10 Things I Love About Being A Boy’s Mother 0 0

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I always wanted a baby girl. Besides the obvious self-interest in trying to create my clone 😉 , the fact that girl things (dresses, shoes, toys, accessories) are always way more fun than mundane boy things, kept me hoping for a girl till the end of my pregnancy.

Then sonny came.

As much as I loved being a mom, I was not sure how to handle a boy. Of course, I was a newbie at this whole parenting gig, but somehow, in my head, I thought I would be able to manage a baby girl way better than a baby boy.

Now, as I look back at my 4 years work-experience 😉 being a boy’s mother, I can’t help, but appreciate some of the things that I have learned in the process of raising sonny.

So here’s my list of 10 things that I love about being a boy’s mother:

1. No Dearth Of Male Attention 😉 : 

Hubby may forget to notice my change of earrings or perhaps a new dress, but sonny never fails to notice even the minutest alteration in my appearance. And to top it, he always gives a heartfelt compliment! “Oh, new dress? You are looking so nice, Ma.” Awww! That’s enough to melt any mommy’s heart!

2. Hair Care? Don’t Care:

As much as I admire long hair on little girls and those oh-so-cute ponytails and braids from a distance, I would rather brush sonny’s super short hair in two seconds – Sometimes brushing equals running my fingers through his hair – than spend precious minutes caring for and maintaining my hypothetical daughter’s long hair.

3. Pee Breaks? No Sweat:

Ever since sonny learned how to pee standing up, pee breaks are not a big deal at all, especially when we are on the road or when the public restrooms are not-so-clean. I am sure moms of boys already got a mental picture of what I am talking about here. Need I say more 😉 ?

4. Clothes, Optional:

Boys love being minimalists when it comes to their sartorial choices. Shirts are unbuttoned and thrown away, Salman Khan style and occasional pants are pulled down and discarded because “It’s too hot out here!”. No one rolls their eyes at this sudden nudist behavior.

But you may ask, how exactly does it impact me and how come I love it? Well, I don’t really love the “no clothes” look, but I do appreciate the proportional decrease in laundry 😉

And also the fact that boys have limited clothing choices means getting ready to go out is faster. Shirt, check. Underpants & Pants, check. Socks & Shoes, check…And Done.

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SING MY SWEET LION; The Story Behind the Book 0 0

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SING MY SWEET LION; The Story Behind the Book

My first born is embarking on turning five…and I’m in denial.

He stands tall past my waist, hugs me hard, and has figured out how to eye roll (I know- painful).

I took his whole preschool graduation hard. Preschool is the best. It’s all fun. The kids are nice. The teachers are comforting. And there’s not much to fear. Kids have yet to learn meanness, exclusion and cruelty. The preschool age is pure innocence, and if I had it my way, I’d confine him in that safe preschool bubble forever.

But I can’t.

Upon Nicholas’ preschool graduation, I went to write him a card, but instead, words poured from my heart.

The first few lines:

School bells are ringing 

 

They’re calling your name 

 

A brand new beginning,

 

new chapter, new game

 

It seems like yesterday 

 

In my tummy you grew

 

And we rocked for months

 

In quiet, me and you

 As I continued writing, my eyes teared. A huge transition was on the horizon… for him, and for me. While my mind had obviously been focused on prepping him for a new school, who was going to prepare me? I can’t help but feel a little lost inside, knowing his and my “baby stage” has come and gone.

I kept writing- documenting his growing up before my eyes; that I’ve savored every first, and that I’m proud of the little boy he is becoming: a cape-wearing, compassionate, creative old soul.

I want to protect you 

 

From germs and from dirt

 

From running bare feet

 

Or ripping your shirt

 

From falling 

 

From hurting

 

From crying

 

And more

 

But the truth is, my dear

 

You’ll find your own roar

My letter took an empowering turn, encouraging him to find his inner-lion. (And as it turns out, he is, in fact, a Leo.)

So roar my lion,

 

Roar loud and roar strong

 

I’m proud of you, lion

 

I’m proud of your song

 

Sing, my sweet lion,

 

That song that is yours 

 

Be kind, my sweet lion 

 

Kindness opens all doors 

 

As I finished this “ode,” I was in sobs. And to punish my emotions even more, I re-read it about 50 times. After some time and tears, I concluded I was not the only crazy sentimental mom out there, so I sought to publish my tribute to him, honoring all our children making transitional milestones of babyhood to youth.

Thanks to the lovely artwork from his preschool teacher, my vision came to life, and so birthed “Sing My Sweet Lion.” My goal- to share this story with you, instilling in children unconditional love and confidence.

When push comes to shove, this whole growing up thing is quite bitter sweet. How I want Nicholas (and all my boys) to stop growing, but I sure love watching them blossom.

I appreciate you welcoming “Sing My Sweet Lion” into your heart, home and reading ritual.

XO,

Nadine

Book:  “Sing My Sweet Lion”

Website: www.singmysweetlion.com

Nadine Bubeck is a TV personality, fashion designer, author, blogger, and Scottsdale-based blessed boy mom. 

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How Midnight Reflections Change our Parenting Perspective 0 0

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Today was one of those days. Correction: Tonight was one of those nights. All in all, it was a fairly successful day. The kids behaved fine, we ran our errands successfully and we even made loaded nachos in the oven and had dinner on the table before 6:00. Then, it was like that moment when Cinderella’s carriage ride turns into a pumpkin again and the driver becomes a mouse and everything glorious that once was is suddenly really… real.

It started with the shredded cheese. My 2-year-old picked up the entire, new bag and just dumped it on the floor. My four-year-old proceeded to jump in it and throw it into the air like confetti. Neither touched their food and both ardently refused a bath. The sun wasn’t quite down yet, but my husband and I agreed it was their bedtime. I rocked my son in the dusky glow of his bedroom and put him in his crib, doing that silent tiptoe and slow door handle turn out of his room that every mama knows.

I kissed my daughter on the head and told her I loved her. She signed a sleepy sigh and rolled over in her covers. “That wasn’t too bad,” I thought to myself and headed downstairs to watch a chick flick on the couch and maybe do a face mask. My feet hadn’t cleared the first step when I heard it. “Mama!” My son was frantically calling out to me, panic in his voice like he couldn’t find his best friend. I went back to his room and picked him up, ready to snuggle him and rock him in our old chair like we used to when he was little. I was sitting there with him, swaying gently back and forth, when I felt his little grip slacken and I knew he was almost in dreamland. “Another crisis averted,” I told myself.

I steadied myself to put him in his crib and I heard a different voice, this time coming from my daughter’s room. “Mama! I need to tell you something! Come here!” What is it about four-year-olds and volume control? She sounded like she was announcing the Kentucky Derby, not calling to me from a few feet down the hall. At the sound of his beloved sister’s voice, my so-close-to-being-asleep son lifted his little head from my shoulder and the tears began over again. I laid him back down and rushed to my daughter, certain she had something of immense importance to tell me. Turns out, she had forgotten the last name of a playmate and it was bugging her.

Reassure her, comfort him. Pick him up, lie beside her until she falls asleep. Tell her a story, sing him a song. Their rooms are caddy corner to each other and I walk that same strip of carpet at least 25 times a day, moving back and forth to soothe and comfort, to protect and reassure. I finally made it to the couch about an hour later, but was too exhausted to do much besides fall into bed. From that vantage point, I could see into my living room and a portion of my kitchen.

I saw their building blocks and the disassembled puzzles. I saw his board books and her discarded hair band. I saw the big pink ball I always threaten to take outside but never do. I saw her too-big hat with the name of my husband’s old plumbing on it. He sold the business five years ago but she still wears that thing around like it’s the crown jewels. I saw their racing toys and Mickey Mouse figurines and everything I saw just about broke my heart. Because it’s hard and there’s no denying that. Motherhood is a test of my strength, intellect, patience and heart every single second of every single day and it feels like I’m never going to get through it sometimes. But then, the dust settles and the tears dry and my home is silent. Everything that was weighing on my mind and tugging at my heart feels insignificant when I see her plastic mermaid hanging out of the toy box or the little socks that he threw by the couch as soon as he got home from our morning at the grocery store.

It’s true that parenting is a test and that nine times out of 10, I’m not entirely sure I’m making a passing grade. But lying in my bed and seeing the remnants of our happy day together, I was reminded that maybe, just maybe, I’m doing better than I thought. There will be hurts and setbacks and frustrations and long nights down the road but there will be immeasurable beauty too, I’m certain of it.

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