just laughter, smiles, and fun

Last night we took both boys to see The Fresh Beat Band. My big five year old is a seasoned concert goer - not only has he seen the Michael Stanley Band after an Indian's game he has also seen Elmo, live in concert. And then there was that year we followed the Wiggles...

This was the first tiny toddler's concert. He doesn't like anything loud and sometimes he freaks out when around large groups, but he loves music and dancing, so it could have gone either way. He marched right into the crowded theater and climbed up into his red velvet seat as though he had done it a thousand times. When the concert started he climbed up into my lap so he could see the stage. He clapped when everyone else clapped and at one point he raised his right hand up in the air, palm out, for the entire song. My tiny toddler was testifying! He LOVED it! He bounced up and down on my lap and sang his "la la's" to the music. He didn't make it all way through the concert; my sweet husband had to take him to the back of the theater where they could stand with all the other dad's and squirmy kids, but at least he didn't cry and cause a scene... And as a side note, at least he wasn't the one in our row smelling like the diaper genie. I thought it was him, but after dragging the tiny toddler down two flights of stairs to the restroom and putting him through a terrifying diaper change on a marble ledge because there was no changing table I realized the smell was, in fact, not my baby.

As I sat there watching the concert with a child on either side of me I found myself tearing up, again. I remember sitting in a very similar theater with a small Chinese boy on my lap. He hugged his Elmo doll and clapped when Elmo and Big Bird appeared on the stage. He laughed and pointed and bounced up and down while I cried. My sweet husband cried a little too. We had waited so long, we had gone through so much to get to that moment, right there, giving the amazing gift of Elmo to this young boy that we loved so much. I am sure it is a normal adoptive parent desire to give our newly adopted children only experiences that are fun, to do whatever it takes to see our kids smile, to overcome whatever sadness their young lives had seen. (It ends, somewhat. Nearly four years home with my big five year old and I am, usually, OK with doing things here and there that make him a little sad, like limiting his screen time or not allowing him to eat ice cream and candy for breakfast.) So last night I saw my youngest son light up when the band took the stage. I looked over at my sweet husband and I was laughing through my tears. Which is pretty normal for me. For most moms, I guess. Laughing through tears...

The other thing I realized last night is how very different my two boys are. The tiny toddler is still trying to figure life out and so he spends much of his time imitating his big brother. Because of this they often seem like little mirror images of each other. But I am really starting to see a little man emerge from within the baby my preschooler used to be. He is becoming a very serious young man with a dry sense of humor. At home he acts like a clown, bouncing around and making funny faces to get his little brother to laugh. At school he loves to play basketball and soccer with his friends and he often causes trouble for the teacher with his constant chattering. (something I was often in trouble for in school myself.) At the grocery store he dances down every aisle, totally oblivious to the other shoppers watching him. But put him in a large group, like a concert, and his protection mode takes over. (again, just like mommy. I will go to great lengths to not look stupid in public.) He sat in his chair last night, hands folded in his lap, enjoying the show but not really participating. By the last few songs, when Daddy had taken his little brother off for a walk and it was just the two of us watching the show he did start to dance, just a little. I miss the no worries kid he was, the one who would have danced in the aisles no matter who was watching, but I respect the kid he is growing into. And bonus, I am really enjoying his developing sense of humor. He loves to park at the very top of parking garages and was campaigning heavily to do just that last night. We were late for the concert and traffic had been horrible and I had to pee and while the boys had eaten I had not, so it was kind of like the perfect storm. Plus I was driving a big to me SUV in a small to me parking garage, which all explains how I got to the point where I told everyone in the car to BE QUIET. I then began a conversation with my sweet husband as to where I should park, since so many of the spots in this garage are reserved and I never know if you are allowed to park in the reserved spots after hours or not. But my husband didn't answer me so I said, "WHERE SHOULD I PARK???". And a small voice whispered from the back seat, "at the top, mommy." Tension broken. No more worries over traffic or being late, or having to pee. Just laughter and smiles and fun.

parenting after 40 is not for the weak

I became a first time mom at the age of 38. My second child joined the family when I was 41. I'll be 42 in five months, and most of the time I don't feel like a woman in her 40's. Maybe it's the sitting on the floor playing with matchbox cars keeping me young. Maybe it's the endless games of football in the backyard with my big four and a half year old. Maybe it's the constant climbing up and the down the stairs, lugging laundry from the second floor to the basement and back. Maybe it's the hourly chases of the tiny toddler to retrieve whatever he just stole - a pen, a breakable mug, his brother's stuffed dog. Which, actually, is my stuffed dog, but the four year old  fights over it like he brought it home from the war. Yes, I have many reasons to feel young. And I usually do. Until the end of the day when I collapse on the sofa and really feel my age. But it's then that I truly appreciate my age and what it has taught me about parenting.

OK, so being a first time mom in my late thirties means maybe I don't have the energy of a twenty five year old. That's fine with me, because I have the wisdom to survive this thing called parenthood.

While my husband might disagree, I don't sweat the small stuff. Occasionally I do totally freak out when every single toy is on the living room floor or every item of food in our kitchen is out on the counter instead of in the fridge. But the boys dragging grass inside on their shoes after playing in the backyard or shooting toothpaste on the bathroom mirror instead of onto the toothbrush doesn't bother me. I am old enough to have perfected my cleaning and organizing routine so the mess is usually contained and I am confident enough to still welcome a friend into my not always perfect home.

I had my years of living in the perfect home. My Pottery Barn, eclectic and fun styled home was perfect for me. We took our time painting and decorating, keeping to both our style and our budget. I remember the days before the kitchen cabinets were an art gallery and the coffee table was a parking garage. And I like the view so much better now.

I was twenty nine when I met my husband and thirty two when we got married. I knew who I was before we met, and we knew who we were as  couple before we brought a child into our life. That "stuff" that every couple goes through during the early years of marriage had already been dealt with. Our relationship is strong and had already weathered infertility, aging parents, miscarriages, money issues, job crises. Letting go of each other's hands to grab onto a child's didn't mean we took our eyes off each other. I think if we had been in our twenties we would have really struggled with the huge time suck called children.

My age guaranteed that my career was stable. While the working mother always performs a delicate ballet between the office and the babies and while a stable career certainly doesn't mean less demanding, at least I was comfortable enough with my position to be able to focus on the matter at hand; the new baby sitting on my lap being flown halfway around the world to his new home.

Of the small group of friendships I wandered out of college clinging to I was the last to start  family. I watched my friend's with their babies and toddlers. I watch them now with their teenagers. Not only are my friends a wealth of "been there, done that" information, but our relationships are the kind of strong that only comes from years of friendship. Had our boys come along earlier into these friendships I can't say they would be as strong as they are today.

As a 41 year old married woman my "community" is much larger than when I was younger. I am not parenting in a vacuum. I have my above mentioned college friends, who I rely on heavily and love so much. But the years have also collected work friends, church friends, day care friends. Each year the web of community gets a little wider and I find that I have more and more seasoned mommy professionals to help, or at least to commiserate with. Hillary Clinton was right - if you want to do it right, it takes a village to get it done.

I'm old enough to not care about looking silly. I can car dance. I know all the words to The Hairbrush Song. I can stare down the older woman in front of me in the checkout line who so obviously thinks my boys are misbehaving while simultaneously rocking the two year old on my hip, singing a dreadful  wonderfully upbeat song from The Fresh Beat Band, googling monster truck videos on my blackberry, and unloading the groceries. A younger version of me surely couldn't pull all of this off.

And I'm old enough to stand strong in the face of adoption stupidity. 'Nuff said.

I'm stronger at this age. I know what I want. I am comfortable with who I am and don't need to look for recognition or affirmation elsewhere. I've got this.

Which is a good thing, because I am making what feels like more than my fair share of mistakes. At least once a day I catch myself having a one sided conversation about behavior, consequences, nutrition...  Not to mention the adoption related questions and guilt. My near constant "is this adoption related or just growing pains?" questioning would have driven me mad at a younger, less confident age.

So I can play a mean football game against a four year old while running a play that does not involve knocking down the two year old wandering around the field. But only in my own, small backyard.

I can sit on the floor and play monster trucks or build a killer train track. But if we're going to wrestle we have to move the fun to the bed. Maybe I take a few more Tylenols than I used to. I do believe everything happens for a reason, and I was meant to have these boys in my life right now. Not ten years ago, but right now. It's all good. I've got this. And during those moments when I don't have it, it doesn't matter. I'm old. I'm just too tired to care.