Runaway train

So my husband was away again this weekend. Poor guy had to travel a total of 18 hours, by train, to attend a 3 hour meeting.

And the idiot didn’t even sleep.

But for the first time, spending 39 hours alone with the kids wasn’t so daunting. I went into it with a relaxed attitude, even though my husband’s 4:30 am wake-up/departure meant I was wide awake hours before I wanted to be.

On Saturday, I took the kids grocery shopping, and then my folks watched the girl while I took the boy to his first skating lesson. (He was great.) We played for a couple of hours, had dinner and a relatively painless bedtime.

On Sunday, I wrangled them both through their swimming lessons. This was something I’d only tried once before, with disastrous results. Hint: It ended with a completely chewed up foam turtle flutter board.

But he sat patiently through her lesson, sitting up in the elevated seating. Until he had to poop, which meant I had to leave the girl with her teacher. Which turned out to be a blessing because it was her first real transitional class (from parent to teacher) and by the time I got back she was doing so well I didn’t even have to get back in the pool.

And then she contentedly watched him during his lesson. I rewarded them with Rice Crispy squares and had a nice lunch. The boy and I watched movies while she napped and then we spent a solid 3 hours in the playroom – I cleaning and organizing, them playing nicely together.

It was a revelation. They amused each other. They were totally engaged in pretend play, acting out the roles of mommy and daddy with a Little Peoples’ doll house.

Do you have any idea what this means?

This means that in the foreseeable future, as in, not 5 years from now, they are going to be able to hang out together while I do something else. He’s going to be able to make breakfast for her and turn on the TV until we wake up.

Hell, she already dresses herself. Have I mentioned this? I get into the shower and she’s in her pajamas. I get out of the shower and she’s fully dressed – shirt, pants (or tights and a skirt – seriously), socks.

And 9 out of 10 times, she matches. And does a better job than I could have done.

In fact, the other day, I dropped her off at school and said to the teacher, “Well, we finally had a train wreck this morning,” and pointed to the girl’s outfit.

I cried the whole way to work.

I felt like such a piece of shit. Why couldn’t I have just hugged her, told her what a great job she’d done and how beautiful she looked? Who cares if she actually looked like a neon sign on fire, she’s 2. And she dresses herself.

I called her teacher from the car to apologize and when I picked her up that day I gathered her up in my arms and told her how much I loved her. How sorry I was that I’d said something not nice to her.

And you know what she did? She looked me right in the eye, tugged at her shirt and said, “I did it.”

She knew exactly what I was talking about. And it made me think of that quote I read somewhere, that sure, kids won’t remember everything you said to them, but they’ll sure as hell remember how you made them feel.

And now I realize 2 things.

1. KBlogger was 100% right. So thank you.

2. This was not at all the post I started out writing. Somewhere in the middle it completely changed direction. Turns out my brother was 100% right, too.

***

*Sorry about the lack of credit here, I honestly can’t remember where I saw it, probably Twitter.

There’s a Zhu Zhu pet in my cabbage patch

So the other night, after dinner but before cake, my son opened his birthday presents.

You can’t even imagine my shock when he opened his grandmother’s gift and screamed, “It’s a Zhu Zhu pet!” (Warning: If you click that link, turn OFF the volume on your computer first.)

I didn’t know what a Zhu Zhu pet was, how the hell did he?

“How do you know about Zhu Zhu pets?” I asked.

“I saw them talking about it on the TV.”

Damn Nickelodeon.

The kids loved them, but within 5 minutes I was ready to shoot myself in the head. Apparently, these things are all the rage but I’ve yet to meet a sane parent who owns one.

And then my daughter got to open her present from grandma, the ‘even-though-it’s-not-your-birthday’ present. And wouldn’t you know, underneath the beautiful wrapping paper, there was a roughly 27 year old Cabbage Patch Doll.

Meet Loretta Morgan

She was in pristine condition, tucked safely into her box (which, by the way, DID NOT contain a million and a half twist ties securing every single body part to the cardboard backing) sporting a price sticker from Miracle Mart, a now obsolete K-Mart-type dive.

My mother-in-law recounted the story of how she had to be escorted out of a store by security after winning a Cabbage Patch doll in a contest close to 30 years ago. Things these were that hot.

I never had one – I think I was a little too old by the time they came around to be playing with dolls. But let me tell you, my girl went absolutely ape-shit when she saw that thing. She hasn’t let go of it since.

I don’t know who I’m happier for, my mother-in-law who scored a home run with her granddaughter, my daughter who found the perfect companion (for now, at least) or that damn Cabbage Patch doll, who after 27 years finally broke free of that fucking box.

Four

When my son was born, I had no idea what to do with him. He was so tiny and covered in goop. It just didn’t sink in that he was mine.

I was in such a postpartum haze during the first 4 or 5 weeks of his life that everything from that period is just a blur. I remember sore nipples, shoving cookies in my mouth while changing clothes in the middle of the kitchen floor and passing out after each nursing, waking up shocked that I had to do it all over again.

But when the veil lifted, and I saw what I was holding in my very own hands, I was overcome with awe. Upon realizing how significantly our lives had changed, you could have bowled me over by exhaling in my general direction.

From that moment onward, every day has been like a gift with my son. He continues to amaze me with his wit, his brain and his compassion.

Just the other day, I was taking his sister out. He just assumed we were going grocery shopping, because that’s where I usually take him on the weekend. He loves to pick 2 candies from the open bin and put 2 dimes in the little box.

He walked over to me and deposited 2 coins into the palm of my hand.

“These are for my sister. She might want to pick out 2 candies.”

I just melted.

Then just today, his sister was throwing a world class tantrum in her car seat on the way home from school.

“I wish she would stop crying. Hey! Can you stop crying?”

“Is she hurting your ears, Sweetheart?”

“Yes. Is she breaking your heart, Mommy?”

All along, I’ve always tried to mentally record each moment, create an indelible impression on my memory so that I’ll forever remember each and every thing he’s done.

I’ve always been so fearful that things will move too quickly, that each stage he reaches is the cutest, or the best. But what never ceases to amaze me is that it just keeps getting better.

Surely, at some point this stops being good, I’ll think to myself. But it never does. His feet are just as cute to me at 4 years as they were at 4 months.

I’ve watched him grow from a quiet, shy and extremely sensitive baby into an outgoing, daring little boy who’s not at all afraid to stand up for himself… or his little sister.

I’ve watched him go from being an only child to an older sibling with dignity and grace. It’s a job he takes seriously. And to be witness to the friendship and devotion that is growing between them is an honour. It makes my heart sing.

And he’s so smart he blows my mind.

Daily.

And I only shed 1 tear for the times that I was impatient or even mean with him. Because that boy? That boy knows he is loved. We did right by him.

By looking into his eyes, listening to the way he speaks and watching him in his everyday actions I get a glimpse of the man he’s going to become. And it makes me swell up with a sense of something I can’t even find the words to describe.

I look at him, and I understand this whole parenting thing. I see why we do it. Why we put ourselves through the joy and the pain.

We’ve become so close, so intrinsically connected that I can sense when he wakes up in the morning, even if he hasn’t made a sound. We talk and learn, go on road trips and adventures – we get along. Really, really well.

What strikes me as ironic is that this is the relationship I thought I’d have with my daughter. But so many people have said to me, “There’s something special about the bond between mother and son.”

And I see it now. I really do.*

Raising this kid is the best thing I’ve ever done. Every day he makes me a better person. Well, almost every day. But you get the picture.

I love you, Sweetheart.

Happy birthday.

***

*This is not to say that I don’t treasure my relationship with my daughter. I do. Equally. But in a very different way.

And for my next trick…

So, after 4 months on Weight Watchers, I’ve reached my target weight. And though I’m still not where I want to be (I think I was optimistic when I set my target), I’m not blind to the fact that I just accomplished one hell of a goal.

So I’m celebrating my victory, embracing the awesomeness of it and fully enjoying the fact that I ACTUALLY finished something I started. That, on it’s own, is worth far more than the mere dropping of 16 lbs.

Understand, I never finish anything. Ask my husband. He’s got my back on this one.

And it made me think, Well, if I could do that, what else can I do?

What else have I always wanted to do?

I was transparent about the whole weight loss/diet thing from the beginning, which in a way forced me to stick to it. I did Weight Watchers online, so the weekly Facebook statuses and blog posts became my form of accountability.

And maybe that’s all I really need. Some accountability. So I thought, If it worked once, who knows? Maybe it’ll work again.

So here you go. My master list of goals for the next year:

1. Grow this blog. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled with this space, my readership and the role it plays in my life but I’ve been sitting on the domain name mommysaidwhat.com for longer than I’m comfortable admitting. Time to get off my ass and take this up a notch.
2. Read more. Get enough sleep so that I don’t repeat myself. (Thanks, Benoit)
3. Find some form of exercise that works with my life right now. And then do it.
4. Become a more patient parent.
5. De-clutter my house. I’ve even got a great lead for this one.
6. Get out of the house. At least once a month, preferably twice. Quality outings – one date night, one girls’ night.
7. Read more and learn more. Both for pleasure and professionally. Get out there, network, mingle, attend conferences, whatever. It’s crucial for me, and my job, to have a growing knowledge base.
8. Get better at my job. I know, it seems a lot like #7, but that one’s about evolving as a person. This one’s about constantly finding new challenges at work, finding ways to improve performance, quality and style.
9. Live in the present. This is the big one for me. I used to always live in the past, dwell on what was. Now I find I’m always one step ahead, thinking about (and trying to prepare for) what may come up tomorrow. Never in my life have I just slowed down, taken a deep breath and lived in the moment. For many moments on end. I’d like to try that.
10. I’m leaving this slot open. It’s my safety slot. I’m constantly changing my mind and shifting my priorities. I need to know I can always slip something into this list at a later date.

Now I’m under no delusions that I’m going to accomplish every one of these goals within the next 12 months. Hell, some of them would be pretty damn tough to measure. But I think this is a start. Just identifying my priorities is a huge step.

It’s a beginning. And I like beginnings.

It’s the endings I suck at.

Variations on a theme*

I’ve gotten a lot of feedback on Monday’s post, some of it from surprising places. I’ve had people come up to me, call me, write me – all to say that no, I’m not alone.

The fact that I made people think about something that, perhaps, they hadn’t given much thought to before made me think even more about the subject. And then, the other morning, I had the rare opportunity to step out of myself for a moment and watch myself in action.

My daughter, as usual, woke up before my son. We were having a great time, cuddling, laughing and getting dressed. I was even getting peppered with kisses.

But when her brother woke up, her mood changed instantly. I realized for the first time that she might think that in order to get attention in her brother’s presence, it has to be negative attention.

Now, I’m not sure if I’m on to something here or not, but I do know that as soon as he woke up, she went from being ‘playful’ to ‘mischievous’ in a heartbeat.

She started taking his toys away and doing anything she knew would upset him. I never understood this behaviour before because she adores him.

Except the only person she adores more is me.

And when she and her brother have to compete for my attention, she’s figured out that the only way to get it is to make me angry. Negative attention is better than none at all.

And if this is true, I gotta say it blows my mind. She is always the center of attention, mainly because my son doesn’t demand to be. Oh, he wants to heard and watched and played with, but he doesn’t have that need to constantly be in the limelight.

Introvert vs. extrovert.

So what’s my reaction? I threaten.

“If you don’t stop taking your brother’s toys, you’re going to get a time out.”

Her reaction? She hits me. Into the corner she goes.

But then later, over breakfast, she and her brother were sitting side by side at their picnic table. All of a sudden, she bursts into tears.

“What’s wrong?’ I asked, kneeling down to look her in the eyes.

“Ee urt u.” (Translation: He hurt you. Which actually means, he hurt me.)

“Where?”

She pulled at her lip while the tears streamed down her face.

“What happened?” I asked my son.

“Nothing.”

I looked at my daughter. She was genuinely crying.

“Something happened. What. Was. It.”

The boy bent his elbow and pointed at it.

“You elbowed her?”

He almost exploded into tears.

“She was trying to pull the place mat away.”

I sat down next to him on the floor. I took his face in my hands.

“You can’t do that. You can never hurt your sister. Never hit, push, shove or elbow. It’s not your job to decide when she’s being good or bad. That’s up to Mommy and Daddy. Your job is to love her and play with her.”

Silence.

“Do you understand?”

He nodded slowly, tears came, he and his sister hugged and it was done.

But I was left to wonder.

They both committed the same crime – physical violence – yet my reactions were completely different. One was reasoned with, one was punished.

Why?

***

*Hat tip to Kristen Chase, who used the term in a recent post. It just seemed so appropriate here.

The Perfect Storm

So on Saturday night, the kids were in bed, sleeping, finally, and I decided it was time to get through the mountain of laundry that had accumulated in my bedroom.

At about 11:45 pm, I threw the last of 5 loads into the washer. 22 minutes later, the machine died.

“Oh. My. G-d.”

“What is it?” my husband called from the other room.

“The washing machine is broken. The washing machine is broken. This is the worst possible thing that could happen.”

“WAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!”

Shit.

As I stayed behind to wring out soaking wet clothes before tempting fate and throwing them in the dryer, I heard my husband over the monitor.

“OH. MY. G-D.”

I ran upstairs to see what happened. I walked into my daughter’s room, and there she was, sitting up in her crib surrounded by bucketfuls of blueberry vomit.

She threw up 3 times that night. I only have 2 sets of sheets.

Guess where she ended up?

So technically, a perfect storm requires 3 elements to coincide, right? The machine, the puking baby and my period. Yup.

Not that this was an issue laundry-wise. They make products these days. But whereas my normal, everyday, patient self (ha!) would have been able to cope with this situation, I, somehow, could not.

By the next night, the puking had stopped but we knew there was no way she’d be going to daycare on Monday. She’d had a fever, she still hadn’t eaten a stitch of food (aside from the noodles at lunch, which she promptly threw up all over my lap) and she was so lethargic.

So I stayed home with her. And she was miserable. She couldn’t make up her mind about anything, wasn’t satisfied with anything. I kept asking her if she was okay, if her stomach hurt, but she kept shaking her head, “No!”

I should have realized that she was probably just terrified that I was going to shove another foreign object up her bum. You see, the night before she ran 102 degree fever and refused to take any Tylenol.

A mother’s got to do what a mother’s got to do.

So I shouldn’t have been surprised when moments later, her eyes fluttered as if in rapture, she threw back her head and a sound such as you’ve never heard emanated from her pants.

And, of course, no washing machine.

Anyways, it turns out one of the girl’s itty bitty socks was clogging the drain and we’d been using too much soap. (Side note: The recommended amounts of soap indicated on the HE detergents? Way too much.)

And it only took us until Tuesday morning to find out. From the repairman. Who costs $85.00/15 min.

Ah, Karma’s a bitch.

Maybe it’s just me

On Saturday, we took the kids up to The Mountain to go figure skating and sledding. For the 5 of you reading this who aren’t native Montrealers, The Mountain is literally a huge mountain in the middle of our city.

It’s a really big park with lots of different areas for hiking, paddle-boating, skating, barbequing and just chilling out. There’s even a large playground for the kids.

Old people go there to sit on benches, kids go there to run, skate and play and teenagers go there to smoke a lot of pot. And play drums.

Don’t ask.

One of my son’s friend’s mother mentioned to me that she was going to take her son skating there and asked if we wanted to come. I happen to mention it to another mother and before you know it, we’re all there with our kids.

My daughter REFUSED to put on skates and screamed when I tried to fit her with a helmet, but my son – having loved his first experience – was eager to get out on the ice.

It was great to see him having such a good time with his friends. When they were done, and we all had a bite to eat (don’t you just love those park cafeteria lunches that end up costing the same as dinner at a 3 star restaurant?), we headed out to the mountain on the Mountain so the boy and his ‘girl’ friend could take their crazy carpets down.

My husband and son were walking about 20 feet ahead, while I walked with his friend and her mother while pulling my daughter behind me in her wooden sled.

“I want to pull her,” my son’s friend said.

“She’s very, very heavy. Why don’t you sit with her instead?” I said.

She seemed to acquiesce, so I picked her up and placed her behind my daughter. My daughter did not like that. Not one bit.

“I’ll pull her,” the friend insisted.

I surrendered the rope and watched patiently as she tried to pull my daughter along. My son was now about 30 feet ahead. At least.

But her mother, far wiser than I, said, “It’s my turn now.”

She took the rope and kept walking. Feeling guilty that she was pulling my daughter, I said, “My turn.”

That little girl, smart as a whip, waited exactly the amount of time that elapsed between her mother’s and my turn and said, “My turn!”

I knelt down and said, “Look, my daughter is heavy and it’s too hard for you to pull her alone. I’m happy to let you help me, but you can’t take her alone.”

“I want to pull her. It’s my turn.”

And instantly, my patience was gone.

“Sweetheart, you can either pull with me, or not at all.”

“Look!” her mother interjected. “Your friend is all the way up there. Why don’t you run and catch up to him?”

And she did.

I looked at her mother and said, “How is it that my first reaction is to get mean, and you’re calmly able to suggest just the thing that would distract her?”

“The key is just to give them options. A choice.”

And she was right. I mean, of course she was right. But why wasn’t that my first thought? Sure, technically I gave her a choice, it just was a sucky choice.

Let’s be real. It was a threat.

I’m sure I used to be the kind of mother that didn’t jump straight to anger and frustration. I just can’t remember when it changed. When I changed.

Granted, both sets of parents who were there that day only had one child a piece, which kind of explains why they don’t look nearly as tired as I do.

I wonder if that’s what it is – that when you have more than one child your ability to reason, think clearly and respond patiently simply vanishes.

Or maybe it’s just me.

Whatever the case, I think it’s probably something I should address.

I am the root of all evil

So we figured out what’s causing all of my daughter’s sleeping problems.

Me.

No joke. We’ve done some casual testing and it turns out that I really am the problem.

I was in Toronto last weekend, and she slept beautifully. Went down without a fuss and never woke during the night. She’d sleep as late as 7:30 in the morning.

The night I came home there were hours of tears at bedtime and over half a dozen wake-up calls throughout the night.

On Wednesday night, she slept at my parents. She went down at 7:45 pm and slept until 7:45 am. She woke up once during the night but was easily soothed.

Thursday night, hours of tears. The frequency of the nighttime wake-ups is yet to be determined.

And you know what? It’s really driving me psycho. Like off-the-wall kind of psycho. I get so angry when she starts up at night, especially knowing that I’m the cause of it.

And I don’t know why. I’ve certainly never given her any indication that crying at bedtime will get her anywhere except locked behind a shut door.

I take partial blame for the wake-ups, as I used to bring her into bed with me at 6 am and I guess she was just trying to make 6 am roll around earlier and earlier.

But at night? I’m innocent. And it drives me even madder knowing this when she starts to wail.

What really pisses me off is that when it’s my turn to put her brother to sleep, I’m so frustrated from listening to her cry that I’m often short with him. I try to contain it, to calm myself down, but it’s useless.

She knows how to push my buttons.

So what do I do? I’m seriously considering talking to the doctor next week when I take her in for her 2 year check-up. Maybe she, or we, can see some kind of baby shrink to get to the bottom of all this.

Do 2-year-olds even go to shrinks? I could just see her, lying on the couch, going-

“I want… I want a snack!”

I’ve heard that there’s some sort of mother-child bonding therapy that’s done through play, but I don’t know. The sessions take place at a mental hospital. What does that say about the whole thing?

But I recognize the anger. And I recognize that it’s not a good thing. The challenge now becomes how to ward it off. How to find a way through this and find a solution that works for us.

Because right now? I don’t think either of us are very happy.

Oh Meme, Oh My

A reader just tagged me with a meme that requires me to honestly reveal 10 things. About myself. So in no particular order, here goes:

1. The older I get, the more selfish I get. I feel like I’ve reverted back to the Id stage of infancy. At one time, I was a very thoughtful and considerate person but as time’s gone on… I dunno.

2. I wasn’t as nice a person as I think I was.

3. Lately I’ve been reading every book written by a blogger that I can get my hands on. I’ve got dreams, people. I want to see what they’re doing right.

4. I want to see what they’re doing wrong.

5. I love getting drunk. I don’t do it nearly as often as I should. But maybe that’s what makes it so great.

6. I was NOT prepared for the commitment required to raise kids. It’s like it’s some sort of evil society norm that mothers don’t share their battle stories with not-yet-mothers. THIS HAS TO STOP. We need to be prepared.

7. I always keep snacks in the car to give to beggars at traffic lights. I can’t seem to give them cash, but I figure this way, at least I could make sure they have a snack.

7a. When I used to eat at Schwartz’s, I always used to have them brown bag my remaining rye bread (they serve it by the half-loaf with a smoked meat platter). I always gave it to the same guy who was standing right outside the door, panhandling. Imagine my surprise when years later I started my current job and discovered it was Ryan Larkin.

8. I often get sidetracked. In fact, I also like to milk a story or joke for all it’s worth. I think that’s an attention-getting device, but I’m not sure what’s behind the whole ‘easily distracted’ thing.

9. I hurt my son’s feelings tonight and I feel like a piece of shit about it. I was frustrated with his sister long after their bedtime, and when he called me in about his flashlight, I did not use a very nice tone of voice. He called me back up 1/2 hour later, crying, telling me I’d hurt his feelings. I apologized profusely and we talked about it. Surprisingly, it turned out to be a good parenting moment.

10. I hate asking other people to do things for me. I don’t know why. There are a myriad possible reasons. But whatever the case, even though the meme requires me to award 7 other bloggers* with this same task, I just can’t do it.

Thanks, Jeena. I hope I did you justice.

***

*Funny that the WordPress spell check doesn’t recognize ‘bloggers’ as a word. Or ‘WordPress’ for that matter.

Skating away

While we were in Toronto visiting my sister, my nephew, who’s a whopping 20 years old (yikes!), volunteered to take my son skating.

While this offer was very sweet, I had my doubts from the beginning. The boy had never been skating before and everything in our history together led me to believe that we’d get to the rink, rent the skates and he’d change his mind.

You see, whereas my daughter takes after my husband with her take-no-prisoners attitude, her lust for adventure and her super-freakish strength, my son is all mine.

He’s not fond of being uncomfortable, gets cranky when he’s cold and tired and is very good at starting things but kinda lacks in the whole follow-through department.

Given all that, I was surprised when he got excited about the whole thing. So we made a plan to go on Sunday morning.

On Saturday, we took him to look at the rink and he was game to get his skates and get cracking. When I told him we weren’t actually skating that day, I could have kicked myself, thinking I should have struck while the iron was hot.

But Sunday morning, immediately after waking up, he asked about skating.

“As soon as your cousin wakes up, we’ll go.”

When we got to the rink, he was so excited he couldn’t keep still. I rented him some skates and we sat down on a bench to tie them up. I honestly thought he’d throw in the towel as soon as he realized he couldn’t walk.

“Are you going to skate, too, Mommy?”

“Uh, no.”

“I knew that. I was just joking.”

My sister held his hand and tried to guide him towards the ice. My nephew got behind him and supported him from behind. The poor kid couldn’t even take a step forward without his feet sliding out from underneath him.

They went about ten paces, with the boy’s feet and legs betraying him every step of the way. After about 5 minutes, both my son and nephew needed a break. My poor nephew, hunched over supporting 35 lbs of dead weight.

A few minutes later, they got up and gave it another try. It was a little better, but not much. Time for another rest.

Okay, I thought. That’s it – he’s done.

My only dilemma was whether I turn in the skates or try to persuade him to give it another shot.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s try again.”

And imagine my surprise when he stood up and walked to the ice. On his own. As in, unaided.

They got back on the ice and this time, my nephew held his two hands while skating backwards, urging his cousin to try to find his balance, his legs.

I couldn’t believe the smile on my boy’s face. In case you’re not a parent, or you just haven’t figured this out yet, there’s NOTHING in the world like watching your kid have a good time.

But on top of that, I was watching my 3 year old son, with his 20 year old cousin, learning to skate for the first time. Understand that this is my son’s only cousin and it’s only the third time they’ve seen each other. Once last year, and once more before that – when the boy was only 6 months old.

I thought my heart would burst.

I was so moved by the whole scene and my joy was marred only by the bittersweet thought that this was it. This was THE cousin. This was THE moment.

The tears, my friends, they came fast and furious. To such a degree that I actually got off my ass and rented myself some skates.

I should probably mention that I haven’t laced up in over 15 years. And even then I couldn’t make it once around the rink without falling on my ass.

But this moment? It was just too much to pass up.

“You’re going to skate, too, Mommy?”

“Yup. I’ll fall, though.”

“That’s okay, Mommy. You just get back up again.”

My nephew held one hand, I held the other and my son skated in between us. Skated.

And each time he fell? He laughed. Laughed.

My son. My son who can’t bang his knee without breaking into sobs.

It was just unbelievable.

“You see, Mommy? I just get back up again.”

Too overcome to actually be in the moment, I left them alone to try to skate around the rink on my own… and gather my emotions. When I returned, my son looked up at me and with all sincerity said, “Mommy! You did so good! I’m so proud of you!”

“Sweetheart, I’m the one who’s proud of you.”

“I’m skating, Mommy.”

And he was. In under 2 hours, the kid went from being unable to stand on his own to skating by himself for a good 10 feet from his cousin to my waiting arms.

And it was awesome.