Oasis

Why is it that in a busy household, with busy little children, that the parents room is always the last place to be cleaned?

Isn't the parental bedroom supposed to be and oasis, a retreat you can turn to when chaos is happening on the other side of the closed door?

You'd sure think so. Though, sadly, not in my house. My room seems to be the catchall: the library, the office, the storeroom for out-of-season clothing tubs, the craft room, the "company is coming, throw it all in here" room. All held within a 10'x10', maybe 10'x12', space.

That's what happens, I suppose, when one lives in a two bedroom duplex, roughly 900 square feet, with two kids and two adults and no garage. And when one has a sewing hobby, a huge book collection, and a penchant for keeping outgrown boys clothes to use for the next child. Also when one has a husband, whom has hobbies of his own that take up space and two little boys who love Legos, trains, books, Star Wars, and Hot Wheels.

I need a garage. A place to store all that seldom used, but still needed stuff. Camping gear, sleeping bags, luggage, baby toys, maternity clothes, outgrown boy clothes, out of season clothes (i.e. summer/winter), picnic baskets, canning jars, ice cream maker, tools... you get the point I assume.

Well, having gotten tired of the messy, cluttered, dusty room I live in, today I decided to clean it. Now the living room is messy and cluttered! At least until I figure out some new homes for all the things I had stuffed into this little room.

Now, I have big plans for my oasis. A new coat of paint in a serene and calming color, some shelves mounted above the desk, some new curtains to replace the failing closet doors, a complete clean out of old clothes from that closet, I think some new linens are in order, and... maybe...yes I think so... A big sign on the bedroom door reading, "NO CLUTTER ALLOWED! THIS IS MOM'S OASIS."

My baby turns 3!

"Hey, Owen" I said to him.

"What?" he replied.

"Whose birthday is it?" I asked him.

"Uh, Owie's" he said.

"How old are you?"

"Uh, twee" he said, his little lips turned up at the corners in a happy little smile.

That's right, my baby has turned three. No longer a baby at all. My little spitfire, my fierce little warrior child. How time does go by.

I remember well being pregnant with him. I was so very sick, at times I thought I would simply wither away with sickness. I remember all the painful jabs, pokes and kicks he made me suffer. Even in the womb, I could tell this little one was going to be a handful, and how much that is the understated truth!

I am so grateful God blessed me with my Owen Henry. He knew I was well equipped to handle all that this one could throw at me. Owen is certainly a strong force of nature and he needs an equally strong hand to handle him. Since before he even crossed his first birthday, discipline has been a daily necessity. This smallest boy of mine is so full of life and eager to experience everything without exception. Which can cause a mother to be anxious, indeed, since he has no fear in him. New places, in which he does not know the boundaries, pose a real threat to him, not though that he is aware of it. Countless times have I realized that just one more step would have seen him tumbling down a cliff-side, or in direct line of traffic, or lost in a large department store, or in over his head in a backyard swimming pool. In such times I am so thankful that God has equipped me to be his mother, with watchful eyes and a need to protect.

When we named this child three years ago, little did we know that he would become the epitome of what his name means:

The Irish form of Owen means born to nobility.

The Celtic and Welsh form means young fighter, young warrior.

All forms of Henry mean ruler of the home, or ruler of his household.

We have early come to see that our Owen is certainly a fighter, a little warrior that defends his home, his family with fervor. 

I expect that God has a plan for my youngest child. I expect that Owen will enjoy a full life, full of passion. I am privileged to be his mother, with the opportunity to shape his character and teach him about the life God has for him. 

Happy Birthday, little one.

The going rate: $2

I knew it before, yet it was reinforced again tonight. I have a very tender-hearted son. He is such a gift, sweet to the core.

=====

It all started when Padraic watched as I paid a bill online with a few mouse clicks and then checked my Excel spreadsheets to see how the family budget was faring. Learning much about money values in school, Padraic spoke up when he saw all the dollar amounts on the screen and he began to read them.

"You did not really pay them money," Padraic told me, speaking of the bill I had just paid online. "You would have to send them a check for that."

I thought that a little lesson in how the banking system worked was in order. I got out some cash I had on hand, my bank debit card and my checkbook. The lesson involved teaching him how each worked and the systems behind them. The lesson moved onto the family budget I had before me on the spreadsheets; how much I paid for each bill, what the total of all the monthly bills amounted to and how much was left over for things like groceries, clothes and toys. After that, the lesson flowed onto where did that money come from.

"From the bank," Padraic replied.

Naturally.

Surely, from the bank, but how does the money get in the bank? He was perplexed. This brought us into a discussion about The Painter; how daddy goes to work, no, not for free; his boss pays him money to work all day and do a good job. Daddy then takes that money and deposits it into our bank  so the bank can keep it there for us.

"Daddy is lucky," I said. "He gets paid for his work. No one pays me," I said.

"But, Mom, you don't work."

Gasp! Yes, the poor child really said that to me. Let me enlighten the boy.

"What is this? I don't work? Who do you think takes care of you and your brother all day? Who cooks all the meals for you? I'm a chef, you eat at my restaurant and you don't ever pay me."

His little eyes grow rounder and rounder as I talk.

"Who do you think does all the cleaning and laundry and shopping around here? How about teaching? I teach you things all the time. Does your teacher at school get paid to teach you all day? You bet she does! Yet, no one ever pays me to teach you.

"But you know what? I do get paid. I get paid in love," I tell him as I hug him tight. "I get paid in hugs and kisses and love to be your mother and do all those other things."

=====

At dinner, this same night, I cooked a meal and we all had eaten it. As I was cleaning up, I asked Padraic if he was going to pay his bill now. Owen, the little one, quickly handed me his imaginary money as payment. As I held out my hand for Padraic's imaginary money too, his eyes brightened up and he asked how much I charged for his dinner. $2, I told him. He scurried off and promptly came back with a $2 bill he had been saving in his wallet for a long time.

"Here, Mom. I want you to have some money. I can't pay you all the time. But sometimes, I will."