and flooding here in the Midwest, I am finding that the news is creating a whole new category of fear among my children. Of course, we turn off the television if they are showing graphic images of destruction, and we do not parade such stories in front of our little ones. But they are not living in a vacuum. They know these things are happening. And often, they find out details I would not have shared with them.

One such case happened when my 7-year-old was sitting in the seat opposite mine at the breakfast table the other day. He began reading the headlines on the back of my newspaper. He said aloud, "Four children killed as Tornado hits Iowa Boy Scout Camp." I immediately put down the paper to a barrage of questions from my children. At the root of it all was disbelief, "How could this happen?!?"

For that question, I'm afraid I don't have a good enough answer.

Since they inadvertently learned about schools collapsing in China and Boy Scouts being swept away by tornadoes, my children have developed a strong fear of the forces of the earth. When we have severe weather, especially thunderstorms, they call out for us in the night. It is something we haven't dealt with in this way since our oldest was 2 years old. Granted, we've had some real boomers in the past month. But the fear that has emerged in our children is much stronger than we could have anticipated.

Recently, there were strong storms involving hail and torrential rain. They happened during the day, while my husband was at work. As we kept an eye on the weather channel, with the sound turned low, the children worried about Daddy. "We know we have a safe basement to go to, but what about Daddy?" I told them to pray for God to take care of Daddy and assured them that God knows us and cares for us. I was amazed at the fervent prayer that commenced and continued until the storm had eased.

I think what may be happening is that my children, especially the older ones, are beginning to understand what we adults know, but keep buried deep -- that in the eyes of the world, we are really quite small. We may be masters of our own universe, but that only applies to those few things we can control.

"I cannot control the weather." I often say, when called upon to make it less hot or less rainy or warmer or to make it snow.

In the aftermath of a disaster, I repeat the words of Mr. Rogers. "Look for the helpers." I firmly believe that God always sends helpers, and that we must be ready and paying attention, so that when it is our turn to be the helpers, we are ready.

A relinquishing of control, a turning to a power larger than ourselves, and a dedication to find and to be the hands of help when people are in need do not begin to explain why tragic things happen. But they are a start, and I hope they will be enough to see my children through.

For right now, though, I will just try to be ready when the sky looks stormy and they call out for me in the night.

Midwest Mom

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To share your family's stories on dealing with fear, click on "comments" below this article. I would love to hear from you.

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Better than Botox

What a fantastic Fathers Day we had yesterday. There was beautiful weather, good food, and an evening spent with family. It was such a blessing.

We are probably rare among American families, because my husband's parents and his two brothers and two sisters and their families all live in the same town. Our children know and are friends with all their cousins on their father's side -- 10 children in all. When we get the group together, they play like a fun little Irish tribe. It was great to see all the dads mixed in there, playing tag and hide-and-seek, one uncle reading my little girl a story when she needed a rest, Papa giving her a good hiding place under some pillows once darkness forced the game indoors. Recently, when we visited my family "out East", my husband told me, "You come from good stock." I could say the same about him. A loving family is something that should never be taken for granted.

When we came home, it was late, and my children were exhausted. So, it was time for glasses of warm honey milk all around and bed. For the first time this summer, no one argued with bedtime. And this morning, I think they're sleeping later than they have all summer.

That brings up an essential truth about the difference between being young and old. Older people look at vacation as a time they can finally rest. We hope, on a Saturday morning, to be able to sleep an hour later. We take Sunday as a day with no laundry (Whoopee! I'm keeping the Sabbath!) We hope for permission to be lazy at the pool or camping or at the beach when we're vacationing away from home.

Kids are exactly the opposite. For them, vacation is a time for adventure! They can't possibly sleep late or go to bed early -- they might miss something! Summer vacation is a time for county fairs and barbecues, late night fireworks and early morning fishing trips. Every night of summer vacation, no matter how tired they are, my crew fights bedtime. "Let's read a chapter of the Hardy Boys!" "Can't we just watch a movie tonight?" Even my youngest, age two, would love story after story more than ever giving in to the need for sleep.

And in the morning, I now know that the birds wake up at approximately 4:20 a.m.. We keep the windows open most nights, and once those birds wake up, my second son staggers out of his room, zombie-like. It never fails. We tell him to go back to bed until the digital clock has a number starting with 7. He'll probably only make it until 6:30. Then he'll play dirty and wake up the other kids.

As soon as I see my son in the morning, I know in my heart that our day will have to begin sooner, rather than later. That fact is admitted to myself only begrudgingly. (I guess I know which side of the old/young divide I'm on! Ha.)

I guess that's the miracle of Summer. When the kids get ready for an adventure, they can't wait to sweep us along in it. Each time our day begins, I can't wait see where these crazy little people will be off to. They wake up something much younger in me, and, honestly, much more fun...

Wait a minute! ... I think I hear a zombie in the hallway!


Midwest Mom
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Trials of a Strawberry Picker

This morning was beautiful weather for picking strawberries. Humidity is low, there is a small breeze, and word on the street is that this is the best strawberry season this area has had in years!

I decided to take the kids to our local berry farm. We donned our sunglasses and sunscreen and headed out.

There was a (poor) woman picking across from us. Here's a snippet of what she heard...

Child 1: Mom, is this a good one?

Child 2: Hey! I'm carrying the basket!

Child 1: Mom, is this one ripe enough?

Child 3: sluurrrp. mmmm. juicy.

Child 2: I'm picking more berries than you are! Nyah nyah!

Child 1: ew! There's an ant in the strawberry basket! (Tries to step on ant.)

Child 2: I'm the fastest picker in this whole field!

Child 3: lick. slurrp. chew.

Child 1: It's hot out here.

Child 2: My strawberries are bigger than your strawberries!

Child 3: CHOMP

Child 1: I'm thirsty.

Child 2: Cmon! You're picking too slow!

Child 1: I'm still thirsty!

Child 3: veesh shtrwberries ahr sho yummy. slurp.

Child 2: I think my strawberry basket has the most!

Child 1: I'm SO thirsty! Do you hear me? I'M THIRSTY! I. AM. THIRSTEEEEEEE!

I looked across the strawberry row at the woman who so cheerfully commented about how having the children here would "make the picking go so much faster."

"There's the alarm!" I joked. And we made our way out of the row.

At the counter where we weighed the strawberries, the conversation went more like this:

Clerk To Child 3: Wow! I don't think I've ever seen such a pink face!

Child 3: I like purple. I like pink.

Child 2: See? This is my basket. It has the most! I bet it will cost 25 bucks for all these berries!

Child 3: (with a pitiful look) I could use a glass of nice, cold milk.

And once we were home, they had been transformed back to their normal summer selves. The only sound to be heard?

Child 1, 2, 3: Slurrrp. Smack. Mmmm. Yum. Slurp. Juicy! These are sosooo good!

Thanks, Mom.

Midwest Mom

A Memory to Share

Mr. Rogers once said, "I find out more and more every day how important it is for people to share their memories."


I have always liked Mr. Rogers. When he was alive, he found simple ways to talk about feelings and events that were, in reality, not simple at all. As he appeared from our television (when the rabbit ears were positioned correctly) he seemed very wise, for someone in a cardigan.

Mr. Rogers was from my mother's hometown of Latrobe, Pennsylvania. His calming, genteel drawl is actually the local accent there, which may be a key to the reason I liked him. It may also be why, even as an adult, I find Latrobe a comfortable place to be.

On a recent trip "out East", my family made a stop in that wonderful little town to visit with my mother's oldest living relative. She is a widowed Great Aunt, just a few years shy of 100. She is a joy. She is also one of the sharpest people you'll find.

It was wonderful to see my three children interacting with her in completely different ways. The youngest, my 2-year-old daughter, immediately reached up to feel her hair and touched her face to see how soft it was. My Aunt was elated at her tenderness.

Later in the visit, my 5-year-old came up for a nice close look. He said over his shoulder to me (as if my Aunt weren't there), "Mommy, why does she look so... old?"

To her credit, my Aunt laughed. "Children are so honest, aren't they?" she said, in her Mr. Rogers voice. I put my son on the spot by asking how old he thought she really was. He demurred.

"I couldn't say." A pause. "Oh, maybe about 79."

My Aunt was supremely complimented. "He says I look 79!" she repeated several times during the rest of our visit. "But I get that a lot." she beamed.

My oldest boy, just finishing first grade, had a different take on visiting someone so close to a century old. He wanted to know about her history. And as every boy knows, history begins with your first car.

My Aunt told us about her Nash, purchased in Europe after the end of World War II. "Jimmy [her husband] told me I could have any car I wanted. They had Mercedes and BMWs, even back then. But I was such an American girl. I had to have an American car. So, there I was, driving through Europe in that Nash. Everywhere we went, people knew us by that car."

As children do, they soon decided it was time to explore. So, my husband took them for a walk to get a cookie from the nurses and to meet the other residents. I was glad to be left alone with my Aunt for a bit.

When I was a baby, she and our family lived closer. My Great Uncle Jimmy had passed away, and my Aunt enjoyed visiting with us, holding me, teaching me things. She called me 'precious'. Now that we were alone, she addressed me with that old name.

"Oh, Precious. Doesn't it just amaze you how fast the time goes? I remember holding you when you were the same age your daughter is now." She put her hands on her temples and her eyes were wet. "Life is just so wonderful, isn't it?"

All I could think of was how grateful I am for this woman and for the opportunity to share my family with her and hear her stories and share our time together. I feel pride in knowing that I have a connection with such a remarkable woman as my Aunt.

Of course, I will always wish that I lived closer or stayed longer. But to me, it is so important to maintain the connection between generations. And someday, my children will remember my "79" year-old Aunt with soft hair and skin and a beige Nash.

But, even if they don't remember, I will. It is a memory I will love to share.

Midwest Mom

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I'm Looking Over a 4-Leaf Clover

I have a very good friend named Mary who has a knack for finding 4-leaf clovers. I guess she's lucky. Maybe she just knows where to look. Maybe she's a secretly a leprechaun. She always talks about having "Irish Fey". I haven't been able to nail down exactly what that means. Maybe it's leprechaun for something...

No, but clover. This is about clover. I have another friend who lives "out East" and has two daughters. Speaking to them recently, I made a reference to clover and was met with silence. Her four-year-old had no idea what it was or where it grew, and yet her mom is an avid gardener. Is that possible? I guess, in this world of 4-step lawn chemical treatment systems and broad-leaf weed killer, it is possible that a neighborhood could exist somewhere (apparently in Pennsylvania) without clover. It makes me sad just to think of it.

Here in Illinois and everywhere else I have visited or lived across the country (23 States and Washington, D.C.) I have always seen clover. I remember as a child in the Northern Virginia suburbs that every yard had it. We used to run around the neighborhood barefoot (much to my mother's chagrin), so we experienced the cool softness of our clover patch on many summer afternoons. It was the perfect antidote for a barefoot hop across the steamy blacktop of the driveway. We also learned that, while clover has a soft feel underfoot, the bees in the clover patch definitely do not.

This week, our back yard clover came into bloom, and while the kids were playing outside yesterday -- shoes off, of course -- I could smell the blossoms. Honeybees were there, too, working in the sunshine. And as I watched my children pick the flowers and watch the bees, it was a nice feeling to know that my kids were having an experience that I had at their age. Even though in life I'm probably much more like the bees, constantly moving, working hard to make something sweet and wonderful for my family, yesterday I had the joy just to watch my children and smell the clover in bloom. The feeling was as simple as it was good.

So, let the clover grow. Take your shoes off and enjoy it. Put the weed and feed away for another season. There is nothing better, really --even finding a 4-leaf clover.

... now if I can only find Mary's Lucky Charms....

Midwest Mom

Deep Breath -- say AHHHH...

Okay, okay... so maybe after my last post, I am the one who seems like she needs a time-out.

There's nothing like a good dose of reality to bring you back from the brink when you're angry. Two things happened today to make me re-think my words.

One: The Clinton camp began to signal that they will end their campaign on Tuesday. [see the link for MSNBC First Read on the right for the latest] There is even talk that some of the superdelegates will get off the fence. Hallelujah. The rest of us have been expected to knuckle down and vote already -- they should too.

Two: My middle child has been sick with a virus all day. Fever of 103 and associated ejector-stomach. It's a new term I'm coining. Maybe someday it'll make it into the medical literature. There's something about a child in such misery that gives you a chance to remember what is important. I just wanted him to feel better, and tonight it seems he finally does.

And so, regarding Hillary Clinton, I still wonder whether to trust her that she will exit gracefully and do as she has promised: tirelessly support the nominee. But, I also realize that as a Mom, there are times when all the big news in the world seems to fall away. When your child is sick, none of that is important anymore.

Life brings you perspective when you least expect it.

Here's to that,

Midwest Mom

Is Drama normal?

I was talking with a friend on the phone the other day, and her daughter had a "meltdown moment" while we were talking on the phone.

We've all been there. She handled it, but remained on the phone. We laughed and talked about raising girls and all the residual guilt. After all, we MUST have done that to our mothers at one point or another, right?

And why is it that ALL children gravitate to their moms in extreme need the moment we have a telephone in our hand?? I routinely say to my own, "What am I holding by my ear?!? Is this a banana?" They laugh and say, "No." Two minutes later, there is another life-altering emergency (i.e. I can't find my sock! She said a potty talk word! Read me this book!)

I shouldn't complain... there are worse things than being interrupted on the phone...

Which brings me back to my friend. After a prolonged telephone freakout by her daughter (age 4) -- by prolonged, I mean about three minutes of crescendo -- we both realized there must be something wrong. After the removal of a shoe, and the removal of the phone from my ear -- wow! that girl can yell! -- an inch-long splinter wedged under her toenail turned out to be the culprit. Can you say, "OUCH?!?" Needless to say, we got off the phone, and she got that little girl to the doctor!

But something funny happened later that night. My friend called me back. And through table-setting and dinner preparation, we shared our deep maternal guilt. I assured her, "YOU ARE A GOOD MOM." Words she needed to hear.

I hung up the phone, and realized this episode left me with a question that needs answering... When you're raising children (particularly daughters) ...

IS DRAMA NORMAL?

And where is the border between normal and outrageous (i.e. impending disaster) drama?

Can't wait to hear your thoughts,

Midwest Mom