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He Wore My Gloves

A few mornings ago, my son wore my gloves. It’s not that he doesn’t have his own gloves. He does. It’s just that he only has one pair and he needed them for school, which we were leaving for in less than an hour and I didn’t want him playing in the snow with his school gloves because then his school gloves would be wet. He only has one pair of gloves and even those are his third pair this winter. I didn’t realize that it’s nothing short of a miracle for kindergarten boys to hold onto a pair of gloves for more than a week. Apparently, gloves are very difficult to keep track of when you are busy learning how to read and write and such things. This is why he had to wear my gloves that morning when he played in the snow.

They were big on him, of course, but not that big. It wasn’t like putting my gloves on the hand of a newborn baby. My gloves were not completely useless on him. Sure, the fingers were about an inch and half too long but the gloves were functional. He was able to move the fingers and was no more disadvantaged in my adult gloves than he would have been in his kid-sized gloves.

I watched his face light up as he realized he was able to wear his mother’s gloves. I was all too aware of the other reality I was facing: as he continues to get bigger I will become smaller to him. The shadow that I cast will not always be so long. My footprints will not always be so far apart.

As he grows, my larger-than-life status will fade. He will discover that the monsters I scared from his closet never actually existed. He will discover that the person behind the curtain is actually just a semi-clueless woman trying her best to raise three kids.

I imagine it must be a weird feeling: when your child grows larger than you. When it’s his shoes that can’t be filled, his head that surpasses your own. Even more odd must be when your child’s dreams move beyond your dreams. How odd to watch your child, the same child who used to eat sand and lick dirt, graduate with a degree in biochemistry. It must seem like he’s only pretending, like he’s got your gloves on again.

Only this time, the gloves are his. And they aren’t too big. They fit him just right.

The Sky is [Not] Falling

There is a phrase that moms pass around when talking to new moms that goes something like “the days are long but the years are short.” Other moms hear this and nod their heads in agreement. We know this. I know this.

And yet, here I am in the middle of it, living the long days, and I forget the phrase that I know so well.

 

These were my kids almost four years ago. Four years. My twins were two weeks old. Every memory of them, every single memory of them (except for their first two weeks spent in the hospital) has happened between now and when that picture was taken. All of those memories with them and it has only been four short years.

I can’t help but think of the many different phases we’ve been through as a family. The ‘three kids in diapers’ stage. The ‘one walker, one crawler and one sitter’ stage. The ‘there is no way I’m taking all three of them to the grocery store again’ stage. As hard as each of those stages were, they were just that: stages. They came and they went. The exit of one stage made room for another stage. The ‘three kids sleeping through the night’ stage. The ‘buckle themselves into their car seat’ stage. The ‘shoes and coats on by themselves’ stage.

My weakness in parenting is forgetting about the stages. I constantly forget that one hard day or even a series of hard days will not last forever. My son with not always yell “Hey old lady!” to the women over 60 that pass us. My daughter and I will eventually find a happy medium that allows me to brush her hair without her screaming bloody murder.

Last month I wrote about my son and his favoritism toward my husband. It was something that I had struggled with for a while. And yet, almost immediately after I wrote the post, my son’s attitude toward me seemed to soften. [I think it's obvious what this means; my three-year old is secretly reading my blog while I'm not looking.]

I cannot stress how important it is for me to remember that parenting is a timeline of stages. When I find myself in a rough stage, it is important to remember that it will pass. Likewise, when I’m in a stage when things seem to be running smoothly, it is vital to cherish each moment for it, too, will pass.

So take heart, mothers of the world, the sky is not falling. These hard times you’re experiencing are merely some rain showers that will pass. The weather will eventually turn. I can’t promise that it won’t rain harder, because some days it will. But make sure to keep that chin up. Because eventually the rain will stop. And after the rain comes the rainbow.

And you won’t want to miss that.

Why I Don’t Want To Be Friends With My Yoga Instructor

I recently began taking yoga classes. This is long overdue since I’ve been a proud wearer of yoga pants for more than a year now. But believe it or not until three weeks ago, I had never actually participated in a yoga class. I like to wait until trends are good and established before participating in them. Which is why you won’t see me in a Zumba class until at least 2017.

My first yoga class was the Wednesday before Christmas. The stress of the holiday season was at its peak. I had two more very busy days of work before a week of vacation. I had presents waiting to be wrapped. Groceries to be purchased. Laundry to be done and a house to clean.

And then the class started and my yoga instructor began to do her thing.

Sixty minutes later, I walked out of that room completely relaxed and refreshed and ready to conquer my holiday to-do list. Later that day, my kids’ argument over who got to sit where at the table was no match for my relaxed state. After just one class, I was hooked.

Most classes run late. She’s not the type to keep to a tight schedule. Probably because it’s more important to listen to what our bodies are telling us than to watching the clock on the wall. or something like that. You can leave early if you need to, but you’ll miss the relaxation part or, as I like to call it, mini-nap time.

I attend class with a friend and the two of us enjoy fantasizing about our yoga instructor’s life outside of class. Is she always that calm and relaxed in her real life? Does she have kids? How does she react when her kids misbehave? What if she’s actually this completely stressed out person and teaching yoga is just “another thing” on her plate?

That’s when I decided we could never be friends: my yoga instructor and I. It would never work. I don’t want to know about the days when she’s overwhelmed. I don’t want to hear about her bad day. I want to live in a world where I believe that she lives her entire life the way she lives it in yoga class. I want to imagine her always like that.