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.

Plinko, anyone?

Growing up, days off of school consisted of a few constants - a list of chores left by my mom, ramen noodle soup for lunch and a daily date at 11 a.m. with Bob Barker and The Price Is Right.

Though the show never seemed to get past the 1970s look, it captivated me. The lights, the excitement, the cool prizes and fun games. Everyone wanted to be picked. And if your name was called - you likely did The Price Is Right tango.  You looked around to get confirmation they actually said your name while simultaneously hitting your chest and stomping your feet. When enough people shook their head at you and pushed you up out of your seat, you'd stand up, stomp your feet some more and raise your arms in the air, busting out your best jazz hands. You'd shimmy your way past the other schmucks who congratulated you and hated you at the same time. When you got to the open aisle, you paused. This was your moment. Then, hands up on either side, you ran down the aisle, high-fiving the aisle-seat schmucks before making it to bidders row where the tango finale included hugging and jumping with the other lucky players who had been called before you.

It was gloriously entertaining.

On par with The Price Is Right Tango? Ryan's victory dance last night while shooting a kickball into an empty milk crate. On his first attempt, with Nate and I on opposite sides of the basement floor, he sunk the ball right into the crate. We looked at each other in amazement and gave Ryan an overdose of praise. I think he was as shocked as we were that he made it in. Add to that, both parents yelling, clapping and begging for high fives and you've given this three-year-old a glimpse of what it must be like to hear, "Ryan Bachman - Come on down! You're the next contestant on The Price Is Right."

He ate it up.

After that, each time he sunk the ball into the crate, it was like Bob Barker himself was in our basement taking auditions for the best rendition of The Price is Right tango. There was screaming, jazz hands, running, high fives and tears.

Tears?

Well, when Nate pointed out how much Ryan looked like a contestant from The Price Is Right, we couldn't help but replay the scene over and over until we were laughing so hard we were crying. All the while, Ryan was as happy as a middle-aged woman in spandex shorts and a fanny pack who just found out she had a chance to win "a new car!!!!!!"

The scene went on for about 15 minutes. And though I felt a little guilty for getting such joy out of my kid acting like a complete fool, that may be the closest he gets to feeling what it's like to be on The Price of Right. You're welcome, Ryan.

Please remember - help control the pet population. Have your pet spayed or neutered.

A Mile in My Shoes

A few years ago, when I was less-than-thrilled with my job, I decided I would create a reality TV show that would be my ticket out of here. I researched the right way to create and package a pilot, registered my idea with the Writer's Guild and sent out my concept paper to several different markets.

Guess what? It wasn't picked up. Shocking, right?

But I still contend the concept was good. The show would be titled, "A Mile In My Shoes" and would allow people who admit to having formed candid, perhaps even controversial, opinions of complete strangers an opportunity to experience that strangers life. They'd live in their house, interact with their friends, family and co-workers and perhaps even get a glimpse of what it feels like to be judged as that person. It's a social experiment on perception versus reality. Are they the same or are they vastly different?

Though it didn't make me millions, the concept of walking in another person's shoes is one I struggle with often - even in my role as mom.

Our morning started off wonderfully. Both kids woke up in good, silly moods. Lindsey decided today was the day she would pee in the potty for the first time ever (she was completely unphased by our excitement), the kids got dressed without incident, asked to dance to music and ate their breakfasts nicely.

As I puttered around getting ready to leave, I saw Lindsey take off her shoes and socks (it drives me B A N A N A S when she does that in the morning - and she thinks it's hilarious). But instead of taking them off for pure amusement, homegirl decided she was going to slip into my heels.

They suit her well - and she totally shuffled through the house without so much as a stumble.

Yep. This morning was wonderful.

Until Ryan wanted in on the action and fighting ensued, which lead to a fall, which lead to a bump on the head, more crying and screaming and more fighting over ice packs, which lead to clingy babies and "mommy" being stuck on repeat. All while I still had to make breakfast, pack a lunch, tidy up the kitchen, pour my coffee and get out the door. Oh - and part of the earlier, blissful morning included Nate and I sleeping in a little later than usual, which meant I was already vastly behind schedule.

So I lost it. I yelled - loudly - and almost started crying in shear frustration. The kids were stunned into silence. We eventually made it to daycare in one piece. I dropped them off, kissed their foreheads and waved goodbye before having a breakdown in the car.

They're kids. Kids cry and fight and whine and get clingy sometimes. They beg for attention, even when you're staring straight at them.

And maybe, just maybe, they have intuition. Maybe that whole act of putting on my shoes this morning, strutting through the house, was Lindsey's way of foreshadowing the chaos that was about to unfold. Maybe she was telling me, "Get ready, mom. Things are going to get ugly. But we're kids. We do silly, unexplainable things and have irrational reactions. Walk a mile in my shoes. Remember what it was like to be young, silly and irrational. And don't stress - this too shall pass."

My concept didn't make millions and I still forget, on occassion, to see things from another's perspective. But luckily I have two kids who will spend the next several decades reminding me to walk a mile in their shoes, to judge less, think more, react slower.

Earth Angels

We had an exciting, full weekend. And in case we didn't have enough going on to make the weekend feel chaotic, Mother Nature decided to make it the hottest weekend on record. Ever.

First up was a beautiful wedding - Ryan's second, Lindsey's first. Nate's cousin, Mylea, was getting married and Nate thought it would "be cute" to take the kids along, to dress them up, take pictures and let them start practicing their mother/son, father/daughter dances for when it's their turn to say, "I Do."

But nothing is cute when it's 110 degrees outside. You may think I'm exaggerating (something I'm known to do), but I'm not. It was literally 110 degrees outside. And humid. And it was a full Catholic Mass ceremony in a large, ornate church that was so grand, the act of blinking was enough to cause an echo.

Not exactly the best place for two rambunctious toddlers.

I watched most of the ceremony from behind the vestibule doors, taking a moment here and there to shush them (only to have Lindsey shush me back...).

Eventually, we retreated to the car and cranked the AC up to full blast. We all needed to cool down - figuratively and literally.

At the reception bikini martinis (for us) and cranberry coolers (for the kids) helped bring our internal temperatures down even further. We had great seats next to the bride and groom - and more importantly for Ryan, the cake. We had been talking up Mylea's wedding for a couple weeks and, depending on his mood, he was either really excited or completely annoyed at the idea of going to a wedding. Until I told him about the reception - and how wedding receptions have something even yummier than birthday cake - wedding cake. Mylea's didn't disappoint. It was amazing. 

After wedding introductions and the first dance, Mylea and her dad danced a beautiful father/daughter dance, while Nate and Lindsey practiced on the sidelines. The song they danced to, Earth Angel, got me all teary. I'm a sucker for oldies music - and for touching moments between a parent and their child. It was one of those moments that gives you perspective. For all the silly, stupid moments where you lose patience, overreact and yell, like an idiot, at your kids, there are these tender moments, where you can stop, twirl them around the dance floor and make them feel like the most important, most beautiful thing ever born. Even on the hottest day of the year - at that moment - I got goosebumps.

Shortly thereafter, the goosebumps disappeared. Not just because the moment had passed, but because the power went out. And slowly, the reception hall turned into a really big, dark sauna. Fortunately, candlelight is romantic. Unfortunately, it doesn't provide enough light to prevent Ryan from running face-first into a wall. Nothing like a bloody nose and screams of pain to bring a parent back to reality!

Despite the heat, the loss of power and Ryan's blood donation, we had a blast. More importantly - Ryan and Lindsey got to experience how magical love can be.

The other highlight of the weekend? A trip up to Beltzville and a ride on the boat. Lindsey's lifejacket fit her much better this time than it did last time. And though she had a minor meltdown by the time we started heading back to shore (did I mention how hot it was that weekend?!?), while we were in the still waters of the far back coves of the lake, her and Ryan were in heaven. Earth angels, indeed.

Happy Birthday America!

Much to the dismay of grandparents, we decided to stay close to home for the Fourth of July this year. We wanted to relax, take the kids to a local parade, see local fireworks and just have a long weekend that didn't require suitcases and long treks north.

Though there was a minor glitch that forced us to miss local fireworks, sort of, (more on that in a moment), the weekend was everything we were hoping for - lots of relaxing, lots of family time, great weather, a fun parade filled with candy-throwing pirates and hand-shaking politicians, no suitcases and minimal driving.

My favorite part? The adorable, patriotic outfits we scored for the occasion.

The kids were fantastic at the parade. We got great seats in the shade (it was SO hot that day) and made sure to bring snacks and drinks to occupy them while we waited for the parade to start. Lindsey, as always, was more than pleased to pose for the camera.

Ryan was excited to see and hear all the fire engines and eventually made his way to the curb to wave, yell Happy Birthday America and hobknob it with Senator Carper.

Their "ah ha moment" - figuring out that some of the parade people threw candy at them. As soon as Lindsey picked up on that fact, she joined her brother by the curb and turned on the charm.

So after sitting in the hot sun and and treking back and forth to the car with chairs, food, cups and kids, we decided to run home and regroup before heading out for the nighttime fireworks display. We were in and out in about 15 minutes - enough time to change Lindsey's diaper, let Bailey out, re-fill water cups and grab some more treats and toys to occupy our time before the fireworks started. With kids piled into the car, I looked in my purse for keys. They weren't there. Nor were they in the car. I asked Nate if he had them - nope.

As the words "Rye, do you know where my keys are?" came out of my mouth, I realized I already knew the answer. He confirmed it: they're inside - behind the TV. I saw him take them out of the door when we walked in and I saw him place them next to the TV by the front door. But I was so busy trying to make it a quick pit stop that it didn't even occur to me to grab them again before we left. The closest spare key? On Rt. 100, with Uncle Mike, about 40 minutes out. Great.

Luckily, we have a cell phone, the fabulous invention of delivery pizza and our awesome neighbor Kim. We let the kids play on her swingset while we vented to her about our dilemma and waited for our pizza to arrive.

And who was just as annoyed as we were? Bailey, who didn't understand why we locked him in the house while we were all outside.

So we never made it to the local fireworks show. But there were plenty to see in our neighborhood. And considering how wiped out we were from the days adventures - being able to watch fireworks on our front steps, in our PJs, was probably the better plan anyway.