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(Bil Keane)
Better alarmed than harmed,
Better fearful than tearful,
Better warned than mourned!
(The Houston Police Department)
Love is scaring away monsters at 1:00 a.m., then again at 2:00 a.m., 3:00 a.m...
Love is putting peanut butter on anything as long as they'll eat it!
Love is knowing how to disguise vegetables 30 different ways.
Love is reading the same bedtime story for the 999th time.
Love is a hug around the knees.
Love is watching Mr. Rogers instead of All My Children.
Love is cutting off the crusts.
Love is a refrigerator covered with creative works of art.
Love is standing in line for 2 hours for Raffi tickets.
Love is not grimacing through the dirtiest of diapers.
Love is trading in the Camero for a station wagon.
Love is the magic kiss that heals all "owies."
Love is a cuddly kid in a blanket sleeper.
Love is the first kick, first smile, first laugh, first step, first anything.
Love is your child pointing to a picture of Christie Brinkley and saying
"mama."
Love is your child sound asleep, any child sound asleep.
Love is a macaroni necklace.
Love is wearing the macaroni necklace to church with pride.
Love is a peanut butter kiss, a syrup kiss, a chocolate kiss, any kind of kiss.
Love is when Bert & Ernie replace Redford & Selleck as your
most admired men.
Love is not worrying about those few extra pounds cuz they make you more
cuddly.
Love is knowing how to get out amoxicillin stains.
Love is a bouquet of dandelions.
Love is the smell of a baby's neck.
Love is saying "no" at the right times when it's easier to say
"yes."
Love is saying "yes" at the right times when it's easier to say
"no."
Oops, I hear someone calling. I'm off to chase monsters out from under the
crib!
By the way, LOVE IS WHAT MAKES IT ALL WORTHWHILE!
Poem on Raising Children(Diane Lootmans) If I had my child to raise all over again, |
Our Children(Theresa Perkins) Have you ever felt a little hand |
There is no higher calling in life than the
task of bearing and raising the children
whom God has trusted to our care.
We are given a few brief years to love
and guide them and instill the
values in which we believe.
Then suddenly, the children are grown
and have families of their own.
What endures for mothers and
fathers after that moment of release
is a precious museum of memories
to be enjoyed for the rest of their lives.
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I see children as kites. You spend a lifetime |
Finally they are airborne, but they need more |
When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw you hang my first painting
on the refrigerator,
and I wanted to paint another one.
When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw you feed a stray cat,
and I thought it was good to be kind to animals.
When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw you make my favorite cake for me,
and I knew that little things are special things.
When you thought I wasn't looking, I heard you say a prayer,
and I believed there is a God I could always talk to.
When you thought I wasn't looking, I felt you kiss me good night,
and I felt loved.
When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw tears come from your eyes,
and I learned that sometimes things hurt, but it's all right
to cry.
When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw that you cared
and I wanted to be everything that I could be.
When you thought I wasn't looking, I looked...
and wanted to say thanks for all the things I saw when you
thought I wasn't looking.
I Wish I Could(Collin Raye 1998 Looking out my window Smile, say cheese pretty - please |
I wish I could save these moments When you kiss me for no reason And when I watch you sleeping |
(Burton Hillis)
Tousle-haired Jimmy Hillyard,
the six-year-old from down the block, is learning to ride his first bicycle.
From our front-porch vantage point, Chris and I held our breath as we watched
Jimmy's first shaky attempts at riding without training wheels.
Jimmy's dad would help steady the bike, give a gentle shove, and off the boy
would lurch.
Of course, the bike traveled only a few wobbly feet on the first tries,
propelled more by momentum from the takeoff than by Jimmy's struggles at
pedaling and steering.
After each abortive attempt - with Jimmy sprawled on the curbing and the bike
all askew - the lad would pick himself up, and with his father's steady
encouragement, try again.
I think I counted a dozen spills, but there were no tears and no giving up
until - at last - Jimmy made it from one end of the block to the other.
The look on the faces of Jimmy and his dad were priceless. Chris and I would
have applauded from our grandstand seats, but I'm sure father and son needed no
applause at that point.
It seems to me that bicycle-riding episode capsulizes the whole undertaking of
raising a child. You hold and give support as long as you think it's necessary,
then grit your teeth and give a shove. After the inevitable false starts and
bruises, your offspring it - with luck - ready to travel alone.
(Erma Bombeck)
There isn't a parent alive who hasn't been struck down in their prime by a
condition called "Terminal Dumb."
It's usually diagnosed by their teenagers, who kindly refer to it as
"premature senility."
For some of us, it was a cruel blow. One day my mother was a bright,
intelligent, worthwhile human being with something to contribute to society.
That woman could do anything and I believed her. She could make the traffic
light turn green by blowing it, cure my scraped knee by kissing it, and knew
every answer to every question you could imagine.
Then one morning she woke up and she didn't know anything.
There wasn't an ounce of logic to anything she said. ("Wear boots. It's
raining.) She became repetitious. ("Close the door.")
She couldn't remember things anymore. One day when she didn't remember that my
sister got to lick the pan on her 14th birthday and got a watch and
I only got a boughten cake and a dresser set, I lost all respect for her. I was
amazed she could feed herself.
Luckily, after I married, my mother pulled out of it. It was like a miracle.
She got hold of herself and was once again able to carry on a conversation
without being corrected, make a move without criticism and really began to
understand and appreciate me.
I hadn't thought much about the disease until the other night at dinner when I
said: "Do you know what I'm thinking of?"
"Don't end a sentence with a preposition, mother, and sit up straight.
You're slouching. Your spine will grow that way."
"You are always criticizing me," I said. "You're making me
psychotic."
"You misuse that word all the time," said my son. "Why don't you
look it up?"
"I wish all of you would get off my case and stop prosecuting me."
"It's persecuting, p-e-r-s-e-c-u-t..."
I have a feeling that my mind has slipped out of my prime-time spot
temporarily. I don't know how long before my miraculous recovery takes place,
but hopefully it will be soon...for their safety.
When do parents stop worrying about their children?
No question has been asked more or answered less.
Is there a magic cutoff period when offspring become accountable for their actions? Is there a wonderful moment when parents can become detached spectators in the lives of their children and shrug, "It's their life," and feel nothing?
When I was in my 20s, I stood in a hospital corridor waiting
for doctors to put a few stitches in my son's head and I asked,
"When do you stop worrying?" and a nurse with authority said,
"When they get out of the accident prone stage."
My mother just smiled faintly and said nothing.
When I was in my 30s, I sat on a little chair in a classroom
and heard how one of my children talked incessantly, disrupted the class and
was headed for a career making license plates. As if to read my mind, a teacher
said, "Don't worry. They all go through this stage and then you can
sit back and enjoy them."
My mother listened and said nothing.
When I was in my 40s, I spent a lifetime waiting for the phone to ring, the cars to come home, the front door to open. A friend said, "They're trying to find themselves. In a few years you can stop worrying. They'll be adults."
By the time I was 50, I was sick and tired of being
vulnerable. I still was worrying over my children, but there was a new wrinkle.
There was nothing I could do about it. Yet I continued to anguish in their
failures, be tormented by their frustrations and absorbed in their
disappointments. My friends said when my kids got married I could stop worrying
and lead my own life.
I wanted to believe that, but I was haunted by my
mother's wan smile and her occasional, "You look pale. Are you all
right?" "Call me the minute you get home." "Are you
depressed about something."
Can it be that parents are sentenced to a lifetime of worry? Is concern for one another handed down like a torch to blaze the trail of human frailties and the fears of the unknown? Is concern a curse? Or is it a virtue that elevates us to the highest form of life?
One of my children became quite irritable recently when he
said, "Where were you? I've been calling for three days and no one
answered. I was worried."
I smiled a wan smile. The torch had been passed.
There's a proverb that is often misunderstood and misapplied..."Train up a
child is the way that he should go, and when he is old he will not depart
from it." Many people have assumed it to mean that we are supposed to try
to somehow force our children to become what WE want them to be, like
pressing them into a mold and popping out a product.
I am told that the true meaning of the phrase, from its original
translation ("according to his bent", like the natural growth needs of a tree that
grows up), is that we need to teach each child according to his/her natural
abilities/inclinations/needs...we are to study the individual carefully to
determine personal strengths, weaknesses, and needs, and to do all we can
to provide them with the teaching and the loving encouragement that they need
to thrive and to reach their highest potential. Train him according to the
way that HE (the individual) is designed to go! Too many of us are trying to
make an apple tree out of an oak. We are trying to make the acorns into apples,
with no success. (from Beth)
...but parenthood also changes with each baby.
Here, some of the ways having a second and third child differs from having your first:
1st baby: You begin wearing maternity clothes as soon as your OB/GYN
confirms your pregnancy.
2nd baby: You wear your regular clothes for as long as possible.
3rd baby: Your maternity clothes ARE your regular clothes.
1st baby: You pore over baby-name books and practice pronouncing and writing
combinations of all your favorites.
2nd baby: Someone has to name his or her kid after your great-aunt Mavis,
right? It might as well be you.
3rd baby: You open a name book, close your eyes, and see where your finger
points.
1st baby: You practice your breathing religiously.
2nd baby: You don't bother practicing because you remember that last time,
breathing didn't do a thing.
3rd baby: You ask for an epidural in your 8th month.
1st baby: You pre-wash your newborn's clothes, color-coordinate them, and
fold them neatly in the baby's little bureau.
2nd baby: You check to make sure that the clothes are clean and discard only
the ones with the darkest stains.
3rd baby: Boys can wear pink, can't they?
1st baby: At the first sign of distress--a whimper, a frown--you pick up
the baby.
2nd baby: You pick the baby up when her wails threaten to wake your firstborn.
3rd baby: You teach your 3-year-old how to rewind the mechanical swing.
1st baby: You take your infant to Baby Gymnastics, Baby Swing, and Baby Story
Hour.
2nd baby: You take your infant to Baby Gymnastics.
3rd baby: You take your infant to the supermarket and the dry cleaner.
1st baby: The first time you leave your baby with a sitter, you call home 5
times.
2nd baby: Just before you walk out the door, you remember to leave a number
where you can be reached.
3rd baby: You leave instructions for the sitter to call only if she sees blood.
1st baby: You spend a good bit of every day just gazing at the baby.
2nd baby: You spend a bit of every day watching to be sure your older child
isn't squeezing, poking, or hitting the baby.
3rd baby: You spend a little bit of every day hiding from the children.