We'll miss these days... I've been told.

I love listening to the words of parents of teenagers or those who have recently raised teenagers. I could sit at their knees, eyes upturned with rapt attention, hanging on every word. "Please, in the name of all things decent... how do I get through these upcoming years intact ?!?!?!" is my cry.
The number one phrase I hear from this particular demographic, above any other, is "Enjoy them now... Before you know it, they'll be grown and gone."
OK, I can jive with that. I believe it completely, and I take that advice to heart. No problems there.

The second most popular phrase I hear is more often uttered when my children are loud, misbehaving or in some way boisterous in public, "You'll miss this someday, trust me."
OK, I do trust you in life... but in my naivete', I just have to say... I don't believe you.
It has been twelve years since my husband and I have been able to finish one complete sentence to each other (or the person on the other end of the phone) without interruption or distraction. TWELVE YEARS. It's been about seven years since I could go out in public with my children without warning one of them of the consequences of not behaving properly. Ten years since I've not had to ask a small person leaving a bathroom if he/she flushed, and washed... with soap... and water. Surely I'm not the only parent with young children who goes through this kind of thing. So, in my rationale, I respectfully submit the theory that those who are telling me I will miss "these days" are too far removed from "these days" and are currently looking at them through much more rose-colored glasses. Hind-sight ain't always 20-20. It's filtered, my friend.

For example:
Tonight at the dinner table, the end of the meal dissolved into a quasi-wrestling match (bottoms still firmly planted in seats, though, thank you... Lesson learned there!) between my oldest and youngest sons. My second oldest and my daughter were cracking each other up with a who-can-stuff-the-most-crackers-in-his/her-mouth competition. It was loud. It was unmannerly. It was crazy. Visions of dinner dates or business luncheons in my childrens' futures flashed before my eyes, and the disgusted looks on their dining companion's faces taunted my parenting skills. I'm going to miss THIS... really?

But now as I type this, I look across the family room. The TV is off. Reece is knee-deep in a adventurous world of his design. Kagen is hashing out a homework problem with his dad. AJ is practicing juggling (ever looking to learn a new skill, that one is). Emilie is curled up next to Daddy, in her usual position of just enjoying closeness with a loved one. Soon, they'll be in bed, prayers uttered, stories told, covers tucked.
Right now, in the family room, our attentions are important to them. Our opinions matter. We have presense and purpose in their lives.

Well, OK... THAT I will miss.

[sigh]

Dawning of Self-Awareness in a Four Year Old

Thursday afternoon Emilie and I are relaxing over a hearty lunch, and I enter into my usual barrage of "how was your day today" questions about preschool. Everything was it's usual wonderful self, praise be. At the end of the conversation, Emilie tells me, "Dr. Spratt was there at the end of school today." (Our family doctor is married to one of Emilie's preschool teachers.)
"He was?" I replied. "Did you say 'Hi' to him?"
"No," came her answer. Then after a beat, "But he's nice. I really need to stop screaming at him at the doctor's office."

Three days later, and I'm still chuckling over that one.

Ta-Da!

The Maiden Voyage of an amateur blogger.
I resisted as long as I could, but I've finally succumbed. Peer pressure is alive and well, my friends. At the risk of sounding 13 years old again, all my friends (and by " all" I mean three that I know of) are creating family blogs, and The Hubs talked me into creating one for us, as well.
All in the name of taking up cyber-space, I guess!
But *I* think my family is pretty fascinating, darn it. I hope you do, too.

[a ship's horn sounds in the distance]
Let the voyage begin...