Leading Mama

Dear Pokemon

How do I love thee, Pokemon? Let me count the ways.

 

Pokemon image by Bob Villalobos (flickr)

You’ve captured Little Man’s interest and made him feel like a big kid. He trades cards with neighbors, huddled quietly around binders and bins at the park. He listens and learns from bigger boys. They treat him like an insider, not caring that he makes his own rules. My mom-heart is full.

 

No longer do I fret about bribes for good behavior. The hidden deck of Pokemon in my desk drawer ensures our toy room will be clean all summer long. And doling out cards is better than nagging, more effective than threats. You, Pokemon, are a secret weapon in my mom arsenal.

 

You take up little space in my cluttered, child-centered home. I don’t need enormous plastic tubs or an ambitious shelving system to display Little Man’s cards. He carries a small binder of precious Pokemon. They go to the park, in the car, upstairs and down. All day and all night they are with him.  

 

When I step on a Pokemon card, it sticks, begging me to pick it up, to love it a little more. It does not slice my foot like the stabilizers of a die-cast jet airplane or imprint my skin like a lego. Bad words do not fly from my mouth when I step on a card.  Even under foot, Pokemon are friendly.

 

Someday in the future Little Man will move on to other hobbies, other collections. Then, fine Pokemon, I will love you more. Because you, unlike any other toy he’s loved, are 100% recyclable. Our affair will not go public at a yard sale or thrift shop, laid bare for the neighbors to see. Our love will not end on Craigslist. It will end quietly, like it began. In secret.

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This post inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat (3. Do you love it or hate it? An open letter to your child's latest obsession) and by Little Man's love of Pokemon.

10 Things about My Grandpa

Grandparents get a short shrift in our society. Maybe it's because they move slowly.  Maybe it's because we're too future-focused. Maybe it's because they aren't on Twitter (unless your grandma is Betty White).

 

I am fortunate that my maternal grandparents are still in my life. I live far away and I don't call or write as often as I'd like, but my grandparents are near and dear to my heart. And so, in response to Mama Kat's prompt, "10 Things about One of My Favorite People," I give you 10 Things about My Grandpa.

 

1. Grandpa McKinney is one of 13 children. His parents and siblings called him "Little Boy." He grew up in Smith County, Tennessee.

 

2. My Grandpa McKinney never had a hobby besides work. Even now, his favorite way to spend a day is puttering around the ranch, caring for the cattle. When he doesn't get to go, his eyes don't sparkle like they should.

3. My Grandpa McKinney goes to town in his beat-up bib overalls to shop for cars. He looks every bit a country bumpkin. The car salesmen don't see him coming. When he's negotiated a good price, he pays cash and drives home.

 

4. Grandpa McKinney has a killer sweet tooth. I've never seen him pass up dessert. When we were kids, we made him homemade, hand-dipped chocolates for Christmas each year. Making "Grandpa's candy" is one of my favorite traditions. I'm sharing it with my own kids.

 

5. Grandpa McKinney shells walnuts to keep busy. This year, he had thirteen 5-gallon buckets of walnuts to crack. My son spent an entire afternoon cracking walnuts with Great Grandpa McKinney. He smashed his finger with the hammer, just like Grandpa warned, but he kept cracking. I bake up lots of love with Grandpa's walnuts.

 

6.  In April, Grandpa McKinney turned 97 years old. This Tuesday, he passed the State of California's behind-the-wheel driver's test. Again.

 

7.  Grandpa McKinney can speak volumes without saying a word. And he can talk a blue streak, too. I could listen to him all afternoon.

 

8. My Grandpa and Grandma eloped to Carson City, Nevada. They raised three children. They have been married for 77 years. Their lifelong partnership inspired Little Man's first name.

 

9.  He never went to college, but my Grandpa can engineer a bridge or a building with skill. When he advised the county work crew that the culvert they were building wouldn't hold water, they ignored him. Probably thought he was some foolish old man. Later that year, it washed out.

 

10.  The best gift I've ever given Grandpa is time with my children. He smiles from ear to ear as he watches my kids play on the living room floor, chasing battery-operated trains under the coffee table. He shows them old-time tractors in his big picture book, and lets them down when their attention wanders.  He grins when they eat with their chubby hands and stuff their mouths way too full. Grandpa McKinney finds joy in the little things.

 

I'm fortunate to have many good role models in life, and Grandpa McKinney is one of them. He taught me it's okay to love my work. He taught me to be loyal and to remember where I came from.

 

He taught me book learning isn't everything. He taught me to be independent and keep myself busy.

 

He taught me that people listen better when I say less.

 

And, he taught me to eat dessert. Take a nap after lunch, and watch my kids play.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Letter to my Love

My dear,

 

I fear I cannot love thee as I did.

 

In days past, I spent late nights in dark places. With strangers. And loud, pounding music.

 

We shared stories. We made memories. Our time was rich with experience.

 

I chased the unknown.

 

Unpredictable moments whispered sweet nothings in my ear. I delighted in delicious opportunities.

 

Spontaneity was the bad boy down the street, begging me to sneak out my window and meet him in the park. He offered excitement. I accepted it greedily, always wanting more.

 

Not so now.

 

I found another, truer love.

 

Routine is my boy next door. I’ve known him forever. He makes me feel safe.

 

I am comforted by his embrace.

 

I am energized by his steadfast presence.

 

He makes me feel alive. Creative. Ready for anything.

 

I love who I am when I’m with him.

 

My just-washed hair and casual clothes aren’t night-club material. They’re perfect for play.

 

It’s just me and my family and our routine. We move together in a familiar dance. My body knows every move by heart.

 

6 a.m. coffee

 

7 a.m. breakfast

 

8 a.m. blog post

 

9 a.m. preschool drop off

 

Time to write. The baby naps. I read. And write some more.

 

2 p.m. preschool pick up

 

Playing outside. Sorting the mail. Dinner on the stove. Baths and pajamas. Tooth-brushing, book reading, the final episode of Last Cake Standing. And then it is bedtime.

 

The baby rustles in her crib as the four-year-old burrows in next to me for the night. His dad is away on business. I promised he’d sleep in my mom bed. My head rests peacefully on the Pillow Pet he shared so generously. Her name, he says, is Fluffy.

 

I am in love with mundane, everyday details now. Spontaneity messes with my mojo. The confines of my usual routine are not confining. They’re thrilling.

 

And so for now, I bid you leave, my love. Find a young, fickle friend to entice.

 

I’ve got all the excitement I need right here.

 

At home.

 

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This post inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat's World Famous Writer's Workshop, by two long weeks of vacation and too much rum punch.

LOVE LETTER CLOSE-UP
© Gianna Stadelmyer | Dreamstime.com

My Childhood Friend

When my parents split up in the early 80s, I was 11 years old. Their break up was surreal. Maybe that's how all kids feel. I don't know.

I don't remember my parents fighting. Ever. To be honest, I don't remember a time when my parents were together. My memories of childhood are sketchy at best. It's as if the video surveillance tapes in my mind were written over by later events.

I think most of what I "remember" is really what my mom has told me about pictures we have and events that took place. I don't have many of what I'd call first-hand memories.

I do have memories of the year my parents split up.

I remember waking up in the bedroom of my best friend, Jill, the morning after they told me. We'd had a sleepover, and (as usual) I woke up very early and she did not. I laid on the floor reading a book by the light from the window. Her room was sunny and yellow and (I thought) very chic. Which is to say, it seemed way more grown up than my room.

When Jill woke up, I told her my parents were getting divorced. And I cried.

I don't ever remember telling anyone else. I'm sure I did. It was an awkward year to begin with. 7th grade. Ugh.

Jill and I met in the summer before 5th grade. We were fast friends.

I remember swimming laps in her backyard pool wearing our blue with white striped suits for the swim club.

I remember rollerskating around the driveway to Xanadu soundtrack and, later, to the Scorpions' "Blackout." At least we seem to have upped the cool quotient over the years.

I remember playing mermaids in the pool.

I remember sleeping in a covered wagon at summer camp together.

I learned to play blackjack and backgammon from Jill's dad, who taught us to wager Oreo cookies.

Jill's mom had a whole room of the house for sewing. I can remember dashing in there off of the kitchen to ask for Ding Dongs (which Jill's mom kept on hand) and Tab or Pepsi Light (in 16 ounce glass bottles, of course). Aahhh, that was a long time ago.

Jill's brother Brett was younger and pesty. He drove his mom's car into the front wall of their garage when he was too little to see over the dashboard.

 

I remember putting on singing shows for her mom to the Grease soundtrack. She'd enter the master bedroom from her father's closet and I'd make an entrance from her mother's closet. It was all tightly choreographed. (wink, wink)

We were in marching band in seventh grade. We wore beige cords with gold wide-collared shirts and burgundy sweaters over the top. Not the coolest clique, but I remember having a lot of fun on the trips. And making out with a boy. But that's another post.

I don't know what Jill said to me the morning I told her about my parents' divorce. Or if she said anything at all. What I do know is that her friendship made a tough time bearable. Just her presence eased my sadness.

After junior high, we drifted in different directions. But we will always be friends. I flew cross-country to her wedding in California. She visited me in Colorado and later in Virginia. We seem to go 3 or 4 years between visits. But we keep up on Facebook.

Today, Jill is a super mom, roller derby goddess, foodie, reader of books, music festival junkie, runner of marathons, and all-around interesting person. If I could, I'd stop by her house on a Sunday for tater-tot tachos and beer. I'd bring DingDongs for dessert.

I'd give Jill a hug and say "Thanks for making the tough times bearable. I'm so glad you're my friend."

 

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This post inspired by a prompt from MamaKat and my childhood best friend, Jill. Thirty years goes by fast, friend. I wanted to include a photo but couldn't find the right box. Sigh.

 

What I Know for Sure

What I know for sure is there are many ways of knowing. And they aren’t interchangeable.

 

You can know something with your head, with your heart, or with your gut.

 

You can know something in the harsh light of day, or you can know it in the dark silence of night.

 

You can know something once and forget.

 

You can know something once and be forever changed.

 

 

This week I’ve been struck by the number of times I hear stay-at-home and work-from-home-moms say “I know how fortunate I am to be able to stay home with my kids.”

 

 

I’ve said it myself. More than once.

 

 

What I now know for sure is I *don’t* know how fortunate I am to be able to stay home with my kids.  

 

 

I don’t know what it’s like to wake my kids up in the dark every morning to get them to the sitter’s house before work.

 

 

I don’t know what it’s like to miss bedtime every night because my boss moved me to the late shift.

 

 

I don’t know what it’s like to leave my kids home with their dad or their grandma while I’m deployed overseas for a year.

 

 

I don’t know what it’s like to be stuck in a job I hate because it comes with a steady paycheck and health insurance.

 

 

I don’t know what it’s like to work overtime so my kids can have birthday parties and Christmas gifts.

 

 

I don’t know what it’s like to miss my kids’ silly sayings and everyday achievements.

 

 

I know for sure that my feeble claim that “I know how fortunate I am” is no substitute for gut-wrenching, heart-breaking empathy.

 

This kind of life-changing knowledge comes from experience. And I have no claim to it.

 

This post inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat and recent interactions with moms who know these things with their hearts and their souls. I'm fortunate to know you.

A Song with Significance: Virulence Vanquished

I woke up in a virulent mood on Saturday. Bitter feelings, hostile thoughts, surly demeanor. The whole toxic trifecta.

 

I don’t really know why.

 

I slept pretty well, considering. Little Man joined us in bed sometime after midnight. He kicks, burrows, punches, and snores. But in a good way.  Little Mama cried “milk” every two hours. She thinks I am her personal Dairy Queen. And she’s right.

 

I woke up, went downstairs and made coffee. I caught a glimpse of the dishes piled in the sink and wondered “Am I the only one who EVER cleans anything up around here?”

 

Little Man demanded bread pudding for breakfast. Normally, I’d say yes to this, because bread pudding is basically bread, eggs, and milk, so it’s breakfast-y enough for me.

 

“No eggs,” I said. “How about cereal or a bagel?”

 

Whining, crying, and stomping ensued. Little Man loses it when he doesn’t get the breakfast he wants. I know that, but I’m out of eggs. “Deal with it,” I thought.

 

Leading Man came in to the kitchen, made his own coffee, and sensed my foul mood like a baby bunny catches the scent of the dingo, just before he’s snapped up and torn limb from limb.  

 

He bumbled around making attempts to soothe me. He cleaned up some dishes. He made small talk. He asked about plans for the day.

 

On any normal day, game show bells would be ringing around here if he acted like that. Dishes, “Ding!” Conversation, “ding, ding!” Family activity planning, “ding, ding, ding!  Bob, tell Leading Man what he’s won!” These are just the things Leading Mama likes.

 

But on Saturday? There were no bells. Just hostile silence. Me: Loud footsteps. Him: Egg-shell walking.

 

Because there’s no way to soothe an angry dingo who has already latched on to the bunny.

 

I slammed around the house getting breakfast for the kids , taking a shower and packing up the diaper bag. We left the house just as Little Mama started melting down. She likes to nap at 9. It was nearly 10. We put her in the car and drove off.

 

I fumed in the front seat while Leading Man switched the channels on the radio back and forth. He turned it up loud to drown out the crying in the back seat. He searched for a song he likes. The baby kept crying.

 

My nerves were jangled.  I couldn’t snap out of it. I'm not sure I wanted to snap out of it.

 

I was seriously pissed off about nothing. I was wallowing in frustration about how no one ever does anything around here except me, about all the pressure I put on myself, about how underappreciated I feel. I was seriously pissed off about everything.

 

The baby was wailing. Bruno Mars was singing about how he’d catch a grenade for me. Right then, I’d probably throw one at him.

 

And then I heard it, from the backseat. 

“Twinkle, twinkle, little ‘tar,

How I wonder whatchu are,”

 

Little Man started singing to his sister, trying to calm her down, trying to lull her to sleep.

 

“Up above the world so high,

Like a diamond in the ‘ky,”

 

I thought to myself: “I love his little voice. I love that he sings for his sister. And I love it that he keeps singing until she quiets down. He’s so patient and tender.”

 

“Twinkle, twinkle, little ‘tar,

How I wonder whatchu are.”

 

As Little Man sang, my anger vanished. I let go the bunny. And I wondered what set me off in the first place. 

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This post brought to you by the letter V. Visit Jenny Matlock's blog for a variety of Alphabe-Thursday Voices and Visuals.

 

Song with Significance prompted by:

Image credit: © Dmitry Maslov

Hallmark Schmallmark

My dad once bought my stepmom a Ruger for her birthday.

 

That's right. A handgun.

 

As Little Man would say, "she not love it."

 

I recall she told him "That looks like something you'll really enjoy using."

 

Gift giving is an interesting thing. It sometimes reflects more on the giver than the receiver. And the intended message isn't always obvious to the recipient.

 

Yesterday, I told Little Man about Reid's struggle with lymphoma and how he is in the hospital and needs cheering up. When I asked if he wanted to make a card to send, he replied enthusiastically. He decided on orange paper.

 

And then he drew a plane crash. Actually, he drew two plane crashes, but I'll just share one.

 

 

If you want to see Little Man's description of the elements of this drawing, click here to download the annotated plane crash drawing (hint, hint, Grandma)

 

This is some of his best work to date -- it has people that are starting to look like people with round bodies and appendages! -- so it was hard to part with. But that's how I know this is a heartfelt gift.

 

And I know he'll draw more. Many, many more. Because right now, Little Man is all about plane crashes. It's who he is. And that's the best gift he could give.

 

Are you giving your best gifts today?

Thank You, Dairy Godmother

On Friday, I wrote this email.

 

Dear Knapp family,

 

My morning coffee tastes fantastic with some 1% milk in it. According to the Organic Valley milk carton, I have *you*, the Knapp family, to thank for that.

 

So, THANK YOU for producing delicious, healthy milk for me and my family. We drink about 1 1/2 gallons a week.

 

I appreciate you every day, starting before breakfast. Keep doing what you do so well. You make a difference. 

 

Best wishes,

 

Heidi

 

This action was inspired by a couple of things. First, I had just written the MilSpouse Friday Fill-in about my favorite morning drink -- latte with a double shot, no foam -- and people were commenting about how delicious that sounded. It *is* yummy, I thought, as I sipped my second one before 8 a.m. 

 

Second, "a random act of service" was on MamaKat's writer's workshop prompt list last week. I'd already written a post about 10 Must-Haves for Spring, but the random act of service was nagging at me because I couldn't think of one earlier in the week. And this was definitely random. And good. And random goodness rocks. So I wanted in on it.

 

As I poured the milk I noticed these words on the carton:

 

"Who's your farmer?" On the front, it said my milk was produced by "The Knapp Family Farm."

 

So I Googled them.

 

And found a lovely article on the Organic Valley website about Maureen and Paul Knapp, who have three kids and a farm in upstate NY. With a few more keystrokes I found their farm website and an email contact.

 

And I sent a thank you.

 

I received this reply:

 

Heidi,

You made our day - its been a long winter!  How very kind of you to take the time to write, and express gratitude for your food and where it comes from.

In return, I'd like to thank you, and your family - I just visited your website.  As difficult (yet rewarding) life on the farm can be, I cannot imagine how difficult your life can be, in so many different ways.  Would we be here without the military, and all the brave people who accept the responsibility of that way life, and all it entails?  I don't know, but thank you for all that you do.

Best,

Maureen

 

Bottom line? Gratitude is not just an attitude, it's an action. And it's contagious.

 

I'm on the lookout for other opportunities to practice random goodness this week. I hope you are, too.

 

Photo Credit COFFEE LATTE HALF EMPTY
© Elena Moiseeva

Military Wife Life: MilSpouse Friday Fill-In #30

Generally, my milspouse life is not front-and-center on this blog. I'm married to Leading Man, not to his career. But being a military spouse is the backdrop for my life, and so, so relevant to what I've learned about life, love, and family.

In the interest of sharing a bit more of my military wife life with you all, I'm doing this week's mispouse Friday fill-in. Without other wordiness, here are my answers!

 
What is your favorite MilSpouse blog? submitted by Our Crazy Life

Love, love, love the photos and layout at Household6Diva. Ann Marie's blog is scrumptious. After working on my own -- admittedly text-heavy -- blog, I like that I can "feel" my way through her blog visually. Gorgeous stuff. 

What are your favorite perks about your spouse being deployed (we all know there are perks)? submitted by Ramblings of a Marine Wife

Hmm. I wrote an article on this for the December 2009 issue of Military Spouse Magazine. (I am a regular contributor.)  There's also a discussion on the milspouse.com forums about the "up side to deployments" right now.

Personally, I would say the silver lining is being able to spend lots of time with my extended family. The Air Force has a policy that lets families move anywhere CONUS while a spouse is deployed if the deployment is 1 year or longer. Because of this policy, I had both my babies in my hometown. I was able to share them with their great-grandparents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins for 19 months. That's something military families miss out on most of the time, and it's something I will always treasure.

(I know my milspouse friends in other branches don't get the same benefit, and I wish you all did. The AF has been planning to repeal this, too. I am not sure of the current status of the policy.)

How long did you date your husband before getting engaged? Married? submitted by Utterly Chaotic

About 2 1/2 years before we got married. There was no engagement, unless you consider planning the courthouse wedding via email during a deployment as an "engagement period." (wink, wink)

 

What do you think your husband would do if he wasn’t in the military? submitted by Adventures of M-Squared

That's a really good -- and relevant -- question. Something busy and demanding. And hopefully something where he can make an impact.

Leading Man is an Air Force Academy grad with 24 years of service, so he has been "in" for 28 years! We're thinking about what he'll do after retirement now. It will be difficult for him to find a job that feels as meaningful as helping the Afghans rebuild their communities. My husband has done 3 deployments to Afghanistan in the last 6 years and his heart is still in Panjshir.

If you could talk to the Secretary of the Air Force what is one suggestion you would like to bring to their attention in order to improve the lives of military families?  submitted by My Life as His (Air Force) Wife

Military families struggle mightily with reintegration after deployment, but few seek help with the transition. I wish the services would normalize this experience for people so they don't feel so alone. Many people (civilian and miliary included) think welcoming a service member home should be happy, easy, fun. Like coming back from a vacation.

The reality is that lots of things change in the course of a year and re-making a family over and over and over takes a toll on everyone. The Air Force is fond of saying "flexibility is the key to airpower." In Leading Mama's opinion, a little stability never hurt, either.

Community-Sourcing: Leadership isn't DIY

I frequently get thanked for things I didn’t do. That’s because I take on projects that are way too big for one little mama to do all by herself. Like collecting, packaging and distributing cookies to more than 2,000 service members at holiday time. Don’t get me wrong, I love, love, love to bake. But 12,000 cookies? 10 days from now? Forget about it.

Photo by Tim Lewis shared via WikimediaCommons

 

I’m something of a yes-mama. I simply can’t say “no” when I’m asked to take on an enormous project. I’m a project junkie. But I know I can’t be a do-it-myself project junkie.  That would be ludicrous. And it isn't necessary!

 

People love to help with meaningful projects, so reaching out gives others the opportunity to do good. They'll also bring skills, talents and resources that Leading Mama just doesn’t have. Sometimes more is more. So I say “bring it.”

 

Crowd-sourcing is a relatively new concept in business. It amounts to getting people to build products without payment for their labor, and it flies in the face of years of pay-for-performance management. Community leaders have been doing something similar for hundreds or thousands of years. Think barnraising technology for the modern world.

 

I call it community-sourcing: harnessing the energies of community networks and everyday people to accomplish a shared pro-social goal.

 

Community-sourcing could help you collect coats for inner city kids or items for the school’s silent auction. It could be used to build affordable housing or clean up and refurbish a dilapidated baseball field. You could community-source a website or blog and get rich content from hundreds of contributors in the virtual community. If you're a ScaryMommy fan, you know what I mean. She has an eight-week waiting list for guest contributors to the Scary Mommy Society and the content is outstanding.

 

Done right, community-sourcing not only gets the job done. It gets the job done faster, smarter, and better. It builds community. And – if you have a tendency to take projects way too big for one person – it just might save you from yourself.

 

How could community-sourcing help you with an upcoming project? And what's stopping you from using it?