sorry not sorry. literally.

For the past few months, my husband and I have been trying to break Ethan of the habit of apologizing for everything. "Can I have more water, mommy? I'm sorry." "Can I have some more strawberries? I'm sorry." At this point, he can finish my sentence: "Ethan, please stop --" "Apologizing for everything? I'm sorry." It has been driving me crazy and I haven't been able to understand where he picked up this habit.

Until the grocery store, last week.

"Is it possible to please have this loaf of bread sliced?" I had asked the bakery employee. "I'm so sorry," I said as I handed the loaf over the counter. "Mommy? Was that unkind of you to ask for the bread to be sliced?" Instant kick in the ass. From that moment on, I began to notice that I am apologizing for everything -- for my feelings, for my bread slicing preferences, for everything -- and my sponge of a four year old is absorbing it all. And, consequently, doing it, too.

I made a promise to myself to stop apologizing for everything and to let Ethan see that his mother has a backbone.

Of course, I had to find it first.

Today is Day 6 where I've stood up for myself when needed and haven't apologized for requesting a little more milk in my coffee or asking a store employee if they have any more size 8 shoes in the back. I have spent all four and a half years of Ethan's life trying to encourage him to be proud of himself and then wondering why he lets people take advantage of him on the playground. Mom guilt is the real deal, guys.

Sometimes confrontation makes things feel messy and so I avoid it like it was a child with a wet, barking cough at the museum (sorry -- that one is more my idea of a nightmare than the plague, so I changed the old adage). But sometimes you should also say what you're feeling if it's honest and true and needs to be said. And, you know, you don't always have to chase your feelings with an apology.

I think this is just another instance where I'm supposed to be Ethan's teacher and, yet, it is he who teaches me lessons I should have learned a long time ago.

valentine's day cards for kids by kids

Valentine's Day is my favorite holiday! Spare me the whining about Hallmark holidays and commercialization and pass the chocolate and glitter and let's get to crafting. Having kids on Valentine's Day makes it even more fun because, unlike myself growing up, Ethan actually has friends and we get to make Valentine's to hand out around town. (I have a real fear about my child asking me for store-bought, boxed V-Day cards one day so I'm milking this joint crafting thing as long as he will let me.)

This year, we snapped a quick picture:

LOVE tee by The Blue Envelope

From there, we added a little text and printed four images per page, each sized to 3x5 and printed onto cardstock. Ethan helped cut the cards out and then we got to work attaching the little chocolate hearts.

Okay, we may have eaten a few. But we had enough left to finish this project, which means it was a success all around.

Totally cute, right?! Valentine's Day Pinterest-mania, here we come.

how would you change the world? a watercolor project for kids

Lately, at four and a half, Ethan is really into asking these big, philosophical questions. Sometimes I'm not ready for them. Especially at 3 a.m. when he wanders into my room wondering about the Trojan War, or inquiring if we can work together to end homelessness. Mostly, though, I'm captivated by this age and the wonder and intellect that his little brain can conjure up at any given moment. There has been such a burst between four and four and a half and I am loving just talking to him. (Which is good, because he never actually shuts up.)

Anyway, we made this watercolor world project. As we worked (which took two days due to the time our world took to dry), Ethan had time to ponder the question: how would you change the world? Given his usual oddly mature level of insight, I was interested to hear what he had to say. His actual response, of course, had me cracking up:

Kids. They say the darndest (and truest) things.

Here's a little more detail into this fun little craft, which looks absolutely gorgeous when hanging on the wall -- especially near a window.

You'll need:
- White paper cut into a circular shape
- Construction paper
- Salt
- White glue
- Liquid watercolors
- Dropper

First things first: get your liquid watercolors ready. Blue and green, of course.

Next, trace your child's hand onto construction paper (and cut out).

Once the traced handprint is cut out, glue it onto the round, white sheet of paper. Even though the watercolors will soak through, the paper will lap it up enough to keep the handprint a lighter shade of blue and green than the rest of the world.

Using droppers is always fun, so Ethan had a blast. He just kept dropping sploshes of green and blue until the little round Earth was completely soaked through. (It needed to dry overnight.)

Once the Earth was dry, peel off the traced handprint. Using white glue, outline the handprint and then drop salt along the glue. (Ethan had fun with this. Some of the salt got elsewhere. Things are more fun when they aren't perfect, right?)

My favorite part, of course, is gluing on the world and finally getting to hear the answer to the "how would you change the world?" question. This one was a beautiful addition to our dining room wall -- and it sparkles so beautifully when the sun hits it.

don't worry, i'll catch you

2003

Today marks fourteen years that my husband and I have been together. Sometimes I truly do struggle to remember a time when he wasn't such a steady part in my every day, but I suppose that's understandable. After all, I'm not even 30 yet and so for just about half of my life, he's been a part of it. If I close my eyes and remember, I can still feel the teenage feelings that ran through my bones when I saw him walk down that hallway the first time, the first day of my sophomore year (his junior year). I can still feel the intensity and the love-at-first-sight-I-swear-it and the swooning and the seriousness that accompanies all feelings teenager. The rest of it is a blur. In a good way, I mean: all of our lives entwined and swirled up and permeating around us and stuck to our skin in a layer impossible to ever peel off.

Once upon a time, our biggest dilemma was how to survive the school year where I was a senior and he was away at college, a feeling of dread and excitement and impatience and hurt that could bleed you dry. That beautiful boy in the argyle socks and I went on to get married, have two beautiful children, one of whom we will never have the opportunity to raise, and get ourselves strapped in for the crazy-good adventure that is adoption. The road we've traveled has had many bumps and potholes and yet I've felt assured in having the best partner to travel through it all with.

We were married on May 23rd, 2009, but that day has since come to be Wylie's birthday. There doesn't feel like much to celebrate when your child is born into the world blue lipped and silent, and we would rather devote the day to her. January 17th is the day that my husband first asked me, on AOL Instant Messenger (Punxter36 to KissMeImEmo12, respectively) to be his girlfriend. It was the first day that a nervous sixteen year old boy promised a wreck of a fifteen year old girl forever. To us, that is worth celebrating. And so we do, and so we will, because that promise is still one that binds us together more than any marriage certificate ever could.

Today we did something we quite literally never do: we went on a date. We went out for lunch together, which is something we haven't done since Ethan was born. We went to The Cheesecake Factory (and spent a couple hours talking about Ethan, as parents do) and Ethan spent a couple of hours having a blast with my cousin and his wife.

On our one year anniversary, he gave me a card with a lyric from the Get Up Kids written at the bottom. As an adult, I had that lyric tattooed on my arm. And now, fourteen years down in this crazy life together, those lyrics still apply.

I wouldn't change anything...
...you're still my everything.

chapters.

After an unusually warm winter, we've had a few days of cold weather. Florida-level cold, anyway. My every thought lately has been consumed by choosing a school for Ethan in the fall (slow down, time) and getting things ready to push forward in the adoption process (hurry up, time). Life has felt like such a constant state of push and pull lately, getting ready and easing up, bursting forward and taking a step back to declutter. Ethan and I have been taking advantage of these cold mornings. They've been an excuse to slow down and think of nothing but hot cocoa with whipped cream and what we can do outside until our fingertips turn numb from the Florida-cold.

The other day we went to a local butterfly garden that we haven't visited since Ethan was about two years old. From the time he was born up until then, we frequented it often. It was a peaceful place to walk and breathe in nature and so we went frequently, although Ethan had no recollection of any of these visits. For him, it was the first time we had been and as his eyes took it all in with such wonder, I felt it in every ounce of my bones. The magic of childhood, I mean. The wonder of it all. The imagination and creativity and whimsy of it all that society tries so very hard to rob from our children. I don't think I've held on to anything as tight as I've been holding on to Ethan's childhood.

Today we're visiting the one preschool on my list for Ethan's first preschool tour. I keep bouncing back and forth between hysteria, depression, pride, excitement. "I wonder if they'll have a potty there," Ethan said this morning as he snuggled up under the covers between myself and my husband. I ensured him they would, and then I worried about the toilets far longer than I should have. Ethan reminds me so much of myself and yet, like all parents, I want better for him than that. I want more for him than that. I want him to grow with the confidence that his childhood is protected, even as it seeps away one tiny bit at a time into this vast, crazy world. "I bet they'll have fun toys, mommy. I want to pick vegetables in the garden there." His excitement is contagious. Hopefully more so than my anxiety.

I worry desperately about each chapter closing and then he reminds me, in his own special ways, that he'll be there in the next chapter, too. Suddenly, it all seems a lot less scary.