Waving White Flag Now

Here is what I am up against.

After numerous attempts to get the kids up and moving for school, I resorted to the timer. "If you're not dressed in 5 minutes, no soccer practice tonight." What ensued can only be described as miraculous, since no one who is as tired and immobile as my children were could possibly object with such force and vitality, were it not for some supernatural force moving within them.

They made the 5-minute deadline. Completely dressed, to the shoes. Tied. And then, I had to have an argument with One Son that went something like this:

Son: "It's impossible to get dressed in 5-minutes, mom."

Me: "But you did!"

Son: "But it's not possible. You can't ask us to do that, it's just impossible."

Me: "But you did it! In less than 5 minutes!"

Son: "It's impossible, mom. Don't ask us that again."

A variation on The Sky is Blue, No, the Sky is Green repartee.

And this: After voicing my profound displeasure at how long it took the boys to settle down the night before, and in true parent overdrive, driving home the point that if they go to bed too late they will have trouble getting up in the morning, I said the following: "I am not saying this to be mean or to make you miserable, but you really need to settle down at night when we tell you to!"

Son: "You want me to be miserable?"

For every parent that thought they would never utter "WHAT DID I JUST SAY!" in righteous indignation, I tell you that particular goal is a pipedream.

But We Made It On Time

Yes we did. We made it to Mass on time today, no small feat for our family of seven, and not a common occurance either.

Today it was our turn to do donuts. This entails buying 6 dozen donuts in the morning and setting up the hall downstairs, getting the coffee started, pouring the juice, loading the trays, etc. Given the extra stop, we had to leave especially early.

We made it! And upon arriving at the church, here's what I discovered. First, the baby's shoes were not, in fact, underneath her car seat, as I was sure they were when I was getting her dressed. Second, my oldest son's jeans were filthy. Ground-in grass stains on both knees. Nice. And third, I had forgotten to put underwear on my three-year old. She was wearing a lovely dress and some too-small tights...and no skivvies. No biggee, right? She was wearing tights, after all. Well, too-small tights have a tendency to ride to the floor, which hers did quite a bit, being as how she was extra-squirmy in the pew.

And the fourth thing I discovered is that it is hard to be prayerful when you are preoccupied with the possibility of your child flashing the nice older couple sitting behind you. The specter of your lovely offspring pulling a Britney Spears in the House of God is just too distracting.

However, everything remained decent. Plus, after much searching and tossing things about, I did find a pair of shoes for the baby. And I don't think anyone looked at Sam's knees.

Everyone ate the donuts and we made it home. A successful Sunday morning.

Thyroid Disease: The Good Ole Days

Shortly after my third child was born, I started having some strange symptoms. I shook all the time, my hair fell out in clumps, I was constantly starving and ate more food than I could believe, and I had a bunch of other strange symptoms that would be even stranger to post about. But the most amazing symptom of all: I did not need to sleep.

Having a weeks old infant, plus two active little boys, most of these symptoms were easy to explain. Hungry all the time? It's the breastfeeding. Hair falling out? Hormonal shift. Shaking hands? Your totally stressed out, lady!

And I didn't even really think about how much sleep I wasn't getting, since the baby was waking up every few hours anyway. But the symptom that really bothered me was the shaking. Every morning I would tie the boys' shoes, and wonder why my hands were trembling and why I couldn't get my body to be at rest. I eliminated caffiene, no small thing if you know my coffee addiction (yes, even while breastfeeding -- send critical emails to mindyourown@itcouldbeworse.org). But without the coffee, I was still shaking like the last autumn leaf left on the tree.

Time for medical intervention. Turns out I had Graves Disease, a form of hyperactive thyroid disease. It was completely treatable, and after being on medication for a few months (it took awhile), my hands stopped shaking and my eating habits returned to normal.

What do I miss about Graves? Never needing to sleep. I could use that particular malady right about now. Eating an entire box of chocolate biscuits in one sitting. Eating 2 super burritos in one sitting. Eating pretty much everything in sight, and losing weight anyway.

It didn't occur to me until being diagnosed that the amount of energy I had was not normal. That zipping around on 3 or 4 hours of sleep was not just "baby-high." I think Graves Disease is the biggest reason why the 12-hour road trip we took to Portland when Lola was 2.5 weeks old went so smoothly. Not needing to sleep frees up an amazing amount of time you otherwise waste; I got phenomenal amounts of stuff done.

Which leads to my current nostalgia for my days of disease. Given that homework, dinner, and the evening routine took me until 9:55 tonight, I found myself wistfully wishing for my hyperthyroid to return. Just think how much I could get done!

There are alternatives: I could become a meth-mom. I hear they plow through their to-do lists like wacked-out Energizer bunnies. But then I'd have meth-mouth, and that's just gross. I could "just say no" and shorten the to do list, but then the kids would wear dirty socks, people wouldn't eat, and the nice electricity man might find our address on his job list for the day. He would be bringing his big clippers. I could GET ORGANIZED.

I dunno, it seems so much easier to just get a disease that allows me to eat endlessly, never gain weight, and stay up all night.

When I got pregnant with Elizabeth, my doctor told me that the Graves disease would take a little hiatus until after I delivered, but then would likely come back. This was supposed to be a life-long condition. No such luck. It never came back. I am stuck having a regular old need for sleep, gobbling up precious hours of my day.

But here's hoping it returns someday! I will enjoy those days before the meds kick in to their fullest.

Life is Too Short for Pleasantries

Apparently, Elizabeth thinks so.

Today, I was cuddling with her, and finding her so adorable I was melting. I took her little face in mine and said: "Elizabeth, I love you so much, honey. I love being your mommy."

Her response? Well, she smiled ever so sweetly at me, tipped her head to the side and said, "I would like to get a new mommy, though."

So I asked her which mommy she would get, and sure enough, she had one in mind: "I would get the Castillo mommy." This is a family we are good friends with, the same family Elizabeth always expresses a preference for when she is in trouble. But now, she'll take them even when surrounded by the love of the mother who bore her.

Thankless job indeed.

Today's Task

Note to self: Figure out a way to celebrate Tallulah's birthday instead of marking the end of the two hardest years of my life. They are one and the same, so this is no easy task.

She is not helping, having hurled herself into the terrible twos with a ferocity I can only liken to sheer madness. I am a seasoned mom, with four other kids, but the tantrums this one orchestrates, complete with Sybil-like outrage, leave me completely flummoxed. Getting her in her car seat these days leaves me shaking, sweaty, exhausted and yes, even bloody. She scratches my hands like she wants to rip them off of my wrists while I am trying to fasten her buckles. She pulls my hair so hard that my eyes water and I have to muster great self-control not to scream (at least when we are in public). She bites. Hard. Often.

Of course, at daycare, she's an angel, so she saves her vitriolic venom for me, I guess.

And I'm supposed to make a birthday cake for this little piece of work?????

Just In Case You Are In an Accident

With apologies to Cat Stevens, the Alatorre boys have reworked a classic song. Can you find the twist?

Now that I've lost everything to you
You say you want to start something new
And it's breaking my heart, you're leaving
Baby, I'm grieving
If you want to leave, take good care
Hope you find a lot of nice underwear
Then a lot of nice things turn bad out there.

School-aged boys sure now how to crack themselves up.

What Are We Protecting Them From?

I am growing increasingly uncomfortable with the word "appropriate."

My kids know this word way too well, and the world for them is becoming divided into THINGS THAT ARE APPROPRIATE and THINGS THAT ARE INAPPROPRIATE. I'm getting more than a little suspicious that the modern urge to protect children from becoming monsters is leaving them little room for freedom and discovery.

We don't want them to witness violence, of course, so we don't let them see violent movies. Ok, wise enough. But when my son comes to me with a copy of The Swiss Family Robinson and says "Mom, I know you don't really want me to read this because it's not appropriate for my age. There's too much violence in it," then I say UNCLE.

Chalk one up for the over-protectionists! My son is staying away from a great adventure story because we and the culture around him have made him hypervigilant about what's appropriate...

He's mere weeks away from being 10 years old, and he's burdened with the great APPROPRIATENESS FILTER.

MUST STAY AWAY FROM ALL THINGS INAPPROPRIATE. MUST ONLY ENJOY THAT WHICH IS APPROPRIATE.

INAPPROPRIATE = BAD. THINGS THAT WILL DESTROY MY BRAIN FROM THE INSIDE OUT AND CAUSE ME TO MUTATE INTO A VIOLENT PERSON.

APPROPRIATE = GOOD. THINGS THAT WILL KEEP ME SAFE AND ... well, bored.

It's kind of like that line in Finding Nemo, when Dory says to Marlin "You can't never let anything happen to him. Then nothing would ever happen to him. Not much fun for little Harpo." We can't protect them from all things negative without protecting them for the richness and fullness of a life lived with energy, curiosity, and imagination.

Granted, the kid in question is one who wants to know the categories of things, and not all of my children need these kinds of sign posts. But yikes! We have succeeded in protecting him against a fantastic adventure story.

A few months ago, a woman in New York made headlines for letting her son (I think he was around 8?) ride the subway home from downtown Manhattan. I've posted about her story, and about the article she wrote on the topic. One of the ideas she puts forth has been rattling around in my head for the past few months: the bad stuff we want to protect our kids from is NOT lurking around every corner...the kid-snatcher is more than likely NOT going to pounce if I let the kid get something out of the car while I'm in the grocery store. Letting a 9 year old do something independent will probably not end in tragedy. And the price we pay for behaving as if all of these terrible things are more than likely to happen is high -- too high, I think.

I am super protective of what my kids see on TV and in movies, more so than many of my peers. But that's as much if not more about aesthetics as it is about protecting them. I can't stand those mindless Disney shows because they seem so darn STOOPID. I'd much rather have them enjoy great stories and entertainment that doesn't just seep with bland, boring, predictable, stereotypical gags and characters, that is utterly lacking in real imagination, that seems to exist only to sell the products featured in the commercials.

I almost don't care what violence they are exposed to, if it comes with a great adventure story where the good guys prevail and we can talk about anything that worries them. It's the gratuitous stuff that's the problem, of course, but the Approriate Police are making this all seem entirely more black and white than anything real actually is.

Because when Marlin finally let Nemo go for it, Nemo saved an entire school of fish, and when my kid gets to walk home by himself, he feels and is stronger for it. When he can imagine adventures without worrying about their appropriateness, his unfettered imagination can take him anywhere. Which is exactly where I want him to be able to go.

And Now, A Few Words from My Family

Little sister to big brother: “You scream like a little girl.”

Oldest son, watching women’s gymnastics: “It must be hard to run with breasts.”

Artist son, gazing thoughtfully out the front window: “It’s very beautiful outside…the way the light is coming through the trees.”
3 year old, with disdain: “It’s just the sun.”

Unsympathetic offspring to mom: “You’re not very exciting when you’re sick.”

Oldest son, after a dance party featuring The Stray Cats: “What does ‘Looking better every beer' mean?” There is just no good way to answer that question when speaking to a nine-year old. Except of course for the one I provided: Ask your father.

And speaking of artist son, here for your enjoyment, I present his latest masterpiece. He drew this for his 3-year old cousin. Well, not really for him, since he didn’t want to part with it after he drew it, but he did draw this the way his cousin wanted. “You want me to draw you a bridge? Ok, here’s a bridge. You want a whale in it? Ok, here’s a whale. You want a lobster? Ok, here’s a lobster.”



Nothing profound tonight, just every day offerings from family life. How lucky am I?

I'll Be Your Groupie

I'm sicker than a dog. But I have a new band that I am going to follow forever, so why not start right now?

My almost 10-yr. old just called me into his room to show me the picture he drew of his band. He's in the middle, heavily tattooed, playing guitar. He's got Brian Setzer on his right, playing bass, and Paul McCartney on his left, on drums. (Sorry Ringo!)

I'd follow that band to the ends of the earth, even in a head-cold fog.

Good thing the band is still in rehearsal mode, because I must sleep now...

Memories of My Crazy Pregnant Lady Days

I was driving the kids to their various stashing spots today, and as I pulled onto the freeway and went about merging into traffic, I noticed a motorcyclist sitting on the side of the freeway, half leaning against the concrete guard rail, looking a bit rattled. About 15 feet away from him, his motorcycle was also resting against the guard rail, standing upright on its back wheel, with the front wheel up and over the concrete.

He reminded me of something, because I have seen this man, and his motorcycle, once before.

Almost four years ago, on October 6, 2004, I was driving my first born to Kindergarten, with his little brother and little sister along for the ride. I am 100% sure of the date, because I was exactly nine months pregnant. It was my due date, although the intrepid Elizabeth would make us all wait another week before arriving in all her glory. But on this day, I was driving down Carlson towards the school, and I witnessed an accident between a car and a motorcyclist. Yup, that's right, same guy!

You might wonder how I can be so sure. Well, I am this sure because I circled back to see if the motorcyclist was OK. I was certain someone else would stop to help. As it turns out, no one, not even the car who had hit him, stopped. There he was, lying in the middle of the street, with cars passing him by, slowing down enough to rubber-neck at him, but declining to pull over and help.

So I pulled over, and hauled my 9-month pregnant frame out into the middle of the intersection, and asked him if he was OK. He was dazed and confused, to say the least. Why else would he, all approximately 6' 3" of him, put his hand up to a 5' 4" pregnant lady, and ask for a hand up? The next logical question is, why did I comply? He damn near pulled me over on top of him, and then required my assistance to manuever over to the curb and sit down. Picture me, belly out to here, (imagine my hand several feet in front of me for the 'here'), offering my shoulder to this poor guy as he hobbled across the street.

Essentially, he was OK. Just very shaken up.

Eventually, someone else arrived and helped call 911. I excused myself and took Samuel on to school. On the way home, I drove by to see if he was still there, and he indeed was, now with a police officer who was taking a report. Again, I pulled over and checked in with Mr. Motorcycle Guy. You should have seen the officer's face when he heard that I was the passerby who stopped to help. He wouldn't even allow me to stand on the street, because of my 'condition.' He said something like, "On your due date, all you should be doing is lying down and having people bring you stuff to eat! Not out here hoisting grown men out of the street!" Bless him.

Anyway, I had forgotten all about that day, until this morning when I saw Mr. Motorcycle Guy, again looking dazed and confused. I'd recognize that yellow leather jacket anywhere, as it was plastered to my cheek for the time it took to steer him to the curb four years ago. Same jacket, same shock of whitish hair, same large, gangly frame.

I don't know why I stopped to help that day, or why I didn't take my unborn child into consideration. Maybe that's why she's so extroverted: my reaching out to this guy right before her emergence imprinted her with a "reach out and touch someone" kind of personality. She's definitely got that. I just hope that someday, when she's 9-months pregnant with my grandchild, she'll show more prudence than I did that day. Get the hell out of the road, crazy pregnant lady!

And This Was a GOOD Day

"Yogurt is not a finger food!" Had to say that one twice. To two different people.

"Do not swing on the freezer door!" Had to say that one five times. To the same person.

By 11:30, two kids had already showered...their first of two showers by days end. That happens when you dig holes in the garden for approximately five hours. Which they did, and they have the sunburned faces to prove it.

But the biggest happening of the days was the one in which I caught a kid in a lie. I basically told him that I did not believe something he said, and then endured a good twenty minutes of intense and well-executed indignation. Just as I was starting to doubt that gut level instinct that told me he was fibbing, I took him gently by the shoulders and said:

"Honey, if you were telling me the truth, then all you need to do is look me in the eye and tell me that. And if you do that, then I will apologize, because it was entirely wrong of me to accuse you of lying."

His teary eye-contact avoidant response? "I can't, because I was lying. But it really hurt my feelings that you didn't believe me."

I breathed a sigh of relief. What an awful thing it would have been if he had been telling the truth and my gut had steered me so wrong. I wasn't happy that he had lied, but I was thrilled that my instinct had been right on target. Chalk one up for mom!