I'm Open for Suggestions...

I have a teensy little problem that I was hoping y'all could help me with. This Friday I'll be taking Jillian (5) and Josh (3) to the doctor for their yearly checkups. Normally, going to the doctor is not an issue. Josh, in particular, has grown into quite a cooperative patient. There was a time in the not-so-distant past when he would spend the entire appointment screaming in one corner of the room while I shouted questions to the doctor standing in the other corner.

Good times.

But, because the last several visits to the doctor have not involved pain of any sort, Josh has mellowed a quite bit. By "mellowed" I mean he's not hyperventilating in waiting room.

You know where I'm going with this, right?

These checkups are going to involve shots -- one for each child. And, what's more, because I choose to vaccinate on a delayed schedule, it will require another visit after this one for my daughter to get her second shot. She's gonna love me for that, I'm sure.

Here's my problem. On the drive to the doctor's office, I'm going to be hit with the inevitable question, "Will we get a shot today?"

Not to sound all dramatic, but what am I supposed to say?!?

I hate to lie. But is there really any point sending them into hysterics 45 minutes prior to the event? And do I give my daughter a heads up now so that she knows she'll be getting another shot in a few weeks? Do I bribe? Do I promise ice cream after? What do I do?

So tell me, oh wise Interpeeps, how do you handle it? Do you feign ignorance? Or do you just lay it all on the line up front?

Please help. I'm all ears.

It Brings Me to Tears, Every Time

Each night before the kids go to bed, we read to them. It's almost always a book of their choosing (unless I'm too tired) and I usually look forward to reading most any book they pick out. Except for one:



When they run to the closet and emerge with this picture book, I begin shifting around nervously. I look at my watch. Wow, is it really that late? Wouldn't you rather hear Meet Strawberry Shortcake again? How about Good Night Moon? In my head, I'm begging. I'm pleading. Anything, but that book. You see, I can't get through that book without collapsing into a bawling, emotional mess.

When I first read Love You Forever, I was pregnant with my first. My sister-in-law sent it as an early baby gift. She enclosed no word of warning. No box of tissues. And so, in my hormonal pregnant state, I cheerily sat down and started to read. By the last page, I was so distraught my husband thought something truly terrible had happened.

Love You Forever is the story of a mother who loves her little boy through the many stages of his life. He never grows too old for her to rock him and sing:

I'll love you forever,

I'll like you for always,

As long as I'm living,

My baby you'll be.

That's touching enough, but here's the real clincher: eventually the mother gets old and the boy does the rocking and singing. Then he drives home and sings to his own baby.

Oh, I'm tearing up right now just thinking of it!

After my initial reading, I purposely hid shelved the book. When my daughter was about two, she discovered it. As she handed the book to me, I took a deep breath and tried to convince myself that it would be okay this time around. Now that I was familiar with the story, I could surely steel myself against the emotional onslaught.

But, by page eight, my voice began trembling.

By page 12, the floodgates had opened. Again.

I'm not the weepy type. I pride myself on never crying during movies. But I am powerless in the presence of this book. And while my summary makes it sound a little cheese ball, I'm telling you, this book can make even a grown man weak in the knees.

Case in point:

A few weeks ago, my husband came into the kitchen after tucking my son into bed.

"Thanks for the warning," he said.

"What are you talking about?"

"The book. You could have warned me about that book. I was crying like a baby."

No futher explanation needed. I knew exactly what book he was referring to.

I was just glad to know that I wasn't the only one.

Easing Up

When it comes to the everyday grind, I'm a task-driven kind of girl. I love a schedule and I love keeping life predictable. I can be perfectionistic at times. I've got control issues. I tend to worry. On the continuum of temperaments, I tend toward the "tightly wound'' end.

I have a very good friend who is my polar opposite. She rarely follows a schedule. She nurses her baby on demand, whenever and wherever. She might be 30 minutes late picking up the kids for carpool because her son didn't feel like finishing his breakfast or brushing his teeth. Her feathers rarely get ruffled. She's a master at "winging it." And while I'm not sure I could ever relax my grip on life to that extent, there's a part of me that would clearly enjoy the peace that comes from easing up a bit.

Enjoying the moment, instead of moving on to the next thing on my to do list is a constant struggle for me. Anna Quinlan says it best:

"...but the biggest mistake I made is the one that most of us make while doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of the three of them sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4, and 1. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I had not been in a hurry to get on to the next things: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less."

Summer, with its longer days and relaxed schedule, has encouraged me to ease up a little and experience life with my children as it happens. I'm trying to "be" in the moment just a little more, instead of tirelessly working toward the next meal, the next appointment, the next load of laundry or the next bedtime. I'm taking time to revel in the silliness. To enjoy the sticky kisses. To chase lightning bugs in the backyard.

Because the to do list will always be there tomorrow.

The moments with my kids, unfortunately, won't.

And now, a moment at the playground...

In my few short years thus far as a mother, I have come to realize that there are two parenting realities, dictated by the gender of your children. They are called The Reality of Raising Boys and The Reality of Raising Girls. This discovery was a bit of a surprise for me, because before I had kids, I figured parenting a boy and a girl was pretty much the same thing.

Because before I had kids, I was a parenting expert.

It didn't matter that I only have a sister, and didn't grow up seeing boys "in action." I had plenty of ideas on how I would raise my boy, if I indeed ended up having one. No guns. No violence. He would sit attentively through an entire Kindermusik class instead of running laps around the room.

Well.

God does indeed have a sense of humor. He sent me Josh.

For the last six months, I've been up to my ears in superhero costumes, foam swords and Power Ranger games (despite the fact that he has never seen an episode of Power Rangers).

Which brings me to our playdate at the park.

The kids are happily playing with their friends, while I watch from a nearby bench with Grace (11 months) and the other mothers. Eventually, Josh finds his way back over to me for a drink. I hand him his juice box. After a long swig, he hands the box back to me, keeping the straw for himself.

I know where he's going with this. I know what he wants to do, and I know what he wants to pretend.

"No, Josh. Not on the playground. It's dangerous to run around with that," I say, hoping to diffuse the situation without a scene.

No such luck.

Josh puts his hands on his hips. I steel myself for what's about to come.

"But I need a gun!" he declares.

The other moms stop talking and shoot curious glances in my direction.

Josh continues, "How am I going to shoot people if I don't have a gun! I need a gun!"

Here would probably be an appropriate time to mention that Josh is three.

I desperately wanted to tell the other mothers, "I DID NOT teach him that." We don't have play guns at home. We don't practice shooting people. Violence is not encouraged. As luck would have it, I'm seated between the mother of a well-behaved girl and another mother who has one of the most laid back, unaggressive boys I've ever seen. I doubt either have had this particular parenting conundrum come up.

"You'll just have to find something else to play with," I say, purposely avoiding any further discussion about shooting people and hoping he'll drop it.

"But that won't work," he whines. I realize he's going to keep pressing me for a solution. "I need a gun!"

By now, everyone's stopped glancing and is just watching, waiting to see what I'll do. I'm at a loss. I don't know what to do with this. I have no idea how to channel the testosterone. Jillian never wanted to play with guns and shoot people on the playground. I rack my brain.

And do you want to know what I manage to come up with? Take a moment to brace yourself for the parental "wisdom" I put into action.

"Well, just use your fingers," I say feebly, with my pointer sticking out the the thumb pointing up.

Josh thinks about this potential solution and shapes his small fingers into a pretend gun. He happily runs off with pointed fingers, shouting, "Bam! Bam! Bam!"

Yeah. Thanks. I'll accept my Mother of the Year crown now.

I think this is what they call "drowning"

End of the school year looms.

Parties to plan.

Sick child to nurse to health.

Teething baby.

Appointments to reschedule.

Birthday gift to mail.

Toys strewn everywhere.

A son who wants to play rescue heroes.

A baby who would like to eat.

Carpool to run.

Kitchen to clean.

And you don't even want to see my laundry room.

My family would probably appreciate my undivided attention today.

See ya tomorrow.

For those who missed the show...

It's a bit of a slow news day around here, so I thought I'd take a second to fill y'all in on what went down on Mother's Day.

Because there is a story to tell.

Each year, we celebrate Mother's Day with brunch at the local golf club. It's a somewhat fancy affair. Last year I was about to give birth and my wardrobe options were severely limited. So, I was excited that this year I would have a chance to look presentable. I dove deep into my closet and emerged wearing a dress. This wardrobe choice made quite an impression on my oldest, Jillian (5).

Maybe it was the novelty of the dress.

Maybe she liked the feel of the fabric.

Whatever the reason, once I had the dress on, she wouldn't leave it alone. She kept tugging on it. Running the fabric through her fingers. Messing around with the hem.

So there we are. I'm standing in the buffet line fixing Jillian a plate. She is at my side, looking around the room, dancing in place, people watching.

"Do you want a waffle?"

"Yes."

"Do you want syrup?"

"Yes."

At this point, we head over to the fruit table.

"Do you want pineapple or strawberries?"

Jillian leans up against my leg and says, "Strawberries." So, I start picking out a few berries from the tray. That's when I noticed things felt a little "breezy" from behind. It took a few seconds for it to register, but as I turned to look down at Jilly, I realized she had pulled my dress up and was holding it there. My derriere on full display.

Did I mention I was holding plates in my hands?

"Jilly, what are you doing!?! Put my dress down!"

The sense of urgency at this age. Really impressive.

I manage a little half-turn so the dress falls out of her hands and quickly scan the room to see if anyone realizes they were just flashed. I think I'm in the clear.

Jilly and I quickly walk back to the table. As I sit down, I tell my sister, "You are not going to believe what just happened."

Her eyes wide, she asks, "You are wearing underwear, right?"

Uh, yeah. I'm no Britney Spears. But that's small comfort at this point.

"Did anyone see?"

That's when my dad piped up. "I think I was the only one."

Fabulous.

That's comforting and mortifying all at the same time.

Why I Love My Daughter: Reason #582

Look what I found on my bedside table the other night, just before I crawled into bed --wildflowers picked as a surprise just for me. My sweet, sweet Jillian. Her tender heart is such a treasure. Her thoughtfulness often moves me to tears.

Strawberry Fields

Last Friday, I kept Jillian home from school and took the kids strawberry picking. The weather was perfect for our annual trip to the farm -- 75 and sunny. Last year, I pre-ordered a gallon of strawberries and let Jilly and Josh each pick a pint. I wasn't sure how long they'd last and didn't want to get stuck picking a gallon by myself if they lost interest. Well, they didn't lose interest. They loved it.

This year, they were both very eager and insisted on filling their own buckets. They picked a gallon each -- that's a lot of berries. But, one of the best parts of strawberry picking is coming home and making strawberry pie. So, this year, instead of one pie, we made an extra to share with a friend.

Now, I'm very particular about my strawberry pie. I don't like gelatin, I don't like glaze and I don't care for the addition of red food coloring. I just like nice basic ingredients: strawberries, sugar, whipped cream. Well, after hunting around for a recipe that would "fit the bill," it turns out the best one was right under my nose in the information flyer from the farm. It's very straightforward. It's so easy, in fact, that you really have no excuse for not making the homemade whipped cream to top it off.

Fresh From the Farm Strawberry Pie

1 qt. strawberries

1 cup sugar

2 ½ or 3 Tbs. cornstarch

2 Tbs. lemon juice

1 baked pie shell

Wash berries and hull. Put one half of the berries in a saucepan and crush. Mix sugar and cornstarch. Add to crushed berries, along with lemon juice. Cook on medium heat until mixture thickens. Cool. Cut remaining berries into halves and mix with remaining mixture. Pour mixture into baked pie shell. Chill before serving. Serve with whipped cream.

Homemade Whipped Cream

1 cup heavy cream

1 tsp. vanilla extract

1 Tbs. confectioners' sugar

In a large bowl, whip cream until stiff peaks are just about to form. Beat in vanilla and sugar until peaks form. Make sure not to over-beat, cream will then become lumpy and butter-like.

Being Number Two

My oldest daughter started talking at 9 months old.

My son began talking at 9 1/2 months old.

In both cases, their first word was, "Mama."

My third born? Well, she's Daddy's girl. All the way.

Grace started babbling early on. We first heard strings of "Dadadadadadada" when she was around 6 months old. In the weeks that followed, she refined it to sound like, "Dadada Dadee, Dadada Dadee, Hi Dadee." When Daddy walks in the room, the rest of us might as well disappear. In Grace's eyes, he hangs the sun, the stars and the moon.

I've got to admit, initially, my ego was slightly bruised. I mean, I was the one doing the majority of the diaper changes, waking up at night, feeding her and walking her around until she fell asleep. Hearing that first word is the reward for all your hard work. And when that first word is "Mama" well, life just doesn't get any better. You're A #1 tops.

Grace is 11 months old now, and I have a hunch she's been saying "Mama" for about a month, only every time she says it, my back is turned and I just can't be sure. I'll be feeding her lunch, turn around to get something and I hear what sounds like, "Mama." I'll swoop around, my eyes wide and exclaim at the top of my voice, "Mama? Did you say Mama? Say Mama!"

At this point, Grace just stares at me blankly. My overzealous reaction obviously stuns her into silence.

Then, "Dadada, Dadee."

I'll turn back around, set to work on something and hear it again. Something murmured. Can't be sure. Sounded just like... I'll turn around to look at her.

"Dadada, Dadee."

Well, last week I finally got the confirmation I've been waiting for. When I picked Grace up from her afternoon nap, she looked right at me, stroked my cheek and said, "Mamamamama."

Ah. It. Was. Heaven.

There is nothing like the first time your child calls you by name. I don't care if it's your first child or your 15th. It thrills your heart. And while I may not currently be Grace's #1 most favorite person in the whole world, I'll happily settle for being #2.

Because I've found the snuggles are just as tender and the kisses are just as sweet.

Restoring Peace on the Homefront

Things have been a little tense around here lately. Jillian (5) and Josh (3) have taken to arguing over just about everything. The argument is always the same -- it revolves around being "first" and believe me when I tell you, nearly every event that crops up during the course of a day is up for "discussion."

Who gets to say prayers first.

Who gets to get their hair blow dried first.

Who gets to watch a video first.

Who gets to use the bathroom first.

Who gets to climb into the minivan first.

Who gets a bedtime story read to them first.

You get the idea.

It's been driving me slowly insane.

I tried to keep track of things for a while. You know, I did the whole, "Jilly, you said prayers last night. Tonight it's Josh's turn." But, after a while, I lost track. I'm trying to run a household here and there are a few more pressing issues for me to keep top of mind. So, a few days ago, I took a new approach. I told Jillian that on odd-numbered days, she would get to go first for everything the whole day. Josh would take even-numbered days.

This has worked out perfectly. The arguments have pretty much vanished. Whenever someone starts to whine, I merely point out the date. If you have more than two kids (thankfully, my 10-month-old isn't old enough to argue yet), you could assign a particular day of the week for each child.

It just makes life much more peaceful.

Hey -- listen for a second.

Do you hear that?

What? You don't hear anything?

Exactly.

For more tips that will add peace and simplicity to your life, head on over to Shannon's place!

Why I'll Never Use the Term "Relatively Healthy" Again

Josh's temperature as of 6:30 p.m. -- 102.4

That's about all I have to say about that.

Famous Last Words

Remember when I posted last week about the kids having been "relatively healthy" this winter? Remember my hesitancy in even writing such an audacious claim? I believe my exact words were:

"In fact, for the last six weeks, the kids have been eerily healthy. I've been incredibly grateful for this, scared to mention this fact to anyone lest it cause the situation to change, and in the back of my mind, waiting for the other shoe to drop."

Well, the wait is over. The other shoe has officially "dropped." Grace came down with the her first full-fledged cold on Sunday. I wasn't overly concerned, in fact I was pretty impressed that Grace had made it 10 months without a single sick visit to the doctor. But Sunday night... was a little rough. Last night was even rougher. This morning, she "woke" (I use the term loosely, as she barely slept the whole night) with a fever of 101.

I took her to the doctor this morning. Diagnosis? A cold, that's gone into bronchitis. A double ear infection, worse in the left ear than in the right. She managed to contract the molluscum that our family has been battling for two years now. Oh, and by the way, she's teething.

When the doctor came in with a handful of prescriptions and started going through the instructions, I actually started laughing. I wasn't trying to be rude, but I've never had so much medication flung at me in one doctor's visit: Motrin for teething pain, fever and ear discomfort. Ear numbing drops for pain. Amoxicillin for ears and chest. Expectorant to loosen the gunk in her chest. Benzoyl peroxide applied to molluscum as needed. Was there going to be a test on this? Mercifully, he wrote it all down.

My mom watched Josh while I took Grace to the doctor, allowing me to avoid exposing him to the germ-filled petri dish, otherwise known as the "Sick Child Waiting Room." Upon my arrival back at mom's, I asked Josh to please go use the potty. A few minutes later, the sound of something falling and breaking glass. Josh had managed to fall off of the stool and crash his head into my mom's ceramic wastebasket, which lay shattered on the floor. His injury -- an impressive-looking gash above the ear.

I called my husband at work to ask his thoughts about stitches -- not that he could really help with the decision. I was the one staring at the head wound, after all. But, after a short discussion, which included a recap of Josh's November ER visit for another head gash, we agreed that stitches probably wouldn't be possible in this case.

And, if I forgot to mention it, Jillian is nursing a wicked head cold and still getting drops to treat last week's pink eye.

"Relatively healthy," did I say?

Clearly, those words are now dripping with irony.

And to think, I thought I had nothing to write about today...

Our family has been -- dare I say it? -- relatively healthy this winter. I know some have been hit hard with ailments of every kind. We had a run with the flu back in December and that was miserable. Josh had roseola in January. But, other than those few instances and a couple stray colds, we haven't been doing too badly. In fact, for the last six weeks, the kids have been eerily healthy. I've been incredibly grateful for this, scared to mention this fact to anyone lest it cause the situation to change, and in the back of my mind, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Jillian's teacher called this morning.
Could you come pick Jilly up?
One eye is looking "smaller" than the other.
It's a little goopy.
A little red.
We think it might be pink eye.

Now while we've managed to avoid a lot of rampant viral infections, this will be the fifth case of pink eye we've had this winter. That's got to be a record. Prior to today, Jilly has had two cases of pink eye. I had the other two cases. One of my infections came in conjunction with the flu (boy, was I looking pretty then), the other just because I touch my eyes. A lot.

Pink eye is definitely not the worst thing in the world -- I'll take it over a stomach virus any day. But, we're back to doing eye drops three times a day, Purell-ing our hands like crazy, and praying that no one else gets it (particularly Josh, because he's just DRAMA when it comes to medication -- I'm sure eyedrops would just be a treat).

And...because I've become somewhat of a professional with regard to eyedrop administration (ironic, isn't it Lori?), I'll post a few tips for those of you who have not yet had the enviable job of giving eye drops to a preschooler:

I always have my daughter lay down on her back, with her head in my lap. Drop the liquid into the inside corner of her eye and turn her head slightly so the drop rolls into the eye. Or, if you are able to pull the inside corner of her eye down a little to make a pocket, you could attempt to drop the liquid in that way. Make sure you have a tissue handy to wipe up any misses. You'll also want to have your child keep her eye closed for a few seconds after you get the drop in.

So, there you have it -- always happy to help.

By the way, my eyes are fine for the time being. But I'll tell you, purposely trying not to touch them makes me want to touch them all the more. Every now and then I'll swear my vision is getting cloudy or my eye is a little itchy.

The power of suggestion. It's a crazy thing.

The Gift

"Each day comes bearing its own gifts. Untie the ribbons."
Ruth Ann Schabacker

It’s 8:30 and I’m late putting the kids to bed, as usual. We read a story. We say prayers. I shuttle Josh off to bed, answering his myriad of nightly questions concerning the time at which he can get up. I walk back into Jillian’s room to tuck her in.

“I love you,” I say, giving her a hug and kiss.
“I love you, too” she answers back.
I switch off the light.
“Mommy, do you have time to snuggle me?”

It’s a request that comes nearly every night these days. When she first posed the question a few weeks ago, I immediately envisioned the pile of dishes in the kitchen. I recalled the mountain of laundry needing to be switched from the washer to the dryer. I pictured the myriad of toys strewn throughout the house. I had so much to do before I could go to bed. I was so tired. But I looked into Jilly’s pleading eyes – I saw the hope and expectation on her face. And I found myself saying, “Yes.”

I climb into bed next to her and snuggle her in my arms. I watch her chest rise and fall rhythmically. She lays there silently, her brown eyes darting about the dimly lit room.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask.

A smile creeps across her face. “Barbie Island Princess.”

I smile too.

It’s funny the things that go through a 5-year-old girl’s mind -- thoughts fly fast and furiously before sleep settles in. Barbie. Fairies. School. Friends.

“Mommy, Nathan said mean things to Lindsay today,” she whispers.
“Oh? What did he say?”
“I don’t remember exactly. But I told Lindsay beautiful secrets to make her feel better.”
“What kind of beautiful secrets?” I ask.
“I said, ‘Lindsay, you are my princess.’”
“Jilly, that was very sweet of you. You did a good thing, comforting your friend like that. Did it make her feel better?”

“I think so.”

It’s in these moments, laying here with her, that I sometimes feel I get to know my daughter the best. It’s in these moments that she shares things with me she rarely has the opportunity to share amidst the chaos of the day. In these moments, there is no baby to be fed. There is no little brother competing for my attention. There is no telephone call to pull me away. I am 100% focused on her.

Jilly turns to face me and grabs my hand, bringing it up to her cheek. She closes her eyes. I lay there staring at the face of my baby girl. At five years old, most of the baby is gone now. But in these moments, as she flirts with sleep, her hand grasping mine and her teddy bear tucked under her arm, I see glimmers of the helpless infant she once was.

"I love you, Mommy.”
“I love you, too.”

I've come to see this time with Jilly as a gift -- one of several gifts that I'm convinced God offers to me each day. Trouble is, I'm oblivious to half of them. I'm too busy making dinner. I'm too preoccupied with scheduling a playdate. I've got to go fold laundry.

But these gifts won't be offered to me forever. Every day, Jillian needs me less and less. She can wash her own hands. She can pour her own drink. She can fasten her own seatbelt. In a few years, her schedule will become crowded with schoolwork, sports, activities and friends. The tables will no doubt suddenly turn and I’ll be the one left asking, “Jilly, do you have time…”

So for now, I forget the dishes. The laundry can wait. The toys will only be taken out again tomorrow. In this moment, I choose to put everything else on hold and receive the gift being offered to me. In this moment, I will untie the ribbon, open the box and savor what has been so freely given -- time with my daughter. Time to know her and understand her. Time to be her mother and her friend.

Please let me know when we get to the "break" part...

Oxymoron, noun: a rhetorical figure in which incongruous or contradictory terms are combined.

Jumbo shrimp.

Deafening silence.

Spring break.

How's the week been going? This morning, while packing my husband's lunch, I found myself indadvertently cutting his sandwich into small squares and triangles.

Obviously, the first stage of Spring Break dementia is setting in.

I've been running around like a harried cruise ship director for the last few days, trying to entertain and keep the troops happy, which, quite honestly, is a whole lot more work than when we're not on "break." Not to mention the fact that the house looks like a bomb hit it.

After a weekend of rain, Monday morning rolled around with -- more rain. The kids were climbing the walls. So, we took a road trip to a local toy store, which resulted in me leaving my digital camera behind. (Why did I even have it out? I was taking a picture of Josh who looked so cute with a play helmet and sword. I'd love to share it with you but, I don't have my camera). Fortunately, someone did turn the camera in to the shop owner shortly after I left. Otherwise, the two placemats I purchased, featuring maps of the United States and the World would have cost about $150. Each. That would have been a pricey geography lesson.

Tuesday hit and -- Praise God! -- we got a call from a friend who was just as desperate for activity as we were. She rented out one of those play areas that has multiple inflatable bounce houses and slides. It was only $50 an hour to rent the place out. Everyone chipped in and it came out to $10 a family for an hour and a half of play time. That was the deal of the century. (Heck, I was so desperate, I would have paid $50 for just my kids). We had a blast and the kids finally got to burn off a little steam.

Today, it's warm and sunny -- so we're going to head to the park for a picnic and we may even tackle bowling on Friday. Yes, Spring Break is a thrill a minute here and clearly there will be no rest for the weary.

Which brings to mind another oxymoron:

Working vacation.

Easter: A Brief Photo History

Easter pictures. I love them. I love the bright spring colors, I love the outdoor settings. I love getting the kids dressed up in their Easter finery. I have several adorable pictures of my daughter Jillian (5) in any variety of Easter scenes from this year and years past:

Frilly Easter dress: check
Sitting with the Easter Bunny: check
Hunting for eggs: double check

She is, in short, a photographer's dream.

My 3-year-old son, on the other hand? Notsomuch.

The first Easter Josh could walk and hunt eggs, the best we could do was this:

Idyllic, no?

Last year, we were out of town. The only egg hunt we did was indoors, early in the morning. We didn't get any pictures.

Here's a picture of my son at this year's egg hunt:

Yes, I know I'm showing you his backside. Or is it his front side? No. His jeans are on backwards. And don't you think the navy blue t-shirt just screams spring?

Let's discuss the outfit, shall we? I did not send him to school like that. For the record, I had him in a very handsome Easter egg hunting outfit. I thought long and hard before I dressed him that morning (I wanted a good picture, after all). I didn't want to go too "frou frou," so I opted for nice jeans, a long sleeved white t-shirt and a sweater vest in shades of blue, white and green. Perfect.

Apparently, not in Josh's eyes. He had it in his mind to change that outfit and set his plan in motion as soon as he stepped foot in the classroom:

"Miss Joy. I'm hot. I need to take my sweater off."

"But Josh, you look so handsome and your Mommy has you dressed for the egg hunt later."

"But I'm hot!"

"Alright, we'll take the sweater off and put it back on for the egg hunt."

With part one of his plan complete, Josh runs off to play. An hour later, snack time provides the perfect opportunity to complete the outfit switch. One drop of milk hits the sleeve of his white shirt.

"Miss Joy, I got milk on my shirt."

At this point, Miss Joy directs Josh to the bathroom and hands him his ziploc bag of spare clothing. Please understand, I don't blame her at all. She's got 10 other two- and three-year olds to keep track of. Lord knows, she can't be spending the morning fighting my fashion battles.

So, Josh goes into the bathroom and comes out in the spare clothes. Now, the outfit I send as a backup outfit -- it's not pretty. I keep the nice outfits in his dresser so he can wear them regularly. The spare clothes are for emergency only. They're a little ratty, but they'll do in a pinch. His Easter egg hunt was not the "pinch" I had in mind.

There was no time to change before the hunt. Josh happily hunted eggs, backwards jeans and all. After the hunt, the children gathered together, a mass of pastel hair bows and handsome Easter sweaters. And then there was Josh.

I stood to the side, a proud mama.

We are classy, folks.

Better make room in the scrapbook, because at this rate next year's pictures are going to be a sight to see.

Perspective

Years ago, in my life prior to diapers, sippy cups and naptimes, dandelions were weeds. I remember driving home from work one afternoon to find my front lawn blanketed in yellow. It was as if the dandelions had sprung up overnight, without any warning. They were an eyesore. A neighborhood embarrassment. Something to get rid of.

Last night, as I was cooking dinner my 5-year-old daughter and 3-year-old son, fresh from an evening walk with their grandparents, burst into the house in a flurry of excitement. In their hands -- dandelion bouquets -- thoughtfully picked for me.

Isn't it funny how things change? What I once saw as something worth getting rid of, I now placed in a crystal vase on my kitchen counter. It got me thinking about the power of perspective. How many things are there in my life that God wants me to see as a blessing, rather than a curse? How many day-to-day issues do I consistenly label as weeds, instead of stepping back and trying to find the beauty in the moment (even if the moment is fleeting). Laundry. Family relationships. My daughter's chronic eczema.

It's more than just looking at the cup as half full -- it's knowing that even if I can't find the good in the situation, perhaps I can finally step out of the way and give God a little room to work. That's where I'll discover the hidden blessings -- even amongst the weeds.