My Lovable Jerk Turns One

Today marks a special day. It was this day one year ago that our joyful bundle of Jilly came rushing impatiently into our lives.

I’ve been trying to write Jillian’s treasure letter for a week, but never satisfied. What do you say in a letter to a little girl who has changed your life so completely? I’m not talking about the sappy “she’s made our trio a quartet” kind of life-changing. I mean, I’m a different person now than I was a year ago and it’s because of her. OK, right…. like that sounds any less sappy. Let me explain. Her brother made me a mom, so what could this little second edition possibly have done in one short lap around the sun to be considered “life changing”? Before I get to that, let me tell you a little about her.

She’s a lovable jerk. 12:04 on her birthday morning and I sit bolt upright in bed to a scream that prickles my neck hairs. I’m awake! As I trip over a pillow and stumble out the door, around the corner, and into her room, I hear nothing. Just one screech, as usual. One is for mom. Then she waits before doing it again. She knows if she does it the second time, she gets brother, too. Did the job, didn’t it? Why waste energy? I come in to her standing in the close corner of the crib facing the now open door. Her dog in one hand, she waves with the other, and gets the biggest, sweetest smile on her face. “Hi!” she says like she’s unexpectedly bumped into an old friend in the frozen food aisle. She bounces a few times on the mattress then grunts and points at the floor. My eyes move to Big Bunny, one of her three naptime and bedtime friends. I reach down and pick it up. Without even letting me get all the way to her, she reaches out and tugs on his ear in my hand. As soon as it’s in her hand, she simultaneously pulls Big Bunny to her chest, turns, and falls, cooing, face down into a pile of fluff. As if to say “g’night, womanservant, that is all,” she turns her back on me and says “bye-bye” in that deceptively sweet little voice. See you in an hour, birthday brat.

She has her own ideas. On her very first birthday, she bounced into this world by disobeying the nurses’ orders to stay put until the doctor arrived. Just yesterday, she pointed and grunted for her brother to get her that thing just over there that mom said she couldn’t have. We’ve learned her cries, her babble, her grunts, and her facial expressions. Jillian Scarlett knows what she wants and she’s very good at conveying her message. Since day 1, Jillian has known what it is that she wants and hasn’t been afraid to make her voice heard to get it.

She was born to stand out. Without being able to speak to us, she lets us know that although she’s second, she’s nobody’s copy. Before she was born, everyone tried to warn me that Wifflette #2 would be different. I ignored them. Seriously. It’s a baby. How different can they possibly be from one another? Ha! I unknowingly goaded God with that question, so He gave me a polar opposite to her easy-going, sweet older brother. Zachary slept through the night at about 3 months old. Jillian has slept through the night maybe three times in her life, and those were on accident. She’s always made up for it by nap protests, too. Zachary was a healthy eater. He’d ask quietly when his tummy gurgled and then sit, patiently, with his mouth open like a baby bird. Jillian doesn’t ask, she demands. She squawks. She bangs her hand on the tray. Sometimes she even lets me know before she wants more. I’ve come to learn that “Muah!!” means “Look mom, there are only 5 Cheerios left. That’s just enough time for you to get more out here so I don’t have a break in the line, here. What are you waiting for? Chop, chop! 4…”

With a little encouragement, she’ll shine. She’s showing her precocious brother up when it comes to developmental milestones. Rolling over. Crawling. Solid foods. First word. He set the bar for her to jump over it and look back smiling. Oh, add first smile to that list, too. She’s smart and she’s cute. She’s motivated, driven, curious about everything. She loves herself without hesitation. She loves everyone else fiercely. She does everything all the way. Kisses? All over your face. With her tongue. Stories? As long as it’s not just one! Food? All of it. If you don’t stop her, she eats until she throws up. Stuffed animals? If one’s good, two’s better. Not the little one. The big one. With long floppy ears that I trip over. Yeah, that one. Challenge accepted. Life? Let’s go! And, she loves when you clap for her. A simple “Go, Jillybean!” puts a smile on her face and pushes her to try her hardest.

So, back to the life changing part. Jillian is the face to an amorphous idea I’d never understood until I met her and got to know her. There’s a big surprise, Wiff needs to make a concrete connection. It’s not just her. It’s everyone. Nearly everyone I know is a more or less extreme version of Jillian.

People are lovable jerks. When I was student teaching, my cooperating teacher gave me a lesson in life that I’ll never forget. Not all the kids will be good at everything. Some kids won’t seem to be good at anything. Some are friendlier or better listeners. Some will love you; some won’t. Some come with quite a bit of baggage, but “it’s our job to love them with their warts.” This doesn’t just go for Jillian, or fifth graders. It’s true for everyone. The jerks need love, too… probably more than the sweet ones.

People have their own ideas. As a firstborn, I struggle with this one. Growing up, I was the boss; with my little sister, in friendships, with my grandparents, with what I ate. In just about every way, my life was my way. And I thought other people’s lives should be my way, too. It wasn’t until after I graduated from a private grammar school of just over 100 and found myself in a high school of over 3,000 that I realized how valuable it is to have a voice and a say in your own life. Whether it’s being a part of a family, church, at school, at work, on the field, etc, having a voice on your team is not just important for the individual. Even the smallest member can make a very valid contribution.

People are born to stand out. Just like Zachary and Jillian are different, everyone has strengths that they can employ to provide value to their team. If everyone thought the same and brought the same skills to the table, it would be a very incomplete and lopsided team. What you have that makes you stand out helps everyone stand stronger together.

With a little encouragement, people shine. As a leader in my family, I need to be the cheerleader, the encourager, and the nurturer of my two shining stars. As a team member on all my other teams, I am becoming more mindful of this as well.  Being different isn’t bad. Shining is important. Your unique ideas are needed. Strengths should be celebrated and encouraged. You did that hard thing? Awesome! Good for you! You’re a rock star! You’re helping make this team better!

Self-confidence, security, and trust are necessities before those lovable jerks will start to voice their ideas, stick their heads up and risk their neck to stand out, or start to shine. What better way to start building that foundation than with a positive and encouraging safety zone? Having Jillian has made me a more tolerant lover, a more flexible leader, a more respectful observer, and a more intentional encourager. She’s got me constantly questioning what I can do to be a better version of my former self. Happy Birthday, Jillian. I can’t wait to see what you I learn in year two.

Playground Leadership

What makes a leader? Is leadership synonymous with bossiness? Does every group have a leader? Can you always spot the leader in a group? I’ve been pondering these questions in a unique way today; as I pushed my daughter on the swing for nearly an hour and watched the interactions of families and kids around me. It’s so much easier to see when I draw connections to my new life outside the cubicle.

I’m standing here watching a group of four boys playing on the playground; two brothers who appear to be about 7 and 8, a smaller boy of 2 or 3, and my son who just turned 4. Although they’ve been together for less than an hour, the group’s leader is obvious. In this case, the leader isn’t the fastest, the tallest, or the oldest boy. It’s the 4-year-old. I find myself pondering him in relation to the other group members. He’s different than the other three in some very obvious ways. He’s more charismatic. He’s intentionally inclusive of the shy, standoffish toddler; but not bossy or pushy. He’s inquisitive, interested, and eager to encourage the unique abilities of the group athlete. He’s also consistently the one to try something first. The others watch and then decide it looks fun. He’s leading by example and his nature inspires the others to follow. A leader doesn’t have a type. Natural leaders don’t conform to one certain look or criteria. For example, it isn’t always the eldest male of the group or the person who’s been there longest. And if that’s the dominant thought in the world, at least no one’s told these four that yet.

If I can’t spot a leader by size, age, or physical appearance, maybe I can by position. From my vantage point, I can see a well-traveled bike path. My eyes perked up when a little girl of maybe 7 came around the corner on a lime green bike with helmet to match. She was riding hard and flying down the slight hill, but she slowed as she approached the Y in the path. One path led to the park and circled back around the school. The other led on into the subdivision and beyond. The girl came to a complete stop, put her feet down, and turned to face an older girl who had now come into view. She hadn’t traveled this way before and appeared to be awaiting instructions. In the coming moments, a third girl came into view, followed by a small boy on a bicycle with training wheels, and finally dad with an infant in the seat behind him. When he got within earshot, the small girl in front said something I couldn’t hear to her dad. She pointed in turn down each path. I saw her dad shrug and raise his hands slightly. Then I watched with a smile as his next hand gesture very definitely said “you choose the path.” With only a slight hesitation, she jumped on the bike and turned to the right. Most would say this is was the “wrong choice” because it is the path that doubles back around the building and will put them right back here in a few minutes. Every member of the family followed her. As they passed close by the swings, I waved and said good morning. Dad looked at me as if he knew they were the subjects of my research study and said “Mornin’! Beautiful day for a detour.” He knew this path but let little green go that way anyway! Not two minutes later, the team comes speeding around the same corner again. This time, she didn’t slow at the fork in the path. She didn’t look behind her. She’d been here before and knew which way she should go. She flew past the turn and took the left path. As she road on past the bushes and into the maze of houses beyond, I watched her family parade past me one-by-one; the oldest sister, another big sister, the little brother, then dad with baby sister. All happily following where little green led them. The group leader, in this case, wasn’t as obvious as with the boys on the slide. Leaders don’t always lead from the front. It ‘s dad. He wasn’t in front and he wasn’t taking charge, but he was very clearly a great leader of his pack. He could have gone first and led his little ducklings on their adventure. But, one thing I know about good leaders is that they breed other leaders. Dad has probably seen some great potential in little green. She’s third in line in a family of 5, but she isn’t blending in. By not only letting her be in front but also lead the group and make decisions that impact the family, he turned what could have been a typical family bike ride into some valuable lessons for her. He didn’t tell her which way to go. They discussed it and she chose. He knew the path looped, but he also knew it was a beautiful day, and a small price to pay for the greater reward of watching his little leader-in-training exercise her fledgling skills.

The longer I’m out of the 9-to-5 routine, the more I’m able to make connections that help me develop my own fledgling leadership thinking. It’s no coincidence that my son leads by example and I learn from them. The more great leaders I study in history, interact with in real life, and imagine while pushing a squealing swing lover, the more I see the art to it all. Leadership, after all, is not about commands and control; it’s about compassion and cultivation.

Mom Tips: The Workout I get from my Why Master

For me, motherhood seems to be this endless inner-battle between two dueling desires. The first one wants my child to be loving, caring, and obedient to authority figures (OK, really at least me would be nice). She fights against the second me. The one who wants to raise a strong and independent thinker who will be successful in life and not easily taken advantage of. How do I reconcile the dichotomy?

More mornings than I can count have looked eerily similar to this one. We’re getting ready to go somewhere, and my four-year-old dawdles, resists, and questions my every request.

“Zachary, put your trains away.” I say for the third time down the stairs to him as I shovel another mouthful of mango mush into his sister’s mouth.

“Why?” He utters; his go-to response to everything.

“Because it’s time to get ready to go to grandma’s.”

“Why?”

“She’s having dinner for us for your birthday.” Using the word birthday in this sentence, to him, must have sounded something like “because blah blah blah blah blah blah blah birthday [CAKE!!]” because I can hear him begin to throw his toys in the bucket at speeds that would rival anything the US Air Force has been training their fighter pilots to withstand.

A few minutes later, he’s shuffling up the stairs twisting the sleeve of the pajama shirt he just took off into a rope. Yes, it’s 2pm and he’s still in his pajamas. So was I until half an hour ago. This is a judgment-free zone. Now he’s bare chested, and only has one sock on. A feeble attempt at the request I’d just made to “Go get dressed.” I repeat it again.

Before he turns to walk upstairs, he asks “Why?”

“Because you can’t go to grandma’s house in your pajamas.”

“Why?”

“Zachary, you slept in them and they are smelly.” He laughs, brings his shirt to his face, feigns disgust, laughs again, and bounces up the stairs. I can only hope he’s getting dressed.  Oh, the dresser drawer just slammed. I assume that means we’re making progress. A few minutes pass and I go in to check on him. We’re down to yesterday’s underwear and there are pajamas mostly in the direction of the hamper. He’s wrangling his greatest nemesis, the sock. Better than I expected. “Good job, kiddo. Keep going.” I walk past his room and in to change the baby’s diaper. Great. No more diapers. “Zachary? Can you come in here and reach mom the new box of diapers?”

“Why?”

“Because I am changing Jillian and I don’t want her to fall.” He bounces in and hands me the new diaper box. As I struggle to open it one-handed, I glance over at the miniature version of my husband standing in the closet doorway. I think to myself “he got those shorts on awfully quick…” so I ask him “did you change your underwear?”

“I took the old ones off….” as he reaches around the corner, grabs the new pair, then puts a foot in the leg hole.

“What are you doing? Underwear go on first.” I’ve played this game long enough to know what question is coming next, so I preempt him with “That’s why they’re called UNDERwear. That way you don’t get skid marks on your pair of shorts.” He furrows his eyebrows at me, but takes off his shorts. You know that ominous silent pause in movies right before the flaky chick screams? That’s what I’m feeling. That. Was. Too. Easy.

“Momma?”

Crap. I knew it. “What, kiddo?”

“Why’s it called a pair of shorts when there’s just one shorts?”

“Well because….” Hmm. Yeah, this’ll be good. Because why? Give it up. He got you. You have no freaking clue. Pair of shoes. Two. Pair of socks. Two. Pair of animals on the ark. Two by two by two. Maybe there was a “pair” of unicorns and that’s why there aren’t anymore. Wiff…. focus! What other single things come in pairs? There’s a pair of scissors. That’s one object, too. Why? Seriously, why haven’t you thought of this before now? He’s 4. You’re 28. You’re telling me that for 28 years, you’ve just ACCEPTED the fact that a pair of pants isn’t called “a pant”? Maybe it’s because there are two legs? No. Shirts have two arms and you definitely put on a shirt, not a pair of shirts. Maybe…. but I don’t have time for the next maybe. The hourglass has run out of sand and I must answer.

“Momma? Because why?”

Here it comes. My least favorite response to his question. “I don’t know, kiddo.”

All day, every day. This is my life. It makes me nuts. At the same time, one of the traits I admire most is that he doesn’t just accept things at face value. Since about two-and-a-half, Zachary’s favorite word has been “why?” (and why’s fraternal twin brother “why not?”). He challenges beliefs that I’ve long held but have no logical basis for holding. This is not the kid who will ever buy anything he doesn’t need from a silver-tongued salesman.

When I tell him to go put shoes on and he comes back with my pink flip flops on his feet, I tell him I meant his shoes. He inevitably asks why. When my question of “What do you want to dip your chicken nuggets in?” is met with an unanticipated answer of frosting, I tell him no. He follows up and asks “why not?” I don’t have a reason, it’s just weird. Maybe my reason is I don’t want to watch you dip chicken nuggets in frosting. Gross. Maybe I don’t want you bouncing off the walls. Yeah, that’s it. You don’t need any more sugar.

I often find myself growling in frustration “Why can’t you just do what I ask without asking questions?” Instead of becoming frustrated, I have to remember to refocus on what I know is the ever-growing mind of my future medical research scientist, Supreme Court Justice, or clinical psychologist. If I squash the why, I squash the thought process that brought on the question with it. He thrives on the big picture. When given a piece of information, he likes to know where it fits in the greater puzzle. This global thinker mentality is a generally desirable trait in the real world. So, I need to fight the urge to beat it out of him. I need to remind myself to tolerate the Why Master rather than change him. And, I need to find a way to change what I say to give him what he needs before he asks (because it’s the question, after all, that makes me crazy.. not the kid). So far, this is what I’ve got:

Choices. It’s a simple concept, really. If I rephrase the way I speak, it shuts down his ability to ask why instantly. If he needs clarification, we go from there. Open-ended questions are brain killers for mom when time’s a-wastin’.

Instead of “What do you want for lunch?” use “Do you want leftover casserole or chicken nuggets for lunch?”

Replace “What do you want to dip them in?” with “Do you want ketchup, honey, or ranch dressing on your nuggets?”

Specificity. Even simple instructions do well with specific options. “Go put shoes on.” leaves room for any kind of shoe. That little lawyer-in-training will find and exploit any loophole I leave him. I can’t be upset if he comes back with my pink flip flops on his feet. However, if I say “Go get your socks and gym shoes on. Or, are you wearing sandals today?” it gives him a zone of creativity where I’m not just barking orders at him but he can’t go too crazy.

Connection. The more information he gets on the front end, the less he needs after the fact. Moreover, the better I can relate it to something in his life, the more connections he can make. The other day, we went to a new park that was driving distance away. When we got there, I noticed a kid in a wheelchair at the edge of the wood chips who was sitting and watching a girl (presumably his younger sister) play on the playground. Instead of ignoring him and hoping Zachary didn’t notice/ask, I asked first. “Zachary, how would you feel if you came to the park but couldn’t play on the equipment?” He told me it would not be fun. We talked for quite some time and by the time we got out of the car, he had come up with a game plan. He brought the tennis ball out with him and asked the boy his name and if he’d like to play catch. “Micah and sure!” They did. Well, sort of. They played more of a game of fetch than catch, with neither of the two boys being very good at the whole hand-eye-other-person’s-hand coordination thing. I anticipated and avoided what could have been an awkward situation of staring and pointing at a strange unknown by connecting it to something Zachary understands well.

Do you have a Why Master in your house? What are some coping skills you’ve learned for challenging the one in your life?

Zachary Zingers: Synonyms

“Mom, Can I have a dime?” – Zachary while sitting at the dinner table, sipping lemonade, waiting for the food to arrive.

“What do you need a dime for?” I asked, wondering what he could possibly be up to now.

He’s come up with some crazy stuff, but I could not have possibly prepared myself for the response that followed: “for my drink.” I gave him a quizzical look so he clarified that “momma, dime is another word for straw… you know? Like how GiGi calls a couch a sofa? Or a potty is a toilet, too?”

So, I was with him on the synonym lesson, but I was totally stumped how he made the connection that a dime was another word for straw. I pulled a dime out of my purse and showed it to him. “This is a dime.”

He looked at me like I was trying to trick him. “No. That’s a little quarter. THIS….” he stressed tapping a finger on the straw in my glass “…is a dime.”

Clearly, I’m not going to win here. “Who told you that a dime is another word for straw?” He shrugged “Well, then, how do you know it?”

“From a song. You know? [sings] I love rock and roll. Put another dime in the juice box, baby!” Then he sighed. At this point in time, he was done with me. He took the straw out of my drink, got this big, smug smile on his face, put it in his own drink, and started slurping away.

Thumbs Up!

Do you ever wonder how many of life’s connections are just waiting to be made? Two seemingly unrelated life events holding hands on the subway platform of your memory and jumping up and down screaming “We’re more alike than you may think…. just open your eyes to see us”?

Enter life event number 2 (It’s critical for this math major to realize that there are times when importance supersedes chronology, but I digress…) The date is August 1st. We are hosting a bridal shower and Zachary took one of the ladies I used to work with up to his bedroom to show her the new paint (and his hopefully still clean room). In his excitement, he slammed the door on his thumb. Hard. The next few hours were filled with blood, tears, ER doctors, X-rays, stitches, more tears, and one giant thumbs up made of gauze and tape. We were to see a hand surgeon first thing Monday to make sure everything was “fine”. While it was most certainly not fine, the surgeon reassured us that it was going to be okay. And, better yet, that it would not require surgery… just time to heal! He scheduled a follow-up appointment for a week later, today. Our send-off instructions were to keep it covered, keep it dry, and try not to use it as a hammer.

Today at the doctor, we struggled. Zachary had quite a bit of dried blood stuck in the bandage, so unwrapping it was painful. The hydrogen peroxide they used to clean it bubbled and the wound itself was scary looking (to Zachary and to me). It was red, angry, raw, and unprotected by the thumbnail that usually guards that precious skin. What the doctor said after cleaning it and removing the stitches had nothing to do with Zachary’s thumb. He looked at me and said in a careful, thoughtful tone “It is important to protect a fresh wound at first. That way it doesn’t get infected or more severely injured and can begin the healing process. After a period of time, though, it’s equally important to bring it out into the air so it can continue to heal. Even with modern medicine, open air is the best thing we know. If you keep it covered up for too long, it’ll start to do more harm than good.” Here’s where the connection came hurtling straight at my face. We weren’t just talking about finger wounds. And Zachary. We were talking about the open wounds I’ve been hiding.

It’s been 5 weeks since my last day at work. I’m still harboring a lot of guilt for leaving. It’s difficult for me to think or talk about, but maybe it’s time:

It’s time to stop denying my hurt feelings for the lack of support I was getting from my supervisor. It’s time to stop repressing the shame I feel for leaving my team. It’s time to stop mourning the loss of what could have been with a colleague who was on the same page with me more than anyone I’ve ever known. It’s time I let myself cry. And feel. Maybe it’s time to shift my eyes from what’s behind me and move them on to what’s to come. Maybe it’s also time that I said this: You know that hard thing that you never thought you could do? Well, you did it! You stood up for yourself, you quit, and you survived.Way to go! High five…. no wait…. thumbs up!

~Wiff Love

Joyful Jilly: Mirror, Mirror

My daughter has just spent the past 40 minutes sitting on the kitchen floor in front of the stove. What’s she doing? Kissing her reflection, squealing with glee, and clapping to herself. She’s not picking out blemishes. She’s not complaining about her thin hair, eyes a color she doesn’t like, a too big nose, etc. She LOVES the baby in the mirror. Why can’t we all be that happy with our reflections?

Zachary Zingers: Airplane Stickers

12/16/2014 – Zachary was playing in the bedroom while I changed into comfy clothes after work. He noticed the stretch marks on my belly and asked if I wanted him to kiss my “boo boos”. I told him they weren’t really boo boos, and that they didn’t hurt. Then he told me why they were there; “That’s from when Jillian was growing in your belly and wanted to get out. She scratched you from the inside with her nails.” Oh, kiddo, in an odd way, you couldn’t be more right!

12/11/2014 – My little thesaurus asked me if we could have macaroni and cheese for dinner (my favorite!) I said “sure!”

So he looks at me and says “sure? Does that mean yes?” I told him it did and he proceeded to tell me “ok, yes. Like definitely. Yup! Absowutely. And maybe.”

“Maybe doesn’t always mean yes.”

“right, like maybe means yes when you and Nani say it. But maybe means no when daddy says it.”

12/10/2014 – “Mom, what do you think a trash can would say if it could talk?” “I don’t know buddy, what would it say?” “Hmm…. Give me your poopy diapers and your banana peels, I’m HUNGRY!”

12/4/2014 – Today as I was washing clothes, I noticed that Zachary had put Disney stickers all over several pairs of his underpants. When I questioned him about it, he said that he wanted to put stickers on his underpants because I put them on mine. I denied it and asked him to explain. So, he took me up to the bathroom, pulled out the bag of maxi pads and said “These mom! You put these airplane stickers in your underpants!”

Brave: When It’s Time to Go All In

Bravery. In this case, the courage to be my unfiltered authentic self. Everything I know and feel is telling me to bear my soul in a young friendship, but I’m scared. I’m not lying or being fake, I just find myself holding back from being wholly me. 5,000 what-ifs are running through my head and a huge fear of rejection aches in my stomach. I need to shelter my heart. I’ve been hurt. I don’t want to be hurt again. Or at least control the damage, anyway. Right?

Clearly, sleep is not an option. So, I turn on my “everything” Spotify station and am incriminated and paralyzed by the first song that plays. It’s “Brave” by Sara Bareilles.

It’s like she’s singing to me. I both love and hate when you’re listening to a song and the lyrics just speak to that sensitive nerve that connects your brain to your heart.

Innocence, your history of silence
Wont do you any good
Did you think it would?
Let your words be anything but empty
Why dont you tell them the truth?

Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave

I had my answer and the courage I needed to take a leap. Now my what-ifs are a little more positive. What if this is the kind of friendship you think it will be? The Alex kind. The Steve kind. The Katie kind. Those friends who get in, hold on, and force you to think about life in a whole new way. The ones who make you better, stronger, happier. You know that’s what this is. So, what are you afraid of? How can I say that I strive for love above all else if I refuse to open myself up to it? It’s time to go all in.

Wiff Love