Haunted

I am being haunted by something that happened yesterday – just a little thing that has me questioning every single thing that I am as a mother. Libby was playing with her dollhouse people and I overheard her saying in the dollhouse mom’s voice that being a mommy was really hard. A sick feeling washed over me as I remembered another comment she made last week, something about me wishing I didn’t have kids. What? Shame. shame. shame on me.

I was watching the new sitcom Modern Family and the stepfather smugly declared being a good dad is 90% showing up. I remember thinking that was setting the bar pretty low, but maybe that’s all I’ve been doing – showing up. I make meals and take care of everyone’s basic needs. We get homework done and read bedtime stories, I’ve been working on Halloween costumes and making sure everyone has mittens and boots that will fit when winter sneaks up on us, but I’m terrified that I’ve detached myself in a way that Libby’s 4 year old intuition has picked up on.

I, of course, haven’t told her that being a mom is hard but clearly I’ve communicated that to her in that dangerous way we “tell” them things with petty actions and missteps – the things that knock the wind out of you when you realize how careless you’ve been. And I’ll be the first to say motherhood is hard but that’s a conversation I have with girlfriends, not my children. So, what did I think, Libby was completely oblivious and didn’t notice I wasn’t even hearing her constant chatter while I hung out on Facebook yesterday afternoon and got frustrated with her impatience when I drug her along to run my errands all morning?

I’m not making any excuses but it occurs to me that both of these incidents happened on Monday afternoons. Monday is our long day – Libby doesn’t have preschool and Isaac is taking an afterschool class. My dear girl really is good company but a 9 hour day without Isaac is something we are going to have to get used to for the next couple months. I will make sure we have some plans so I’m not her only, disappointing hope for a playmate next week and at the end of the day she knows that it is my joy to be her mommy, not my cross to bear.

Today she seems no worse for the wear but I can’t get past feeling like I hurt her, I was careless with her and that is haunting.

Bumper Sticker Wisdom

I saw this bumper sticker today:
Change is inevitable, growth is optional.
After a long and emotional fight, the school board is closing Isaac’s school – not the building itself, but the community program we chose for him and Libby. So this unwelcome change has landed on our doorstep and in our community. It is one thing to face change when you are old enough to read and appreciate the wisdom of bumper stickers but it’s another when you have to tell your 1st grader and your will-be Kindergartener that the next 6 years will not look the way we thought. I have felt every feeling there is to feel in such a situation – from angry to silly as we rallied and chanted slogans outside the school board meeting to have our voices heard. I spent many hours at meetings biting my lip as we dared to hope we could change minds. It’s been much like grieving actually and I am somewhere near the end, near acceptance. All I can do is chose moving forward over disappointment and help the kids adjust. Another frustrated, heart-broken mom in our program said it this way, our children will grow where they are planted. We opt to grow.

Waste Not, Want Not

Sometimes it’s hard for me to see the magic and sparkle in our little life. I notice that my sparkle meter is highly sensitive to other families. Their lives seem rather luminous in Facebook photos or the blogs I follow making our summer seem a little lame. That is until last week. We are home from family camp and it was indeed magical. And not just because the weather was perfect or the kids willing went along with the Jack Pines (all kids ages 4-6) and all the adults got 3 blissful hours each morning. And not only because I didn’t make or clean up one single meal for 6 days or because it’s just an awesome place oozing with fun… but because I also got a chance to see us through another set of eyes. Without the stuff of our everyday life clouding my vision, I could see the beauty in our ordinariness, in these kids, in being a mom, in being a family.

I needed that because this summer has been challenging for me. I couldn’t seem to get in the swing of our newfound freedom when school ended. Instead, I felt stuck for the entire month of June. I was very blue. I was lost and had trouble finding the worth in my being home with them – I joked that I could just pay someone a few bucks an hour to schlep snacks and make sure they didn’t play in the street so I could do something useful. One part of me longed for the romance of summer – picnics, the beach, effortless frolic-y fun, but another big part of me wasn’t up to the challenge. When I’m staring down the barrel of a 14 hour day, a picnic made me want to go back to bed.

So, family camp was the perfect way to bring the summer to a near close. This has been a much needed quiet week following the week that wore everyone completely out in the very best kind of way. I know the kids had a great time at camp but they would say they’ve had a great summer too and if I put my sparkle detector glasses on I can see that what seemed like a waste of a perfect summer day in June – a entire morning spent in our jammies or the Barbies swimming in the wading pool in our backyard, wasn’t exactly wasteful, but a more… thrifty way to spend a day when you are 4 or 6.

The F Word

My head is spinning with the things on my mind, the things I ponder when my head hits the pillow because it’s the only time I can hear myself think. There is an episode of The Simpsons when Marge refers to a magazine called Fretful Mother. I became a lifetime subscriber to that fictional publication the minute I had the first inkling of motherhood. I joked with Kramer just today, “You know, I read in my Fretful Mother that I haven’t been applying enough sunscreen because those SPF numbers imply a GENEROUS application and frequent re-applications.” I don’t really know where I actually read that alarming little tidbit but you can see why it would be perfect material for the FM readers.

My worries and what-ifs are just there: will Libby go to Princess camp and how hard do I push when she is crying and clinging to me in her tattered organza dress and tiara this afternoon? How do I motivate Isaac who has convinced himself that reading is too hard despite his love of books. I just don’t want him to fall behind and struggle. We are waiting around for the school district to makes changes for the year Libby starts school and they will likely be going to a different school and I get a little sick thinking about it. And why did I agree to co-chair the school fundraiser in October? Am I brave enough to try something I’ve been secretly dreaming about when both kids are in school? I’m in charge of our family camp “talent show” act in two weeks and I’ve got it diagramed on paper – it might be a bit much.

While these thoughts bounce around in my head clamoring for attention I also hear a little whisper reminding me to be a faithful mother too - faithful that this family will continue to grow no matter where it is planted and we’ll do our best with whatever comes our way. And most of all to have faith in myself so I can rest at night when Isaac and Libby are safe and well. Aren’t my best intensions better served by faithfulness than fretfulness after all?

A Simpler Summer

As it turns out I'm a stay-home-mom in the wrong era. I find myself a little turned off by the fact that an entire industry has been created to cater to kids and more importantly to the parents of kids (like me) who will fork over the money for indoor playgrounds, waterparks, art studios, gym time... the list goes on. I think it's the fact that it's summer and I feel the need to get us out there, active and busy that has me thinking previous generations of mom's are shaking their heads at us. And yet I drag my feet when it comes time to actually get out there. Where is there? It doesn't help that I have one homebody and one adventurer on my hands. My mom might remember it differently but I recall summers being spent at home with a bunch of kids in the neighborhood putting hundreds of miles on bikes, playing games and building forts in backyards. Our neighborhood is very quiet during the day (all the time really) so we have two choices, be our own bickering company or seek opportunities to socialize. And that's where I feel the longing for a simpler time if you will.

Playdates, who came up with this? I am compelled to make plans with other families and even though our days seem so free and wide open, the minute I try to arrange a so called playdate... scheduling conflicts. But the quality and quantity of time spent when another kid or two is added to the mix is noticable. For instance, we met my sister and her kids at the beach this afternoon (much much later than I would have liked but again, conflicts) and we were there easily three times as long as we would have been on our own. Yesterday we met two families at a pool/playground and again their little imaginations put together can mean a whole morning of bicker-free bliss for me. And of course I bask in the adult companionship and conversation (albeit fragmented, what-was-I-saying conversation).

My kids really are amazing playmates but I think I have convinced myself that a day at home means I have somehow failed. I'm conflicted on being part of this generation of parents who are so child-focused because we want our kids to have all the great opportunities and experiences that come with getting out there to the Children's Museum or the State Parks or the nature centers. I get antsy at home and worry that my kids should be playing with other children because isn't that what we do in the age of dates for kids? As mom's we have to be a little Julie McCoy to keep the ship righted, right?

We have lots of summer left and keeping it simple needs to be my intention. If we happen to be lucky enough to have friends to share some time with, great and if not, well Isaac and Libby plus the hose is not bad either.

Serenity Now

I want my house back. My home has been taken over by short, inconsiderate people! Their (and you know who I mean) shit is everywhere, everywhere! And as fast as it gets put away, it’s back out again – on the floor, the kitchen table, MY BED! I fantasize about filling huge black leaf bags with anything I find in my path from socks and flip flops to game pieces and tea party paraphernalia. I hate the mess and I think it is partly because I just hate it and partly because this house is my everywhere – where I spend my waking hours and sleeping hours, it’s where I live and where I “work.” I haven’t an office, a cubicle or mere square foot to call my own. All of the space in my life is shared. Sharing can be overrated.

I am forever trying to control the relentless spreading of stuff. I have created a system for the art projects that come home, I just bought a shoe organizer to control the heaping pile of footwear at the back door. I have worked and re-worked the closets to maximize efficiency and usefulness. It’s a losing battle. What’s the prayer they use in Alcoholics Anonymous…the serenity prayer? Serene is a feeling I don’t identify with these days. How can a person be serene in a mess? Impossible. Is acceptance the ideal? Unlikely.

And really, I’m not even a super neat person. I have my own piles on the counters and the dining room table is where my projects land, my carnival volunteer junk is stacked up on the desk downstairs, but it’s mine and I will deal with it. The kids have no plans to deal with the stuff they leave lying around. I know that’s unfair, a double standard, but… c’mon, I just want our home to be a sanctuary for ALL of us and if my children could just hit one of the conveniently located toy baskets or the shoe cubby, I’d be so grateful.

I feel good when things are in order. That’s likely why when I’m mad, I clean – wash dishes, scrub the kitchen floor, scoop up the wreckage with the kind of vigor only anger can fuel. It calms me to see my ugly, dated countertops free of dishes, notes, markers, Barbies, army guys, school work, lice notices, junk mail... It relaxes me to have empty laundry baskets. I can be content when things are tidy; I don’t even ask for clean, just tidy. I am something closer to serene and open to sharing again with the people who are permanently in my space.

I'm Warning You

Every step of the way as a mother I have a reoccurring thought: there should be a warning system in place for the unexpected stuff that comes down the parenting pike. This week alone has prompted this list of warnings to my peers:

WARNING: All children get sick and you may have a cougher.

Today marks day 10 of Isaac coughing again – third bout since school started. And I mean coughing like I’d imagine in say, a Russian prison infected with Tuberculosis kind of coughing. He gagged and carried on not quite continuously but with alarming and maddening frequency from 5am until I put him on the bus this week. I mean, what can I do, if I kept him home everyday he coughed, he’d have missed 30 days of school this year. He told me his music teacher sent him to the nurse today to see if he had a fever (which he didn’t). And I did keep him home last Friday thinking with a long weekend he could get past it but as always it has to run its 2 week course. Right about the time I am searching the Internet for some kind of used iron lung or hyperbaric chamber he turns the corner.

WARNING: Six year olds are just half a teenager.

We had some kids over the other day and things weren’t going so well between Isaac and one of the girls. At one point I pulled him aside and said, “Come with me for a minute, I want to talk to you.” I did all the right stuff - took him inside away from the other kids, got down on his level and calmly reminded him about being a good friend. And he seemed attentive until he suddenly interrupted and calmly declared, “that was a minute, I just counted to 60.” I let it go because literally is a big word, but when he’s 12, I won’t.

WARNING: Start all emails to your kid’s principal with, IN CONFIDENCE.

Last week I emailed Isaac’s principal and in making my case for a popular teacher next year, I mentioned that for me (not Isaac) his current teacher’s style has been a little difficult to embrace. Little did I know the principal would then forward this message to his teacher who would actually call me and ask me about it! Possibly the most awkward and unexpected conversation ever!

WARNING: Don’t get too comfortable.

Libby has decided to end the school year the same way she started. This week she has completely regressed to declaring that she won’t go to school and then crying the minute we enter the building. Today I had to pull my hand out of her grasp and leave her there - big tears and muffled sobs. Maybe she’s just ready to call it a year and welcome summer. She only has 3 days left and I’m not even going to mention to her that she is signed up for the 3 week summer session.

WARNING: None of this matters

None of this matters because like the tired old joke about kids not coming with an instruction manual, you can never be prepared for life, much less life with kids, and all it’s surprises – and really, who’d want to?

Check Up & Check In

Last week brought a reassuring sense of okay, of validation that the kids are doing really well overall. Libby had a dentist appointment and she was so brave and cooperative. I proudly watched her in the child-sized chair wearing leopard print sunglasses with her teeny little mouth cranked open liked she had practiced at home. The dentist praised her on brushing and flossing and being such a good patient. We were both pleased with ourselves as we left the office (her mostly pleased with her new ladybug lip gloss she plucked excitedly from the prize bucket like it was a winning lottery ticket).

And Isaac had his 6 year old doctor’s appointment. He was a particularly good sport as there was a nervous student nurse doing the things our familiar nurse normally does with grace and swiftness. It took a looooong time to get the blood pressure cuff on for instance and the one shot was an agonizing 1+ second instead of the lighting fast nano second that again, nurse Paige has perfected. But he did so well and he is chugging along precisely where he should be according to those grow charts. Today I was imagining out loud with him that a day will come when he’ll be taller than me and he looked up and smiled like I had told him a juicy secret.

And finally we had a conference with Libby’s teacher. She had such loving and positive things to say about our little preschooler. It was so satisfying to sit in a teeny chair and have this young woman tell us what we already know, that Libby has a kind heart and contagious joyfulness. I asked Libby how I got so lucky to have her as my little girl and she said, “Because you love me so much.” Indeed.

And just when it seemed everyone was blooming and sporting healthy gums, I was reminded that one person around here needed an appointment, a conference. My husband sat me down and laid it out for me. We have fallen into a rut, an everyday routine where we do a little dance around each other – me making dinner and him wrestling with the kids; him doing the weekly shopping one night, me going to a school meeting another night; us taking turns putting the kids to bed; me reading upstairs, him doing the taxes downstairs; me staying up much later than he does and him already gone by the time I am getting Isaac up for school.

It is so easy to fall into these patterns since becoming parents – a book I’m reading called life with small children an assault on a marriage. We aren’t arguing, we laugh, we exchange information so it didn’t occur to me that anything was wrong, but that doesn’t always mean it’s right either. I think there is a special intimacy that comes with that dance I mentioned but there is also a point where talking about a weird noise the car is making and when do you think you could get the tub chaulked isn’t exactly nurturing to a relationship. There’s a point when you need to reach out and actually dance right up close, touching. And kissing helps.

Questions I'm Asking Myself

What is my most important parenting tool?
I used to think patience but I blew through my wad of patience a long time ago and that leaves me with restraint. Yes, restraint, the invaluable backup to patience and love. It’s the thing that kept me from becoming a statistic when my baby girl cried day and night and I understood why people shake babies. It’s the thing that made me bite my tongue instead of swearing a blue streak when Libby accidentally walloped me in the nose yesterday. It’s the thing that keeps me from doing harm of all kinds.

And what did I do today?
Today I lost it with Isaac. I got so stupidly angry with him for refusing to be the slightest bit flexible, I lost it for every single time he has dug his heels in and refused, for all the times he has whined through reading homework, for all the times I have had to cajole and coerce him into trying something new or breaking with routine, and worst of all, for the simple fact that I see so much of my own stubborn self in him.

And what did this lack of restraint look like?
It went something like this… we had plans to hit the freshly covered sledding hill with a friend, an opportunity for Isaac to try out his brand new birthday gift, a snowboard. But apparently I picked the wrong hill and he responded with pouting and refusal to even take the thing along. It was the proverbial straw that sent me into hysterics. And I proceeded to yell questions at him like, “why did you ask for a snowboard if you won’t even consider trying it out?” What I DID NOT say was something like “what the hell is wrong with you? Why is it always NO with you, you little brat?” because thankfully restraint works on a sliding scale. But while the words I did say were angrily spewing from my mouth my mind was already racing to figure out how I was going to apologize to him and take it all back.

And how did this all end?
Hours after sledding (snowboard left in the snow bank next to the garage where I threw it) and hours after my apologies I got my answer. At dinner Kramer asked him in a perfectly reasonable tone of voice why he hadn’t wanted to try the new board and he explained that we met his friend at the busy hill and he didn’t want anyone to see him practicing. Who’s the brat now? Yep, he was just uneasy about his beginner status and wanted a chance to try it out on a quieter hill but he couldn’t put that into words with his enraged mother demanding an explanation.

As I tucked Isaac in tonight I apologized again, this time for not taking the time to understand why he wanted to leave the board home this time and for losing my temper and I can only hope that my weakness, my lack of restraint didn’t do as much harm as it feels like.

The Good Fight

In my last post I was putting up a fight for my children, but when it comes to putting up with my children, I am trying to avoid the fight. There is the smallest amount of sadness and a fair amount of frustration as they daily go about the business of figuring out exactly who they are.

The dumbest things are bothering me -– Libby being so stubborn about what she wears. She has such cute little hand-me-down clothes and my thrift shop finds but she wears the same three “fancy” dresses day after day. They aren’t fancy and they aren’t practical in this weather and they aren’t something I should care about, but I do. I want to go back to when she needed my help getting dressed, cheerfully saying, “okay” to my seasonal, adorable, coordinated ensembles! But I know it’s not worth fighting over and when her little friend at school had at least 25 barrettes in her hair this week, I’m pretty sure mine isn’t the only 3 year old who has decided she will be her own stylist and fired her mother.

And Isaac is figuring out a little thing called the power play. He knows that his dad and I like to know about his school day and what he is learning and he has figured out this means he has something we want – that’s power. He withholds the details of his day and resists working on reading with me. So, I take the little nuggets of information he forgets to guard, and smile when I hear him singing in another room about Martin Luther King Jr. I secretly watch him when I volunteer at school and check in with his teacher often – that’s mom power!

So even though Libby is shutting me out of her closet and Isaac is keeping the door shut on his day, there is no reason to fight this growing up stuff and my part is to sit back and enjoy the magic show as they transform right before my very eyes.

Rrrrrrrrrr

Well, it’s official, I’ve found my inner Mama Bear – that instinct to fiercely protect and advocate for your children. Don’t worry, my kids aren’t in harms way or anything but I have been making a nuisance of myself all over our community getting to the bottom of my concerns about teachers and schools and what goes on when the den is quiet and everyone is out in the big bad world. Earlier in the year I visited Libby’s class and was shocked at how one child was causing havoc. I had no choice but to call the director and when she didn’t return my call that day I tracked her down at drop off the next afternoon. A solution was reached and Libby’s teacher thanked me because as she said herself, when a parent speaks up someone will usually listen.

With Isaac it is a certain uneasy feeling I’m getting when helping out in his class too. This has taken a little more time to ponder but finally I ignored my old instinct to simply fret about it and instead picked up the phone and called the principal! And when I wasn’t satisfied with what she had to say, I pressed on and started contacting other parents about their experience and perspective. I haven’t solved this dilemma, but I’ve proven to myself that my kids do have a mama bear to look after them.

And the other great part about finding my mother voice, my growl, is I can’t be looking out for my kids while worrying about what I look like. I have become so much less self-conscious and much more willing to look foolish, try something new or speak up. Look at me growing with the help of my little cubs! Because it may not sound impressive that I made a few phone calls, but I did it because I know that no one else is going to do it for me and being a mom awakens a new part of your heart – the fiercest, biggest, lovingest part.

Olive Mabel Paulson June 7, 1909 to Dec. 13, 2008

My grandma Olive died yesterday and I’m stuck at how it has brought up my maternal instincts. She had been deteriorating for several years to the point of being much like a baby. And I get teary when I think about how she left this world as helpless as a tiny child and I wish someone could have carried her into the next life.

I can’t help but think about how we as caregivers agonize over daycares and then school and eventually college and even nursing homes. We want the people we love so much to be safe and happy and well cared for when they are away from us and yet there are no scheduled tours of Heaven, there is no interview process or even brochure. It is the ultimate unknown and I have to have faith that with her last breath she was carried away by angels or some unearthly force that we don’t even begin to understand and in “coming home,” time vanished, questions were answered and all wrongs were made right. Maybe my faith is weak but when someone is suddenly gone… it gives me pause and my heart feels empty.

She was funny. She enjoyed a small glass of beer on a hot day, she kept a huge garden, she didn’t want for any more than she needed. She was a teacher and a great Scrabble player. She inspired me to keep a journal like she did. She had 7 children, 14 grandchildren and 16 great grandchildren. She was kind but tough and lived to be 99 years old.

My prayer is that she is whole again, warm and filled with a peacefulness that is beyond our understanding and capacity.

Don't Thank Me

What am I thankful for? I could go on and on but sometimes I wonder if I’m thankful enough. I admit that I live with a low frequency fear that something terrible will have to happen for me to really wake up and smell the blessings. You know those experiences that leave people promising to live each day to the fullest or never take another breath for granted. I don’t know if that is possible to maintain long term. It sure seems daunting to me whose daily aggravations get in the way of my appreciations. My gratitude comes more in the form of zingers, moments that swell my heart, brings tears to my eyes and make me feel dizzy with gratitude for my most lucky life.

And when does this start, this appreciation for relationships and health and things that make life so much easier and more fun? My young children are basically unappreciative and when I tried to lay a guilt trip on them the other night, it didn’t work. And then I realized why as they stared at me blankly. We are blessed to be able to take good care of them and so they simply don’t yet understand that Santa and special outings and even breakfast are not automatic for all kids. I assured myself that every child should be ungrateful – deserving to be taken care of and nurtured so that when they say “thank you” it’s because they have been taught manners, not because they are thankful for a meal or a gift or love. So I suppose in the end maybe I am most thankful for being able to give my kids a life that they take completely for granted. Zing!

The Talk, Part I

What did you do with your Saturday evening? I went looking for help – a book, a guide or better yet, a time machine so I can travel back to when Isaac wasn’t asking, “But I mean, how does the baby actually get into the mommy?”

Yes, we are beyond the daddy-and-I-love-each-other-we-wanted-a-baby-and-here-you-are part of the talk. This kid is aware that I’ve skipped over some important details of the story. And of course he catches me completely off guard and every time I have basically dodged his questions and I’m afraid I’ve blown it with my non-answers. And it’s not that I’m embarrassed to talk to him about it, but I don’t know how to put it in terms he can and should understand. I don’t want to lie to him but the truth… come on, I can hardly believe it. And he only asks me, it’s never when his father is around so I have some support or at least someone to make horrified faces at.

So, after the kids were in bed I headed out to explore the Growing Up section at Barnes & Noble. I settled on a book called, “It’s NOT The Stork” because it was the least absurd to me and I think we can all agree that, indeed, it’s NOT the stork. So, this week when Libby is NOT around I’ll ask if he’d like me to finally get back to him on those questions about fertilization. The book is meant to be read together so it has kid-friendly illustrations and luckily he can’t read so I’ll just skip over some we’ll-get-to-that-later details (like the word fertilization) and do my best to appease his completely normal, sweet, smart (God help me) curiosity.

We’ve got the names of body parts down and we’re clear that the outside equipment is obviously different for boys and girls so maybe we’re even a little ahead of the game but really, I don’t want to play yet. I mean geez, why don’t I just tell him that Santa doesn’t exist too and just end the innocence altogether before he hits the ripe old age of 6? Ugh!

Let There Be Light

I’m starting to see the faintest flicker, the tiniest glow of what lies ahead in my ever-changing relationship with our kids. Of course school is a big part of this glimpse into the future – Isaac especially is having an experience all his own. He is part of a new community and while we’re there on the sidelines, it’s his class and his school, his life. When the year started I wanted so much to be a fly on the wall, to watch over both of them like I’m so used to doing but as the weeks have come and gone I don’t wish for that two way mirror anymore. I’ve even eased up on asking so many questions about his day the minute he steps off the bus and realize that there’s a little bit of need-to-know going on here. He is putting that first amount of space between us and it’s scary but it feels okay too.

Even this weekend Kramer and I noted how much things have changed as far as supervision. We did tons of yard work Saturday & Sunday and the kids were so helpful! They weren’t exactly helping but the real helpfulness was the fact that they are able to be in and out of our presence without needing our constant attention. I bundled branches and they chatted with me or cut the twine and then disappeared to play on the swing or pursue some whim inside. I started and FINISHED a lengthy job with scarcely an interruption AND let snack time slide by unnoticed.

That same day we had dinner at a friend’s house; Isaac, Libby and their son disappeared into the basement for a huge chunk of the evening while we sat and enjoyed adult conversation. Someone pinch me! So, even though we had to pack it in by 7:30 when many adults are just considering a restaurant and movie, we had a wonderfully social early evening not spent entirely in their playroom talking over the kids and filtering every word.

The proverbial apron strings haven’t been cut by any means, but lengthened as the kids move a little further away from me. And maybe I have a twinge of longing knowing that this is only the beginning and it will hurt when they pull away at times but I’m also feeling so gloriously liberated. I love having them in my life so much when I am not fighting that nagging, selfish, resentful part of me that has missed a little space and breathing room. So, like God himself said, there is light and it is good!

Leftovers

I don’t know if other women have truly said YES to all that comes with being a mom, but I am still fighting it just a little bit. It’s like the old saying, when one door closes another opens and yet here I am lightly knocking at that door of my old life where my house was tidy and we ate out a lot more. I am forever reminding myself to be right here where this door is wide open and everyone I love is welcoming me.

I think it has something to do with my tendency to enjoy my life like I enjoy certain leftovers. Goulash in particular always tastes much better a day or two later. It’s like that with the kids, while we are in the moment I’m all too often wising we could hurry it up or move on to the next thing but when I look back on last night, last weekend or the summer, the experience has some flavor and was actually really good.

So, I don’t have regrets per se but I do feel like I am detouring my way around the here and now because the here and now is often one of two things, very intense or dull. When it’s intense I just want to get through it and when it’s dull I just want to run away and do something I want to do. Of course there are the occasional in-betweens when I am peaceful and present and my old life behind that closed door doesn’t even make sense because this is it, this is happening right now even if my miss-wired brain and I are always a day or two behind.

A Mother's Work Is Never Done

I am laughing (almost crying) at the thought of me marching into my doctors’ office 7 years ago for a physical with my big announcement, “I’m ready to have a baby.” I guess I was as ready as one can be, but I had no idea what I was signing up for when I excitedly quit taking those tiny pastel pills. It doesn’t get easier, it gets more complicated – I’m not just nurturing little bodies prone to owies, I’m nurturing little psyches prone to worry and I’m without a manual or guidebook (one that I like anyway).

I am drained. I have been convincing these kids to be brave now for days – Kindergarten, the bus, preschool, Sunday school, a just-for-fun, non-separating gymnastics class. Today Libby’s entire morning was ruined when I mentioned going to school after lunch where I left her sobbing and choking out a miserable goodbye. I may break out in hives every Labor Day for the rest of my life.

I just have those kids, the same kind I was, kids who fret when anything starts looking, feeling or sounding out of the ordinary. And I feel like the only one kneeling down wiping away tears and fighting back my own. Of course I may be missing any other kids having a hard time adjusting because I’m doing all this reassuring in the bathroom with a crying Libby and her nervous bowels.

And I’m laughing (almost crying) when I’m reminded that this doesn’t end when they are 18 or even 35. I emailed my mom who had been out of town for a few days to update her on how the kids (and I) have been doing with so many changes and calls for courage and she wrote right back because she is still a mother too and her heart aches a little when she knows that I am struggling.

Are We There Yet?

One week and counting until I commit what to my children is the ultimate act of betrayal – I’ll send them to school. They are already getting teary at the mere mention of the s word. And I have to fight the urge to talk too much because my blabbing just makes the anxiety bubble up. They say you can’t talk to teenagers, but you can’t talk to these little tikes either. So, I’m not talking, not talking them out of feeling nervous, not talking them into being excited, not talking about the fact that there is nothing to talk about – it’s school, it’s mandatory.

For weeks various adults have been asking Isaac if he’s excited for school and his answer is always No. It’s partly the honest truth and partly his idea of a little joke because he gets a reaction every time. But today when we went to his new school to see his classroom and meet his adorable teacher, I had to smirk – he is smart enough to simply shrug when she asked him if he was excited to come to Kindergarten. It’s like he knew his teacher would prefer a less negative response. He may not be excited, but he’s ready.

And I know he’s ready and he’ll find his way in this new world. That’s what various adults have been telling me for weeks, “They’ll be fine”. Yeah, yeah, I know. Its just that seeing worry and fear on their faces is the worst. Bumps, blood, minor falls don’t really phase me, it’s walking away from Libby when she’s sobbing or when Isaac’s face shows that quiet turmoil that breaks my heart in two.

So, while these two kids would like to pretend next week will never come, I’m wishing we could get on with it and I could just be there to tell them how proud I am of them at the end of the first day instead of creeping toward the heartbreaking beginning of that day.

Stay Out Of The Way

A question…. If you were school shopping with your Kindergartener and he picked out the absolute pinkest, most girly backpack you have ever seen, what would you do?

I talked him out of it and since that moment have been feeling like a jerk, a very unenlightened jerk. Isaac can go either way on the gender rules and we have never made a big deal of it because mostly who cares, but my instinct was to push him right over to his own side of that line. Of course I didn’t tell him it was too feminine or that kids at school might think he grabbed his sister’s bag by mistake because I didn’t want him to feel one bit bad about liking it, I just lied and said it was too expensive.

I know what made me do it, wanting to protect him at least a little until he has a better understanding of how to make his way in this world, so why am I feeling like I totally let him down? Because I didn’t just say sure, go for it kid, be exactly who you are! I got in his way even if he doesn’t know it.

He wasn’t even disappointed and ended up choosing a most manly camouflage number because like I said, it is hard to put his taste in a category of any kind. For the record I tried to talk him out of that one too and just go with a nice, practical solid color with cool straps, but he had likely had enough of my input.

Taking The Plunge

Oh boy, it’s starting, the anxiety of Kindergarten around the corner -- mine, not Isaac’s. It’s down to weeks and I feel exactly like I did 4 weeks before I went back to work when he was an infant. I feel like I’m throwing him to the wolves without any survival skills. He’ll be away from us in a whole new way and I have no idea how to prepare him for that. He’ll be exposed to new things, words and situations because school is much more than covering the curriculum, it’s an introduction into the larger community and I won’t be there with an explanation or familiar lap. He’ll be a very small fish in a big pond.

I just keep having these flashes of him in a noisy, overwhelming lunchroom, his dangling legs not long enough to reach the floor, or sitting on a carpet square afraid to open his mouth and speak up for maybe the first 8 and a half months of the year. I know he’s as ready as any 5 year old. He’s ready to soak up information and make some new 5 year old friends but suddenly I look at him and he seems so naïve and unseasoned which of course has been by design. And I’m certainly not going to put him through Welcome to the Real World Boot Camp for the next several weeks but how do I help him make the jump into that big pond.

I have to start bucking up now so when Isaac gets anxious (and he will) I can say wonderfully assuring things without my voice cracking and getting all choked up. Or he’ll suspiciously ask, “Why do you sound like you’re crying?” For all my droning about how much time I spend with the kids you’d think I’d be cheerleading around the house, give me a K, give me an I, give me a N… but I feeling more like I want to wrap my arms around him and keep him close a little bit longer before he wiggles away.

The Hugger

Most hugs don't require much analysis but one hug recently made me swoon and it wasn’t even for me! Last week Isaac and Libby went to day (morning) camp at our community park. I was pretty sure Isaac would do fine because he has made huge strides in the last few months when it comes to willingness. Libby on the other hand has never really been apart from me and in a stranger’s care so I was extra proud of her bravery. She cried and protested each morning but she took a nice sized step toward kid-sized independence.

But the thing that amazed me was when she did such a simply Libby thing, she hugged her teacher and the adorable teenage helper goodbye as camp ended. Again, this probably doesn’t seem noteworthy but it is her open little heart that wows me. I, myself, am an awkward hugger, tending to stick my outstretched hand into people’s abdomens while they are opening their arms to me. Always uncomfortable. But Libby is a natural at it. She saw it as a hugging situation and I love her for that. What do they call it, the EQ, emotional quotient? Hers seems quite honed for being 3.

Being a mother has added a couple more points to my own EQ or at least given me an amazing opportunity to express feelings of love, admiration and empathy. I don’t balk at telling Isaac and Libby how I feel about them or offer my outstretched hand when a big ol’ hug is more fitting. So, I am delighted to drop them off at camp but more importantly see them embracing more than I ever did at their age.

Some Air, Please

I’m being smothered. My darling children are smothering me. It reminds me of a line from Sex and the City; Miranda said about her son something like… if he were 35 this is when we’d break up.

I was ready to give them the it’s-not-you-it’s-me talk on Saturday. Kramer was working all weekend and the kids had been invited by their Aunt & Uncle to go to the zoo and/or whatever fun they could dream up. They were looking forward to this and I was really looking forward to this – the bliss of solitude. When final arrangements and times were being sorted out, Libby announced she wouldn’t go without me. And Isaac tearily decided he couldn’t possibly go without her. I explained that I wasn’t invited and how much fun it would be (blah, blah, blah) but they wouldn’t have it.

I was mad. No, I was disappointed but it comes out looking a lot like mad. I insisted Libby take a nap – it was the least she could do. I came downstairs after getting her down and Isaac was waiting on the couch with a book. Great. During the week this is our routine, I read to him while she is sleeping. But it was Saturday and they were supposed to be in the car on their way to fun. But I read to him anyway and he, as always, begged for just one more chapter. NO. No, No, No. I had read three chapters and I was going to read some of my own book now! So, for 45 minutes he sat on the couch with me while I read. He had his feet on me or walked his little pirate guys on my legs and forgot about 50 times that this was not the time to chat.

So, mostly I pretended to read hoping that he’d give up and get lost. Nope, it was the way it always is, they are programmed to know when I’ve taken a seat or opened a magazine. I suppose they sense that’s when I'm available and I want them to know that I am available and I love them so much it hurts but it can’t be a coincidence that smother is just the word mother with an “s.”

Get It?

I don’t know about the rest of you, but these 14 hour days, 7 days a week are making me nuts. We should unionize or communize or something to ease the pressure. I’d like to think I don’t need another grown-up, a chaperone to be a better parent, but I can laugh when I’m in the company of someone who doesn’t think poop is the best kind of humor and that makes all the difference. When I can joke about Libby’s need to change her clothes a few times a day it makes for a nearly cute story, almost charming, but when I’m home alone with her and she comes trotting downstairs in yet another skirt & t-shirt and I know that the previous skirt & t-shirt are laying on her bedroom floor or worse, in the hallway without any regard for the person who sorted, washed, folded and maybe even put away, I’m just irked. I should rethink the chaperone thing. Maybe then I could appreciate the pure, perfect kidness of her costume changes instead of dwelling on what really amounts to nothing with no ill will intended.

Why is it so much easier to be reasonable and patient when another adult is around? Am I actually more relaxed when I have an ally, a confidante, a person who can appreciate the art of sarcasm? Or is it just social expectations of being in public that dampen my reactions? When it’s the kids and I home on a regular day like today without much contact with the outside world (despite being outside a lot) it’s as if I lose all perspective and apparently my sense of humor. It’s not like I could stand being with anyone else as much as I’m with the kids so maybe we aren’t doing so bad, we just all enjoy someone our own age to share time with!

Like when it’s bath night, we’ve reached the end of the day and the last thing the kids will tolerate is daddy doing any of the things they have deemed my jurisdiction, but all I really need is for Kramer to be in the bathroom, sit on the toilet and keep me company. I can almost tolerate the water splashing out of the tub if I have someone there who simply gets why the water should stay in the tub and why poop isn’t that funny. It’s just good to be with someone who gets it.

Post Script to "Beyond Words"

I meant every single thing I said in my last post! It's also been one of those afternoons where if I'd known then what I know now... I might have settled for meaningful relationships with a couple of dogs.

Beyond Words

I’ve been holding another baby, my niece. Molly was born 4 days ago. It got me thinking about the connection we have to our children, the connection I have to my children. This new baby is beautiful and it feels good to hold her but it is nothing like it felt to have my own babies in my arms. The weight of responsibility and the bewildering awe and anxiety is conspicuously missing.

When Isaac and Libby were teeny like she is, I was unable to keep from kissing one sweet spot near their warm temples, so soft and delicious. It was irresistible to me. I had to put my lips to that spot… breathe them in, feel their realness, maybe a thousand times a day. I tend to mostly keep my lips off other people’s babies.

My dear friend who is not a parent herself admits to studying me and other mom friends to gauge if she is mother material herself. I assure her that no one would ever choose motherhood if it were based on spending time with anyone else’s children. I fumble around any child that isn’t Isaac or Libby because only they make much sense to me. I know them -- their tendencies and temperaments. In my before life, I knew I wanted to have children but I didn’t know it would be like this, from the outside it is so ordinary, you can’t throw a nursing bra without hitting a mother, but from the inside it blows me away.

It strikes me that on my wedding day, I stood up and vowed my commitment to Kramer in front of lots of people in a pretty dress but these babies come into our lives in much more private and messy ceremonies and all the promises of commitment are unspoken because your heart, who you are and how you love is simply altered beyond words.

Rest For The Weary

Recently, holding a baby I was struck at how the things that once consumed me as the mother of little babies are now just memories and blurry one’s at that. Back then I was obsessed with sleep; his and hers, not mine; I had given up on my sleep entirely thinking it was a luxury I foolishly wasted in my youth. I was constantly counting on my fingers in hours, the hours they should be sleeping and those they were actually sleeping. I would do sleep math like, he was up at 5:30am so… 1, 2, 3… he should be ready for a nap by 8:30am…1, 2… but maybe I could push it until 9:00 because maybe he’ll sleep until…. It went on and on like this. And that was just sleep.

When they were so little I lived in 30 minute increments. That’s all I could tackle at the start of each new day because 5:00 pm, when the second shift came on seemed insurmountable. If I didn’t think beyond the next 30 minutes I could face a day full of half hours. I remember lying on the floor in the playroom, my body craving sleep, the real kind, not the fragmented, night feeding, never-enough kind.

Things are so different now. I again foolishly waste sleep staying up late when no one is bugging me and no one is crying out to me from a crib at ungodly hours. Now in the morning I awaken to the sound of Libby padding out of her room and loudly closing the door behind her. And sometimes she comes in to hand me her soggy, nighttime diaper or to demand her bowl of oatmeal and juice as if I’m standing behind a counter with a stubby pencil stuck behind my ear and order pad in my apron. But mostly she makes a beeline for Isaac’s room where he has been looking at books and waiting for her. Oh to think that baby who cried out or toddler who called out to greet the day and jolt me awake, has come to appreciate the joy of quietly hanging out in his bed.

And I linger in my bed too because I simply can. I burrow into the covers feeling mostly rested and the day ahead isn’t daunting anymore. Now I think of our days in two parts, morning and afternoon – no more fractions. So, we did it, we made it to here, to this place where babies are in our memories and photographs and big kids sleep restfully for like… 9, 10, 11, even 12 hours in a row.

Let The Sun Shine In

Summer has started at our house even if the weather is having a hard time catching up. Preschool ended last week and that means we are without an outside force to keep our momentum moving forward. School only took up a handful of actual hours each week but it got us up, dressed, moving and out of the house; it kept us busy in a nice way and by the time we arrived back home we had accomplished a whole morning and it was time for lunch.

So, today we didn’t have anything or anyone expecting us anywhere. I’m a little panicked. I want to feel excited and invigorated by the promise of summer and what a treat it is after months of being cooped up and yet, like the warmer weather, I am having a hard time getting here. It’s just so many, many hours to fill and so many, many meals to make. It’s so many, many arguments to be had and sooooo many more opportunities for imaginative minds and busy hands to spread clutter.

I called a meeting this morning to introduce the kids to “The Bicker Box.” This is my attempt at mandating peace for the next 3 months. It’s simple, if they are bickering over a toy, an object (which is usually the case) it goes in the box for the rest of the day. I’ll get back to you with results.

We easily but rather aimlessly made it through what I’m considering our first day of summer and tomorrow maybe we’ll hit the lovely, blooming garden center and then it’s our favorite day, Wednesday, when daddy is home and always up for an adventure. And that’s what will certainly happen despite my jitters, our summer days will simply unfold in unplanned, unexpected and unhurried ways. The kids really don’t need anything but each other to have fun so as soon as Mother Nature and I get on board we are all set.

Playtime

Playing. Sounds fun, right? It’s all my kids think about from morning till night. They are endlessly busy playing while I’m creating my own version of busy to avoid joining in. I just can’t “play” with them and at some point I stopped pretending to pretend. They have almost entirely stopped asking the questions that make me clamor for some household chore that surely can’t wait, “Mommy, will you play with us?” or “Will you be…(Dora, the Veterinarian, etc)?”

Is that as sad as it sounds? I take care of them and most days even find great purpose in keeping them safe and clothed, loved and fed, comforted and coached, read to and listened to, but I can’t be in their imaginary world.

I will, however, play games: Go Fish or Uno, a puzzle or even Candy Land. I will push them in our swing, I will roll out the play doh and I will organize a morning with my sister and nephew to make gifts for their beloved grandmothers, but I won’t “be” the dinosaur who lives in the doll house and sleeps on the roof and I won’t be Dora the Explorer’s side kick in a scenario void of all adult reason.

I’ve decided this is okay; I’ve provided an environment for their outrageous imaginations while I’m on the fringe, available with ideas, help, and a strange knack for knowing where to find a missing doll or misplaced roll of tape. They are kids and that’s what kids do and I’m the parent, doing what I need to do to stay sane and not lose that sense of purpose.

Growing Pains

Isaac has been waking up at night complaining that his legs hurt. That sounds about right, growing pains. I’m sure if I looked closely and long enough, I’d be able to actually see his little limbs stretching. He says his bike helmet is too tight so apparently his head is keeping up. Most of his pants aren’t fitting and his dentist just told us his teeth aren’t fitting - she even used the word extraction talking about making room for his permanent set and hinting that we should start saving for braces now.

Isaac’s pain aside, I love so many things about all this growing. Despite having been walking since the age of 1, now Isaac actually walks. He can get around the zoo or the mall or hike to the park without any wheeled devices or even much complaining. He is riding his 2-wheeled bike in a funny, out of control kind of way up and down the sidewalk “practicing” for real bike rides. He is completely independent in the bathroom and when we get home and my hands are full of bags, library books or dripping-with-glue school projects, he takes my keys and unlocks the door. This weekend he and Libby had a sleep-over at their aunt and uncle’s house and Isaac assured me that he packed his bag and yep, he had everything he needed. I, of course, checked to be sure and except for a pair of socks he absolutely had everything including a sweatshirt, a total just-in-case kind of thing that I have drilled into his head.

What a big kid. I love watching him grow and become so capable even though I know where this is all going… further and further away from me. But I can’t stop that, I wouldn’t want to stop it so I’ll soothe the growing pains with a little Tylenol and TLC and always be there... just in case!

All My Love

While Libby wears her heart on her sleeve, Isaac keeps his safely in his pocket.

Contrary to our earliest assessments, Isaac isn’t just shy, it’s more than that – he is very carefully guarded, even with us. Yesterday he was angry and crying, he went into his room, shut the door and insisted he wanted to be left alone. He’s five; he shouldn’t want to be alone, he should want his mom, right? Two weeks ago something happened at school and I got a similar response: “I don’t want to talk about it.” It’s all No Talking and No Mooshy Stuff with this kid. And for weeks I have been feeling rejected by him which quickly and irrationally turns into fear that some window has already closed and I won’t be allowed in.

Libby is more of an open book kind of girl right now. She seems to sense when to reach out and when to offer a thoughtful word of encouragement. She is very giving in her receiving of kisses and hugs and I love you’s. It just comes easier and more naturally to her. I don’t know how this will play out and she is showing plenty of signs of being more and more shy in unfamiliar situations but right now she is totally available.

Today I picked up my book, Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert in which I have found many profound nuggets of wisdom and these words jumped off the page at me: It’s not their job to love me but my job to love them. Yes, of course, that’s it. It’s my job and honor to love these children and expect nothing in return. I have been trying to find a way to get Isaac to accept me reaching out to him and that’s why I’ve been frustrated; I forgot my end of the deal… that there is no deal. So, despite Isaac’s no kissing policy, I do get lucky at bedtime when his guard is down and his heart is wide open to kisses and shared I love you’s.

Taking Care

We’ve been sick. It’s been miserable with the throwing up and the coughing, the aches, the cold sweats and did I mention the throwing up…

And while we are on our own road to recovery we have just found out about two family friends who are on much longer and more agonizing roads to recovery. This kind of news always brings my biggest fear to the forefront, not so much a fear of losing someone I love but that in a moment, a mere moment everything can change. And there is no warning -- a fun trip becomes a terrifying accident or a routinely sick kid is suddenly fighting for her life in a dizzying sea of doctors and specialists with way more questions than answers.

I have kissed Isaac and Libby a couple hundred more times lately and cried at what an exquisitely unreliable gift life is. As the father of this very sick child wrote on her website, it is hard to be so profoundly sad at her suffering and so optimistically grateful to still have her at the same time. And there it is, the agonizing stuff and the joyful stuff all wrapped up together in a messy, intoxicating, uniquely human way that makes us have children and go on trips and face each day on our uncertain, but hopeful paths.

So, we take care of each other. What else can we do but put the fear of what might be around the next corner aside and take care of the one throwing up or the one in a hospital bed or the one that waits for answers.

It's My Party...

Next year I think I’ll go with a surprise party for Isaac. It was his 5th birthday yesterday and party planning with him was a bit of a headache. I find myself in this situation in many areas of parenting – trying to accommodate his wants and ideas within my own limits and expectations. A birthday is the perfect example. Weeks ago he said to me, “Mommy, I don’t want one of your homemade parties, I want a store party.” I played along and he didn’t even notice that it was, in fact, a homemade party except for the pirate themed paper cups and plates. And of course our biggest compromise, the piñata; he really wanted one in the shape of a treasure chest so again, we negotiated an agreement. He could have the piñata but it wasn’t going to rain down candy. We instead stuffed goodie bags for each kid inside – no trampling, no hurt feelings, less sugar and more order.

The pirate bingo and treasure hunt, the tablecloth and the balloons were all things that had to be worked out. And by worked out, I mean me getting the desired outcome while creating the illusion of collaboration. And it was perfect -- just the right amount of Isaac’s over-the-top fun and my reigned in, frugally creative fun.

And while I could control the cost and direction of the party, I can’t actually control Isaac. He didn’t exactly get the gratitude thing when he was the man of the hour. He tore into the gifts without any regard for who it was from much less how thoughtful it was of his friends to bring gifts they knew he’d love. This was especially hard for Kramer who kept trying to slow him down and remind him to say thank you and do some obligatory oooooing before ripping into the next gift bag. It was not exactly our proudest moment but it wasn’t much of a teaching moment either. I did feel better when today I was saying what an awesome birthday he had and hinted at what we needed to do. Without hesitation Isaac said, “Thank you notes.” So, we’ll chalk it up to the sheer ecstasy of having a birthday party and be so very proud of our 5 year old in every other way!

Not So Shining Moments

Should 4 year olds be good judges of character? Isaac has a friend, a kid that I have a hard time tolerating. It makes me wonder about the things I might be blind to in my own kids, but seem so glaring in other people’s children. As parents we have the privilege and horror of seeing the best and the worst in our kids. And of course it’s often in the privacy of our home, in a mundane moment that they ooze sweetness or display the kind of openness and generosity that makes me beam just a little. But when we’re out in the world interacting with other children, even family they can come off as greedy, whiney little monsters. It’s embarrassing.

I often have to remind myself to give Isaac some space to express his frustrations and learn the ropes of being a friend, being in a family, being almost 5. It might be a bit much expecting him to always take the high road in social situations – to graciously share when another child wants something of his and ask politely for a turn when it’s the other way around. I wonder if the day will ever come that I don’t have to say annoying, totally parenty things like, “I would like to be asked, not told” or “I’m sorry but I don’t understand shrieking (Libby) or whining (Isaac); please use your regular voice.” Barf!

Oh well, at 5 or 35 we all falter and the great thing is getting another chance to hopefully shine whether anyone is watching or not. And it occurs to me that it probably isn’t character kids look for in a playmate and I don’t have to worry that Isaac is subconsciously taking detailed how-to notes from this rascal of a kid but just likes having a buddy to play trains with (until the trains start flying down the stairs that is).

Ouch!

Speaking sharply, that’s what my favorite real writer / blogger calls it when she uses a frustrated, impatient, obviously sharp tone with her children. This always gives me pause and I think about my own sharp tongue.

This morning I was more shrieking than speaking sharply and it’s been eating at me all day. I can be such a hot head with the people I love the most. Oh, how I berate myself for this… this stubborn, lazy unwillingness to take a few moments to gather myself instead of going form zero to angry in .2 seconds. This morning I got what could only be described as irrationally mad at Isaac for sucking on Libby’s tube of fluoride-free toothpaste like it was candy… again. Yep, that’s the kind of thing that will do it – set me off, anything involving baby teeth.

Anyway, after I tarnished our morning we went ahead with a trip to the zoo with our free passes. Isaac and Libby disappeared with about a zillion other kids into a cave in the tropics exhibit when Isaac came to tell me some kid was not being very nice to Libby – pulling on her ankles and pinching her cheeks between his fingers. Isaac’s face was full of concern and he knew without a doubt that this was unacceptable. I immediately flashed back to earlier, pretty sure in my toothpaste induced anger I may have pinched his cheeks in the same unacceptable way.

I assured Isaac that he had done the right thing telling this cave bully to stop and asked him to go back in and get Libby because sometimes you just have to walk away. I was proud and humbled by his instinct to see an injustice and stick up for his sister. And I got the message loud and clear, the universe was telling me, the hypocrite, to wield my power with great care and speak a little more gently when the situation hardly calls for the razor tongue.

The Creative Side

There are a million things I have learned about myself since becoming a parent – the good, bad and the very ugly! Two things in particular surprise me the most. One, I actually thought when I became a mother, and I mean in that instant, I was going to discover an untapped well of patience and compassion within me. I mean isn’t that the essence of mothering? Instead I’m more like one of those oil drilling machines digging, digging, searching for an ounce more patience and kinder words. Secondly, I never imagined I would cringe at creativity.

When Isaac was very small I tried a few creative projects only to realize by the time I blinked he was done drawing a single jagged line or smashing an unrecognizable sponge-stamped heart onto Valentine’s cards. I let myself off the hook and decided he wasn’t quite ready.

Several years and another kid later I cringe when they want to paint or even get out the Play Doh. Shame on artsy-fartsy me that our art cupboard inventory is down to some coloring books, dried up markers and a glue stick. And it’s not because they aren’t interested, it’s me avoiding the mess and hassle. I’m all “let’s make cookies” instead. After all, Isaac gets enough glitter gluing and sequin exposure at pre-school, right?

But they have been asking to paint and I couldn’t just keep whistling and ignoring them so I bought painting supplies this week including new brushes and a huge pad of paper for the easel. It was going to be perfect. And it was (at first). The only thing they were missing were little berets as I got them all set up to express themselves in brilliant, uninhibited strokes. Meanwhile I could go express my need to get away if only via the computer. A half hour later Isaac came downstairs. He was rubbing paint into his hands like hand lotion and had expressed himself with some happy face painting. “What are you doing?” I half yelled and his face went from look-at-me to what’d-I-do? I found Libby with paint dripping off her paper, the easel her stool and enough in her hair (more face painting) to warrant a bath.

But in the end when it was all cleaned up and I explained what I should have explained from the very start – why I bought the BIG pad of PAPER, I realized that I did get irritated but I dug past it and showed a little of that patience and good stuff that I once thought would be so easy to come by when someone was calling me Mama. So, we’ll get the paints out again, but I’ll pay more attention and know that I’m still creating the mom I really want to be and it’s messy.

Thirsting Or Just Thirsty

I’m having one of those days except that it has lasted weeks – that restless feeling. Like any minute now my real life is going to start even though, clearly, my life is well under way. I get this way and then it passes, but this loitering around on the fringe of my daily life is not a good use of time. I shouldn’t even be mentioning this – boredom at my age, how lame, and yet I’ve been crawling out of my skin lately. I tend to blame the stay-home-mom thing because it’s so easy – too easy.

But here’s the great thing, something or someone comes along and clears the fog and I just like that I can see again. I can see that I was restless before I was home full-time, before I even had children, when it rained, sometimes the entire month of March. My choice to be home with Isaac and Libby is indeed the right one; it’s my daily choices that get me in trouble.

I don’t need to cure my restlessness but learn to use it as a warning device, my inner voice screaming at me to… Take a walk whenever I have the chance. Bundle everyone up and go outside for some fresh air even if it takes us longer to get bundled than actual time spent outdoors. Call a friend; it does wonders for the soul. Drink a glass of water. It’s entirely possible that most of my downfalls stem from basic dehydration.

So, I raise a glass (of water) to the people, the places and the things that guide us and pull us back onto the path we have rightly chosen. Cheers!

A Christmas Miracle

My prayer was answered -- a shining, bright beacon in the crisp night sky made my heart soar with the spirit of the season…

I’m talking about the red Walgreen’s sign two miles from our home that was open late on Christmas Eve. After a celebration with my side of the family everyone was finally in bed (including Kramer) and it seemed safe for me to play Santa Claus. I was horrified to see the baby travel set I bought Libby weeks ago was in fact a travel set -- doll SOLD SEPARATELY. Actual panic washed over me. All she has talked about is a doll, a friend for her beloved Sunshine (another doll). It was 10:00pm and all I could do was pray the whole way on slippery roads that the drug store was open and had something that would pass for a dolly and maybe even fit in the miniscule baby carrier. I would have paid $1,000.00.

And now we have wee little Baby Beans with us. She was $5.99, she fits beautifully in the plastic infant seat and Libby is just another kid that got her wish on Christmas morning. By that afternoon she was much more interested in her new Care Bear, but that’s okay because Santa delivered.

Fear Factor

Our good bedtime routine has been interrupted by fear. Libby has become very anxious because of what I assume was one bad dream 2 weeks ago. She woke up screaming and spent the rest of that night in our bed and now her lip starts to quiver when we finish the last bedtime story. She gets weepy and says she doesn’t want to have bad dreams. She seems comforted by her dad firmly sending any would be nightmares away and surprisingly she wants her door kept shut – she is reassured that will keep them out. I remind her of her favorite things – how can anything pink and plush ever be scary? But it’s so hard to see her afraid and I find myself lingering by her crib where she should feel perfectly safe.

Fear is a funny thing; I want them to have the so-called healthy fears about jumping off of high things, strangers and eating yummy looking berries off trees but anxiety is another thing and it requires thoughtful tending. The hard part is knowing when to keep it light or really delve in – when to say you can sleep here tonight but this will not become a habit. With Isaac it is trying new things that gets his knees to knocking. But there is hope; we went to a pancake breakfast with Santa and Isaac actually sat on the red clad strangers’ lap. I was so surprised and tried to casually let him know I thought it was great because it was something he wouldn’t have even considered 6 months ago. He said, “I really wanted that candy cane.” I guess we all have to find the candy cane that pushes us past our fears.

Good Company

Isaac has gotten so good at playing on his own or with Libby and I should be thrilled right? Absolutely… but then I have to raise the question: is he spending enough time with children his own age? Does he need a regular playmate? Or is it perfectly appropriate for him to be his own good company? He is in a class of peers at pre-school of course but I don’t know if it counts because it isn’t maybe the best setting for him socially. He is friendly to the kids and talks about them at home but doesn’t get the one-on-one time any good introvert requires.

We went to McDonald’s for lunch with a few of the boys in his class last week on the spur of the moment. He was having such fun with them away from the more structured setting of “academia” (the park and rec version that is). It took a few minutes but I could see him getting caught up in the pure playfulness of it despite himself. It was good to see but made me think I should be having these kids over to play not to mention how since moving to our new house we’re all missing the built in social group our previous neighborhood provided. We are still getting used to making plans where we didn’t have to before. Last summer Isaac’s ears were tuned to the sound of the car doors when the neighbor kids came home and now we have to schedule time with them weeks in advance.

It just seems like he has hit the prime friend-making age; he’s making his way up the complicated and multi-leveled ladder of sharing and his imagination is soaring. He is willing to include his little sister and cousin, I find him looking at books or Highlights magazine in his room, but having a friend over is always a nice way to spend an afternoon. A friend is especially nice with a long winter break coming up and some new Christmas toys coming our way!

Two Of A Kind

I adore Libby and I adore Isaac but I don’t always enjoy Libby-n-Isaac the package deal. When I manage to get one of them alone I am reminded what great things each has to offer – Isaac’s inquisitiveness and Libby’s humor. As it happens I spend more time alone with Libby while Isaac is at school, but we are a threesome most of the time. I have to admit I wish that weren’t the case because we spend a lot of that time working out problems and injustices. I’m not saying it cancels out the things I love about them as individuals, but it clouds my perception.

I don’t think they would agree with me on this one. Despite the bickering and quest to always be first they are each other’s best company. They love being the package deal. I wonder how their relationship will evolve as the years go by and they continue to become themselves. I am in no big hurry for them to grow (except when I am living for it) but I am looking forward to knowing them like one looks forward to a scary movie – I am tingly with anticipation at what’s next, but more inclined to cover my head.

At the end of the day after we have flipped a coin to determine the order for teeth brushing and the stories have been read, I take Libby to her room, tuck her in and sing “the moon song.” Then I go do the exact same thing in Isaac’s room. As much as I hurry through the bedtime routine knowing that freedom is mere moments away I sing the song twice and take that extra couple minutes to have each of them all to myself.

It Isn't Easy Being Green

This just in: kids are not practical. As I seem to become more practical with each passing week, I can’t expect my kids to share my point of view. Just because I asked for a soup tureen for my birthday doesn’t mean they should want a new set of sheets for Christmas. Isaac has been pouring over the Sunday paper toy ads. He has a wish list and understands that wishes don’t all come true but he has filled 4 pieces of construction paper front and back with ads he has painstakingly cut out and adhered with a lot of tape. Every time I walk past the refrigerator dozens of jagged, layered wishes flap in the breeze.

On one hand it’s very sweet but got to the point where I had to impart some practical limitations. He had lots of things that look great in print but that’s it – things for babies or exorbitantly priced. He only sees fire trucks or Thomas The Tank Engine. I went through the pages with him today and we picked a few that he really liked and were within the limits. He was fine with this but all the want talk…. it doesn’t sit well.

I think watching him dream about all the things that would be so great to have reminds me of my own love of stuff. That’s what really isn’t sitting well. I have been paging through catalogs too, playing an imaginary game of anything goes -- there are no price tags or environmental impacts. Because it’s one thing to be a practical person and creatively cheap, but it’s another thing altogether to be green. I have this romantic notion that I could make a much smaller impact on the world but then my long-awaited birthday is coming and there are these great things at Ikea….

My list is maybe not as obvious as Isaac’s but it’s exactly the same: a big case of the gimmies without an ounce of need. This time of year seems to bring out the red in me, not the green.

Roommate Trouble

I read a timely comment about how living with kids is like having the worst roommate in the world. It’s true; I would never tolerate the moods, disrespect for my personal space or slovenly habits from any other human being. I would be out of there in no time. But I’m not talking about someone who answered an ad or even a friend to share expenses, I’m talking about the long term invaders of our home and lifelong invaders of my very being. I had a child and of course that meant I joyfully opened my home and myself up to him (then her) and now my home and myself are in shambles!

I am struggling with this silly and meaningless issue -- how truly messy and cluttered our home is despite my continuous efforts or how when something is missing – a shoe, doll, library book – it’s usually in the abyss that is the car. The discarded items, strewn clothes, abandoned forts are just kid stuff, I know, but they start feeling hostile to me and I respond in turn with hostility. As I move from room to room lately I am baffled in a sad, defeated sort of way. I just went upstairs as I’m writing this and took a look around. Call it research. I made a list of what was on the living room floor at this moment: half a strip of stickers, a used Kleenex, a sock, a princess backpack, a doll, a paper airplane, two Tupperware bowls, a train conductors hat (Isaac’s Halloween costume), an empty Ziploc bag, 5 Uno cards and a blanket.

Now here’s the catch, while a very big and frustrated part of me wants to do yet another sweep of the living room and just tidy up I refuse to send that message: mom will do it – no way! And at the same time I am not a believer in the clean-up-as-you-play philosophy. As much as I would love more order I also see imaginations running wild in this mess and creativity being sparked and I won’t stifle that. I can have a sense of humor about it like the time I crawled into bed and found a garlic press pressing into my back. And other times after we’ve had company the wreckage reaches comical proportions. But on a daily, hourly, moment-to-moment basis I think I have a classic case of the get-over-its because there is no getting out of this lease.

What Was That?

It was weird. We had a normal ride to pre-school: Libby screaming at Isaac not sharing his Scholastic book order form and me grumbling and eye rolling. The weirdness started later when I asked the kids to help pick up the kitchen floor that was covered in toy dishes and food set out for the stuffed animals’ lunch. With just that one request, Isaac started gathering the buffet and loading his tee shirt he had turned up to make a pouch. What? I didn’t even want to say thank you for fear he would come to and start sobbing or foaming at the mouth. At dinner I couldn’t help but thank him after he declared, “Good meal, mom!” and gave me the double thumbs up. Huh?

Later when I thought the temporary insanity had surely worn off, I asked this child who looked and sounded like my son to help me find the floor in the toy room and he marched downstairs like a disciplined solider. Seriously I couldn’t stop smiling – I felt like I had won a prize. Without prodding he picked up all the Little People and the same toy groceries from earlier. Of course it took him some time as each item was carefully picked up with salad tongs. Whatever. I didn’t care at all that I did 90% to his 10 because he was merrily plucking and singing to himself.

When I tucked him into bed I gushed about how much I appreciated his help and only having to ask once. And the best part of this queen-for-a-day afternoon was when he said, “Well… I just figured that if I helped we could do the fun stuff sooner.” A breakthrough? I looked around to see if anyone else had heard but we were alone in his room and he was this kid who is so much closer to being 5 than 4 in every way. “Well… you are absolutely right,” I agreed.

The next day things returned mostly to normal but that’s just fine because it was so clear for a few blissful hours that we are on the right path, he’s finding his way and the crummy listening and irritating stuff isn’t who he is but just the required stops on the journey.

Tis The Season

My kids are so tacky. They love this time of year when seemingly mundane homes are transformed -- littered with schlocky Halloween crap. Isaac and Libby both gasp with delight at these sightings – an inflated Frankenstein riding a motorcycle, a nylon pumpkin the size of a camper; I cringe. I’m bothered by the fact that they are being taken for a ride as future consumers. While our neighbor has one of those blow-up monstrosities in the yard spending all day in a sad deflated pile, we have pumpkins waiting to be carved and some spiders we cut out of paper hanging on the front door.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m on the lookout for these festive mishaps. I know that anything big, bold and boisterous is what takes their breath away. They love it and I get excited at their excitement. It’s like the zoo. We go, ooh and aah at the wonder of these caged creatures that always seem depressed to me. So we fake it because to them whether it’s a giraffe or a two story mechanical Santa, it’s amazing and nothing negative is or should be attached.

I want the kids to appreciate that simplicity goes a long way. For now I’ll just plant the seed by creating traditions and fun around carving pumpkins, apple picking, carefully choosing and cutting down our Christmas tree at a sustainable farm. And maybe this year I’ll leave some of our holiday stuff chosen by yours, “less is more,” truly in a box and we’ll do it up kid style. A little well-placed tacky is good.

Throw Down At The Crabby Corral

It never fails to stun me how things can go really bad, really fast. Today I got the kids all revved up on my brilliant idea for a special rainy day treat. We needed 2 things, we made it into the grocery store: me, Libby, Isaac and Isaac’s prized new toy, but we never made it past the carts. Carts… oh, the carts. Libby wanted the car cart and Isaac wanted to push a kid-sized cart. And in case your thinking we didn’t talk about all of this before we left home, we did! Sadly, as it goes with carts, there was a shortage. Keep in mind we were there for 2, count em’, 2 items. I proposed 2, count em’, 2 solutions. They responded with 2, count em', 2 stomping fits so right back out we went.

Now I have a hard time letting these things go. I know I did the right thing but I can’t get past my disappointment in my grand ideas and thoughtfulness being thrown back in my face. And the cherry on top of this crap sundae was that when these sobbing, heaving shells of once happy children got home it became clear that Libby had left a crucial, tiny piece to the new toy somewhere at the scene of the crime. This sent Isaac right over the edge and I had to have a quick conference with myself. Do I take the tough love approach and lecture about taking toys along being risky or do I have mercy. It was Libby, after all, who left it behind and that didn’t seem fair even to me who was still a little high off my victory in the cart corral. We went back. We found the piece. We were all mad. And I could have really used that chocolate.

This kind of disappointment lingers for me long after the kids have moved on. I’m too petty; I don’t want to move on, I want them to feel a little bad. I want them to see that I’m always thinking of them and the things I ask are reasonable and fair. Is that too much? Of course it is. It’s way too much. And right now I can be rational about that, but the next time I ask a simple thing of them like grab your shoes please, take your feet off your sister’s doll please, put the books on the shelf please I will have to fight the urge to scream my head off because the raving lunatic that lurks right below the surface wants nothing more than to be heard and respected.

Girl Wonder

It’s been realized that our little Libby is hell-bent on growing up too fast. She hated being a baby it occurs to me now -- she kicked and screamed her way through the first 6 months likely feeling trapped in that baby body not to mention the “miracle blanket” that was meant to swaddle and soothe her. Since then she has been shattering all of Isaac’s personal bests – walking much sooner, talking circles around him at 2, and now potty training (all her idea and without bribery). Friends comment on how she seemed to skip right past toddler and head straight to little girl. Of course while she is wearing pink underwear and starting sentences with, “Hey guys, how bout this…” the only color she knows is pink. She is such a big girl doing so many things that I forget to notice what we aren’t doing.

I spent purposeful time with Isaac pointing out colors, imitating animal sounds and exploring the shape sorter when he was little and it was just him and me passing quiet days together. The shape sorter now takes up space along with the stacking blocks and peg puzzles. It doesn’t occur to me to take these brain-building things out; Libby and Isaac are too busy playing dress-up, shoving anything that will fit through our new mail slot, or just arguing. I see her as so capable and yet I’ve slacked off on some of the very basics. Oh well, I’m sure she’ll nail down those colors and figure out numbers 1 through 10 in ascending order eventually. And what’s the hurry, we love this big/little girly girl exactly as she is.

Hear Ye, Hear Ye

We’re speaking a least three languages around here and frankly it’s exhausting. Of course I’m not talking about being an impressively tri-lingual family, no, no, just the language I speak with Isaac and the other language that comes out of Libby and then the dialect peppered with spelled out words and interruptions spoken with my husband. There is just so much talk, talk, talking…

When Isaac is not at school where, I’m sure, he barely utters a sound, he is a world of words, either sharing information or gathering information. It’s staggering, the verbal discourse of varying volume and mood that fills our days. There is noise coming out of them all day long and it starts to become a loud buzzing in my head. With Isaac, his talking is mostly questions or asking me what I think so then it’s my turn to talk. My wheels are spinning as I carefully choose words skirting my way around inquiries into what head stones really represent driving past a cemetery and then what I meant calling someone a jerk on that same chatty car ride. These conversations demand two syllable words and gentle verbs.

And Libby is adding words hourly; her articulation skills can’t begin to keep up. She won’t settle for the patronizing fake understanding when she really has something to say either. The difficulty with her is interchangeable letters. She uses “w” where I would expect an “s” like in whimming huit or an “h” for an “f” in “hishing”. Isaac is good at helping me decode this toddler version of English but it wears me out learning a new language at my age.

It’s hard to really pay attention every time someone from the back seat says, “watch me, mama,” to listen to senseless jokes, to feign listening, to rephrase when everything I say is met with, “what do you mean?” to remind again and again about manners, interrupting and whining. But let me dig down here and find the positive… it’s here somewhere. It seems like such an important job to listen and guide as the keeper of these yappy little souls so I give a little wake up shake of my head, rub my eyes, focus and try to appreciate the sweet sound even if my ears are bleeding and my voice is raw.

Nothing to Fear But Fear Itself

I don't think much about my genetic code until I see Isaac's tortured face. I saw torture when the puppet show ended and it was time to find his Sunday School room last weekend. I was that kid, and in many ways am still that kid in an adult's body, overcome with fear and anxiety at what might be. Last year when he wouldn't set foot in the 3-4 year old room I decided it wasn't worth it with preschool starting the following week. So, I told him we could try it again next year and he went limp with relief. Has an entire year really gone by he must have thought as I gently reminded him that we agreed to do Sunday School when he was 4. And I think even he thought it would be okay until that actual moment and the agony washed over him. He even literally pushed me away as I tried to prod him along -- something he wouldn't normally do and I got teary knowing that the thing that made him do it was that he felt so afraid but worse, betrayed. While the other children in his age group had already rallied around and followed the yellow balloon carrying teachers upstairs I carried him trying to whisper reassurances that I would be there the whole time.

And I try to put on the brave face and meet the teacher's looks with that "that's my boy" shrug, but I'm sick inside. And what am I supposed to do.... really, I'm asking because at moments like that I just want to hold him and let the poor thing off the hook. But instead he sat on my lap or next to me the whole time fighting back tears or wiping them away with his sleeve. By the end of the 30 minutes I was embarrassed for both of us as the other children marched around the table playing instruments and I was carrying him in an effort to avoid letting us be on the sidelines where we both desperately wanted to be. Never has he seemed so huge or it seem so inappropriate -- me carrying this 4 1/2 year old while his little peers seemed completely at ease banging tambourines and missing the beat.

And what can I say or do, this is who he is on the most basic level -- it is programmed into him as my offspring. I am so sorry for this and my only hope is that the other half of his most microscopic being rises above and prevails. And there is hope because while I was still sick to my stomach and wondering how I'm going to do this again next week in the car on the way home I overheard him say to Libby, "I was a little scared, but they had Lady."

Note: Lady is an engine from Thomas the Train.

Summertime Blues

I’m in the place I go sometimes – my hapsady place. That’s part happy and part sad. It’s my place where my gratitude and joy are comfortably wrapped in a blanket of melancholy. If that makes any sense to you then thank God because I don’t know how to explain it. It’s Libby and Isaac taking my breath away after looking in on them sleeping then getting teary thinking how I could have been a better mother to them that day. It’s the great ideas Isaac has and my boredom at indulging them. It’s our anniversary evening Kramer planned away from home that I ruined when I mentioned I would have been happier with a night at home just the two of us. It’s the wonder of seeing baby turtles coming out of their shells last weekend and then the wondering if we have done irreparable damage to our wondrous world. It’s an unwavering belief in a benevolent God and a doubt in my own faith.

I couldn’t ask for more in my life and yet there is this underlying longing… not for any thing in particular but maybe a sense of contentment that eludes me in my hapsady place. So I’m just riding it out, not trying to fight this state of mind because in a strange way it heightens my senses and makes me even more aware of what this life I’ve been given means to me.

Please note: I am totally ready for preschool to start – I can’t take another minute of this oh so glorious, draining free time with the kids! We desperately need some direction to get me back on track, but thanks for listening in the meantime.

Pay No Attention

Am I the only one who thinks parenting magazines are right up there with fashion magazines when it comes to deflating self-esteem? As I picked up my new issue of Wondertime and got through the first few pages here came the nagging negative thoughts: why didn’t I think of that or no one with kids really does that. Instead of being a teenager or twenty-something thinking I don’t have the right clothes, boobs or boyfriend, it was my creativity and overall approach to parenting that seemed lame compared to these glossy articles, tidbits and contrived photographs. I closed the pages and let myself think about the things I do well.

It got me thinking about what I do that goes unnoticed. I like tending the nest in little ways for which I will never be thanked. I cut sandwiches into triangles because it’s easier for little hands (and the entire thing doesn’t end up on the floor). I added a little more padding to carseats and used the extra to make a wagon cushion for those bumpy rides. I pour buckets of hot water in the wading pool along with cold from the hose. I have a weird need to make two part snacks – like fruit with crackers or yogurt with toast and serve them in the right sized containers. Kramer just shakes his head at me. But this is coming from a man who I once watched fill his jacket pocket with graham cracker sticks like dog biscuits – this was his version of a snack for an outing with our son (no dog). If he takes the kids to the beach they are lucky to get one towel to share while I try to bring matching towels – more peaceful that way.

I do these things out of love and I know this because they are the things I simply give – they are not demanded. The obligations of motherhood are many and overwhelming and so I guess I look for ways to sneak in the goodies that make life a little sweeter and butts a little happier. So, I should revisit my magazine with a little more confidence that these kids don’t need a textbook mom, just me.

Winds of Change

There has been a change (there always is) and it’s for the worse this time. For my three loyal readers… I wrote about my dynamic little duo a few weeks ago in Two’s Company. Things have gone sour. Libby has really started asserting herself and her moony-eyed, agreeable puppy love for her big brother has turned into more of a hissing distaste for his constant guidance. She is on the defensive, gripping her farm animals and furrowing her brow before he even makes a move. And it’s not just with Isaac, she’s very volatile and quick to pump her arms in anger over everything these days.

That’s what they do, they lull me into thinking a balance has been struck. And just as soon as I’m comfortable and sounding sickeningly sticky sweet on this blog I get a reality check. Oh well, I at least thought to enjoy our recent glimpse at harmony and now I need to regroup and decide how I’m going to quell the whining and bickering.

But first there is a little sadness when these shifts happen. As I’m right here on the cusp of such a shift I tilt my head a little to the side and think, ohhh my Libby, what happened to my Libby… And I want to close my eyes really tightly and remember every moment – all the times before the wind shifted and she was so dang funny and good enough to eat. As it goes all that really great stuff gets filed away somewhere in my dusty brain while I’m busy dealing with the meltdowns and malaise and I can’t ever seem to find it again without the video documentation which is such a teeny fraction of our breezy little life.

Sweet Freedom

I’ve kicked my way to the surface after nearly drowning in a sea of stress moving this family across town. And you know what, the skies are clear up here where I can breathe. Even my head is fairly quiet and I’ve noticed the old voice of dread is nothing more than a whisper right now. I can pack up the kids, a snack, sunscreen, swim diapers, water toys, towels, dry clothes, hats, water bottles and the kitchen sink to meet friends at a pool and I bask in how far we’ve come. We are free – free of my hysteria and free to enjoy these lazy days of summer. This is new but hopefully not fleeting.

I see mothers with tiny babies bjorned to their sweaty breasts at the park or pool and I vacillate between feeling weak and smug. On one hand I was so unwilling when the kids were younger to sacrifice schedules for an outing that would often end in misery and a blown nap that I tethered us to home and felt caged. On the other hand I smugly think I made an admirable sacrifice by sticking to our routine with my willingness to go stir crazy for Isaac and Libby’s sakes. I’ll never know.

What I do know is I am enjoying being home with them right now. This morning we had friends over and the 4 kids played well together and then we decided on a spur of the moment trip to a great kids’ bookstore nearby. I was spur-of-the-moment-mom! I have never been spur-of-the-moment-mom. It felt good and it was great fun; I was proud of all of us here breathing and swimming and being free.

Not My Best Work

Is there any way to know what my outbursts and flawed parenting have done to my children? Is it too late; have I squashed some part of them with my exasperated yelling and arm grabbing? Isaac and I have not seen eye to eye lately and I feel entirely responsible. We have been in our new house for 2 weeks and during that time (and the time leading up to it) I have been so unavailable, so short-tempered, so un-fun while I’ve packed and unpacked and pushed his requests for doing a robot project aside. His behavior has been less than desirable but so has mine.

I was watching several families at church today with much older kids and they seem like such works of art while my children and myself are such works in progress. These adolescents are so cute with unkept bushy hair and weird footwear. They exchange knowing glances with their parents while I am catching my kids’ eyes with that STOP NOW look. Were these kids the restless little ones who made church impossible for their parents a few years ago? Did their moms make the same mistakes I’m making and yet they’ve “turned out?”

I suppose I’m seeing through cloudy, warped glasses and I’m looking at the veteran parents with envy – they have already succeeded in many ways while I struggle with knowing if I am doing a good job and some days feeling like I’ve failed. I feel my weaknesses so deeply as a mother because it’s only the most important thing I will ever do and my little works of art deserve my best.

Summer School For Mom

How do I motivate a 4 year old without having to resort to bribery or negative consequences? How do I inspire trying new things and practicing printing one’s name? How do I let go of my own nagging expectations and not huff away from my pre-schooler uninterested in working on perfecting that pesky letter “s” in his name?

I ask because today I blew it. I suggested Isaac and I sidle up to the chalkboard and get in some summer school. My request was met with a response worse than plain old “NO.” I got the laying on the floor, staring into space non-response. And when I pressed him he was “too tired” to do it. And then I heard the irritated tone and stupid words coming out of my mouth… something about how since pre-school ended we have just been doing lots of fun things… and I realized I had just insinuated school and learning IS NOT fun, implied that it’s a chore and something to be dreaded. What have I done? I quickly backpedaled and blabbed on about how letters, numbers and writing his name takes practice like riding his bike without training wheels or playing soccer. I’m smacking myself in the forehead all over again as I write this.

These are the aspects of parenting that baffle me: the knowing when to back off and when to stand my ground. Or accepting that some things I need to let slide because they are, after all, little kids who resist, throw fits and forget to say please. I suppose it’s all in my presentation and the timing. I have to sprinkle in a little magic and get out of my own creative rut with some new ideas as summer officially starts and I know it could be a really good one whether we get around to the letter “s” or not.

Two's Company

Libby’s first two years have been so different than first-born Isaac’s. I wasn’t nearly the playmate and idol for him that he is for her. I was such a stuffy old adult – restless playing peek-a-boo and trucks. Isaac on the other hand is the ultimate friend to Libby. First thing in the morning he hollers for me to get his side kick out of her crib and they’re off. He is a total rock star in her eyes; she is so intent on being the Robin to his Batman or the First Mate to his Captain. Her vocabulary and spirit of adventure is far beyond where Isaac was at her age and I think it has everything to do with her luck at being born second.

Of course she is so good for Isaac too. It is her personality to be more assertive and fearless. She will be his throw-caution-to-the-wind and he’ll be her let’s-think-this-through. I distinctly remember feeling like a jerk when Libby was about to born – I was truly sorry for Isaac that we were going to come home with this baby and ruin his perfect little world. I had it all wrong: his first born life was always missing something that Libby’s never was – this companion and teacher, someone to show him the ropes that only an older sibling can do because as parents we are too cautious or distracted.

The other day it was way too quiet upstairs so I crept up to find them sitting not exactly next to each other but together looking at books. Are you kidding me, where is Norman Rockwell when you need him? And the weird thing is that when I joined them it quickly went bad. Both of them wanted me to read and the books were being shoved -- the spell was broken. I guess three really is a crowd sometimes.

Turning A Corner

Have you heard of this book, “I Was a Really Good Mom Before I Had Kids?” I don’t know anything about it but I LOVE the title because it rings so true for me. Don’t take this the wrong way or anything but having babies really screwed up my plans for an ideal family. I had dreamed up camping trips, scenic bike rides and holiday traditions, but quickly realized those things come much later – after the shock waves from the baby bombs finally subside. And they have subsided; we are looking like the family I pictured before Isaac and way before the Libby bomb went off in our faces.

The four of us journeyed to my aunt and uncle’s cabin this weekend. We roasted hot dogs and s’mores over a campfire after Isaac and Libby collected sticks, we took a day trip to Itasca State Park where we biked to the headwaters of the Mississippi. They frolicked in the water and of course fell in but we were prepared with a picnic lunch and dry clothes. Isaac collected shells from the lake and rode the 4-wheeler with Kramer. Libby got to skip her real naps and I agreed that car and bike snoozes would have to do. It was truly fun and it felt like a real beginning to the kind of memory making I want to fill photo albums with and look back on fondly.

So, I’ll treasure my already cloudy memories of their babyhoods, but know that I didn’t exactly shine as a mother of brand new little people. I was too neurotic and they were too unreasonable. But now we are on a new path – a kid path where I hope to hit my mom stride, let go of the worry and fretfulness and just soak up whatever may lie ahead. Because if this last weekend had a title it would be: “Having Babies: the price I paid for getting this family.”

Making A Home

Oh the irony of how my kids have been completely in my way while I’m busy planning their futures. I’ve been consumed with finding a home that will be the best possible place for them to grow and blossom. I’ve been agonizing over schools that will put them on the path to success. I’ve been preoccupied thinking about what color their rooms could be and how we could feature some of their special projects in the new kitchen. I’ve been putting them first in every way except where they really want to be – in my daily routine. It’s so backwards that I consider them in everything I do and yet I’m irritated that they won’t just leave me alone while I devote my life to them.

If only I could ship them off to summer camp and welcome them back to a new home all shiny clean and freshly painted. But that’s not going to happen so I have to keeping pulling myself back to the simple fact that my time is not my own. The painting and planting and perfecting at our new house will have to be fit in here and there because the truth is the house and all my plans for it will wait but time won’t, summer won’t, and these changing-by-the-minute kids won’t. So as much as I might like one lousy weekend and some money to devote to the white walls and dirty carpets, it is after all just a house but my home is these three people (if only I were Zen enough to really live that way).

The Truth Hurts

It was show-n-tell at pre-school today and Isaac decided to bring his guitar. He hasn’t wanted to share anything for weeks so I was thrilled partly, but uneasy too. You see his guitar is HOT pink and flowery. Now he loves it and Santa (wink, wink) really searched for one with buttons AND strings, but as soon as he mentioned bringing it to school my red flags start waving. Ugh, I can’t stand the thought of someone telling him it’s a girl’s toy or snickering at his prized instrument just because it’s pink. I did ask him if he’d rather share his great new McDonalds guitar that is more pocket friendly in size, but I didn’t let me get in his way. I just said a little prayer as I imagined one of the kids (probably with older siblings) breaking it to my sweet, clueless boy -- my clueless boy who is currently sporting red toenail polish because he is so beautifully unaware of expectations, taboos and judgments.

Oh, how I want to protect him from being hurt or mocked. I want to protect him from meanness and sadness. Is it possible to be honest with my kids and yet hide the truth about a world where people hurt each other and litter (I hate littering)? I find myself avoiding the word dead even when talking about batteries or rambling on about toys left outside getting lost because I don’t want him worrying about theft. Am I doing them a disservice or my duty insulating them a little? I just want them to be kids, carefree kids with fancy toes!

Breaking up is hard to do

I’m sadder than I thought I’d be; we put our house up for sale. It feels like I’m breaking up with someone that I really care about, love even, but know I have no future with. I’m starting the mourning process and thinking about the goodbyes. I do love this house and know it so well – I know where not to step when the kids are sleeping because the floor is too squeaky. I know not to run the microwave, toaster and bedroom ceiling fan at the same time. I know all the weird groans and clunky noises it makes at night and which windows need sticks to hold them open. Of course I long for the things this house lacks like a closet for coats and another bathroom, but this is where my babies were babies and where I nursed them at all hours. It’s where this family was born. Sigh…

It's Not You, It's Me

Do you know any kids who make you wonder if instead of getting tucked in at night, they get plugged in? I mean they seem to have transcended all the typical stuff of typical kids and cannot possibly be human. We spent some time with three such kid-bots last weekend. The oldest was 8 and downright delightful; I waited for her charm to lose it’s luster and become obnoxious but it really didn’t. The 5 year old was as sweet as they come. Even the baby was mind blowingly agreeable. What gives?

I’m just going to say it; kids annoy me. Even those kid-bots with the manners and sunny dispositions irritated me (only because my mother inferiority complex flared up like a rash). And boy oh boy, I know my kids are annoying! Isaac used to just ignore people but now he’s more inclined to stammering baby talk or super silliness (both give me a twitch). And Libby, she attaches herself to women like a parasite; leading them around, taking over laps or wanting to be carried. And if these women are mothers themselves, it causes serious turf problems. It quickly goes from cute to tiresome.

Wait, let me back pedal a little because really we know so many great kids Isaac and Libby love playing with and who liven up any trip to the park or backyard bike rally. The truth is being around kids that don’t belong to me just means I have to be on my best behavior and I’m so much more comfortable with my B- behavior. So as you probably already suspected it has nothing to do with the kids, but has everything to do with my mild case of burnout.

Comfort Measures

I’ve been kicked out of my comfort zone in so many ways since having Isaac and Libby that I have gotten rather okay in my discomfort. My old life’s avoidance tactics don’t work. Once you have a kid you’re out there in a whole new way, far, far from the place where I drew little attention to myself. The phone calls alone have taken inexplicable courage…. dialing daycares almost killed me I was so intimidated. The infuriating calls to the nurse line when I have to admit that my kid had been coughing for weeks. I had to muster strength to call and simply ask about playgroups then preschool and now kindergarten. The agony of inviting ourselves to a friend’s house on a weekend when Kramer is working because I’m afraid I literally can’t take another minute. I’ve had to open myself up and ignore my instinct to fly under the radar.

Today I was reminded of my social boundaries that have been pushed way out too! This morning Isaac and I went to the zoo with a kid from preschool and his mom. She suggested we get together and it still surprises me that just because our kids spend a few hours a week together and have likely never spoken directly to each other before today, she was eager to venture out with a virtual stranger. We had a good time and it wasn’t awkward because I’ve come to appreciate this immediate mother bond (see my post: You Go Girl), but there’s that little part of me that stood in the gift shop (a place we have never visited at the zoo) that thought, what are you doing here on this equivalent of a first date? I could feel myself trying to be a good “mom date.” You know, trying to seem less neurotic than I actually am and being cool about Isaac eating what amounted to fries and chocolate milk for lunch.

It’s been so good for me to be pushed out of my box this way. I’ve maybe even gotten a little closer to the person I want to be who doesn’t worry about looking a little silly or needing to ask where the lamp shades are at Target when I’m stumped. And my biggest hope of all is that my kids push right past any inclination to hold back and have a comfort universe not merely a zone!

Washed Up

I wash, and wash, and wash! I can’t get over how much time I spend washing. I’ll share the highlights of the last 5 days: all sheets, towels, hats, mittens and coats (we had been in contact with a possible case of lice), bloodied clothes (Isaac needed stitches Thursday), peed-on floors, peed-on little legs and feet (twice actually after Libby went on the potty chair and apparently wasn’t quite finished), crayon off the stairway walls. And then of course the regular washing of hands, faces, butts, dishes and clothes…. the counters, table and under the table where crumbs go to breed. And if you saw our bathroom you’d wonder why no one has wiped up the toothpaste globs or the unmentionable toilet.

I had a chance to experience an amazing restaurant with some new friends a couple weeks ago and I was washing my hands in the glamorous restroom with actual cotton towels and I noticed my dry, cracked hands. I almost had to laugh out loud as I imagined how the other patrons in that beautiful place had spent their day and how I had spent mine conquering the spills and the poop and the laundry. I knew my dinner companions had wiped butts that day too and it was good to be in another galaxy for an evening and then come home to my world where everyone was sound asleep and my bathroom was as I had left it with a couple more toothpaste globs left by the people who love me and my raw mother hands.

There's Good News & Bad News

The good news: these kids have hit a good stride. They get caught up for huge chunks of time playing in a kind of together way – I’m talking 20 minutes! They find all sorts of clever ways to pass these long winter days without relying on me to initiate and facilitate every step of the way. Isaac played outside with a neighbor friend for an hour and a half yesterday. He went to the same kid’s house for movie night last Friday. He assured me he didn’t need me to walk the 10 steps with him and he bolted out the door, no coat, just boots, yelling, “I love you too, see you after the movie.” And Libby -- she finds the joy in all kinds of things on her own. She travels between upstairs and down doing a little of this and that all day. And when I realize it’s been too quiet for too long, I don’t worry, I know that she is playing in the bathroom sink, soaked from elbows to ankles. But it’s totally worth it because she’s engaged in something that doesn’t require my pretending or storytelling skills.

The bad news: I have disengaged a little I think. I have some actual breathing room and I have become even more distracted than before with various endeavors like house hunting. I’m consumed by the instant online information at my fingertips. The other day I put Libby down for her nap and Isaac put in a video and what seemed like just a few minutes later he jumped off the couch saying, “Mommy, you let me watch the whole thing.” Well, look at that an entire hour had passed. Oops! And it took effort for me to sit on the floor and play our version of Jr. Boggle after that when I knew our house could be out there waiting for me to find it with the help of Google Earth!

I know this is healthy, their ability to entertain themselves so why do the old guilties creep in on me? I guess I’m afraid that if Isaac were asked to draw a picture of what we do at home these days it would look something like this: mommy sitting at the computer with a little bubble over my head that reads, “in a minute…” while Isaac watches a video and Libby stands next to me with dripping sleeves.

IV

Isaac turned 4 yesterday. Four! If I hadn’t squandered my own birthday wish it would be to save a little of him in a bottle right now. He is the definition of a little boy – interested in superheros, swords and crashing anything that moves. On the other hand he’s so loving and open, curious and aware of every little thing. His dangly limbs seem so capable when he’s running and shoveling snow, but so little and delicate when he’s naked. He can be so thoughtful but needs to be reminded constantly to use his manners. He can do so many things for himself and yet he’s a far cry from independent. Everyday we get a clearer glimpse of who he is – his mannerisms, expressions, temperament and humor. It’s good to know him, this 4 year old.

I look forward to knowing him more and more, but right now is worth savoring. I’m thrilled to watch Isaac transform, but a part of me feels sad too. I guess because there’s a mourning process that goes along with all the letting go that’s required being a parent. But we’re talking about being in this moment – the thing I have to force myself to do all the time. Right now he crawls up in my lap, loves being read to, cracks the eggs when we’re baking and holds my hand. He is genuinely excited about the littlest things and breathless telling us about them. Could this possibly be a kid who becomes a withdrawn, moody teenager? There I go again; we’re not talking about the what ifs.

Of course there’s the poop talk and the whining that creeps into our daily life, but even so I just want to preserve some of this for later when I can appreciate it even more than I do now. I don’t sit around wishing he were a baby or that I could do it all again (no way) but I do want to be in the moment and enjoy life through the eyes of my 4 year old. And I don’t need a wish for that, just the presence of mind to pay attention.

Pace Yourself

I read a theory that people would be generally happier living at a child’s pace. The idea was that children do what feels right. It’s a great suggestion but I disagree in practice. My kid’s pace would appear as sharp spikes on a graph. One thing entices them for a moment and then on to the next leaving a trail of wreckage behind. I understand that having less stress and a playful attitude would be beneficial, but kids are so sporadic and easily distracted that my own sense of focus has been rattled. I can’t figure out if I’m getting really good at doing several things at once or if I’m doing everything half-assed. Have I learned how to listen better with the constant interruptions or am I not really hearing anything at all? Sometimes by the end of the day I have that strange feeling like when you have driven home and arrive without any recollection of the journey; your body and some part of your brain took over while another part was preoccupied.

Of course my kids are young and I assume those spikes I mentioned will soften to rolling hills as they grow. And I hope they keep a fun-loving approach to life always but I don’t know that it’s the elusive key to health and happiness. I miss a feeling of finishing something in my daily life; instead I am always doing but never done. It’s a strange, sluggish but perpetual motion with small children that creates a very thin line between my being okay and being irritated. So while I am cruising along with my kids in the slow, far right lane of life because that is what is best for them I know that I’ll be less restless in one of the middle lanes someday.

Inching Along

I have new respect for the adage: give an inch, they’ll take a mile. I’m in complete agreement with consistency being key in parenting, but sometimes I just want to make an exception, break a rule or two without dealing with the aftermath. I’m talking about little things like the other day at church Kramer had taken a restless Libby out of the service leaving Isaac and me alone. I had mints in my purse so I offered him one. As expected he wanted another. I told him he could have one more and that was it. Well, he whined, pleaded and grabbed for my bag until we too stepped out for a chat and I regretted ever putting him in that position. Now, I don’t give in to whining and fit throwing. There would be no more for my fresh, minty boy. In fact that kind of behavior only gives me more resolve to make my point.

But really, what’s life all about if you can’t replace a carrot stick with a cookie from time to time? That’s how I like to live but on the other hand I have these kids respecting the difference between a snack and a treat so I can’t blur that line just yet. I wouldn’t mind letting them pick out a new toy at Target once in a while but I hesitate to do it – they don’t ask and it seems like a slippery slope. I’d be up for spending a day in our pajamas just for fun but our routine of getting dressed around the same agreed upon time simply works. I’m hoping that we’re laying the ground work for the day when we will be able to break rules as a family and Isaac and Libby will appreciate the joy in being spontaneous, not see it as a chink in our armor.

When I was in high school there would be days when I’d whine that I didn’t want to go to school and my mom would casually say, “Okay, take a mental health day.” I never took advantage of her offer; it was enough knowing that she didn’t automatically say no. Brilliant. Looking back on that it is what I strive for in my relationship with my kids – the mutual respect that will keep all kinds of doors wide open. And hopefully someday giving an inch will mean getting a mile in return.

You Go Girl!

What is one of my favorite things about being a mother? Other mothers. I have found membership in this sorority to be an unexpected and heaven-sent perk. When I thought about starting our family I imagined my life with, what else, a baby. Silly me thinking my world would shrink down to three, not open up to all of womankind. There was a sweet isolation and new closeness at welcoming wee little Isaac to the world (and by welcoming I mean existing in a state of panic and desperation). But within a couple days my neighbor brought me two wonderful things: a box of Luna Bars to nourish my body and advice to nourish my psyche. She suggested I think of the first few weeks with a newborn as an act of survival. I was overcome with relief that I was supposed to feel like I just had to get through this – this most intense immersion into baby and breastfeeding. She initiated me into the club.

I love the humor and openness of friends and strangers alike who keep me laughing and more clear since that single moment when everything became altered and rather fuzzy. And nearly four years into my parenting journey the sisterhood expands right along with my growing kids and the relentless changes. So, while my husband is my devoted, equal partner and endless source of love, I find a sense of renewal from other women and mothers. Now if only I could stop being so self-conscience and comparing myself to all of you who seem cooler, more patient and generally satisfied I’d be a little closer to what you inspire me to be.

Have It Your Way

Isaac’s bedtime mantra: “Goodnight Mama… I love you… Sweet Dreams… See you tomorrow and if you don’t want to come in here if Libby wakes up, I’ll tell her ‘Shhhhh and go back to sleep.’” Every night he recites the same thing and I don’t remember when it started or how each stanza was added. I suppose I always say goodnight and sweet dreams but he has made this his unwavering routine. It takes me awhile to catch on, but these obsessions or protocols sneak in, take firm hold and then somehow morph into the next.

Isaac was Spot the dog weeks ago and now he wears a blanket tied around his neck most of the time; he is Batman. I have no idea where he even heard of Batman, but he is captivated. I can live with a superhero, but there are a few hang-ups that drive me nuts –– like the oatmeal. One regretful day long ago I unknowingly let him pour instant oatmeal into his breakfast bowl. Dozens of bowls later and despite my longing to just get breakfast ready quickly, he has to pull over a kitchen chair, climb up on the counter, open the package, spill at least a little every time and oversee the entire process. I have actually gotten super angry about it a couple times ending in tears and then apologies by yours truly. I mean talk about choosing your battles. Which is why I also make every effort with bowls, spoons, straws, etc. to make sure Isaac gets the green one. It’s a small thing that makes a BIG difference.

Libby so far is less rigid but she too has her deal breakers. She got a doll for Christmas that has become her crib companion. She calls out “DOLL” when it’s time for a nap or bed. She went through her I-want-the-phone phase and she would practically spit at any play or non-working alternative. She doesn’t like being read to exactly, she likes to be paging through a book herself (usually upside-down) while I am reading another book of her choosing.

All of your children do these funny little things too right? I assume I’m dealing with typical kid stuff here, not personality disorders. Because aside from the oatmeal, these are the things I’m compelled to document; the little childhood nuggets that seem to me like the essence of how they are ever–changing.

Female Seeking ANYONE My Own Age

I need to spend more time with my peers. I’m recently very aware how much time I really spend with Isaac and Libby. It’s a lot. And frankly playing with them makes me antsy like nothing else. I don’t want to play Thomas the Train – running little engines around a track in circles getting nowhere. I don’t enjoy repeatedly building rocket ships with Legos that are promptly destroyed after a brief but loud BLAST OFF. It makes me downright jittery. It must be something like a smoker experiences: if I just do whatever I’m doing for a few more minutes then I can go have a cigarette. I'm thinking: if I half-heartedly push this train around the track and talk in the voice of Percy for 10 minutes I can excuse myself.

It’s simple really, they are children, I’m an adult and it’s painfully obvious how differently we want to spend our days. I have to cajole Isaac into a simple walk to the mailbox just because I desperately need to get some air and get up off the floor where I spend so much time. I have to busy myself with doing the dishes or laundry because my body needs the distraction that my brain isn’t getting. And even then they follow me to the basement simply to be with me I suppose. And if I close the gate so they can’t actually get to the basement, Isaac pulls a chair up to the laundry shoot and starts yelling down to me asking if I’m down there and what am I doing? Yesterday at one point I couldn’t listen to him anymore. I just couldn’t even focus on what he was saying, it was just noise.

They are so content to have me always present in their lives. Yet I am plotting how to get out of telling stories about all the tub toys during baths; I just want to be the detached lifeguard counting the minutes until they are tucked snugly in bed and I am released from their grip of questions and needs for a few uninterrupted hours. Being home with them is such a mixed blessing. I know this is so temporary, so temporary that I will remember it as a mere moment years from now, but in the meantime the adult in me feels lost and maybe even a little lonely.

Me + You = Anyone's Guess

Last week I had an opportunity to see our children as a stranger might. We were at pajamarama at the local bookstore –– a monthly Friday night story time where children are encouraged to wear pajamas. Isaac was wearing his really ugly, too small dinosaur jammies that he picked out and put on himself so I kept my mouth shut (I’m learning to do that). He sat attentively holding his hair the whole time; he clenches his hair like other kids suck thumbs or cherish blankets. Libby was wearing her super cute new footsie pajamas and making herself right at home. She doesn’t sit still but she wasn’t emptying the shelves or being disruptive, just enjoying herself in a busy, quiet and charming way. I wasn’t the entertainment or the referee, but an observer and saw them for the beauties they are.

Isaac is so timid and cautious in unfamiliar situations. We have a sticker chart for acknowledging his best behavior (and for reminding ME to notice it amongst the less delightful stuff) and the other day he got a sticker for being friendly to his great uncle as a way to encourage him to poke his head out of his shell more often. I think he is a good discerner and thoughtful observer. Libby is so outgoing and uninhibited. I hope those tendencies blossom into a confidence and fearlessness that she takes with her always (humbly of course).

If I could have chosen traits for them to inherit from Kramer and I we would have different kids, but as the spine tingling game of DNA roulette dictates, you get these complicated, unexpected surprises. It makes me think of something Kramer’s mom wrote in our wedding card; she spoke of feeling proud that day and that someone once said your child is your heart being born with arms and legs. That has stuck with me as I suppose we all surrender our hearts to these children that resemble so much of us yet are so much their own.

New Year's Revolution

What should I awfulize about as the new year approaches… that I have likely released horrible toxins into my children’s bodies by washing plastics in the dishwasher or making meals in non-stick cookware. Or should I fixate on partially hydrogenated oils that produce the trans fat in so many foods I used to enjoy with wild abandon. And what about the fact that we almost certainly have asbestos living under our kitchen linoleum or the lead paint that Kramer chipped off while repairing some old water damage in the kid’s room. Or there’s always the mouse that I can’t catch despite putting poison under the refrigerator. Not to mention the chemicals residing under the sink. I could spend some time on the fact that nearly all our Christmas gifts came from the big box stores that are taking over our landscape. And that’s just our teeny tiny household. What about our suffocating world, what about GLOBAL WARMING?

We try to eat healthy food and snacks and we’ve jumped on the organic bandwagon. Usually I avoid poison (I just can’t cohabitate with a rodent) and take measured steps to live an environmentally friendly lifestyle but it hardly seems like we’ve scratched the surface and I get overwhelmed and head straight to doom. Can I placate myself into thinking that I’m doing my part – making good choices and going to the polls to elect the people who share my agenda? It sure doesn’t feel like enough when I head through the McDonalds drive thru in my gas powered car buying trans fatty foods in packaging that goes straight in the garbage. I use the wonderfully disposable diapers and those awesome toilet scrubbers that you just throw away and do it in spite of what I know about what we are putting into our bodies, our water, our landfills and our atmosphere.

We spent Christmas with the newest member of our family, my soon-to-be brother-in-law and I couldn’t help but feel apologetic as we were buried in wrapping paper and ribbon on Christmas Day (I did use recyclable gift wrap). His culture doesn’t celebrate holidays or weddings with such excess and it seemed a little gross to me as I imagined it through his eyes. He comes from a place where people grow their own food. I come from a place that grows enormous malls. I fear I am the worst kind of American, the one who knows how we live has caught up with us yet I buy, consume, waste and dispose like I just don’t care. I am trying to raise children who do care and who understand what a precious gift we are standing on. Let’s make this the year we clean up our act!

My McDreamy

I’m feeling inadequate in my husband’s shadow. He’s one of these really audacious guys who actually gets it. He’s up with the kids three mornings a week, makes them breakfast, always takes one kid with him to the grocery store or heads off to the zoo without a moments hesitation. I don’t go anywhere with them without hesitation and seriously weighing the cost/benefit of the outing. He has a fearlessness as a parent I envy on good days and resent on bad ones. He doesn’t question his instincts (I do that for him). Sometimes it is that confidence that quiets my doubts and other times makes me so mad that I’m the one always trying to do better while he is simply doing without looking back. Even I can see the psychology 101 meaning in that last sentence.

He’s a doer; always in driven, ambitious, family-focused motion. And he doesn’t seem to need the escape and time to himself that I crave. In fact, he is rarely alone (he even carpools to work three out of four days). Of course he goes to a job that he loves (and is great at) before he comes home to punch in for the evening shift. He has a lot going on outside this house and then comes home to embrace what he has missed with open arms. My whole world is right here where I have a little too much time to think about what it would feel like to miss it. So while I stay up way too late because it’s quiet and no one is asking anything of me he is smart enough to go to bed and wake up ready to start a new day with his irritatingly positive outlook.

How can I stand him you ask? How can I stand knowing that even when I desperately want to play the martyr, I haven’t got much mud to sling? Well I should have known that the man I married is exactly the father I thought he’d be – pulling his weight and some of mine too. I guess that’s just what I get (thank you God).

Do Unto Others

There is a point when you stop simply caring for your very small child and you start dealing with very short people. I’m right there dealing with personalities and temperaments of two young individuals and one not-so-young hypocrite (me). I’m begrudgingly reexamining my commitment to the Golden Rule. I expect Isaac to treat everyone the way he would like to be treated (at least on a 3 year olds level) but I find myself trying to enforce this rule with nothing even resembling gold. I would hate being spoken to the way I speak to him sometimes. I would dig my heels in too. So, how do I keep myself even and calm as I teach them with consistency and more importantly by example how to negotiate the land mines of interpersonal relationships?

Loudly saying Isaaaac with that certain knock-it-off inflection is having no impact. I’ve fallen off the discipline wagon. I think it might be the sibling thing that is coming into full bloom; Libby is not a baby anymore but a full fledged little sister. It’s time to up the ante on how we approach the little eruptions that pop up without warning – the bickering over a toy, taking turns, choosing stories or whose lap is available. These little irritating and draining moments are much harder to quell than major disputes or tantrums. They gain momentum as my pulse, Isaac’s intensity and Libby’s whining all ramp up. Hopefully this simple act of reflection will give me the inspiration I need to get back on track and feel good about my being their first glance at Do Unto Others…

Smile for the Camera

I wasn’t convinced that spending $700 on a video camera when Isaac was born was a wise investment. I imagined mostly footage of people cowering and saying, “get that thing away from me.” But instead we have poorly shot, poorly lit precious evidence of these little lives from the beginning. I am saying all of this because Isaac and Libby both love watching themselves and I too am mesmerized sitting at the computer reliving moments and milestones with a kind of recall my brain can’t match.

Of course there’s the fact that video life isn’t exactly the whole truth. I don’t think to pull the camera out when someone is having a meltdown (me included) or screaming over some wrongdoing. We have a few crabby shots and some of Libby’s endless infant crying, but mostly it’s us being deceptively cheerful, patient parents raising delightfully whimsical children. Edit in a little music and it’s utopia. But what’s the harm in remembering it that way?

Isn’t that what our minds do too, play tricks on us? It’s like living inside one of those flip books; each page individually is rather dull and little seems to happen, but when you flip through quickly it comes to life and the subtle shifts and undetectable changes become the story. I hope to look back and be (dare I say) proud of what I’m doing here filling in the pages of my life’s flip book. Often the days and weeks don’t have much distinction but when I peek at the video we’ve taken – the way the days and weeks are sped up and preserved is magic or as Mastercard would have us believe: not the cost of a camera, priceless!

Thankfulness

All I could think about yesterday, the day we celebrate Thanksgiving was how far we’ve come in one year. Thanksgiving 2005 Libby was at the peak of her sleeplessness. We had been struggling for 5 months to understand what we could do for her; devoting all day and all night to getting her the rest she needed but fought. I was so tired and so sad and so disappointed in how her very first months in our lives had shocked and overwhelmed all of us. As is the tradition at our family feast we all share something we are thankful for and last year as my turn approached I was overcome with regret as my stomach was in constant knots and this baby of mine was so unhappy and discontent. My turn came and so did the tears. I just cried right there in front of God, the turkey and everyone. So, yesterday when the tears came as I shared my blessings this time it was because our cup runneth over and Libby pours joy all over us.

The Sickies

I am reminded this week how truly grateful I am for healthy kids in the very largest sense of the word healthy. Because both of them have dreadful colds right now and it’s just plain awful. Isaac is a cougher and this time he is setting new records. He is exhausted from the pure energy it takes to cough with your whole body night and day. Libby is adding her own raspy little hack but mostly just dripping in snot. Her normally peachy, soft little face is red, chapped and snotty. Sparkly big blue eyes are pink-rimmed and dim.

And unlike Kramer who got sick two weeks ago, came home, drank right from the Nyquil bottle and went to bed, illness gets the best of these kids. They don’t nap or sleep well because the minute they are reclined the mucus takes on a life of it’s own. Any propping up is a joke especially when they sleep on their tummies or end up in a heap at the other end of the crib. We took the extra long not-so-scenic route to Home Depot this afternoon so they would hopefully get some sitting up sleep in the car. We are a sad bunch of germ hosts right now despite my stashes of antibacterial wipes and gels.

I don’t have any problem using medication but here’s my question: consult your physician? When it’s 11 o’clock and the Walgreen’s is open to sell you over the counter cough suppressant clearly labeled for infants, why when you go to hopefully sooth said infant the directions are to consult your physician? Wouldn’t it be safer to give us desperate, sleep-deprived parents some guidelines instead of forcing us to guess at dosages for children under two? I don’t know about other pediatricians but I’m quite sure mine has forgotten to give me the number to the phone on her nightstand.

But the coughs will subside and the runny noses will dry up and Isaac and Libby will be back in top form for the beginning of the holidays next week. And we’ll all be extra thankful for that.

All Ponderings Aside

This is my Abbot and Costello life right now…

Mommy, I’m Spot and you’re Sally (of the Spot the dog books).
Okay Spot.
You’re Sally mommy. Did you hear that?
Yep, got it.

Five minutes later….

I’m Spot and you’re Sally, okay mommy?
(no response)
I’m Spot mommy.
I’m brushing my teeth Isaac.
No, I’m Spot, not Isaac.
Okay Spot.

30 minutes later….

Mommy, I’m Franklin and you’re Franklin’s mommy.
Got it.

10 minutes later…

Mommy, I’m Spot.
Okay.
Does Spot talk?
I don’t think so.
Oh, well I’m still Spot and you’re Sally.
(my eyes are rolling and I ignore “Spot”)
Mommy, did you hear that?
(more ignoring and eye exasperations)
Mommy, I’m Spot and you’re Sally. Did you hear that?
Okay Isaac, got it.
No, I’m not Isaac, I’m Spot
Right, okay Spot.

One hour later after watching a video…

Mommy, I’m that duck.
I thought you were Spot.
No, I’m that duck on the video.
Okay.

3 Minutes later…

Mommy, I’m Spot and you’re Sally.
Isaac maybe I don’t want to be Sally.
You’re Sally okay mommy?
Isaac, you can pretend to be anyone you want but I want to just be your mommy (what a crab I am, but seriously this goes on all day).
I’m Spot.

15 minutes later….

I’m batman.
Okay batman.

2 seconds later…

Mommy, will you tie this on me (blanket as cape), I’m batman.
Sure.
Mommy, I’m batman did you hear that?
Yep, you’re batman.

A while later (you get the idea)…

Mommy, I’m batman, but don’t tell anyone. Don’t even whisper it.
Okay.
Don’t even whisper it to anyone, okay mommy?
I promise I won’t even whisper it.

B is for Bored

Is it karma or the universe making fun of me that has Isaac uttering the phrase we’ve all uttered: “I’m bored.” I can only assume my mother found this as exasperating as I do. Give me a break, you’re three years old and your life is mostly peaches and cream. Truth? I’m bored too. I’m bored washing the same clothes and dishes day in and day out. I’m bored making breakfast, lunch and dinner. I’m bored of the certain sameness of our days.

But back to the topic of Isaac’s alleged boredom. It does beg the question I’m pondering about how our generation as parents seems so focused on making life really super fun for our kids. I’m always trying to think of somewhere to go to stay energized and active. Are we making fond memories here or contributing to a generation of kids just waiting for the show to start? I am a firm believer that we are parents and not friends to our children, but I am their playmate, that’s for sure. I know that any so-called expert would say that all children need is your time and attention, but this word bored has me a little worried that all our togetherness is not exactly fostering a self-starter.

Or maybe Isaac asking, “what can we do?” is simply because he too feels the confinement of this colder weather that keeps us indoors and seeing so much less of our neighborhood friends. Because come to think of it, when other children are available my stock goes way down.

Too Close to Call

I worry that being home full-time has jaded me. I’m very aware that when I get together with other mothers I mostly want to commiserate, not swap precious moment stories. Like the whole reason I signed Libby and I up for an ECFE class was so I could find an entire room of mothers with 12-18 month olds who see it my way. These women seem a little more enchanted shall I say. We talk about understanding young temperaments and setting firm but gentle limits. Does my having a temper or me yelling that I’ve hit my limit count? I leave there feeling a little jerky.

It might have something to do with my Scandinavian, Lutheran up-bringing that fuels my tendency to sound a bit negative in fear that the alternative is sounding boastful. When am I just going to find peace in my own mothering? When will I get out of my own way? When will I get my period so I can stop being nuts? I am caught in this weird web of sentimental, overwhelming, gooey love and the pessimistic, restless tug of self-doubt.

My heart swells to the point of tears when I check on the kids at night; they are so beautiful in their sweaty, sprawled, sweet way. And yet I fear I sound anything but the loving mother when I have the opportunity to sing their praises or gush about the ways they make me laugh everyday. Instead I roll my eyes and drone on about the hard stuff or the relatively few rotten minutes that creep into our days and nights. Is it a case of just being too close to really see what’s in front of me? Last night Kramer and I were in the kitchen and we overheard Isaac say, “I love you Libby, did you know that?” and we caught each other's eye as if to say, “my God, they’re ours. How lucky are we?”

Love Song

A song caught my attention recently. It’s a toast to women who dream big and love without holding back. It sounds easy to love without holding back but when I really think about it, it’s hard. It made me think about these kids; they are like puppies, forgiving effortlessly and never holding grudges. Especially Libby who just love love loves me even though I’m the short-tempered grump, sullen and impatient. There’s no place like Mama for her. And there’s no withholding affection or punishing with silence and biting remarks that I’m so good at.

Isaac is sadly just starting to glimpse the world in a less rosy hue and he’s trying on words like stupid and unfair to see how they fit, but he is still so quick to make amends. He and I can conflict over just about anything – how his bagel is cut to what constitutes jumping on/off the furniture and yet he wipes away the scowl and confirms that we’ll play hide the animals later. I’m blown away by this… limitless love is it? I know I didn’t do anything to earn it. It’s just that thing, that mommy love thing. So, I’ll follow their lead and strive to open my own heart to the people I love without holding back.

Bumpy Ride

When I least expect a healing moment is when it happens. It happened this week when I was at least 75% unraveled and I couldn’t call my husband because he was already 100% fed up with me. I called my sister. When I picked up the phone I was putting myself in a time out – a chance to calm down. But before I could calm down I broke down into tears. She just let me cry and feel crazy and then assured me that I’m not in fact crazy by standard definitions or alone. It really helped. And after the kids had given me that rare gift of a phone call, I could hang up and embrace our afternoon with a mended spirit or at least dry eyes and more kindness. Thank you Sarah!

There are many of you who do that for me, many of you who have just listened or said, “Oh, sure I feel that way all the time.” Those can be the sweetest words, words of understanding and reassurance. They seem to stick a little more than the recent evening to myself at my husband’s insistence. He hoped a little break sitting alone in the dark at a chick flick would refresh and inspire, but it doesn’t work that way for me. It isn’t time away that brings me back a little closer to center, but knowing that I’m not alone swinging this way and that on the parenting pendulum. It’s sharing the ups and downs with people on the same ride and being reminded to stay buckled in and hold on to each other that ravels me back up.

Making the Most

I spoke too soon. Week two and three of pre-school have been more like I expected. But he does it; Isaac guts it out for 2+ hours somehow and even comes home with vibrant finger paintings and wonderful construction paper apples glued to a giant letter A. So what if while he was getting dressed this week and I was searching for the checkbook to pay for this priceless experience, he was singing a little something he calls, “I don’t want to go to pre-school.” The tune varies, but the verses and refrain are: I don’t want to go to pre-school. I don’t want to go to pre-school. It’s catchy.

And while Isaac’s at school I want to make my time with Libby count…. But I’m compelled to come home and answer the call of things that need doing – the laundry folded, the beds made, the dishwasher emptied, the refrigerator cleaned, the leaves raked! It’s funny that now being with just one kid makes me feel obligated to accomplish something more than just being with that kid. But really it’s my total feeling of restlessness that pulls me to do tasks instead of playing “where’s Libby” or “I’m gonna get you” which she loves and I find rather mind numbing. Am I alone here? I mean come on, we’ve racked up a lot of quantity time, does it need to be quality too?

Only Young Once

Does anyone else ever find themselves in a situation with your kid(s) when a stranger smiles and says, “Oh, enjoy this time, it goes so fast.” And you’re thinking, I’m counting on it because some days…oh man, some days… But you smile back and say, “Oh, it’s so true”.

My neighbor is a grandmother and we often wander over to say hi to her dog when our day needs a little pick-me-up. One afternoon we were talking about when she was home with three small children. She recalled daydreaming about having her own time – time to garden, read or even waste. I nodded and braced myself for her to say something like, “but they grew up so fast and you never get that back.” But she didn’t. She said, “and you know what? It’s GREAT!”

I assure you I am trying to soak up these moments, these days, these years that collectively make a childhood. I pay attention, write things down, keep a journal and have our assortment of cameras handy because I know that my memory will fail me. It already has when I look at Isaac and think when did you go and become this kid? With all that said, I still look forward to the things that await us as a family. The things you do when you aren’t working around a much needed nap, when sippy cups become obsolete, when we could all eat at a restaurant that doesn’t have the word noodle in it’s name. I too will someday smile at a mom of small children but maybe I’ll just tell her she’s doing great in case she really doesn’t need to be reminded that the clock is ticking.

Crazy Mom, Brave Boy

I’m known as the Awfulizer at my house. I tend to worst case scenario as a parent. I like to think this is not negativity, but a healthy preparedness. So, when it was time to take Isaac to pre-school for the first time this week, I had awfulized it to death. I thought about what perfect thing I could say when he refused to go. Then assuming I convinced him to enter the building how I was going to peel him off my leg without falling apart myself. All the while trying to look to the other parents like I was handling a tough situation beautifully.

But my awfulizing paid off once again! Just like it did when we got him a big boy bed and he slept soundly the very first night and when he gave up his plug and it was never mentioned again. Isaac did great. He was certainly not excited or giving me the satisfaction of a smile, but no tears or python squeeze around my legs. I was so proud of him. Maybe because he was brave or maybe because it seems like we gave him a little shove out of the nest and he spread his wings right on cue.

The Communication Gap

Nearing 15 months, we’re here straddling the divide between Libby’s demands and our puzzled lack of understanding. She makes a lot of noise with maybe three sounds that resemble words – Mama, Dada and Baa (ball). She signs, she points and she jiggles with frustration as we offer our best attempts at hitting the bull’s eye. And when her request is met with “sorry” or “no-can-do” she folds herself in half at the waist. It’s actually a good coping skill in a toddler yoga, downward dog kind of a way.

On the other hand she understands so much of what we are saying and could pick the word cookie out of a Sunday sermon. She follows directions and shakes or nods her head appropriately. It’s really remarkable how her brain must be in overdrive as she is discovering new ways to communicate aside from the crying. The latest being a come with me gesture with her hand. I keep wondering what her voice will be like. Her giggle is really coming along and with the screaming perfected she’s got to be on the verge of nouns.

Tying One On

It hit me as I was tying Isaac's shoes for the umpteenth time that sandal weather is over. Oh, the warm and simple days of Velcro straps that he could put on all by himself and I could wiggle onto Libby’s foot without much trouble. It’s getting cooler and I will be tying and re-tying, double knotting and untying the double knots over and over and over (and that’s only after we find the shoes). And while Libby’s new tennis shoes have the elastic AND Velcro that was quite a nice idea someone had, she is less than cooperative. Not that she is fighting wearing the shoes, but it’s the shoving, twisting and jamming that fat little foot in without her having the skill to point toes or flex ankles. It’s like trying to put something back in the box that came so nicely packaged and it will never go back in like that again.

I, of course, know this is just life with little ones and I’m exaggerating for affect about the shoe thing (sort of), but its more than that. It’s the struggle between knowing that I won’t be needed like this for long and yet finding the neediness really irritating sometimes. It’s trying to figure out if I’m missing the joy in tying shoes, brushing teeth, clipping fingernails and blowing on hot food or if the joy comes when these tasks slowly and sometimes without notice become their own and I am witness to the people they are becoming.

Having A Past

I have a friend from college (he’s a he) whom I have stayed in touch with through a handful of phone calls, but mostly emails. I haven’t even seen him in at least 5 years. He has never seen me with my kids or even spent more than a few hours really with my husband. Unlike most of the people that I have met since college or see with some regularity I am the person I have become but to my friend I am still the person I was.

It’s easy to forget that we were people before parents. Isaac and Libby don’t know us as anyone but mommy and daddy void of any past or future or existence outside of this house for that matter. This friend recently became a father himself and we’ve been in touch a lot more since then. It’s been good for me to be reminded that even though my world is very small right now, my wings haven’t been clipped, I am just tending the nest and everything else can wait.

Good Questions

The questions are coming fast and furious and they aren’t just the “why’s” anymore, they are good -– hard and sweet and out of my league.

A week or so ago I took the kids to the zoo (first time by myself) and leaving the primate house there was a man with what appeared to be Cerebral Palsy in a wheel chair making a lot of jerking movements and shouting. Isaac asked me, “Mommy what is he doing?’ Not a profound question but a tough one and as always I’m unprepared without my politically-correct-age-appropriate-answers-to-your-three-year-olds-questions handbook. I leaned over and I think I said something about him not being able to use words and that he was just excited to see the animals.

Last weekend another tough question when we spotted some rowers on the river. I mean the crew team kind of rowers, you know? And Isaac asked why they were facing one way and rowing the other. Um, it’s just easier and you can go faster pulling the water as I demonstrated with my arms and imaginary oars? I don’t know. He didn’t even really care but all this explaining of little things that you yourself don’t question is tricky business.

Then two nights ago I was carrying him downstairs to get ready for bed; his legs were wrapped around my waist and he gently touched my breast and asked, “Mommy, why do you still have these when you don’t use them anymore?” I immediately smiled and asked him what I used them for. He simply said, “for milk.” That answer was fairly easy I think because all women have breasts and they are for feeding babies milk but they don’t go away, blah, blah, blah.

There is so much to learn and wonder about; am I really qualified to be the source of this important information? Thankfully there's Internet so I can at least find the answers to the questions based in science and then hope that we’re not filling his head with total misinformation about rowing and disabilities and boobs! Yikes!

Two-way Mirror

Seeing yourself in your child can be rewarding I suppose, but at times it just makes me cringe. The other day Isaac was building something with blocks and Libby came along and demolished it. He immediately got so angry that tears welled up and his teeth clenched and he pounded his fists on the floor sobbing, “Noooo Libby!” He probably wanted to pound on his annoying little sister, but he hasn’t got it in him. And the weird part is that when he is really mad like that I am maybe the best version of me. I feel for him and know what that pounding your fist in frustration feels like and I want to make it all better. I wrapped my arms around him and assured him that it was okay and that we could fix it… we can fix it. But what I’m really thinking is Oh God, I’ve broken him with my harsh words and lack of patience.

I just realized something while writing the above; it goes both ways. A couple days ago I was crying and Isaac came into our bedroom and asked what was wrong (I won’t go into what triggered my tears). I told him that I was just feeling sad, but it was okay. He dug through the pile of books next to the bed and offered me two of his favorites and said, “Read these Mommy, it might feel you better.” It just occurs to me that maybe the flip side of the clenched teeth and fist pounding is the compassion and learning both is maybe the best thing I can give him. Huh.