"I don't want to go!"

Kids throw tantrums when they don’t get what they want. My kids are no exception to the rule, although they’re definitely not the worst tantrum throwers I know. Now that Josie is older and more able to control her emotions, her form of a tantrum is mild. On occasion she will hide her face in her hands and run to pout quietly under a table or in a corner of the room when she’s told it’s not her turn yet. Jamie, on the other hand, is prime tantrum age and his foot stomping, tear streaming fits are most commonly brought on by the denial of an apple juice refill or upon learning that it’s time for bed. Johnny has only just learned to pitch a fit. I saw his first one sometime last week when he found one of Jamie’s discarded Tootsie Pops and was quietly savoring several sweet, sugary sucks until I caught him and took the candy away. He immediately burst into tears and wailed in heartbroken anguish.

I have spent so much time stopping tantrums over the past few years that I feel I’ve earned the right to throw one now.

We are moving to Virginia. I don’t want to go! (Imagine me jumping up and down, waving my arms in the air, stomping my feet on the floor, and shrieking hysterically.) I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go! I don’t want to be lost and lonely. I don’t want to start over. I won’t know how to get to the places I need to go- like the most convenient ATM or the grocery store with the lowest milk prices. I won’t know where the best parks are and I won’t know how to avoid afternoon traffic. I’m also going to be poorer than ever, no thanks to the financial strain of paying rent on top of a mortgage. I will be alone, in a strange place, with no money. No fun at all.

I don’t want to go, but even more, I don’t want to leave. It hurts to know that life in New York will go on without us. Kristen, Colleen, and Chrissy and all their kids will continue to meet for playgroups, but my kids and I won’t be there enjoying the mayhem. Pastor Alan will continue to preach at First Baptist Church, but I won’t be in the pew scratching notes on the corner of my bulletin. Emmeline will continue to babysit, but my kids won’t be here asking her to build another living room fort out of kitchen chairs. Kelly will continue to visit her clients, but Jamie won’t be here benefitting from her gentle insistence on his pronunciation of “I want” and “my turn”. Nikki will continue to sell Gymboree clothes, but I won’t be in the store chatting with her about the upcoming sales.

The life that took me five long years to build will be gone in an instant. So many friendships, so many memories. Sure, they will probably miss us at first. But before long the empty spots on their calendars will fill up with new friends’ names and then eventually they will be referring to us as that little family of Js they once knew. “Oh, ya! Cute kids,” they’ll remember. “And that Jennifer….wasn’t that her name?.....Sure loved to speak her mind. Ha ha!” Relationships that I treasure immeasurably will be reduced to mere shadows.

I am so tired of people trying to encourage me to be optimistic and insisting that I be enthusiastic about moving to Virginia. Because as far as I can see, I have close to nothing to gain and nearly everything to lose. So to all those people I want to say: No! I don’t want to go! I want to mourn the loss of the people and places that I hold dear. I need some time to grieve. I think I’m entitled to some sorrow, even if it takes the form of childish tantrum.

Who says?

Who ever said that boys can't wear pink?

And who says that girls shouldn't play sports in dresses and flower sandals?

We're not just breaking the rules... we're LOOKING GOOD and HAVING FUN doing it!

Every Day is Mother's Day

I went to bed last night doing one of those self-pity things, feeling bad for myself because of how much my Mother’s Day was going to suck. Pathetic and immature, I know. Can you really blame me though? My mom lives thousands of miles away on the other side of the country and I can’t afford a place ticket to see her. The father of my children is off floating somewhere in the middle of the Arabian Sea and hugs are beginning to seem more like something from a dream than something attainable. My three little children aren’t even old enough to grasp the concept of gratitude, let alone convey it. So the wheels in my head spun round and round in anguish and disappointment, until finally I forced them to stop. Before I drifted off to sleep I made a conscious decision that I would make Mother’s Day special for myself.

So when I woke up this morning I hurried downstairs to pack us a picnic lunch before getting ready for church. My plan was to go straight from Sunday worship service to the picnic and playground area at Saratoga Spa State Park. I figured it would be a fun and relaxing activity to enjoy with Josie, Jamie, and Johnny. At the least, I figured, I would manage to snap some cute outdoor pictures of the kids, which would go well in a Mother’s Day blog post. So the rest of the day I made a mental note of all the endearing moments, with the purpose of writing them all down for everyone to enjoy.

First, I checked my inbox and received a Happy Mother’s Day message from James and the first line read, “You are the greatest and most wonderful mother in the whole world.”  Then during church service, Josie and I cuddled in the pew wearing coordinating purple outfits. When I went to pick up the boys from the church nursery afterwards they both greeted me with huge dimply smiles, Jamie shouting “Ma!” with outstretched arms and Johnny lunging towards me out of the hands of the volunteer who had been holding him.

After we arrived at the park we all sat down together at a picnic bench and huddled under umbrellas to eat our lunch in the drizzling rain. We giggled at our ridiculous selves.

Then we all played in the creek, throwing dandelions into the water and watching them get carried away by the gentle current. Johnny snuggled close to me in his sling, Jamie insisted that I help him climb on the monkey bars of the playground and Josie sung me some songs.

Then we all went home together and took afternoon naps. We skipped our dinner and met friends for dessert instead. Josie, Jamie, and Johnny all shared my ice cream cone with me.

Josie picked me some wild flowers and said, “Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy,” and finished it with a twirl. After we got home and I had given all the kids baths and put them in their pajamas I let the oldest two pick a movie to watch. While they were nestled quietly on the couch I started to bustle about, trying to tidy and clean. But Jamie came over to me and asked me in his most gentle voice to come to the couch and sit with him. So I watched a movie with my babies, Jamie sitting on my lap and Josie holding my hand, with her head resting on my shoulder. And at the very end of the evening I talked to my mom on the phone and we both cried together at how much we miss each other and hate being so far apart.

All-in-all it was beautiful day, full of simple pleasures and fulfilling joys.

When I finally stopped to review my day and compose this blog post, something struck me: My Mother’s Day was no different than any other day! The things I just described happen to me almost every single day. I often receive emails from James, reassuring me that I am a wonderful mother. Josie, Jamie, and Johnny are always showing me how much they love me in the little smiles they give or sweet things they say. My mom and I share deep, emotional conversations regularly. The only difference about today was that I paid more attention. It all goes to show the importance of starting a day with the intent of making it special. Every day is Mother’s Day, if you make it that way.