Promise

I made a promise to my son yesterday, in an instant, without giving it much thought. It was Memorial Day, I was making breakfast for everyone, and he was whining. He was being incorrigible, as a matter of fact. He was despondent because he was bored, and he didn’t want what I was cooking, and why couldn’t he have some licorice, and why didn’t he ever get to do anything fun? He can muster up the foulest of moods at times, and this was one of those times.

I, on the other hand, was in a strangely light-hearted mood. Perhaps because I recently got a four-day hiatus from being a mom…perhaps because the night before some friends had us over for dinner and pampered us like nobody’s business…perhaps because I have been getting just slightly more sleep than usual lately. Anyway, in a uncharacteristic burst of optimism, I told him that I was going to stay calm and cheerful no matter what he said to me; I wouldn’t let him whine without sending him to his room, but I would not yell, and I would not let his mood turn my mood equally black and foul. And then I said it: “I promise!”

Well, I was kind of talking about just breakfast time. You know, just to get through to the next challenge of the day. But he took me at my word, and a few hours later, out of the blue, he reminded me. “Mom, remember that you promised to stay calm!”

Which made me realize that I had committed to an entire day of staying calm. I must admit, this gave me more than a little bit of a pause. Could I do it? Would I blow it? Would I end up screaming myself horse simply as a way to make myself heard above the fray? Or could I rise to the challenge and give the kids and myself a real gift?

Well, I actually rose to the challenge. I had a little help from my son; “the promise” became a little thing between us all day long. He would say “Remember, Mom!” Or I would say, “How’m I doin’ on the promise I made, buddy?”

Making that promise to him taught me a few things. First, that he listens to me. Which isn’t always apparent. Second, that it matters to him – to all of them – if I keep my word. And third, that being calm makes me a better parent. And why wouldn’t it? Why do we yell first and ask question (of them or of ourselves) later? What is going to be the harm if I stop for a minute and approach the situation quietly rather than like a crazed woman bent on ridding my children of malicious behavior? And why, oh why, must I re-learn these seemingly obvious lessons over and over?

Later that day, I was trying to play a movie for the kids that I had ordered online from DirecTV. I couldn’t get the darn thing to work, and the kids were on the verge of coming unglued. They were acting so impatient, and so…entitled. It was a great offense to them that they couldn’t watch their movie when they wanted to. It really bothered me; they seemed ungrateful, spoiled, unpleasant. Then I got on the phone to DirecTV and displayed some alarmingly unpleasant behavior myself, as I had to negotiate one of those evil automated phone systems and wait on hold for what seemed like an unjust amount of time.

So I went from scolding them for their intolerable behavior to exhibiting some of my own, right before their very eyes.

Humbling.

I caught myself, though. I told them that I was being ridiculous, and that I needed to show them how to be calm in the face of frustration. Then, I did my best to calmly tell the nice lady at DirecTV that their service sucks. But I was nice about it, I swear! And my kids got to see me practice what I preach. For once.

Make a promise to your kids today. It might just make your day.

And other food for thought:
Sometimes, a mess is just a mess, not a commentary on your worth as a human being.
Sleep helps.
Good food helps.
Quiet helps.

Slow down, world; here I come.

Brooklyn Brownstone

Do the wonders of my family never cease?

My dad painted this picture of the house some of our family stayed in during our trip to NYC. I especially love the window to the right and the greenery at the bottom left. While a bunch of us slept elsewhere, this place was "home base" for all of our festivities. He captured our home-away-from-home perfectly.



Since he has retired, he has returned to watercolor painting. He has always been an artist; in fact, he was a professional potter for much of my childhood and I was well into my teens before I realized that some people actually purchased the dishes they ate off of. I have many fond memories of running around at street art fairs in San Francisco, dodging in and out between tables of hand-crafted jewelry, tapestries, pottery, paintings, etc. It was a great way to grow up, surrounded by people who take in the world and give something beautiful -- or at least interesting -- back.

Between my artist father and my writer mother (and throw in both of their experiments as musicians!), I think I know where I get the urge to be, if not the practice of being, creative. What a gift! And what a curse as well, as I think almost daily about what creative endeavor I wish I were engaging in but am in fact not. I have the will, but not yet the way. What I do have are a bunch of whiny weak excuses. Well, that and five strong, compelling excuses!

But the will does not leave. I will find some way to create...if only to keep up with my family.

Re-entry is a Bitch

First off, thanks to Laura for the fantastic post title. She took one look at me this morning on the schoolyard and came up with that gem.

And it sure is, peeps. I had a fantastic time in New York with my family. That is to say, my extended family. I traveled to the Big Apple for my brother's nuptials, and left Rick at home with 5 children on perhaps THE busiest weekend we have had ever. He had to do the following:

Friday:

• First off, get everone to school and daycare, usually my gig, and then pick them all up in the afternoon, also usually my gig.
• Get 7-year old to 5 pm baseball practice
• Get to 5:30 soccer practice for 5-year old -- he's the coach as well!

Saturday:

• Get 9-year old to his baseball game by 7:45
• Get 5-year old to her soccer game by 8:30
• Dash over to baseball game to try to make 9-year old's pitching debut
• Take the entire family to an End of the Season soccer potluck
• Drop off two youngest at Saint Nicole's for an evening of babysitting
• Take the older three to a birthday swim party.

Sunday:

• Get 9-year old, along with everyone else, to 9 AM Mass; 3rd grade was doing all of the Mass parts, and our own child did a reading.
• Take everyone to the Annual School Spring Festival. Dole out game tickets like some twisted form of kid-crack.
• Take 9-year old to his baseball game; he had to be there at 2:15, and they didn't get home until 7:30. Yikes.

Throw in one business consultation, which he did with four kids in tow, grocery shopping, birthday gift shopping, and feeding everyone, and it's quite an accomplishment. Wow. He's a keeper.

Meanwhile, I was conducting my own experiment to see just how little sleep and how much caffiene, alcohol, and bread products one woman can handle. Apparently the answers are very little and quite a bit. I love that my family enjoys "the drink." We do have fun together.

My brother lives in Park Slope, a beautiful neighborhood in Brooklyn. My mom, dad, and aunt stayed in a lovely Brownstone via a "house swap" arrangement; my sister, brother-in-law, 3 year old nephew, and I stayed in a great little guesthouse. All of our places were within a 5 block radius of each other.

We did the rehearsal thing on Friday, with a Rehearsal Lunch. Saturday, we walked all over Brooklyn, through Prospect Park and through the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, and the long way home. We managed to arrive at the 6pm wedding in Manhattan via subway with about 10 minutes to spare, freaking my brother out BIG TIME, because WE HAD THE RINGS. We had hoped to be there earlier, but what can you do? My mom and dad were quite the celebrities, meeting Tony's friends for the first time; he's lived there for about 15 years! My dad gave a fantastic toast. He worked in Karl Marx and a reference to porn, and still managed to get a few people teary. You sure are charming when you try to be, dad!

Sunday morning, my brother-in-law and I took the subway into Manhattan and walked around the perimeter of the World Trade Center site. It was very interesting, and sobering.

So. Now I am back. Hoo-boy. I am still digging out from being gone, three days later. Clothes are still everywhere...the to do list keeps getting longer...the kids are WIGGING OUT...and my rejuvenated self didn't last as long as one might hope. It was so wonderful to be on my own for four days. It was amazing how easily I slipped into it. It's not so easy to slip back into the "mommy mommy mommy" and the screaming and the fighting and the squabbling and the potty training and the accidents and the spilled milk and the noise oh the noise. It's a damn good thing I love them so much.

Re-entry is a much longer process than I anticipated. I think part of me is still walking the lovely avenues of Park Slope, sipping a latte, and deciding whether to eat a croissant or a bagel. Today, I was far more tired than I was the day after I got back. So tired I could barely move. I think I need a few more days away!

Hmmmm, don't think I'm gonna get it. A bitch indeed.

By the way, the porn reference was really rather innocent, so please don't think strangely of my father. The entire toast was lovely, funny, touching, and I'll say it again: charming.

I Can't See the Forest...

...because a pack of wild monkeys keeps piling on top of me and shoving me further down into the leaves and muck and mud and loamy earth. 5 monkeys, to be exact.

I am utterly floundering here. My house is a disaster. There is no food in the house. The laundry is threatening to fall over on top of me or one of my offspring. I'm late with school paperwork, daycare paperwork, movie rentals. I am behind on my freelance work projects. I am behind on Garden Design business work. I cannot trust my own calendar, so I live in fear of whatever I am forgetting. I need to plan a 1st Communion shindig...in two days. I have to write a letter of recommendation for a colleague seeking a special award. I am helping produce the 2nd grade contribution to the annual auction in a week and a half. I have a sick child. I am potty training another child. We have baseball practices and soccer practice and games to coordinate. Birthday parties to attend. Mother's Day to acknowledge. A trip to New York to think about (fun and exciting, but YIKES: at this point, I'll be lucky if I manage to wear something besides sweats and a t-shirt to my brother's wedding!) I am exhausted. I am spent. I am done.

A friend of mine once suggested that I post my to-do list on my blog. This would mean I actually have to face my to-do list, and I just can't quite get there. It's never complete, it's always too long, and it's an insane document. I wouldn't want to air that particular piece of laundry...

Something's gotta give. And I don't really want it to be me. What do I cross off the list?

You know you have a big family when...

...one of your kids asks for ear plugs for Christmas.

Time for the Natives!

And I do not mean the children.

Rick and I run our own native plant garden design business. And this weekend is the annual Garden Tour we are lucky enough to participate in. So I won't be posting anything until after Sunday, but for those of you interested in learning more about native plants, their advantages, and their beauty, check out the Bringing Back the Natives Garden Tour website. Better yet, come on the free tour! Online registration is closed, since the tour is this Sunday, but there are several walk-in registration sites, including our own garden. It's a truly wonderful event...a fantastic way to spend a Sunday.



I'll be back after the tour!

How Old Are You, Anyway?

At the park yesterday, the older brother was giving the 3 year old a hard time. She, having none of it, was ignoring him and playing with another girl, about her size, whom she had just "met."

Sam: "Why are you playing with that little girl?"

Ellie, to Sam: "She's not little!"

Ellie, to new girl: "How old are you, anyway?"

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Sometimes, I hafta check her birth certificate to confirm that she is really only 3.5.

A Good Night's Sleep

I haven't slept in 9.5 years.

I do not remember what it feels like to have enough sleep. I am tired all of the time. I used to have a reputation for being an impressive napper; I reveled in a lazy afternoon nap, the kind that you fall slowly into and rise slowly from, the kind that leaves you warm and relaxed and the purest kind of happy. I have a very vivid memory of walking into my room as a kid -- I was probably around 10 -- and seeing a pile of folded blankets on the floor. They looked so comfy, so inviting, just like that. I sat down and put my head down on them. Not bothering to unfold them and cover myself up, I simply drifted off to sleep sitting against them. The most vivid part of the memory is of waking up, of piece by piece returning to the waking world and being utterly delighted by my unexpected trip to dreamland.

I miss those days.

Over the past few years, I've heard more in the news about the effects of sleep deprivation, specifically on memory. I am a naturally scatter-brained person, and when you add 9+ years of no sleep, well, it's a wonder I remember my own name on most days. I really am quite forgetful. I forget to turn in permission slips; I forget to return library books; I forget to bring deposits with me to the bank. I forget the last batch of pancakes almost every time I make pancakes. I forget what I went upstairs to retrieve.

About a half hour before I pick the kids up from school, I gather up the items I need to bring with me -- maybe we have someone's uniform sweatshirt by mistake, or I have to turn in a parent hours form to the front office, or one of those ever-late permission slips, or progress reports -- and put them on the front seat of the car. Then, when I get to the school, I walk in and forget to bring those items with me.

When I do happen to get a decent amount of sleep, I immediately notice a difference in how I feel the next day; amazing, right? Now, if I could just string together about a month's worth of those nights, maybe my brain would start working again, which would be nice, since it seems to have been on vacation for the past several years. Once, while I was listening to Talk of the Nation, the host was giving a promo for the next day's show on sleep deprivation and memory. I planned on listening to it...but I forgot.

Sigh.

But sleep is alive and well in my household. At least five of us are, as I type, sleeping like babies, which one of them actually is.







Someday, I will sleep again. Someday, I will wake up rested. Someday, I will reclaim the title of Grand Napper.

Someday. For now, I'll have to settle for watching the little 'uns breath in and out, peacefully, contentedly, noisily sometimes, beautifully always.

Free Range in Baby Steps

We are inching closer to having Free Range Kids. Clap now.

We are dog-sitting our favorite (living) dog in the world, a beautiful, sweet Golden Retriever named Silka. She is awesome. She's exactly like our own beloved Chelsea, who passed on to Dog Heaven 3.5 years ago, and Silka fits right in with our family.

And she needs to be walked. So we are now letting our two boys take her for walks around the block with the following guidelines:

• Around the block only. No street crossing -- which is for Silka's safety more than for their own, actually.
• If you come across anything or anyone who makes you nervous or uncomfortable, RUN HOME FAST.
• And because Silka is with them: bring a plastic bag and clean up after your pet. Do not put the bag in anyone else's garbage can but our own (that last bit was added out of necessity after the first walk).

It's worked out great. They go around, they check in, they go around again... And the world has not stopped spinning. They, however, love this tiny taste of independence.

And then today, I ran a couple of errands and let the boys stay home by themselves. Ground rules:

• Do not open the front door. Not if someone knocks and not to go outside on your own. You have full access to the back garden and the entire house. You may not go out into the front garden for any reason whatsoever. (I actually put something in front of the screen door, so I could tell upon my return if the door had been moved. Barrier was still there when I got back!)
• Don't answer the phone; screen the call and pick it up if it's mom or dad calling.
• Call me if you see blood.

Again, earth still on its axis; boys happy...mom happy because I didn't have to drag five kids (2 of them grumpy) on a few simple errands. The girls are young enough that a car ride is still a fun adventure for them.

They did call once. Not to tell me about blood, but to tell me that they had made me a treat. "I hope you don't mind, Mom, but we had to sample it a little." I came home to a sweet note and a sweeter treat. The note said: "Dear Mom, We hope you enjoy this treat. We call it The Cookies With Iceing and Sprinkles. love, Samuel and Vincenzo."

In the bowl, which was wrapped, there were 2 Chips Ahoy cookies, covered with chocolate jimmies, chocolate chips, two or three different colors of cake icing, whipped cream and a cherry. Yum! Actually, it was overly sweet, to the point of being pretty gross and hard to finish...but I muddled through. They helped, of course.

Anyway, I like this Free Range Kids thing. I'm calmer, because their lives are more varied, they get to do more things, and I don't feel like they are completely underfoot all day. While Silka has been here, if they get too crazy or loud, I can just say, "Hey, you two, take the dog for a walk!" I'm sure 17 walks per day are actually good for the dog, right? They are calmer because they get some time without me watching their every move. It's a win-win. Yahoo.

This is one of those times on the motherhood path that I get to stop, breathe, and realize that things, and children, and moms, change. If I'm having one of those days that seem like just another piece of stale popcorn on an unending, unvarying string, I can rest assured in the knowledge that before I know it, the string will indeed be transformed. My days will not always be about sheparding small children through the day, solving arguments, changing diapers, cajoling them to eat, and desperately seeking a little peace and quiet. And knowing that makes me treasure the time I have now, instead of dreaming up new ways to escape it.

All of this just because I let the boys stay home? Shoulda done this a LOOOOOOOOOOONG time ago. Like when they were 2 and 4. Just kidding.

note: I am borrowing my label for this post (and related posts) from the blog of Lenore Skenazy. Check it out for yourself!

Questions of the Day

"Mom, how come your weiny feels so weird when you drive down a hill?"

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"Mom, can you get expelled for saying all the curse words in alphabetical order in the talent show?"

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Mom's answers:

"Well, sweetie, I'm a girl, so having never experienced that particular sensation, I can't really tell you the reason."

And this: "I don't think they'd approve that act in the first place!"

Author! Author!

Lola has written her first book. I asked the kids last week to draw pictures for my aunt, whose birthday is today. Because Carol likes cats, Lola decided to draw one for her. One drawing became two, became three, and then she added a...well...narrative might be stretching it a little, but a lovely little five-year-old story. Here it is:

The Little Cat, by Lola

It got sunny and the cat ate grass
and the cat was thirsty.



The cat went to drink milk and then it started to rain.



And the proud author.



Happy Birthday Carol!