When my oldest son was about five, we launched our allowance system that incorporated four piggy banks. Taking a cue from Dave Ramsey, we set up piggies for long-term savings, short-term savings, spending money, and charity.
That system served us well for eleven years. My youngest son just joined the allowance crowd (as his older brother is about to turn sixteen and, God-willing, find a “real” job), and it was time to overhaul the system.
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Photo Credit: Bich Ngoc Le via Unsplash
“So, don’t hate me, but . . .”
It’s a conversation my husband and I have had about twenty times this pregnancy, usually about the name we’ll use if our baby is a girl. The formula is quite clear: we discuss the names on our shortlist and settle on a combination, and then a few weeks later, I start having doubts. Continue reading
My mom had a simple timer that she used exclusively for cooking and baking. Whether it was lasagna in the oven or her frequent batches of chocolate chip cookies, the timer’s use was exclusively in the kitchen. I recall an egg timer or two as well, the old-fashioned sand-filled kind, which were used for my play.
The myriad uses for the timer are yet to be explored in our house, but since joining 10 Minute Novelists several years ago, I’ve discovered more “grown up” uses for the timer that I should be employing more frequently to keep on task with both writing and household chores. Continue reading
My oldest daughter, Felicity, is newly fascinated with how babies grow in their mother’s wombs. Shortly after she turned five, she would muse aloud, “Tell me about when I was in your tummy, Mommy.” Without thinking, I shared the story of when my husband and I first saw her on the early ultrasound, when she was about eight weeks old. I was considered “high risk” for pregnancy, so my husband and I were relieved when we saw our “little bean” and heard her heartbeat on the Doppler.
Felicity’s eyes widened as I demonstrated how small she was at the time – “about the size of my thumb nail,” I told her. “Is that how small I was to begin with?” she inquired. “No, sweetheart,” I lovingly replied, “you were so small when you began that we wouldn’t be able to see you, almost like a period at the end of a sentence.” Continue reading
Promotions for the upcoming Summer Olympics are beginning to appear, and while some may be excited for the return of golf to the worldwide sporting events, I’ve noted the gaping chasm where parental competition should be. Let’s face it, most of us slogging through day jobs, home maintenance, and child rearing have little time or energy left for Olympic-caliber competition. Schlepping through the grocery store and scrubbing the toilet are taxing enough. Sadly, our society ignores the skills honed during those years when mothers and fathers nurture and safeguard their wily, wiry offspring on minimal sleep and some combination of coffee, wine, and adrenaline bursts. Should parenting be incorporated into the next Olympics, these are my recommended events. (This post enhanced by simultaneously listening to the Chariots of Fire theme music.) Continue reading
Parents, can you “waste time” with your children? It is one of the most important things that you can do each day.
— Pope Francis (@Pontifex) October 27, 2015
I’m good at wasting time. One might call me an expert. Yet, I need to be reminded, by the Pope no less, to do that with my kids.
When I had only one child, I spent loads of “wasted” time with him. Four and a half years. I pushed Thomas trains around the wooden track. I sang and danced to silly songs in the backyard. I lay in the grass and watched the clouds pass.
Then I had another baby. And another. And another. And my time divided amongst the little people in my life. Continue reading
I don’t take time to read the Bible as often as I should. Thank God for a four-year-old who provides me with vivid lessons to accompany the verses and stories committed to memory simply from decades of Mass attendance.
My four-year-old daughter has been extremely articulate from a very young age, but that didn’t stop her from devolving into an inarticulate, whiny hot mess recently.
She simply wanted a peacock feather on lying out of her reach on the dining room table. (Don’t ask. I’m not certain where it came from or why it was there. Last I checked, we had no peacock.)
She groped, groaned, and moaned in frustration as she reached for the feather. It was easily within my reach. She simply needed to ask. Continue reading