Saturday

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She's In Touch With Her Towanda

Just walked past my 2-year old daughter. She's been super rashy lately, so I didn't re-diaper her screaming bottom this last time...thought I'd air her out a bit. When I passed her just now, she had located a hand held mirror and was crouched over it, investigating her interior from below.

Next thing you know, she'll be slamming into some rude person's car in a crowded parking lot.

Go Towanda!

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The Dulcet Tones of Children

"I hate you, Mommy."

"BAD MOMMY!"

"This family drives me crazy."

"You are so mean."

"I want to run away."

"Whatever."

"I hate school."

"I hate soccer practice."

"I hate her!"

Ah, the love. The pure, sweet words of children. I would like to say that the preceding diatribe occured over the space of days, or even one entire day. Alas, these words were all voiced between 3:30pm and 5:30pm yesterday, by various children in my family. That's quite a bit of vitriole for a two-hour time slot.

There were tears. Punches were thrown (not by me, I assure you). People did a lot of yelling (including me, I'm sorry to say). One of my favorite dishes broke, which was pure accident and not the result of anger or tantrum, but it made me cry anyway because there were too many other things happening at the same time that made me want to cry as well.

Yesterday was also the first full day of school: COINCIDENCE? I think not. Transitions are hard for everyone, I guess.

One of my kids in particular has really been struggling with the start of school. I find one of the most difficult parts of parenting is being patient with their struggles.

Does that sound awful? What I mean is that when I am trying my best to support them and be encouraging to them and show them options for dealing with something difficult, and when they at the same time are too deep in their struggle to accept much help at all, I get frustrated because they cannot at that moment take the help I am giving.

It's at those moments that I need to remind myself that I am, first and foremost, a farmer. My job is to plant the seeds and nurture them, care for them even before their tender green shoots break the surface of the earth. A farmer does not stick a seed in the ground, pour a little water on it, and then throw her hands up in frustration because the damn plant isn't growing yet. She is patient. She tends to her harvest daily, hourly. She trusts in the work of her hands, long before the fruits appear.

The work is messy, difficult, time-consuming, and charaterized by delayed gratification. The fruit, when it comes, is sweet and lovely and redemptive. Mercy, but I need help remembering that.

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And You Can Kiss That One Goodbye

Well, it's happened again. Another child has started Kindergarten. Yes, I'm relieved for school to start, and yes, I'll go along with the jokes about "four down, one to go," and yes, it's nice to have my house sort of back after summertime.

But you know how I really feel? Deep down? That I've lost another one.

She's only four years old. She was ours, all ours, to have, to hold, to shape. She was ours, all ours, to share with the world as we wished, or not. We decided where she went, with whom, what she saw, what she didn't see, what she heard about, what we could keep her from hearing.

That's over. We now share her with the world, and the world will now have a much bigger hand in raising her with us.

She is ready. She was born ready. I've known this about her since she was around 14 months old, and she walked into our back yard full of about 40 or so strangers who were touring our garden. She had no idea they were there, and while her older sister took one look at the crowd and made a bee line back into the safe confines of the empty house, Elizabeth took one look and saw a party starting, stretched her arms out in front of her, smiled her wide and crazy smile, and ran into the crowd. She loves the world and all of the people in it. This, of course, baffles both of her introverted-leaning, slightly-suspicious-of-humanity parents, but she will not be stopped.

I am not worried about her or how she will do. I know she will thrive. But I am already nostalgic for her baby days, for her toddler days, for her daycare and preschool days, for her days when no one spent more time with her than I did.

Was I patient enough with her? Did I read to her enough? Did I let her watch too much TV? Was I too hard on her, or not hard enough? Did I feed her well enough?  Did I feed her on my dreams, the ones she picked, the ones I'll know by?

So yes, I am muddled. And to completely indulge my muddle, I am enjoying a glass of wine and an Elizabeth Retrospective:

I just love her, and I have a hard time sharing.

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Late Night with Daddy

It's the middle of the night. A few minutes ago, I was awakened by something that sounded like water spilling. My head slightly off the pillow, I waited. Then, a little gasp of breath from the next room, and I knew: a child was throwing up.

One day before school starts, and we've got a barfer. Fantastic.

Thinking with fear of the waves of vomit that could be headed our way as some nasty virus makes its way through five children, and thinking hopefully that this turn-of-stomach resulted from too much junk food at the soccer game last night or from start-of-school nerves rather than from physical illness, I mused to Rick:

"If a kid gets sick from nerves or junk food, can the other kids catch it?"

Rick: "Only if they reach down and cup their hands."

The true measure of parenting is whether or not you can make a joke in hell. That man is golden.

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Wealth Management

In a not-so-rare wistful moment, Rick remarked to me this morning: "We have five kids. We are rich."

So true. Now if I could just find a nanny to help me manage all that wealth, maybe my risk load would decrease a little bit. As it is, I run the risk of losing my mind, if not my children, on a daily basis.

In 20 or 30 or so years, I ought to know what the return on investing in human beings is. It's the only riches I will ever see, so let's hope it comes with big dividends.

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Awe-Summ

Thank you, Teacher Mommy, for bestowing upon me the following award:


That, in itself, is pretty awe-summ. So here are the rules:

1. List 7 things that make me Awe-Summm
2. Pass the award onto 7 bloggers that I love.
3. Tag those bloggers to let them know they are now Queens too, and link back to the Queen who tagged you.

Soooooooooooo. Seven Things. Hmmmm.

One. My hands, which I use each day to make meals for my family and which I manage to control each day, such that I do not strangle said family when they do not eat the meals I make for them.

Two. My voice, which can be surprisingly loud and also surprisingly sweet. I am especially thankful for the loud part, because I can bring a room full of savages to a halt with a well-placed bellow.

Three. My kids make me awe-summ because each day they provide me with countless chances to do what seems impossible, and no matter how much I suck at that on any given day, on the very next day I get to have a whole passel of new chances too be awe-sum to them. How awe-summ is that?

Four. My ability to go without sleep. Also a curse, which may, in fact, kill me someday, but for now it comes in quite handily.

Five. My guacamole. Nothing is quite so satisfying as hearing your child say that no one makes better guacamole than mom. (It is damn good, truth be told.)

Six. My friends, because they bring me out of myself and keep me from wallowing in a little shallow pit of isolation, loneliness, and woe. I'm actually kind of funny around the right people, which always makes me grateful for their existence.

Seven. I made it through 7 awe-summ things, which I didn't think I could do, which is, after all, awe-summ.

As for this tagging business. Now that's the part that really stumps me. I am not all that keen on the idea of passing on the love in quite this fashion. Soooooooooooo, instead, please take a look at my side bar, under the heading "Have you read these?" and visit these blogs. They are all more than awesome.

Thank you for indulging this list.

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Thank You, Barney Frank

Barney Frank speaks the truth. Can we have a little more intelligence in this debate, please?????



I am shocked that the effort to improve health care in this country is being greeted with such fierce, nasty, ridiculous opposition. What planet indeed?

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A Real Question

Can someone please enlighten me? Why does it make sense for health care to be subject to market forces? Why do people object to more people getting health insurance? To those who oppose the public option, why is it acceptable for one person to have access to cancer treatment while another person must suffer through cancer without health care?

I do not understand how the free market can possibly be more important than the health and the very lives of our citizens. Shouldn't the free market serve the people, and not the other way around?

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An Occasion to be Grateful that Parenting is not a Licensed Endeavor

Dumb, dumb mom: boiling water for macky*, washing dishes in a frenzy, trying to get too much done in too little time. I put a clean dish in an apparently precarious position on the stove and turned back to my manic dish-washing. 5 seconds later, the precarious dish came sliding off of the stove and hit the pot of boiling water on the way down, which went flying across the kitchen. Boiling water averted Child #2 and Child #3, tucked in the computer corner. Boiling water averted Child #4 and Child #5, both of whom who had skittered past the stove moments earlier. Boiling water also averted Child #1, who was on a bike ride.

Boiling water scalded the wood floor, making a pretty pattern that will be around for a long time and remind me to never, ever do something so careless again.

I shudder to think of what could have happened.

Sometimes I can’t believe they issue licenses for driving a car and permits for building, but they’ll let any ole yahoo raise a human being.

*macaroni-&-cheese

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"Thing, Mommy!"

And "thing" I do, every single night during teeth brushing time:

When you wake up in the morning, and it's quarter to 1
And you want to have a little fun
You brush your teeth
Chh-ch-ch-ch, ch-ch, ch-ch-ch
You brush your teeth
Chh-ch-ch-ch, ch-ch, ch-ch-ch

When you wake up in the morning, and it's quarter to 2
And you want to find somethin' to do
You brush your teeth
Chh-ch-ch-ch, ch-ch, ch-ch-ch
You brush your teeth
Chh-ch-ch-ch, ch-ch, ch-ch-ch

When you wake up in the morning, and it's quarter to 3
And your mind starts hummin' fiddle-dee-dee
You brush your teeth
Chh-ch-ch-ch, ch-ch, ch-ch-ch
You brush your teeth
Chh-ch-ch-ch, ch-ch, ch-ch-ch

When you wake up in the morning, and it's quarter to 4
And you think you hear a knock on the door
You brush your teeth
Chh-ch-ch-ch, ch-ch, ch-ch-ch
You brush your teeth
Chh-ch-ch-ch, ch-ch, ch-ch-ch

When you wake up in the morning, and it's quarter to 5
And you just can't wait to come alive
You brush your teeth
Chh-ch-ch-ch, ch-ch, ch-ch-ch
You brush your teeth
Chh-ch-ch-ch, ch-ch, ch-ch-ch
You brush your teeth
Chh-ch-ch-ch, ch-ch, ch-ch-ch

Thank you, Raffi. I am at once mind-numbingly sick, tired, bored and loathsome of this song AND eternally gratefully for its silliness, which for me is going on 10 years of coaxing wee ones into healthy dental hygiene habits.

Every night, Tallulah takes position, standing with her back to me, leaning back into my lap, with her head tilted, her mouth open, and says: "THING, MOMMY."

I wonder how many times I have thung that song. Best I never know.

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