I Might Want a Mini-Van

“All the world is a stage and the men and women merely players”

Several of my high-school students sat around as we brainstormed ways to move large pieces of lumber and I decided who to take with me on a venue visit.

“I used to think people who wanted mini-vans were old,” I told my students. “Now I want one.”

One girl, curly-haired and lively looked at me with a, “If you want a mini-van, then you are old expression.”

I paused. Thinking about arguments as to why I was still a cool, young teacher: a bigger car would allow me to take them all venue viewing; I might want to pick people up from the airport; and a road trip to California must happen. But regardless of the litany of thoughts processing through my mind, it was true. I’d arrived into my thirties, about twice the age and life experience of my students.

It’s no wonder they think I’m old.

My little girl is two—and every day more opinions, thoughts, and desires pour in a semi-articulate stream from her tiny mouth. She jumps over cracks in the sidewalk, tucks her dolls or stuffed animals into bed, and daily tries to enforce her will on her big people—mama not papa should buckle her into the car, she’s “got it” when it comes to getting a fresh diaper to change into. And oh! The look of pride, when she points out a letter of the alphabet (mostly incorrect), dances around the living room, or tries to do push-ups. We are the audience of her little stage.

Her and I stand in two very different life places.

Not as often now, my husband and I will look at each other and ask, “Are we really grown-up? Do we really have a kid?”

Yes, somewhere, we crossed some indefinite line that placed us in the next act. But it is not a lesser scene, because it is a later scene. The sparkle of a clean kitchen and the flowers arranged on the table can be as wonderful as Felicity discovering she can lay on her tummy in the bathtub and “go on ehvutures” with mama or papa.

I wouldn’t trade it. The scene I play in now is precious.

So yes, I do want a mini-van. After all, it’s a truth universally acknowledged that two car-seats in my sweet Nissan Sentra, along with groceries or diaper bags is a squeeze of the non-romantic variety.

*She carried this basket on her own and was happy to pose on her stage.

Comments

Two Little Girls and a Bench

It was one of those moments before dinner in which I could have easily moved into the busy rush of dinner, clean-up, and bed-time, when I was stopped in my tracks. Isabelle, with her round face, and bright eyes, and fifteen month strength, clamored onto a bench and made it apparent to me that she wanted to jump from its one foot height with the help of my hand. I obliged and a game began, a game that was immediately joined by Emmaline, her three-year old sister, who does everything with full abandon. Soon, I found myself holding two little hands as two little girls jumped off a bench in unison. What joy this moment held for them. Again. Repeat. They would have jumped as long as I allowed. Each little face starlit with the joy of leaving the earth for one brief moment in the company of one’s sister and one’s mommy. Tonight I read in Chesterton’s Orthodoxy that, “Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want t...

Slaying Giants

Days like this begin when the night before I choose not to sleep, because I must read a few more lines from some news site or scroll one last time through the glowing screen of my iPhone instead of making good on my resolve to read quality literature and journal prior to bed. They continue when I wake up earlier than usual to teach, but finish teaching to realize that my children also went to bed later then they should. So now, everyone’s patience operates like feet hitting a wet spot on a wood floor. Bam. You loose traction. And first one then another is upset and done. That tantrum sparked another melt-down from someone else, and as I try to not join the melt-downs, and instead attempt to be the adult I hazard some words of explanation. “Your choices impact us all.” I tell one of them. My children’s choice do change the tenor of the room for good or for ill, but so do my choices. On days of this sort, where nothing is really wrong, other than a strong case of the grumpies...

A Leaf

A couple of weeks ago, I read “The Leaf by Niggle” aloud to five-year old Felicity. Since I was teaching on the story a few days later, I counted my inspiration to read-aloud as a double win towards homeschooling and teaching prep. Didn’t know that my five-year-old, would once again teach me. Tolkien’s short story follows the life of a Niggle, a painter, who envisions a glorious tree, but only manages to paint leaves, a paltry homage to his vision. About half-way through the story Niggle is sent on a journey, presumably death. After some time in a dismal hospital and workhouse, a train takes him to a familiar green space. As he wanders, wonderingly, he discovers it. The tree. His tree. Felicity turned to me as I read and she said with the joy of discovery in her voice, “Mommy! Did God make his tree real?” “Yes, Felicity. Yes, that is it. That is exactly it.” Tolkien and Lewis both thought that fairy-tales and myths, those bear...

MuellerMommyAdventures

Search This Blog