What's your lovey?
I’m on a readers’ panel advisory board for a parenting magazine. Before you start to get impressed, let me nip that in the bud. All it involved was shooting them an email stating I’d participate in monthly email requests for reader participation.
Back in the summer they were fishing for unique ways to make the getting ready for school routine easier. Hmmm. Just how do you coax a teenager out from under the covers? Humanely. I’ve tried turning the light on. Pulling his bedding off him. Kissing his face until he shrieks. Finally the threat of I am NOT driving you to school if you are late, eventually has him stumbling from his bed. Not exactly a technique to share.
Then before the holidays, I received a few emails from the magazine looking for holiday memories and traditions to share with other readers. Again, my mind drew a blank and, with a click of the mouse, the emails went into the trash file before I could let myself stew over the fact that I had nothing worth writing about.
The latest request had me tapping my chin. They wanted to know about a special lovey or favorite toy your child had become attached to. Both of the boys had pacifiers they couldn’t live without for the first two years of their lives. Then they carried around stuffed animals and little pillows I made for them. Again, nothing very remarkable.
But then there’s my daughter and her special go-to for comfort. My mole. Weird, I know, and believe me, I didn’t write in to the magazine about this either. (Not sure what’s possessing me to share it here…) I have a mole on my collarbone that she discovered back when she was breastfeeding. I don’t even remember when she first started touching it, but somehow it became a source of comfort for her.
Now, whenever she is upset or can’t get to sleep or just needs to be comforted, her hand will find its way inside my shirt until her fingers touch my mole. We tease her about it, call it the magic mole or momma’s mole and the boys taunt her with, “Moley, moley, mole!” until she squeals. I told her this morning I was going to have Santa bring her her own mole for Christmas and have it put right on her collarbone. Then she could touch it whenever she wanted. She just grinned and said, “No, Momma. I like yours.”
Back in the summer they were fishing for unique ways to make the getting ready for school routine easier. Hmmm. Just how do you coax a teenager out from under the covers? Humanely. I’ve tried turning the light on. Pulling his bedding off him. Kissing his face until he shrieks. Finally the threat of I am NOT driving you to school if you are late, eventually has him stumbling from his bed. Not exactly a technique to share.
Then before the holidays, I received a few emails from the magazine looking for holiday memories and traditions to share with other readers. Again, my mind drew a blank and, with a click of the mouse, the emails went into the trash file before I could let myself stew over the fact that I had nothing worth writing about.
The latest request had me tapping my chin. They wanted to know about a special lovey or favorite toy your child had become attached to. Both of the boys had pacifiers they couldn’t live without for the first two years of their lives. Then they carried around stuffed animals and little pillows I made for them. Again, nothing very remarkable.
But then there’s my daughter and her special go-to for comfort. My mole. Weird, I know, and believe me, I didn’t write in to the magazine about this either. (Not sure what’s possessing me to share it here…) I have a mole on my collarbone that she discovered back when she was breastfeeding. I don’t even remember when she first started touching it, but somehow it became a source of comfort for her.
Now, whenever she is upset or can’t get to sleep or just needs to be comforted, her hand will find its way inside my shirt until her fingers touch my mole. We tease her about it, call it the magic mole or momma’s mole and the boys taunt her with, “Moley, moley, mole!” until she squeals. I told her this morning I was going to have Santa bring her her own mole for Christmas and have it put right on her collarbone. Then she could touch it whenever she wanted. She just grinned and said, “No, Momma. I like yours.”
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Jennifer