Bring On the 40 Days

Welcome, Lent.


This year, I am using this season to force myself to do something I've been meaning to do for a long time now: re-establish the habit of writing.

I stopped writing regularly awhile ago, and as a result, I don't know what I think about pretty much anything anymore, except that I really want the Trump presidency to come to a screeching halt.  But other than that, I can't really figure out much about life.  Writing used to help me make sense of things, and I'm hoping it will again.  Things like:

• Why do my teenage daughters' midriffs (and sculpted eyebrows and endless, curated selfies) bother me so much?
• How can one person make a stand against the divisions and rancor that are everywhere?
• When will I figure out how to make my iPhone serve me, rather than the other way around?
• Why is life so unbelievably hard?  Why is life so unbelievably beautiful?  And why is it so hard to focus on the beautiful?

I used to write a ton on this blog about raising my kids.  Now, I am deep into this parenting thing and have been doing it mostly without the outlet of writing.  I've now been parenting for almost 22 years.  Still have quite a few more years ahead before that day in the distant future when I invite my grown kids over for dinner.  I think about that day a lot -- what it will be like, who will be there.  Will I like the people my children bring in to the family?  How many grandkids will I have?  Will my adult children trash my house then as they do now?

I feel simultaneously seasoned at motherhood and baffled by every new experience that comes my way as each individual child grows and changes.  It's stunning, really, how unprepared I can still feel for the things that life throws our way.  And I think life is trying to teach me to never feel like I have arrived, to always stay open to learning more and changing and becoming who I am.

This week marks one very gigantic milestone in my family: we officially change pediatricians as of March 1, and I'm seriously deep in mourning over it.  21.5 years ago, after I had failed at one of the first TO DO items I ever became aware of as a newly expectant mother (research, interview and carefully choose a pediatrician for your new baby!), we were lucky enough to give birth on a night when Dr. Maria happened to be on call checking out all the newborns.  She asked if we had a pediatrician and I sheepishly said no.  She offered to be ours, and what the heck, she seemed nice, so we said YES.

It turned out to be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.  Ever since, she has been by my side.  She has helped us through the usual fevers and ear infections and viruses and sprains.  She got us through a lacerated kidney and a rather unusual bowel movement issue (nuff said, truly).  She has a perspective and approach to medicine that is fundamentally based on the relationships she is able to build with parents and kids, and IT WORKED FOR US.  I have never, for one minute, been a mother without the amazing Dr. Maria in my back pocket, as it were, and we -- me, my husband, and all five of these little shits -- are beyond fortunate to have fallen into her lap.

Alas, health insurance rates don't care one whit about those relationships.

Faced with a choice of sticking with Dr. Maria and seeing our health insurance cost go up by $450 per month or switching to a plan that will only go up $150 -- which is to say, not much of a choice at all -- we "adulted" and did the totally sucky responsible practical fiscally smart very sad thing, and switched.  (I'll have you know that I consciously chose not to use commas in that sentence because that's how it feels in my head: a steady, uninterrupted litany of yuckiness.)

It's fine.  We'll all be fine.  Maria will still be a big part of our lives (because BONUS: We became FRIENDS over the past two decades!  We play FIDDLE together!).  The kids will get another doctor, and I have a recommendation for a great one at Kaiser, where they will now be seen.  It will all be fine.  So why do feel like I'm in mourning?

Maria has been formative to my mothering, and to my identity as a mom.  So now, I have to forge a new mom-dentity, with a new pediatrician who doesn't know our history, who doesn't know that Sam is the sweetest boy ever, or that Vincenzo and Lola are basically Picassos, that Elizabeth is wicked smart and hilarious, that Tallulah is a force of nature that we're gonna try not to screw up too much.

The new doctor will learn.  She will come to see these kids as the freakin' miracles that they are.  If she doesn't, I'll find a new doctor.

I saw Maria tonight (fiddle lessons every Thursday, yo!), and told her of my heartbreak.  She gave me a hug and said: "I'll always be your pediatrician.  You can always call me with stuff -- I just can't prescribe for you anymore."

See?  She's gold.

Looking forward to seeing what I write about tomorrow.

Peace.

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.

Get Ready to Ramble

I feel a rambling, unfocused post coming along…

I received an honest to goodness piece of mail on Friday, a card from a good friend.  Tears, people.  I shed tears.  She wrote such lovely things about our friendship, such good reminders to me of what really matters, and what really doesn't, and she wrote in an actual card, not in a Facebook post.  Such novelty!

So the front made me laugh and the inside made me cry and all at once, she made me want to be better.  A better mom, a better friend, a better calm (let's make that a noun, shall we?), a better presence, a better Lover of Life.

But then I woke up on Saturday morning and I. Was. Daunted.  I was the very picture and definition of Daunt.  I desperately wanted a lovely day, a love-filled day.  I wanted to be grateful and peaceful.  Oh, and I wanted to shop at Costco, do all the laundry, clean the bathroom, fix Little T's scooter, buy myself some new clothes, read my New Yorker, and take a looooooong nap.

None of that got done.  Exactly NONE.

One small thing did happen: I took my kid and my dog for a hike, and tried not to let Little T's rastafarian hair (fine on an actual rastafarian) chastise me.  We had a delightful time.

We ate apples.

She contemplated life with her dog.

I stared at her a lot.

And I got a little taste of that woman I want to be.

Later in the day, I drove all over creation, to futsal games, and play rehearsal, and birthday gift shopping, and birthday party drop offs, and Awards Night dinner…and there were clashes at home over bedrooms not cleaned and plans not communicated and feelings being hurt.  There were defensiveness and pride and laziness.  There were large hair tangles and larger laundry piles and no moments to read my New Yorker.

In other words: family.

* * *

Her rastafarian hair does, in fact, chastise me, and makes me cringe when she takes that head of hers out in public.  But apparently, it does not chastise me so much that I actually do much about it, at least not as often as I should.  This is an interesting lesson in chastisement.  Because I think I chastise my children rather a lot, about those bedrooms not being cleaned, for example, and I freak the f*** out when the behaviors in question do not change.

What makes behavior change?  What makes a mother better?  What makes a kid do what his mother says?

I'm not sure about the kid.  But for me, words written on a card and sent through the US Postal Service seem to work quite well.

I found a little slice of peace and gratitude this weekend, under the many layers of life that usually clamor for my attention.  I hope this is the beginning of a habit of being peaceful and grateful.  I hope I get many more reminders and that I pay attention to them.  I hope to lose myself in reminders of what really matters.

* * *

Wherein a Cynic Rethinks Some Things

All those awesome happy beautiful good life photos we see on social media: they're all a total crock, right?

When my kids see their friends' super cool Instagram photos and respond by decrying their own boring lives, I whip out my tried and true lecture entitled The Problem with Social Media and wax on and on about the insidious nature of the filtered, photoshopped, edited, culled and selectively presented Beautiful Life we think everyone but us is having. 

It can make me crazy, this 24-7 invasion into our homes and minds and psyches, and I feel a certain sense of urgency about making sure my kids know that all those sick shots are not necessarily an accurate portrayal of life. 

As you might imagine, my kids roll their eyes at me a lot. 

I'm a bit of a fun sponge like that. 

Today I had occasion to re-consider my opinion.  Because ya' know what? This weekend has been super average -- dare I say boring. My house is a mess, I've been kinda grumpy and my kids have been unpleasant and annoying.  I'm half-heartedly cleaning a ridiculously cluttered garage and serving uninspired meals; my kids are half-heartedly doing homework and serving up complaints.  Rick is, as usual, working hard and not taking any time to relax.  Just normal, tilting towards Bummerville, ho-hum life. 

Who wants to document and remember that?

In the midst of all that mediocrity, this happened too. 

And I immediately grabbed my phone and posted these photos on Facebook because they're fun and cute. 

I chastised myself. Gently, of course--nothing too serious. But I did roll my eyes at myself for a moment. 

And then I realized that I would rather remember these moments, thank you very much, instead of the bickering in the car on the way home from Mass, or the mountain of laundry defying physics in my garage, or the truly inane battle of wills I got drawn into with my kid, or a hundred other challenging moments in this long, mundane weekend. 

Maybe it's narcissistic at worst or fake at least to only post what makes ours look like a charmed life. 

Or maybe it's what keeps me grateful, keeps me going, keeps my head in the game. 

Whaddya know, a cynic can still learn a thing or two from this crazy world.  Photographs of a happy family never tell the whole story. But the part they do tell is pretty damn important too.

#grateful

Why oh why...

...does it take me 25 minutes to walk from one room of my house to another???

* * *

Motherhood Changes a Few Things

Such as, the meaning of the phrase "pick up line."

These are the things I ponder while waiting for Claudius and Cordelia to be released from Shakespeare Camp.

* * *

7 Quick Takes: Volume 49

It's Friday.
I'm frozen.
I'm frightful.

I'm free.

Please visit Jennifer, the host of 7QT, and visit the links to some of today's other Quick Takers.

~1~

Over a year ago, I decided to paint ceramic mugs for my kids as a gift for Christmas, 2010.  That December, I spent many hours painstakingly creating unique designs for each of them.  Christmas morning, they were delighted by the colorful, personalized cups...which were painted with the wrong paint.  In a few days, it was all rubbed off.

OK.  Lesson learned.  Get the right paint.  I promised the kids I would re-do them.  I never did.

Christmas 2011.  I bought more cups.  I bought some Ceramcoat paint, because I figured, based on the name, that this paint was good for ceramics.  I painted another couple of cups.  I realized quickly this was also the wrong paint.  I gave up in disgust.

OK. Lesson learned.  ASK QUESTIONS.  So this time, when I went to Joann Fabrics, I asked someone to direct me to the right paint for ceramic mugs.  BINGO!  I got the right kind of paint.  I still haven't painted cups for the kids...yet...but I did one for my nephew for his birthday last week:

This was a ton of fun to do, and reminded me how much I need a creative outlet in my life.  To the children I gave birth to: I promise yours will be done by Easter!  ♥

~2~

Son #2's observation regarding Little T:

Mom, it's the strangest thing, but whenever I see Tallulah at school, she's calm, she's behaving, she's doing everything her teacher tells her to do.  She's not screaming or kicking or being wacky at all!

Yeah, well, that tells you a little bit what she can be like at home. 

~3~

But then again, this is also the child who said to me the other day:

Mommy, I want to thank you for four things.  Thank you for taking me to the park.  Thank you for taking off this bandaid and for taking off the other bandaid.  And thank you for making my dinner.

And the next day she gazed at me with a little smile and said: "Why is my mother so wonderful?"

What's a little kicking and screaming when it comes with words like that??

~4~

She also recently asked me, upon seeing a work crew digging a large hole on a street corner: "Are they burying a dead body?"

Methinks it's time to monitor the 5-year old's media intake a little bit more closely.

~5~

In honor of Valentine's Day coming, I'd like to recommend a very little, but very lovely book for young children.  This is one of our favorites:

So sweet.  Plus, the little girl in the story has perhaps one of the greatest all time little girl story names ever: Cornelia Augusta.  Love that.

~6~

You know what I love about my 7 year old?  When she is yammering away and talking a blue streak and when I think I can't take it anymore, I can look at her and say: "OK, stop talking now."  And she laughs.  And she stops talking.  And she doesn't get upset.

My wish for every mother in the world is a child with a temperament like hers.

~7~

A friend of mine sent me a text last night with a bit of advice for getting through my day.  I was expressing my concern to her about how I was going to shepherd my kids through the process of doing homework, doing chores, making and eating dinner, and showering and getting ready for the morrow.  She sent me an Act of Faith from a book she has called Small Steps for Catholic Moms:

Instead of focusing on the outcomes of your activities today, focus simply on your state of soul as you do them.  As you work, don't sin.

Those few words shifted my perspective on what my family needed to do.  And since I'm not afraid of the word "sin" -- don't we all do things we wish we hadn't done, especially when it comes to our children? -- I was able to read those words and focus differently on the evening that lay ahead of me.

Let's hope I remember them again today.

* * *

Mud and Worms on Mother's Day

Still pajama-clad, picking my way through the early morning fog, trowel in hand, I began Mother's Day 2011 trudging through the garden with my 10 year old. We found the most likely vegetable bed and started digging.

This is what you do if you forget to buy crickets – again – and you've got some fire-bellied toads in need of a meal. This is what you do if you're a mom. You extricate yourself from warm blankets and comfy pillows. You shove your hands in damp earth before you've even had a cup of coffee. You ring in Mother's Day with mud and worms, so that a worried son can tend to his pets.

I did try to "worm" my way out of this task. When my son came upstairs early this morning, bed-headed and wearing his worried face, I sent him out to the garden on his own, with the commandment Get Thee Some Worms. I told him the most likely places to look. I told him no, we could not jump in the car and drive to the pet store to buy crickets, that that errand was not on my How To Spend Mothers Day list, and that driving there and back would take longer than digging around in our own back yard.

He came back in empty-handed. I sent him back out there on his own.

Twenty worm-less minutes later, he was starting to get panicky. He is a great pet-owner, and had reminded me many times that we were low on crickets, then out of crickets, and then still out of crickets. My bad, as they say. Anyway, he was getting pretty worked up about his hungry little ones and his worm-finding failure. So I got up and helped.

I enjoyed some strange gratification when I found worms rather quickly and got an awestruck "How'd you do that?" from my son. And I enjoyed some peaceful gratification when I saw how relieved and happy he was to have four fat worms to feed his flock.

I was cold, muddy, and notably, not sleeping in as I hoped to be on Mother's Day. But the crisp morning air smelled wonderful and the vegetable beds were lovely to look upon. And I made a child's worry dissipate, before I even had a cup of coffee.

You've done it too, if you're a mom. That's what we do. And I can't think of any better use of my time and talents.

And just in case I ever forget to buy crickets again, my son and I now know that the tomato bed is a veritable worm paradise.

* * *

Happy Mother's Day to all, with particular apologies to the Mommy Worms whose offspring got eaten by our frogs early this morning.

* * *

It's 10AM and the Day is Gone

image credit: www.claymoreslinger.com/medeival_art

It's 10AM. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, the coffee is strong.

So why do I feel defeated already?

From my perch on the couch, I see mayhem.

A quick survey of my to-do list: more mayhem.

An inventory of my brain: piles of mayhem.

The garage: mayhem.

The garden: mayhem. This is serious mayhem, since it will need to be transformed into a native paradise in about three weeks time if we are to avoid the curse of the busman's holiday at our annual garden tour show on May 1st.

Mayhem seems like such an innocent little word. It's kind of cute, in a way. Like "mother may I" and a polite "ahem" are rolled up into one.

But mayhem has a dark side. Mayhem is pinning me down on the couch, whispering menacing thoughts in my ear (you'll never make it), and drilling a little hole in my left heel, from whence all of my energy is draining.

* * *

We overslept this morning, me and my homeschooled children. So at 9:45, they are asking me what's for breakfast, and I am too busy bickering with nascent cramps to answer them. The youngest has a nasty cough and is home from preschool today, which means she will be spreading her special brand of terrorism far and wide. The boys' carpentry class ended last week, so I have no reason to get the kids out of the house.

* * *

I have an image in my head today of me, arrayed in full body armor, battling demons. Demon #1 would be those cramps, which are maturing every minute and are not so nascent anymore. Demon #2 is a serious lack of motivation, daunted as I am by the mountain of work before me. And a little daunted by the mouse my son saw in the garage yesterday, meaning I have to have Fun With Traps today at some point. Demon #3 is the chaos that surrounds me. This demon has multiple arms and legs, and just when I beat him down in one part of the house or garden, I turn a corner and get bitch-slapped again.

* * *

What is the proper way to battle chaos and disorder? With little time, few resources, and far too many demands upon both?

* * *

And did I mention that I gave up yelling for Lent? That was a folly of the highest degree. I do not recommend this for mothers. It's similar to when I gave up coffee for Lent many years ago, and vowed on a bright and sunny Easter morning never, ever to do that again. Giving up yelling has been well nigh impossible.

But attempting to give up yelling has at least focused me each day on the attempt itself. Each day is a renewed chance to not yell. I have decided that less yelling counts as some measure of success, so at least I have that.

* * *

I am rambling. Writing this post has been all about delaying the inevitable: dealing with my day. Better bring it to a close. I will refill my coffee cup, step out into the bright sunshine, and battle my demons.

I just need to find my helmet underneath all the mayhem first.

* * *

Little T Shows Me Some Love

My pierced earring holes are non-functional.

This distresses my daughters, who are all about the ear bling. Two have pierced ears; the other -- the Little T of my title -- will when she turns six. The age of 6 is entirely arbitrary. I had no plans for ear piercings, no magic age when it was time for piercings. But then, sometime before Lalaloopsie turned 6 (that's my oldest daughter), she and I decided to get her some holes for her birthday, and thus began the 6th birthday girl tradition in our family.

But my four ear holes, three on the left side, one on the right (it was the 80's) are mostly closed up. Every so often, I try to force earrings through them, draw blood, and give up.

Back in the day, I was an earring-wearing fool. Dangly, turquoise, beaded, homemade, looped, Telegraph Ave. purchased, the more the merrier, I loved earrings and had an extensive collection. My mom, sister and I gave earrings for most gift occasions and admired each others' baubles. It was fun and awesome.

Then motherhood hit. At that point, I lost the ability to keep, let alone wear, earrings. (I get to blame motherhood for whatever the hell I want to.) I do regret the loss of earring-wearing. One Mother's Day, maybe four years ago, I got them re-pierced, but I've fallen back into my neglectful ways, and they are once again all clogged up.

Tonight, Little T was sitting on my lap, doing her kissing me too much thing, drawing swirls on my face and generally doting on me. She took my left earlobe in her fingers, caressed it lovingly, and said: "These are your earring holes, mommy. You used to be pretty."

I think I'll look into getting them pierced one more time.

* * *

Whack-a-Mole

image credit: sarmonster.net

It occurred to me today, while responding to at least three interruptions while I was taking a shower in a locked bathroom, that parenting five children is a lot like playing Whack-a-mole. I am required to be ever vigilant, watching for little heads to pop and need something. Instead of whacking them (don't tempt me), I must quickly discern what the situation requires and deliver it promptly, leaving me free to respond to the next popping head.

Put your head down on a pillow? A head pops, needing a band-aid or a barf bucket. Sit down to Facebook? A head pops, needing a time-out or a missing sock. Attempt a conversation with another adult? A head pops, needing to process hurt feelings or exhibiting signs of developmental upheaval by shrieking at regular intervals. Try to watch something on TV or read a book in peace? Two heads pop, requiring you to step in as referee, which will inevitably end with one of the heads thinking you are evil and mean and accusing you of withholding your love and affection.

The best you can hope for is a positive ratio of non-popping heads to popping ones. Or you can hope that someone steals the mallet and whacks you into blessed unconsciousness.

* * *

I'm A Bad Mother. Here's How I Know

Today's Five Reasons:

I made you do your chore before you could eat your breakfast, even though you were starving. I did this because you managed to goof around for 45 minutes despite your starving state, and I figured another 10 minutes wasn't going to kill you. You told me that I am so mean. Hence, Reason #1.

I let your sister whack you. Told her to, in fact. I told her to whack you because you have harassed her for the kajillionth time and no other strategy has worked. You told me that I did it because I love her more than I love you. Hence, Reason #2.

I am not letting you have a "free day" today. We will actually be learning something in a structured, semi-organized fashion. We will combine our learning with Tuesday Hot Dog day's pilgrimage to Top Dog and a trip to Codornices Park to hurtle down the cement slide of death. Clearly, I am a dictator. Hence, Reason #3.

I cannot stop what I am doing to help you find your bouncy ball, review your ridiculously long Christmas list with you for the fifth time, get out the hot glue gun for you, or heat up the breakfast you have left sitting so long it's turned stone cold and given you yet another opportunity to avoid eating it. I'm plain selfish. Hence, Reason #4.

I let you all sleep in until 9:30 today. Yes, that does cut down on the amount of death sliding we can do later on. What a bitch! Hence, Reason #5.

I'm sure I'll create five fresh reasons tomorrow. And I'm sure my kids will let me know exactly what they are.

* * *

Life is a Mystery

This weekend, I stayed cheerful and energized despite the fact that I was subjected to these and like-minded comments for two days straight:

We have the most boring tasteless breakfasts. Everyone else eats better food. Why can’t we have better breakfasts? I eat toast every single morning.

Are you serious? Why do I have to clip my nails? You make us do the stupidest things.

This is going to be the worst day of my life.

Has dad ever cleaned up around here?

I hate this. I’m going to be basically cleaning the house all day. This is so stupid.

We never get to do anything fun. We need a better house.

I have to do everything around here. You never tell anyone else to do anything.

* * *

Three different kids said that last one to me within an hour of each other, which provides you with all the evidence you need to take absolutely everything my children say with one large dose of salty salt.

How is it possible that I love them more than life itself, these people who harangue me at every turn, who pile disgust on top of ingratitude on top of narcissism? How is it possible that I am still feeding them, doing their laundry, and finding their soccer socks on game day?

This is truly one of the great mysteries of life.

* * *

Snippets

I don't even know why I'm sharing these little gems. All of them are embarrassing or somehow unseemly. Please, please, tell me these are normal. Please. Lie to me, if you must.

OK, so first, my 3 year old is quite a little singer. She is forever making up little songs and boring the rest of us with them. My personal favorite goes something like this: "I love my mommy. She's so pretty. I love my mommy. She's so pretty." Repeat. Seriously, this one has an emotional depth to it that just knocks you off your feet. Or maybe that's my feet. Another popular one features Bob Dylan, her stuffed monkey: "Bob likes pickles, and climbing in trees." At least, I think it's about the monkey; I don't know how in the world she would know if the real Dylan actually likes either of those things. Anyway, the point is, she sings.

And she's the youngest of 5. So she hears a whole lot of stuff that's far more appropriate for kids who are older than she is.

So today, I was doing important things like seeing which of my Facebook friends had posted the most annoying status and watching my blog hits, when I overheard her singing to herself in the bathroom. She likes the bathroom. Loves brushing her teeth. Likes to make goofy faces at herself in the mirror. So she's in there singing in a soft, sweet little voice: "My brother really sucks...my brother really sucks...my brother really sucks."

Just gets you right here, doesn't it?

* * *

My nine year old attempted to spit on my from his perch high in our Magnolia tree tonight. He thought this was funny. I narrowly escaped the glop with a nimble, hearkening-back-t0-my-in-shape-20's hop. When we were both on the ground a few minutes later, his only defense? "But I didn't get you!"

* * *

My eleven year old was at a friend's house the other day. He told me that he and "Johnny" were watching the Kim Kardashian reality show (WTF?) and they paused it just so they could look at her for longer. Can someone please come install a filter in this kid? I mean, I'm glad he feels comfortable telling me stuff, but can we talk about discretion, maybe? Being his mom has shattered any sentimental notion I may have had about wanting my children to discuss everything with me. I'm fine if they hold back a few things.

I think after my tirade about celebrities who are only famous for being socialites or wealthy and how the way a person looks mean absolutely zilch about who they are on the inside, he was probably wishing he'd held that one back as well.

Yup, I pour it on thick and serve it with a side of The World Is Going To Hell in a Handbasket. I have come to realize that I am fine with being that mom, the one whose kids roll their eyes when she gives the What's Really Important in Life speech. And they have given me copious chances lately.

* * *

One of my kids asked me the other day if sex is the one and only way to have children. As in: "You mean, if I want to be a parent, I have to do that?"

* * *

I spend half of my time trying to figure out how to respond to their various mind-benders and the other half of my time sweeping the freakin' floor. It's a glamorous life I lead.

* * *

Reach for the Stars

I just finished reading the book The Glass Castle.


A fascinating read, I highly recommend it.

I came away from the experience with a brand new goal for motherhood: Raise each of my five children to adulthood without giving them enough memoir fodder to write a best-selling book about their childhood.

I aim high.

* * *

I Am Not A Pillow

I have three daughters whom I adore. They adore me too. They like to be close to me. Really, really close to me. They smother me.

I love cuddling with one of them. Doesn't matter which one, but one seems to be the limit for me to be able to enjoy the time together. Any more than that and I turn into She Who Must Not Be Touched.

When my family is, say, watching a World Cup soccer game, which we've been doing a fair amount of, I usually end up standing behind the couch. If I attempt to sit down, I am promptly covered in girl children. They sit on any available portion of my body, my legs, arms, head, if need be. They attempt to achieve as high a percentage as possible of body to body contact. They crush me.

When I sit down to, say, write a blog post, it takes about 5.3 seconds before a girl child (or two or three) is pressing against my arm, leaning into my side and invading my space. Like right now as I type, and keep having to correct spelling because it's hard to type correctly when my left arm is supporting a 5 year old and my right leg is trying to keep a three year old at bay. And my seven year old is trying to engage me in conversation.

Once draped all over me, they usually sit peacefully for another 5.3 seconds before the squirming and bickering begin. They want to touch as much of me as possible, but go bananas if "her" leg touches "hers." They compare how much space they each have and make pronouncements about fairness and justice. They make life miserable.

It's not a nice feeling to be a mom who says: "NOPE!" as soon as a wee girl makes her way over to my lap, setting off the radar on the other two girls: BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP LAP SITTING IS TAKING PLACE BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP MUST JOIN THE PARTY BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP.

It's not a nice feeling to avoid physical contact with my girls.

I do love them so, but the amount of closeness they require is exhausting.

So my mothering challenge for today: Lovingly explain to my daughters the concept of personal space, without hurting their feelings, so that I neither bark at them nor become their pillow, so that all four of us arrive at the end of the day feeling like we got our needs met: their need to touch me as often as possible and my need not to feel like an overworked sheep at a petting zoo visited by a ADHD-infested classroom of kindergardeners.

Sounds pretty impossible to me. But I'm all about attempting the impossible, so let's see how this goes.

* * *

Trying

I am tired of being a nagging mom. I am sick of hearing myself say to my kids: "Not now, I'm too tired." I'm tired of yelling. I'm tired of listening to my kids yell at each other. I'm weary of feeling like the tail is wagging the dog around here, and the dog is a big grump anyway.

So. I am trying to do things differently today. Two kids home sick...I'm feeling under the weather myself...one toddler-from-hell wreaking havoc wherever she goes. Everyone freaking out at the slightest provocation.

And still. I am trying to go gently through the day, taking time to explain things to the kids when they fight. Taking the time to find tape for the 5 year old, even though I'm writing a blog about trying to be patient and good, and would rather tell her that I can't right now. Trying to approach Mt. Washmore with the right mix of fortitude, efficiency and flexibility. Trying to do the impossible.

I think that's really the job description of motherhood: Get up in the morning and accomplish the impossible.

I just want to arrive at 8pm tonight -- hell, I'll take 4pm -- without feeling like I've been beat up, chewed up, spit out, run through the spin cycle, pushed through a wash board, and mocked by inanimate objects like my laundry pile, my dish pile, my paper piles. Everyone needs to experience success to keep them motivated and engaged in the task at hand: I need some success in the worst way.

I want to be the change I wish to see in my own family, but I don't know how to begin. The only ideas I have are to remind myself to breathe deeply and to drink water instead of another cup of coffee.

Help.

* * *

A Tender Moment It Was Not, but a Cherished One, Nonetheless

We have largely cleared our bed of small people, at least between the hours of 9pm and 5am. After 5am, it's sort of a free for all.

This morning, the three year old climbed in for a snu- snu- snu- snuggle. (Sound familiar, D'bee?) It's so nice to lie with her, exchange little eskimo kisses, and whisper sillinesses to each other, until she wakes up a little and starts jumping up and down on top of me.

This morning, pre-jumping, we were enjoying that drowsy, just-woke-up state, and staring lovingly at each other's faces, with about three inches between us.

Her: "Mommy, why do have stripes on you?"

Me: "I'm not wearing stripes, honey; these are flowers."

Her: "But why do you have stripes?"

Me: (The thought occurs to me that she's talking wrinkles. I say nothing. I start fantasizing about the children she will one day have, and the grief they will cause her.)

Her, giving me her best Whoa Lady, This Is Not What I Signed Up For look: "I don wanna live with a old lady. I want a mommy in my house."

I defy you to find any parenting book that tells you what to say to that. I said the lame thing: "I'll always be cursed to be your mommy, no matter how old I get."

What kind of child reprimands her mother for wrinkly skin? My kind, I guess."

* * *

It's later than we think, isn't it? I used to subscribe to a parenting philosophy in which the central tenant was: If you don't have the energy to ____________ today, wait: there's always tomorrow. Into that blank could go any number of things to do: potty train...turn off the TV...make a decent dinner...fold that 11th load of laundry...find the Simple Green...put the dishes away...explain fractions. You get the idea. Which is not to say that I continually put things off, just that I tried to be less than militant about certain fundamentals of child rearing and house keeping.

But that little mantra only holds up in Baby Mode, which, I think has been established, I am no longer in. The wrinkles on my face, and the fact that my youngest child is pointing them out to me in complete, if not grammatically correct, sentences belie the fact that tomorrows are not infinite. The potty needs to be mastered. The family needs to eat a hearty salad. The kid needs to understand fractions. And the momma needs to dig in and do some hard work to turn these lumps of clay into people whom other people enjoy being around.

I keep coming back to the reality that I am entering a new phase of parenting, one that has less to do with babies and more to do with people who are increasingly interacting with the world. Everyone says that things get easier when you move out of the baby phase. And everyone says it gets harder too. Yet another of those confounding contradictions of parenting.

I feel myself on the brink of a transition, with one foot firmly in the land of babies and toddlers while my other foot and both of my hands are busy in the land of kids and tweens. Teenagers are just around the bend. I know that different things are expected of me now than a few years ago, and I'm curious how I will meet those expectations. Will I have the patience to explain the world to my young charges? Will I have the courage to follow them where they lead, and to help them navigate the waters they choose to swim in? Will I grow up in the process of helping them grow up?

I hope so. I sure would like to arrive somewhere ages and ages hence, look back on this time and be proud of the wrinkles I have earned. And I'd like Tallulah to be proud of them, too.

* * *

Cringe

My son is one of the Commissioners of Religion at his school. Basically, this means that he and the other Commissioner lead the school's daily prayer at the Morning Assembly. It's quite nice to hear him each morning stumbling over strange words, or mumbling through the Lord's Prayer, or proclaiming a prayer with confidence, depending on how much sleep he got the night before or whether he ate more than a few bites of toast that morning. I'm usually one of the parents who walks everyone into school and hangs out until the student body president says "You're all dismissed, have a nice day" and the kids file into their classrooms. The younger ones turn to catch my eye and blow me kisses. The older ones studiously ignore me.

But with the busy-ness of our lives this Spring, instead of walking up to the school each morning, I've been pulling up to the drop off zone, slowing down to 5 mph, opening the side door of the van and tapping the brakes several times until they all sort of fall out in a heap on the sidewalk. By the time their arms and legs are straightened out, I have floored it down the hill and am off to the next task at hand. I have not had time to stop and enjoy the Morning Assembly.

But I have had plenty of time to stress out my kids.

Like the other day when none of them got up in a timely fashion AND I overslept myself AND I couldn't find my keys at the last minute AND I ended up thrashing around the house in tears of frustration that we were going to be late AGAIN and that every moment I couldn't find my keys meant another moment before the sweet relief of dropping everyone off where they needed to be. There were tears and yelling and lots of frustrated, frenzied activity. It got fairly ugly. It was one of those mornings when the silence of having them suddenly out of the car was more of a reproach than a relief: Well, you screwed that one up, mom. Now you'll have to wait 7 hours before you can assess the damage.

The kids missed Morning Assembly that day: we were almost 15 minutes late to school.

But they were on time the next day; I pulled up to school, dropped them off, and drove quickly away to get things done. I missed my son's very special morning prayer.

I got the full report later from a friend: "We prayed for you this morning."

Really? Who's we?

That would be the whole school, when Sam offered the following, for all of the students, teachers and attending parents to take into their hearts and their hands clasped in prayer: "For mothers, so that they forgive themselves when they oversleep."

I'm so glad I missed that one. I don't think the school has ever had a parent perish from embarrassment right there on the school yard, and I'm not keen on being the first.

* * *

At least he's thinking about me. And there's no denying that I can use all the prayers I can get. So thank you, son and school community, for interceding on my behalf and sending up a little prayer for me. Or for those mothers in general who oversleep from time to time. Maybe he didn't mean me.

* * *

Happy Mothers Day, Mom

I didn't call my mom on Mothers Day. How lame, right? Very lame.

But she just ordered cookies from my son for his soccer team's fundraiser, so I managed to send her an email...and realized while I was writing it that I had failed to mark the day. So I wrote her a quick, impromptu HMD message, which, it turns out, was as heartfelt as anything I could have spent more time and money composing, or communicating with a gift. So I thought I would post it here. It's brief, but truer words were never typed. Mom, so that this message lives in public and in some kind of posterity, I hereby post my Mother's Day Greeting to you, complete with cookie sale minutiae:

OK. We are turning in money tomorrow, so you can make the check out to me, and I'll add your $15 to our total.

Thanks!

By the way, I failed to call you on Mothers Day, can you believe it? So here is my kind of lame, belated Happy Mothers Day to you. I can't tell you how much I appreciate everything you've done for me, and for Katy and Tony. I do understand it a little bit more everyday, as I raise these kids. You are a miracle worker, you know. I think you often reside in the shadow of your charismatic husband, but I wanted you to know that I see you and what you've done for our family as big and bright and beautiful. I love you! Thank you for raising me right. My kids have you to thank for the good things I do for them.

:) Monica

To all of you moms out there, here's wishing that every single day you feel the love and appreciation of your families. We are contributing the most valuable thing ever to the world: people. Without us, the engines of commerce and community would grind to a halt, medical research would wither on the vine, the World Cup soccer ball would lay motionless on the South African pitch. Without us, the halls of Congress would be silent, as would all the world's instruments. Without us, simple acts of kindness would go undone and great acts of generosity would too. Without us, we would not be.

Same goes for dads, by the way. But for this week, let's all be glad that Mothers do what they do.

* * *