Goodbye stuff. Hello fun.

A couple of years ago Jared took over paying the bills. Jared was frustrated because he didn't know where all of our money was going. I was frustrated  because Jared thought  that I was irresponsible with my spending. The solution for us was for me to shove everything at him and say, here, you try it. You pay the bills and you'll see it isn't me.

So Jared took the reigns. He paid (and continues to pay) the bills. He understands now. He no longer complains or wonders where the money is going. I no longer feel judged in my spending. 

It turns out that kids are just expensive. It was nobody's fault. That's just how it is. We assembled a budget that cut out what we didn't need and gave us more room for what we wanted: family time. Although sometimes it's easy to look at store displays and feel limited by our budget, it has actually been quite freeing to live this way. I know now that I don't need the brand name cereal or the new shoes or Egyptian cotton sheets to be happy.

Last night when I looked at our budgeting software, I felt proud of our shift in spending habits. I smiled as I read the individual line items, because it was money spent on things that actually did buy happiness. That money bought us time together. It bought us adventures. It bought Jared and I some alone time.  

If you could see our summer bank account statements, they would look just like this:

A ketchup-y smile at Oliver's first baseball game, aka an $8 hot dog.

Oliver's fascination with gemstone panning, aka a $10 bag of dirt.

Colin's freedom to explore, aka a $2 bottle of water at a local festival.

Oliver's dinosaur smile, aka a $3 admission fee.

Colin's butterfly garden excitement, aka a $3 admission fee.

Oliver's summer sports camp, aka a $60 fee.

Oliver's carnival games, aka $5 in tickets.

We did so much this year. We flew to Florida. We went to local festivals and fairs. We visited the Renaissance. We ate stuff on a stick. We rode roller coasters. We tubed down a river. We swam at the pool. We hiked. We grilled out. We watched baseball. We fed giraffes. We explored a cave.

Live music show.

Visiting a cave, a wish of Oliver's.

Playing in a sluice box.

Visiting the horses at the Minnesota State Fair.

Playing with an exhibit in the horse barn.

Climbing the giant play gym.

Wrestling in an indoor park.

Posing at the Minnesota Zoo.

Playing in the zoo's park.

Sliding all by himself at the zoo park.

Riding a giant bass.

Shushing the loud geese.

Feeding the rude goats.

Hanging out with family in the nosebleed section.

Wearing a nacho bucket as a hat while waiting for the train.

With all of these great memories, the brand-name cereal, the new shoes, and the Egyptian cotton sheets don't stand a chance.

Goodbye stuff. Hello fun.

We come from a long line of losers.

"I did not have any fun, Mom."

That's the first thing Oliver said to me when he came out from his afternoon sports "camp" last week.  I was surprised, because on all of the other days, he had a great time. He was always one of the less-coordinated players, but before that day he didn't seem to mind.

On baseball day, he ran the bases backwards and told the teachers he bats left handed. On frisbee day, he hit himself in the face with his own frisbee. During a relay race, he relayed the baton to a different team. On all of those days, he had a blast despite his mistakes. On that particular day, he scored a goal for the wrong team, but he didn't look very upset about it when it happened.

I asked him why he had no fun this time around.

"The other kids kicked my ball out of the goal."

It was true. I'd seen it happen. The goalie blocked his shot, and while that is an understood part of the game to most of us, to Oliver it was a malicious act singling him out to deny him the goal he was working so hard towards.

At that moment I felt torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to cry. On one hand, there was this pitiful little boy, completely crushed by his perceived poor performance in an unscored preschool soccer game, crying about how he will probably never ever go to school because he isn't good enough at sports. On the other hand, I saw him out there trying his hardest and failing in spite of his best efforts, and I know how hard that hurts. It was heartbreaking to see how gravely he was taking his failure. To him, clearly, this was a very big deal.

I tried to comfort him the entire car ride home. I told him over and over again that I was proud of him for trying something new and giving it his best shot. I told him that he can practice and he will get better and better. I gave him the cliched parenthood speech proclaiming over and over again that I'm proud of him no matter what, but he's starting to be too old to be comforted by that. He wanted to win. He wanted to be as good as the other kids. He wanted to compete.

I tried to tell him that part of playing sports is that while it's fun to try and win, somebody always has to be the loser. That not everybody gets to win all of the time. I thought he knew that, because he graciously loses over and over again in board games. We never cheat or rig the rules to give Oliver advantages at home. We thought he understood that sometimes you win some, sometimes you lose some, and that's no big deal.

I thought my speech would make him feel like it was okay to be the loser sometimes, but instead it only served to make him realize that this time he was the loser.

"I'm a loser!? I don't want to be a loser!" he yelled from the backseat before returning to his sobbing and moaning with renewed gusto.

I never did manage to say anything that made him feel better. In the end he forgot his troubles over a glass of juice and an episode of My Little Pony. And when he was completely over the whole thing, it was I who sat and dwelled on it.

I don't want him to end up the way I was: too afraid to try something I wasn't naturally good at. I spent so much time worrying that I would never be as good as others would be, so I never even tried. I quit before I started, because that seemed so much easier and safer than giving it my all.

It's easy to see now that I made a mistake. The world wouldn't have ended if I had played basketball and sucked at it. I wouldn't have been ruined forever if I had painted something and somebody told me it was ugly. I would have gotten past a few snide remarks and jokes at my expense and I might've actually had fun.

Today when we saw some kids playing soccer in the neighborhood, Oliver asked if he could go outside and practice  playing with them.  Just yesterday he told me he was no good at soccer and he would never play again, but today is a different day.

"We could practice and then next time at sports class I can score a goal and win."

I guess he was listening to my speech after all.

I always thought that the parents who said they were proud of their kids for "just doing their best" were full of it. I used to think that parents only said that because it's what parents are supposed to say. I always thought that they would be prouder if their kids actually did well. But the more I think about it, the more I believe the opposite to be true: I would be prouder to see Oliver try his hardest and come in last place than to watch him effortlessly win the gold.

It takes so much more strength and so much more character to put out everything you've got in the face of adversity. As I watch him in the backyard struggling to keep up with the more skillful older boys, I really do feel proud. I know it's just two neighbor kids and a soccer ball, and that Oliver is only a frivolous preschooler. I know that the hopes and dreams and determination of a 3 year old wax and wane, but to Oliver right now at this very minute, that backyard game is the World Cup and he's giving it his all.

And I'm immensely proud. (Even though his feet haven't touched the ball once.)

How photogenic.

When Saturn perfectly aligns with Mercury under a waning something-or-other, I can sometimes catch Oliver and Colin sitting within 5 feet of each other enjoying the same thing. This never lasts until I can get the camera, but it doesn't stop me from taking 40 pictures in the hopes that I will catch them both smiling and sort of looking in the same direction.

As any good photographer would tell you, it isn't a photo shoot unless somebody cries.

Who's placing bets on when this kid breaks his first bone?

Colin doesn't talk yet. He doesn't even try.

He's more of an Incredible Hulk kind of child in that he's all good  and fine until something is not fine and then suddenly he is SUPER RAGING ANGRY AND HE IS GOING TO SMASH THINGS. Words are beneath him because he is too busy trying to break things. And by "things" I mean "body parts."

Tonight I tired to tire the kids out before bedtime by playing outside. We were only in the backyard for 45 minutes, yet Colin managed to:

1. Run to the farthest corner of our yard and sit in a giant puddle as soon as I set him down.
2. Find a big stick. Run with it in his mouth.
3. Crawl inside a prickly pine tree.
4. Throw a rock into the air such that it comes falling down on his head.
5. Climb into and fall out of a swing. On his head.
6. Climb up the ladder onto the swingset platform.
7. Slide down the giant-for-a-baby sized slide by himself.
8. Slide down the giant-for-a-baby sized slide by himself. Backwards.
9. Get kicked in the head by Oliver's swinging feet.

And the thing is, you'd think he would be upset by these things. But, no. Not my kid. He lives for the danger.

Farthest section of our yard which features a natural marshland.

Colin's swinging face.

No fear at all at the edge of the jungle gym.

No fear of the large slide.

Contemplating what he can do while I can't reach him.

Climbing the ladder because he saw big brother doing it.

Dogs.

Pretty soon our house will be overrun with dogs. My sister is shipping her dog, Sunshine, to us from overseas so that the dog will be here waiting for them upon their arrival next month. My other sister is heading out of town so we get her dog, Sunday, for a while too. And, of course, we always have Mya here. That makes three dogs.

Three dogs in one house? Crazy!

Oh, wait. Did I say three dogs? I meant four.

Why yes, that is Colin drinking out of the dog's water dish.

Why did we even bother having another baby when getting another dog would have been so much cheaper?

Happy Anniversary

Embarrassing self photo from 8 years ago.

Today is Jared's and my second wedding anniversary. We've been married for two years, even though it simultaneously feels like a lot longer and a lot shorter.

I get a lot of compliments on being a good mom, but do you know what means more to me? Being complimented on being a good wife. Being a good wife is so much harder for me than being a good mom.

So much of being a mom is doing things that you have to do, so you just suck them up and do them. You need to feed your kids and change them and look out for them. You are legally obligated to provide adequate care for them and by some law of nature you are forced into loving them, no matter what they do. You need to teach them how to survive on their own, because if you don't, they are helpless without you.

In the relationships I have with my kids, I am a dictator. They need to do what I say when I say it or they will be punished. In an argument, no matter if I am right or I am wrong, I can always pull out the trump card and say, "because I told you so!" and the case is closed. With them, I always win. I'm the parent. They're the kids. Game over.

But obviously, with Jared, it's different. I can't be the dictator anymore, and running a democracy is so much harder.

Jared is my equal. Being equals means that 50% of the time, I am not getting my way. 50% of the time, I might actually be wrong. Not only might I be wrong but I  might have to admit that I am wrong and change my actions to reflect that fact.

And for me? That's really hard.

Typing this feels embarrassing, though I don't 100% know why. There isn't any shame in working hard for things. I firmly believe that hard work is important for any relationship to thrive. The things people are proudest of are the things people spend their whole lives working on. So, why does it feel like I am admitting a weakness in saying that being a wife is hard work?

I don't know. I can't answer that.

But what I can say is that I am really proud of where all of our hard work was taken us and I'm even more excited to see where else we will go. The harder we work, the easier it gets.

Our life together is so much better than it would ever be apart.

Happy Anniversary, Jared. I love you.

Biker gang.

My mom found a little kids' bike at  a garage sale for Oliver. The last (and first) time he rode his bike, it was an agonizing half-hour of push starting and guidance and emergency steering wheel takeovers just to get to the mailbox. I expected a similar story for tonight's bike ride, but muscle memory must have kicked in because suddenly he was able to pedal and steer on his own.

Colin, ready to roll in his set of wheels.

Oliver, road ready.

 He biked way past the mailbox, farther than I thought we could ever hope to go on his second ever bike ride. He was even able to pedal up small hills, and he got the bike started all by himself. It was a complete night-and-day difference from his first bike ride to his second bike ride.

Colin, enjoying the neighbor's barking dog.

Oliver, shouting to us to stop taking pictures and keep going.

Just as I was starting to imagine the family bike rides we could go on, Oliver got going downhill too fast and he panicked. He forgot to put the brakes on, and when he turned around to yell for help, his front tire went off of the path and dumped him onto the asphalt. He scraped up his knee pretty horrifically, by a three-year-old's perspective.

Warning: Gore. Mature audiences only.

As soon as I saw blood, I pictured myself carrying Oliver back while somehow dragging his bike and pushing Colin in the stroller. To stop the tears, I told Oliver that we would go home and get him a band-aid, but do you know what he said to me?

"No, Mom! We can't go back! We have to keep going! I need to practice."

And just like that, he climbed back on his bike with his bleeding knee and pedaled farther down the path, sniffling up the last of his tears.

Pictured: Sheer determination to push through a terrible, possible career-ending injury.

When I told him we had to start heading back towards the house, he complained. He wanted to keep going farther down the new path to find a "secret hidden place" but it was past bedtime and I was worried he'd poop out on the way back.

Colin, oblivious to Oliver's severe injuries and uncaring about whether or not we turn back.

Oliver easily made it home without another complaint about his knee. In fact, at times he was pedaling so fast that I had to run to keep up. By the time we were pulling into our driveway, he was exclaiming that he was the best bike riding big kid he ever met, if he did say so himself.

But do you know what happened as soon as we got home? His knee injury suddenly flared up. He had to have juice to make it feel better and he had to watch a TV show and he couldn't even brush his own teeth OW MOM OW OW OW IT HURTS SO BAD I CAN'T GO TO BED IT WILL HURT TOO MUCH AND I WON'T BE ABLE TO SLEEP.

Amazing how that happened, no?

When he told me that his knee would never ever ever get better, I said that we should get rid of his bike and never go bike riding again.

"Noooooo!!! YOU CAN'T GET RID OF MY BIKE! I WANT TO RIDE MY BIKE MORE!"
"But you said your knee wasn't going to get better, never ever ever."
"Never ever ever until tomorrow. We could still ride bikes again tomorrow. Okay?"

Okay, Oliver. We'll ride bikes again tomorrow.