Can you say, adorable?

Twice a day, five times a week, I embark on a 15 minute car ride with Ryan and Lindsey, either going to daycare in the morning or leaving from daycare in the afternoon. Those combined 30 minutes are always the most unpredictable part of my day.

Sometimes there is crying and whining. Sometimes I am bombarded with a cacophony of stories from their day. Sometimes it's blissfully, yet eerily silent. Regardless, no two,15 minute trips are the same.

There are some constants, though. Ryan always tells me to stop at the stop sign leaving our development (and berrates me if I don't). Lindsey always points out every truck, bus and tree she sees along the way and proudly grins when her words are acknowledged and praised. And it's usually a great opportunity to hear some classic one-liners from Ryan. Yesterday morning he sweetly said, "Mommy, I love Lindsey. She's my best friend." That afternoon? "Mommy, I have a headache. Tell Lindsey to stop talking." Classic.

Our conversations are mostly held via the rear view mirror, since I can't turn around and it's sometimes hard to understand what they're saying without looking at their lips.

Now that Lindsey is picking up more words every day, she's much more inclined to join the conversation. Which is great...except they compete for my attention. "Mommy" is uttered at least 200 times each trip. Lindsey even ups the anty and adds hand clapping to her efforts if I don't acknowledge her quickly enough (which doesn't work, by the way. I refuse to be summoned by a snappy 18 month old.). Despite all of this, I relish these trips. They are a great exercise in parenting. You learn to tune out the negative, refine your skills of persuasion and distraction and engage your children in fun, yet educational, games (I spy, anyone?).

This morning was another 15 minute drive in. They were fairly calm and well mannered. Lindsey pointed out her first bus of the day and was excited to hear the, "Good job, Lindsey!" in return. Ryan, in a "Best Big Brother of the Year" mood, decided he would join in and help with the encouragement. It went something like this:

Ryan: "Lindsey, can you say gas store? Can you say gaaas stooore, Lindsey?"
Lindsey: "Ga So"
Ryan: "Mommy she said gas store!!!!!"
Me: "Good job, Lindsey."
Lindsey: Eyes closed, chin out, toothy grin.
Ryan: "Can you say five, Lindsey? Can you say fiiiive?"
Lindsey: "Fi"
Ryan: "Mommy, she said FIVE!!!"
Me: "Good job, Lindsey."
Lindsey: Eyes closed, chin out, toothy grin.


It continued for most of the ride in. The whole exchange reminded me of a comment Lindsey's teacher said yesterday. Lindsey is learning to say her teacher's name and Miss Kelsey was so excited when she realized Lindsey's "Ahsey" was her way of saying Kelsey. She said, "It was really cool, but it makes me kind of sad because it means she's growing up."

Yeah...I feel that way a lot.

Love, Squared

When I was in college, I thought I would be a hot shot and join the honors program. While not all of my classes had to be "honors level," there were several classes each student needed to take in order to graduate as part of the honors college. One such class? Honors calculus.

I need to be very clear here. I. Hate. Math.

In high school, I managed to squeak by with the least amount of math classes ever. I never took physics. On my first day of Algebra the teacher gave us a 3x5 card and asked us what we'd like to have learned by the end of the semester. I wrote (like any snotty sophomore in high school would) I wanted to know what A equaled. I never did figure that one out.

My disdain for math is, essentially, why I became a communications major. It was the least likely major I knew of to have required math classes.

So when I found out I had to take an honors calculus class, I panicked. I scheduled a meeting with my advisor to very clearly explain to him that I was a smart kid, but I wasn't that smart. I would never pass an honors calculus class. Ever.

He smiled. He assured me that, not only would I pass, but I would likely get an A. He explained there were two honors tracks for the calculus course. One for math majors and one for non-math majors. I wasn't convinced. I pleaded my case some more, but it fell on deaf ears. He told me to give it a week and if I was still worried, maybe I should reconsider my place in the program. Hater.

So I reluctantly went to my first honors calculus class. Honestly, almost everyone else in my class looked as terrified as I did. I don't remember much of that first day, but I remember the professor saying, "I know many of you are concerned about how well you will do in my class. I can assure you - if you walk out of here with less than an A, I have not done my job."

Turns out? I don't think I ever solved a single equation. The class was less about the numbers and more about the process. Why did calculus exist? What did it teach us? How could we apply the equations in our every day world? Yep. It was a writing class. We wrote essay upon essay about calculus. Plugging in equations when necessary to prove our point, but never really needing to solve for an answer. My crowning glory? An eight page paper on discontinuities.

I give you this background information for two reasons. One: I was damn proud of that eight page paper. Two: it goes to the point of this post.

There are a lot of things about being a parent that you can't fully appreciate until you are, in fact, a parent. Lately, one of those things has become exponentially apparent (no pun intended). There is an amazing, overwhelming feeling you experience when you witness those you love - be it friends or family - loving your children. When Lindsey is quick to snuggle into the arms of a dear friend without hesitation, it's magic. When Ryan battles his Poppy on the floor in an epic pillow fight, it's enchanting. Even in passing, when people talk of our kids with a sense of pride and love that I thought only we, as their parents, could have, it's breathtaking. More precisely? It's love, squared.

Or, as my honors calculus professor would prefer: Love²

From a cub to a lion

Last year, Nate took Ryan to his very first Penn State game. They drove up and back (over 6 hours round trip) in one day and made it through half a game. That might sound like madness to some, but it was completely normal and natural for Nate. State College was his home for many years. And though he hates admitting he's an alumni now, he proudly talks of the many antics he got into when he was still labeled a student.

It will be many years before Ryan hears even a portion of those stories. In the meantime, though, he'll experience the magic of Beaver Stadium. Which apparently is a little overwhelming when you're two.

That was the face he made the entire time they were there. I call it - stunned silence.

Fast forward a year and things are much different. They once again made they trek up and back in one day, but this time managed to stick out for three quarters. Ryan, who not only can bust out the WE ARE PENN STATE chant as good as the next guy, also knows how to spell Penn State, knows exactly who JoePa is and was ready to get his game on without hesitation.

It was hot that day. People-passing-out-from-heat-exhaustion hot. But our little lion clapped, cheered and chanted, which made his daddy proud and the exhausting trip worth every mile.