Sleepless in the Kitchen

From her perch on the landing at the top of the stairs, she listened to the grown ups enjoying their dinner. Between the three couples, several courses, and many bottles of wine, there was a lot to listen to. With the nubby orange-brown carpet beneath her and her pink flannel nightgown pulled tight over her knees, she reveled in every minute of her eavesdropping.

They talked about small town news: “Did you hear that Jim is drinking again? I don’t think Susan will put up with that anymore.”

About the upcoming election: “Will you be at Kathy and Bob's election night party?” “Of course! We wouldn’t miss it–can’t wait to see Reagan lose!”

About their kids: “Yeah, we tried telling him not to go out, but what can we do? He’s a teenage boy, and he’s just not listening to us! Little bastard!”

Sometimes they laughed so hard the walls shook, their voices building off of each other and blending in raucous shouts that filled the whole house. She loved listening to them like that: happy parents, enjoying their friends, in a warm house. Spying on the dinner party gave her hope for her life and future.

After they left, all six of them spilling out into the night for a late cocktail, she tip-toed downstairs in the suddenly quiet house. Dishes and serving platters filled the table. Used cloth napkins, empty wine glasses, and mismatched silverware splayed everywhere. The adjacent kitchen looked as if it had fed an army, with dirty pots and pans, used measuring cups and ingredients occupying every surface.

She didn’t want to go to sleep, as her siblings had done hours ago. She wanted to inhabit the space where all those noisy, happy grownups had been until a few moments ago. She trailed her finger on the table, glanced at the sink full of dishes. And then she started to clean. It took her a long time and she did it with care. She wasn’t normally one to volunteer for extra chores, but cleaning up on this night seemed like the best way to say thank you to her mom and dad for hosting the happy dinner party, for creating a soundtrack of friendship for her to grow up with. She put away all the food, scraped the leftovers off of the plates and stacked them in the dishwasher, and gathered the table linens and started a load of laundry. She wiped down the dining room table and all the kitchen counters. Saving the best for last, she finished up by polishing the chrome on the old Wedgewood until it gleamed.

When the kitchen was finally clean, it was very late. Her parents would be home soon, she knew. Flicking off the downstairs lights, she climbed back up the stairs to the landing and sat down in her usual spot. Pulling her nightgown back over her knees, she smiled in anticipation and waited for them to walk in and find her thank you gift.

Blowing Stuff Up, Blowing Stuff Open

The Flaggy Shore of Ireland

Driving with my daughter the other day, she said: "I really don't want to become a grown-up."

And in my mind, I answered her: Ahhh, daughter.  I hear you. This pandemic. The tragedy everywhere around us. Trump at his Trumpiest. The appalling behavior of other grown-ups and especially those in power. The shooting in Nova Scotia. The stories you hear on the news and in your parents' discussions about the state of the world.  It's all just too much, isn't it?

My heart clenched when she said those words, as my mind unspooled in a stream of second-guessing.  Maybe we shouldn't watch Rachel every night and bring that daily dose of downer and despair into our home.  And we definitely need to be checking in with the kids more and seeing how they are processing the news about the coronavirus and everything else going wrong around the world.  What kind of support does this child need? What do they all need?  What have I missed, what have I not noticed, while I've been in one Zoom meeting after another?  How can I make it up to her?

And then she went on:

"I mean, you have to remember so much stuff as an adult!  I don't think I can do that!  For example, I learned in science class that if you just mix a bunch of chemicals together, you could blow everything up!  What if I don't remember that?  I mean, YOU remember that, because we've never blown anything up, but what if I forget and then the whole house explodes?  I'm never going to remember that.  I'll never remember all the things I'm supposed to remember! How do you do it?"

And once again, I am reminded that a child's perspective on the world is endlessly interesting and often hilarious.  The rest of the car ride was a rather enjoyable romp through imagining all the possibilities of things blowing up.

She's not wrong.  Being a grown-up means remembering, among other things:

• to lock the doors at night;
• where the batteries are;
• when you last gave a child #1 medicine;
• what child #2 asked for from the store;
• not to blow stuff up;
• that YOU are the adult, meaning it's not advisable to have a tantrum in the kitchen with the entire family watching;
• when to change the oil;
• to take the chicken out to thaw;
• to make follow up appointments.  Also?  To go to follow up appointments;
• to pay the bills;
• birthdays;
• to switch the laundry;
• that the garbage cans have to go out on Sunday nights and be brought back in on Monday morning;
• that kids are not always pains in the ass;
• that kids are not yet fully human and therefore require otherwordly amounts of patience and compassion;
• where you put your patience and compassion -- check under laundry pile;
• that the best way to raise a kid is to be good to your spouse (if you are lucky enough to have one);
• to eat your vegetables;
• to exercise so that when you're 80 you can still move;
• to drink water.  Lots and lots of water.  More water than beer.  Or bourbon.  For some reason, this one is hard for me;
• who is allergic to what;
• to wear sunscreen and make everyone under your roof do so as well;
• to pack the sunscreen;
• to get the CUBED pineapple at the store and not the crushed.  Your teriyaki skewers will thank you, and your people will not be disappointed;
• to always put your keys in the same place;
• not to scream every time you want to.

And so much more.  Apparently, it also means never assuming you know what a kid is talking about until you listen just a little longer.  I went from heading down a rabbit hole of worry to giggling with Tallulah about stuff blowing up in a few short seconds.  It's not the first time I've experienced the whiplash of parenthood; it won't be the last.

Later, as I was weeding in the garden, I thought about how much there is we want our kids to know about life and growing up. There's no getting around the intense impulse to teach them things, so many things, ALL the things. We are, as the saying goes, their first teachers. As Rick and I get ready to send our third child off to college this Fall (hopefully: who knows what tricks corona's got up its sleeve), I know I'll once again feel that familiar urgency to make sure she knows how to cook rice, be smart at parties, navigate bureaucracy, iron things, stand up for herself, talk to professors, and the list goes on.

But the list is not what matters. The What You Need To Know Before You Go To College list is not the measure of successful parenting, any more than the Things Grown-Ups Remember list is the measure of successful adulting.

The longer I am a parent, the more I suspect that all of my lists -- things to do, things to teach, things to manage, for my family, for myself -- while important, are not the be-all and end-all. Teaching my children things pales in comparison to what I hope I do better than anything else in life: loving them. And enjoying them. Celebrating them. Crying with them. Talking to them. Listening to them. Laughing with them. Cooking with them. Listening to music with them. Being with them, always.  I suppose that's a list of sorts, but one you never cross things off of. You get to get up every day and do all of those things again and again and again, in endless variety, in constant relationship.

Teaching them stuff will only take them so far. Giving them a soft place to land, a hard surface to bounce things off of, a net that will always catch them, and arms that will never let go, no matter how far they travel, will take them everywhere.

It turns out, parenting is the Flaggy Shore of family life:

Useless to think you'll park or capture it

More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.

-- Seamus Heaney, Postscript

* * *

Teenage Girls Are Awesome: Here's Why

 simpler time: before they were
so confused about me. 

When she was around eleven or twelve, my middle daughter once threw her arms around, pulled me in tight and close, and yelled in my ear, "GET AWAY FROM ME."  There was a beat of silence between us before we cracked up.  We both enjoyed the absurdity of that tortured pre-teen moment.

She’s speeding towards 14 now, and she still does some version of the "push-me-pull-me" dance on a regular basis.  Sometimes, she comes up to me and encircles me with her arms while trying not to touch me.  Or she’ll grab my arm and fling it away.  Repeatedly.  While squawking.  Basically, she’s confused.

I have three daughters, so opportunities for absurdity abound. Today at the 9am Mass, I took a chance with Daughter #1, who is 15: I put my arm around her.  Mothers around the world know what a foolhardy mission this could have been, to open myself up to ninja level rejection and scorn like that.

But lo, a miracle occurred, and she let my arm stay where I had so boldly placed it.  She even snuggled in.  We sat there for a few minutes, listening to what can only be described as an interminable homily, with at least one of us grateful for a few extended moments of closeness.  I reveled in the sweetness, and even believed that maybe she didn’t think I was quite as cringe-worthy as usual.  And then, she raised her head from my shoulder, looked me in the eye and said plainly: "Your presence is irritating me, and I don't know why."  Having spoken her piece, she put her head back on my shoulder.   And again, there was a beat of silence between us before the pew shook with suppressed giggles.

There it was, a simple truth.  We both knew it: she just decided to put it out there.

I remember being a teenage girl.  In between giggles, I told her: "It's OK.  I remember being 15.  I know what that feels like."

But here's where she differs from Teenage Me: she put her head back on my shoulder and left it there.  She felt that mother-daughter confusion, named it, and stayed right there with me anyway.  And like her sister before her, she found humor in that confusion, and let the laughter flow.

The moment lingered.  It felt as if her funny, edgy words had cast a spell over us.  I tried not to breath or move, hoping to stay there with her for as long as possible.

* * *

I was not nearly so gracious about my conflicted feelings towards my own mother, and I certainly could not find humor in them.  I am almost 50, and while I have known for a while that Teenage Me was grossly unfair to my mom, it's only recently that I wonder what that must have been like for her.  I can't ask her: she died this past November.  I can't tell her I'm sorry I was a jerk.  I will never know if she felt the slings and arrows I silently volleyed in her direction when I was 15.  Did she feel me shudder when she pulled her shirt down tight over her hips?  Did she realize that school clothes shopping with her felt like having a disease?  How did I go from falling asleep in her lap to running laps to get away?

I wonder if she ever saw her daughters, my sister and I, wrestling with our Feelings About Mom in the same the way I see my own daughters doing today.  While there are many times I am discouraged by their scorn, or weary from reminding myself that they aren't even human yet and their scathing opinion of me matters not, lately I have started seeing their vitriol, coupled with their need for me, as something else: The Truth about All Relationships.

I am beginning to suspect that the hormonal tsunami that is a teenage girl is the most honest source of truth about love and family.  We love the people we love, and they simultaneously drive us painfully crazy.  We want them, and we want to flee from them, all at once.  We are terrified by and drawn to intimacy.  Teenage girls are just more honest about it than the rest of us.

In those brief, conflicted and funny moments with my daughters, that honesty feels like the greatest gift I have ever been given.

Perhaps it would be wise to be grateful for their confusion and for the way they express it.  Sooner than I can imagine, they will be settled young women who don’t cringe when I touch them and whose eyes have stopped rolling around like pinballs when I speak.  Sooner than I want, the tension and strife will have packed their bags and moved out, leaving echoes of “what if” in their wake.

The tsunami will subside.

The absurdity will be gone.

These too, I will miss one day.

That Omelet Doesn't Threaten Me

A Tip for Mothers. Or Fathers. Or People.

This is a public service announcement.  Probably kind of a long one.  But here it goes:

At least a year ago, a mom I know told me a story about the day her teenage son made himself an omelet.  She told the story to illustrate that he is more capable than she had previously imagined.  I'll admit it: I was impressed.  My teenage sons can barely make toast.  And there she was, waxing eloquent about the vegetable chopping, and the spice using, and the whisking, and the this and the that and the competency.

I won't go so far as to say that my confidence in my children -- or in my ability to raise them to be capable adults -- plummeted just from the story of the omelet.  But I do remember thinking: "Man, I wish my kids could do that."  And I've thought about that kid every now and then over the past year or so, especially when I make frittatas for my family, which I do with some frequency, giving me occasion to ponder the big questions: Will these boys ever know how to feed themselves?  Will their palates, and imaginations, and basic attitudes toward food ever move beyond Subway being the pinnacle of gastronomic delight?

Who the hell knows?

All I can be sure of is that that kid made an omelet.  It could have gone one of several different ways.  Herewith, I suggest just two:

Scenario One: 

Kid: I'm hungry.
Mom: Why don't you make yourself an omelet?
Kid: That's a great idea!  Do we have any dill weed? Fresh basil? Feta cheese?

Scenario Two:

Kid: I'm hungry.
Mom: Why don't you make yourself an omelet?
Kid: Phhht.

Kid: I'm hungry!
Mom: Why don't you make yourself an omelet?
Kid: Ugh! Whatever!  I'm not THAT hungry.

Kid: Gaawwwwd…I'm…so…hungry…I'm gonna die…ughgrrrrraaaaaghhhhh...
Mom: Why don't you make yourself an omelet?
Kid: FINE WHATEVER FINE JEEZ FINE.  Crap.  Where the hell is the frying pan thingee?  How do I do this anyway?  Do we have a flippy tool thing?  I can't BELIEVE you are making me do this.

* * *

See, just hearing that someone did something tells you NOTHING.  There are so many ways to do something: quietly, angrily, enthusiastically, peevishly, piously, deviously, pleasantly, like a teenager…the list goes on.  Let's go back to the kitchen for a moment, shall we?

Scenario One:

Kid: Mom, do you want one?  I've got tomatoes, basil, feta, a little mozzarella if you prefer, I'm sautéing some onions first, adding a little garlic.  The kitchen smells fabulous!  Do we have any organic, whole wheat, HFCS-free bread I can toast to go with it?
Mom: Sure I'll have a small one, as long as you're offering.

Scenario Two:

Kid: (picture all of the following being said while the kid is using 10x the necessary number of dishes and utensils, dropping half the ingredients on the floor, and gyrating like a Woodstock attendee.) You mean I have to CHOP stuff?  Forget that.  Ewwwwwww: eggs are slimy and gross.  Do we have the cheese that's already shredded, cuz no way am I gonna use that flesh ripping thing you call a grater.  And by the way, we have barely enough salt: there's only like half a cup in that Morton's canister.  How do you flip this?  I can't flip this! This is fricking IMPOSSIBLE.  OH MY GOD THIS IS A MESS!  And everything's burning! UGH, NO WAY NO ONIONS.  Whatever.  This is stupid.  Why can't we just go to IHOP like normal people.
Mom: (She's actually pretty quiet.  The only thing you can hear, if you listen very hard, is barely audible weeping into a coffee cup spiked with whisky.)

* * *

The result in both scenarios: The kid makes an omelet.  Truth.

Here's the thing: that mom, the one who told me about her son making an omelet, if I were her, I am sure I would have told the story the exact same way.  The damn kid DID make an omelet, and to a mom or dad, that is MON-U-MEN-TAL.  A Scenario 2 mom gets to tell the story just like the Scenario 1 mom gets to, because in the end, it may not be pretty, but the omelet does get made, which is proof positive that someday the kid will be OK, or at least, that's what we are hoping like hell it means.

Also?  The good news, for all parents and other people out there, is that we get to narrate our own stories.  Every single one of them has a germ of truth in it.  Sing that song as loud as you want to. As soon as it starts to make someone else feel like crap, that germ of truth is dust, but until then?  GOLDEN.  Stories are meant to lift us up and show us what is possible, not prove how lame we are and how together everyone else is.  I don't begrudge my friend her omelet story, for two reasons. First, it shows me that I can tell my own stories, with their germs of truth, any way I want, and I can decide what those stories really mean.  And second, I celebrate the fact that on my good days, I can see beyond the halo cast by that story and realize the essential truth: kids grow up and learn how to make omelets and it isn't necessarily pretty along the way, but eventually, we won't have to make them frittatas.  Which reminds me of an image I saw recently:

I heard the omelet story IRL, from an actual person.  But the reverberations of it -- the fact that I think of it sometimes when I'm yet again making frittatas for 14 and 16 year olds who can't boil water -- reminds me of the scourge of Facebook and the like.  I am 100% sure that while social media is keeping us connected to family and friends near and far and making all kinds of powerful social movements possible, it is also responsible for a crap ton of anxiety and neurosis, as we find ourselves staring at screens depicting in word and picture how wonderful and well-adjusted all of our friends' families are.

So.  Here's the public service announcement:

• No one knows the price a mother paid to get her kids to pose like that.
• No one knows the many twists and hair pin turns, the set backs and restarts a father endured to teach his daughter to drive.
• No one knows just how loud those kids were screaming at each other, or with what degree of vitriole, mere moments before mom snapped that Back to School photo.
• No one knows what went down in the omelet kitchen.  All we know is that an omelet emerged at the end.

Tell your stories.  Don't let anyone else's bring you down.  See the germs of truth and let them inspire, not hen-peck, you.  The long road of raising children, of life, is not pretty, but there are fantastic views along the way and we get to frame the photos.

It doesn't hurt that just recently, the omelet maker got in trouble with his coach for coming to soccer practice high.

Nope.  Doesn't hurt at all.

* * *

Don't Miss This Opportunity

Yesterday, I found out why I've been experiencing muscle pain and muscle fatigue for the past several months: turns out I have a pretty severe Vitamin D deficiency.  How delightful that my inability to move is not a character flaw!  How delightful is health insurance!  How delightful that, with Vitamin D supplements on board, my children might remember me for something besides collapsing on my pillows!  I am so looking forward to feeling better.

This discovery is a good reminder that we should listen to our bodies.  I've been ignoring my collection of symptoms for a long, long time, assuming that it was just a matter of not getting enough rest, or just because I'm getting older, or just not important enough to pay attention to.  I would never have ignored the ongoing, chronic aches and pains of one of my children; why was I willing to ignore my own?

Think about your own body: are you ignoring anything that you maybe should give a little credence to?  Anything worth asking a doctor about?  Anything worth feeling better for?  Don't miss this opportunity.

* * *

Yesterday, I read a New Yorker essay by Roger Angell* that moved me to tears.  (Updated: The link will take you to full article; The New Yorker posted it in its entirety today.)  So much of my day is occupied by keeping up with my computer and responding to my smart phone that I think some of those tears were due to spending a few minutes with the slick, weighted pages of a good magazine, but most of them were because Angell's writing is exquisite.  His ability to weave back and forth between the personal and the universal is captivating.  I miss reading and I miss writers, and I can't wait to read more and more and more.  Why and how did I ever lose that habit?

Think about your nightstand: does it hold books and magazines you have been meaning to read? Are you making time for Downton and Duck Dynasty but putting off Didion, Diaz or Dos Passos?  Is there anything there worth spending time with?  Don't miss this opportunity.

* * *

Yesterday, while I was ranting on Facebook about mistakenly buying cilantro instead of parsley and being severely disappointed that I couldn't make the dinner I was planning, a family in San Diego was mourning the loss of a 20 year old son, killed while skateboarding by a young drunk driver who fled the scene.  I heard about it, mere moments after my silly FB post, from a friend of mine who knows the family.

There aren't really words for losing a child.  It's too painful to imagine or express.  So many things are unimportant, so many daily annoyances and inconveniences distract us from what really matters.  I read the article about the family: there was a photo of 7 or 8 of them, gathered on the beach facing a makeshift memorial of balloons and flowers.  They stood in a group, shoulder to shoulder, leaning and holding on to each other, keeping each other upright in their grief.  One of them was missing.  One of the people who belonged there was not there, could not help with the holding.

Think about your family and friends: who belongs there?  Are any of them missing?  Can you go grab one and hold him up for awhile?  Can one of them do the same for you?  Do you need to leave aside minor annoyances and tell someone you love them?  Don't miss this opportunity.

* * *  



*Thank you Kelly Corrigan, for the Twitter recommendation for Angell's essay.

Unprepared and Nostalgic

My daughters are dressed in their Holiday finery, and we are about to leave for the annual St. Jerome Christmas Concert.  

This has been a strange Advent.  More than ever before, it has snuck up on us, and we are unprepared in this season of preparing.  We don't even have our Christmas tree yet.

As the days whiz by, and I wake up each day farther behind than the day before, and I try like hell to hold on to the things that matter and let go of the things that don't, I find myself literally catching my breath.  I find myself confused by how fast time goes by.

For example, four years doesn't seem like a lifetime ago, but four years go, I wrote a reflection upon coming home from the 2009 Christmas Concert.  Reading it now, I almost feel like I'm reading about some other family instead of mine.  So much has happened since then.

One thing remains the same though: I am still finding, daily and in the midst of chaos and confusion, the things that make me call this a happy family.  To remind me of this important fact, and to indulge in a little nostalgia, here is that reflection once more:

* * *

Is my kid the only kindergartner with a big smudge of green ink on her face? 

Is my 2nd grader the only one with a huge clump of hair hanging down in her face? It appears that all those other girls are perfectly coiffed. 

Why does my 4th grader look like he is being choked by his tie, which is pulling strangely up and to the left? 

Is my 5th grader really that bored by the proceedings, or is his arm injured in a such a way that he physically cannot hold his sparkly star any higher than his elbow, rendering it at least 6 inches lower than the stars of all of his classmates? 

Are we the only parents who yelled at their kids in the 15 minutes prior to the festivities? 

Are we the only family to arrive at this Celebration of the Season with more than 50% of us grumpy? 

Is my three-year old really going to throw herself around like a rag doll and shriek like the monkey she wishes she were for the entire program, causing lots of people to toss sympathetic smiles and delighted giggles my way, people who don't have to attempt to keep her from launching off one of the pews, falling off of a kneeler, or crashing into the banister, and can therefore think she is just adorable? Am I the only one who thinks she is a pain in the ass?

You call this a happy family? Why do we have to have all these kids?* 

* * * 

Am I really that neurotic of a mother to notice all of these imperfections? Don't answer that one. 

* * * 

Can there be anything more touching than seeing an emerging young man in his Christmas finery, walking with dignity down the street, hands in pocket, keeping distance from the younger ones, establishing his fledgling maturity? 

Can anything be cuter than a cadre of kindergartners singing and signing "Mary had a baby, oh Lord; Mary had a baby, oh my Lord; Mary had a baby, oh Lord; the people keep a-comin' and the train done gone!" 

Can she look any more heartbreakingly lovely in her brand new glasses, my little Miss 20-20? 

Is anything more important than trying, however imperfectly, to show up for your kids, and battle the stress, and rage against the commercial machine, and offer them the gift of Christmas, the gift of Christ, the gift of loving each other, however imperfectly, so that at the end of the evening, when one of them comes downstairs in tears, unable to describe the sadness, just overwhelmed and confused by the intensity of emotion he is feeling, you can set aside your own exhaustion and your own irritation at the stresses and curveballs that came your way today, and you can hold him and tell him that you know how he feels and that you've felt that way too, and it's because he has such a big, good heart that he feels that way and because the excitement of the holiday season can be just plain overwhelming? Because if you can do that, and then offer him his first taste of egg nog, you'll be able to send him to bed peacefully, and he will thank you and tell you he loves you, and in an instant, you will call this a happy family. 

* * * 

*with gratitude to George Bailey of Bedford Falls, NY

When You Have A Noisy Family...

...your five year old will say, after a particularly loud and lively car trip: "Someone owes me some quiet!"

Also, when you have a noisy family, and you attempt to soothe your 7 year old's disappointment over not being able to go with the bigger kids to a Saint Mary's College basketball game by saying, "You wouldn't like it! It's super crowded, really noisy, and you probably wouldn't be able to see over the people in front of you," she will say: "Yeah! It's just like our family! I can do that!"

In the immortal words of Russell Brand in Bedtime Stories: she's got a point there.

Also, when you have a noisy family, your head spins a lot.

* * *

The Last 20 Minutes

Got home from the grocery store.

Trying to make dinner.

Girl doing laps through the house on heelies.

Girl playing "volleyball" with a rubber glove balloon.

Boy playing a loud video game.

Boy putting clean dishes away loudly.

Girl riding unicorn hobby horse throughout the house, yelling random things.

Girl opening freezer door forcefully and straight into her sister's forehead.

Boy doing his best imitation of Eminem.

Girl crying about something and yelling "HEY GIVE ME MY PONY BACK!"

Girl repeatedly kicking a soccer ball against the kitchen door.

Girl hiding Biscuit the dog from other girl.

Girl crying and yelling "WHERE'S BISCUIT???"

Kids ignoring orders to put stuff away.

Girl making tent in living room. This is the part where I go on record to say that I hate tents.

Children asking to watch a movie like they're entitled.

Boy singing Hey Jude.

* * *

Mom drinking beer.

* * *

Gifts My Father Gave Me

It's Father's Day, the day to give gifts to our dads that express our love and gratitude for everything they have given us. I do not get a passing grade in this department: I didn't get mine anything. Nothing. Squat. Nada.

I am using, as my excuse, the fact that he is out of the state right now. Maybe I'll get my act together by the time he gets back. (Want to extend that vacation, dad??) But I have thought about him all day long, as I've helped my own kids do things for their dad to mark the day. I've thought about what I might give him to show him how much I love him, but I'm coming up empty. Instead, all I keep thinking about is what he has given me, which far exceeds anything I could purchase or anything I could imagine.

He gave me Angel Band, and an appreciation for bluegrass music that surprises me, since as a kid, the sound of a banjo made me want to quadruple pierce my ears, vote Republican, and watch mindless television just to piss him off. As an adult, I actually adore and often choose bluegrass. That's some serious dad love right there.

He gave me Mystery Theater. One of my all time favorite childhood memories is of lying on the chaise lounge in daddy's pottery studio late at night while he worked, listening to the creeeeeeeeeeaak of a door and the voice of E. G. Marshall bringing a thrilling story to our cozy corner of the world. I'm sure this is one of the reasons why today I love radio and narration.

He gave me hook and eye locks on the bathroom doors in my childhood home, a story that goes along with the amazing wedding and reception he and my mother gave to Rick and me 15 years ago this coming week. It's still the best party I have ever been to.

He gave me art, the making of art and an appreciation for people who make art. Now my kids are amazing examples of this legacy, as they spent part of the day outside, painting pictures for their dad on their easels. (The other day, after hearing that my kids have artistic grandparents on both sides of the family, Lola's friend asked me: "Is that where your kids got their art talent? Is this one of those skips a generation things?" Ha!)

He gave me Guinness. Lots and lots of Guinness. When I moved back home as a 24 year old, after spending two years on the East Coast after college, mom and dad had bought an Irish pub. Is there a better way to show your children that good exists in the world and that love shall prevail? I think not.

He gave me sarcasm. A double edged sword, to be sure, but one that has proven to be a primary tool in my own parenting. I am now the victim of sarcastic children too, so this gift is truly dubious, but on the whole, sarcasm and humor have vastly enriched my life and helped me to appreciate the crazy, whacky, impossible experience of life, especially life with children.

He gave me a living, breathing daily example of a person who stands up for what he believes in and stands with the underdog, the nerd, the less privileged, the ignored, the poor, the needy, the unfortunate. He and my mom gave me this together. I hope I'm giving the same gift to their grandchildren...and I think I have a long way to go in this endeavor.

How do you give someone a gift to thank them for all of that? A CD collection of Mystery Theater? A bluegrass album? Doesn't quite get there. I got nothin'.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. I love you more than words can express, but I can say, with certainty, that I will never, ever vote Republican.

* * *

The Top Ten List of Shame

This post is for you, Viv, because a comment you left today put me in shock. Here's what you said, in response to this post, in which I revealed that my homeschooling life has had some colossal-ly bad moments:

I was feeling all left out, the way you have seemingly mastered life since you started homeschooling. It seems like everyone (bloggy pals) pulled their sh*t together all at once, and I still personify calamity and disaster...effectively becoming the odd man out. It is nice to know that you still have days where calamity and disaster prevail...because really, change a few initials and I could have written that, though I would have thrown in a few extra pucks. I feel decidedly less alone, and like maybe there is still hope for me one day after all. ;)

Reading that response made me realize that I have strayed from a tried-and-true theme of this blog: giving people just enough of a glimpse into the wonderful whackness of AIRY5 to make them really, really grateful that they do not have my life.

Does it appear that I have mastered life? Pulled my sh*t together? Eschewed calamity and disaster? Grab a sippy cup full of wine, my dear -- oh, wait, you might be feeding your seventh little blessing, who is all of what, 7 days old by now? -- or whatever beverage is handy, even if it's a juice pouch (but if it is, don't grab it before taking a long drag on that little straw or you know what will happen), and let me fly my freak flag* for you.

Here is a glimpse into my real life, my very own Top Ten list. Here, I give you The Top Ten Reasons It's Clear That I Do Not Have My Sh*t Together.

10. I never close my bedroom door. I wish I could say that this is because I am wholly committed to being available to my children, that I'm so willing to listen to what they have to say that I have an Open Door policy with them. Actually, it's because I tried it once, and felt so ashamed of and rebuked by the dust bunnies, infant socks, paper clips, and children's art projects that are behind it that I vowed never to shut it again. Keep in mind, I have not had an infant for 3+ years.

9. Once or twice (or possible many more), in a mad dash home from the grocery store at 5:45, still needing to make dinner, I have tossed a bag of pre-washed sugar snap peas at the occupants of my car, and called that the green vegetable for dinner. Or for the day.

8. My washing machine needs to be repaired. But I can't call the repairman, because he's a family friend, and I'm too embarrassed by the condition of the garage to get him over here to take a look at it. I mean, I'm fine with twisting myself sideways through various boxes and piles, in order to make it to the washer and dryer, but to let someone else in? I've seen this guy's garage. No thank you. These are the things that make me clean: the threat of abject humiliation. Even still, there's no telling how long it will take me.

7. I found my dining room table today, after over a month of being unsure if it was still, in fact, in the dining room. We had our monthly meeting with our Charter School teacher today, so there you go: the motivation I needed for that particular cleaning job. I still haven't found my kitchen table surface, my bedroom desk surface, my dresser surface, or, apparently, the surface of my self-respect.

6. My 4 year old has made it to preschool on time fewer than 10 times since school started last August. Once or twice, she didn't make it at all, just because we couldn't locate the wherewithal to get her there. I'd tell you how close we live to the preschool, but that would just be embarrassing. Unlike the rest of this list.

5. In one of the most fiercely waged wars of my life, my laundry is currently (and usually) winning. Piles are advancing like disciplined troops intent on wrecking havoc and destruction. More than one clean basket has now been folded, ransacked, re-folded, and re-ransacked more times that I can count. Dirty baskets lie in wait, mocking me on soccer game days with the possibility that the jersey I so desperately need to find is balled up in a damp corner growing new forms of penicillin.

4. When people tell me how great my kids are, I fight the urge to make sure they aren't confusing us with some other family of seven. Really? These fighting, screaming, rude, messy, clueless, lazy, selfish, defiant, weepy whiners? If they're so flippin' great, why do I mostly want to hide in the closet and play single player scrabble on my iPhone? And if they really are that great, then isn't it just the pinnacle of unfairness that my husband and I are the only people they do not share their greatness with?

3. Every time I need to print something from my computer, I have to move three or four piles of crap just to reach the printer cable and attach it to my laptop. Then I have to move a bunch of other stuff to make room to sit down on the edge of a chair covered in laundry, so I can be there to catch the pages as they come out, since the tray got broken by the fierce tiny grip of a child testing the laws of physics. Then I have to wait a kajillion years for it to work, because apparently it's a very Marin, EST-type of printer, and it's all about the process, and letting the process take the time it needs, and giving the process room to unfold in an organic and holistic fashion, and making me want to hurl it out my second story front window. So basically, printing stuff brings out my rage.

2. Every night, I plan to get the kids up by 7 or 8am the next morning, so that we can have a decent breakfast, do all of the morning chores, address our school activities, and have free time in the afternoon. Every morning, I get up early, sneak downstairs to make coffee, and then crouch over my computer reading news, blogs, and facebook, sipping coffee and praying they sleep until 10. My heart sinks when I hear feet on the stairway. Then I stall for as long as possible. Drink more coffee. Throw some toast out there. Adjust expectations downward.

And the #1 reason I know I don't have a damn thing together: Due to the sorry state of laundry in my home, someone in my family recently had to wear underwear intended for a gender not his or her own, because no clean ones in his or her own gender category were available. And no, I'm not saying who.

* * *

*And the Freak Flag reference comes from the lovely Anna Quindlen, in this piece from momfilter. She said this:

I think having bright lines and boundaries really worked for us, that it made our kids strong and secure because they were clear on expectations and responsibilities. But I wish I had been better able to combine that with letting things go a little bit. Nobody really needs a bath every night. Nobody really needs a balanced meal for every meal. I should have let the freak flag fly a bit more. It’s hard to be a Type A mom. I wish I could have been a bit more B plus, for my sake and their own.

I hear you, Anna. But then, I think my own freak flag could probably stand a little vacation from my door post. And I'm not so much a Type A mom, as a Type A-Z mom who can't find clean underwear...for someone.

Bright lines and boundaries? I'm sure they're here somewhere. Maybe I'll find them in the garage on the same day I get the repair guy over here.

* * *

Family Time

We put up our Christmas tree last night. Simultaneously, we were finishing up a bit of painting in our dining room, installing some shelving on a dining room wall, and re-hanging doors on my kitchen cupboards.

I think it's safe to say we were attempting to do a few too many things all at once. That's how we roll.

So that could be the reason. The reason our Christmas Tree Decorating Family Time was a bit wonky. Family time around here is always a layered, complicated affair. We've got the children happily diving into ornament boxes, emerging with old favorites and happy memories. We've got the dizzying range of Christmas music filling the house, from the Messiah to Bob Dylan. We've got kids coming up with lovely ways to decorate their own rooms with left over tree branches and lights. We've got children dancing around the tree with sheer, unadulterated glee.

We've also got the bickering, the hurt feelings, the jockeying for prominent position for favored ornaments. We've got: "Her ornament is so ugly -- if we put it in front of the window, people will be able to see it! Can't we hide it?" We've got tears of disappointment when it turns out to be too late to start watching It's a Wonderful Life. We've got grumpy parents and ungrateful offspring.

It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.

And I think that's the point: to shed any notion of what perfect family time is supposed to look like and take each other where we are. The oldest and the 4th born? They feel animosity towards each other for the other 11 months of the year, so they aren't going to miraculously be good to each other just because it's Advent. The youngest? She has no design sense. Her contributions to the tree are sort of an anti-Martha anthem. The middle one? The one over there weeping in the corner? Maybe she's over tired, or her head hurts, or she's pissed that there's no hot chocolate. And the one who can't quite believe that even though we brought a tree home tonight, I still made him do his evening chore of washing the dinner dishes, well, I have to believe he will get over it.

In the end, a tree imperfectly purchased, lugged home, put up, lit and decorated is still a Christmas tree. The messy house still smells like pine needles. The ornaments still invite us to reminisce about Christmases past. In the end, before they trundle off to bed, some grumpy, some not, they still got to stand in front of the house oo-ing and ah-ing over the pretty white lights.

Family time, like my house, is messy. As are love, Christmas, children, marriage and life. In other words, everything good.

* * *

You know you have a big family when...

...you hear the following clip in your head multiple times a day.

* * *

And can I just speak to the other mothers of large families out there for a moment? All I hear is how wonderful big families are, how we are blessed with our many children, how fulfilling it is to raise them and see them grow in love and joy and hope and blah, blah, blah.

I love my kids as much as the next mom, but I'd love a reality check once in awhile. All that happy family stuff makes me feel like the only one out there ready to pull out her hair, rip off her ears, and run for the hills. I love them, but man, there are so many of them, and sometimes it feels like they're all against me.

So if you have a large brood, and you feel -- every now and then -- like trading it all in for a Mini Cooper, a collection of CD's, a GPS navigator and a cooler full of sourdough bread and fresh fruit, let me know I'm not alone.

* * *

Thankfully, today, I get a bit of a reprieve. Today, I heard that Grinchy clip on the way to dropping three of the kiddos off at their Trackers outdoor education class. The youngest is currently terrorizing her fellow preschoolers and hopefully not repeating the word "penis" too many times; it seems to be her new favorite word, which her siblings happily encouraged and gleefully imagined her using at school this week.

I am left with one adorable little 5 year old, who is making a magnet and learning about St. Francis on his Feast Day. We are taking our dog to get blessed at our parish at 1pm.

Large families are, indeed, wonderful. They are wonderful, difficult, inspiring, frustrating, exhausting, exhilarating, humbling, fun, busy, hungry, maddening, joyful, surprising, hilarious, and awesome.

So I guess we're not so different from families of any size. Except for the noise.

* * *

The Week That Guilt Ate

Ever get close to the end of summer and realize you haven't done all those great things with the kids you thought you were going to do? Or are you one of those people who annoys me who does everything she says she is going to do?

I'm the former.

So we're packing it in this week. Monday we took a cruise around the San Francisco Bay, and got to see sea lions and dolphins. Tuesday we played at a lake all day, complete with pedal boats and frog catching (and releasing). Today, we're hitting a swimming pool with some friends. I am comatose, but my kids are happy, and doesn't that make me a good mother?

Goodness, there's quite a bit wrong with that last sentence.

Anyway, I've been away from the blog because I've been busy assuaging my summer guilt. I have also been crafting a post that addresses our decision to begin homeschooling our children. It's time to stop revising that one, so I hope it will be up tomorrow. For now, I will say that I am very excited about beginning this new part of our lives. I've been talking to all kinds of people about how they homeschool and why it was the right choice for their family. No two answers are the same, but I am beginning to see an amazing array of possibilities and benefits. And the interesting thing is that as summer winds down, I do not find myself going crazy having the kids around, the way I always have in the past as the first day of school approaches. I have officially switched into a different life, one that will include a whole lot more time with my kids.

Guess it's time to figure out how to be a mom, then.

I Wish It Were Monday Morning

Most people dread Monday morning, and the work week that comes with it. Most people live for the weekend. I enjoy weekends, yes, but I bet there are a few parents out there who might agree with me that all that Family Time carries its own brand of stress and angst.

But that's not why I like Monday mornings. I like Monday mornings for the possibilities they represent. Every Sunday night, I get myself ready for the week. I make a pretty list. I strategize. I ooze organization and preparedness. And Monday morning brings with it optimism, energy, and the belief that I can do it all. Mondays usually go very well for me, the momentum of a good list carrying me through the day.

With each subsequent day, I lose a little heart. By Wednesday, I'm slumping. By Thursday, I'm hoping to survive five minute increments of time. Fighting children, greeted with detachment and clarity on Monday morning, elicit a growing rage response as the week progresses. Repetitive tasks, like serving three squares a day and cleaning the kitchen, provide order and peace on a Monday but become increasingly oppressive and impossible with each passing day. Faith in my abilities wanes...doubt increases...The Critic gets mouthy.

So here I am, midway through my Wednesday, trying to figure out how to break the pattern and how to beat the week to Friday with my self-respect intact. My cable receiver box has a reset button; I think I need one of those.

I'm about as likely to find one as I am to find the off button on my three year old.

* * *

I Can Fool Some of Them Some of the Time

My "twins" spent two nights at my mom and dad's house this past weekend. No, I don't actually have twins, but we've started referring to Child Born 2nd and Child Born 3rd as The Twins because they are interested in the same activities, can play together for hours, and have similar temperaments. They have this sympatico thing going on.

So "The Twins" spent the weekend with my folks, where they learned a few things:

• If you compliment Poppa's BBQ-ed chicken, Grandma will decide to have him make some for dinner.
  
  
• The creek running along the property is just as much fun as Mom says it is.
  
  
• If you say how much you like going to the pub for lunch, Grandma will bring you there.
  
  
• Poppa looked like a little girl when he was a small child; there is photographic proof of this hanging in the upstairs bedroom.
  

But I learned something too. After they'd been back for a few hours, "The Twins" were talking about the Giants games they watched during their visit.

Lola: "I bet they lost today, too. They were losing when we left."

Cenzo: "Yeah, they lost when we watched last night! There were a lot of 's' words in the house during that game."

Me: "Oh, so Poppa was saying the 's' word a lot? Well, there were a lot of 's' words around when I was growing up, too."

Cenzo: "Then how come YOU don't use the 's' word now? And other letter words?"

BINGO! There is the kernel of truth I learned today. I hide my 's' words, and all my other letter words, well. Hallelujah!

Although it could be that he just can't hear me above the cacophony that is my household. Either way works for me.

* * *

The Red Fern Gets Me Every Time

I am reading Where the Red Fern Grows to the kids this week in the evenings. I loved and re-read this book frequently when I was a kid. Reading aloud is such a wonderful activity: I am forced to slow down and savor each word in order to give the kids the best possible experience of listening to it. I've enjoyed it even more than I thought I would.

The two oldest were extremely reluctant participants, complaining bitterly that I turned off a movie about the 2006 World Cup (which they've seen a bazillion times) in order to read to them. I gave them a choice: You can sit in here with us and listen, or you can go to bed. They grumpily shuffled off to bed. A few minutes later, they changed their minds and sullenly trudged back into the living room, with blankets and pillows, and harumphed themselves into comfortable positions. Four chapters later, they didn't want me to stop. Victory is sweet.

I can already tell that I'm going to have a hard time fighting back tears while reading the more emotional parts.

What books stand out for you from your youth? Find one, and read it out loud to your kids. Or to yourself, if you don't have a good audience. Or to whomever you can make listen.

* * *

Wine and Prayer

Dear Diary,

I am feeling so uninspired and defeated tonight. I've just spent the last two hours sitting on my back-side, playing my chauffeur role and carting people to and fro.

I had a productive morning: I finally staked my overgrown tomato plants -- half of them at least -- which has been on my to do list for over a month. I was particularly happy about one of my staking solutions. The challenge in front of me was that I had roughly 15-20 plants to trim and stake, and I wanted to find a way to do this without shelling out $8 per tomato cage, which is what I've heard they generally go for. I don't have an extra $160 to spend on tomato cages, so I had to get creative. On most of them, I just used some rebar pieces we had laying around, tied with green gardening ribbon. But in my hunt around the yard for additional rebar, I spied the most delightful wrought iron gate, all unused in a corner, just waiting for a lovely purpose. Voila!

It's been a downhill slide since then.

Because while I was staking tomatoes, my kids were occupying themselves. That's good, right? Well, they occupied themselves by making ice cream. They found the instructions online, and away they went. (As a bonus, they also learned another great lesson about how the internet is a potential mine field: In their search for online ice cream-making instructions, the Google result right above the one they used was -- no lie -- How To Make Ice Cream In A Condom. On a positive note, it's nice that the world keeps surprising me.)

Anyway, while I was industriously staking tomatoes, they were spreading vanilla, milk, and sugar liberally across my kitchen. The sight of it brought me to my knees.

But there was no time to clean it up: I had to buzz through an estimate that was due to a client by 1:00, so right at lunch time, I had to prepare food for the natives and then hide upstairs with my computer. This time, they were banished to the outside.

I emerged from my computer screen, estimate complete, to discover the unholy mess they had made in our courtyard. Any time to clean it up? Nope! Gotta go pick up Puck.

From 2:30 on, I was in the car. Tack on a couple of errands, and I landed home at about 4:30, knowing that I had a sticky kitchen to un-stickify and a garden strewn far and wide with stuffed animals, dishes, blankets and general kid detritus. Tallulah, in her infinite wisdom, decided there wasn't enough on my plate, so she stuck a wad of gum in her sister's hair as they rode next to each other on the last row of the prison cell that is my minivan.

I am grumpy and irritated. My house is a complete disaster. My spouse is away until at least 8pm. I need to feed them and clean them. I need to de-gum one of them. I need to guide them through Clean Up Time or do it all myself in order to avoid the inevitable bitch-fest. I need to do everything without falling apart or screaming at my kids. I need to be Super Woman.

All I really want to do is go somewhere very, very quiet and listen to my own breathing. That might make me burst into tears, but at least I could get that out of the way and then listen to the quiet. I am again reminded of the Grinch, and his distaste for the noise, noise, NOISE, NOISE! I feel like that Grinch right now, like my heart (and this house) is two sizes two small. I feel like I'm going to open up a can of whoop-ass on the first person who says boo! in response to having to clean up.

I'm trying, Ringo. I'm tryin' real hard to be the shepherd.

* * * (asterisks indicate the passage of time: 1 hour in this case.)

Well Diary, I discovered that a well-placed glass of wine is a beautiful thing. Well-placed is important, though. Too soon, and it wears off before you really need it, and you end up having another, and another, and weeping into the glass while your children eye you suspiciously. Too late, and it won't do you a damn bit of good. Its curative effects will arrive mere moments after you turn into Linda Blair at a young un's misdeed. But if you get the timing just right, somehow, someway, you will manage to shepherd the children through the clean-up process. They will bitch and moan, but the wine: the wine will keep you, the wine will guide you, the wine will show you the way.

My house is clean. (OK, just the common areas; the bedrooms are FEMA zones.) My children did indeed bitch and moan, but thanks to the wine, I stayed remarkably cheery throughout. My children are watching the Muppets Wizard of Oz. They still must be fed, but everything is quiet, and I'm on my second glass of wine.

Oh, well, I suppose it must be admitted that I did, earnestly, pray for the strength to get through the evening. I am the praying kind. I have faith that prayers are answered. Tonight, mine were, and I did what I thought, at 4:30, would be impossible: I was the shepherd that got us through. Sometimes, the answer to a prayer comes in the form of a bottle of wine.

Benjamin Franklin was right: Wine is the "constant proof that God loves us, and loves to see us happy."

Actually, I think the full quote is far more beautiful than the pithy, oft-quoted abbreviated version:

We hear of the conversion of water into wine at the marriage in Cana as of a miracle. But this conversion is, through the goodness of God, made every day before our eyes. Behold the rain which descends from heaven upon our vineyards; there it enters the roots of the vines, to be changed into wine; a constant proof that God loves us, and loves to see us happy. The miracle in question was only performed to hasten the operation, under circumstances of present necessity, which required it.

found here, at Wikipedia

Ben. Dude. Tres insightful.

Oh my, Diary. It seems that wine makes me ramble a bit; at least, I think it's the wine and not the prayer.

In any case. Time to float down to the kitchen and rustle up some dinner. Thank you God, for answered prayers and for the fruit of the vine. And for wrought iron gates.

* * *

How Sharper Than a Serpent's Tooth...

...are my children.

And curse you, Will Shakes, for penning words that have proven only too true under my roof.

If she must teem,
Create her child of spleen, that it may live
And be a thwart disnatur'd torment to her!
Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth,
With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks,
Turn all her mother's pains and benefits
To laughter and contempt, that she may feel
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is
To have a thankless child!

King Lear Act 1, scene 4, 281–289

To make matters worse, I have teemed five times, so that five serpents' teeth can cut me to the quick. What have I done to deserve the cadent tears and the wrinkled brow? I am no less innocent than Cordelia herself, and yet I endure the eye-rolling, the puffs of disgust and the scorn in spades. What have I done to deserve this?

Oh, THAT'S right: I decided to take the kids somewhere fun today. No wonder my name is anathema to them.

We were having an uneventful day around here. Three World Cup Games had already been viewed by 1:00 pm. Two kids were playing outside, a few were hanging around inside. I got an email from a friend that a group of moms and kids was meeting at a local park around 1:30. I had been doing work and chores all morning, so I figured it would be good to get everyone out of the house for awhile.

Note to parents: Never interupt a perfectly boring day with the suggestion that you do something fun with your family. When I made that mistake, the complaining started. And the bickering and the fighting and the back-stabbing.

I want to go to the beach instead. Who's going to be there? Do we HAVE to bring Tallulah? Stop being stupid, [Insert Sibling Name Here]. HE PUNCHED ME. I don't want to wear shoes! Can't we go somewhere else? I-don-wanna-go-pee-first-why-do-you-always-make-me-do-that-I-don-wanna. I'm staying here. SHOT GUN! NO I CALLED SHOT GUN! YOU HAD IT LAST TIME! IT'S MY TURN! HE ALWAYS GETS SHOT GUN. MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM! SHUT UP YOU STUPID IDIOT. Mom, make her stop or I am going to punch her. Can we bring [insert 20 different toys or 10 friends that live 30 minutes away or a catered meal]? WHY NOT? You are SO mean.

If that weren't unpleasant enough, the stalling made it positively unbearable. How long, exactly, does it take to put on a pair of shoes? And why do you need to change clothes three times at the last minute, only to end up wearing what you started with in the first place? And how hard is it to clear the table of your three lunch dishes and why am I asking you to do it 5+ times before it gets done?

And then there was the car ride. Nearly dead from the effort to get them in the car in the first place, I was then treated to a 10-minute trip during which they managed to insult each other, make each other cry, scream, complain bitterly that I don't care about them, and freak out over various minor offenses.

Why, oh why are they so downright unpleasant?

Must be because I am ineffective as a parent. Sure, that's it. If I were more consistent, or more organized, or more competent, they'd all hop to and do my bidding, right? Well, then they're as screwed as I am.

Thomas Hobbes had it almost right: Children are nasty, brutish and short. Apparently, I need to establish a social contract with my own kids.

* * *

We went to the park. They had fun. I was exhausted. I am not sure it was worth it.

* * *

Part of the adventure of our 5 hour road trip on Sunday included having to stop in a dinky little gold rush town on our return trip to change a tire. Imagine that little tableaux for a moment. Everyone's tired and hopped up on birthday cake and soda. Everyone knows we will be cooped up together in a car for at least 2.5 hours. And we realize that that rushing sound we are hearing is our rear passenger tire, gushing air out of a hole in the valve stem. So, we pulled over and found an empty lot where Rick could put the spare on while the kids could occupy themselves without being in danger of (a) getting hit by a car or (b) knocking the car off of the jack.

It only took about 30 minutes. It was the best 30 minutes of watching my kids that I've experienced in quite a while. They played soccer: Sam, Elizabeth and Tallulah against Vincenzo and Lola. They were downright gracious and kind to each other. They played hard, with good sportsmanship. The olders passed the ball to the littles, and went a touch easier on them too. Sam was the very picture of the Perfect Oldest Brother. They encouraged each other, and laughed at their own missteps. It was one of those moments when having a big family really is about always having a crowd to play with and always having a tribe to watch your back. I just sat back and watched them play, honored to witness the kind of freedom and happiness that adults can't remember experiencing.

That's what I want for my kids. Watching them that evening, many miles from home, I saw that they do and will have each other for their entire lives and that when push comes to shove, they'll take care of each other. They really do love each other, despite their serpentine days. I'm going to hold on to that and pray that sometime before Sam graduates from high school, I get to see another 30 minutes like the ones we spent in the setting summer sun, in a parking lot far, far away, changing a tire and having a happy family.

* * *

Today, they were pure evil to me and to each other.

And so goes the yin and yang of family life.

* * *

Just Things

Just Things were taken from us yesterday.

I came home from dropping the kids at school and discovered that our front door had been kicked in. Plaster, nails, splinters of wood were scattered across my front hall.

This is the first time something like this has happened to us. Luckily, we are all completely safe, unharmed, whole, and well.

Luckily, I was by myself when I walked in, no kids with me, so no kids around to see me shaking like a leaf, rocked to the core, teary, confused, overwhelmed, stricken.

Luckily, "they" took our computers, camera, ipod, wii, games, but left our precious sentimental stuff undisturbed.

Luckily, "they" didn't find my son's ipod, or his stash of cash. Luckily, my son is a complete slob, or his stuff would have been far easier to find.

Luckily, I reluctantly agreed to have coffee with a friend after dropping off the kids, or I would have been home.

The worst part was telling the kids and watching the knowledge that sometimes people do awful things sink into their brains. My 7 year old's repeated refrain for the last day has been "I hate people."

Sometimes, I do too, sweetie. But I sure do love the family and friends who have responded with calls, food, pizza, beer, friendship, care for our children, care for us, a computer to borrow, a power cord to go with it, and the certain knowledge that sometimes people do wonderful things too.

Luckily everything "they" took was Just Things and can be replaced. Every single unreplaceable bit of love that resides in my home and my heart is still here, safe and sound.

Hug your children today.

* * *

No Wonder My Stomach Feels Odd

Tonight, I'd like to share a bit of funny from my brother.

Click that link. Come back. Leave a comment.

Now, let's see how well you all follow instructions.

*smiley face*

And in a random edition of You Know You Have A Big Family When...

you make 14 hot dogs baked in pizza dough for lunch,

and people are still hungry when they're gone.

* * *