Cheerios: My Lucky Charms
My Lucky Charms
The Singleton Clan is Irish, from County Cork to be precise. Young William came over with the waves of those fleeing the potato famine. And here we are in America, with our young, partly Irish boys, our lucky charms.
On my first and only trip to Ireland, I caught the plane with my husband the very day I found out that I was not pregnant. My invitro had not taken. I figured the only up side was that I could raise a pint of Guinness to my ancestor.
On the trip, we drove past the women’s hospital in Dublin. The tour guide said that women were given pints of Guinness directly following birth. Antique advertisements used to also suggest that Guinness was an excellent restorative for mothers.
I could have used a pint or two this year, but alcohol is not good for the heart, so we don’t indulge much around here. But I like to think that when I raised my glass to William and his good clan, they smiled on me during my visit those 10 days.
The next month I got pregnant for the first time.
And the luck has just kept coming.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day to all our friends, family and readers!
Cheerios: Dressing Like Daddy
A good friend of ours who has a seven-year-old son gives us some gently-used clothes, the trendy way of saying hand-me-downs.
Big Boy, our three-year-old, hasn’t gotten smaller this winter. He’s wearing his gently-used 5-6 size hand-me-downs. As we’ve made the rounds visiting churches, I’ve begun to realize that I will not be able to put him in the cute sailor boy outfits or smocked short sets with white knee socks and dress white shoes.
We had pictures made last week, and he looked adorable in his size 5 navy sailor short set, double-breasted with white buttons and white collar. I bought the outfit last year when he’d just turned 3, thinking it might be the last little boy togs for Big Boy this spring. It will be.
As I pulled the clothes from the closets, gathering items for the boys’ appointment with the photographer, I showed Big Boy what he’d be wearing. At first, he balked, “I don’t want to wear that!”
“Oh my goodness! I can’t believe you don’t want to wear this sailor outfit. This is a sailor outfit like you wear on a boat, like the kind of boats pirates hang out on.”
A big grin spread across his face, and I felt a tad guilty, until I got the proofs back. He still looked like my baby.
But yesterday morning as we got ready for church, I pulled one of our friend’s gently-used navy blazers from the closet for the first time. Size 6. I got a nice blue shirt and a pair of khakis out as well. I brought them down and wondered what Big Boy would say.
His dad yelled from the other room, “Go let your mom get your clothes on.”
I put his blue shirt on. Then, I presented the blazer with its sleek lining. “Oooh,” he said, smiling, obviously impressed. “This feels comfy,” he crooned, grinning like the Cheshire as I slipped it on his already much-to-grown-up frame.
“I’m dressing like a Congressman!” he said with pride, then grinned some more and giggled. “I’m dressed like a Congressman, but I don’t have any pants on yet.” Lots of giggling. We giggle a lot about not having on clothes these days.
Yep, all he had on below was his underwear, a nice selection of fire engines and doggies.
I couldn’t help smiling. Stifling a laugh, I said, “Yeah, well, let’s not go around telling people you’re dressed like a Congressman with no pants on.”
Today I cried because I can now see the time has arrived, and it will only keep on coming, barreling down at me as I try to put the brakes on to make it less bittersweet.
Big Boy really is my big boy.
Tags: Congressman, gently-used, growing up
Cheerios: Olympic Moms
Last week I couldn’t quit thinking about Joannie Rochette, the Canadian figure skater whose mother died suddenly of a heart attack only two days before Joannie Rochette was to skate her short program at the Vancouver Olympics. The young skater’s dad was in Vancouver, but her mom had shared the dream with her.
I wondered if Therese Rochette, the mom, had any warning signs. Probably, but she may not have recognized them. Women tend to ignore their symptoms, minimize them, or not even recognize them, but heart disease is the number one killer of women in America. Therese was only 55, just 7 years older than I am. After all the publicity I still don’t know much about her, but she had a daughter competing in the Olympics. That sounds stressful, as well as exciting. I can only surmise she probably didn’t have a lot of time to take care of herself. I’ve read she was the one who drove her daughter to practices during all those years of preparation.
With grace and love, Joannie Rochette carried on and competed despite her mother’s death, saying her mother would have wanted her to fulfill their dream. She won a bronze medal. I ached at the thought of that mother missing her daughter’s life-long dream and, perhaps, hers. I ached for that brave, grown-up little girl, who will miss her mom the rest of her life.
Heart disease is the number one killer of women in America, and that means we lose a lot of mothers to this illness. During Go Red for Women, the Heart Association’s education and fundraising program that inspires women to better heart health and cardiac research for women, learn more about heart disease for you and your mother. As a lot of you know, I had cardiomyopathy, heart failure and a leaking valve after my triplets. I don’t take heart health for granted anymore, and neither should any woman over 35.
And, while you’re thinking of all the time and energy you sacrifice for your babies, check out this Proctor and Gamble “Thank you, Mom” commercial that ran during the Olympics.
That sweet commercial (yes, I know P & G is trying to sell Tide too, but I love their visuals and music in this spot) points out how privileged we are to walk with our children through their lives, as much of it as we possibly can. We moms experience the mundane and the miraculous as lives unfold before us. As I watched the commercial and saw the mom stand up in a huge auditorium and the climax of a skater’s performance, I thought of Therese’s empty seat.
You don’t want yours to be the empty seat at your kid’s Olympics. If not the Olympics, you don’t want to miss those first steps, a playdough creation, a choir program, a wedding, the birth of a grandchild, or any other moment, whether grand or seemingly insignificant. Olympic moms, the ones right here in Arkansas, need to take care of ourselves.
If you haven’t heard the research, the frontal lobe, the decision-making section of the brain, doesn’t close over in young men until about 25-26. I’ve got 4 boys under 4, so I need to live to be about my mom’s age. She’ll turn 90 this month!
Tags: Go Red, Heart Disease, Olympics, Rochette
Cheerios: Unzipped at Church
The stay-at-home-mom-preacher and her honey have been visiting churches for several months. After a long hiatus from church, based mostly on not being able to leave our triplets and the threat of illness in church nurseries, we began looking for a new faith home. (It’s not so wise for a pastor to attend the church she just served. The new guy needs space to breathe.)
Anyway, looking for a new church is a hard task for a mommy who has been a preacher for almost 21 years and used to leading the sheep, or trying to. It embarrasses me to admit it, but I tend to critique to what extent a worship service is faithful to Christ and Christian tradition, whether it might move people to be more Christ-like after they leave, and whether it is actually relevant to people’s lives.
Although I always prided myself on having a church that was very child and family friendly, now that my life is full of little kids that friendliness is even more important. I don’t want to get caught up in shopping for a church home as if I’m a consumer only, but it does make a difference how you and your children perceive a community of faith and how it perceives you. Whether you are Christian or Jewish or Muslim or something entirely different–agnostics and atheists have beliefs too–all parents have beliefs they will pass down to their children, even ones they may not intend to pass along their ancestral tree.
So this past Sunday, my sweetie and I decided to try another visit, which is usually a comedy of errors. We settled on a contemporary service with a woman preacher at a 10:30 a.m. service about 12 minutes from our house. At 10 a.m., we woke the triplets from their morning nap and got them dressed. If this sounds fast, it’s not. By 10:25, we were in the car. Don’t let me forget to mention that it was pouring rain. I was about to lose my religion, and, to make matters worse, I had to run back in the house and use the bathroom. Too much decaf, but I hurried!
Back in the car I sullenly said, “We’ll never make it to a 10:30. It will be 11 before we get the babies settled and walk in the service. Let’s pull over at ______ and see what time their service starts. It’s closer. Plus I haven’t ever heard their preacher before.”
The sign at ________ read 10:45. It was 10:35. We could make it. My husband turned in. Of course it takes time to find where to unload triplets in a driving rain, but there was a first-time visitor parking across from the children’s building, and we finally began unloading. I felt a little guilty. We were springing triplets on a church nursery but figured it’s one of the best tests of whether we’re going to fit somewhere.
We found the right room, and there were at least two ladies in the room, and one greeting us, all looking very experienced, and with only two other young children. I saw it register on their faces. We had just increased their attendance!
As we began unloading babies, a very nice, attractive and unflustered woman leaned in and quietly said, “Your pants are unzipped.”
In another life ago, I would have fell to the floor with mortification. But on this day, I just smiled, said, “Uh oh,” remembered my last-minute dash to the potty before we left, zipped up, and ran to get another baby.
We got Big Boy to his room and made it to the worship service by the opening hymn, but a guest pastor was preaching. It is now Tuesday, and the triplets have runny noses.
Blessed are the harried, fractured, tired, and ultimately joyous moms, for one day all this craziness will be gone, and they will indeed be comforted by memories of childhood, a gift from God to soothe the ache of children all grown-up and gone. In other words, there will be plenty of time later for the details of zipped pants.
Cheerios: A Day at the Races
As predicted in my last blog, my sweet spouse, the father of my children, announced he had to run to Walgreen’s some time that day–Valentine’s Day. He said he needed to take Big Boy because it was important to our oldest. Big Boy had pointedly reminded Daddy that they needed to get Mommy a valentine. So, late Sunday evening, I got my card and box of candy and a pleased little boy.
But I also had been looking forward to something else that we, my husband and I who have not been away for a night in 4 1/2 years, had cooked up for this year: a day at the races.
When I told Big Boy that daddy and I planned on Friday to go to Hot Springs for an overnight date, he burst into tears and said, “But I wanna ta go ta Ha Spings too!”
Why wouldn’t he? He’s been everywhere else with us, even went to Las Vegas with mommy.
I hugged him and explained that we would miss him very much, but that his aunt and uncle would be here. He then asked if he could go see Ms. Frances too.
Frances is a neighbor of ours (and much more) who has kept Penn since he was 2 months old. We never hired a sitter with him because Frances always wanted to keep him. All her grandchildren live out of state, so it’s been a blessing, especially since my mom is almost 90–next month–and cannot babysit, though she’s still with us and happily knows she had a new set of grandkids from her late-blooming daughter.
I checked with Frances and she said she’d love it if Penn would not only come down, but spend the night. She even offered to pick him up from his school since we plan to leave for Hot Springs mid-morning.
Before he left we planned what he would take, including Lamb Chop, Brownie the Horse, Scarlett the Scarlett Macaw and maybe some of his puppets. As I was putting him in his car seat, I put his little face between my hands and kissed him.
“Honey, I’m really going to miss you. It’s only for a two days. We’ll be home late tomorrow, but you’ll be with Aunt Becky and Uncle Steve and Ms. Frances.”
He looked at me very calmly and with quite an air of seriousness, eyebrows knit together and said, “It’s not really such a long time.”
I’m glad daddy and I get a day at the races and a night at the B n B, but that last little exchange before his dad drove him to school is the exact reason it’s so hard to leave my kids.
Tags: Date Night, Oaklawn, Races, Separation Anxiety
Cheerios: Forget the Rose Petals
As we approach Valentine’s Day, I’m stocked with cards and candy, even got the kids some cards for daddy. I got my niece a small gift for the 14th, since it also happens to be her birthday. I tried to make heart-shaped pancakes this morning with a mold, but it failed. I was out of bisquick, and the homemade ones fell flat without baking powder. But hey, I really gave it a good shot.
I will admit that I love nothing better than being surprised by flowers or fun gifts or trinkets. I do know some women married to guys that think ahead and do the really romantic stuff. At times, I wish my spouse was a bit more like that, but he’s not. He’s very frugal, and he’s the type that will head to Walgreen’s at the last minute. I also readily admit this behavior frustrates me.
The first Valentine’s we were dating I prepared an amazing Valentine’s dinner and treats at my formal table. He gave me a book that had just been published by Dr. Nancy Snyderman with health advice for women over forty. Yeah, I knew what I was getting into when I married him, you might remind me.
As we lunched one day this week, I was talking with my sister about this reality. Her spouse is somewhat like my husband, and they’ve been married 50 years this August. Pretty impressive. I wondered aloud about these petty frustrations in marriages.
“You know,” she said, “I had a friend once whose husband actually would spread rose petals on the sheets and have the wine cooling” I began laughing at the thought of Vic Snyder spreading rose petals on our sheets. “Oh, yeah, this guy was really romantic,” she continued, “so romantic that he was dropping rose petals on someone else’s sheets. He had an affair!” We laughed some more.
It’s true, isn’t it? The rose petal-thing is over-rated. I was once with a man who was great at the gifts, but didn’t want a family.
What’s fantastic is a guy who gives you the kids you’ve wanted all your life, who gets up with the kids at night, a guy who helps you chop and cook the dinner, a guy who doesn’t mind going to the store, a guy who likes romantic comedies.
As I tucked Big Boy, the three-year-old, into bed last night, he was musing about how much he loves his daddy. (He’s been very glad to see more of daddy this week because DC had a blizzard and daddy didn’t have to go on the airplane.) He said, “I get happy tears because I love daddy so much.” (We categorize tears into the happy kind and the sad kind.)
Then we talked about how lucky we are to have a great family, and he acknowledged it’s wonderful to see his brothers every morning. Big Boy said, “I love it when Aubie talks to me and laughs and smiles at me.” I dozed off feeling quite happy that my children seem to feel secure and love their parents, as well as one another. We’re becoming a family.
I don’t think rose petals could improve the love growing in my household.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
Tags: hearts, Rose petals, Valentine's
Cheerios: The Child Bubble
Last week it hit me. I live in a child bubble.
It hit me like a slot machine: bing, bing, bing, as if I know what a slot machine sounds like. Yep, it dawned on me that I eat, sleep, drink the world of kids. I clear clutter and sippies twenty-four hours a day. I read children’s books, and I watch a lot of “Curious George” on PBS. It’s true. (I really like the relationship between George and the Man in the Yellow Hat.) But “Martha Speaks,” the cartoon about the talking dog, is my favorite. (She’s so sensible.) Children pervade everything around here. I’m practically living in my mini-van, and yet someone (?) has forgotten to take the garbage out of it! I was recently frightened by an old bottle I found under the back seat.
It’s true. I needed a dose of adult-land, I realized. So last week I was faced with the plain and simple horrifying facts that I don’t fit in Las Vegas, the city of adults.
Now I’ve got you. You’re wondering why a pastor and mommy would even think of being caught in Las Vegas, right? Well, I’ve never wanted to go, but a dear friend of mine had planned a convention trip out there, and her sister, who is quite ill, could not accompany her. This friend pleaded with me to go. It would be like old times.
It wasn’t. I took my 3 1/2 year old, Big Boy. Please understand, I am not interested in slot machines or gambling, though I do like to watch horse racing. I can’t deal with smoking (lots of allergies), so that’s no incentive. It’s not good for me to drink alcohol or lots of processed salty food, so that’s out (“heart patient” here!). So I figured I could find something wholesome. Well, at least I could work out, maybe do a little shopping.
Oh no I couldn’t.
“You can’t take your child in the spa.” Lady talking to me as I wheel my stroller in.
“I can’t? I’ve never had this problem before.” Me looking shocked, decked out in shorts and hoodie, children’s book, and a banana and chocolate milks in the stroller storage compartment.
“This is Las Vegas. No children allowed. Plus, that’s $15 per work out.”
Oh really! Well, I don’t need your old tacky work out machines and spa. (I couldn’t believe anyone was in an exercise room the way they were all hooked to the machines and sitting in chairs for hours and hours, glassy-eyed.) I’ll take Big Boy, and we’ll just power stroll the casino, then.
And that’s what we did. I worked off a bit of anger as it dawned on me that I had probably arrived in the most child-unfriendly city in America.
After about 40 minutes, I decided that it wasn’t Las Vegas fault I ended up here. I’d loved to have headed to Disney World or some beach, but this trip was for my friend.
We discovered that “The Forum” shopping at Caesar’s Palace, with its Roman statues, is pretty impressive to a 3-year-old, and “Lion King,” was as good as I remember seeing on Broadway.
Although, as we were leaving the show, an older lady in front of me commented, “I liked Donny and Marie better.”
Guess there are kids in Las Vegas after all.
Tags: Caesar's Palace, Child Bubble, Child-unfriendly, Las Vegas, Lion King
Cheerios: The “Ersquake” People
Once upon a time when I was a young associate pastor at a large suburban church, I used to give the message to the short children’s time on Sunday mornings. Most adults either cringe during this time or find it delightfully entertaining. The one thing it is not usually described as is “serious.”
But one morning I mentioned the American Embassy bombing in Kenya. I did so because it was all over the news and because our own United Methodist Bishop was in Kenya at the time. I wanted to take time to reassure the children regarding the images they might be seeing on television screens. I also wanted to explain that good things for hurting people were also happening in Kenya because the United Methodist Church was at work on their behalf in that country.
Later the next week I got a call from some parents, very fine people, who were disturbed that I had mentioned the bombing during the children’s time. They shared that church is a time of escape and safety and security for their children, not a time for reality. At the time of that visit, I had no children, so I wondered if I would feel as they did. If I had my own beautiful children, would I think, as I did then, that it was much more important to explain tragic events and allow that God was with us even during the bad times, or would I want naturally to shield my own children from the harshness and violence of the world? Now I have the opportunity to put that question to the test, not as a pastor, but as a momma.
These last days it would be hard to protect a child completely from the images of earth-quake-stricken Haiti. Indeed, the children’s minister of a church we visited recently–after a year of my health issues, constant concern about getting sick from nurseries, an infant-dominated household, and my leave from work as a pastor we’re looking for a new church home!–mentioned Haiti’s plight in their time with the young ones. She also demonstrated how to make Health Kits to send to Haiti to be distributed to those in need.
As a momma, I found myself relieved that this children’s minister mentioned the Haitians and the horrific earthquake in church and gave the children a sense that they could help people in need. I confess I didn’t turn off the TV news or shield my three-year-old from all the images, though I was careful to control the amount of viewing time and content. Thus I watched some of the news of Haiti with him, and we talked about it. The minister’s words actually reinforced conversation we’d had about ways to help those in difficult circumstances, emphasizing that is our calling as Christians.
On the way home from dance class yesterday, Big Boy suddenly started talking about “the ersquake people.” Maybe it was because I often have public radio on in the car when I first pick him up at school. Perhaps the announcer said something about Haiti I didn’t hear, but my boy began suggesting that we not only make the health kit, but that we be sure to send food and water. “Don’t forget the water,” he said very seriously, “that’s very, very, very important.”
I very much want to shield my children from the difficulties of life, but I also want to equip them to face them. It is a fine line, we parents walk, tiptoeing across the high wire of decisions that contribute to the formation of a human being.
Big Boy also heard me tell his daddy that we ought to consider getting a little Haitian girl because “what would one more in our home be?” To which he replied, “I sink we cud prabubbly do two more babies.”
Tags: Child-rearing, Earthquake, Haiti
Cheerios: A New Chapter
Sorry to say I’ve been absent from my blog the last couple weeks with a house of sick kids and a bout of bronchitis, not to mention a momentous family decision, the kind you can’t discuss on your mommy blog. My husband decided it’s time to make a change from his very public career.
Long before I met my husband, I admired his politics. He’s the first politician I ever wrote a check to. He had cred, still does if you ask me. Of course, I’m the wife and certainly a fan.
It’s hard for me not to admire the leader I know, a solid, integrated man. Yeah, he deliberates and considers all the options, but he is steadfast, if always ready for a challenge. A Marine. A doctor who cared for folks in difficult developing countries. A statesman and public servant who has taken some brave votes. And then there’s the private person who held me when we learned we were having triplets and I cried every night for a week, insisting I’d ruined his life by wanting to try our fertility treatment just one more time. He reassured me and said it would be a new adventure. And then I had heart failure after the delivery, and we didn’t know if I would get worse, possibly needing a heart transplant. He was always realistic, as well as optimistic.
It is hard to describe how life changes when you have a child, unless you have experienced it. It is very hard to describe how life changes when you add four children in 2 and 1/2 years, particularly when your feet are standing firmly in middle age. Only our family and wonderful volunteers and helpers have a real understanding of the demands or the struggles and joys we have faced this first year with our triplets and older son.
As the joys have grown, my husband’s ability to leave his sons has become painful. I see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice. Although politics is not always pretty, that’s part of the price of a lively Democracy. I had prepared myself for his 2010 run, knowing his service and campaign would take up even larger chunks of our family time than the past year, and that it would be a challenging year. But the winds of change had already arrived, not the kind you take with your finger in the air or by reading others’ predictions, but the kind in which you look carefully into your heart and decide that it’s time to do something different in life. The time when children are young is brief and fleeting, and one can never get it back.
As for me, I was looking forward to getting into the race, which is almost upon us. I especially was looking forward to a fundraiser at Graffitis. Instead, maybe we’ll just go have dinner and talk about the kids.
Tags: Congress, Family, Politics, Vic Snyder
Cheerios: What a Year!
2009 will always be the year that I learned to be a mother to four children.
It will be remembered as the year that I tried to learn how to be organized for six people. (I just bought about 20 more bins yesterday.)
In my mind, it will be the year that I worried about my health and began to work out again, watch my fat, salt, and caffeine intake. I started to realize that self-care is a very unselfish posture when your family depends upon you.
It will be the year that I learned to work inside the home, rather than outside the home.
It will be the year that I got to know some new friends through my children–people who came to my aid–our aid–and helped me expand my mothering.
It will be the year that my washer and dryer never seemed to stop.
I will remember it as the year that I lost my final shred of privacy.
It will be the year that I turned to my husband in a dark theater, while watching an action movie, and said, “I can’t wait until the boys are old enough to join us,” and decided that it might be okay that I had four boys and no girls.
It will be known as the year I tried to learn to cook–again–only this time for little kids and adults all at the same time. How many ways can mommy do pasta?
It will be remembered as the year my first born spent the night away for the first time, and I wandered into his room 2-3 times realizing how fast they grow up and that the house would be far too empty without the chaos we now endure, a chaos I’m glad to live with for the next 20 or so years.
Happy New Year from Me and the Gang!
The Snyders with Santa
A pastor on leave and wife of U.S. congressman Vic Snyder, Betsy is the mother to a toddler son and infant triplets.