Proud Mama

As the kids get older the things they do that make me proud have evolved. You may be awfully proud when your baby walks for the first time or says Mama. You may swell with pride when your son is happy to share with a new playmate or sympathizes when a friend falls at the playground. Next thing you know they ride a bike or read a book or sing in a school play.

But with all that my kids have blessed me with, I have to say one of the happiest, most proud moments was last night when Sam took advantage of a penalty kick and scored his first soccer goal. He took a victory lap that David Beckham would envy. He chest-bumped and high-fived his teammates. They patted him on the back. His coach gave him an equally proud thumbs up. I don't care that his team lost ... or that is was the only goal they've scored this season ... for me it was perfect.

Whatever Works

If you read any advice column in a parenting magazine, inevitably someone writes in wanting help on getting their kids up and out the door on school days. When my kids were little I used to read those columns, chortle and think "Thank goodness I don't have that problem." Truthfully, mornings weren't too bad around our house. Sure we were a little sleepy, but we had time to eat breakfast together and usually reached our destinations on time.

But what my smug self didn't realize is getting up and out with babies is one thing. Getting a 5-year-old and an 8-year-old up and out is something altogether different. And these are boys. I can't wait to see what kind of havoc Abby will create.

Most mornings around our house are like boot camp. Eat your breakfast! Now, now, now! Shoes! Socks! Backpacks! Gear up and fall in! In a way I feel sorry for the boys. I don't think I'd like to start each morning with someone yelling instructions for every single task I needed to accomplish. Pour the water! Add the tea bags! Steep, steep, steep! Enough sugar. Stir!

But seriously, if you do not keep on them every second of every minute, you'll soon find that someone has logged onto the computer or decided to draw a picture of the solar system or visit a neighbor.

We tried a variety of motivators. Setting a kitchen timer, awarding points, seeing who could get ready the fastest or who could sing the silliest get-ready song. We've even taken Jake to school in his pajamas.

But, inadvertently, I have found one thing that motivates Jake to get ready quickly. His hair. Recently he discovered hair gel. And all you have to do is promise to fix his hair as soon as he is dressed. Initially he wanted a faux-hawk. He's moved on to all-over spiky.

I have to admit it looks cute. And if it makes the morning go more smoothly, all the better.

Maybe I'll send my tip to the advice column of a parenting magazine.

Perfect

Abby and I were watering newly planted flowers last night when she got bored and handed me the hose, "Your turn Mama."

She turned her attention to picking flowers, dandelion pods mostly. She found a perfect one and brought it over to show me. But instead of making a wish, she said, "God is love" and blew the seeds off the pod.

Girl Talk

One summer when I was maybe 8 or 9, my grandmother pulled me out of Vacation Bible School so she and I could drive a few hours south to the town where her sisters lived. She had wonderful sisters; they were farm women who cooked, handled their men, their homes and kids, raised cats and cows, fished, drove 4-wheelers, hunted mushrooms and went to church.

I don't know if it was that drive or some other time in the car with my grandma, but I thought the way she held her hands on the steering wheel, kind of like 9 and 3 but with her fingers spread across the wheel, was the most elegant thing.

But the story I remember most about this drive is one I've been told many times. I'm not sure if I really remember it or if I've heard it so often I can just picture it in my head.

But it goes something like this. My grandmother had a necklace I liked, kind of a silver ball with fringe that hung off it like a ponytail. I liked to turn that necklace upside down and pretend the fringe was long hair on the head of someone very lovely. And this lovely lady would talk to people, interview them actually. In this particular instance, she interviewed my grandmother, saying "Tell me, what do you think of people?"

It was a funny, profound, absurd thing for an 9-year-old to ask. Maybe that's why the adults remember it so well. But I was reminded of this story tonight when I put Abby in the bathtub.

See, things were heading south at the Romines. Jake was in a time out. Sam was in seclusion to avoid Jake. I'd put Abby in the tub because she decided to color herself purple. It was close to bedtime and no one had eaten dinner. That kind of night. But when I put Abby in the tub, she stretched her little legs, stuck her purple toes out one side and said, "So, let's talk about ourselves."

The Best Policy

Yesterday while I was throwing together dinner, all three kids headed upstairs to play Legos and dinosaurs. After a long spell of peace and quiet, almost as disconcerting as loud arguments and roughhousing, Abby came downstairs and asked to wash her hands. She said they were "gluey."

"Oh Abby, why are your hands gluey? Are you guys making a mess up there?"

"A course, we are."