Decatur IL Moms

December Coffee with Amber – Ho Ho OH NO!

January – Imitation

decaturilmoms — Wed, 02 Jan 2013 14:17:20 +0000

As a parent, the phrase “imitation is the sincerest form of flattery” can have multiple meanings.

More often than not, the imitation our children do of us in our regular, mundane activities comes off as just ridiculously adorable. Seeing my three-year-old Chloe clomping around the house in my sensible flats (sorry, no high heels) or pulling a stool up to the kitchen counter to help with dinner just melts my heart.

Chloe has imitating me talking on my cell phone down to an art. She swipes the face of her Mickey Mouse cell phone gleefully, looking at some preschool Facebook that doesn’t exist. She cradles the phone on one shoulder reciting my most often used telephone phrases, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll call you later.”

She is just like me, I think, only smaller and cuter!

However, there is a downside to the way our children absorb our every word and action and reflect it back on us like a mirror. We don’t always say and do things we want to see repeated.

Some days my patience runs thin. I have a snappy reply to an often-repeated question. I sigh and rub my forehead too much.

Lately I have seen Chloe express her version of some of my crabbier moments in her own way.

Pushing her Minnie Mouse around the house in a plastic shopping cart, Chloe looks at her and scolds, “Minnie, I am trying to drive!”

Another day, I find her sitting at her little table scribbling furiously on a piece of paper with some crayons. When I ask her what she is doing, she replies, “I am trying to get some work done.” For effect, she even lifts her pudgy hand up in the “just one moment” way I often do to her.

Once I stop laughing at the hilarious nature of her comment, I wince. I hate to see her version of “grouchy mommy.”

A new year often means reevaluating our lives and how we desire to improve ourselves in the year ahead. I’m not much for resolutions. There isn’t a diet I can follow and I have no willpower to give anything up for long. The one thing I do want to do every year is to be a better mom.

Be more patient. Be more calm. Be more engaged.

Like anything, it is easier said than done. A resolution to remain calm can be easy to forget when I am standing outside in the snow arguing with Chloe to keep her coat on. A desire for more patience is tough when we finally get to the door to leave the house and Chloe dissolves into tears because she has decided she is both thirsty and needs a snack.

No mom is perfect. Not every day can end with a smile. Still, I strive to at least do better.

So I am hoping Chloe’s parrot-like abilities will help to keep me on track. Every time I can see myself in her actions, it reminds me to be a better mom and a better person.

Amber Lusvardi is a mom of daughters, college instructor, sometimes writer, and amateur Pinterester. She enjoys Diet Coke, sleeping past 6 a.m., and gardening.

November Coffee with Amber - Kimmy

October Coffee with Amber – Martyr Mommy

October Coffee with Amber – Martyr Mommy

November – Kimmy

decaturilmoms — Sat, 01 Dec 2012 02:49:19 +0000

When my daughter Kelsey was only six years old, I bought her a stuffed Komodo Dragon during a trip to the Shedd Aquarium in Chicago.

At the time, she had an unusual affinity for Komodo Dragons, and the animal became an instant hit. Dubbed “Kimmy,” the dragon joined Kelsey in all manners of play.

She treated Kimmy the way I assume other little girls treat their favorite doll. Kelsey assigned Kimmy a personality and even a voice she would use when talking as Kimmy. On any given night, we would hear Kimmy sliding through the house “talking” about her love of debauchery and eating people.

Kelsey would try to stretch the dresses that had been purchased for her American Girl doll over Kimmy’s long body so that she had a wardrobe. When that didn’t work out, she fashioned an old glove into a sweater for Kimmy.

So attached was Kelsey to the idea of her friend Kimmy that I once found her crying hysterically in her room when Kimmy’s flimsy, felt tongue had fallen off. Since I am a failure at sewing, Kimmy was shipped off to my mother’s house for “surgery.” My mom knitted Kimmy a skirt and purse for her “recovery” and that became a permanent part of her wardrobe along with the glove sweater.

Kimmy came along on all family trips. She could always be found lying next to Kelsey on the couch while she watched a movie or did homework. She even came along on trips to the zoo when we went to see real Komodo Dragons. Hundreds of photos were drawn of Kimmy by Kelsey. Songs were written both about Kimmy and “by” Kimmy.

In my crazy mom mind, I imagined Kimmy dressed up in her finest glove and attending Kelsey’s wedding someday with the rest of us. I couldn’t imagine a time when Kelsey would fail to find her stuffed animal funny and interesting.

Kelsey is now 13 years old and a little over a year ago I noticed I didn’t see Kimmy as much as I used to. She wasn’t there when we decorated the Christmas tree. Kelsey didn’t bring her along on a number of family trips. Instead of Kimmy sitting next to her on the couch, Kelsey was being kept company by her cell phone.

When I would inquire about where Kimmy was and why she wasn’t enjoying family time with us, Kelsey would shrug. “I guess she’s busy.”

A few days ago, I went into my three-year-olds room and there was Kimmy sitting on her bed, with her scratched-up plastic eyes and spotted glove sweater. “Chloe, have you been in Sissy’s room? Why do you have her Kimmy?” I asked with more than a hint of accusation in my voice.

“Sissy gived that to me,” Chloe replied innocently.

At first, I couldn’t believe it. Why would Kelsey give her little sister such a prized possession? Then I realized Kelsey was showing me what she couldn’t tell me. She was growing up. She didn’t need Kimmy anymore. At least, she didn’t need Kimmy as much as I wanted her to still need Kimmy.

I know that this isn’t the Velveteen Rabbit and Kimmy is just a toy, one of many my girls have. It is just that every time I look at that tired-out old Komodo Dragon, it brings back so many memories of Kelsey’s childhood. One glance at Kimmy, and I can still picture Kelsey sliding her down the stairway banister at our house after we first moved in. Or just keeping her company in the backseat of the car, perched on the pillow Kelsey had brought just for her to sit on.

So I told Chloe she was only borrowing Kimmy from Kelsey for now. Keeping the much-loved Komodo Dragon company as her sister grows into being a teenager.

I have an inkling that nostalgia may hit Kelsey someday and she will want Kimmy back. Maybe someday Kimmy will travel with her to her first dorm room or her first apartment. Maybe Kimmy will make her smile thinking of her childhood, as it does me.

Amber Lusvardi is a mom of daughters, college instructor, sometimes writer, and amateur Pinterester. She enjoys Diet Coke, sleeping past 6 a.m., and gardening.

Martyr Mommy – October

decaturilmoms — Wed, 31 Oct 2012 03:53:57 +0000

Martyr Mommy

I can’t say I’m proud of it, but sometimes I become afflicted by an alter ego I think of as Martyr Mommy.

The Martyr Mommy strikes at times when I start to feel sorry for myself when the demands of parenting seem overwhelming. For example when you A) Just want to sit on the couch and finish reading this magazine B) Want to talk on the phone for a total of 5 minutes without interruption C) Want to even finish a text message without interruption D) Wish you could sleep past 7 a.m. just ONE day out of the week E) WANT TO SIT IN PEACE FOR A FEW MINUTES AND JUST BE ABLE TO HAVE ONE SINGLE THOUGHT.

Never is my Martyr Mommy in rarer form than when I just. want. to. eat. my. meal. This applies to really any meal, but especially dinner. I’m not a big breakfast person and lunch is always a rush. However, by dinner, I would like to sit and eat without shoving huge forkfuls of food into my mouth just to be able to finish it before I have to jump up to refill someone’s milk cup.

I spend at least a half an hour making dinner, I would appreciate more than four minutes to hog-inhale it.

It probably seems like a small bother, to always be interrupted during dinner. It is just that I really enjoy eating (probably more than necessary), and that enjoyment is dampened with every cold and delayed bite.

A little incident at a restaurant sent my Martyr Mommy into full-on meltdown mode this week.

The family was eating dinner at Coz’s in Mount Zion and I was eagerly awaiting the arrival of my favorite plate of gluttony, a hamburger ponyshoe. My plate no sooner landed on the table than my three-year-old declared, “Mommy I have to go potty!” Considering how long I waited for Chloe to be potty trained, I should feel happy any time she asks to go to the bathroom. However, in this case, my desire for a cheese sauce-drenched hamburger outweighed my excitement over my child finally being potty trained.

I rushed Chloe to the bathroom in hopes that I could make it back to the table before my fries became unrecognizably soggy. When we returned to the table I had gotten no more than a single mouthful of food before she started begging me to take her back to the bathroom.

“I am sure it can wait,” I said to my newly-potty trained preschooler as I jammed food into my mouth with abandon. She did not relent. Her pleas for a second trip to the bathroom became louder and more insistent.

I threw my fork down and started marching her back to the bathroom. Only she hadn’t been lying. She really did have to go again. And apparently my delay caused her to not be able to hold it all the way to the bathroom.

So, the next 10 minutes were spent dealing with the aftermath of Chloe’s “accident.”

By the time Chloe and I returned to the table, the rest of our party was pretty much done eating. My uneaten plate of food sat there, with my cheese sauce starting to look hard and unappealing. Were I a person with better willpower, I would tell you I just forgot about eating that food. I have no willpower. I just shoveled the rest of that cold food in my mouth anyway.

By the time we left the restaurant, my Martyr Mommy self-pity meltdown was at an all-time high. I told my family I was going into a Zen state. I didn’t say a word in the car the entire ride home.

Later that night, with everyone in their pajamas getting ready for bed and a little space between me and my cold ponyshoe, I had a little laugh at my own expense. Of all the problems facing us as parents, I know I can’t dwell on the annoyance of mushy fries.

As a parent, it can be easy to let the little things get to you: the constant stream of toys littering the floor, the lack of calm and quiet, the requests that are ignored and then ignored some more.

I try to let most of it roll of my back. It isn’t always easy or even possible. Some days it is tempting to just shut myself in my bedroom, reading a book and eating dinner in bed in complete quiet.

My best way to combat Martyr Mommy is to try to keep some perspective. To laugh at myself and remember there will be plenty of time in old age to chew slowly. Our lives are busy and rushed and thus so are my phone conversations and my meals.

One day when the kids are older, our lives will quiet down. When that day comes, I am sure I will have a new reason for my self-pity; I will miss all the chaos.

Amber Lusvardi is a mom of daughters, college instructor, sometimes writer, and amateur Pinterester. She enjoys Diet Coke, sleeping past 6 a.m., and gardening.

September – Preschool Days

decaturilmoms — Mon, 08 Oct 2012 13:00:51 +0000

Preschool Days

I’m typically not a weepy person.

I rarely cry. I hate crying. I hate anyone seeing me cry. And honestly, I’m uncomfortable seeing anyone else cry as well.

So imagine my cold-hearted surprise when one week prior to my youngest daughter Chloe starting preschool I became a complete emotional basket case, with tears around every corner.

I felt like a blanket of sadness had been thrown over me all of the sudden. For months after I had signed Chloe up for preschool, all I had thought about were those six hours a week Chloe would be occupied and I would be free to do whatever I wanted. Now, my excitement had been replaced with apprehension. Just about anything made me feel weepy.

Glancing at Chloe’s Minnie Mouse backpack lined up in the hallway next to her big sister’s backpack brought me to tears. Seeing her tiny pink Radio Flyer tricycle inexplicably took my breath away. The clincher was having a phone conversation with her teacher. I barely hung up the phone fast enough to keep the delightful woman from hearing a few sobs from me.

I told my husband I felt like I was losing my mind. He seemed to agree.

“But maybe she just isn’t READY for preschool,” I said in defense of my irrational tears. “I think it is you who isn’t ready, Amber,” he replied.

So the first day of preschool came and I put on my best smile for Chloe’s sake. She seemed immune to my anxiety and was positively cheerful as I took the requisite first day photos and put her backpack on.

Driving to school I could feel my heart beating in my throat, but a look in the back seat revealed Chloe was smiling and humming to herself. My husband was right. She was ready. I was the holdout.

I got Chloe into her classroom. She dropped her backpack and ran to the bookshelf. She selected a book and sat down to read, without giving me a second glance. I smiled and blew Chloe a kiss goodbye.

I held my breath and made it all the way to the front doors of the school. Then the tears came. They just poured from my eyes. I made the ugly crying face. Sympathetic parents walking into the building gave me kind looks, and my pride didn’t even stop me from crying.

In five minutes I had probably cried more than I had in an entire year. As I pulled myself together in my car, I asked myself, “What is wrong with me?”

Of course, the answer is clear. Preschool is just the beginning. It is the start of a series of milestones of her growing older and growing away from that small, innocent baby I know.

For our long lives, the innocence of childhood lasts about a minute. The endearing moments of their young lives seem to be fleeting.

There are plenty of moments I will miss as Chloe grows older. I will miss hearing her tell her Minnie Mouse “I love you” and giving the dirty stuffed animal a kiss as she goes to bed at night. I will miss her wonder at the smallest things, like seeing a bunny in the yard or the way her oversized rubber duck bobs in the bathtub. I will miss her snuggling in my lap to read a book and laughing at my made up voices.

She has to grow up. She will grow up. I just find myself hanging onto these first years with all I have.

In no time at all I know she will be asking me to pierce her ears. Or let her dye her hair. She will want to go on a movie date with a boy. She will be embarrassed when I go with her to the mall or to the pool. I will eventually embarrass her in almost all situations.

If I am honest with myself, I know it will still be many years before Chloe is living the life of a preteen or a teenager even. That she is only three and has no ideas of leaving her mommy in the dust.

However, at that moment, as I left her behind at preschool to explore an entire new world on her own, I could see the whole world of changes that were ahead for her. That feeling was the essence of bittersweet. It took everything I had not to grab her out of that classroom and say, “Not so fast my dear, you are still my baby.”

Amber Lusvardi is a mom of daughters, college instructor, sometimes writer, and amateur Pinterester. She enjoys Diet Coke, sleeping past 6 a.m., and gardening.