All I really know how to do is love them.

No, let me change that.  All I really know how to do WELL is love them.

Shower them.  Engulf them. Swarm them.  With love.

I know I give in. Give up.

I wrap my arms around them when I “should” turn my back.

And let them cry.

I kiss their tears away.

When maybe those tears were just for show.

I help a girl too old to put her socks on her feet

Even help her get the fork to her mouth

When I see exhaustion overtaking her.

I let a proud boy walk out with his pants on backwards

With a shirt far too small

Because it’s his Favwit

And he put them on himself.

I’m told to be strong.

Show them who is boss.

Don’t get walked on.

I try.

Really.

And I am.

Sometimes.

But it’s not what I do well.

I’m told my “way” is the easy way.

Showing this much love

Having this much patience

is the EASY way.

Maybe.

If spending 30 minutes adjusting the sock line

On her feet so she doesn’t feel the threads on her toes

Is easy…

If rubbing her back each night

Consoling her that her fear of throwing up

Is not reality

Is easy…

If holding her hand

Until she falls asleep

To show she doesn’t need to suck her thumb

Is easy…

If allowing them both to rest their fever hot heads

On my shoulders

For days on end

Because they don’t want to be alone

Is easy…

If not getting sleep for three months straight

Because he’s afraid of monsters

And shadows

And spiders

Is easy…

If making three meals

For four people

Because I prefer they eat

Instead of going to sleep hungry

Is easy…

If cleaning up their mess

So that they can play those extra ten minutes

With each other

Enjoying each other

Is easy…

If making up a song

Each night

About fire trucks

And race cars

To sing at bedtime

Is easy…

Then yes.

My way.  Is the easy way.

But it’s all I know I can do. Well.

Love them.  Give myself to them.

And I can’t apologize for that.

Because in the end

When the end of this mothering thing stares me in the face

I’ll know. I did what I knew how to do.

Right or Wrong.

Easy.

Or Not.

You know that feeling when you haven’t spoken to a friend in so long, you just can’t find the right time to pick up the phone to make “that” phone call?  You can’t call when you only have 5 minutes because it will take five minutes to rattle off the reasons you haven’t called.  And you don’t even know what the reasons are.  And so much has happened that you don’t know if you should rewind and tell them everything that’s happened or just the most recent events.  And you just feel bad.  Guilty. Out of touch.

It’s how I feel. About this blog. My “friend” the blogosphere.  I keep wanting to write.  I have a scroll of blog posts listed in my head waiting to be written.  Dozens of bloggers I want to come visit and read what THEIR lives consist of.  But it’s been so long.  Too long.  I just found out yesterday that FOUR of my BFFBF’s (Best Friend Forever Blog Friends – a term I just this second coined) are pregnant.  Close to their due dates. Some after worries of not getting pregnant.  Friends who I commiserated with on fertility issues.  They were my inner circle.  I think at one point, I was theirs.  One friend had her baby five weeks ago. And I didn’t know.  And to those who don’t “get” the blog world, that might seem unimportant, a non-event. But to me, it was the Same as these life altering events happening to a real friend.

So here I am. About to “call” my “friend”.  Fingers prone to type a blog post.  I’m sick.  My house is empty. It’s quiet. I have that aforementioned scroll of posts in my head.  Months of drama in my house ripe for writing about.  But I’m stuck.  Because it’s been so long and none of it seems Right to write.

Sigh.

Getting caught up on twitter last night with my friends did make me start thinking about friends.  I’ve written a number of times here that I find it so hard to make Real friends at this point in my life.  I’ve lived here for seven years in May.  And have made lots of friends along the way but very few I’d actually put on my “speed dial”.  In January I woke at midnight with what I believed was appendicitis.  I could barely breathe.  Couldn’t walk.  Needed to go to the ER. And I had No One I could call to come over to stay with my kids so Tim could take me to the hospital. I had to wake them and bring them with us because I had No One.  Shouldn’t we all have Some One?  I want to be that Some One to others.  Recently I’ve made three friends.  Three that yesterday, when I lay in bed with 103 fever I actually felt I could call them to help me.  Take my kids for dinner.  Take my kids for a playdate. I didn’t call them, but maybe I could have.  Maybe I’ve made some progress.

Last night as I lay in bed I thought about a new theory I have about friends.  That they’re like shoes. You can’t expect any of your shoes to be perfect, right?  While some are perfect for one occasion, they’re not for others.  My converse low tops are my shoe friend that I call on when I need comfort.  When I need reliability.  They keep me honest. I have friends Just Like my Converse.  But I wouldn’t necessarily throw those khaki sneaks on for a fun night out.  No, some friends (and shoes) I call for when I need a night Out. A night to forget the serious stuff. A night to get my mind Off my drudgery at home.  My peep toe bootie heels perhaps? My shiny red heels?  I don’t expect any deep conversation while wearing them… but they’ll give me a night to remember.  My gym shoes.  Good for just that.  The gym.  I chat with these friends in the locker room, on the weight machine, beside me on the bike.  I don’t even have their phone numbers, or last names.  But I like seeing them at the gym. They make me smile – at the gym.  And My pink flats with the girlie sequin bows.  Six years I’ve had these shoes. They’re me. They know me as well as I know them. They’re right for day.  Right for night. They’re casual.  They’re fancy. They’re consistent.  Never surprising.  But we fight. Because they hurt me.  The first week of every summer.  They hurt. Like some friends… we’re so close, they can hurt.

My shoes are like friends. My friends are like shoes. And this realization has helped.  No friend can be everything.  I shouldn’t expect to be able to call every friend for every need. When I look at potential new friends I need to keep in mind what this friend could be for me.  And what I could be for them.  Similarly I read some blogs I read for a laugh and some I read for a reality check or beautiful writing.  Few blogs can do it all.  And that’s ok.  We don’t need a one shoe fits all shoe (or friend), do we?  As long as my husband encompasses a whole wardrobe of shoes, I’m ok.

Right now I have an ad out for my Ugg Slipper friend.  The one I CAN call in the middle of the night.   To watch my kids so I don’t have to bring them pajama clad, lovey holding and anxious to the ER.  Any takers?

I wish I could say I’m back.  You’ll be seeing me daily.  That I’ll be visiting you daily.  But I can’t promise that.  I don’t know how some of you find time to work, spend time with your kids and write your amazing blogs.  I can’t seem to do it all.  The time I used to have to blog, I now work.  Luckily I sometimes get to blog FOR work when I’m able to convince a client that they need a blog.  Like here.  And here.

Just know I miss you guys!  And truly think of you often.  Like my flip flops.  I think about wearing them All The Time. But never get to wear them because it’s so freakin cold.  They stare lovingly at me when I open my closet.  (Like I stare lovingly at your names as I open my Reader). And when the time is right to slip them on, oh boy do they make me smile.

xx

Where we as adults are struck by a-ha moments.  I could be driving and see an old couple walking hand in hand, nudging each other flirtatiously and that image will sit with me for days as I realize how sweet and powerful love is.   I’ll realize I can feel it at 40 mph, through a car window and 50 feet away yet sometimes I don’t slow down enough at home to let that love seep in even though it’s right there in front of me.  I could be at a playground with the kids surrounded my moms on their iPhones and Blackberries as their kids are climbing across the monkey bars for the first time, or are sliding down a slide holding hands with a newly made friend. And these moms are missing it.  Missing it all.  Because their eyes are glued on what is going on somewhere Else. And I’ll think wow, I need to Be Here.  Because Here will be gone soon.  Or will be something different, something less special soon.

Today I sat on a low balance beam in Hannah’s gymnastics gym as she had a gymnastics lesson.  She’s having a few private gymnastics lessons to prepare her for the new team she was told today she made.  She has a few skills she needs to master to be fully Ready.  It’s a little intense but she wants it.  Badly. So I’m there to support her.  Her coach is fabulous in that she lets Hannah be 6 and silly while still being serious with her about what she needs to learn.  Today when she was told that she made the team Amy told Hannah that it was going to be different. Serious.  No joke.  She’d need to be ready to work.  Hannah said she was ready.  Wants to learn to do all the flips and fun stuff she knows those girls can do and realizes that would take work.  So in the middle of the lesson when Hannah started running from one “event” to another in such a way that looked like a cross between Phoebe running and Elaine dancing I sucked in my breath and thought, “Oh no.  She’s not ready.”  I waited for Amy to say something similar to what I was thinking to get Hannah to calm down and be serious.  But instead she said, “Cute Hannah.  I don’t care how silly you run to get there.  As long as you get there.”

A-ha moment.

The rest of the lesson I sat thinking about this statement.  Realizing how many times during the day I get incredibly annoyed with HOW my kids get things done.  How it grates on me when I’m trying to get Hannah to the car for school and she’s hopping from one stone to the next on the most round about path she can find.  She’s not getting there the WAY I want her to get there… but she does get there.  How Luke puts his pajama shirt over his head leaving the arms dangling over his shoulders, then puts his pajama pants on and THEN puts his arms in the arm holes.  Takes forever because every time he bends over to pull his pants up he can’t see with his half -on shirt dangling in front of his face.  He falls three or four times each night trying to accomplish this seemingly simple Getting Dressed task.  But he eventually does get dressed.  He gets There.

I thought about the Direct and Serious route I take with most things I do throughout the day.  I leave little time for Sillies.  As I rush around the kitchen cooking dinner (or three dinners as it normally is), Tim often grabs me to give me a kiss.  Or have a little dance and a dip and I push him aside grumbling, “Can’t you see I’m busy?  I don’t have TIME!”.  Why can’t I realize that dinner Will get cooked.  I will get There. Even with the few extra silly steps he’d like me to take while getting there.

It’s hard not to smile when you’re being silly.  I mean no matter how grumpy you are right now, stand up and flail your arms over your head, while wiggling your butt and spinning around in a circle.  Did you do it?  So, you’re smiling now aren’t you?  (Come on mom/dad, did you do it?)  I live with a guy who does things like this throughout the day.  On top of singing his thoughts, making up new lyrics to songs according to his mood, and choreographing dances for the kids to do for me when I’ve returned from grocery shopping.  He does all of this in the midst of going through a thoroughly horrendous work situation.  A situation that would make most of us crawl through the steps of our days, not dance through them.  And I swear it’s what keeps him happy.  Does it drive me nuts sometimes?  Um, hell yeah.  Because being silly is not My Norm.  It takes work.

But I do lots of things to make myself feel good that take work.  Like showering (yes, I do classify it as work with both kids noses pressed against the shower glass asking questions about my anatomy that I didn’t realize I’d be answering to two and six year old children), going to the gym, cooking healthy dinners and writing in this blog.  And all of these things are WAY harder than taking a few silly steps to get me from point A to point B.

So there it is.  My A-Ha moment of the day.  And another 2011 resolution.  More Silly Steps.  Because it doesn’t matter how I get there.  Or how those little kids of mine get there.  As long as they Get There.

Perfect Example – no matter how many times I told Hannah to give a Real Smile for the camera so we could get a Good picture, she insisted on sticking out her tongue.  The result?  A pretty awesome picture – Because Of the sillies.

Six years.

Today as I held her in this special way I choked down tears realizing it really has been six years since that day.  The day I went to work 9 months pregnant thinking I’d just finish out the week and then have my new first baby.  But surprisingly went to bed that night in the hospital with this new little girl resting on my chest.  A girl.  A dream.  A miracle.

Six years.  So much time.  That feels like so little.  She flew into my life and captured me, engulfed me, so quickly and with such force.  And the years are now flying by.  I try to live the moments with her.  Enjoy the minutes. “Be Present”.  But some days I want to scream that I’m losing my grip.  It’s going to fast.  As if I’m holding onto a rope with a mighty grip but it’s burning the palms of my hands as it pulls me through the days.  The years.

Six years.  My baby.  My big girl.

I was grateful that she still climbed onto me in her tired state tonight.  For a hug.  A place to rest her head. A comfortable spot to (still) suck her thumb.  I told her in that moment that she’ll always be my baby.  Even with her baby brother trailing behind.

Six years.  I hope I have a few more years of those spider hugs ahead of me.  A few more years of her groping for my hand amidst chaos.  Because it’s getting harder.  To handle her growing older.   To realize I need to be a stronger mom.  Not so much a friend. I’m better at the friend thing.

I sit here as I type crying.  Because I realize as I write this that so many of you were right in comments from past posts where I complained of the hardships I had with Hannah as a four year old.  A five year old.  You said, “Enjoy these years.  It only gets harder.”   I didn’t want to believe you.

But.

You were right.  It is getting harder.  I DO miss four year old Hannah already. Her innocence. Her needing only me.  Wanting only me.  Never lashing out at me.  Just appreciating me.

So, yet another resolution.  To ENJOY the minutes this year.  Seek out the special moments of Six.

Six years.  Here’s to it being the best year yet.

And Happy Birthday to my Girl.  My cartwheeling, constantly drawing, book reading, purple loving, Taylor Swift singing, newly skating, fearless sledding, crazy ticklish, amazingly doting, friend seeking, soynut butter and jelly eating, fancy, thoughtful, loving, dramatic, convincing, hand holding, best hugging, Beautiful Big Girl.

To get something off your chest.

Shed a tear and feel healed.

It only takes a minute to grab someone’s hand

Give them a hug

Tell them they mean the world.

In a minute you can shake off a fear

Or realize that you’re frozen with fear

In just a minute you can melt with pride

Watching someone’s first anything

And in another minute your arms can be tightly wrapped around them

Squeezing the pride right back into them

Sadly it also only takes a minute to realize

She may have grown out of your big bear hugs and kisses in public

And that someone you thought was your friend

Really isn’t.

Wishes are made in a minute.

Dreams can come true in a minute.

Love.

Scorn.

Envy.

Lust.

Hope.

All can be felt or shared

In A Minute.

And if all of This

Only takes a minute

As a resolution to myself

And for my sanity

I will be here.

For a minute

Or two. Or three.

Every day.

Because that’s all I need.

It’s all it needs to take.

I miss this place.

You.

Every minute.

So here I’ll be

Sharing my minutes.

Even if just One. At. A. Time.

Or so I hear.

Because I have never celebrated Christmas.  Nope, no stockings hanging over my fireplace.  No cookies left for Santa.  No Christmas tree with beautiful colorful lights, memorable ornaments and a perfect star on top.  No early morning wakings to see what Santa brought for me.  Some of you may feel sad for me that I never got to experience the dazzle of this popular holiday.  I actually felt sad myself when I was much younger.  I felt a little left out.  A little on the outside. But not REALLY.  Just a little bit.

Because I had Chanukah.  Eight days of dazzle.  Eight days of waking up in the morning wondering what my gift that night would be.  Eight days of walking into the living room with presents stacked high on the table.  Eight days of lighting the candles on the menorah and singing a song I had grown to love (although never really knew what the Hebrew words meant).  I loved Chanukah.  As much as all of my friends loved Christmas.  And I still love Chanukah but more from a different perspective.  The perspective of watching my kids’ eyes light up when they see all of their presents stacked high on OUR living room floor.  Last year I watched Hannah sit indian style in front of the stack of presents willing herself to see THROUGH the wrapping paper. Looking long and hard at the shapes and sizes of each gift trying to guess what they all were.

I try to make Chanukah look and feel as special as Christmas.  Because it’s hard.  To drive down our street and see the majority of the houses lit up with Christmas lights and trees.  Jolly blow up Santas in the yards.  Reindeer and sleighs climbing over the roofs.  And not have any of that on our house.  Hannah is at the age of asking why we can’t have all of that on our house.  Many of my friends actually ask me the same.  “Why don’t you just do it… for the kids?”  And I know they don’t get it when I tell them it’s because we’re Jewish.  And Jewish people (for the most part) just don’t decorate the house with Christmas decorations.  Because it would be doing it just to Fit In.  And we teach our kids that doing things just to fit in, is not ok.  I ask them if they lived in a mostly Jewish town and THEIR kids were in the minority if they’d light a menorah to fit in… and they all quickly respond, “Well, no.”  Don’t get me wrong, I’m super proud of my roots, my heritage, my upbringing but for a little kid, being even slightly different.  Is hard.  Because the Hoopla is all around Christmas where we live.  And where the kids go to school.   Hannah told me yesterday she asked EVERY kid in her class if they celebrate Christmas and all but one said yes.  That was hard for her.  And as a mom, I want to make things easy for her.  I want things to make sense to her.  I want her to feel proud of who she is.  Proud of her religion.  Her upbringing.  So I make Chanukah a really big deal.  With games and chocolate and extra ribbons and fun pink Chanukah drinks, and big dinner parties.  And this year, we’re inviting her two best friends who are Christian to celebrate one night of Chanukah with her.  So she can feel proud.  And special.  And they can understand what she does for HER holiday.  All of her friends always tell her about the cookies they leave out for Santa and the traditions they have on Christmas Eve.  Now her friends will get a taste of OUR traditions.  Feel the warmth in our house during one of Hannah’s favorite times of year.

And maybe Hannah will stop asking me how we can get on that “list” that Santa gets each year telling him whose house he should go to with his sac of gifts.  Because I’m running out of ways to avoid the topic.

What’s it like for you?  Do you celebrate Christmas or Chanukah or something else?  What’s the big kid’s gift in your house this year?

But yesterday when out of the blue he started counting on his own, I stopped and turned to him and I felt my entire body smile.  Not just my mouth.  Not just my face.  No, my whole body curled upward into a smile.  Because, as many of you know, this little guy has been extremely slow in the speaking department and each word that comes out of his mouth is a true triumph for me.  And him.  When he answers a question with more than just “YEAH Mommy”, he looks at me, head cocked to the side, shoulders shrugging with a smile that says, “Yup, I DID just say that!  On my own!”.  And he sees the pride written all over me.

Words are still coming slowly.  Very slowly.  But they are coming.  My mom joked yesterday that he talks a little like E.T. And it’s true.  He says the important words in sentences, but not necessarily all of the words that actually make a sentence a Sentence.  But it’s ok.  Because I get him.  I hear him. And I can finally talk WITH him, not just to him. And for those of you who can relate to this situation, you know how much it melts you when these conversations happen.

So yesterday, Luke was playing with his cars.  Pulling them out of his big box o’ cars and placing them in his little parking garage one at a time.  And with each one he pulled out, he shouted out a number.  As if he was announcing who was next at the deli counter.

“TWO!” (He skips the number One. Always. Who needs One anyway?)

“FREE!”

“FO!”

“ZIX!” (Yup, he skips five too which angers Hannah to no end as it’s her age).

“FEVEN!”

“EIGHT!”

“NION!” (kind of rhymes with Lion)

“DEN!”

“FUH-FEVEN!” (my favorite number of all time)

“TWELF!”

“FIRTEEN!”

And back to “TWO!” he goes…

I also loved watching him raise each car high over his head as he announced its number to the crowd, while he dug through the box for the next victim.

I tried to get him to learn the numbers beyond “Firteen”, but he was very happy getting that high and starting over.  He actually ignored all attempts on my part to coach him in any way.  And that was more than fine. Because this all happened on his own. Without prodding.  Without begging him to learn.  It happened how it was meant to happen.

Slowly.

On his own terms.

And it’s how he will continue. Not rushed. Not stressed. And soon, he’ll be counting to infinity. Including One and Five.

And conversing with all of us. For us all to understand. Not just me and E.T.

I sat with my chin in my hands, smile on my face as I watched Hannah last week in gymnastics.  She sat in the front row of a class of about twenty-five 5-7 year old girls.  She always likes to be in the front.  Close to the instructor. Having the best view.  Getting the most attention if she should need to tell about her trip to Pittsburgh, her dinner with her grandparents or her mom running a red light on the way to class.  I couldn’t hear the coaches or the kids from where I sat, behind the glass, as if watching monkeys in the zoo.  But I always know when Hannah is telling a story.  She twirls one ponytail around and around her finger, stands very close to whoever she is talking to and makes sure not to lose their eye contact.  The coach smiles and nods and I usually read, “OH REALLY? Wow!” from their lips.  I always wonder what story it is that she told this time.  She tells these stories all while she stretches at the start of class.  I’m amazed with the ease that she stretches.  Her legs spread in a near split.  Her nose or her ear touching her knee.  One side.  Quickly to the next. Out in front.  Face planted on the floor between her legs. She flips to her back.  Presses he arms to the floor into a backbend.  Perfectly arched. Like a rainbow.

I remember when I could stretch like that.  It caused no pain to jump into the air and land in a split. I could easily flip my legs backwards over my head, putting my knees next to my ears.  Like a pretzel.  I could grab my ankles with my hands in a backbend. Like a rubberband.

I no longer can stretch like that. It hurts. I get stuck. And I can’t bounce back.

But.

These days I am STRETCHED.  I guess that’s what happens. You go from being flexible and loving to stretch, to just plain being stretched.

There’s just so much.  Too much. And I’m being pulled.  From side to side. From above and below. From real world to online world.  From being thrilled to be where I am today, to being petrified of where I’ll be tomorrow. From feeling like I’m doing it pretty well, to feeling like I’m failing miserably. From knowing it will all turn out alright, to not even knowing what “All Right” is or if there even is an All Right.  From feeling like I’m able to take care of everything, to feeling like I’m caring for no one very well.

Stretched.

I wouldn’t mind being so stretched if I felt more flexible.  If it didn’t hurt quite so much.  I want to scream, “Stop pulling me!” but I know it’s just part of life. Being pulled. Not ever feeling balanced.  Always feeling like I’m about to fall over or dragged to a place that doesn’t feel quite right.

The strange thing?  Is that so much IS right in my world these days. I’m working.  Making money. Running my own little business with projects that I LOVE.  But these projects that I love are taking me away from this passion of writing that I love.  And I’ve hated having to choose.  Spend two hours at night on a client’s blog, or my own.  Get paid, or say “hi” to you all.  I’m finding time to remember the OLD me.  The one who played tennis.  I get out there and hit some balls, get some exercise, feel competitive and inspired to be in shape.  But that time on the court?  Is two hours that i could be making money, or again, be here with you.  Or making an effort to see my friends.  Or visiting my mom or my Nana.  Every day that I am happy with what I DID do, I realize what I did NOT do.  Clean my house.  Organize my kitchen/playroom/office/bedroom.

I’m stretched. Full of worry, impatience, fear. For what lays ahead. When the slight breeze will come that will knock me to the ground. It won’t even take a strong gust of wind, just a breeze.

Because I can’t stretch anymore.  I’m as stretched as I can be.

There is something so fantastic about a blank piece of paper.  Clean.  Open. Welcoming.  I love the moment when Hannah pulls out a piece of blank white paper.  She places is it on the table in front of her, pulls out a marker or crayon and sits staring at the paper.  Her wheels turning.  Her imagination spilling out of her. No rules. No expectations. No right or wrong.

I’m pretty sure Hannah never knows what she is going to create when she pulls out the paper and starts to draw.  I like to sit back and watch her as she starts.  She slowly doodles a shape on the paper and then sits back to examine it.  Often she’ll turn the paper around and around studying the shape.  Until it takes shape.  And then she’ll begin her work.  Today I watched her go from sitting with a blank piece of paper to an abstract green, bumpy shape to an amazing picture of a dinosaur wearing a dress and sunglasses, standing beside two “townhouses”, under an orange sky, its feet on blue grass with two dinosaur friends.  I’m confident “I’m going to draw a scene with dinosaurs and townhouses” was not something that crossed her mind as she set out to draw  today.  But it’s where her imagination led her. It’s where her crayon took her.  And she was quite satisfied with the outcome.

I feel like I live many of my days like this.  I wake up with a blank day in front of me.  No idea of what moods lay ahead.  What obstacles I might stumble upon.  All I can control is how I step out of bed.  Whether I have a smile or a frown across my face. What “shape” I draw at 6:00 in the morning is all I can plan.  The rest just happens.

In watching Hannah add more and more details to her picture today and seeing her get more and more excited with each addition to her picture, I realized what a great way THAT would be to live.  To be more in control, more purposeful, with what I add to what’s already in my day.  What details will make my “picture” more exciting, more satisfying.  I don’t normally do this.  Because it’s not easy to do.  I usually just see my day falling apart in front of me and chalk it up to another one of “those” days. And if the falling apart starts at 10am, so be it, the rest of the day is lost.

I guess it doesn’t always have to be like that though.  Things as easy as a vase of flowers, a cup of hot cider, a phone call to a friend, a thank you to someone unexpecting it can really make that early Shape of my day something Better.

I’m going through some crappy days lately.  Crappy in that if I were to draw a picture at the beginning of my day it would just be a brown mud puddle.  But I had an epiphany, and I’m Not letting the muddy waters drag me down.  Nope.  I’m putting on my new Target herringbone rain boots and I’m going splashing in those puddles.  Because what fun will a picture of a mud puddle be to look back on when the sun comes out?  Not fun.  I’m adding some happy details to my paper.  Maybe not a dinosaur wearing sunglasses.  But happy none the less.

Hannah sometimes comes home from school ticking off a list of kids who had to sit in the Thinking Chair that day.  She tells me who the offender was, what they did, how they reacted and how she promises she’ll Never Ever have to sit in the dreaded Thinking Chair.  The “Chair” is the consequence for a child’s third offense in a day.  First offense the child is given a verbal warning.  Second offense, the child gets her name written on the blackboard for all to see.  And if a third offense occurs, the child is directed to a small blue chair, off in the corner of the room to sit.  Alone.  To think.  Alone.  Until the teacher feels the child has learned her lesson.

Many of us have our version of the Thinking Chair in our house.  We have a “naughty step” where Hannah and Luke are sent when I just can’t bare to look at them anymore after they’ve been behaving horrendously.   For Hannah it’s the top step of the stairs. For Luke it’s the third from the bottom.  (Don’t Ask.) Unfortunately for me, he actually LIKES to sit on the step.  He sits with his hands in his lap with a silly grin on his face shouting, “HI Mommy!” while I try to keep a stern angry look on my face and wag my finger at him shouting, “You STAY there for a whole two minutes until you can LISTEN!”.  “Oh Tay Mommy”, he usually says, happily sitting, swinging his feet.”

The Thinking Chair in my house really doesn’t work.  Hannah spends the whole time screaming, not thinking.  Luke thinks it’s a game and certainly doesn’t Think for even a millisecond while he’s there.  This is why the top step and third step from the bottom have done nothing recently but gather dust.

But.

I have a Thinking Chair of my own in my house.

I don’t use it as a place to sit when I’ve been naughty.  Instead it really is the chair that I find myself doing the most thinking.  It sits in the corner of Luke’s room.  It’s blue and white gingham, extra wide and overstuffed.  It reclines and it glides.  I spent months nursing Luke in this chair. Months sleeping with him in this chair. More months sleeping on my own in the chair while he struggled to sleep in his crib.  I’ve read him countless tractor, truck and car books in this chair and I’ve sung him thousands of lullabies from this chair.

But the times I cherish most in this chair are the minutes I just sit in his dimly lit room.  Shadows on the wall cast from the tiny nightlight in the opposite corner.  I can only hear the Waterfall soothing sound coming from his sound machine as it blocks out most other sounds coming from downstairs or even next door in Hannah’s room.  I sit comfortably in the dark quiet and watch Luke’s little feet tap each reachable bar of his crib, a routine he’s recently started before he falls asleep.  I watch him softly stroke his blankies with the palm of his hand.  The back of his hand. The palm of his hand.  He sucks on one corner of the blanket while his hand caresses it.  Before he drifts off to sleep he lifts his head off the mattress to make sure I’m still sitting there and then quietly whispers, “nigh nigh mommy”. I know that’s my cue that I can leave.

But I stay.

And I think.  I think without distractions.  Without my phone blinking by my side.  Without the TV disturbances.  Without Hannah Needing anything from me.  I think about the day.  And yesterday. And tomorrow.  Lots of tomorrows.  I clear my head.  I have a chance to remember details. Flip through pictures in my head of things that have happened. Are happening.  I’ve shed a few tears in that chair.  And no one has known.  I’ve breathed deep sighs.  With no one asking me, “What’s wrong?”.  I’ve dreamed.  And smiled at those dreams.  Being able to totally appreciate them with no one telling me I’m being silly.

I love that chair.  That space. I love that I share it with Luke.  Although he has no idea. I always wish I could stay a few more minutes.  To breathe in the quiet. The darkness.  The sound of his slowed breathing.  But I fear waking him as I sneak out.

And the fact that it is a place I cannot sit for long makes it that much more special.  Helps me appreciate it.

Everyone needs a Thinking Chair.  For me it’s a Good place to sit.  And I’d like to be sent there Any Time.