Those Little Bits of Time

This has been one of those weeks where I think I saw my farmer husband, but I'm not really sure.  He's been SO busy for the last several days (not to mention that the rest of our family is busy too) that we've been like ships passing in the night.

But the weather has been beautiful harvest weather, and he must press on while the gathering is good.

In my 11th harvest as a farmer's wife, I've learned how to skillfully steal those little bits of time from him, without him resenting me or making him feel delayed.  Sometimes I just "happen to be passing by later" so I offer to bring him lunch.  Or I'll ask if the 2 year old (who seems to have a nearly unhealthy obsession with tractors) can steal a ride while I shuttle the older two around.  Quality time for them, and ease of getting in and out of the grocery store for me.  Win/Win!

But tonight he asked me to drive him about 20 miles west to pick up a semi that had been worked on this week.  He hopped in the car and we headed out.  We chatted about progress on the harvest, our plans for the weekend, and other odds and ends.  Actually, it could have been considered a date if it weren't for the kids in the back of the van trying just as hard as me to have his attention.  (I think at one point the poor guy actually fell asleep, but the kids just kept talking and never noticed).

So stealing those little bits of time has become an art form.  I'm so skilled in my stealing time "trade" that he felt like he was asking a favor of me, when in reality this time with him was his favor to me.

It Takes a Village

We've all heard the term, "It takes a village to raise a child."  I've always interpreted that statement as permission for me to ask for help when it comes to caring for and raising my own children.  Somewhat selfish, I know.

But I have recently had an opportunity to see this in a new way...where I'm the villager helping with another's child.

I have nieces, nephews, and friends with small children.  I've never been shy about helping that child grow or learn from mistakes. Sometimes I handle those situations much more admirably that I would with my own children!  But when I was made aware of a teenager who make a poor judgment call, I was stumped about what to do.  (I will refrain from some details to protect the privacy of this teenager)

I typically treat this teenager with the same respect and trust that I would with any other adult.  So when I learned of her lapse in judgement, I thought, "I should treat her like an adult then, and handle this one-on-one without involving her parents."  I chewed on it for days...almost a week...until I finally realized that I couldn't let it consume me any more.  And I had a convincing conversation with my Mom who said, "If someone were going to confront YOU when you were a teen, I would want to know about it.  And even though you treat her like an adult, SHE'S A CHILD."

So, I called the teen's Mom (who is also a friend).  It was hard to tell the mom about this situation, being that no one likes to know when their kid screwed up.  But she was thankful, concerned, and disappointed in her actions.  Then...get this...she thanked me for keeping an eye on her daughter and told me that I would understand, someday, that it's a good feeling to know that others are looking out for your kids.

It dawned on me that this was one of those It-Takes-A-Village moments.

Later that evening I did talk with the teen and settled things.  She's learned what she did wrong, both from her mom's perspective and from the "outsider adult" perspective (me).

With my kids being 9, 6 and 2, it looks like a have a lot of "fun" to look forward to in the teenage years.  So if you see one of my young ones doing something they shouldn't, PLEASE don't hesitate to correct them and/or let me know so I can!

A Play Dough kind of Mom

As mothers, we are constantly evolving.  The oldest children are correct when the say the baby gets away anything.  And I attribute that to that fact that moms are always striving to be better moms, to not sweat the small stuff, and in my case, to enjoy my children's childhoods right there along with them.

My goal is to be a Play Dough kind of Mom.  If this isn't already a phrase you find in Webster's dictionary, it should be.  When Cole was three (or four, or five), I would quietly curse the people who would lovingly give my kids little containers of play dough in their Easter baskets, stockings, etc.  Really?  That stuff is such a mess, why would you deliberately point out to my kid that MAYBE once a year they were allowed to break open the kit and play with the colorful dough.  And it was usually outside, in February or March, when I'd had just about enough of them inside the house.  And then the slightly OCD part of me would have to make sure (s)he was playing with it RIGHT.  You know what I mean - don't mix the colors, put one away before you open the next one, etc.  Yikes!  What was I thinking?

So today, I had an epiphany.  I was teaching Kacey's Wee Worship class and wanted to do an activity I hadn't done before.  The class has all kids of organized, labeled totes with arts and crafts supplies.  I came across the play dough tote and decided to go for it.  They opened the box and, low and behold, almost all of the dough was a gross shade of greyish brown.  But much to my surprise, they still enjoyed playing with it!  What?  How could this be?  How could another mom be so careless that she let them mix colors?  It was obviously a mom that was MUCH smarter and had been a mom longer than me.

So we came home from church, had lunch, and put the baby down for his nap.  Out came our supply of Play Dough.  I still lined the table and floor with old newspapers (old habits die hard), but I set it up and walked away from my 5 and 8 year old, telling them to "have at it".  The had a blast!  I felt really guilty because of the number of unopened dough containers in the play dough box, so we opened them ALL.  They made funny shapes, crazy hairstyles with the Play Dough Barber Shop, and pressed animals and letters for over an hour.  I even came back and made a few dough noodles with them myself.

(And you know what, they were careful not to mix the colors and I didn't say A WORD about that)

Day Two

Wow!  I'm humbled at the comments and new followers.  This is great!  I find it hard to believe that anyone cares what I have to say.

Today I will show a little restraint.  I have one heck of a day, with lots of frustrating events, but I refuse to have 50% of my postings be a sob story.  So I will try to see things in a positive light and how I've grown - just today.

I mentioned we're building a new home.  Everyone asks if it's stressful, if it's causing marriage problems, etc.  Everyone is surprised (almost to the point of disappointment) that the answer is no.  We started the process back in April of 2007, and I have learned that nothing happens overnight.  We're going about it in a way that we decided what we want, and we've saved until we could afford it.  Now, three and a half years later, it's become something tangible, and it feels great.  Delayed gratification.  Who knew.

So today was a fun day at the house site.  Today was the day they poured the front and back porches to the house.  I was so excited to get home from a crappy day at the office and check out this progress.  I pulled into the drive and invited the kids, one at a time, to walk up with me and inspect the work.  Hubby wanted me to MMS him pictures so when it was Big Man's turn to look at the porch, he brought my BlackBerry with him.  I instructed him with a firm, "Whatever you do, don't touch the concrete."  I snapped the picture and as I was typing in Hubby's contact info, I heard Big Man's steps inside the front door.  I realized very quickly that he had walked ACROSS THE WET CONCRETE!!!  It had been poured early on in the day. so it was pretty well set, but OH YES, there were definitely indentations and scuffs where six of his size 5 shoes had been.
 
Oh boy was I was angry. I told him to go to the car (through the house, not the porch), and really tried to bite my tongue the rest of the night because I knew that he felt bad. My concern was that this is not the first time his lack of listening has caused problems.

You should have seen me gently patting the concrete around the mark, trying to smooth it out and hide the marks.  I have an incredible respect for concrete workers now because nothing I did was going to undo these footprints.

So my positive view on the whole event is that someday, maybe as soon as we have our first visitor - but more likely the day he graduates high school, I will look at those footprints in an endearing way.  As it cures, it's very likely that it will be less noticible, but in the moment it happened, it felt like it was the end of the world.  And just a few hours later I'm considering how I can skillfully place welcome mats, furniture, and potted plants to cover it up.  I fully expect to have a section of concrete with the kiddos' hand prints and the year, but I did not intend for it to a statement as someone enters my home.

I'm happy to report that Big Man and I had a 15 minute conversation before bedtime that brought us both to tears regarding love, listening, and how I will always stick up for him.  God teaches us to forgive, and that kept going through my mind this evening.  That's exactly what I'm going to do.  I just hope Big Man can do the same thing for me when he recalls the mistakes I've made as his mom.