Summertime Rolls

It occurred to me tonight that we have 5 weeks left of summer. It's gone by surprisingly fast, and really, 5 weeks seems plentiful in terms of having a few more fun adventures in store for the Ropkos.

I am not feeling very inspired these days. Perhaps I'm still feeling the malaise of last week's stomach funk. Or maybe I'm just the mom of two small children, and let's face it, that's exhausting no matter how you slice it.

I had a doctor's appointment this morning. My mom and dad were kind enough (and excited, too) to take Heath to his swim lesson, and of course, Stella accompanied them as well. I wasn't really looking forward to the doctor, but I have to say, I usually enjoy the time in the waiting room (unless it takes more than 10 minutes, then I start to feel irritated) so I can catch up on some magazine reading. And I was grateful to not have to lug two children who would not enjoy a waiting room. Well, they would, because the number of chairs to obsessively climb in and out of (and possibly turn over), and stacks of magazines on tables to dump, and plants to pick, would be most appealing. Sitting and waiting. Quietly. My children are not made for that. And then moving on to the actual room to see the doctor--I can only begin to imagine, with great horror--what might happen if they got hold of a box of rubber gloves and ultrasound gel. So I happily did the visit solo.

But in light of my malaise, I didn't feel like perusing parenting magazines for Taming Toddler Tantrum Tips, or Top 5 Reasons All Moms Should Breastfeed, or Picking the Perfect Ride for Your Precious Cargo (Choosing a Stroller). Just when I was ready to settle in and try to think nothing, a woman wrestled a double umbrella stroller through the tight squeeze of a doorway, and hurriedly pushed her way over to the counter to check in. Two little blonde girls, roughly the same age as Heath and Stella, sat sweetly in their seats. They didn't budge. They didn't fuss. They quietly looked around the room, smiling shyly at everyone. Not a peep, not a sound, not an uttertance.

Until...

Their mother got busy with insurance cards and appointment scheduling and not wanting to see a Nurse Practitioner and form-filling-out. In no time, the biggest of the saintly sisters began to poke the little sister. In the head. The ear. The eye. She removed her bow, threw it on the ground. The littlest of the gals began soft complaints that were practically coos, but the bow ripping from the hair was the last straw. She wanted out of the seat. She kicked. She arched her back. She threw her fists around and fiercely shook her head, all accompanied by gutteral shrieking. Meanwhile, the big sis decided it was time to get out, too. Being roughly three-ish, all she had to do was stand up, tipping the stroller forward. Without missing a beat, the mom plopped a flip-flop on the back of a wheel to keep it steady, and finished her paper work without a single glance at the girls, who were suddenly silently settled back into their ride. Their mom kicked up the stroller brake and zoomed over to an available couch, bending down to swiftly scoop up the abandoned pink bow en route.

Because I'm typically caught up in the process of mellowing my own kids from their struggles, I don't always have the opportunity to watch kids completely unglue themselves. It was interesting to observe. Maybe it's just these two girls, but without a single word from their mother, not even a glance, their unhinged moment came, then moved right along like an easy breeze in the air. Well, maybe not an easy breeze. More like a quick summer storm. Yes, there's thunder, lightening, rain, flash-flooding, and sometimes golf-ball sized hail. Yes, it's furious and interrupts your momentary plans. But it's fast, and you can pretty much pick up where you left off once it has moved along. It's natural; just part of the process.

But I rarely think that with my own kids. I think it's unnatural. It's weird. Or, even more self-centered, I think it's because I haven't done something right. Letting it run its course doesn't come easily for me.

Tonight when Heath was trying desperately to shoot the basketball into our newly freed and deweeded basketball court area (a.k.a., the end of our driveway), I watched as he began the process of becoming unglued. It's too hard. This basketball isn't working. I can't get it. He whined. He cried. He stomped his feet. I kept shooting with him, occasionally acknowledging that it's frustrating to miss, but I kept reminding him (and myself) how great he's doing. You're 3, using an adult-sized basketball, that's awesome. I can't even get it in the net every time. You're doing great. But I also just kind of kept my trap shut, and kept shooting. And he did, too. He didn't give up. He didn't fall into a complete heap of an unrepairable mess. He didn't chuck the ball at Stella's head. He reasonably expressed his emotions. Emotions that are natural. I think I keep forgetting that.

He even made a few baskets. Now, if we can get jumping, shooting, and driving to the basket, combined with a healthy dose of emotional regulation, Heath could be an excellent swingman in the ACC.