Promises, Promises

I’ve been thinking a lot about promises, and not just because I’d promised Saoirse weeks ago that we’d take her to go see Cars 2 this weekend–her first movie in an actual theater, with actual candy (she says this in a hushed whisper, as in, “I get to have [whisper] candy?!“)–only to open the paper this morning to see that it’s not actually playing anywhere around us yet. I try so, so hard not to ever promise her anything unless I can guarantee it happening, but alas, my own excitement in taking her to the big screen made me a liar. Building good character in our girls is something that concerns me more than it probably does the normal, non-caffeinated person, maybe because I’m so worried about my own. I want our daughters to grow up strong, and honest. I want them to be “followers-through:” meaning, if they say they’re going to do something, they’ll do it, and in a timely fashion–unlike their mom, who’ll receive a check for her birthday, say…

Mom, What’s the Smell?

We journeyed to the heart of Amish country Saturday to take the wee lassies aboard Thomas the Tank Engine, which had magically hopped from the Island of Sodor (I just accidentally typed “Sodom” there, and am thinking that a show based there would make for an entirely different type of programming) to a railroad somewhere in the farmlands of Pennsylvania. As is always the case  (every single time, and it is delightful) when we take SK and the Mighty on an adventure, our children were an absolute blast. They loved the “Peep! Peep!” sound Thomas is so fond of making, and the ice cream (of course) and the absolutely fantabulous can’t-be-beat surprise ride on a–wait for it–school bus. But the very best moment for this momma was her eldest daughter getting to ride a train. Because SK’s always (for two-thirds of her life, anyway) wanted to ride a train, and Thomas is just so cool and because the windows were open to let the breeze flow through the cars, bringing with it all the scents of cut hay and cow poop that fresh country air…

Be Still, My Weeping Heart

Let’s have a word about inclusion, shall we? I don’t mean in school, though I’d be happy to chat about that ’till the academic cows come home.  I mean inclusion with kids, playing. And how if one kid isn’t included–and that kid is your precious ball of 3-year-old sweetness, your momma’s heart will break into about a billion pieces and you will want to wrap your child up in arms of steel wire so that she can never, ever get hurt again. That kind of inclusion. We joined my (large, sprawling) extended family at my uncle’s house yesterday afternoon for Father’s Day (even though Father’s Day is no longer a relaxing excuse to play pool and drink beer when there’s more than one child to look after.  Sorry, David, but the kid needed lunch and Quinn’s in the stage where she clings to me like a spider monkey…). Saoirse was thrilled to bits to see her cousins again, but alas, the usual good time was not meant to be. Have you ever entered a…