This is How I Know My Mom Loved Me

It is late. Like, 10:00pm late. Bedtime has taken 90 minutes, 17 sips of water, 8 kisses, 5 stories, 3 cover readjustments, 2 trips to the bathroom and one final threat to stay in their room or else. I am ready to relax, just for a little bit, before the whole crazy production starts all over again tomorrow.

There is only one thing between me and my DVR:

School lunches.

I don't know why school lunches are such a thorn in my side. They only take about 10 minutes to throw together, but it's like reaching the finish line of a marathon only to discover they've added a few more laps on the end. (At least, that's what I imagine it would be like, having run approximately 0 marathons myself.)

At the beginning of the year I tried to be really creative and health-conscious with the food I sent to school. My goal was to stock my son's BPA-free, eco-friendly bento lunch box with colorful representatives from the entire food pyramid. The vegetables always came back untouched, of course, but I kept sending them anyway because the experts say that if you keep presenting nutritious foods to your child they will eventually try them, but really it was because I wanted the teacher to think I was a good mom.

Now it is May and, well, I'm tired. I'm 5 episodes behind on "Grey's Anatomy" and I had to find out that McDreamy died through Facebook. I am feeling seriously uninformed on pop culture and school lunches are to blame.

Click here for school lunch envy.

While I cut the crusts off ham sandwiches and shake goldfish into baggies, I resentfully think about all the things I could be doing instead. I could be reading a book. I could be shoe shopping online. I could even be organizing the giant pile that has accumulated on the dining room table. Anything but this.

And then it hits me. My mom did this every school night. She had 3 kids, so she made lots of lunches every night for lots of years. I pause for a moment to do a few calculations in my head, as well as I can at 10:00pm. 

My mom made school lunches from 1987 until 2009. TWENTY-TWO YEARS of school lunches. I mean, she got a break on Fridays when they served those killer rectangle pizzas, but for the better part of TWENTY-TWO years she unwaveringly packed white bread sandwiches and Handi-Snacks and Bugles and Fruit Roll-Ups and Capri Suns. You know, the kind of cool stuff that every 90s kid hopes and prays is is in their lunch because she not only packed lunches, she packed lunches that were the envy of the cafeteria table. And she did it for TWENTY-TWO YEARS.

My mom even packed our lunches for us through high school. I remember some of my friends were in charge of packing their own lunches by then; their mothers had passed the task on to them either with the hopes of teaching their children some responsibility or because they were just tired of the whole thing, but probably a little of both. Not my mom. She always handed me a lunch on the way out the door. She didn't have to, but she did. I don't even know if I ever said thank you. 

TWENTY-TWO YEARS. I just can't get that number out of my head. She did this mundane, tedious task for her children every school night for twenty-two years. She also sat in thousands of carpool lines. She lost hundreds of hours of sleep soothing fussy babies, caring for sick kids and staying up late to sew Halloween costumes or dance recital outfits. She spent her hard-earned money on things for me, things I probably didn't need, but things she wanted me to have because she loved me that much.   

My mom and me in 1982. She is oblivious to the fact that she has 22 years of school lunches ahead of her.

Sometimes love isn't climbing the highest mountain or swimming the deepest sea. Love doesn't have to reach as far as the moon and back. Sometimes the best kind of love is found in the ordinary faithfulness of packing twenty-two years of school lunches. 

So thank you, Mom, for all of the daily sacrifices you made for me that I never seemed to notice. At the time it was impossible for me to comprehend the true depth and scope of motherhood, but I knew I felt cared for, I felt safe and I felt special. You gave me an incredible gift. Because of you, I wanted to be a mom too.

So I will cut off crusts and I will slice strawberries because my mom did it for me, and I want to take the blessings that she poured into my life and pass them on to my children.

And maybe, every once in a while, I will pack them a Capri Sun. Just like my mom did for me. ;)

"I love you 2,340 school lunches!"

Grandparent Detox: The 5-Step Survival Method

My children have a lot of grandparents, several of whom we have been able to visit with this summer. My children love their grandparents and the grandparents LOVE their grandchildren.

It's a love that leads to freezers stocked with popsicles, marathon games of Candyland, and one grandpa who has erected a few tents in his living room and installed a swing from the ceiling in the hopes that the grandchildren will mistake his house for a circus, no doubt.

Gigi, a great-grandmother, always brings each of the children a surprise whenever she sees them, even though she lives right down the street. One time she stopped by to retrieve a pair of sunglasses and, upon the realization that she forgot to bring any special treats, became so distraught that she insisted they pick something out of her bag of groceries loaded in the trunk (Henry took her Veggie Straws and Jack chose a can of minestrone, just in case you were wondering).

It's a dangerous love. Once the kids get a taste, they want MORE. They are HOOKED. In fact, I suspect before our visits the grandparents plot ways to guarantee their grandchildren's loyalty and affection. Let's see...we'll start with ice cream for breakfast and then we'll play Thomas the Train for 3 hours and then maybe a trip to the moon! 

You can imagine their reaction, then, when we try to bring them back to reality after a visit with the grandparents.

They are shocked when we announce it is bedtime after the sun goes down. But we haven't even roasted marshmallows yet! They stare into the pantry in complete bewilderment. Why don't we have chocolate bars like Grandma? Even the suggestion of bathing sparks a complete meltdown. But I never had to take a bath at Grandpa's howwwwse!! He said the hot tub was just as gooood!

In fact, when the grandparent withdrawal hits, it manifests itself as one long, whiny, sobbing, floor-flopping meltdown, or what I like to call "Grandparent Detox." 

How long will it take for the effects of the grandparent narcotic to wear off? It's simple, really. To calculate, you must add up the amount of time your children spent with their grandparents and then multiply that by 2. So, if your child spent 3 days at Grandma's house, it will take 6 days for him to properly detox.

Grandparent Detox is hard on children and parents alike. Here are 5 steps to help everyone survive this grueling process.

Grandparent Detox: The 5- Step Survival Method

1. Be understanding

It is important to remember that it takes time to unlearn bad habits.

Be understanding with your children and slowly guide them down from their grandparent high with baby steps. Perhaps Grandma left the Disney Channel on for the entire 72 hours of their visit. It may be an overwhelming shock to the system to quit Doc McStuffins cold turkey. Instead, allow your children a good 4 hour TV block upon returning home and gradually reduce the time each day. Use that time to get a head start on unpacking, because like the Grandparent Detox rule of thumb, if the trip lasted 4 days, it will take 8 to unpack.

Grandparents clapping for their brilliant great-granddaughter who has just learned to HONK THE HORN.
After she gets steering down they are going to buy her a pony.

2. Be firm

If there was one word to describe grandparents, 'firm' would not be that word. 

Sometimes my 2-year-old will climb out of his crib after I put him down for a nap. I calmly, but firmly put him back in and tell him to stay there or else.

On our latest visit to one grandma's house, I had just put Henry & Elise down to nap when Grandma implored me to lie down and rest as well. 

After I woke up from a magnificent snooze, I found my 2-year-old in hysterics, convulsing on the floor, practically foaming at the mouth exactly like a...well...exactly like a toddler who has skipped his nap.

"What happened to Henry??" I asked Grandma.

"Well, don't be mad," she replied, "after you went to nap, he came in the kitchen and looked at me with those big eyes and I couldn't bear to put him back to bed, love his heart. So I let him sit in my lap and watch cartoons. And then he had 3 popsicles."

The closest I've ever heard a grandparent come to saying 'no' is, "Honey, I would let you have ice cream for breakfast, but your mother said no."

After several days of free-for-all living at Grandma's, your children need you to reinstate the rules and routines you've set for them. Be firm and stay strong.

3. Use threats

Let's say, hypothetically speaking, that you have very firmly explained to your child that we cannot just hop in the car and rush to the store on a whim because he wants Lucky Charms. You don't care that every time he sees Grammie they head to the store for Lucky Charms, it does not happen every time he sees Mommy. (Your husband begrudgingly adds that he never got Lucky Charms when he went to the store with Grammie and he lived with her for 18 years!) 

If your determined explanation still results in a glorious tantrum, it might be time to employ a new strategy.

Truth be told, it's really not a fair fight. Of course the children prefer the grandparents to mommy. Case in point:

GRANDPA: Takes children to stable to give hugs to horses.
MOMMY: Takes children to doctor to look at fish tank before getting shots.

See. There's that pony I was talking about.

GRANDMA: Showers children with gifts whenever she sees them.
MOMMY: Threatens to take away said gifts if children misbehave while she is showering.

MOMMY: Takes kids to grocery store, bank and dry cleaners.
GRANDPARENTS: Take kids to amusement park, children's museum and zoo. In one afternoon.

And also manage to squeeze in a quick trip to the salon.

OF COURSE the children will fight you with every fiber in their being in hopes of escaping back to The Place Where All Their Dreams Come True.

Threats may be your only weapon against them, as in, "Stop your screaming and get up off the floor or you WILL NEVER SEE GRANDMA AGAIN!!!"

4. Seek help from a higher power

Sometimes, the only way to succeed is to admit defeat.

When all else fails, close your eyes, bow your head, and call a grandma.

Beg her to take the kids for a few days.

5. Repeat steps 1-4

It's a vicious cycle, really.

Grandparents, if you don't stop spoiling them, these children may be taking a permanent vacation to your house!

Wait. Is that what you've been plotting??

You sneaky rascals.

This post has been syndicated at ScaryMommy.com

Childhood Revisited

"You guys didn't really take many family vacations when you were growing up, did you?" my husband asked me once, several years ago, while we were flipping through old photo albums.

I had never really thought about it before, but he was right. We went to the beach a couple of times, but never anything beyond that. There were no trips to Disney or educational forays to Williamsburg or long treks across state parks.

It's not that we couldn't afford it, although I'm sure money was tight in my parents' early marriage. My father was still in college when I was born, after all.

"We didn't need vacation," I answered, matter of factly, "We had my grandparents' house."

My grandparents live in a small town in the mountains of eastern Kentucky. To my sisters and me, it was our own little slice of heaven. It wasn't the tiny Appalachian town itself that was so enthralling, although the occasional trip to the Wal-Mart was always exciting (note: in small towns the mega-store is not referred to as simply "Wal-Mart." It is always THE Wal-Mart). No, it was my grandparents that made our visits so special.

From the minute my parents dropped us off up until our goodbyes, we knew that our grandparents had carved out this week just for us. The kitchen was stocked with our favorite foods and the days were blank canvases waiting to be filled with romps in the creek, tire-swinging, raspberry-picking or firefly-catching.

One of our favorite pastimes was dressing up in my grandmother's old gowns from the 50s and 60s. We'd spend an hour selecting the perfect combination of dress, wig, gloves and jewelry. The final accessory was always a couple of pairs of Grandpa's tube socks, balled up and stuffed down the front of the bodice to give an air of authenticity to the ensamble. Mamma, as we call her, was delighted to see us parading around the house in her vintage sequined top or a glamorous cocktail dress. Over the years, even her wedding gown became tattered and kool-aid stained after countless hours of dress-up. "Now tell me, how many wedding dresses have been this well-loved?" she would laugh.

My grandpa always had a surprise or two in store for us. Once he brought home an enormous refrigerator box from the local appliance store. We quickly fashioned it into a house, made Grandpa sit inside and fed him sandwiches through the tiny window. Another time he and I trapped a perfect little white bunny in the yard using the old carrot-under-the-box-propped-up-by-a-stick trick. Years later I learned that Grandpa actually got the rabbit from a pet store and stuck it under the box while I was asleep.

I think I named her Buttercup.

When I visit now, I'm taken aback at how quickly I'm transported to my childhood. The summer air still smells of honeysuckle and everything that's familiar. A small piece of me lives forever in those hills, along with the memories ofl Mamma's contagious laugh and Grandpa's late-night tales of the frightful Gohumpy that lives just up the holler.

When I first got married, I wanted to share this part of my past with my husband. And he's been to the house and he loves my grandparents too. But there are some things you just can't impart with words and grown-up visits.

***

This week my oldest is having a vacation of his own in the Kentucky mountains. This is the 3rd summer he has taken a solo trip to Mamma & Grandpa's house. 

My grandparents have been texting me photos  of his time with them. (yes, TEXTING. They're hip like that.)

He is swinging...

...roasting marshmallows...

...eating his favorite foods...

...dressing up (after a quick trip to the Wal-Mart)...

...and enjoying his own slice of Appalachian heaven.

I see his face and I recognize that joy. And I am blessed knowing that a piece of me and a piece of him are intertwined in those same hills.

We share the same love for the same two people in the exact same way.

We are sharing a slice of childhood.

And it sure is delicious.

Lake Winnepesaukah

If your travels ever happen to take you down I-75, somewhere along the Tennessee/Georgia line, there is a tiny American gem hidden right off of exit 1. It is an amusement park, Lake Winnepesaukah, surrounding a small lake and nestled among the trees.

It is big enough to entertain all ages, but small enough that you could hit all the attractions in one day if you so desired.

My favorite feature of Lake Winnie, as the locals call it, is it's adorably vintage feel, as it was built in 1925 by a couple whose granddaughter still runs the park today. Lake Winnie is complete with a majestic carousel built in 1916, lots of vintage kiddie rides, antique band organs serenading the park and an old wooden roller coaster. Of course, you could not pay me money to ride a rickety old roller coaster, but I do enjoy staring nostalgically at them.

There is also a small building at the end of the boardwalk that houses old photos and memorabilia from Lake Winnie's past. When I saw this picture from 1939, my love for Lake Winnie was cemented for all eternity.

"To Paul Jones - a swell fellow in a swell Park. Lake Winnepesaukah. 1939. Doc & Sonora Carver."

HOLY COW. YOU GUYS. THE REAL LIFE SONORA WEBSTER DID HER HORSE DIVING IN THIS VERY PARK. And, of course, the crowd never knew she was blind. Please tell me someone else out there spent 8,000 hours of their childhood watching Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken over and over again??

Of course, now I'm afraid I have built up your expectations too much and you will be disappointed unless you happen to also love charmingly-vintage amusement parks. Or you're an early 90s Disney movie buff (for my next post, I will be traveling to NYC and discussing Newsies.)

My sister, however, claims that Lake Winnie is smelly and creepy, and I will admit that the only thing I did not find charmingly vintage about Lake Winnie was the general public. I saw one lady wearing an actual bra and actual underwear in the waterpark. And that was one of the classier outfits.

Seriously, why can't people still dress like this at amusement parks??

Charmingly vintage or totally creepy?
You decide.

My four-year-old absolutely loved every minute, especially the waterpark. At 42 inches, he was just tall enough to do some of the "big rides" as well, including the "Oh-Zone!" - one of those rides that hoists you up 14 stories just to drop you straight down. I had a mini-heart attack at the top. Jack hopped off and said, "Wow, that made my bottom come right off the seat!"

The view from the top of the Oh-Zone AKA the place I almost died.

My two youngest were not quite as impressed with Lake Winnie. Elise went with the flow, as usual, but Henry only tolerated a few rides before announcing multiple times, "I WANT GO HOME!" Finally, we found something which completely thrilled them both....

the rental stroller.

Also good for naps.

My mom threw a towel over the top of the stroller and Henry and Elise were happy to play in their "tent" for the rest of the day.

Which left Jack and me free to ride to our hearts' content.

And we did. (Even though I failed to get photographic evidence.)

"Hey, Mom, can you take a picture of us in front of the lazy river?"

"Hey, Mom, can you get a picture of me with Jack on the parachutes?"

"Never mind, Mom, I'm going with a selfie!"

So if you're ever in the area, take a day trip to Lake Winnepesaukah.

And decide for yourself.

(Just know that the diving horses no longer perform. Sadly.)

Scenes from St. Augustine

Last month I packed up the kids, fled the depressing winter weather, and flew down to sunny St. Augustine, Florida to spend the week with family.

St. Augustine proudly claims the title of the "Nation's Oldest City." Founded in 1565, the seaside town boasts a rich history encompassing everything from pirate attacks during the Spanish conquest to Ponce de Leon's fabled "Fountain of Youth" to a stint as a posh winter resort for the rich and famous during the late 1800's. The art and architecture of the city span four centuries and perfectly blend to create an atmosphere unique to St. Augustine.

If Spanish conquistadors and Gilded Age architecture just aren't your thing, don't worry, there are also miles and miles of pristine beaches. And a charming lighthouse. And an alligator farm. And a dolphin marina. Basically, there really is something for everyone.

I'd love to write about each one of our Floridian adventures. I could write about exploring a perfect replica of a Spanish Galleon or how the boys and I made it through the entire Pirate Museum in a record breaking 2.34 minutes.

I could write about strolling downtown and how my grandpa decided his new retirement plan was to make like The Hyppo and set up a popsicle stand on St. George Street to sell frozen juice for $4 a pop, because apparently people will buy anything as long as it has the word "gourmet" in front of it. (Seriously though, who wouldn't be obsessed with gourmet popsicles with flavors like Strawberry Basil and Champagne Mango?)

Henry chose Pineapple Ginger, which we decided was the winner. 

I'd love to write about all the things, but frankly, I just don't have the time. So I will write about the one thing instead. Here is the one thing I took away from this trip more than anything else:

Traveling with small children isn't exactly a vacation, unless your definition of "vacation" is doing laundry, dishes and bedtime in a new location.

But sometimes, a new location is all you need.

Traveling is learning. And as you learn about the world, you realize that the world is actually teaching you about yourself.

As I watched my children explore St. Augustine, I saw their distinct personalities emerging as they interacted with the world around them.

And I learned that I have an Adventurer.

My Adventurer raced at top speed, without hesitation, into frigid salty waters. He wore a sweatshirt under his swimshirt with a big, silly grin. He has no fear of strangers and struck up conversations with anyone who peaked his curiosity. He ordered pirates to lend him their gear so he could look the part while steering the ship.

I have a Thinker.

My Thinker poked his head into every nook, cranny and giant cannon. He studied shell after shell in the coquina streets and always lingered behind because he had just discovered some new fascinating treasure. He's never met an animal he didn't love...even a dead jellyfish.

I have a Daughter.

My Daughter has only just turned one and it's still a bit early to pinpoint personality. (Secretly, I'm kind of hoping for "the Shopper", because the boys just do not understand the gloriousness that is a shoe sale.) Still, wherever we went and whatever we did, she was content, as long as she could be part of the fun too. She insisted on investigating the sand and scenery for herself and if the boys got a gourmet popsicle, you had better hand her a Cucumber Lemon Mint too.

"I want that! No, I don't. Yes, I do!"

So thanks, St. Augustine. Thanks for the history lessons and the pirate adventures and the beachy strolls.

Thanks for the reminder that my children are their own little people, growing up before my eyes and teaching me about the world from their unique perspectives.

And I'd pay $4 for one of your popsicles any day.

Just me and the kids...and a photobombing pelican.