The Re-Education of Mommy

I used to be an avid reader. Certainly as I child, I always had my nose in a book; sometimes I got teased in elementary school because of my tendency to read books that were very large.

As a young adult, I maintained the habit, trading book titles with friends, my mom, my sister, and devoting considerable discretionary funds to bookstores.

Then I had kids. Reading screeched to a halt. Books stacked up next to my bed, languishing, gathering dust. At night, when I tried to read, my head would bob after only a few paragraphs, and then I'd start over the next night, trying to absorb the same few paragraphs with the same, predictable result: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Alas, I miss my books.

Most sadly of all, though, it seems that I have actually forgotten how to read.

On a recent weekend, I found myself as the mother of three, with the baby off at grandma and poppa's for two nights, and the eldest away at a baseball tournament with dad. The three middle ones -- the soft bits, so to speak -- remained here with me, and did a right fine job of entertaining themselves. It was work, but so much less work that I felt as though someone had removed my leg weights, and I was able to move with a lightness of yesteryear.

The first morning, I did something I haven't done in ages: sat down in a comfy chair with the New York Times and cup of coffee. The three kidlets were absorbed with Club Penguin and I was free to read.

In that week's New York Magazine, there was a really interesting article about the nature of work, and the difference between working with one's hands and working with one's head. The author describes the satisfaction -- intellectual, physical, and moral -- of fixing a motorcycle. It was a great read, and touched on all kinds of interesting ideas that have me resolved to teach my children the value of laboring with their hands and devoting themselves to manual labor to complete a project.

The problem? I had a hard time reading it. I am so unaccustomed to reading without interruption that when presented with the opportunity, I still read as though someone was about to snatch the page from my hands. I scanned the page, skipped sentences, ignored the parts that required me actually to think. I was looking for the highlights, the general gist, and doing it fast so I could get as much as possible in before someone scraped a knee or injured a sibling.

That's no way to read.

So it looks like I will be adding "reading" to the list of things I have to re-learn how to do, since having children. Other things on the list include:

• Eating a proper meal, instead of the leftovers off of all of the kids' plates.


• Getting out of the house without requiring an hour and 37 minutes to do so.


• Going out and enjoying myself without feeling like I'm visiting an alien planet. Going somewhere without children without feeling like I need a passport.


• Sleeping with both eyes and both ears fully closed.

If I needed help re-learning how to walk, I could go to a physical therapist; to talk, I could go to a speech therapist. So who teaches moms how to relearn to be themselves?

* * *

Summer Plan

My big plan for the summer: act like a calm, cool, collected, stress-free mama.

Fake it till I make it.

Be the change I want to see in my children.

Today is Day One of Summer 2009. I have big ideas about eating well, organizing chores, keeping up with the house, having fun, and being the best mom on the planet. OK, the country. OK, the block. Which is populated by lots of retired folks. Like I always say, when striving for success, make sure your competition is frail.

Anyway, I've noticed that we (husband and I) have gotten out of the habit of explaining things to the kids and very much into the habit of screeching things like "because I said so" and "just do it" and "so help me God if you don't listen to me my head is going to explode." Comments such as these do, of course, have their place. Ya gotta love pointed and pointy words spewing out of clenched teeth for the fear and trembling they can evoke...and sometimes, fear and trembling is really what the moment calls for.

BUT! I used to be such a calm mama. Used to be known for my ability to diffuse situations and bestow calm upon the masses. Not so much anymore.

So Summer Goal #1: Breathe first, yell later. Speak quietly whenever possible. Help the kids walk on the lighter side of life. Show them how to take things in stride and laugh at themselves.

I am 15.5 hours into summer. So far, so good. 1760.5 hours to go.

Peace, Mama, peace!



* * *

The Upside of Chores

Chores are good.

I've been neglecting our chore chart for months. I'm sure the kids are thrilled about this, but I really must get back to basics. Especially with summer beating down my door, I am aware that I really need to give the chores their proper due and a proper routine.

It's not that my kids do nothing; it's just that without that chore chart, what they do is haphazard and inconsistent. I have to make it up every day, and I have to put way too much thought into who is doing what and who did what last time.

All of this will be addressed with a good chore chart.

But I happily discovered another positive side effect of chores the other night. I taught my oldest how to wash dishes. Some of you may not be aware that in addition to having five children, I do NOT have a dishwasher. (Would that then be in subtraction to having five children? Since I don't actually have a dishwasher to add to the kid count?) So you might think that just having someone else wash the dishes is a positive enough effect. And it was indeed very very gratifying to have clean dishes that I did not, in fact, clean. But the real up side of having Sam wash the dishes is the conversation we had while he was standing at the sink, up to his elbows in soapy suds.

We talked about school, his teacher, his challenging year in 4th grade. We talked about bullies, and his classmates, and his reputation for being "too sensitive." We talked about his mom and dad. We talked. It was lovely.

And in the course of the conversation, he asked me what I struggle with. He asked me what his dad struggles with. Here's the thing we have to remember as parents: kids hear what we say, even if they act like they don't. They remember what we say, long after we have forgetten ourselves.

At least 5 years ago, probably more like 6 or 7, Sam and I had a series of conversations about how everyone struggles with something. This came from something he was having a hard time with, something that made him feel like he was the only person in the world to experience hardship. I talked and talked, and didn't think he was really listening. He never asked me anything about that particular idea, that everyone struggles with something. I had no idea it "stuck," so to speak.

But here we are, years later, and he remembers. And now is when he is ready to talk about it, and now is when he has questions. When he asked about his parents' unique struggles, he reminded me: "Because you told me, Mom, that everyone struggles with something."

We talked awhile about struggle, how to handle it, what it means, what courage actually is, and many other things.

If not for my redoubled effort to organize our family chores, I might not have had this conversation and learned so much about him and about being a mom.

Chores are good; conversations are even better.

* * *

When You Have Older Brothers

In the car, of course, on the way to some kid function (of which there are many), Vincenzo was playing with two whiffle balls he got from his baseball coach. They both cracked somehow, so he had these four half whiffle balls, which he thought were pretty cool.

So he says to me: "Mom, I cracked both of my balls, and then--"

And he was interrupted by his 6-year old sister who said, in exaggerated voice: "YOU DID? WOW, CENZO, THAT MUST HAVE HURT!"

I laughed for at least five miles of freeway.

* * *

Too Cool For School

* * *

The Ability to Make Me Laugh

Tonight I was helping Samuel review definitions for his vocabulary test, and we came to the word flexible.

He got the general sense of the word and I could tell he understood it, but his answer was a little vague; I've been trying work with him to be very specific in his definitions. (If you write "a base" for the word foundation, how is your teacher going to know you mean a base on which something rests and not a base on a baseball field?)

He was saying things like "able to move and stuff" and "able to reach things" and "able to be good at moving..." Not so accurate.

So I was sort of trying to prompt him and coax him to use the word 'bend' in his answer. He stumbled on to it, and in the middle of making dinner and feeding the dog and pouring myself a glass of wine, I sort of lost my ability to speak. So in order to encourage him and tell him he was right, I touched my nose and pointed at him a few times in succession.

He looked at me funny and said: "The ability to smell?"

* * *

And now, I present a little photographic proof that Easter was only traumatic for the grown ups:



* * *

Major Dilemma

I am philosophically opposed to "Spring Pictures."

OK, that might be a little strong, but for a family of seven people that watches its few pennies, it burns my backside how many times we are enticed to buy, buy, buy. Spring School Pictures seem to me to be one of those times.

When I was a kid, we got one set of school pictures each year. And as a mom, I really love getting these pictures each year of my kids. But isn't one enough? Isn't more than that just another way for the picture companies to reach into our pocketbooks? The second set of pics irritate me. The kids get to wear "free dress" for these, so they aren't formal uniform shots, and they look, admittedly, more fun than the Fall pictures. The cynic in me knows that this is just a ploy to separate me from my cash.

Every year, my kids beg me to buy Spring pictures. Every year, I decline. They get mad. I stand firm. They get madder. I stand firmer. It's a dance that has worked until now. (I have promised that they can each have Spring pictures when they are in 8th grade.)

So not only does the school take Spring Pictures but they send home the packet whether or not you order them, and the onus is on each family to return the packet either with an order or without. Every year, I unceremoniously return the envelopes after a cursory glance.

You must know where this is going.

This year, after the usual Mad/Firm/Mad/Firm dance, the kids were resigned to no Spring pics. Oh, but then the envelopes came home. These pictures are fan-bleeping-tastic. My kids look so incredible, so handsome, so beautiful that I fairly melted away on the spot.

I am such a wimp.

Do I give in, thereby doing serious damage to my credibility and my already shaky reputation for standing firm? Do I cave, and get these absolutely stunning photographs? Or do I stick with the party line and keep my integrity intact?

It may be a moot point. I haven't actually looked at what these babies cost, and when I do, my resolve might become a whole lot stronger. But right now?

I am officially torn.

* * *

Black Pants, Striped Shirt

I have been meaning to write about our Easter Sunday for awhile now. It was a big day. A good day for many hours, but a day that took some wild turns and tumbles.

I've been meaning to write about it, but haven't. It was such an intense day and I've had trouble capturing the depth and breadth of the intensity. Until now, I have given up. But the story won't stop rappin' on me brain, so I suppose I'll just try to tell it.

We went to a local regional park on Easter Sunday. It was a beautiful day. . .we brought bounteous good food from Trader Joe's. . .the weather was perfect and the kids went swimming in the lake. . .we loved every minute of it. Until the part where I got the hair brained idea to take ALL FIVE KIDS for a walk around Lake Anza. Give the hubby a break, I thought. Let him stay back at the beach and "chill," I thought. Such a dumb idea.

The walk around the lake was much more treacherous than I had remembered. Small girls -- all of them mine -- fell multiple times in the first five minutes, due to rocky and rooty path conditions.

This culminated in Lola tripping with serious ferocity over a mean ole root, and planting her face on a very pointy rock. I heard the scream before I saw the blood, busy as I was keeping the other two girls from falling in the lake. Lola turned to me with her hands covering her cheek and screaming that scream that moms 'round the world know instinctively to signify "not your average boo-boo."

There was a lot of blood. As it happens, she was wearing a white shirt, which accentuated the bright red blood quite vividly, and somehow made the entire situation scarier.

Anyway, we were half way around the lake at this point, and I had absolutely nothing with me to help her feel better or get cleaned up. The walk thus ended, with me telling the boys to get back to the beach, grab the wipes, and head back towards me.

I started back to the beach with the three girls, trying to shepherd them as quickly as possible, which wasn't fast enough for the 6-year old bloody cheek. Anyone else know how hard it is to rush a 4-year old and a 2-year old along a nature path? I'm sure many of you do. It's tough.

And the boys? Yeah, they forgot the part about returning with wipes; instead, they got back to the lake and jumped in for another swim. Heh.

The entire way back around the lake, I was like a mother hen, escorting the three girls along the path, swiveling my head back and forth to ensure they all stayed with me. Arriving at the gate of the beach area, I turned one last time, head counted all three girls, hollered an update to Rick, and hustled Lola down to the lifeguard station for some first aid.

Lola had settled onto the bench and the Lifeguard/Angel had started to patch her up, when Rick called down to me: "Where's Tallulah?"

Thus began the longest 15 minutes of my life. We could not find her. My 2-year old was gone, in the blink of an eye, at a lake, with too many different directions to look. What started as your average "can't find the kid for a minute" kept stretching out in time until it became a full blown fear, wide and ugly and bottomless.

I have often wondered, while watching news stories about children gone missing and hearing bulletins that start with "last seen wearing...," if I would even remember what my kid was wearing when she was last seen. In less high-stakes situations, I can sometimes come up with a shirt color or pattern, sometimes not.

Under the late afternoon sky on Easter Sunday, I knew. I couldn't get those black pants and the multicolored striped shirt out of my head. In the space of 15 minutes, I kept repeating "black pants, striped shirt." People joined the search: I could hear the news traveling from picnic blanket to frisbee game to BBQ pit: a 2-year old girl...black pants, striped shirt...missing from the gate of the beach area.

Rick and I were running, running, running, scanning the meadow, the beach, the paths, doing our best not to think too much about the lake edges. We had left our other kids at the lake with the lifeguard, while we split up to look in opposite directions. I felt so incredibly alone on what might suddenly become the worst day of my life. I was running hard, and breathing hard, and asking everyone I saw if they'd seen a 2-year old girl in black pants and a striped shirt, and thinking "I'm the mom, I need help, I need someone to tell me it's going to be OK and that someone has found her, and she will be in my arms in a moment." I wanted Rick to be with me, reassuring me, promising me that she was just around the next curve in the path.

The story does have a happy ending. We found her. On the third or fourth pass through the beach, I ran by Samuel, looking wild-eyed and panicked I am sure. Alarmed, he said: "Mom! What's going on?"

I told him we couldn't find Tallulah, and ran past him on the way to the lifeguard, who would certainly have walkie-talkies and wouldn't walkie-talkies help? But Sam called me back: "Mom, she's right here!"

I turned and there were the little legs in black pants and the chubby arms in striped sleeves. Air returned to my lungs, and blood rushed back into my head, and tears started pouring from my eyes.

I ran up the beach, grabbed her, and plopped down on the sand and sobbed.

My "pre-tween" begged me to stop crying because "people are watching. Everyone is staring at you, mom!" he hissed between clenched teeth. The 2-year old herself took my face in both her hands and kept saying "Top tying, mama; top tying." (Stop crying.)

We left shortly after we were once again a party of seven.

And when we were all in the car on our way, we realized that Lola's cheek was still bleeding profusely, soaking through the bandage the lifeguard had given her. The cut was like a puncture wound, as if someone had taken a large bore needle and jammed it into her face.

So. Having once been told that I should have brought my son in for stitches on a cut that I "home treated," I knew how the sun would go down on my Easter Sunday. Off to the ER we went, Lola and I. Four hours later, and no stitches needed, we arrived back home, and I had the most wonderful priveledge of putting all of my children to bed, whole and well and accounted for.

It was quite a day.

The next day, thanks to Laura, with whom I shared the whole story, I was able to make some good out of this horrendous experience. After we found Tallulah and filled in the boys about how she had been missing, Samuel felt truly terrible about forgetting to return with the wipes, as if he were responsible for the situation. He fairly tortured himself with "If I had remembered, this wouldn't have happened." And Laura pointed out to me that Sam was the one who found her, who ended the whole search.

So that next night, as I was putting the kids to bed, I talked with Samuel more about how he was feeling.

"Samuel, the only thing you did yesterday was the best thing anyone did for me in my whole life: you gave me back Tallulah. You were the one who showed me where she was. You brought us all back together."

Short of holding Tallulah in my arms on the sandy beach, the look on his face was all the Easter gift I will ever need.

* * *

One Very Good Mother

I live in the Bay Area, minutes from Oakland. I am so sorry I never heard of the beautiful Mother Wright before her passing. I read about her life and death on SFGate this morning, and thought it was a beautiful start to my own Mother's Day weekend.

Plus, this lady had TWELVE children. Truly amazing.

Read.

* * *

4-year old Blog Fodder

"Why did God invent port-a-potties? Because they stink!" (As in, why would He invent something smelly.)

Her: "I miss Grandpa Richard! You know why?"
Me: "Why sweetie?"
Her: "Because he died!"

"Mom, that is amazing! That is amazing! Wow! I love it!" This was her response to the car making different sounds on different types of pavement along I-80.

All of this in one little car ride. Keeping up with her is a full time job, with a great benefits package.

* * *

Can I Have a Nightmare, Please?

10-year old son: "Mom, sometimes I think that good dreams are actually bad, and nightmares are actually good."

Me: "Really? Why is that?"

Son: "Because when I have a good dream, I have to wake up and it turns out not to be real, but when I have a bad dream, I wake up and it also turns out not to be real and that's a good thing."

Bring on the nightmares!

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