Working for the weekend so I can work on the weekend

I feel like I crammed a week's worth of activity into this weekend.  Baseball, parties, painting, sick kid, furniture pick up, painting, painting, painting, and even a dinner date.

Gavin had (has?) a viral infection.  I took him to the doctor Friday morning, and the doctor gave me the impression that I didn't want to stray too far from him (say 45 minutes away from him at work while he was at the sitter) in case he spiked a fever because then he needed to get back to the doctor.  So, he spent the day with mommy.  It was really nice to have some one on one time with him even if he was a little whiney and pitiful.  We sort of made a mess in Silas' room because all of the toys are in Silas' room, and that is where I set up camp for the day.  Silas is supposed to pick his toys up every night before bed, so when he came home last night and discovered the mess, he promptly called me into his room to inquire what had happened.  I am now tasked with cleaning Gavin's mess after work.

Silas had his birthday party on Saturday.  Michael and I decided to do it together.  So, his camp and my camp partied it up at Chuck E Cheese.  It's so strange to me how all of this has turned out.  If someone had told me this time last year that I'd be hanging out and laughing at my kid's birthday party with Michael and his girlfriend, I would have smacked them.  

I was talking to Michael's mom about how strange it all is at baseball Saturday morning, and she said, "it's like this because you're both happy."  Simply put, and she's right.  It's easy because we're happy in our lives.  So, there is no animosity to make things hard.  I'm glad for that.

In the midst of the sickness and the partying, there was a house to paint.  You guys.  I don't even know how to begin to describe how much we have painted and painted and taped and painted.  I've never done this before.  Never been able to put my own stamp on a house.  Pick colors, watch a place be completely transformed.  Sweated and poured my heart into making something I can be proud of.

My Saturday night and Sunday morning were spent turning the boys' room from a horrific UT orange nightmare into a sweet baby blue and white.  It was just me and a paint brush and the local country radio station.  It felt so good to make this happen.  It made me smile to imagine tucking the boys into bed in this room that I poured my heart into for them.  I hate manual labor, and the previous owners of this house made a huge mess (orange paint on the ceilings, base boards, door knobs, closets - everywhere!).  But I painstakingly worked to remove every trace of orange from every surface of that room because I want it to be perfect for my boys. 

My parents, Jimmy, his sister and me worked miracles, y'all.  It is not quite finished, but it already looks like a completely different place, and I cannot wait to come home to it everyday.

When we finally called it quits last night, Jimmy and I showered and put on nice clothes and went to dinner.  Like, we actually had a real date.  It was fun to wear a dress and go somewhere together that wasn't geared toward children.  I'm not sure how a man manages to fall in love with a woman and stick around when she's constantly dragging him to places like Chuck E Cheese and t-ball and petting zoos, but lucky, lucky me!

This week is packing and finishing up the house repairs and painting.  Hopefully I'll be all moved in by this time next week.  Cross your fingers for us!

My kids and their favorites

The 4th birthday was a success.  I did all the things I promised to do.  Michael's mom picked Silas up from school and made his whole afternoon and evening special by taking him fun places and feeding him McDonald's and cake and buying him an Iron Man costume.  Michael called me at 7 and asked if Silas could just spend the night, so Silas also got a bonus night sans siblings with his favorite person in the world.  So, yay!

He did cry at drop off yesterday, but he didn't cry this morning.  I guess he's just keeping me on my toes.  This morning there was a doctor's appointment and shots (OMG, it was horrible and I felt awful!)  

I've decided this is the reason I am not Silas' favorite parent.  I drop him off everyday and make him cry, I take him to get shots, I give him a bed time so he can get up for school, I interrupt play time and make him take a bath.  You know, I do all the stuff he hates.  

Michael takes him to the circus and feeds him pizza and picks him up from the dreaded school and lets him stay up late because where do they have to be on a Saturday?  So, Michael = favorite.  Ugh.  Whatever.

Moving on...

Since Silas was off having a big boy night with dad, Gavin got a night at home sans siblings with me (okay and Jimmy).  We played ball for a little while and then he climbed all over Jimmy and fussed a lot because he was over tired.  See, I've noticed a pattern, and I'm beginning to think Jimmy might be Gavin's most favorite person in the world.  Jimmy is Gavin's go-to when he wants to play or when he doesn't feel good or when he just wants to chill with a bottle and snuggle and watch TV.  Basically just anytime.  

Apparently this is because I "smother" Gavin by giving him too many hugs and kisses and asking him to give me hugs and kisses and constantly smoosh his little face against mine and he doesn't really feel like being bothered with it as much as I feel like doing it.  Apparently, I should just sit passively and let him be.  Or so I have been told.  ("See how I just sit here and leave him alone and he doesn't squirm away?")  Ugh.  Yeah, whatever.

Is it too early to lecture Gavin about how I carried him for nine months, blood is thicker than water, I'M YOUR FREAKING MOM AND YOU WILL LOVE ME MORE THAN ANYONE ELSE UNTIL YOU HIT PUBERTY!...?  Yeah, maybe I'll wait until he's two.

He's freaking turning 4

Silas is supposed to get his iPad for 30 minutes before bed.  That is the rule.  Except I suck at enforcing the rule.  

When you spend your day like this: wake up, curse alarm clock, shower, makeup, find clothes, put on, wake children, feed children, fight children into clothing, drop off first child, feel guilt when he cries, drop off second child, fight traffic, woooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooork, fight traffic, pick up children, driiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive home, make dinner, feed children, bathe children, put children to bed....you basically flip off your mommy switch when the house goes quiet (until one of them wakes up and needs something, then you turn on the dimmer switch to low, deal with it and flip it back off as quickly as possible).  

So, most of the time, I only remember to take his iPad away when he makes the mistake of laughing out loud and reminding me he has it or when I head down the hall to my own bed and see the light still shining.  Yes, I'm aware this makes me a terrible parent.  I try to balance it out in other ways.

Well, last night, I fell asleep and forgot about it completely.  Yes, even worse parenting.  I know.  I know.  I'll make him eat something organic as penance.  

This morning, he was a real peach, let me tell you.  Despite the fact that he has been dressing himself for at least a year, he had somehow lost all ability to remove a shirt or put on a pair of shorts.  He just whined, "you do it mommy!"  (And I did because despite how much I try to deny it, I spoil my kids).

Obviously, I was expecting a full on meltdown at drop off.  My concern only heightened when he spotted a teacher eating donuts (his favorite thing in life) and pointed and raised his eyebrows.  I nervously laughed it off and said, those are her donuts, baby.  I'll get you some for tomorrow.  Then I held my breath.

It was time for the kiss goodbye and the tears and the stern, "you have to go join your class, baby.  I love you. Have a great day!"  Except, I gave him a kiss, and he trotted off and sat down with his class.  No tears.

In shock, I scooted toward the gym exit and peaked back over my shoulder expecting his big brown eyes welled up with tears and a "mommy, don't go!."  Nope.  He was immersed in the movie they were watching and laughing.  

No tears!!!  

Maybe it's a fluke (please don't let it be a fluke), or maybe it's that he's finally adjusting.  Either way, it felt so good to be leaving him happy at the start of the day.

Tomorrow he turns 4.  And I am totally going to hop him up on sugar by giving him donuts for breakfast and wake him up to balloons and take treats to school he can share with his class.  This weekend, we're going to party with everyone's favorite rat (it's kind of a long and annoying story as to why we're doing the same thing this year as last year).  And I'm going to spend the week fighting tears until I adjust to my very first baby turning 4.

This time 4 years ago, I was preparing to embark on the best journey I have ever taken.  Nothing else could ever compare to being a mom to my kids.  My Silas is the one who showed me the ropes.

Happy (almost) birthday to my (still my baby) big boy!

It’s official.

My little family has a house.  A house!!!!!

Friday night, a bunch of us went over to look at it.  Silas bounced around completely excited about his new room and the new play room and the backyard (with a peach tree.  “Mom, can we go look at our peach tree?!”)

Jimmy and I were giddy over so many things.  Like, having a closet that is the size of our current bathroom.  Normally a man could care less about a closet, but when you currently share a closet the size of a shoebox with a clothes hoarder….you care.

Speaking of bathrooms, there are 2.5 in our new house.  That includes five sinks and three toilets.  You have no idea how much this is going to change my life.  No more being evicted in the middle of doing my makeup so someone else can brush his teeth or use the potty. 

There is a laundry room.  Right now, my washer and dryer are in the hallway.  The hallway is narrow and the dryer is directly next to my bedroom door and the bathroom.  So, trying to fold clothes is a whole bunch of shuffling around to let people pass.  Or, folding in the living room or bedroom and risking having my piles trampled repeatedly.  No more!

The dishwasher.  OMG, you guys a dishwasher!  Don’t take those suckers for granted.  No more dish pan hands.  And cabinets.  A place to store dishes!  No more leaving half of our cups and  bowls and pans in the drying wrack because there is no room in the cabinets.

A fireplace, ceiling fans.  So many closets.  Right now, we literally have two closets.  That is one overstuffed with my (and a few of poor Jimmy’s) clothes and one overstuffed with Silas and Gavin’s clothes.

My bedroom has 2 chest of drawers holding everyone’s clothes.  Jimmy has one drawer, Silas has two drawers, Gavin has one drawer, and I have four drawers.  My bedroom is the size of most guest bedrooms…when those guest bedrooms are on the small side.  Our sheets and blankets are nearly toppling out of the tops of our closets.  Our towels are bursting from a cabinet purchased from target.  By Monday morning, our bathroom sink is overrun with makeup and toothpaste tubes (we all use a different kind) and electric razors and hand soap and combs and a blow dryer.

So, I think you have the picture.  It’s crowded, and we have no storage space.  When my mom found out I was pregnant with Vivian, she said, “so, it’s probably time to get a bigger place unless you plan to start hanging the children from hooks in the hallway.”

Now, the new house needs painting.  That’s not just because the previous owners had terrible taste in paint colors (UT orange, midnight blue, some weird purpley-magenta).  They also had absolutely no concern for taping off and keeping things neat and tidy or painting enough coats to actually cover the walls.  There’s paint on the ceilings, paint on the outlets, paint all over the trim.  The paint on the walls is streaky.  Some walls are so covered in dirt and marker that streaky paint would be an upgrade.

Overall, though, I’m elated.  I look forward to getting everything painted and getting moved in.

And rumor has it, someone is getting a swing set for his fourth birthday (OMG, he turns 4 Wednesday….waaaaaaaaaaaaaah!) to put in his new back yard so he can look at his peach tree from the top of a slide.

A compilation

Every post I have tried to write lately has turned into a (long-winded) rant.  I'm all for sparing you those, especially since most of them are hormone-driven.

This is going to be my final attempt to (briefly) cover what is on my mind.

MARRIAGE
No, I'm not married.  No, Jimmy and I are not planning to get married before Vivian is born. Yes, that is okay with me.  No, I don't feel like I should be ashamed of my "situation."  

I don't really think marriage has anything to do with being an awesome parent.  I don't even think marriage has anything to do with commitment anymore.  My relationship is happy, stable, healthy, and in no way a problem for Silas, Gavin, or Vivian.  

You can be all weird and judgey if you want.  Just stop talking to me about it because I'm happy and you're (not you specifically, you who are doing this collectively) trying to bring me down.

BASEBALL
I hate baseball.  It's boring.  It's especially boring when you're pregnant and can't drink beer while watching it.

Except I found an exception to the baseball is boring rule.

T-ball.

I have never seen anything more adorable or hilarious than watching my son's team (and the opposite team) play baseball on Saturday.

Quite often  a kid would hit the ball and then just stand there until compelled to run.  Other times, the kid would hit the ball and sprint toward 3rd.  And one kid (I swear he was about as tall as Gavin and so cute it was painful) made a b-line straight for 2nd every time.  Most of the time, more than one kid was on each base.

The outfield was a jumble of children and parents/coaches.  There were no less than 3 kids covering every base.  None of them understood that they were supposed to try to catch the ball and tag the runner out.  Parents laughed uncontrollably while trying to help their kids through the process.  Coaches kindly and patiently instructed as much as they could.

It was awesome.  And I definitely look forward to the rest of the season.  (Please note: all other baseball is still terrible).

FOOTBALL
You guys?  It's fall-ish (if you live in Texas, I know you just rolled your eyes because it's still 100 degrees outside, but bare with me).  Which means football has returned.  (My heart is racing just thinking about it).

Jimmy feels almost as warm and fuzzy about football as I do about baseball.  But he kindly put the game on and watched it with me Sunday.

It was the first time he'd seen me watch football, and I could tell he was highly amused.  I expected him to sit quietly and endure the 3.5 hours, but he actually got excited and interested in the game.

After it was over, he said, and I quote, "watching football with you might just make me like it again."

Oh. It. Will.

SICK KIDS
Gavin has been sick.  Yesterday was the worst of it.  He woke up at 4 a.m., and he just was not having any of going back to sleep.

He was miserable, and we were both tired.

It's times like that when I see just how much Jimmy loves us and how great a dad he's going to be for Vivian. (And how totally lucky I am to have him).

I think if I took a poll of all my friends, at least half of them would tell you that their husbands/kids' fathers would sleep right through a 4 a.m. waking with a sick kid.

Jimmy got up and did everything he could to help me console Gavin and make him feel better.  He went to work outside in the heat all day already exhausted.  He didn't have to do that, but he genuinely loves us past the point of selfishness.

It's a beautiful thing.

CHEATER, CHEATER
Many of the blogs I read spotlight a television show each week and dissect the most recent episode.  I don't do that because my attention span isn't that long.  

However, I watched the season premiere of Sons of Anarchy last night and was seriously pissed off by the time it ended (not like last year when they killed Opie but pissed all the same).  Jimmy couldn't stop laughing at me and repeating, "it's just a show" like that was going to change anything.

SPOILER ALERT - DO NOT READ ANY FURTHER IF YOU HAVE NOT WATCHED IT.
I guess I'm drastically changing as I get older and collect more life experience because I am seriously annoyed at the writers for the whole Jax cheating on Tara while she's in prison because of him thing.  It literally made me sick to my stomach to think about it (and I was not a perfect angel in my younger days).

And, Jimmy's right, it's just a show.  But I need them to STOP ruining Jax for me.  I know he's an imaginary outlaw biker and all, but can't he be a faithful imaginary outlaw biker?  

They downgraded his hotness for me, and that is unacceptable.

THE END
Okay, I think we made it without me going off on too bad a tangent.  Until next time.

Parenting with an anxiety disorder

One of my favorite blogs (Rants from Mommyland) does a series of "Domestic Enemies" posts.  They're about all the roadblocks that get in the way of moms with different backgrounds, circumstances, disorders, etc. just trying to raise their kids.

I have been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder.  It pairs nicely with my serious bouts of depression.  Combined, the two make it pretty interesting to live my life much less raise my kids.  

Over the last year, I have finally been put on a medication that has changed my life.  "Changed my life" is such a dramatic, overused statement, but, man, when it's true, it's true.  

I still have an anxiety disorder.  There are still days when it takes hold and drags me through the roller coaster no matter how hard I protest.  The difference is that I no longer live like that every day, which means I'm far less exhausted and have far more energy and focus to devote to raising my kids and living my life.

Anyway, here are a few fun things I have faced as a mom with an untreated (and sometimes treated) anxiety disorder.

The news
For a long time, I thought I could not force myself to watch the news because it was boring.  Then I got older and realized I actually care about what is happening in the world.  So, I began to try to watch the news regularly.  Funny thing about that, I also began to legitimately fear, well, everything.  Some part of my brain translated "this happened in your general neck of the woods" to "this is absolutely going to happen to you or your loved one." So, I decided to just get my news where I could and avoid the 10 o'clock rundown of things to keep me awake for the night.  (I still cannot watch the news, even medicated.)

TV generally
Before I had Silas, I developed an obsession with crime shows.  Then I started sleeping on the couch with a loaded 9mm on the coffee table because I convinced myself a serial killer was going to be my fate.  Now, I am no longer allowed to watch crime shows, and I no longer have the 9mm.  

But my brain can do it with so many things on TV. 

TV dramas were absolutely out of the question.  Everything sad, scary, or dramatic was reason to start worrying something bad was going to happen to someone I love.  Because they showed me how easily those things could come together and happen.

Commercials?  The military ones about parents supporting their kids in joining?  I'd have myself convinced my kids were going to be deployed the next day before it was done.

Baby commercials (diapers, formula, Cheerios, pull ups)?  I was destroying my kids' lives by going to work instead of staying home and being there for every milestone.

Talk shows? All it took was one episode of Maury for me to be terrified my kids were going to be selling drugs and joining gangs by age 11 (if you could see the town where I live, you'd laugh).  I spent considerable time trying to figure out what went wrong in those kids' lives and making a plan to try to avoid it with mine.  (They came from a broken home?  Just count me out on life for a few days while I talk myself back down from this panic attack).

Speaking of panic attacks
Have you ever had one?  Mine stopped me dead in my tracks (at work, in my kitchen, out with my friends, driving down the freeway in my car - didn't matter).  It was as if someone had dropped a brick on my chest and shrunk my windpipe to the size of a straw.  My heart would race.  I'd sweat.  I'd feel the need to escape but feel trapped and unable to get free.  All of this while my brain spun horribly out of control obsessing over whatever it was that had triggered it (which sometimes was something so far in the back of my mind that I could not place it to deal with it.)  These things were almost never anything that required that level of panic, and I knew that, but I could not stop it.  It generally morphed into "I cannot breathe, and I'm going to die" before it was over.  

I had to stop whatever I was doing and focus all of my attention on resolving a way to move forward in the face of whatever that thing was in that moment that had me fearing my world was about to come crashing down around me.  And when it was finally over, I was so bone weary exhausted, I wanted to stop the day and just go to bed.  But I had a job and children and responsibilities to regroup and train my focus on - what little of it I had left.

At my worst, this was happening to me several times a week and sometimes several times in a day.

People telling me "don't worry about it"
"You worry too much." "You're going to give yourself a heart attack." "It's not that big a deal, stop worrying." "Don't worry about it, it will all work out." "I don't understand why you worry so much."

Not a single person I had ever lived with could understand the way my brain worked.  I'd freak out about something (something most people would find trivial or at least not as big a deal as it was to me or not a realistic threat to me in the least), and I'd inevitably be told to just stop worrying about it.  Don't you think if I could, I would?!  I had the incredible ability to convince myself that if there was even a remote possibility that something bad could happen, that it had basically already happened and deserved my full and undivided obsession until resolved to my satisfaction.  To other people, this translated to me being crazy.  And I was called crazy many, many times.  And being called crazy so often by people who supposedly loved me made me fear that maybe I was crazy and was going to be committed and lose my children.  That isn't a joke.  I spent a lot of energy on that.  It has kept me awake at night.

Side note: You have absolutely no idea the peace of mind it brought me to somehow stumble into a relationship with someone else who has an anxiety disorder.  Someone who has lived what I have lived.  Someone who has been crippled by anxiety attacks.  Someone who knows this is a real issue and not something I'm making up for attention.  Just knowing that he completely understands, sympathizes, and is never going to tell me I'm crazy because of the way my brain is wired is amazing.  It's like being given a gift.  We all want someone to understand when we feel a part of us is different, and I am lucky enough to finally have that.

Bills/money
The very first time I remember having a panic attack, I was 18.  I was in college on a full scholarship.  I had no real bills.  But somehow, in the driver's seat of my car in the Hollywood Movie store parking lot, I lost all ability to reason with myself about money and descended into a full on panic attack.  I had somehow convinced myself that I was going to be homeless in the very near future.  My boyfriend at the time (unfortunately for him, he was in the car) was floored.  He tried over and over again to attack the situation with logic, but it didn't matter.  Logic was just not going to play a role in this event.

Since then, my relationship with money has gotten no better - even medicated.  I have never been homeless or not been able to buy food or not been able to get diapers for my kids.  I'm surrounded by people who would never let me or my kids drown.  But every time pay day gets near, I go through a few days of non-stop anxiety over my bills even when I know I have plenty of money to pay everything and more (lord help us all if there is an unforeseen expense that I don't know how to cover).  That is at least twice a month, every month for the last 13 years.  It was bad before I had kids, but the added pressure of worrying I'm going to be the cause of their homelessness or starvation (again, legitimate, although completely unnecessary fears) has exacerbated the situation.

Sleep
What parent that you know consistently gets enough sleep?  None.  Our kids start their lives completely dependent on us day and night, and we are hard wired to meet those needs at the expense of absolutely anything - including our precious sleep.  

Then they get older and start to get sick, have nightmares, wet the bed, become teenagers who stay out too late...  I mean, basically, you just stop expecting to ever get a full 8 hours once your kids land on the scene.

And that makes the loss of sleep the absolute worst part of parenting with an anxiety disorder.  In bed, lights out, completely exhausted, want nothing more than to blissfully drift off into dream land, and yet, your brain will not shut down.  Will not stop worrying, obsessing, making lists, making plans, trying to fix things.  So, you spend night after night staring at the clock bleary eyed and exhausted but completely unable to make it stop.  

It doesn't make for a particularly well-rested, super patient, super awesome to be around mommy.  That I assure you.



As I mentioned, I still deal with anxiety.  I still obsess over things other people wouldn't.  However, admitting I could not do it alone, talking to my doctor, and then working with her to find the right dosage of the right medication has changed everything.  (I have had exactly one panic attack in months.)

Admitting I needed help was almost completely overwhelming because I had spent so many years being told I was crazy.  Telling a doctor about the things I was experiencing and having it written in a medical record was terrifying.  It was a constant struggle between my sense of logic and my anxiety to finally get myself to a doctor and say the words out loud.  

As a matter of fact, writing this and posting it on the internet for anyone in the world to see is scary as hell.

But because I know the cyclical, illogical, and crippling nature of dealing with this and raising kids, I want to put this out there for even the few of you who read my blog in hopes that it will somehow help someone else.

As a mom with an anxiety disorder, let me speak for all parents with anxiety disorders when I say, it is real, and we are not crazy.  Our brains just work differently than yours.  We can still be great parents, great employees, great spouses, great friends, and all around generally good people.  

If you love us, encourage us.  Reassure us that it's okay to ask for help.  Sit back and listen.  Walk away if it is more than you can handle.  But whatever you do, do not get frustrated and try to convince us we are crazy.  In doing that, you are making it even harder for us to find the courage to get the help we need to be better parents, better employees, better spouses, better friends, and all around generally better people.  And I assure you, that is all we want - to get better.

Out of the mouths of babes

Here's the thing.  I am a Christian.  But I cannot claim that I am a very good Christian.  

I can honestly say that I pray every day.  Every night before I go to bed, I talk to God about my family and ask for help raising my kids, etc.  I make sure to say a prayer of thanks quite often.  Sometimes for a specific thing that happens.  Sometimes just because I am so thankful for my life and the way it has turned out.  I seek God in times of trial and heartache.  Sometimes I even just chit chat with God about things I'm puzzling out in my life as I drive down the road.

I have no trouble talking to people about my beliefs.  I never seek to hide those beliefs.  If someone has questions, I take what I know and do my very best to explain things the way they have been explained to me.  

I do not attend church.  I have my reasons, and I do miss a lot about it all the time.  Jimmy and I have had lengthy discussions about getting back into church and what kind of church we'd like to attend.  

It weighs heavily on me that I haven't had my kids in church from jump.  It is my responsibility to introduce them to some sort of faith.  What they choose to believe as adults is just that - their choice.  But I am supposed to plant the seed for them to embark on that journey for themselves.  

I honestly cannot say that I believe everything the church believes.  Not any church I have ever attended.  Sometimes I just flat out disagree with things said from the pulpit.  However, I do believe quite a lot of it, and I want my children exposed to those facets of my beliefs.  Again, they have to make up their own minds about what makes sense to them as far as a "religion" later in life.

While I cannot say I've done a very good job of imparting these beliefs to my kids (well, Silas, really), that is not to say they know absolutely nothing.  Silas and I have had talks about God.  I have read to him from children's bibles and prayer books.  He's seen a million Veggietales.  So, he's had some exposure.  Just not consistent exposure.  And that does bother me.

So, with all that said, it made me very happy to learn that Silas' preschool is a Christian preschool.  It was explained to me that they teach the kids the basic stories from the Bible (I'm assuming Noah and the ark, Daniel and the lions den, David and Goliath, etc.).  They have a chapel service on Wednesdays.  There are bible verses all over the school.  And, apparently, they pray at mealtime.  

Last night, Jimmy and I made dinner, and I made Silas a plate.  I sat it at his table and was finishing making my own.  I heard Silas pipe up, "hands together, pray" and he began to try to say the prayer they say before meals at school.

Jimmy and I looked at each other and were both grinning from ear to ear.

I asked, "Silas, do you want us all to pray?"  He nodded his head and smiled.

Jimmy and I put our hands together, bowed our heads, and closed our eyes, and I told Silas to go ahead.  He tried a couple of times and then looked at me lost.  He didn't quite know all the words to the prayer yet, but he knew enough of it for me to figure out that it was the exact same prayer I said before every meal as a child.  

It was such an amazing moment for him to have initiated this for our family.  I wanted him to see that 1) it is important to us because it is important to him and 2) I am always there to support him and help him in his spiritual journey with the knowledge that I do have.

So, I asked, "Silas, do you want mommy to say the prayer and then you can tell me if it is the same one you say at school?"  Again, he smiled and nodded.

So, I said the prayer (stumbling a little myself) and then asked if I did it right when we were done.  I had done it right.  The smile on his face was priceless, and the whole exchange made me incredibly proud of him.

Something I should have taught him a long time ago, he brought home himself and made a new part of our dinner routine.  

So, while preschool is still tough in the mornings, and I originally enrolled him in it to prepare him for kindergarten, it is paying off in a much more important way.  It is making the very basic elements of Christianity a part of his life, and thereby, reminding me that I need to be reinforcing them at home.

For that, I said a prayer of thanks.