Browsing Tag


Motherhood: Sometimes It’s Like This

I love you.

I’ll always love you.

I love you more today than yesterday.

Nothing you could ever do would stop me from loving you.

What ARE you doing?

Well, stop it.

No, now.

Yes, it’s important.

Go outside.

There shall no evil befall thee.

It’s good for you.

You’ll thank me someday.

Did you clean your room?

I’m not going to ask you again.

Okay. That’s pretty good.

Yes, we can do that.

I am really proud of you.

Stop bugging your brother.

I said quit it.

Get off him NOW.

You want what?

You’ve gotta be kidding.

Do you know how much that costs?

I’ll think about it.

Ask your Dad.

No, I’m not changing my mind.

Clean your room.

Don’t just pile everything in your closet.

Give me a hug.

You just fit.

You are SO sweet.

Yes, you have to eat it.

It’s not that gross.

Please hang up your coat.

Come on, it’s not that complicated.

I love you more.

You’re really silly.

Don’t leave your stuff all over the living room.

Cramming Legos under the couch it NOT “picking up.”

That’s a good idea.

You are so cool.

Great job.

Not today.

Maybe tomorrow.

I promise.

Why do you keep asking?

No. Because I said so.

I mean it.

God means it.

You are adorable.

Practice your piano.

Sure, I’ll play a game with you.

You’re good.

Why do you always win?

Stop picking at each other.

Apologize to him.

Yes, you gotta.

Are those clothes on your bedroom floor dirty or clean?

I love you.

What do you wanna do?

It’s all right with me if it’s all right with Dad.

Good idea.

You are just too cute.

Nice shot.

What a beautiful swing.

I love to watch you play.

Don’t pile all your shoes in the kitchen.


Stop it.

Don’t hit him.

I don’t care if he hit you first.

I don’t want to hear who started it.

That’s enough.

No. End of discussion.

Turn that thing off.

Go clean your room.

Yes, that includes making your bed.

I’m sorry.

You are getting so tall.

Sit up straight.

Say “excuse me.”

That’s disgusting.

Don’t do that.

Here’s another hug.

Thank you.

Put your clean clothes in your dresser.

Good hit!

What a shot!

Don’t give me that look.

If you want to go, I’ll take you.

That was great fun.

Are these your baseball cards all over the table?

Thanks for picking up your clothes.

I loved you first.

You want me to go with you?

I’d love to.

Watch your mouth.

Yes, it matters.

Don’t act smart.

Thanks for bringing in the groceries.

You’re a terrific kid.

I told you no.

Don’t make me yell at you.

That’s just the way it is.

Pray about it.

I love you.

Give me a kiss.

You were very polite to them.

I’m glad God gave you to me.

God is faithful.

Give me another hug.

I REALLY thank God for you.

Even when you’re so goofy.

Bless you.

I love you MORE.

Than you’ll ever know.

Bigger family 1988


18 Raw Eggs

In honor of my youngest son’s birthday, here’s a little story about what a curious, never-a-dull-moment child he was. He is and always will be my blessing. I am proud of the man he has become. And that he’s still a never-a-dull-moment guy.

Warning to mothers: think twice before showing your three-year-old how to use the egg slicer.

Boys TR 3-4Thomas giggled when I pulled the metal wires of the slicer over the peeled hardboiled egg to create uniform slices white and yolk. He laughed even more when I let him do it himself. I laughed, too, at his joy, watching him line up the slices from small to big before eating them.

But the joy of teaching him something new turned sideways the next day.

About twenty minutes before a client was to arrive at my home business for a resumé consultation, I heard tiny footsteps, and swiveled around from my desk. There I saw Thomas standing sheepishly outside my office door.

“I spilled a egg.” His voice was very small and he stared at the floor.

“Ah oh,” I said. “Let’s go take a look.” Not good timing for a little mess, I thought, following him to the kitchen. When I turned the corner from the living room, where my older son was quietly playing with his action figures, and into the kitchen, another “ah oh” caught in my throat.

He spilled more than “a egg.” More than a “little mess.”

Smashed eggs were everywhere. Cracked eggs shells and eggs whites and egg yolks dripped from every surface. Blobs of yolks puddled on a kitchen chair pushed beside the refrigerator, and a mixture of shell and yolk ran down the front.  Smashed eggs slimed down the counter and against the cabinets.  Gooeyness slid from the edges of the kitchen table. Pooled on the floor were globs of yellow. The floor which unfortunately was hideously-patterned carpet we didn’t have money to replace.

Eighteen eggs murdered at the hands of a determined three-year-old.

And there on the table was the egg slicer with a crushed egg oozing in its center.

I was speechless. And so was Thomas as he stood beside me. We both stared at his handiwork. I sat down and pulled him to my lap.

“Did you want a hardboiled egg?” I asked.

“I touldn’t find one,” he admitted. “Sawwee.” He put his arms around my neck and leaned into my shoulder, a repentant hug.

“No,” I chucked, just a little, “I guess you couldn’t.” No use crying over spilled eggs.

Because I knew I didn’t have time to clean the mess before my client arrived, I called a friend. “Hey, Mac, how do you feel about raw eggs?” She came minutes ahead of my appointment, her dog’s pooper scooper in hand, and started the cleanup. Expressing extreme gratitude, I went back to my office to wait for my client. A subdued Thomas went to play with his brother.

When the client interview ended, Mac stood in my doorway with an empty paper towel roll. “I think your kitchen carpet will be rather shiny for a while,” she said with a laugh. “Good thing that boy of yours is so cute.”

No kidding.

Later, I put the boys down for a nap, and explained to Thomas once again the don’t get-in-the-refrigerator-without-asking-Mommy’s-permission rule. Then I called John.

“You’ll need to pick up some eggs on your way home from work.”

“But we still have more than a dozen, don’t we?” he asked.

“Not anymore.”


“Yep,” I said. And thusly regaled him with the story of Thomas and the eggs.

Lesson to mothers: Make sure to show your three-year-old that the hardboiled eggs are the ones with a big crayoned “X” on them!

The Book Talk

Stacks of books, Seattle, Washington, USAI thought the door was closed. It was not.

I thought they were playing in the living room. They were not.

I just wanted to go the bathroom. That’s all. Just a quick visit. I even left the door ajar so I could listen for suspicious child movement.

That’s when I heard all the noise. Crashing noises. Not what a mother of toddlers (or any age, I suppose!) wants to hear. Out of the bathroom, down the hall, I made my way as quickly as I could manage toward the sound of impending chaos. But understand, I am not a fast mover. That I can motivate upright at all is miraculous. A diving accident when I was a teenager had left me a diagnosed quadriplegic. But with a mix of prayer, faith, determination, and (lovingly) pushy family members, I’d seen God do some amazing things to improve my mobility.

So, I slowly wall-walked down the hallway, my method of in-house locomotion, touching the walls (or furniture) for balance. After that initial crash, there was now silence. Not a good sign.

I pushed open the door. Well, I tried to push open the door. A barrier.  Ugghh, I pushed harder until I could see into the room.  I saw the reason for the crashing noise. The reason for the barrier.

Books covered the floor. Lots of books. Two little blond-headed, very quiet boys sat unnaturally still amid a mound of books. Three six-foot long shelves were empty. I caught my breath, “Oh dear.” Their father’s books.

They looked at me, blue eyes big. Then Johnny, the two-and-half year old, said, “Ah, oh.” Thomas, the sixteen-month old, looked at him, looked at me, looked down, and repeated, “Ah, oh.”

“Ah, oh,” indeed.

I sighed. “Okay, out you go. You’ve made a mess of Daddy’s books,” I said, giving them my unhappy mommy face. Because I couldn’t pick them up and extract them from the mess, I waited for them to stand and stumble over John’s collection of thick hardback hardcore history books. A few slips, a few more rips of dust jackets, and they were away from the disaster. They wiggled through the slightly open door and scurried to the living room. “We sorry, Momma,” Johnny said. I closed the door. Tightly this time. And decided to call in reinforcements to help me reshelve the “library” later.

From the start of my motherhood journey, I knew that calm was better than frantic, peaceful was better than hysterical, happy was better than sad. Daily I prayed for wisdom when things threatened to unravel me. And like pulling on a snag, unraveling can happen quickly.

While I made their lunch and we ate, I talked to them about the difference between Daddy’s books and their books, that books were special and we should be careful with them. I reinforced the importance of respecting what belongs to someone else. “Were those your books?” I asked.

“No,” they both agreed and shook their heads. Thomas seemed more interested in his apple than my discourse.

“Do you understand how we treat books now, especially other peoples’ books?”

Johnny’s small apologetic voice, “Yeah,” was mumbled with peanut butter.

After all, the children needed to learn that our house was, and always would be, full of books.

Our bookcases were sometimes three stacks deep with (my) books of English literature, books about faith and Christian living, books with autographs of authors I’d met, and (John’s) books of world and American history. John’s books, in particular, included volumes that I believed only libraries had. And his books, even ones he’s had for years, seemed new. Because he is a peek-reader, never bending the spine, never dog-earring pages, and never ever underlining or writing in margins.

In other words, we cherished our Bigger library.

And I wanted the small ones know the wonder, the power, the happy moments tucked within those pages. I wanted them to learn, to cherish, to appreciate, to respect, and above all, to read. Books.

But, I was still going to double-check that door to the “library.” Every day.


photo by: Wonderlane