Some Perspective

So, I recently bought journals for me to write in for each of my kids.  An idea apparently every mom in the world has heard of except for me.  But I have to say, I love it!  It is so fun to write down their quirky or fun or interesting things for them, and it really helps me to appreciate parenthood.  Especially on days where your daughter runs away at Wal-Mart (and we're talking half the store, not a mere aisle or two), steals the bologna from the fridge about five times in one day and hides behind the couch to stuff her face, (granted, even if I never did find the package, it wouldn't be much of a loss- other than dealing with the inevitable food poisoning they'd get when she and Caden ate it three weeks later), and plays Frisbee with her taco-filled chips during dinner.

I get so used to thinking like an adult that writing about it AFTER gives me a chance to relax and laugh at things.  I recently watched "My Side of the Mountain" with my boys.  It's about a twelve year old boy who leaves a note for his family, packs a bag, hops a bus and heads for the mountains to live off the land.  Today he would have his own survival show.  As a little girl, the book was magical- I mean, he lived in the hollow of a tree!  (This coming from a girl who used to make clothes for little acorn people and lick cement when no one was looking.)

As an adult watching the movie, all I could think is, "Are you kidding me?"  I would be so mad.  And worried.  And really mad.  And spoiler alert for anyone who has been waiting since 1969 to see the movie, I noticed it ended with him leaving the mountains to go home, not the happy return. 

It's funny to think from the perspective of a kid again.  I was telling Jeff about this HUGE tricycle that my Grandpa Losee had on the farm when I was growing up.  It was amazing, like, Paul Bunyan sized.  It went all the way up to my chest!  Well, someone pulled it out last time we were there.

For perspective, it hits me somewhere in the knee range now.  Apparently, I never realized that my memories are from when I was about four.  Maybe it was all the cement I licked.

Well, my boys tinker with and take apart everything.  When Elias was probably three, and Isaac about one and a half, they dismantled their entire dresser while I wasn't looking.  I won't lie- pride wasn't the emotion I was feeling.  They recently stripped down about five different monster trucks (all broken, of course) in the hopes of creating some kind of Frankenstein.  They remove batteries from everything they own because they want to see the power source.  They have built numerous rockets on the back deck out of random boards and toys.  It took a LOT of persuasion to convince them that they shouldn't actually light them up to fire them off.

But then I realized that I'm really not that much different.  Jeff ripped out some old baseboards, so I made a frame for the mirror in the bathroom.  A section of our wood fence fell down and I can't tell you how many projects THAT has become.  We live in a constant state of construction, because our dreams are bigger than the time slot we actually have to work on them.

So, rather than feel frustrated, I guess I can focus on how they're practicing to become adults. Yesterday, I told Liv that we could go outside as soon as I ate lunch.  So, I came out of the bathroom and heard, "Look Mom, I'm making you a sandwich!"

See how good they're getting?  (Yes, that is jam covering Caden's hands, face, shirt and pants.  And quite frankly, plates just create dirty dishes.)  Practice makes perfect, I guess.  Apparently we're all still practicing.