A predictable child becomes a bit unpredictable

We have three daughters.

Two are crazy and one is not.  Well, wasn't.

Enter hormones, body changes, getting older.  Enter 10 1/2 years old.

Our sweet nearly 5th grader has always been so gentle, kindhearted and consistent.  She still wants to say "Don't let the bed bugs bite" and blow us a kiss every night.  But, at the end of 4th grade we started to see some major changes.  And this summer it has blown up much bigger.

She sometimes just breaks out bawling at the dinner table and runs to her room.  We all look around bewildered.  She will start yelling at her younger sister seemingly out of nowhere.  Outbursts, crying, confusion and more. And she does NOT back down from her older sister anymore.  (I'm kindof proud of her on that one.)

I have comforted her many times by re-assuring her that it is not really all her fault.  She is still that sweet girl inside, her brain and personality is just being strongly affected by all the physiological changes.  I can say this calmly because her older sister was way more Crazy (with a capital C).  All things seem easier the second time around.

Hang in there sweetheart and your patience and humility will be back pretty soon (we hope!).

Generally a very happy girl.

Making way some new bright whites

Yep - she has at last lost a tooth.  She went through all of Kindergarten, just waiting.

Then the summer.  Still nothing.

Now, at last, one is missing and apparently about 5 are loose.  We expect her teeth just start falling out two at a time!  We'll see.

A candy birthday

I'm not a big party planner but, I do enjoy making each birthday a special day. This year Claire had her party before her actual birthday, so she will have another very small celebration this week.

I decided to turn the living room into Claire's Sweet Shop.  Everyone got a bag and helped themselves to an assortment of candy.  They also were free to eat candy during the party.  Only 3 people had cake. Claire had several friends from school and then our dearest, ever present friend Allie from our old neighborhood.  She holds a special place in each girl's heart and is invited to nearly every party we have.  And she honestly has fun and plays along despite the 6 year age difference with Claire.

Claire shines brightly on her birthday.  She is a bit shy at first but then happily enjoys the attention while still making sure everyone else is having a good time.  She is happy to do most anything on her special day and she was happy from morning until night.  She is sweet, loving and loves candy!

Thankful Five #5

Dark days, early sunset and late sunrise - I'm needing to force myself to make a Thankful List!  I'm not looking at my past lists - so forgive me if I repeat myself.

1.  Our children.  They give life purpose.  They help me to understand why our Savior gave up his life for us.

2.  Healing wounds.  There was a time in my life where it seemed so many of my relationships were in tatters.  I'm thankful for time and for words of forgiveness.

3.  My wonderful husband.  Matt is truly my rock.  He is patient, generous, kind and adoring.

4.  Starbucks Via.  I find a hot cup of coffee so comforting in the winter and I don't often have the energy to go out and get some.  Our coffee pot is on the fritz and I'm enjoying this instant blend.

5.  Our church.  I found myself in tears this morning as I watched our congregation pour onto the stage to donate toys and toiletries to our community.  We live in an area with so much money, power and prestige and I love that Willow Creek challenges us to give more and live on less.

Weekend Rewind: Let Sleeping Babies Lie

Weekend Rewind:

This post was originally written on August 2nd, 2009 by my husband, Matt.  I love to read his perspective on parenting.  He writes so beautifully and expresses things perfectly!

Let Sleeping Babies Lie

Sometimes I feel like being a dad is more than I can handle. Taking care of the children? That, I can handle. If that were all there was to parenting, my job would be a breeze. But the hard part of parenting is that other half.

Kids aren't just pets needing food, water, a chew toy, and a warm place to sleep. They are little people -- little people that are going to grow up to be big people. And they don't know how to be big people. It is up to Angie and I to teach them that part. The onus of that role can be overwhelming for many reasons.

For starters, sometimes I don't think I know how to be a big person. I stumble my way through my own life wishing I had clear answers to all of life's questions, clear goals with a clear path to attain them... I rarely have any of those things.

Nonetheless, I do my best to teach my girls what I can, inventing the material (and often the teaching methods) as I go. That seemed to work well for the first three or four years. After all, for those years I was The Daddy (TM), the source of all that is fun, good, and happy. But things have gotten much harder now that Anna and Claire have gotten older. They have (dare I say it?) caught onto the fact that I'm not always 100% sure, 100% right, and 100% consistent. They're like the veliciraptors in Jurassic Park (I can't believe I'm making this reference) testing the fences systematically, looking for any weakness that can be exploited. And when they find those weaknesses, they take full advantage.

But that's what kids are good at, right? Learning? I mean, come on, in their first two years, they learn a foreign language starting from zero while they are simultaneously going through the most rigorous "physical therapy" sessions they will ever encounter: learning to use their entire bodies at once.

So by that count, I certainly can't blame them for the learning thing. But there's the rub. I try to teach them. I try very hard. I try to be consistent and loving and stable and accurate and all of that. And I think I am doing a fairly good job at those things. They still fight with each other, though. They are disrespectful to each other, and even to Angie and I. They say "hate". They stick out tongues. They scream, kick, and pout. (Yes, I know I do those things, too, sometimes... but not in front of the kids.)

What makes it hard, what makes me hate (oops... just said it) being a parent sometimes, isn't per se that they do those things. It's that I view those actions as marks of my own failure. It's that I already poured myself into the task of trying to teach them not to do those things, but I apparently didn't get it right. I run out of ideas. I can't think of another way of saying, "hitting your sister or anybody else is not the correct response when your gum falls out of your mouth." At times, I just run dry.

Lately I've felt like I was going through an extended period of dad burn-out. I still smile with them. I hug them, give them kisses, go to their shows, help them pick out dresses and all the usual daddy stuff. But if I'm honest, way down deep, I don't feel it. I don't enjoy being a parent. That's been the sum of it for the last few weeks. All of that has left me feeling frustrated and powerless. Oh, and grouchy.

And now comes the part about how an hour at Starbucks changed that. No, it doesn't have anything to do with coffee (come on... like caffeinating wasn't the first thing I tried...).

We went shopping after lunch today. For shoes. Yay, my 11th favorite kind of shopping. The girls all needed new shoes, and Angie happened to notice after lunch that we were near her all-time-favoritest-shoe-store-in-the-whole-entire-world (No, I'm not going to tell you the name). I grudgingly acquiesced to her pleas, on behalf of the children of course, and we headed to the store.

Of course, sometime between when our left turn signal turned on and when we actually turned into the parking lot, Katherine (nickname: "I-don't-sleep-in-the-car-EVER") fell into that deep, impermeable reserved-for-toddlers-and-rest-home-patients slumber. She was out like a light.

Shoe shopping potentially interrupted by sleeping toddler, from the mother's perspective: CATASTROPHE.

Shoe shopping potentially interrupted by sleeping toddler, from the father's perspective: OPPORTUNITY.

I eased the sleeping child from her seat, and issued the grand gesture of a father greatly appreciating the chance to escape the shoe store: I nodded toward the adjacent Starbucks. "I'll be in there," I mouthed.

Okay, I admit it. I probably could have shouted "HONEY, I'M A-GOIN' TO STARBUCKS TO GET ME SOME LATTE!," and Katherine wouldn't have so much as snorted. The motioning and mouthing -- those were theatrics. They were to explain to Angie that My first concern is, of course, the well-being of our child who so obviously needs to stay conked out while Daddy gets his coffee fix and lounges in big overstuffed eggplant-colored chair.

I headed off the the shop, bought a drink, and sat down. Katherine fidgeted a bit during the whole checkout experience, but as soon as I sat down, she went completely limp. She was fast asleep, drooling (as I learned later) all over me. She was spread-eagled across my chest and lap, with her head on my shoulder and her nose pressed into my neck. In short, the moment she went limp, I was immobilized.

So I sat.

I sat for a long time.

I sat immobilized for a long time.

I sweated a lot, too, because a limp sleeping toddler emits more heat per hour than the entire Sahara dessert emits in a year. (Some day I will prove that.)

But, as any father will attest, holding a sleeping child when there's just nothing else you can do about it is an existential experience. I found myself thinking about life, about fatherhood, about Anna and Claire when each of them was Katherine's age. A few times, I caught myself thinking, "I'll do better with this one. I'll be more effective." But I knew I had nothing new to offer Katherine over what I'd offered Anna and Claire. Some day, I thought, I'd be telling Katherine, "Don't hit your sister! Don't sass your mom!" Yes, this precious, innocent, pretty-much-perfect-in-every-way girl would some day be a velociraptor detecting every parental inconsistency in my regime.

The convergence of "Anna and Claire the velociraptors" with "Katherine the Innocent" took an odd turn in my mind. I remembered Claire bringing crying Katherine her blanky. I remembered Anna pushing Katherine in the stroller. She wore an expression of pride that rivaled my own. This is my baby sister, and I take good care of her. As I thought, I realized that for the most part, all three of the girls were happy, polite, and loving. I could, without any trouble whatsoever, imagine each of them growing up to lead successful lives with happy, meaningful relationships. Yes, my parenting wasn't (and never will be) perfect. Yes, they will learn how to take advantage of my lapses and omissions. But if I keep working hard to model positive behavior for them, they were going to learn that, too.

Oddly enough, that realization led to one more: I do, in fact, actually enjoy being a parent. Why else would I be sitting at a Starbucks with a giant stream of drool running down my shoulder for all the world to see while remaining basically immobile under a 24 pound squishy space heater? And why would I look forward, on every evening commute home, to opening the front door? Why would I get up early to take a walk with Anna? Or spend a few minutes playing with dolls with Claire?

Sometimes parenting sucks. Sometimes I hate it. But those are just moments. The plain old vanilla fact of the matter, though, is that I am absolutely 100% in love with three little girls and their mom. A few bad moments? Meh. It's a small price to pay.

By the way, can you pass me that latte there? I'd get it myself, but I've got this kid sleeping on my shoulder....

Posted 2nd August 2009 by M Butcher

Thankful Five #3

Note: thanks to Carrie for this great idea!  And welcome Becky to this great exercise.

I am thankful today for:

1. The official end of my daycare job.  I had fun but I'm ready to move on. 



I'll miss this guy

2. Running.  It's been a welcome change to have an interest of my own and a goal to strive for.  
3. Girls who know what they want.  We had long hair around here for years, now they are choosing to keep it shorter. 



5 yrs old and ready for school!

4. Our own home.  After renting for so many years, I really enjoy knowing that this is our space, it's not borrowed.
5. A wonderful husband.  15 years in and I can't believe how he's grown. He's quick to help, does not complain and loves unconditionally.

I think I could probably even add some more items.  What a surprise for me!  I generally struggle to pick just a few things to be thankful for.  I think this is good for my soul.

Thankful Five #2

I would love for this to be a habit.

I'm totally thankful for these two!

But, every time I've tried to start writing I find my mind is filled with everything I'm not thankful for.  I'm not thankful for loud screaming in my ear, I'm not thankful for stepping in cat barf, I'm not thankful for dirty floors, you know?  So, here I am - definitely needing a re-align.

Things I'm thankful for:

1. New school clothes for my girls
2. New running socks and shoes for my feet
3. New challenges at my job
4. A 15 year anniversary date this Friday
5. My dishwasher

Hopefully there are no repeats there.  I am so thankful for my life and the all the love that surrounds me.     And many, many days I am especially thankful for that dishwasher.

Hooray for growing up

We had a remarkable birthday celebration with Katherine.

It is something else to have your youngest child turn 5.  This is a monumental age for us.  Generally all the girls have had a little more interest in Mommy starting at this point.  I'm hopeful.  Katherine has always been all about Daddy and I have really hoped for more of a connection with her.  I'm noticing that she doesn't complain quite as loudly when I have to read her the story, or put her to bed or take her out on errands.

It's also remarkable to see her personality starting to stabilize.  She has always been a bit unpredictable - crying at odd times, screaming when we least expect it, keeping us guessing.  Now I'm starting to understand her a bit.  She doesn't like to be left out but she's learning that she can watch her older sisters play and as long as she is quiet they don't really mind.  Now that we are at the end of the summer, she can't quite play by herself.  She's so used to one of her sisters supplying the game, setting, ideas and fun.

I'm excited for her to start Kindergarten this Fall.  I'm excited to see her become more independent this year.  I'm a bit sad that she won't have A. to play with this year since I've decided not to babysit full time anymore.  But, I'm happy that she is going to have time to be independent, explore her interests and get a bit more attention from me.

She is a gem, a gift and truly a precious part of our family.

Welcome to America, Part 3

This is the third in a series of posts that I shared here on my blog. Please read the first and second parts of the story for better understanding.

A tiny population of immigrants can hardly afford a church, or even to share space with an existing church. They meet in two bedroom apartment not much bigger than Suan and Sing's. Zomi people prefer to sit on the floor or on low stools, and so the central room of the apartment is completely emptied of its daily furniture, and thirty or so Zomi sit on the floor. The children meet in an adjacent bedroom, where several mothers teach them Bible stories, songs, and verses. In the main room, we sing hymns and praise songs. The tunes are familiar, but the words are in Zolai. Then prayer requests are shared, followed by a period of congregational prayer. After that comes the sermon, and then more singing and prayer.

One of the young women in the church -- a high schooler who has been in the country for several years -- was assigned to be our interpreter. She translated prayer requests, updates on church members, song lyrics, prayers, and even the sermon. On that day, Suan was asked to deliver the sermon. She translated Suan's heart-melting story as he told the small congregation how his family had rebounded from the brink of despair in Malaysia, and how they looked with optimism toward their future here. 

The next few words from his lips caught me off guard. They needed no translation, for they were my name and Angie's. Our translator leaned over and told us that he was citing Matthew 5, "You are the salt of the earth." He used Angie and I, and the efforts of Willow Creek and Exodus, as an example of how the church can "season" the world, can bring zest and flavor. I looked over at Angie and could see tears in her eyes. We didn't know we were going to be salt. We didn't know we could be salt.

Salt is a funny thing. During certain periods of history salt was so valuable that it was used as currency (giving rise to the saying "worth his salt"). It is used as a seasoning and a preservative. That is, it has both aesthetic value and utility. Humans require salt in our diet. It's necessary for life. And yet nobody sits down to a nice big bowl of salt. We sprinkle it. We mix it. It only performs its function when it is blended with other things. 

Why did Jesus call us the salt of the world?

Suan and Sing are beginning their fourth month in Chicago. In only a few months, they have learned a surprising amount of English, and they have ventured out into the city on buses and trains. Pancakes, it turns out, have become a typical breakfast for their two children. 

Suan worked with his refugee case worker to find his first job. Hearing the other children in the building fluidly switching from the Zolai language of their parents to their newly acquired English reminds me once again how quickly children can learn, and how much hope their parents bestow upon them. 

But more than anything, being invited into this small village of refugees tucked away in an urban neighborhood on Chicago's north side, I have become acutely aware --  through their faith -- that the church, the whole church, really is the salt of the earth. Like the Zomi, spread from their home in the mountains of Burma, salt is sprinkled out, mixed into other things. 

The church can only be the hope of the world when we allow ourselves to be mixed, to be spread. Only then do we bring both the utility and the beauty of God's work to the world.

This is a guest post from my husband, Matt.  Matt is a software developer with an amazing gift for writing. His passions include theology, philosophy, grilling and reading. He wrote this story as a way to share our recent experiences with refugees and the organization that connected us with them. (We have changed some names for privacy.)

Welcome to America, Part 2

This is the second of 3 parts of this story that I will be sharing here on my blog. Please read the first part of the story for better understanding.

It has been a few months since we first met Suan and his wife. Our first visit, the day they arrived from Malaysia, was the day we delivered the welcome pack. With several other Zomi refugees in attendance, as well as a staff member from Exodus World Services (EWS), we opened boxes, made beds, stocked the kitchen, and furnished the small studio apartment. Suan struggled to understand what was happening. Our daughters, while anxious to help, also struggled to understand. At four, eight, and ten, our girls had never before spent a moment of their lives in an environment where English was not the dominant language. Their exposure to non-Americans was scant. And here we stood in a cramped apartment with a dozen other people, struggling to communicate what shaving cream was for or inquiring where they would like their toolset to be.

I would like to say that that first day was an amazing, spirit-filling experience. But I would be remiss if I did not state how difficult those first hours were. Had our EWS friend not taken the initiative to schedule our next visit, I sometimes wonder if I would have just let things go.

But our second trip went better. It was on that trip that we made pancakes. And the third was even better. As we met other Zomi refugees and they became part of our lives, we realized that we had become something like an extension to their urban village. We were, in many ways, the outsiders hoping to be accepted, hoping to understand what was happening.

Suan, it turns out, has a gift for music. He was known in the Malaysian refugee community for his singing, and he is now the worship leader in the small Zomi church that meets in Rogers Park. Our first visit to that church marks a moment in my life that I will never forget.


Follow along with Part 3.

This is a guest post from my husband, Matt.  Matt is a software developer with an amazing gift for writing. His passions include theology, philosophy, grilling and reading. He wrote this story as a way to share our recent experiences with refugees and the organization that connected us with them. This is the second of 3 parts I will be sharing here on my blog. (We have changed some names for privacy.)

Welcome to America, Part 1

"Do you have any questions for us?" Angie asked Suan and his wife through our interpreter, another Zomi refugee who has picked up a fair amount of English in his few years in the United States.

Angie's question set off a series of back-and-forth exchanges in Zolai, the language of the Zomi people. The Zomi are from the Chin territory in Burma. As a minority (strike one), largely Christian (strike two) nation in Myanmar's Eastern border, the Zomi have suffered under the military junta that still controls the Burmese government. Many have fled as refugees, and some of those refugees have been given a home in the Chicago area.

As the chatter died down, the interpreter, Pau, turned back to Angie and said with an embarrassed laugh, "Um, yes… my wife would like to know what the bag of white powder is for." Answering our uncomprehending stares, Sing, mother of two daughters, gesticulated toward the kitchen.

"White powder?" mumbled Angie. Then again addressing Pau, she asked, "Can Sing show us?"

Who would have thought a simple little exchange like this would lead to the fulfillment of one of Angie's childhood dreams?

Angie grew up a stone's throw from Phoenix, Arizona. Having only one sibling, a brother four years her senior, she tended to rely upon her active imagination to fill those scorching childhood summers in the desert. Envisioning herself as Julia Childs, little ten-year-old Angie would stand before her bedroom mirror and host a cooking show. In a matter-of-fact tone, she would walk through the process of beating an egg, mixing dough, or baking a pizza. She was always careful to explain the details to her imaginary studio audience.

As Angie grew up, the practical concerns of everyday life replaced her childhood fantasy. She had all but given up her aspiration to host a cooking show until that very moment when Sing pulled the paper back out from under her sink: All Purpose Flour.

The Zomi people are an agrarian society. In a climate conducive to farming, they grow corn, rice, fruit, and vegetables. Apparently, they do not grow wheat. They had never seen wheat flour, and hadn't any idea how it should be used. And as Angie realized this, a light rekindled in her eyes as she enthusiastically offered to show them how to cook with it.

When Pau translated this to Zolai, Suan and Sing nodded their assent. Someone, I'm not sure who, ducked out the front door of the small studio apartment provided to the refugee family, and called down the hall. The Rogers Park apartment building into which Suan and Sing were placed houses several other Zomi families, and in some ways they act like a tiny village inside of the large urban Chicago building. As Angie was busy finding the necessary kitchen utensils, other Zomi families streamed into the apartment, removing their shoes (as is the custom in Burma) and making a beeline for the tiny five-by-five kitchen nook.

Glowing with the enthusiasm of Rachel Ray, Angie began demonstrating how to make pancakes. Explaining the function of each utensil as she went, she scooped, leveled, mixed, poured, and cooked. Her audience stood rapt, interrupted only rarely by the exclamations of an inquisitive Zomi child.

Fifteen minutes later, the plate of pancakes passed from hand to hand. I'm not sure that our American cuisine immediately won over the hearts and stomachs of the Zomi refugees, but all of the pancakes were consumed. Everyone expressed their thanks to Angie, "lung dam mahmah." Thank you very much. Angie glowed.


Follow along with part 2 and part 3.


This is a guest post from my husband, Matt.  Matt is a software developer with an amazing gift for writing. His passions include theology, philosophy, grilling and reading. He wrote this story as a way to share our recent experiences with refugees and the organization that connected us with them. This is the first of 3 parts I will be sharing here on my blog. (We have changed some names for privacy.)

A summer schedule update

I have faithfully printed out a new schedule at the beginning of each week.  We have time for TV, computer, reading, play, lunch, snacks and more.  It is not written in stone but gives us a general outline to follow.

The verdict:

Kids - some of them love it and some of them can't read yet.  So, the child that needs a lot of structure finds great comfort in a plan.  She doesn't always like the lack of activities on any given day but she has found ways to entertain herself.  The one who can't read would be fine with less structure.  She just waits to be told what we'll be doing next.  And my middle girl is pretty happy no matter what.

Mom - this is the best plan ever.  I finally have something to point to when they are bored.  I can say - oh well, you should be watching TV right now (they are pretty excited when I remind them of that activity) or you should be working on your chores.  If they play nicely together I try to leave them alone.  They generally do enjoy being together.

Dad - I think he enjoys not having wandering, annoying, bored, frustrated children in the house.  Since he works at home and shows up upstairs several times a day, it helps them if they are fairly settled and occupied.

Outings (like this one to the Graue Mill) are part of our weekly plan.

We have found time this summer to take family walks, have family game nights, enjoy our fire pit in the evenings, read books aloud and just enjoy being together.  There is a sense of calm and peace most days that is truly welcome and wonderful.

Email account for my 10 year old?

Wow have I been struggling with this one.

My 10 yr old has been asking for an email account since school let out.  Apparently a lot of her friends at school have them.  She won't be returning to that school so they gave her their email addresses to stay in touch.  Great idea, right?

Except - my daughter is 10!  I'm thinking that's young to have her own email.  Google agrees - their standard policy is no accounts to anyone under 13.  (Perhaps this will change over time.)  So, I decided to find out how all these kids had their own email.

To put it bluntly, they lied.  Now, I should say that they didn't go and create accounts without anyone knowing and then use them to send out millions of spam messages. Their parents approved (and probably set up the accounts) and then I think are monitoring their email somehow.  I'm not sure why Google doesn't allow parents to create "junior" email accounts that are connected to their own accounts.

I'm leaning towards this whole "lying" idea and creating an account for her.  I trust her and am mostly worried about her receiving spam and/or unwanted email.

Ideas to make this safe:
1.  Set up a filter so everything that goes into her inbox also goes into mine.
2.  Have her password and use it to check her email occasionally.
3.  Read her email before she is allowed to login.
4.  Assume she is trustworthy and do nothing.
5.  Use a different email provider.

I'd be curious to hear what you think and/or what you have done about email for kids.  Thoughts?

I'll be sure to post an update when I decide what to do about her email requests.  Right now she just uses my email and I move her messages into a folder with her name on it.  But, I don't really like her being able to read my email if I'm not paying close attention, you know?

Update 8/2012: She's now 10 3/4 yrs old.  She's been using my email for for the last 2 months.  I decided to get her her own address.  Now I just have to tell her about it.  Thanks for all the great advice!

The 5K - in photos

Well, you all heard about my 5K experience but I realize you have been anxiously awaiting pictures. (At least of something other than my pretty bib.)

Well, here they are.  My dutiful husband (did I mention we are about to celebrate 15 yrs in August?) snapped these photos with his iPhone. He has been so supportive and got all the kids up and ready to come cheer for me.

The start - can you see me? Me either.

The finish.

One of the best things was having Anna waiting for me near the end and running with me up to the finish.  The other best thing was all the food the coordinators had out for everyone.  There were donuts and muffins and fruit and quiche and cookies and more!  They had giant tubs of water everywhere.  It was absolutely decadent and much needed.

Timeout!

Mommy is on timeout.

Kitty Peace

This day started out badly and has continued on a bad streak.  My oldest informed me that the minor changes I had made to our schedule were unacceptable.  Then the conversation turned into all the reasons she is unhappy and why she wants to move and how the neighbor kids are mean.  Phew.

I want to fix it for her.  I want her to be well liked and popular and generous.  All the things I wasn't as a child.  My mom tried telling me that I had to be less bossy and more outgoing or else I'd never have any friends.  I'm tempted to say that same thing but I know that those words left me feeling alone and unlikeable.  So, I try to listen and offer gentle guiding words. It feels pointless.  Kids don't give much positive feedback.  I think you just throw kind words in their direction as often as possible and hope that some of them hit the mark.

I'm on timeout to remind myself that I'm not a failure, that it's okay if we don't go on an adventure each day.  It's okay to be frustrated by the petty arguments of children.  It's okay to eat when hungry and not worry about my waistline.  It's definitely okay to take a timeout before losing my temper.

Thinking calm thoughts....