He’s got a toothless grin and finger smudged red framed glasses that rest atop his cherub nose. He climbs high in the branches of our dogwood tree and can swim, just barely. He’s a gardener – taking my hand into his and leading me out the back door to see the progress of his “Big Boy” tomatoes. When he spies a hint of red, he twists it from the vine and runs barefoot back into the house to show Jamie his prize. Today, he is 6!
Days ago he learned to ride a bike sans training wheels. As he pedaled down the sidewalk, I clung fiercely to the back of his seat while he teetered and tottered along. By the second trip, I had loosened my grip just a tad, as he was a little more steady at the helm. Then finally, I slowed my pace and off he went all on his own, his blonde wisps of hair poking out of the helmet holes. Today, he is 6!
He’s the author of a stack of books fashioned from notebook paper and a stapler. My favorite one is called The Booger Cave. It’s about a guy who goes exploring inside a nose and finds jewels – of course they are really boogers. Other titles include The Dog Zapper (about an invisible fence), The Chicks That Hatched, The Bear That Likes to Surf, and The Fourth of July. Each story retails for a hundred dollars. However, he does offer a senior discount to his grandmothers. Ha! Today, he is 6!
At restaurants he orders a salad with balsamic vinaigrette. Then he actually eats it. He loves playing “Trash” with a deck of cards and if he poses for a picture, you can guarantee he’ll sport a wide grin and a thumbs up. Sometimes he ponders life’s big wonders like, “If you blow a snot bubble from your nose, will it float?” His whole world is about keeping up with his brothers. He adores them both to no end. Today, he is 6!
Wishing our little solar eclipse baby the happiest 6th birthday! We love your hugs and snuggles, your tender little heart, the way you so eagerly share all the joy that is within you with all who are around you. Cheers to a solid year with no trips to the Emergency Room. I’ll go ahead and order up a repeat on that! We love you sweet, Finn! Happy birthday to you!
Joy Joy Joy ❤️❤️❤️The classic thumbs upThe Booger Cave 🤣4th birthdayFirst BirthdayMeeting baby brother ❤️❤️❤️Sweet baby boy
I had planned to take a gap year. I’d have a year with all three boys in school, a tidy house, and all of my dresser drawers neatly organized. The world didn’t deliver a single one of these plans to my doorstep.
I was sitting at the edge of sending our youngest off to Kindergarten, while at the same time grappling with the passing of our friend, Walter, followed by the death of a counselor whom both Jackson and I had seen. I sat quietly in that darkness as I considered what would be my next right step in life. I considered adjusting my course and pursuing counseling, but quickly remembered I have three kids who are all going to be very expensive in the coming years. This realization led me toward a partial solution: teaching is a cousin to counseling. There’s no tidy one-on-one setting, but in truth teachers do a great deal of counseling from day to day. It didn’t hurt that I’d also be paid for this endeavor. So the stars aligned and last July, I was hired as a fifth grade classroom teacher. I didn’t sleep well for the next 45 days as I anticipated this shift in my world.
I messed up a million ways this school year. But I kept my eye on the idea that my goal was to do the best I could each day. When I worried about test scores, I reminded myself that this worry is rooted in others’ perception of my teaching. If I am invested in the whole child, because let’s remember, these are feeling, thinking humans who are complex in their needs and experiences, then I was doing my best to help them grow academically, but also emotionally and socially. At the end of the day, I really wanted to help them become capable, thoughtful humans.
When I took this job, I didn’t realize that I’d come to love these fifth graders just like I love my own kids. I’d learn a great deal from them each day. One afternoon, a student came back from lunch and explained that she’d had to sit with someone in another class – someone she’d have never ever chosen to sit with. She explained that she and her partner had talked the whole time and discovered that they both liked cheerleading and had older brothers, among many other things in common. My mind echoed with Glennon Doyle’s words, “Fear can’t survive proximity.” We talked a good ten minutes, arguably the most important ten minutes of the year, about how easy it is to judge something or someone you don’t know or understand and how brave it is to lean into that space in search of a common ground.
I learned to celebrate the small victories. This group was in second grade when schools shut down because of COVID and the academic, social and emotional gaps are profound. They went to school twice a week for their third grade year and the other three days were online. All of this coupled with the growing volume of screen use in young children leads me to believe that this group of kids will face tremendous challenges in the coming years. Our kids need us now more than ever.
While subbing years ago I heard a teacher tell her class, “Your choices affect all the other people in this room.” I went home and promptly gave the same speech to my own children who needed to hear it. These words became my anthem for the school year – with a great many detours into the topics of self control and self awareness. Then one day I overheard a kid say to another, “Can you please stop tapping your pencil? It’s really bothering me.” The other child replied, “Sure. Sorry!” Hold my beer, people. I had to celebrate these small moments because they were the tiniest sign that we were moving in the right direction.
Some days were better than others. Once a student brought in a mini-pie for each kid in the class. After tasting the treat, two students walked to the trash can to spit it out while complaining that it had tasted awful. This would serve as an Intro into Life Lessons 101.
We spent the next twenty minutes talking as a class about what to do when you don’t like a food or a gift you’ve been given. How does your choice affect other people? We came up with some guidelines for how to handle these situations with respect and tact. These are things that matter if we want to raise and send capable, compassionate humans out in the world. These are the daily lessons we need to address in homes and in schools. Like I said, our kids need us now more than ever. They need conversation, they need interactions, and they need us present, without phones, without distractions. They need us fully engaged, which is no easy task in this age of distracted living. But our efforts are certainly worth it.
I struggle with this every single day, like most of us do. A month ago I was putting dirty dishes into the dishwasher and had spent most of the morning putting Finn off as he asked me to play with him. We had our big camping trip coming up and the to do list is expansive. As I was rinsing a dish he asked if I was ready to play with him yet.
“Not quite yet, buddy. I’ve got a few more things still to do.”
He nodded and then replied, “Do you like working or playing with me more?”
Talk about a gut punch. When you put it that way, the answer is clear. But just like that Bluey episode, my inside voice isn’t matching my outside voice, or in this case, my actions. The dishes can wait – no one ever regretted pouring time and love into their kids. We played a heck of an UNO round and it was likely the best choice I made all day. It reminded me of the quote, “If you don’t have time for things that matter, stop doing things that don’t.”
When I took this job, I didn’t realize how much I’d enjoy taking all three of my boys to school each morning. It would be the only year they’d all attend the same school. Yes, there would be bickering as we shuffled through the parking lot at 7 a.m. Yes, I’d yell quite a bit on the rowdiest of mornings. Yes, Finn would ride my teacher chair like a bucking bronco one morning and flip it over. Yes, a front tooth would get knocked out when Parker tossed a soccer ball to Finn and his lip caught the ball instead of his hands. Yes, we’d be a motley crew. But, I had a rare and precious window into their worlds that I’d have missed completely if the gap year had been my course.
I wouldn’t know that all winter, Parker would choose to wear his heaviest winter coat in the building all day long. That’s right, ALL DAY LONG. At home I’d say, “Why did you have your coat on today inside school? Don’t wear it all day! Take it off in the morning.” The next day in the hallway I’d pass his class and sure enough, he’d still have his coat on. Sigh. I’d have missed seeing Finn on the playground for the 5 or 6 minutes that his recess overlapped with ours. I’d have missed the day that Jackson sat beside me on the wagon at the Safari Park. After feeding bison and llamas and antelopes he asked, “How close is this place to Virginia Tech, mom?”
“I don’t know, maybe an hour and a half. Why?”
“Well, I think I’d like working here while I’m in college. But that’s kinda a long drive. Maybe I can work here in the summer. I love it here.”
I sat for a second with his pronouncement, with this window into his heart. I’d had no idea he was planning to go to school at Virginia Tech and I was lucky enough to be there in that moment to listen.
Was this year difficult? Yes. Was it worth it? Absolutely. Life transitions are never easy. The struggle of the last year was in many ways a mirror to the transition I faced 11 years ago when I left the classroom to stay at home with Jackson. It’s like walking from one world into another. There is a sense of starting over, a need to adapt and adjust constantly, a steep learning curve as you forge your new path. Sometimes I sat with a strange feeling of being in between worlds. I came to know the trials and joys of both spaces intimately, but felt like I now belonged wholly in neither space. I was oddly mixed up into both.
When I took the job last July, a friend’s mother told me, “Life is what happens while we are busy making plans.” She is so very right. The last year has brought incredible colleagues, teaching kids a thing or two, learning quite a bit myself, realizing that I can jump between worlds, that I can show up when things are hard, that I am a capable human. I’ve watched kids grow, loved them as best as I could each day, and witnessed small glimpses of life at school for my boys. For all of these gifts, I am grateful.
I had planned to take a gap year. I’d have a year with all three boys in school, a tidy house, and all of my dresser drawers neatly organized. Thank goodness the world knew better than me.
Four white columns frame the heart of our home. It’s the place we all flock to. It is nothing fancy – there are two creaky rocking chairs and a white swing, recently painted. This is where stories are told, where laughter reigns, where good friends share drinks late into the evening. The other half of the porch is absolute chaos. It’s a jumble of bikes, scooters, balls and rackets, helmets and Nerf guns. Jamie’s been known to come home from work and sigh at the mess. “We’ve got to clean this up,” he laments. I agree with this statement but we rarely make any progress at it.
Here is what we do instead.
I sit in the rocker and watch the boys wage light saber battles in the front yard. Some days they jump over untrimmed bushes, other days they climb high in the dog wood tree. They sell rocks and baseball cards; they ride Finn’s tricycle down the sidewalk, gaining speed until they crash into an enormous box they’ve placed near the road. A loud thud announces the collision of flesh and cardboard. They throw Pop-Its, they fashion a rickshaw from my jogging stroller and take the littlest neighborhood kids for wild rides down the street. Laughter rises, then fades as they go out of sight.
Neighbors walk by each day. They wave hello, they stop to chat, they tell their stories, we listen and tell a few of our own. Then we wave goodbye and know we will do it again in a day or two.
In the summer heat, we sit under the shade of the porch and draw rainbows and cats with chalk. When the sky turns dark and clouds promise an afternoon thunderstorm we flock to the rocking chairs. Rain pours around us and the boys hold their hands out and catch giant raindrops in their palms. Sometimes they dash out into the yard for a second or two and return completely drenched. There’s a flash of light and the crack of thunder and we sit in awe of the show that plays out around us. On crisp Saturday mornings, Jamie and I sneak out there with our coffee hoping to steal a slow, quiet start to the day.
Sometimes chickens get loose and you go help your neighbor catch them. Sometimes you just watch the world go by. You wave at passing cars. Squirrels run along the high wire and birds chatter in the old oak across the street. The dogwood’s leaves start to turn a firm rust and you know that fall will be here before long. The wind rattles the tree and leaves begin to rain down. Two little boys make a game of catching the leaves before they hit the ground.
Sitting on our porch, the world slows down. There is time to breathe and think and be. We turn our backs on productivity and instead learn to embrace the here and the now. We watch the small moments unfolding and realize what a gift they are to see.
Sometimes I day dream about buying a nice wicker sectional to put at the other end of our front porch. I decide we will ban the toys and purchase copious amounts of ferns. We will cart all the junk away, store the bikes in the garage, and we will have a tidy, well-kept porch which will make everything just right.
But I’ve listened to our neighbor’s stories, I’ve heard how the kids grow up too quick. I know that one day, the junk will be gone and the porch will feel a bit too quiet. I know that happiness isn’t waiting for me in a fancy sectional or in a picture perfect front porch.
Happiness is here with me right now in the midst of all our chaos. I don’t need a swanky porch to wave at neighbors as they pass, to watch scooter races down the sidewalk, to swing while the rain pours down around me. I just need two eyes, two ears, and a window to the world – my jumbled and rowdy, but oh-so-well-loved front porch.
A year ago, I didn’t know his fair skin and chipmunk cheeks. That he would love Elmo, television remotes, and turning over the dog’s water bowl.
I didn’t know his blonde, wispy hair blowing in the breeze as he rides a plastic car down our sidewalk. The way he’d rock back and forth as he walked with both arms awkwardly outstretched, earning him the nickname “Frankenfinn.”
A year ago, I didn’t know his favorite mischief would be playing in toilet water. That every single day I’d be shouting like a crazy lady, “Who left the bathroom door open?”
I didn’t know the way he’d cross his feet in the high chair while he blissfully dined on fistfuls of melon, blueberries and a grilled cheese sandwich. That his shrill, unconsolable cries would wake an entire campground at 2 in the morning, forcing us to drive him back home each night of the trip. He now holds the title for Worst Camper of 2018.
A year ago, I didn’t know the sweet rolls that envelop his ankles or the dimples that sit atop his knuckles. The way he’d pile right on top of his brothers as they wrestle in the living room floor.
I didn’t know his sleepy yawns or that he’d point at Jackson’s artwork above his crib, waiting to hear about each picture just before we lay him down for bed. The way he’d snuggle up with a pink, one-eared bunny and drift off to sleep.
A year ago, we didn’t know all the joy that was coming our way. Happy first birthday, sweet Finn. Jackson says, “We love him a million percent.”
When you are five, you snuggle close to Mama in the top bunk just before bedtime. After stories are told and a few million questions are half-way answered you say, “Oh, that reminds me,” and roll onto your side, pressing your little bum against her leg. A sudden “B-rrrrrr” echoes through the room, followed closely by the high notes of a little boy’s giggle. Mama is surprised and not surprised at all. The laughter of two sings together at your silly, gassy habits and a prayer is whispered that she may survive the rancid business of raising boys.
When you are five, you scale the kitchen counters like a professional mountain climber. You eat rainbow sprinkles straight from the jar and handfuls of chocolate chips that are hidden in the back of the fridge. You leave compelling evidence scattered across the counter tops and in the tracks of chocolate smudged across your cheek.
When you are five, you still fit perfectly in your Mama’s arms. There is just a lot more of you to hold. Instead of the being wrapped in a small blanketed cocoon, there is an abundance of gangly appendages dangling in every direction. There are bony elbows and knobby knees jabbing and wriggling against Mama’s soft flesh. Your shins are covered with bruises and scrapes that mark brave ideas gone awry. And your brow is the most accurate mood ring ever made – revealing all emotion in the height of its arch or the absence of one.
When you are five, you dance in the pouring rain. Your feet love to walk across the smooth stones that line the bottom of a cold river; you sunbathe in your underwear. You jump off furniture, wage transformer battles, and love to climb and conquer the branches of a tree. You play backyard baseball, Old Maid, and race laps through the house. You love to catch fish, to go hiking, and have been known to occasionally wear clothes. You are constantly noticing the world, making sense of what you see and comparing it with all that you know to be true.
Five years ago, I held you in my arms for the very first time. I was thankful and exhausted and filled with love. I am still all of these. It is our greatest joy to watch you grow, to laugh and love, to snuggle and play each day.
Wishing our sweet Jackson, an amazing fifth birthday filled to the brim with all of your favorites. We love you so very much!
Now, go put on some clothes!
yoga in the buffdancing in the rainclimbing trees by the riverfirst day at homeseriously, why am I in a chicken suit?first birthday2 years oldworking on his tan
When you are three, you believe that anything can happen. You sit down for breakfast with disheveled hair and ask earnestly, “Mom, can we go to the moon today?” The line is blurred between what is possible and not, what is real and pretend. Days are filled with magic and wonder and discovery. You roar and stomp through the house like a T-Rex, watch through the oven window as muffins slowly rise or plead to catch “just one more” lighting bug before it’s time to go to bed.
When you are three, you hardly need toys. You regularly stage a coup and disperse all your belongings into piles of chaos throughout the house. Your message is clear: It’s more fun to dump out toys than it is to actually play with them. The things that really captivate your attention are everyday household items. Kitchen scissors are great for trimming blades of grass in the front yard. Tongs can pick up hot wheel cars and trains when you’d rather not use your fingers. More delight awaits in the rolling pin, the hair dryer, chapstick, pillows, winter gloves, and the bathroom sink. Let’s not forget vacuum cleaner attachments. Hours of entertainment!
When you are three, you love cheesy scrambled eggs, bacon and blueberries – at least until tomorrow when you don’t. You are fluent in English and Whine-ese. Your best friends are a ragged bear and your big brother. Bear dangles from your clenched fist as you shadow your brother’s every move calling, “Dackie! Dackie! Who will play with me?” You are eager both to please and torment him.
When you are three, you are silly. You wholly embrace yourself as you march through the house sans clothing while singing “Country Roads” under the cover of an open umbrella. You change the lyrics in the song so that “poop” is every few words, and you find this wildly funny. Your mother does too, but she pretends it’s not appropriate.
When you are three, you walk on the edge of independence, changing daily with each new challenge you accept. You can buckle yourself into the car seat (so what if it takes 10 minutes?), wear underwear (mostly backwards), ride a bicycle with training wheels, and sleep in a big boy bed. Your legs have grown long and lean, your feet are sure and agile as they pound the floor, and your smile is tinged with a bit of mischief. A glimpse of the baby you were only remains in the high notes of your speech and curve of your fair cheeks as you fall asleep with one arm holding tight to Bear.
Yesterday, a two-year-old rested his golden head on my lap for the very last time while we sat on the front porch swing in a light rain. My fingers combed through his soft hair while we talked about turning three. Concerned, he asked, “Will I get a birthday cake, Mom?”
“Of course you will, baby!” I replied.
Today will bring birthday songs, three proud candles aglow, cupcakes piled high with icing and a celebration of all it means to be three. We will spend the day loving Parker fiercely. We may not make it to the moon, but we’ve got a drawer full of kitchen utensils that he will undoubtedly delight in.
Grab the garlic press, the measuring cups, and the sushi roller and play till your three-year-old heart is content, Parker Bean. We all love you all the way to the chicken coop and back.
fresh and new10 monthsFirst BirthdayBlueberry picking 2015yoga in the buffa boy and his bear
Motherhood is the warmth that washes over you the moment the nurse places your swaddled baby in your shaky arms. The way your heart soars with love and pride and good intention. It is snuggles and kisses and sheer amazement for the tiniest toes you’ve ever seen. It’s swaying back and forth to a rocking chair’s creaky rhythm while you watch delicate eyelids grow heavy with sleep. It’s waking every three hours to feed a hungry belly, the way exhaustion becomes permanently intertwined with life. It is a brand new kind of love.
Motherhood is determined hands grasping both of your pointer fingers while bare feet wobble across a cluttered floor. It’s riding a feverish wave of firsts – first smile, first food, first word, first step, first birthday. It’s piles of diapers, then potty training, then pee sprayed across the bathroom floor. It’s please and thank you, no and NO! It’s bandaging scraped up knees and snuggling under warm blankets while reading books before bedtime. It’s tantrums and spilled milk and chaos, lots of chaos.
Motherhood is answering questions all day long. What day is today? Do I have school? What’s for breakfast? Can I have chocolate? Why not? Where are my dinosaurs? Did somebody play with them? Why is it raining? When will it stop? Can we play in the rain? Where are my boots? Motherhood is a complete absence of silence.
Motherhood is giggles and sticky fingers while baking chocolate chip cookies. It’s roasting marshmallows by the fire and catching lightening bugs just after the sun sets. It’s slides and swings and backyard baseball. It’s building forts with sheets draped across living room furniture. It’s high fives and hugs. It is seeing the world once again with the inherit wonder of fresh, young eyes.
Motherhood is getting a shower and realizing the kids conspired to go outside wearing only their underwear while they “mow” the front yard in January. It’s looking like a fool, everyday. It’s laughing at yourself, at your kids, at your own insanity. It’s minutes that feel like hours. It’s sobbing, whining, pleading, and arguments. It’s cooking dinner for children who refuse to eat for entire years. It’s waging an endless war on crumbs scattered across the kitchen counter. Motherhood is, at times, quite ugly.
Motherhood is listening to fears and worries, both big and small. It’s learning when to step in and when to stand back. It’s second guessing yourself constantly. It’s knowing that we don’t have all the answers. Motherhood is teaching love, kindness, respect, and compassion through our own actions. It’s setting limits. It’s the overwhelming task of nurturing a life, of helping someone thrive.
Motherhood is always changing as time passes, as kids and Moms grow and become. I won’t pretend to know what is in store. I’ve heard it gets even better. I’ve heard it gets even harder. I imagine that both are true. But I do know I’m thankful for this journey, for my very own Mama, and for the monumental love that Mamas hold in their hearts.
“MAMA! MAMA! I need you! I pooped! I pooped!” I hear Parker yell from somewhere upstairs. Time to go; motherhood is calling. Let’s just hope he made it to the potty.
sarahpgarst 