dOn’T gEt UpSeT wHeN yOuR FiVe-yEaR oLd aCtS LiKe A fiVe-YeAr oLd!

Sit up straight. Say thank  you. Be quiet. Keep your voice down. Say please. Sit still.

As parents we are constantly surrounded by suggestions on how to make our children behave properly. From parenting books to self-help books (because let’s face it, it’s always mom’s fault), there is an endless string of advice designed to guide us. Complete strangers are quick to share their nuggets of wisdom, based on their child rearing years. I don’t take offense, because I agree that children should be taught to have good manners, be respectful of others, and sit quietly in certain situations. At restaurants, I understand when the wait staff sees a family with small children walk through the door, and after taking a deep breath escorts them to the table at the back of the restaurant where the noise, spills, tantrums, etc. can be shielded a bit from the other paying customers. I get it.

The thing is, parents with children are also paying customers, and sometimes I think people immediately make a judgment call based on the children’s ages. I’ve witnessed many a full-blown toddler tantrum which left me paralyzed, fork hovering in the air, never making it to my mouth. Some of those tantrums by my own kids, but my husband and I always walked them outside at that point so as not to disrupt someone else’s meal. There were times we even took our food to go after not being able/willing to continue the toddler vs. parent battle back in the restaurant. Not everyone does that. Again, I get it.

However, when a child speaks a bit louder than a grownup, or lets out a belly laugh to beat all belly laughs, there’s no need for the disapproving stares as they are just being children. I’m all for instilling the proper manners in my children, but at times even I feel like I’m too hard on them. Years ago, our priest gave a sermon on just this topic and one line has stuck with me since then. It is also the title of this post. “Don’t get upset when your five-year old acts like a five-year old.”

Yes, we need to raise our children to be responsible, respectful, kind, generous, and morally conscious. I believe that we need to start these lessons at a young age, and as parents we need to consistently enforce these lessons. We also need to teach by example, but that’s another post. However, we also need to understand that our children are still children, each age a necessary developmental stage building on another developmental stage.

1. We shouldn’t be surprised when they aren’t organized at the age of five…am I at the age of forty-two?

2. We shouldn’t be surprised when they interrupt a conversation…we’re all guilty of it every now and then.

3. We shouldn’t be surprised when they get a bit loud in a restaurant or church or the library…if granny can speak that loud why not them?

4. We shouldn’t be surprised when they forget their homework, or that permission slip for us to sign…it’s not as bad as the day “the tooth fairy” forgot their only job.

5. We shouldn’t be surprised when they cry uncontrollably and can’t explain why…don’t we all need a little more love some days?

Have you ever been in a situation where you were judged based on your child’s behavior? How did you handle it?

Dear Mom, Can You Tell Me How You’ve Done It?

 Today’s Daily Prompt invites us to write a letter to mom.

I am sharing my guest post on Black Box Warnings.

A mother figure comes in many shapes and forms. Today, I celebrate all the women in my life who helped me become the mother I  am today. 

I encourage you to do the same!

Dear Mom,

I can imagine the feeling of sheer joy you felt the day he was born. I can imagine the peace that blanketed you while your arms blanketed him. I can imagine the look in your eyes as you looked into his, and thanked the Lord for another healthy child. I can imagine how proud you felt to present Dad with his first son. After having two girls, I can imagine a boy was a welcome addition. I can imagine the dreams you had for him. I can imagine all the visions of “firsts” that went through your mind as you held him for the first time.

I can imagine all of this because I too am a mother now. I too have held my children and dreamed of what their future would hold. I too have envisioned each “first” in their life and the happiness each may bring to mine. What I can’t imagine is how you have coped with all the “firsts” you never envisioned in his life.

How did you survive the first time he had to visit a psychiatrist? How did you deal with a complete stranger telling you there was something wrong with your son after having only known him for one hour, when you had known him for years? He didn’t know his favorite homemade meal. He didn’t know his passion for music. He didn’t know his compassion for others. He didn’t know these things and so many more, yet in one hour he determined there was something so wrong with your son that medication and therapy were ordered. How did you hold back the tears when you realized you were being told years of after school conversations around the kitchen table over milk and cookies were a thing of the past? What your son needed now were hour-long sessions with a stranger who promised to reach him, when his own mother couldn’t.

How did you manage to get through the phone call letting you know your son had been hospitalized because he was confused and couldn’t even tell the day of the week? Did it take you back to the days when you would circle important dates on the calendar for him to look forward to? Or, did it take you even further back to the times you repeatedly sang the days of the week song to him, so he would be ahead of the game when he entered Kindergarten?

How did you hold it together when you stood by his hospital bed time and again, and looked into his eyes much like you did in another hospital long ago? Could you still see your baby boy in those eyes even if he couldn’t see you? How did you make your words reach him when he was trapped in a world incapable of speech? Where have you found the courage mom? Where have you found the strength to pick him up each time he has fallen when his pain now is so much deeper than a scraped knee?

How have you listened to the many different labels placed on your son throughout the years? How have you helped him to accept those same labels as a positive step on a path to mental health, when the only labels you’ve ever had for him are my son, my baby boy, my world? What have you done with all those dreams you had for him? Have you given up on them in your heart of hearts or have you altered them? Have those dreams now simply become ones where he is as happy and healthy as he was when he entered this world? How have you continued to live each day, mom, when you must be dying inside?

As I look at my own son, I think of you mom. I can’t even begin to imagine what you have been through with your son. As his sister, I know what my experience has been, but as I look at my happy, healthy little boy I can’t even begin to imagine the depth of your pain. From one mother to another, I can say you have given me the best example of what it means to be a mother. It isn’t about teaching them their first words, but about being their voice when they can’t speak for themselves. It isn’t about cheering them on when they take their first steps, but about walking alongside them no matter what their journey entails. It isn’t about putting a band-aid on their knee when they fall, but about always being there to pick them back up. Most importantly, it is about never giving up on your child…no matter how many sleepless nights it may cost you.

Forever in awe of you,

Your grateful daughter

Lessons in Gardening

Summers at her house were filled with long hours in her garden. I learned many life lessons in that garden, lessons I carry close to my heart and revisit often. My grandmother taught me it was okay to get my hands dirty, to embrace the moist soil between my fingertips, to tilt my face up to the sun and let the warmth reach my soul. She showed me what the art of nurturing, of loving, and of communicating could do for the living as well as for those desperately needing a little life breathed back into them. From her, I learned that life is ever-changing, and some of us will be quicker to adapt to our new surroundings than others. I learned that some of us need to immediately plant our roots and settle down. Others need a little more time to grow, experiencing and outgrowing different spaces, eventually needing a bigger space to spread out and show the world how much beauty we are capable of. And, she taught me to embrace the rain when my soul is thirsty for it, letting it cleanse my soul as it showers me with forgiveness, because we all make mistakes. Thankfully the land is plentiful, forever providing room for us to plant again, to grow, and ultimately to flourish.

During my recent trip to Washington, DC, as amazed as I was with the historical sites, I was in awe of the nature all around me. With each click of the camera, I thought of my grandmother and the many lessons I learned through the art of gardening by her side.

Happy Birthday and Happy Mother’s Day to one amazing grandmother!

May your garden in heaven be as beautiful as you are!

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

Through the Door – The Power of Prayer

Life has a way of transporting us from one moment to the next in the blink of an eye. A certain smell, a song, a glimpse of a photograph can make our senses come alive and take flight like a mother bird from its nest in search of that elusive something that will feed our soul. As I walked toward the sound of frantic whispers, I knew who it was, and looking back I must admit I knew what he was desperately pleading for before I ever stepped through the door to my bedroom. I slowly crept closer to the door, holding my breath and carefully placing each foot down as though I might avoid the inevitable land mine I was sure awaited me through that half open door. In slow motion I crossed the threshold, and what I saw is forever ingrained in my heart.

My seven-year old son was on his knees next to my bed, tiny hands barely reaching the top of the mattress, clasped together in fervent prayer. He begged God to allow us to remain in our home in Texas, rather than have to board a plane the next morning and head back to Puerto Rico where his daddy’s job awaited. As I knelt down beside him, and placed my arm around him, my own tears fell. My heart broke to see my little boy hurting, but it also swelled with pride that in his moment of need he sought comfort in prayer. He didn’t seek out his father, his sister, or even myself. He got down on his knees and prayed. We may be miles away from the tiny church we fell in love with eight years ago, but my son has carried the power of prayer with him across an ocean and hopefully a lifetime.

photo credit: littlemisswordy

As I exited my bedroom, and gently closed the door behind me I entered a bedroom I haven’t stepped foot in since I was seventeen years old. The queen size bed with the faded brown comforter still held the small tear in the bottom right corner I tried to hide from my mom after my siblings and I repeatedly bounced on the bed in an attempt to touch the ceiling. If I look up I can see the water stains on that very ceiling, the same ones my dad and I would make up stories about when I would cuddle up beside him in bed. One day it was a ship at sea, another day a fire-breathing dragon, each a lesson in possibilities. Yet, the vision of my son on his knees has taken me back to the day I realized my dad wasn’t invincible. I was just a little older than my son is now, the house was quiet, and not one to miss a nap with my dad I walked toward my parents bedroom in search of him.

As I approached the door to the bedroom I could hear frantic whispers. I inched toward the door, not daring to enter, but needing to confirm what I knew in my heart. I saw my father on his knees on the side of the bed, tears streaming down his face, begging the Lord to save his older brother who was dying of cancer. I stood rooted in place though my legs wanted to run the other way, down the hall, out the front door, and back in time to a place where I still held the innocent impression that my father, my hero, was untouchable.

Through the years, I have held that vision of my father as he knelt in prayer and surrendered himself to a higher power. It taught me that none of us are invincible, that in our darkest hour we need to believe in something, that the power of prayer can give us hope no matter whether or not we get the answer we so desperately seek.

This post was written in response to the Weekly Challenge: Through the Door

History Of The World Part 2

It was the kind of day when the weather suggests you enjoy the outdoors, warm enough to ditch the heavy coats of winter and the restrictions they provide. Yet as I walked down the streets of Washington, DC, I held tight to a light sweater as I felt a cool breeze in the air. It really was one of those perfect days to sit under a tree, blanket spread with picnic regalia in all its splendor, and a good book in hand. I, however, lost all thoughts of the outdoors and the call of nature, as I stepped through the doors to the dome-shaped building which encapsulates the yesterdays and the tomorrows of our nation’s history.

photo credit: littlemisswordy

With each step I took upon the tiled floors, tiny squares of intricate designs, I couldn’t help but think of all those whose footsteps graced these halls since 1793. How many men and women eagerly entered this meeting place of the nation’s legislature, with hopes of not only leaving their footprints on these tiles but their imprint on our country? If I listened closely, I could almost hear the intellectual and political discussions, words floating up and around the painted dome with its mythological and historical impressions, secrets being whispered among the collection of American art gracing the walls.

photo credit: littlemisswordy.com

For hundreds of years life changing decisions have been made amid the half circle of desks in the Senate gallery and throughout this building, behind closed doors and in the presence of those whose job it is to record it for our history books. The circular theme of the building a constant reminder of how history repeats itself no matter how hard we try to avoid it, coming back full circle in another attempt to teach us the lessons we didn’t grasp the first time. There is a reason buildings such as this one are preserved at all costs. They hold our history and they hold our future.

I felt honored to walk the same path as these leaders who have shaped our nation, to sit in the very seats they sat in, to admire the artistic details on walls and ceilings and look out the windows at the same panoramic views their eyes have also seen, to stand in awe of the majestic statues of American Presidents stoically keeping watch on the history they once created.

photo credit: littlemisswordy

I also couldn’t help but feel small and insignificant in this magnificent rotunda, the symbol of the American people and our government. And yet, as I looked through my camera lens at my family, positioned in the exact center of this magnanimous building something else came into focus. I saw my history and my future in their smiles. I saw my husband and I in our first home shortly after being handed the keys, slow dancing in our socks in the living room to the music in our hearts. I saw my children’s peaceful looks as I rocked them back to sleep in their nurseries night after night. I saw us teaching our children to read, to ride a bike, to tie their shoes, to love, and to live. The truth is, life changing decisions occur in our homes every day. Lessons are taught and history is written. Our homes hold our history and hold our future. Each lesson we pass down to our children, each kind word we utter to our family, each impression we make upon someone else is a step in shaping their future, our future, and ultimately our nation’s future. As I headed out past the towering statues of George Washington, Susan B. Anthony, Ronald Reagan, Abraham Lincoln, Rosa Parks, and the many others who have shaped our present, I couldn’t help but be reminded that each of their stories began at home.

To The Woman In 14B…Thank You And I’m Sorry

I’m sorry I almost killed you.

It was never my intent.

Photo Credit: Peter Walton

As I sat watching passengers parading up the aisle, and worrying over who would occupy the seat between myself and the man in 14A, you stopped just short of our row and ever so politely asked me if I would mind letting you get to your seat. I practically jumped with joy out of 14C feeling like I had won the travel jackpot to rival all jackpots. You were of average weight and height, had impeccable manners, minimal perfume on, weren’t carrying a bag of Fritos, corn nuts, a tuna sandwich, or a screaming toddler to sit in your lap.

It’s not that I don’t like Fritos or Tuna though I’ve never had the two together. I do hate corn nuts, but I am a mother of two so I get the screaming toddler traveller…been there done that. It’s just while my husband sat in a different row with our two children, I planned on pulling out my brand new MacBook Air and pretending I was some important business woman traveling to a conference on the latest in smart phone technology or an experienced journalist on her way to catch the big story. What I wasn’t pretending to be was a doctor and keynote speaker at a Doctors Without Borders Conference. I had spent enough years playing doctor so to speak, though not with the boy next door so no worries mom.

Since the age of four, I walked around fashioning my plastic stethoscope around my neck. Fisher Price medical bag in hand, I told anyone and everyone that I wanted to be a doctor someday. It is all I ever spoke of, and all I ever imagined becoming when I grew up. It was my third year in college when my dad died. His death opened my eyes to the fact that I was on a path I didn’t really want to be on but stayed true to because I had never considered anything else. I had no Plan B. Kids, always have a Plan B. My dad’s death made me realize that life is too short to do something simply because it is expected of you, so I changed my career path and have never looked back.

That is until you Ma’am. When you started to complain of a headache, and asked if I had any Tylenol (I didn’t) we were still good. When you started to complain you were feeling dizzy, I was happy to ring the button for the flight attendant to bring you some water. I was even okay holding a wet cloth to your forehead when you said you were feeling faint. The problem started when you started to shake, closed your eyes, and became unresponsive.

As I stood in the aisle, amid the flurry of flight attendants and those who had answered the call for a doctor on board and ultimately in life, I knew without a doubt that my playing doctor all those years ago was just that. I suddenly had no need to pretend to be anything other than what I am today…a homeschooling mom of two, wife of one, blogger, and soon to be published author.

I am so glad you were feeling better by the time we landed. I meant you no harm, and if I could I would take back the thought that popped into my head as the plane lifted off…

“Man, do I need something exciting to happen so I have something to write about.”

From the bottom of my heart, thank you and I’m sorry.

Spotlight On The World

Words, when they come to life are an amazing thing. Whether their effect on us is through something we’ve read or by word of mouth, when words come to life they are amazing. When they linger with you for days, tumbling around in your heart and mind like the delicate cycle on your dryer, in constant motion gently nudging you to take a closer look, you must. I have had a string of words shared by a complete stranger floating and twisting around as though windblown for some time. They come close to being still and landing as though the wind died down, yet before I can grasp their full meaning, they again take flight.

photo credit: littlemisswordy

These are the words: God has given each of us a light. It is up to us to shine that light on others. If you only use your light as a spotlight, you are not using your light to its full potential. If the sun only shone on a small number of crops, all the other crops even those closest to the light would wither and die because they were not touched by the light. As uncomfortable as it may make you, as difficult as it may be, you must shine your light on others.

This week’s events have been disheartening in so many ways. I don’t often watch the news because it depresses me to see so much evil being reported. After the bombing at the Boston Marathon, I’ve been watching the news quite a bit. Just as I was about to retreat back into my bubble, having had enough of the horrific news reports, I heard about the explosions in West, Texas, a town just north of Waco where my son was born seven years ago.

Again, I become glued to the news and what do I see upon further inspection? I see those words come to life. I see spotlights in the midst of tragedy so great that not too long ago would have been something seen on a movie screen or written in a book you can’t put down…something we could imagine because to believe it could truly affect us in the real world was impossible. The longer I watch the news the more those spotlights expand, shining a light so great it reaches out and blankets all of those affected, breathing hope into those left behind to face our reality.

I wasn’t planning on writing about these tragedies, believing there was nothing I could contribute that hadn’t already been shared, believing I could not bring words to life that would offer comfort, believing there was nothing I could say to shed new light on the subject. Maybe there isn’t, but not sharing the words of this complete stranger would be the equivalent of turning my own spotlight off.

Raised in a Cuban Starbucks

photo credit: littlemisswordy

Through the years, she has slowly begun each morning with a cup of coffee to start her day. She holds the warm cup with both hands for some time, never rushing the first sip…the sip that promises a stream of memories only the actual scent in the air can rival. She closes her eyes, the cup warming her hands, and lets the memories warm her heart. Back in her childhood home, standing in the doorway of her galley kitchen, she sees her mom before the stove waiting on the familiar appliance that is iconic of a Cuban kitchen. It is the cafetera, and it does so much more than make coffee. She recalls many days when not long after the coffee started to brew, the sound of the doorbell would announce a family member or neighbor drawn by the familiar aroma. As always, they were welcomed into the kitchen for a dainty vessel of strong, black, liquid that never lasted as long as the laughs and conversation around the kitchen table. They always came. They always gathered in the kitchen. They told stories of the tiny island that seemed an insurmountable distance from them, of local parks where men played dominoes while smoking cigars, their cup of Cuban coffee never far from reach. And, they always covered a range of topics from parenting, to current events, to politics both American and Cuban of course. Some stopped in on their way to work, while others arrived after a long day. No matter when they came, no matter what troubled them, nothing seemed out of reach when discussed over some Cuban coffee.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

She was just a child, usually observing from a distance, nose in a book, only taking in the newest arrival with a quick upward glance between pages. She could brew a pot at the age of eight before she was even old enough to drink the stuff. Her parents sometimes allowed a tiny bit at the bottom of a tall mug of milk. It was those times when she felt grown up and worldly, like the very sipping of the coffee would give her the wisdom the grownups possessed. This wisdom they shared as they counseled each other through job changes, financial crises, and even marital troubles. Tiny cups atop matching saucers were witness to their hopes and their dreams, as they stirred in sugar with tiny spoons that would later come to rest just so on the edge of the saucer. She was raised to welcome a guest in their home with joy, and to offer coffee even before offering a comfy seat. A smile would play at the corner of her mouth as they entered the kitchen. They may have come for the coffee but they would leave with a sense of purpose and a warm heart.

Back in her grown up kitchen as she faces her day each morning, cup of Cuban coffee in hand, she inhales the sweet aroma and reflects on the many generations of family that through the years have started their day in similar fashion. She takes her first sip, and as the warm liquid slides down her throat she knows nothing is out of her reach.

Weekly Writing Challenge: Iconic

Do you have a family tradition that immediately takes you back to another place and time?

Get Your Head Out Of The Gutter!

All roads lead somewhere, but sometimes we keep taking the same road over and over again, head down, not really getting any where. I don’t mean your commute to work as sometimes that can’t be changed, and I don’t mean this only in the physical sense. How much are we not seeing because we are just going through the motions? Do we remain on that road out of habit, a sense of comfort, fear? What would happen if we change our direction just a bit, and tried heading down a different path? We’ll never know if we don’t try it. Whether it’s in our career, personal life, or spiritual walk, we will never know what’s in store for us if we don’t look around and take that first step down a different road. On that new road, we may find the reward to be greater than anything we could have ever imagined, or we may just confirm that the road we’ve been on is the right one for us. Either way, simply looking at things with a fresh perspective can be enlightening.

I’ve mentioned before that I’ve started running in the mornings, a huge challenge for someone who isn’t a morning person. I don’t like to talk when I run, mostly because I’m too busy trying to breathe, and I don’t really look around much. I spend my time looking down, trying to talk myself into the next mile, mentally pushing myself to make it across the bridge and back.

Most mornings, this is what I see.

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

What I’ve been missing out on seeing is this.

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

photo credit: littlemisswordy

The road I travel may have only shifted just a bit, but my perspective shifted a lot. My run hasn’t gotten any easier, I’m still trying to breathe, but the reward has definitely been enlightening!

Are you stuck on the same road, wishing for a change?

Are you being pushed in a new direction, but you’re too afraid to take that first step?

Is there a way to shift your direction a bit, change your perspective, and maybe reap the rewards?

What are you waiting for?

I Am Not Your Wife, Sister or Daughter. I Am A Person.

I Am Not Your Wife, Sister or Daughter. I Am A Person..

I’m saddened these points even need to be made, but this exceptionally written piece makes some crucial points worth sharing!