DotMoms

Jump rope is not a contact sport

By Chris

Before I had children I thought that boy and girl behavior was mostly due to the way they were raised with all the cultural expectations and stereotypes placed upon them.

After I had children, FIVE boy children in a row, I started to suspect that certain things were just inborn. The way that they reacted to things was just different. The way they chose to interact with each other was just different. Not better or worse, just different than all the little girls my friends had.

Then, three years ago, I had a girl. A girl of my very own. A girl who is the walking cliche of all that is girly and pink. My daughter talks constantly about her day, nararating every last thing that she is doing. Telling me what she wants to buy at the store, what she bought there last week, and the directions to get there. My boys have never once suggested that they need more shoes or a shiny new coat. Sports equipment, yes, but even that they prefer to purchase online.

This week at the beach my 3-year-old daughter made a friend. One of the first things she does is scope out a friend to play with wherever we go. The girls were relatively quiet, meaning their conversations weren't being broadcast across the water front, like those of all the boys that were there, not just mine. The girls held elaborate conversations which involved talking a great deal, sharing their feelings, sharing the names of their long lost pets, dolls, toys. Did I mention the non-stop talking?

I swear they got more personal information out of each other in a few hours than my boys have shared with anyone  in a life time. It struck me that it is so stereotypical of male and female relationships. 

My husband has a best friend from childhood that he talks to several times a week, yet I am never sure what exactly it is that they talk about, since every question I ask him when I get off the phone is met with a confused look.

Several years ago his friend called to tell us he had just asked his girlfriend to marry him. Rob got off the phone and shared the information with me.

"Oh, where did he propose?" I asked.

"I don't know"

"How did he do it?" I asked.

"I don't know." was the answer.

"Was it a huge surprise? Did he pick out a ring by himself?" I asked.

"I don't know." he answered yet again.

"Do you know anything?" I asked exasperated.

"I know she said yes. And really isn't that the important part?" he answered, equally exasperated by me.

I guess it was. But I wanted to know more details. I wanted to discuss every excruciatingly minute detail, like I would do with a girl friend. But he and his friend view talking as purely a way to share information, as succinctly as possible.

Which brings me back to the beach, I don't think I have ever heard one of my sons say to another boy they just met at the beach.  "Let's go lay down on our beach blankets and talk!"

Chris is a writer, artist, and mother of six boys and one girl.  She lives in an historic old house in New England that is constantly under renovation, and just might be the death of her. 

Safety

by Chris

My niece is newly pregnant with her first child. In a recent phone call, her husband told me that he was having a childproofing expert come over to their home to take a look at what they should do to keep their baby, who still has several more months of gestating left I might add, safe.

In addition, he is planning on crawling around the house so that he can get a baby's view on everything and  try to grab things, then he will know what they should get rid of. He wants to keep his baby safe, he told me several times. Several times.

He hasn't yet realized that your kids are smarter than you. It is their job to outsmart you at every turn. I don't think there is such a thing as completely "baby proof." They will always find something that you overlooked. My initial response was to laugh, tell him about my children, and wish him well. And then say I guess he'll never want to bring his baby over to our house. Which made him laugh, a little too heartily, I might add.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that he just doesn't have a clue yet. If only it were that easy to keep your child safe. Those are the easy years, when your child is completely under your control. You install the baby gates, the outlet covers, block off the stairs, and put up breakables that you treasure. The onus is on you. And still one day you will walk into the room and discover your toddler holding scissors or perched on the top steps of your long staircase, your heart will skip a beat and you wonder how you could have allowed it to happen.

I have kids now who want more freedom than I am sometimes will to give. Items to keep them safe aren't readily available in the aisles of Target anymore. Unless they are selling micro chips that I can implant in their brains to force them to make good decisions, override their dangerous ones, and track their whereabouts at all times. No? 

At what age to you allow your child to use a public restroom alone? This is the source of much bickering at my house. My children are not allowed to use public restrooms alone, period, end of the story. This includes the restroom at the baseball field, which is far away from the actual fields and in the parking lot. I don't care what other kids are allowed to do, and from my experience it seems that all the other kids from age five up are allowed to go in the restroom alone.

I am tired of hearing the completely lame argument that "we live somewhere safe" or "nothing bad has ever happened here." Yeah, that's what people always say. That's why people let down their guard. I doubt anyone would let their nine or ten year old go off in Central Park and use a public restroom. Or would they?

In some ways I feel like I may have lost all perspective, but these children are my treasures. And even the thought of something happening to them is more than I can bear. Especially if it is something that I could have prevented by being a bit more vigilant. These pre-teen years are tough, tougher than I ever imagined as we engage in a manic dance of push and pull, give and take, freedom and handcuffing them to my body.

If only a package of plastic outlet covers would work now. Or maybe I could construct a huge cage made out of baby gates to put them inside. I don't think they would mind, would they?

Chris is a writer, artist, wife and the mother of seven children. She lives in an historic old house in New England that is perpetually under renovations.

Old family recipe for a perfect day

by Chris

Take one sunny day

Mix together:

One new bucket of sidewalk chalk
One long jump rope
Four perfect hopscotch stones

Add songs from childhood
Feel free to experiment with this part and make up some songs, too much silliness will not spoil this recipe

Marinate slowly for several hours, the recipe takes time to develop fully

Alternate periods of physical activity with laying in the grass looking at the clouds

Sprinkle generously with laughter

Listen more than you speak. Kiss more than you are kissed.  Breathe deeply.

Italian Ice with a little wooden spoon optional, but highly recommended

The recipe is a success when a small child proclaims it the bestest day ever.

*****

How often do we spend our weekends running with our children from one activity to another, in the name of enriching their little lives? Birthday parties, baseball games, soccer, art lessons, music lessons, and on and on... Each of these things is valuable on it's own; who doesn't want a well rounded child, but I have to wonder what price our children pay for such scheduled lives. Saying no when your child expresses an interest in an activity is difficult. Trust me, I know. And summer vacation in recent years has seemed like weekends magnified.

But what I have found over the past 11 plus years of being a parent is that down time is equally as important. Perhaps even more so. Time just spent together with your child or children. Time that has no agenda, no demands, no commitments. In a world where we are constantly on the go and in search of new best thing for our children, time is the most elusive thing. Time spent doing one thing is time that can never be re-spent doing something else. We had better make sure it counts. 

I talk with other mothers and we all lament that our kids are so busy. They don't have time to simply be. Time to discover themselves in a way that can only happen when there are no activities to run back and forth to, when boredom has the opportunity to exist.  I firmly believe that boredom is a good thing. Yet opting out of the rat race is difficult, and we worry that somehow our children will miss out.

Even so, this year I am giving my children the gift of time. The gift of entire days stretched out before them, end to end, the limitlessness of possibilities, hours filled with nothing more pressing than a leisurly stroll to the library. And like most good gifts, my children probably won't appreciate it as much now as they will later.      

And so when friends are discussing the various camps, sports clinics, and lessons that their kids will be partaking in this summer, I will simply nod and smile, imagining our days spent lounging on the front porch swing, picnicking high up in a tree fort, and building sand castles at the beach. If pressed, I will say, "Oh we have no elaborate plans this year. We're just going to have a lazy, boring summer."

And I wish the same for you. 

Chris is a writer, artist, wife and the mother of seven children. She lives in an historic old house in New England that is perpetually under renovations.

Striking fear in the hearts of parents everywhere

By Chris

Nothing strikes fear into the hearts of parents everywhere more than The Talk. You know the one I mean. In the top 10 of memorable parenting events, it ranks up there right after sleeping through the night and potty training, and right before sending them off to college.

What I didn't realize before I had a child this age, was that there wouldn't just be The Talk. There would be many talks. And that it wouldn't get easier, from my perspective at least.

When my oldest son was about 10 years old I brought up the topic in the car one day when we were alone. He had never asked any real questions about the process, but he is an avid reader and knowledgeable about all things animal and reptile. And based on things he had said, I had the impression that he had some idea about the mechanics. We'd had vague discussions in the past that seemed to satisfy his curiosity, but I felt like he needed more information than he had asked for. I certainly don't want him getting misinformation from other kids or thinking that it is a taboo subject.

I was thankful that I was driving and that it was dark in the car so he couldn't see my face when he called it "mating," and I was thankful that I was able to play off my laughing as a coughing attack when he exclaimed, "Wow, you mean you and Dad did that SEVEN times?" And then he shuddered.

"Why did you tell me this?" he asked, as we pulled into our driveway.

"Uh, I thought you might be curious and interested."

"No, not really. It's not like it's any big deal or anything."

Oh my son, soon enough it will be a big deal, I thought at the time, such a big deal in fact that your brain will seemingly stop working and you will think of little else.

I'll be the first to admit that I am at a loss. Having grown up as an only child with a single mother, I am clueless about anything Y-chromosome related. I want my husband to step forward and talk more with him, and his younger brothers, but it doesn't seem to come up naturally in conversation for them either.

I am talking about more than just the mechanics. You know, the feelings and emotions and fantasies and dreams...  Now I am shuddering and resisting the urge to put my hands over my ears and shout, "La, la, la, I can't hear you."

I don't think I am ready for this. Two-year-olds are much easier in retrospect. Their needs are simple. And yet, I haven't found a way to make him stop growing up.

So, Internet, I ask you: How did you handle these "talks"? Are books the way to go? Any tips or tricks? If I send them away to military school, will they tell them there?

Chris is a writer, artist, wife and the mother of seven children. She lives in an historic old house in New England that is perpetually under renovations.

Rules for 2-year-olds and tweens

By Chris

Having pre-adolescent children has made me realize that they are very much like 2-year-old children in temperament, only bigger and more verbal. I have three of them and I swear that they operate by some rule book to which I am not privy. But, after careful observation I think I have cracked at least some of these rules. And I present them here.

1. If your mother mistakenly puts an item of clothing in your drawer that belongs to someone else, you may wear it with impunity, stating, "It was in my drawer therefore it is mine." This same rule applies to anything you might find anywhere in the house ranging from spare change to small toys. Also if your parent decides to try and teach you a lesson by walking into your bedroom and picking up some random item off of the floor and shouting, "It's mine! I found it!" do not under any circumstances buy into this reverse psychology. Commence screaming, "That's not fair!" or "You are SO mean!" Eventually the parental figure will feel guilty and quietly sulk away.

2. If you see someone else wearing an item of your clothing you are in no way required to ask for the item of clothing back. Knocking the person to the ground while attempting to yank the item off of them is warning enough. Same with spare change, small toys, or any other object you think you might like to have but are not sure they will give to you. The element of surprise is always good to have on your side.

3. If you are at the grocery store and want anything from the check-out aisle it is fair game, as long as you can toss it up on the conveyor belt without your mother noticing.

4. If one of your parents tells you to do something just pretend you are deaf and get out of the area as quickly as possible.

5. If you do something heinous, just say, "I didn't mean to." If your exasperated parents ask, "What exactly did you mean to happen when you threw a rock at the car window?" just keep repeating "I didn't mean to." Eventually the parents will give up questioning you or die of old age.

6.Whenever the parent calls out "Who does this belong to?" First ask what it is to determine whether or not it is something you want. Whether or not it actually belongs to you is unimportant. If it is something that needs to be cleaned up or brought to the trash deny it is yours, even if it has your name on it.

7. If you break something blame it on the youngest member of the household, preferably one that cannot yet speak to defend himself. Proclaim your innocence loudly and often. Feign ignorance if at all possible. "No, I don't know what happened to my closet door." "No, I don't know why it is laying on the floor now." "I didn't do it." "I didn't even know I had a closet in my room" are all good examples of how to proceed on this one.

8. If there isn't any toilet paper in the bathroom use the hand towel, why else would it be within easy reach? You should never call anyone to bring you toilet paper because there is a slight chance they might see you sitting on the toilet, and that is unacceptable. And by all means do NOT replace the toilet paper after you leave the bathroom. When the next person goes into the bathroom, refer to rule #4 above.

9. Always, ALWAYS leave a tiny little bit of juice, soda, milk, or what have you, in the container. This way you never have to replace it in the refrigerator and can say without lying, "But I didn't finish it all."

10. Never like a particular food item for more than two weeks in a row. The first time something is served proclaim your undying love for it. Do the same thing the second time. After your mother has stocked up on the food item at the grocery store and cooks it again, declare it to be the most offending thing you have ever tasted. Deny you ever even liked this particular food.

Those are the rules that I have been able to figure out thus far. I would say that by the time my youngest is this age I should have it all figured out, but if my tenure as a parent has taught me anything it is that as soon as I think I have it figured out they go ahead and revise their operating system.

Chris is a writer, artist, wife and the mother of seven children. She lives in an historic old house in New England that is perpetually under renovations. 

Weighty thoughts for my daughter

By Chris

Does anyone else think that it is incredibly hypocritical that the media has vilified Lindsay Lohan for being too skinny, then expressed relief that she admits to having an eating disorder in a magazine article... all while simultaneously having pictures of her half naked and in her underwear on the pages of the magazine? What is the message that is being sent to us as women, and what about our daughters?

I am 36 years old and I still feel an incredible self-loathing about how I look. It hasn't lessened over time, though the power that it holds over me is less severe now. I can't go for days without eating any longer, though that makes me feel like a failure rather than feel like I have overcome the negative self-talk. It is difficult to talk or write about, because people who are truly overweight don't get it. They laugh and roll their eyes and think that you are just being overly dramatic about what they perceive as a pound or two that you want to lose.

This past weekend, I walked into a store and picked up clothes that fit me. A size 2. But I felt sick to my stomach holding the skirt. I felt like the sales people in the store were all looking at me, snickering to themselves, about how someone who is my size shouldn't be wearing that particular item of clothing.

I put the skirt back on the rack and wondered why can't I be a size 0 like I used to be. A zero. A nothing. On the verge of disappearing. I think that is what people who don't have a distorted body image don't understand. Those of us who do have it, well, we secretly wish to disappear, to not be noticed.

I don't notice the weight of anyone else. I think all my friends look perfectly fine at the weight they are, though many say they want to lose 10, 20, even 30 pounds or more. Yet when I look in the mirror I see myself as twice as big as all of them put together. I had a friend once threaten to push me down on the ground and draw an outline around my body so I could see how much space I actually took up. It seemed sadly appropriate at the time to have a chalk outline of my body on the ground.

The only times in my life that I felt comfortable with my body were when I was pregnant. I felt the freedom to eat. It was OK to gain weight and have a plumper body. With my last pregnancy, though, I began to realize that the clothing manufacturers were doing to maternity clothes what had previously been reserved for regular clothing. The styles were form fitting, belly baring. They were things that really only look good on a tall skinny person with a small pillow under her shirt. I was left feeling that nothing is sacred.

And now I have a daughter. One beautiful, smart, strong daughter in a house filled with sons. I watch her twirling around and dancing, full of life and love. My hope for her beyond all else is that she loves herself enough. I hope that she is able to shrug off the distorted images in the media. I want her to think of her body as the outer packaging of herself and not allow it to be a defining term of her self-worth.

I suppose this says as much about me and my place of privilege in the world that I don't worry about my daughter enduring a famine, being killed in a war zone, or being abused in some way. It is a luxury to worry about self-esteem and self-image while mothers in different places in the world can only worry about keeping their daughters alive. A luxury, how is that for the proverbial slap in the face? Women who are just trying to eek out an existence for their family don't have the time to worry about whether their ankles are too thick, their butt too large, or their teeth too yellow.

And so it is for my daughter that I try to love myself. It is for her that I try to project a healthy attitude about my body. It is for her that I try to focus on what my body can do, its strength, to embrace it, flaws and all, and yes, even to appreciate its beauty. For 35 years I was not able to do this for myself, but my love for my daughter is so much greater than my love for myself. For her I can do anything.

Chris is a writer, artist, wife and the mother of seven children. She lives in an historic old house in New England that is perpetually under renovations. 

Giving it all I've got: fantasy and reality

By Chris

I never make New Year's resolutions.

This isn't to say that there aren't loads of things that I would like to improve about myself, there are. I wish I were more patient with my children. I wish that I exercised regularly. I wish that I were better at all the wifey things, like cooking, cleaning, keeping the house organized. I wish I were a better friend.

But when it comes right down to it, the truth of the matter is that I already am putting forth as much effort as I am willing.

It's not like I wake up in the morning and say to myself, "Today I am going to be really short tempered and yell a lot. And then, just for fun, I am going to sprinkle a few sarcastic comments throughout my conversations, disguised (of course) as humor.  Then I am going to forget to defrost anything for dinner and at the last minute serve cold cereal and pretend that I did it on purpose for a 'treat.' Oh and every time my daughter goes to the potty and earns her M&M, I am going to have one, or 50, with her because I deserve them."

No, I pretty much wake up every morning hoping to be better than the previous day, hoping to have learned from some of my mistakes, hoping chocolate has suddenly become calorie free.

I have a wonderful husband whom I love, and who remarkably loves me. I have a nice house filled with children that I adore. Although, I often say to my husband that in my dreams the house came with a maid and the children were much better behaved. We have everything that we need and most of what we want. It is a good life.

It might not be the most exciting life. It certainly isn't glamorous, unless wearing shirts with spit-up encrusted shoulders is the new look. It might not resemble at all the life I envisioned 25 years ago when I was a kid laying on my Holly Hobby bedspread, writing in my diary. The daily minutiae of my life can sometimes be tiring and I spend more time reading Dr. Seuss and wiping butts than I ever could have imagined. That is the thing with fantasy, you never see the whole picture.

Lately I fantasize about living in Europe for a few years and traveling with my children. I never think about the fact that there would still be laundry to do in Europe and that my children would likely bicker their way through Rome. Just last summer we went to the Baseball Hall of Fame Museum and my 5-year-old collapsed to the ground shortly after we arrived crying, "I hate it here. This place is filled with old balls and old shoes." Just imagine how he would feel touring ancient ruins. I can hear it now, "There's nothing here but old broken stuff!"

But this is the fantasy. I picture us locking arms and skipping by the Eiffel Tower, our berets perched fetchingly upon our heads. I don't picture the unruly toddler rolling on the ground having a tantrum because we won't buy the Eiffel Tower balloon on a stick, or the sullen adolescent who thinks skipping and wearing a beret is tantamount to child abuse. And I certainly don't picture me grocery shopping and cooking meals. It's Europe! Who cooks there? Yes, I know, everyone.

I suppose this is why I don't like New Year's resolutions. They make you focus on the negatives and what is lacking in your life, instead of focusing on all the good things, the things that were only imagined in the past and have now come to fruition. The things you want to change, instead of the things you want to stay the same. The things you didn't even know to dream about, yet now you couldn't imagine living without.

At lunch yesterday, my 5-year-old told me he doesn't think he will ever get married because he will never love anyone else as much as he loves me.

Yes, it is a good life. Now about that maid...

Chris is an artist, writer, wife, and mother to seven children. 

The test of time

By Chris

Having seven children means that I have bought most of the inventory at our local toy store. In the warmer months it often looks like Little Tykes threw up in my backyard. And in the colder months I often think that I should determine my toy purchases based on how the toys will look strewn about the floor of my home. Shopping for birthdays and Christmas is a daunting task.

Every year there is the "hot toy" that every child wants, yet I know that months, or sometimes even days, after Christmas many of them will be cast aside in favor of the old stand-bys. Tickle-Me Elmo was a a hot toy one year, but we no longer have him. Sadly, at some point, he stopped being ticklish and went to the great landfill in the sky. The same happened to the robot room guard, who only lasted a day or two before being tossed into the back of the closet out of frustration.

I have become increasingly particular about the toys I bring into by home. The sheer volume of toys is overwhelming under the best of circumstances. I have compiled a list of kid-tested, mother-approved toys:

• Wooden blocks, the specialty blocks like castle blocks add a fun twist. I bought a huge set of blocks from a company that caters to preschools and daycare centers. They are played with every single day.
• Duplos and Legos
• Brio and Thomas train sets
• Pretend play -- kitchens, small scale brooms, pretend food -- toys that allow them to imitate the world around them
• Play-doh, but not the sets -- those seem to cause more frustration than anything else, they prefer to use real cookie cutters, small scale rolling pins, and plastic utensils
• A relatively new item that has been getting lots of play time in the past few years with my 4-6-year-olds is the Imaginext playsets. They do require some adult help to set up, but they engage the imagination of the children and hold my interest enough not to make me want to gouge my eyeballs out.

These toys are the old standbys for a reason. They stand the test of time.

Although, my children can also entertain themselves with a hole puncher, a few sheets of paper, and a roll of tape for an entire afternoon.

Chris is a writer, artist, wife to one, and mother to seven children. In her free time she works at rescuing her historic New England house from a century of neglect.

Piling on

By Chris

Last weekend I was doing the dreaded closet switch over. I unpacked all of the winter hats, gloves, mittens, neck gaiters, snow pants, ski gloves, ski boots, snow boots, snow pants, vests, and winter coats -- times nine.

In order to make room for all this in the closet, I had to pack up the summer and fall items like jackets, sandals, sunhats, sunscreen, beach chairs, beach towels, baseball gloves, jock straps (why do my sons think these sort of things belong with their cleats? why?) -- times nine, except for the jock straps.

I had a huge pile of the children's shoes in the mudroom at one point, while I was trying to decide which shoes were going into the trash and which still fit their owner. My husband picked up two sneakers. "Who do these belong to? And where are their mates?"

I looked at the sneakers and said, "Those belong to the 5-year-old and they are a pair."

"No, they are not."

"Yes they are. I just bought them in September. No one else has sneakers like those."

"But they aren't the same sneaker. And more importantly they aren't even the same size," he said.

I took the sneakers away from Rob to examine them myself. And he was right. The sneakers are not exactly the same. And one of them is at least a size and a half smaller than the other. I was incredulous.

"You really should return them," Rob said.

"Oh and what will I say?," I asked. " 'I bought these sneakers two months ago and have been putting them on my child every single day, yet somehow I have failed to notice they are different until now. And here let me write down my address so you can be sure to get it right when you call child protective services.' "

Clearly I should not have been allowed to reproduce. It is bad enough that I didn't notice, but my obviously inferior genes have produced the sort offspring who apparently cannot tell when he is wearing one shoe which is a size and a half too small. However, this same child will writhe on the floor like he is covered with stinging nettles should the tag on back of his shirt touch his neck.

Come to think of it, maybe he inherited those qualities from his father. Yes, that's it.

Chris is a writer, artist, wife to one, and mother to seven children. In her spare time she works on restoring her 100-year-old home and torturing her children with ill-fitting clothing.

When actions speak louder than words

By Chris

"They're not like us," she said, not even bothering to lower her voice as she looked around the room.

I looked at her, dumbstruck. I wanted to ask, "Not like us how? In skin color? In intellect? In socio-economic status? In religious beliefs? In political ideology? And most importantly, what about me makes you think that we are an us?"

But I didn't say anything. I was there to play with my children. I wasn't interested in confrontation. I didn't want to challenge anyone. I didn't want to have to step outside of my comfort zone.  And so I said what I fear most people would say under the circumstances -- I said nothing.

We were at the children's museum. My two-year-old was playing with a Duplo exhibit where you build a tower and then push button, causing the base to shake and simulate an earthquake. Next to us was a woman with her granddaughter, who was playing with the identical exhibit.

We had been in the room playing for a few minutes when an inner city school group came in. I'll admit that I groaned to myself when I saw the kids come running in with their boundless energy. The room had been so peaceful and empty. They were older children, but it quickly became apparent that they were a "special needs" class.

One boy came running over to the Duplo exhibit. He stood watching for a few minutes and then in a moment of impulsiveness reached over the little girl and pushed the button. The little girl's finger was pinched slightly by the vibrating base. She began screaming and instead of comforting her grandchild, the woman began yelling at the boy. The boy apologized several times and yet the woman kept over-reacting. Finally the chaperones intervened and led the boy off to the other side of the room.

"They don't teach their kids like we do," she said.

That was the final straw for me. I realized that by not stepping outside of my own complacency I was becoming an "us." And that was so distasteful to me that I felt bile rising in the back of my throat at the very idea.

"I teach my children compassion. I teach my children to do the right thing, even though sometimes it is easier not to," I said.

I turned and walked over to the boy who was standing with two of his chaperones. I put my hand on his shoulder. I felt him tense up. It seemed as if he was steeling himself for some sort of criticism, which made my soul incredibly sad.

"I just wanted to come over and tell you I saw what happened and I know it was an accident. I wanted to tell you that I thought you were awesome to apologize. Just because other people can't accept apologies with graciousness, don't let it stop you. You did the right thing. And sometimes that is all you can do."

He looked me in the eye for the first time and smiled.

And I smiled back.

The chaperones thanked me. "No, thank you," I said to them.

Silently I thought, thank you for reminding me the importance of standing up. Thank you for reminding me of the dangers of complacency. Thank you for reminding me that in this vast impersonal world one person can make a difference to another person, both positively and negatively. Thank you for reminding me that we teach our children with our actions as much as with our words.

I can only hope that the boy remembers it.

I can only hope that I remember it.

Chris is a writer, artist, wife to one, and mother to seven children. In her free time she works at rescuing her historic New England house from a century of neglect.