A New Year...

I don't usually make New Year's Resolutions.

For very long.

It's not that I don't want to do anything differently. I want to do lots of things differently. I want to lose weight. I want to walk more. I want to eat better. I want to parent better.

But there's something about New Years resolutions that's just so daunting. So overwhelming. So completely, utterly ridiculous.

I also find the whole concept rather anxiety producing, and nothing sets us up for failure more than being completely freaked out that we're going to fail.

So this year, I'm not making those same old resolutions.

I'm making a new one instead.

I'll take each day as it comes, and I will do my best.

I will do my best to eat better, exercise more, breathe more deeply, and yell less. Or at least more quietly. I know that on good days, I will fail at some of these things, and on bad days, I will fail at all of them.

I will do my best to be OK with that, too.

I will do my best to remember that if I wasn't as successful today as I would have liked, there's always tomorrow.

I will do my best to recognize each tomorrow for the gift that it is, in spite of how many things I failed at that day. To remember that if I get to hug my children, kiss my husband, and laugh with someone, it really is a good day.

Wishing you a Happy New Year.

And good days.

One Foot in Front of the Other...

It dawned on me last night that I'm not sure I know how to do this. How to raise our children in this kind of a world, in the way we want to raise them, to be the people we hope they will ultimately become.

I'm not sure I know exactly how I--how any of us-- are supposed to keep living peacefully, happily, and positively in a world where things like this happen.

Where people do this kind of  thing.

Already, so many people seem to have the answers. If we would ban guns, this wouldn't happen. If we let everyone carry them, this wouldn't happen.

If we installed metal detectors.

Put security guards in all of our schools.

If we got rid of video games.

Of our TVs.

Of our computers.

If we had free mental health care.

If we were tougher on crime.

Maybe some of those things would have made a difference. And maybe they wouldn't have.

At this point, we don't know enough about the specifics to really say, though that hasn't stopped so many from jumping onto their soapboxes, declaring that if only this had been different, such devastation couldn't possibly have happened.

Call me a cynic, but I tend to believe that if a person is intent on committing evil, they will find a way to do it. And yet, I hope with all my heart that we find that something could have been done differently. Maybe then, somehow, we will avoid similar devastation in the future.

I don't pretend to know what needs to happen on a larger scale to stop this kind of thing. We seem to look at that larger scale a lot, though. If only we could change the laws. If only we could enforce the laws. If only we could march on Washington, to show that this time, we really are serious, and we are no longer going to accept a society that glamorizes, glorifies, and unfortunately often exemplifies violence.

If only we could look at the smaller scale a little bit more.

If only we could focus more on being the parents our children need us to be. The extended family members our families need us to be. The helpful friend. The concerned neighbor. The listening ear. The watchful eye.

The open heart.

If only we could be the voice that says "Something is wrong here, in this house, or in this family, or in this neigborhood. And we can't ignore it anymore".

If only we could look at what we want our children to know, and make sure we are teaching it. What we want them to be, and make sure we are helping them become it. What we want them to believe, and make sure we are an example of it.

I don't pretend to know what led up to this latest incident. But I tend to believe--I have to believe--that if each of us truly decided to surround the people in our lives--all of them-- with not only love and acceptance, but also with responsibilty and accountability, something would have to change.

Wouldn't it?

Maybe the only way to make big changes is to start small. And when we don't know where to start, maybe we start by putting one foot in front of the other, realizing that there is something we can all do.

We can try.  And then we can try harder.

We can fight.  For our children. For their futures. And for the kind of world we want them to live in.

We can love. Our families. Other families. Strangers. Even when it hurts.

Especially when it hurts.

We can pray. For peace. For strength. For guidance on how to go on in a world as sad as this one.

We can live. For them. For us. For the future.

We can also, in the midst of something as devastatingly heartbreaking as this, choose to embrace all that is beautiful and good in this world. We can choose to surround ourselves not with TV and Internet images of horrific crimes and brutality, but with nature, and art, and music, and friendship.

And love.

Then we can hold our children.

And hope their world will be a better one than ours. And have faith that somehow, it will be.

As we hold them tighter still.

Thank you

I just wanted to thank you for trashing the house today.
For yelling, and being belligerent, and ignoring me completely.
And thank you for calling your brother stupid.

Thank you for throwing that roll of toilet paper down the stairs.
For being loud. So incredibly, beautifully loud.
And thank you for eating the candy in the Advent calendar for breakfast--all twelve pieces.

Thank you for talking back, and getting mud all over the kitchen floor, and leaving a trail of clothes, and toys, and superheros behind you wherever you go.

Thank you for rolling your eyes at me. And for never putting your clothes away. And for stomping your feet as you sulk away up to your room.

Thank you for screaming, and sobbing, and crying. Whenever and wherever you feel like.
At decibels I didn't know existed.

And thank you for your laughter, too.

It is all a reminder of all that I have. Of all that you are.

And of how quickly it can all be taken away.

Grieving. Embracing. Praying.

All at the very same time.

Forty Shades of Gray...

I'm not sure how this happened.

I'm pretty sure that I was just twenty (and dating losers). It seems like only yesterday that I was twenty-five and getting married (when you find one whose not a loser, you have to grab him). It wasn't long ago at all that I was twenty-eight and buying a house. And it seems about impossible that it's been almost eight years since I was thirty-two and having our first baby.

That's what did it. The babies. Oh sure, time flew before that, but not like it has since having kids. I mean, excuse me, my thirties, but where exactly did you go?

Are you still back there, somewhere, under the diapers? Or the wipes? Or the onesies with identical  poop stains on the back? Or did you disappear completely, under the mountains of laundry, and the sippy cups, and the shoes?

The shoes. If someone had told me ten years ago that my thirties would be all about shoes, I would have pictured myself as a character on Sex and the City. In actuality, my thirties were a cross between A Baby Story, What Not to Wear (you know your standards are low when you settle for anything that doesn't have spit up or poop stains), and Hoarders--the Toddler Years. And the reality is, I will never wear those Sex and the City shoes because, thanks to my three beautiful children, I now have flat feet that have somehow grown to a size ten. With callouses. And bunions.

OK, fine. I can't really blame the kids for the bunions. I read all about what causes them. I thought maybe they were due to pregnancy. Or tight shoes after pregnancy. Or too many nights pacing the floors with a crying baby.

But no. Apparently, I have bunions because I'm turning forty.

As it turns our, forty is giving me other things, too. Like wrinkles, and gray hair, and insomnia.

Thanks, Forty. Your generosity is more than I could have ever imagined.

I've heard people say that they've found themselves at forty. I guess there's some truth in that. As I approached forty, I found myself staring into the refrigerator, looking for my car keys. I found myself staring in the mirror, wondering how those ended up there, when they used to be up there. I found myself buying a lot more things in the drugstore with "repair" in the name.

And then today, I found myself thinking what a gift it is, this turning forty thing.

So things are sagging. And wrinkling, And turning gray.

I've earned it all.

Thirties, I don't know where you went. And I'd be lying if I said I won't miss you just a little. We were good together, you and I. But hopefully, I'm just a little bit smarter now. A little bit wiser. And a lot more aware of what really matters.

Family, Friendship, Joy, Love, Laughter.

I don't know what else you'll bring me, Forty. But I know that the greatest gift is being here to receive it.

So just bring it.

Tis the Season

I went shopping yesterday. At a toy store. I won't tell you which one, but it rhymes with Hit Me With a Bus.

I don't love toy stores, but you know, tis the season, and there was a sale. Allegedly. I guess it was a sale, but the ad I saw online said something about 50% off, and since I don't have  time to read the fine print--ever--I assumed that meant 50% off the toys. I didn't know it meant that, by the time I left, I would have lost 50% of my sanity.

I had a list. And limited time. I needed a truck. A bat cave. A tool set. A doll. An art set. And a pirate ship. How hard could this be? I envisioned walking in, looking at my list, finding said toys, putting them in the cart, paying, and leaving.

My visions, however, did not include all the other people. They never do. That's the problem with visions. The important parts are often left out. And the other people, in this case, were quite important. I mean, some of them made it abundantly clear, as they attempted to run me over with their overflowing carts of made in china crap that were, obviously, very important. One in particular made it clear that she was obviously even more important, as she stared at me from the opposite end of an over crowded aisle. Someone was going to have to move if we were both going to get our overflowing carts of made in china pieces of crap out of this aisle.

I don't mind saying that I am usually the mover. I will back up. I will go around. I don't care. I won't engage in Holiday shopping cart rage. I tend to think that's not what Christmas is all about. So as we eyed each other from opposite ends of the aisle, I knew that this could turn into a game of Shopping Cart Chicken, or I could back up into the main aisle, so she could get through. And as I looked at our ridiculously narrow aisle and smiled at my fellow shopper, I was getting ready to do just that.

Except that she didn't smile back.

In fact, she stared at me, as if I had somehow inconvenienced her. Just by being there. In the toy store that rhymes with Hit Me With a Bus. And then, from the opposite end of the aisle, she said "Excuse Me", which is generally a very polite term, except in those cases when you really mean "Excuse me, you will need to back up so I can get through the aisle. Because there's no way I am backing up so that you can get through the aisle".

I'm sure you can guess what I did next.

I backed up. Duh.

She gave me a half smile as she passed. Or maybe it was a half smirk. In either case, it looked much more smirky than smiley. But since she didn't actually speak, I'm thinking it must have been code for Thank You. So, I did what anyone does when someone says Thank you.

I smiled and sweetly said "Oh, you're welcome!"

And then I watched her run into the rather large stack of Barbies in the middle aisle.

Oops.

I found most of what I needed, but when I was looking at the art sets, which were allegedly 50% off, there seemed to be a minor issue with price tags. As in, there weren't any. Anywhere.

I found a clerk. His name was Clark. Really, his name tag said exactly that.

Clark.

Clerk.

Clark, however, was not a happy clerk. He sighed at me when I asked him if he had a circular with the sale prices in it. Then he slowly took a circular from the shopping cart in front of him, and appeared as if he was even going to open it. Except that he didn't. He just stared at it. Eventually, he turned the pages. Without looking at them. Then he asked me what art set I was looking for. I told him the one that was on 50% off. He said it was hard to know, because they had so many. Then he sighed again. He asked me what sale day I was talking about. Was it for Tuesdays sale, or Wednesdays sale?

Um, well, since today was Wednesday, I was kind of thinking Wednesdays sale.

But then I wondered if that was his way of asking me what day it was, and I started feeling kind of bad for Clark. I got the impression that Clark had been a clerk for a really long time, and he's got to be sick of dealing with important people and their overflowing shopping carts, and their stupid art sets.

In fact, I started thinking that I should just leave Clark alone.  Mainly because, as Clark the clerk stood there, with a circular in his hand that he was occasionally sort of, kind of looking at,  it wasn't clear if he was actually helping me, or taking a long over due break.

But as I thanked him for checking and started to walk away, he must have felt bad for me, too. He said we could go look at the art sets together. So we did. Eventually. First, Clark and I wandered around for several minutes, dodging overflowing shopping carts, and their important, hostile drivers. And as we did, I thought, no wonder Clark sighs so much.

Eventually, we found the art sets. Clark found me one that was 50% off, and I was on my way. Through more shopping carts. More important people. More sighing clerks.

And a pile of Barbies in the middle of the aisle.

I said Excuse Me, but they didn't move. So I ran them over.

Cause I'm important that way.

Holy Motherhood

N made her first confession today.

I wasn't sure about this, since I'm not so sure about confession in general. ( No one tell my priest.)

I wasn't big on confession when I first made mine in fourth grade. I still wasn't big on it before my confirmation in 10th grade. Sometime after that, I saw on the news that the priest who had heard my first confession had been a pedophile.

That one kind of put a damper on the whole confession thing for me.

In all honesty I'm pretty sure I was done with confession long before I heard about that priest. But it did serve to strengthen my convictions.

Of course, I have plenty to confess. I just prefer to confess it directly. And truth be told, I'm always asking God to forgive me for something. Just this morning, after I called the driver in front of me an incompetent idiot, I asked God to forgive me. And when I lost it with B yesterday, I asked God to forgive me, because surely he didn't send us these children so that I could act like an incompetent idiot when it came to parenting. There's more, but suffice it to say much of it involves someone being incompetent, or an idiot, or both.

And most often, it's me.

All this time., I've been pretty comfortable doing it my way. Even the Church agrees that I don't need to be in a confessional to ask for forgiveness. I can be in my car, or my kitchen, or hiding in my bathroom, and I'm forgiven just the same.

But then we had kids. And we decided to raise them Catholic. And kids now have to make their first penance before their First Communion.

Which would be now.

When I first mentioned the whole confession thing to N, she looked at me and asked me if she understood this correctly. She was going to talk to the priest...by herself..about her..sins?

Um, yup, that's about it.

Then she cried.

I can't say that I blamed her.

I hoped that as she learned more, she would relax a little. We took classes. And read. And talked. And I attempted to explain it all, though probably not very well, since after all, how could I explain why this was so necessary when I didn't really think it was, well...necessary?

I seriously considered not making her do it, but that would involve pulling her from religious ed which I definitely didn't want to do.

So, instead, I gave her ideas to talk about with the priest .

After all, she is only seven. She's never called anyone an incompetent idiot. She's probably never even thought about calling someone an incompetent idiot.

"Just tell Father that you hit your brothers sometimes", I told her.

She stared at me for a minute and said,  "I only hit them when you tell me I can hit them, because they hit me first".

Huh.

"I know", I told her, "And I stand by that. But it's probably not what Jesus would do."

She stares at me again. She's doing that a lot lately.

"So, what, am I going to confession for you?"

Well, at least one of us would be.

In the end, she told me she had it figured out and didn't seem interested in my suggestions.

Today was the day. I prepared myself for tears. Drama. Sobbing in front of the Church.

In reality, she took a few deep breaths before we went in, and we sat quietly while the priest prayed for those making their first penance. At one point, parents were invited to lay their hand on their child's head and pray over them. I should say that the Catholic Church in which I was raised did not have parents lay their hands on their children heads. We also didn't hold hands during the Our Father. We sat (or stood, or kneeled) completely still, looked straight ahead, shook hands at the sign of the peace, said hello to the priest as we hoped he didn't notice that he had never once seen us at confession, and left.

But, hey, I'm open to new ways. So, I raised my hand toward N's head. And she looked at me like I had lost my mind.

And then she ducked.

She did, however, go to confession. There was a long line, as she had made it clear that she was only going into the room that had a screen, and that room just happened to be the most popular.

So we waited.  A mom next to me tried to take her son's picture, and her husband looked at her as if she was an incompetent idiot, and said "This is not a Kodak moment."

"Other people are taking pictures, " she told him pointedly.

He shook his head, buried his face in his hands, and muttered something that caused her to stalk off with her camera.

I know the priest must hear some stuff in that confessional, but I have to say, I was finding it pretty interesting outside of the confessional.

The line was getting shorter. Some kids were coming out happy, clearly ecstatic to have it over with. Some came out laughing, since our priest is incredibly funny. A couple boys came out crying.

When N's turn came, I hugged her and thought I should say something profound.

So I smiled and said..."Have fun!"

Have fun?

Dear God, it's true, I am an incompetent idiot.

In the end, my girl went in, she confessed some quite possibly made up sin, she came out, and smiled, and shrugged.

Clearly, this was no big deal.

I don't know if this will serve her in the future. Maybe at some point she'll find some tremendous benefit from it that I so far haven't. Or maybe, thirty years from now, she'll tell her kids that she's not making them go to confession, like her incompetent idiot of a mother did.

But at the very least, she did something hard, and now she knows that she can do hard things. And she learned that to be forgiven, all you have to do is ask.

Most importantly, she learned that when your mother makes you do something hard, like talk to a priest about sins that you quite likely had to make up, she will stop on the way home and buy you a chocolate cupcake with chocolate icing, and let you eat in the car.

There are many ways to ask for forgiveness.

And the Mother of the Year Award Goes To....

Not me.

You may have seen me. Or, maybe you didn't see me.

Maybe you just heard me.

Or, if you didn't hear me, maybe you just heard the children.

It started innocently enough. I was just trying to take the boys to have lunch with N at school. N likes it when we visit, and I figure its a good idea to take B there as often as possible since he'll be going there next year. This way, he'll hopefully have an easier adjustment, Also, I figure if they're used to seeing him around, maybe they'll be less likely to kick him out the first time he puts a frog in his teachers desk.

We had a little talk on the way there. About appropriate behavior. About the importance of listening. About how the previous night's behavior at Panera, for example, would not, under any circumstances, be repeated. There would be no running. No screaming. No ignoring one's mother. And if there was running, or screaming, or ignoring one's mother, we would go home immediately.

We all agreed. In fact, they promised there would be no repeat of the previous night's behavior. It was all going well. Exceptionally well, in fact.

And then we got out of the car.

Immediately, there was running. And screaming. And ignoring one's mother.

In the parking lot.

Traitors.

When I finally caught them, I dragged them back to the car, put them in it, and informed them we were going home.

Mutiny ensued.

They're not used to this. Oh sure, they're used to me following through at home. But when we're out, my following through track record is a little less than stellar. We have groceries to get. Or dinner to pick up. Or a sibling's activity to attend. I realize when someone is behaving badly  that I should drop everything and get everyone back in the car and go home, but it's just not practical. Sometimes, we really, really need that six pack  gallon of milk that we came for.

But this time, there was no reason not to go home. N didn't know we were coming, and they were clearly testing me.

So we left. Well, at least we tried to leave. As soon as I put O in the car, he bolted into the front seat. I went around to buckle B's seat belt and then came back to get O. As I put O in his car seat, B unbuckled his seat belt and jumped into the front.

Repeat.

Several times.

At first, B was laughing. Then he was screaming. At me. His mother. Who eventually resorted to tying his coat around his body so that he couldn't reach his buckle. Then I drove off.

Only to find that he unbuckled his seat belt anyway.

I pulled over. I re-buckled.

I got back in the drivers seat.

He unbuckled.

I yelled. I threatened. I almost cried.

But I didn't.

I stopped. I buckled it again. I drove away.

He unbuckled it. We stopped again.

I told him, rather loudly, that I didn't care if he buckled it. In fact, he could leave it unbuckled if he wanted.

But the police would stop us and take him to jail.

Where they do not serve peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Or let you watch cartoons. And where they do not read you bed time stories before bed.

He stayed buckled after that.

I looked around to see if anyone had witnessed my episode of temporary insanity. I don't think they did, but just in case, I decided to stay in the car at pick up time today.

Wearing dark sunglasses. And a hat. With a book in front of my face.

I don't think I'm getting mother of the year for this one, but at least my four yr old is determined to stay out of jail.

That has to count for something, doesn't it?

Liars...

So, the world is full of liars.

First, before you get married, they tell you that you should definitely get married. It is so great to be married, and to come home every single  day to the person you have sworn to be with for the rest of your life.

Oh sure, this isn't really a lie. There are parts of marriage that are great, but what these people are really saying is "Pay attention. Read between the lines! I just told you that you will be coming home to the same person, every single day, for the rest of your life. Quick! Run!"

I'm convinced of it.

Then, before you have kids, they tell you that you should definitely have one...or two...or five.. because kids are so much fun.

Again, there's no obvious lie in that statement. Kids are so much fun. But there is a big ol lie of omission here. BIG. As in, Kids are so much fun but....

They are so much work.
Really. You have no idea.
You will be really, really tired.
No, I mean it.
You can't even imagine how tired.
No, believe me. It's true.
You will, at some point, quite possibly be really really broke, especially if you become a one income household after you have kids.
Your social life, while not over, is forever changed. OK, maybe not forever. Just for the next thirteen years or so (unless you are lucky enough to live in one of those states that has no minimum age for when you can leave your kids alone. Oh, I'm kidding).
Those cute babies will turn into toddlers, who have an ability to trash your house unlike anything you have ever seen. Your house won't be clean again until...well, I haven't reached this part yet, so I have no idea when it will be clean again
Those sweet babies for whom you stayed up all night, went broke, gave up your social life, and allowed your home to be turned into a toy store (minus the people whose job it is to put the toys back on the shelves), those sweet babies will get bigger, and mouthier, and at times, meaner. Yes, I said meaner.

Sometimes even toward you.

Yup, its all true.

And I can't even speak to the teenage years yet.

Not that any of these things is a reason NOT to get married and have a baby, of course. I mean, look at me. Even knowing most of the above, I've stayed married and had two more kids.

I guess I just believe in full disclosure, especially since no one really did me that honor. At least, not that I remember. Not before I got married. Not before I had kids. (Not that I would have done either of those things differently, I swear). And not before we got the goldfish.

N asked for goldfish for Christmas two yrs ago. I was quick to tell her that Santa did not bring goldfish. Mainly because I had a five year old,a  two year old, a five month old, a dog, a husband, husband's new business, a house, and a job. I was quite sure there was no room for goldfish in my life.

And this Santa was quite comfortable with the fact that there would be no goldfish for Christmas. The problem, however, was that the other Santa thought goldfish were a great idea. And after he talked to some people who had them, he thought they were an even better idea. He even assured me that I wouldn't have to do a thing, because the goldfish people assured him that N could take care of them all by herself.

The goldfish people told us goldfish were great. They were easy. They involved minimal care.
Jimmy believed the goldfish people because the goldfish people were experienced goldfish owners. They were our friends. They were our neighbors. They could be trusted.

Me, I was onto them. I knew it as soon as they said "Goldfish are great, You should definitely get some. In fact, you could take ours".

Now why would someone want to get rid of such a great, easy pet that required minimal care?

I'll tell you why.

Because the goldfish people were liars.

The truth is that goldfish are easy. Compared to a dog. You don't have to walk them, or paper train them, and they don't shed in your house.

But easy is kind of a relative term.

The truth about goldfish is that, well, they die. Eventually. But not nearly as soon as you might hope think. It can apparently be quite traumatic for goldfish to adjust to a new tank, and it can be a little tricky to get the water just right, and you might even think the goldfish aren't going to survive the first few days of their new life. In fact, when they do certain things--like swim upside down, or lay on their side for long periods of time, or lay on the bottom of the tank--you may even become convinced that you are going to have to run out to find a twenty four hour fish store to buy replacement fish at two in the morning so that your five year old doesn't discover her brand new Christmas presents DEAD in the morning.

You become quite familiar with the signs of impending goldfish death, as you are often up with your infant in the middle of the night, and there is little else to do but be on goldfish death watch, as they swim upside down again--which you are pretty sure is not a good sign- and which causes you, in your hormonal and sleep deprived state, to wonder what they hell Santa was thinking, bringing such a depressing creature as a Christmas present for a five year old.

This goes on for weeks. They look better. They look worse. They start eating. They stop eating. They swim around normally. And then, they start swimming upside again, or sideways, or laying very still on the bottom of the tank for long periods of time.

But not long enough.

I mean, if you're going to die, could you just die already?!

Somehow, those original goldfish pulled through.There's no rational explanation. I don't know how one goldfish--let alone four--comes back from the brink of death. But they did. I'd like to think it was a Christmas miracle.

Over time, we learned some more about goldfish. Mainly, that "minimal care" is not the same as "no care". You still have to clean their tank, which involved emptying all of the water into buckets, and emptying all the buckets into the toilet, and filling more buckets, and refilling the tank. Also, it's generally frowned upon to flush the goldfish down the toilet with the old water. 

As this is all a little labor intensive for a five year old--way more labor intensive, in fact, than the goldfish people would have had us believe- it became a family endeavor. Remind me to tell you sometime how great family endeavors can be.

Eventually, we lost one fish, and then another several months later, but two of the original have remained, along with two additions.

Lately, one of the originals has been looking a little...sleepy. She'd lay around for a while, and wouldn't eat, and I'd think the end was near. And then she'd come back around, swimming normally, and eating, and I'd think maybe she was fine. Only to repeat the same pattern a few days later.

I found myself checking the tank several times a day, tapping the glass to see if she'd move. It was official, I was on goldfish death watch again. And though she wouldn't admit it, I noticed that N was, too.

It was like we were running our own little goldfish hospice.

Today, N came home from school and fed the fish. She couldn't find the black one. As I looked around the rocks in the tank for it, N paced. She cried. She made this little sound that should definitely be reserved only for actual people who have died, and not goldfish, and then she ran up to her room in tears.

I found the goldfish. In the corner. Almost dead. But not quite.

I broke it to N that the goldfish was quite likely going to be leaving us soon. She sobbed. And freaked out. And begged me to get rid of them.

As it turns out, my sensitive child finds goldfish too stressful. Every time she feeds them, she finds herself looking to see if one has died.

She also said she has nightmares about someone flushing them down the toilet.

Huh.

As it turns out, she and Jimmy managed to work out a deal that, for some reason I totally don't understand, they are both happy with.

He's giving her two dollars to take over ownership of the goldfish.

He's paying her to take care of the stupid ass fish that our dear friends, the Liars, convinced him to get her in the first place.

The fish will stay just where they are. Well, with the exception of the nearly dead one. She's getting a burial at sea. Assuming she ever actually dies.

In the midst of this evenings goldfish death watch, O grabbed my phone, pressed a few buttons, and dropped it on the floor. I picked it up to see that he had not only gotten online, but was "just one click away from a years subscription...

To Match.com"

Right, like I have time for that. I have kids to raise, and a house to not clean, and a husband not to say I told you so to.

Besides, I'm busy running a goldfish hospice.

On the other hand, maybe I could just fill out the part that asks what type of person I'm interested in.

Wanted: Experienced hospice worker to assist with goldfish euthanasia.

Unbelievable work environment.

Really.

December...

It's almost that time of year again. December. Time to shop. Time to go see Santa. Take Christmas card pictures. Order Christmas cards. Send Christmas cards. Decorate. Get a tree. Decorate tree. Bake cookies. Wrap presents. Plan parties. Shop for parties. Wrap for parties. Attend parties. Eat too much. Drink too much. Stress too much. Attempt to remember reason for the season. Anxiously await end of Holiday season. Take down decorations. Take down tree. Wonder where I'm going to put all this stuff. Wonder how to pay off credit card bill. Go on a diet.

Resolve to do it all differently next year.

Oh, but wait, there's more. Apparently, I also need to buy an elf. On a shelf. Because, you know, I don't have enough to do.

OK, so I don't have to buy an elf. But I keep hearing the hype, and the kids have mentioned wanting one, and it occurs to me that, in twenty years, they won't remember that I shopped for presents, decorated the house, sent Christmas cards, wrapped presents, or stressed too much.

They will remember that they didn't get an elf. On a shelf.

People, by the way, can get way into their elves. And by people, I mean moms. Apparently, these elves are known to be quite mischievous. Some moms have told me that, sometimes, their kids wake in the morning to see that their elves have baked cookies. As in, the kitchen is covered in flour and sugar. Other moms have told me that their elves have been known to have pillow fights, and the kids wake to find feathers all over the floor. Some elves even get into the craft supplies and leave glitter all over the house.

Call me a Scrooge is you will, but if we do get an elf, his little elf ass better be staying on the shelf. I don't need any more mischief in my life. You want mischief? Try having to buy a new water dispenser because your sweet two year old put chicken into the old one when you had the bottle off to refill it. Then, two weeks later, try having to buy another new water dispenser because your no longer quite as sweet two year old poured milk into it. We now know how to make yogurt. Too bad we have no way of getting it out of there. Mischief is having your husband snake the toilet on an almost weekly basis because someone keeps putting something into it.

My point is, I have enough real live people trashing my house. I don't need the pretend ones to start doing it. And I'm certainly not going to help them.

Mischief is also waiting at a red light, happily singing songs with your two and four year olds, only to get smacked in the back of the head with a sippy cup. Mischief is listening to two boys come up with twenty five different words that rhyme with "stupid", so they can tell you that "I just said a word that sounded like "stupid", mom. I didn't really say "stupid". I know "stupid" isn't nice, mom, so I wouldn't say "stupid". I just said a word that rhymed with "stupid", but I didn't actually say "stupid". OK, mom?"

At least Elves don't talk.

The good things is, I have heard that sometimes these elves can help keep the kids in line, since they know he's watching them and he has a direct line to Santa. That's reason enough for me to get one.

But that Elf and I will be having a little chat. He needs to know his place in this family. Not in the kitchen. Not in the bedrooms, and definitely not in the bathroom.

On the shelf, Elf.

Our elf wont be baking cookies, or having pillow fights, or getting into the craft supplies.

But if he wants to be helpful, we can work something out.

He can start by pouring me an eggnog.

Growing Up...

N grew six inches last night.

I swear.

OK, so I shouldn't swear, since maybe it wasn't exactly six inches. But really, she grew overnight.

A lot.

She also lost a second tooth this week. And she cleaned her room. All by herself. Without being told. It may have something to do with the fact that she heard that girls who don't clean their rooms won't get their ears pierced until they're twelve.

And, oh by the way, her room's already trashed again.

But at least she cleaned it.

The lost teeth make me a little sad. But hey, she's cleaning her room. Maybe I can deal with this growing up thing after all.

At least, that's what I thought, until she refused to dance with me in the kitchen last night.

She has always danced with me in the kitchen. First, we danced to the little refrigerator toy that played The Farmer in the Dell when you pushed the buttons. Then to my silly made up songs. Then to her silly made up songs. Then to the radio.

Then....no dancing.

She just refused. Apparently, because she's too cool for me.

I just want to say, this is really, incredibly, unbelievably unfair.

Couldn't we just get to the point where she cleans her room, but gets to keep her baby teeth, and still dances with me?

She's not the only one betraying me, by the way. B no longer looks back at me longingly in the morning when I drop him off in his pre-school classroom. He just marches right in there, all excited to see his friends, which are now apparently more important than mommies.

On the other hand, he is finally putting his own shoes on. Thank you God, for that one, because I was starting to think that I was going to be putting on his men's size twelve shoes for him when he was a senior in high school, and I was getting a little concerned.

B's also decided that he's turning over a new leaf. He informed me the other day that he wasn't going to hit N or O anymore. Instead, he was going to ask for a punching bag for Christmas.

So considerate, that boy.

Don't even get me started on O. He won't even let me help him into the car anymore. He wants to do it all by himself. Repeatedly, in fact.

Which, by the way, is enough to make a mommy lose her mind.

On the other hand, at least he still thinks I'm cool enough to dance with.

I was thinking about how they don't need me quite as much as we were getting ready for bed last night. Two of them can brush their teeth without me, at least to some extent. They can put on their own pajamas when the mood strikes them. Sometime, it's N who reads the bedtime story.

And because of this, we had a few extra minutes, where we sat down and watched TV. And as we did, B and O actually sat quietly for a few minutes, and N moved over from her end of the couch, and put her head on my lap.

On my lap.

Because even though she's too cool to dance with me, and she's losing her teeth, and she cleans her own room because she can't wait to get her ears pierced, I'm still her mommy.

And that's what our laps are for.

Just Another Day In Paradise...

I think I have ADHD. In fact, I'm convinced of it. If it had been in vogue when I was in grade school, I would have gotten a formal diagnosis and a prescription for-well, whatever they were prescribing for ADHD back then, which probably wasn't much, come to think of it. But at least I would have gotten the diagnosis, so when, in tenth grade when I forgot to do my homework for approximately two months, I could have just said "Sorry, I have ADHD" and maybe I wouldn't have had to repeat chemistry. I thought of that chemistry class recently, as I came across a twenty-something year old sweatshirt with stains on it from whatever chemicals were involved in that bunson burner incident.

I don't have the hyperactive type of ADHD, though. I have the sluggish variety. It causes me to wander around my laundry room in the morning, picking up random socks and wondering why no one has matched them. AGAIN. Great, so now I have to do it. Or, at least I have to find another sock that kind of, vaguely, sort of resembles this one, as I do a mental check of which of my children might have to remove their shoes today for gym, or for dance class, or for some weird foot painting thing in preschool (they got me with that one once--they won't get me with it again).

 I manage to find six socks. They are clean. I think some of them match--at least they did when I carried them upstairs. I can't guarantee they matched once they were actually on someone's feet. Eventually, after waffles (frozen), and milk (organic), and teeth brushing (by them) and hair brushing (by me) we all somehow get in the car. N was going to take the bus, which stops in front of our house, but somehow, with all the sock searching, I couldn't get her there on time. To the bus stop. In front of our house. So since I have to drive B to pre-school anyway, I decide to drive her, too.

N makes it to school on time. She is, however, obsessing over the fact that she couldn't find her math homework in her binder last night. She looked. J looked. I looked. She cried. J shook his head. I blamed myself, because if I wasn't working last night, I could have been home all evening and would have had hours to spend searching for the math homework that somehow got lost somewhere between school and home, though the binder was never opened until it was on the dining room table last night. Instead, because I was working, I came home to my daughter in a full blown frenzy, and I wavered between allowing her to obsess, since after all, second graders need to learn to keep track of their own homework, and calling the principal at home to open the school so we could go look for her homework in her desk (oh I'm kidding. Like she'd give me her phone number). Eventually, I settled for emailing her teacher at ten o'clock last night to let her know that N couldn't locate her homework, so that at least N wouldn't hide under desk today, rather than tell her herself.

I dropped B off at pre-school, came home and paid bills, chased O, did dishes, put O in time out for saying the word "stupid", finally had coffee, chased O,  had more coffee, put O in time out for saying the word "stupid", and realized it was time to go get B. I was running late. As we got in the car, O decided to flip himself over into the very back of our way too big SUV, behind where he actually sits, and I am now chasing him around the interior of the car before I can even attempt to strap him in, which has become a game in itself. I'm now even later. As we walk into the preschool, I realize that I never changed out of the clothes I hastily threw on after my shower this morning. The gray shirt. The camel colored cords. The blue tennis shoes. Really? What is wrong with me? I remind myself that I have ADHD. I wonder if my socks even match. Then I wonder if I even have socks on.

 We're only five minutes late, but B is the last one in the classroom. He is standing there, wearing his Elmo costume for their belated Halloween celebration, and he gives me a look that in four year old body language clearly says "You suck. And your clothes don't match".

His teacher smiles and says good-bye, and then adds "Please make sure you practice the alphabet with B" and suddenly, I feel like I am back in preschool and have just been told to go stand in the corner. I have never heard her tell anyone else to make sure they practice the alphabet. No one ever told me to make sure to practice the alphabet with N when she was his age. In fact, they said things like "Wow, you must really work with her. You must read to her a lot. You must spend a lot of time with her". And I smugly thought, Well of course I work with her. And read to her, and spend time with her. Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?

Only now, as I am walking out of the classroom after B's teacher told me to make sure I practice the alphabet with him, I think that I don't read to him nearly enough. And when I try, he really doesn't have the attention span for it. And then I think that I'm too busy breaking up fights, and teaching people not to say stupid, and finding socks that match, to read to them as much as I'd like, plus to tell you the truth, by bed time, I am just really, really tired and can only get through one book. And by the way, I have ADHD, and I was the last mom here to pick up my child, and my clothes don't match, and I suck.

And then I think, Oh, we should probably take O home with us, too. So I ask B to go back to his classroom and get him.

I am obsessing over all of this on the way home--this is why N is so good at it--when it dawns on me. What are they even talking about? "B?" I ask. "Why does your teacher think you don't know the alphabet?" Because he does know his alphabet. I've heard him. And he knows most of the letters by sight and sound. I've heard him do that, too.

But I've also heard him refuse to acknowledge that he knows a single one. Because he's just sweet that way.

He doesn't answer me, and when we get home and I ask him to show me the letters in his name, he pretends he doesn't know them. Until I tell him I'm getting rid of all the Halloween candy, and he suddenly knows every one of those letters. (What he doesn't know is that I've already gotten rid of most of the Halloween candy. Namely, by eating it. I think I'm self medicating for my ADHD).

I think of sending B's teacher an email, telling her that while I do have ADHD, and I was late today for pick up, and my clothes didn't match, and I did almost leave my two year old there, I don't suck as much as she might think I do, because B really does know his alphabet.

But I decide against it.

I do get an email response from N's teacher, letting me know that her homework was in her binder the whole time, but it looked different than it usually does, so it was easy to miss and it was totally fine and not a big deal at all.

Which I'm pretty sure is code for "I heard your clothes didn't match today, and you probably didn't even have socks on, and you were late to pick up your four year old (who you don't read to nearly enough), and you almost left your two year old at his brothers preschool, but you don't really suck. You probably just have ADHD. Now go treat yourself to some more Halloween candy."

Wow.

How sweet is she?

Election Day...

As we were finally getting ready to leave the house this morning, I told B that I had to go vote. I explained that grown ups get to vote for who the next President will be, and that the person who gets the most votes wins.

"Really?" He asked. He was obviously fascinated by our electoral process. "And then do they get a trophy?"

"No trophy", I tell him as I search for his other shoe. "But they get to live in the White House".

"Wow! That is so cool!" With both shoes finally on, he runs off to share this exciting news. "O! Did you know where the President gets to live? He gets to live in the LIGHT HOUSE!"

I decide that I will clarify this bit of mis-information at some other time, and we go run a few errands and eventually make it to the Senior Center so I can vote. There are only ten or fifteen people in front of us. I think we'll be through this line in no time, which is particularly good since we're now an hour past nap time. As we wait in line, I give them the lollipops that the nice lady at the bank gave us, thinking this will keep them occupied for a few minutes.

Six minutes, to be exact. At which point we've hardly moved in this line.

Eventually, we move into the voting room, which is the Senior Center's gym. B and O are in the stroller, but getting restless. They are hitting each other in the head with their lollipop sticks, and starting to get louder. N is standing next to me, rolling her eyes.

For some reason, this line is moving much more slowly now. We stand in one place forever. B and O are laughing, and screaming, and kicking. I realize that giving them the lollipops before we came in probably wasn't the best idea I've ever had. I whisper for them to be quiet. I threaten to take their legos away. When that doesn't work, I tell them that if they can be quiet until we leave, I will take them for ice cream.

"Ice cream!" B yells, "But Mom, why would you get us ice cream today?"

I'm not sure why he's suddenly questioning my motives, but I decide to answer his question in hopes that he will stop talking.

"Because, I'm bribing you". I whisper.

"You're what?" he asks. "You're whating me?"

"I'm bribing you, B. It's called bribery". I am still trying to whisper, but then he asks me again, and I raise my voice a little to be heard over O's screaming.

"It's BRIBERY".

Only, O has stopped screaming. And I have just loudly said the word "Bribery" in the voting room. I'm waiting for an election official to come over, but instead, they just stare at us, along with most of the people in line.

I notice two little boys a few people in front of us. They are only slightly older than B and O. One of them is wearing a Spiderman mask, and I realize what a great idea that is. I'm wishing I wore mine, too.

Their mother is staring at B and O, who are much louder and more rambunctious than her sons. I know she is smugly thinking that she is happy that hers are so much better behaved. I'm thinking I should tell her that something is clearly wrong with them, and maybe she needs to have them checked for low testosterone.

B and O are now getting louder again, and B starts yelling "Adopt me! Adopt me! Adopt me!" over and over and over again. O soon joins in. I have no idea where they heard this, but I'm thinking it might not be a bad idea. They are cracking themselves up. "Hey O! Adopt me!" B yells. O laughs and responds "No, you adopt me!"

I have to admit, its just a little bit funny. But no one else is laughing.

We are finally getting to the front of the check in line. It's finally our turn. Only when I start to push the stroller to the table, the man holds up his hand and tells me to wait. Apparently they're not ready to check anyone else in yet.

An elderly lady with a cane walks in front of us, up to the check in table, and says "I can't wait". And they help her. Because she's elderly, and she has a cane. And she can't wait.

Makes sense to me.

Except, well,  what about me? Do I look like I can wait? So she has a cane. I have a stroller. She is old. I feel old. She needs to sit down. I need a bottle of tequila.

It seems to me we both have valid reasons to get the hell out of this line, no?

A lady at the check in table reads my mind and waves me over.

B and O are screaming again. She smiles stiffly.

 "Is this the line for the day care drop off?" I ask
.
She smiles, and tries not to laugh--I think election volunteers are supposed to maintain their full composure at all times--but she laughs anyway. Thank God someone has a sense of humor in this place.

We go wait in another line. B and O have stopped laughing, and are now looking around. They are quiet for a minute, and I think maybe the worst is over, when B yells "Hey O! Want to pick the next President? Who should we pick?"

I pray they haven't overheard me talking at home, and aren't about to announce to this whole room who I am voting for.

 It turns out that I didn't need to worry about that. Instead, B looks around and points to a young guy nearby and loudly says "How about him, O? The guy in the blue sweatshirt? You want him to be our President?"

The guy in the blue sweatshirt doesn't laugh. Sure, like I'm ever gonna vote for him. Clearly, he has no sense of humor.

We wait in line some more, and B and O get louder and louder. I have given up trying to stop them. Nothing is working. I notice a sign on the wall that the seniors must use when they do aerobics. It's a chart to tell you how hard you're working. At the bottom, in red, in bold letters, says "Maximum Exertion".

And I think Yes, exactly. That's exactly how hard I am working at this very moment, to maintain my sanity.

B drops his legos and they go flying. He starts to cry. I look around to see where they went. They are under people's feet. People step over them. They step around them. No one, however, makes an attempt to actually pick one up.

I gather the legos, give them to B, and pray that someone finishes in the voting booth so that it can be our turn.

B and O start laughing again. Loudly.

I can feel peoples stares on my back. I wish again that I had that Spiderman mask and then I decide that I don't care. I turn around and attempt to make eye contact with every single one of them.

And I smile.

As I think "Bite me".

Cause it's a free country.

And I get a vote.

Thoughts of a Bra Wearing Feminist

I am tucking N in, and reminding her in the midst of her Sunday night blues that she only has four days of school this week, as she has Tuesday off for Election Day.

"Mom," she asks me, "Why hasn't there ever been a woman President?"

I try to think before I answer--not a frequent occurrence for me. Mainly because, in the day to day chaos that is my life, I am either able to think, or I am able to speak. Not both. Certainly not both at the same time. But I realize that this one requires a thoughtful answer, so I try to step outside of my comfort zone.

Well, um, because, well, there just hasn't been.

I have friends who would be really, really good at answering this question. They would rattle off details on history, and government, and the women's movement, and by the time they were done, N would not only have her question answered, but would think how incredibly dumb it is that men get to be president at all.

Not that I want her to think that, of course.

And therein lies the problem. I've really never been all that women's libby. Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful that I get to vote, and that I could run for president if I wanted to--and I would to, if I wasn't so tied up with all this laundry...and dishes...and diapers...and well, frankly, if I wasn't so busy being barefoot in my kitchen, though you will be happy to know, not pregnant and barefoot in my kitchen. Besides, I'm thinking the President is really pretty busy, and when would I have time to blog?

 I am really, truly, grateful for all the women who fought to make sure that women like me would have the same rights as men. But the thing is, by the time I came of age, it had all happened already. Of course I could go to college. Of course the fact that I'm a woman wouldn't (legally) prevent me from being hired to do the same types of jobs as men. Of course I could get a mortgage, or a car loan, or a credit card, all by money-earning self. That is, assuming that I was actually earning enough money to do any of those things, instead of spending my time barefoot in the kitchen.

And truth be told, though I would have loved to hang out with some of those bra burning chics, if bras were being burned today, I'd probably be keeping mine on. And no, it's not just because those babies are no longer in the same hemisphere as they were before I had children.

I just don't think I'm a bra burner. And I don't happen to think that some of today's feminists are fighting for the same things that the bra burners were fighting for. I don't think, for example, that women who want to be perceived as strong, and independent, and capable, do themselves--or the rest of us-- any favors when they say things like "I think the government should pay for my birth control".

Especially when there are women in places like Afghanistan who can't go to school, or speak their minds, or show their faces.

But of course, I'm not going to say any of that that to my seven-year-old.

So instead, when I eventually answer her question, I tell her that a long time ago, women weren't even allowed to vote. Because women's jobs used to be to take care of their homes, and their families, and their kids.  I struggle with how exactly to say this, because that's still the primary job of many women--myself included--and I don't want to diminish its tremendous importance.

And yet, I don't want her to think that that's all she can do.

And I also don't want her to think there's anything wrong with deciding at some point that that's all she wants to do.

Providing she gets her PhD first.

So I tell her some more about how men were the ones who had the education, and the jobs, and the power, and that women had to stand up for themselves and say that they deserved to vote, too. And that now they could vote and be President.

And she said "I think I'll do that. I think I'll be the first woman President".

I told her I would vote for her, and asked her what she would tell people that she would do as President.

"Well, I think I'll pee standing up." she said, as she collapsed into giggles. "Even though boys are better at that."

I acknowledged that it was a little easier for them. In fact, just today, I took B around the side of a building, while N had to wait twenty minutes until we found an inside bathroom. But then I told her that we could also work on her outside peeing skills.

After all, it might be a useful skill when she's on the campaign trail. Or, at keg parties.

She was quiet for a minute, and then she said, "You know, if girls could pee in the grass as easily as boys can, everyone would know that we can do whatever they can do".

I think she just might be onto something.

Dare Not to Care...

So I'm not a perfectionist. Far from it. In fact, I think I'm generally pretty OK with all of our imperfections.

But occasionally, I get a little...well, stuck on something.

Like the fact that my house always such a mess. I try. I even manage to clean it sometimes. And then, within a day, or an hour, or five freakin minutes, it's a mess again.

So I give up for a while.

Like the fact that I can never manage to get laundry put away. I wash it. I dry it. I fold it. I put it in baskets, and occasionally I even take up it to the correct person's room.

And there it sits.

Like the fact that I am always looking for something. Usually it's something I know I put in a safe place.

If only I could remember where that place was.

Like the fact that I have a grand total of ONE picture in which all three kids are looking at the camera, smiling, and not making goofy faces or waving a corn dog in front of the camera. It was taken in 2011.

 I took approximately 500 pictures that year, which means that in 1 of 500 pictures, my kids look normal.

Come to think of it, that's about how often they actually are normal, so maybe I shouldn't complain.

 I wish these things didn't drive me crazy. I wish I could be one of those people who could either keep it all together, or stop caring that it's not all together. Because the reality is, some people are just better at keeping it all mostly together than I am.

And the other reality is that some people are better at not caring because they drink a bottle of wine and pop three xanax for lunch every day.

But I'm realizing what an absolute waste it is...this time spent caring about all of that. And really, worrying about things you can't change never got anyone anywhere. And, as far as I can see, the fact that my house gets trashed five minutes after I clean it is not going to change anytime soon. Neither are the piles of laundry. Or the corn dogs in the pictures.

So I'm working on embracing it.

The messy house? It means kids live here. It means they have toys, and they know what it is to play. It means that they have books that they can or will be able to read. It means they can run around, strewing crap everywhere they go, because their little bodies work the way they're supposed to.

The piles of clothes? At least they're clean. I don't always have time to put them away because I'm busy with the kids who wear them. OK, fine, sometimes I don't put them away because I'm hiding in the bathroom for a brief reprieve.

I'm a much better mother for those bathroom moments.

Those intentionally goofy grins and poses that seem to be in every picture? They encompass the amazing spirits of these children, who remind me every day that laughter and joy are more important than appearances.

And the corn dog is proof that I fed them that day.

People who have been where I am (though probably without the same magnitude of laundry problem) tell me that someday, my house will be orderly. My laundry put away. My family pictures perfect.

But that, in spite of all that, I will still be looking for something.

I will be looking for kids who don't always sit still and smile in pictures. For a house that has too much life in it to be clean all the time. For more important things to do than put laundry away.

I will be looking for all of this.

And I'm trying hard not to forget it.

Keeping Them Safe...

O has been running into the street lately. I thought he was past that, but it seems that every time we are outside and I turn my back, he heads for the street.

And every time he does, I grab him by the hand and march him inside.

Every.single.time.

Even if that means five times in one hour. Which it often does.

B doesn't always look both ways before he crosses the street, and when he doesn't, I make him go back and start over.

Even in parking lots.

Even though he's holding my hand.

Because as their mom, I will do whatever I can to keep them safe.

Because above all else, that's my job.

Because that's what we're supposed to do.

Because, if we can't do that, then it doesn't matter how much we read to them, or talk in a nice mommy voice to them, or teach them to play well with others, or serve them organic milk and broccoli with free range chicken for dinner.

If we can't keep them safe, the rest of it doesn't matter much at all.

And yet, sometimes, I'm reminded of how much of this is out of our control.

When I watch the news, I'm reminded of that.

When I read the newspaper, I'm reminded of that.

And sometimes, just going through my day, I'm reminded of that.

N and I went to the grocery store the other day. We came out, she got in the car, and I loaded the groceries in the back. I debated pushing the shopping cart into the mulch in front of our parking space as I often do when the kids are with me, but felt somewhat guilty since the cart house was only four or five parking spaces away, so I decided to return it.

As I walked away from my car with the cart, I yelled to N "Be right back!", and as I did I saw a middle aged, gray haired man walking toward the store from the far end of the parking lot. It occurred to me that, by yelling to N, I had just advertised that I had left someone in the car, but since I was only walking a few parking spaces, I wasn't too worried about it.

Until I turned around to walk back to my car, and realized that the man wasn't anywhere to be seen.

That is, until he came around from the passenger side of my car and started walking toward the store again.

Which led to my first thought, which was

What the hell was he doing around the side of my car? Where my daughter is sitting inside?

And then my second thought, which was

Why is he staring at the ground, refusing to look up and make eye contact with me?

This may or may not sound like a big deal to you. But let me tell you, while I was having these thoughts, something else was happening.

My radar was going off. Big time.

I didn't know what was going on, but I knew that something was wrong with this picture.

He still wouldn't look at me, and continued walking toward the store as he stared at the ground, and it became increasingly clear to me that something was up.

So since he wouldn't look at me, I looked at him. As I moved over so that he was walking directly toward me. And I kept looking at him, as he continued to stare at the ground, and I became even more convinced that something weird was going on.

Eventually, when I had been staring at him, willing him to look at me, and walking directly into his path for ten seconds or so, he looked up.

I'm not sure what he thought of the look I was giving him, but from the rather flustered look on his face, I think he may have interpreted it to mean something along the lines of,

If you even think about hurting my child, I will kill you with my bare hands, right in this very parking lot.

His face turned red. He stammered and said something I couldn't understand, and looked nervously at the ground.

"What did you say?" I asked him.

He repeated himself, asking me for two dollars for bus money since he "blew up his car".

I stared at him some more, this time with a look that I think he may have interpreted to mean something like,

 And then I will run you over. Repeatedly.

His face seemed to get redder, as I stared at him a few seconds longer, before I finally said "No, I don't have any money".

I'm not sure, but I think he may have interpreted something in my tone of voice to mean,

I don't care if you're bigger than me and a man and I never even learned how to make a proper fist. I will hurt you. Seriously. You should probably go back to wherever you came from. Now.

And interestingly, instead of continuing on in the direction he had been walking, he turned around and walked away.

He didn't continue walking toward the store.

He didn't ask any of the several other shoppers around if they had bus money.

He just left.

In other words, he came from the opposite end of the parking lot, approached a car that he either believed to be empty or believed to have a child in it, was clearly surprised to see me, looked very nervous, asked me for two dollars, and then turned around and went back to where he came from without speaking to anyone else.

And no, in case you think I'm having delusions of grandeur, I don't really think I could have hurt him. But I do know that that wouldn't have stopped me from trying. And I know, it's a terrible thing to say that I would run someone over in a parking lot. But just so we're on the same page about that, I'm pretty sure that knowing that it's a terrible thing wouldn't stop me from doing that, either.

If I thought he was going to hurt my child.

A friend on facebook mentioned wanting a gun when she read this story, and I told her that I had that same thought. Except I don't think I would ever carry a gun, because I was so bat shit crazy at the mere thought that this guy might have had ill intentions toward my child, that I'm fairly certain that if I'd had a gun that day, I would have, at a minimum, waved it in his face.

And now I'd be in jail. And that would suck. So, no gun for me.

At least, I don't think so.

But maybe if I switched to decaf, I could get a gun.

Anyway, when I got in the car, N asked me what that guy was doing, and when I asked her what she saw, she said he was standing on the passenger side of our car, staring into it.

I don't know what he was doing. I don't know if his car really did break down. I don't know if he was just confused, or embarrassed, or not well in some way. I don't know if he really just needed bus fare. I don't know if he was looking for spare change, or a purse, or someone's child.

And, in all honesty, once I was in my car and we were driving away, I started wondering if I had misjudged the situation in some way. I even looked to see if I had two dollars in my purse. Because if he really did need two dollars for bus fare, I would want to give it to him.

But then my radar started talking to me.

It said Hello, dumb ass. I already told you something was not right about this. You know this situation just FELT wrong. And, oh by the way, he was STARING INTO YOUR CAR WHERE YOUR SEVEN YEAR OLD DAUGHTER WAS SITTING.

Duh.

So then I called the police, and told them about the weird guy in the parking lot, who may or may not have really been looking for bus fare, but who was acting not quite right.

And I was reminded once again that safety isn't just about seat belts, and looking both ways, and not running into the road.

Of course, I will continue to make them buckle up, and look both ways, and not run into the road.

But I will also remember to listen to my radar.

And I will remember this experience in a year, or two, or three, when N begs me to let her wait in the car while I run into the store.

I will remember to once again tell my daughter--and eventually, my sons--that not everyone is nice, or kind, or has her best interest at heart.

To tell her that it's OK not to be nice. That it's OK to walk away, or to ignore someone when they're talking to you, or to turn around and scream at them in your craziest crazy lady voice that they better Get the hell away from you right f'in now.

If the situation seems to warrant it, of course.

I will remember to tell her that it's OK to refuse to hug the overly familiar neighbor, or family friend, or even uncle, if it makes her uncomfortable.

I wish, of course, that I didn't have to tell them any of these things. 

But sometimes, unfortunately, the best chance we have of keeping them safe in this world is to make sure they know just how unsafe it can be.

Tonight we are getting ready for Hurricane Sandy. She's expected to arrive tomorrow, and hang around for a day or two, bringing high winds and heavy rain, and high tides. Jimmy got the generator ready, and gassed up our cars, and put the lawn furniture away. I made sure we had lanterns, and flashlights, and batteries.

And other important storm related items, like Little Debbie oatmeal pies, and Doritos, and beer.

And the five of us (OK, six, counting Bella), will likely hunker down in our basement for a day or two, with some lights from a generator, and some new coloring books, and some pork rinds  apples. And though I will hide it from the kids, I will be a little nervous about high winds, and big trees, and flooding.

And I will pray a lot.

But in spite of that, I will also be grateful for the fact that all of us will be here, together, in one room.

Driving each other crazy.

While all of that stays out there.

Where it belongs.

Day of....Rest?

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed yesterday morning. It may have had something to do with the fact that the bed I woke up in wasn't mine. In fact, it took me a minute to realize whose bed it was.

(And let me tell you, that hasn't happened to me in a very long time).

Oh, I'm kidding. That hasn't ever happened to me.

But anyway, as I woke up and looked around, and realized that I was surrounded by toys, and books, and clothes, I thought that, well, that it looked just like it does when I'm in my own bed. Except that I was lower to the ground.

I looked over and saw feet sticking out of the covers next to me. Boy feet. But small. Relatively speaking. And then I remembered that I was in B's bed with O, and that, once again, I had sent B to my bed when O woke up in the middle of the night.

And then I thought how this whole middle of the night bed swapping thing was getting very, very old.

I started thinking about how much it would cost to build an addition so that everyone can have their own room. I started thinking about moving to a bigger house. Or a smaller house.

By myself.

But then I wouldn't get to wake up with cute boy feet sticking in my face, so I quickly put that thought out of my head.

I realized that it was Sunday, and that Jimmy had already left to go crabbing to work, and that N had CCD, and that I had to bring everyone to Church with us, which tended to never go so well.

So then I rolled over and went back to sleep.

And when I woke up, unfortunately all of that was still true. Except now I only had twenty minutes to get us all there.

I improvised. N went to CCD, and the rest of us said a prayer in the parking lot and went to the grocery store.

I'm sorry, God, but I have to think you understand. The play room wasn't open, and chasing two crazy boys who are terrorizing our fellow parishioners just so I can say I went to Mass just didn't seem like the best idea this morning. Please, forgive me.

OK, fine. It also just so happened that one of those boys had somehow left the house without his shoes, and I really didn't want to hear them announce that the second collection was for the lady with the poorly behaved barefoot children, so that she can buy them shoes and/or a muzzle.

Once I picked up N and finally had my first cup of coffee, things started looking up. Until we got home, and the fighting began. I attempted to clean a little. They fought. I attempted to do dishes. They fought. I attempted to do laundry. They fought.

I thought about how I had the only children who fought this much, who screamed this much, and who throw things at one another's heads.

I attempted to lock them all in their rooms and add Kahlua to my coffee, but realized that then I wouldn't be able to drive anywhere, and we would all be stuck at home. Together. For the whole day.

So I let them out.

And then, even though I thought it had to be nap time by now, we went to the pumpkin patch.

Because, when all else fails, just go somewhere.

We went on a hayride. We took pictures. And looked at the animals. And picked out a pumpkin.

And no one was fighting. In fact, they were laughing, and smiling, and, well...pleasant.

I thought how lucky I was to have such pleasant children who never fight, or scream, or throw things at one another's heads.

And who were all wearing their shoes.

On the way home, B sounded very serious as he said "Mom, I'm sorry that O is so difficult some times".

N said "Oh yeah, O is really difficult, B".

At this point, O realized that his name was being used in vain. "I'm difficult, Mom?"

No, sweet boy, you aren't difficult. Not at all.

But sometimes life is difficult. Just a little.

Fortunately, we have church parking lots to pray in, and Starbucks, and pumpkin patches, and husbands who bring us home steamed crabs after they were crabbing working all day.

Fortunately, we also have nap time.

Sometimes, for everyone.

Why I Hate Election Years

Let me start by saying, I love election years. I love that we have election years. I love that I live in a country where I can vote, and you can vote, and in the end, we have more or less selected the people who will, at the most, lead the country the way we want them to, and at the least, well... lead the country.

Hopefully.

Now that I've said that, let me say this:

I hate election years.

 It all just gets so....icky.

Pre-election year, I had friends. In most cases, I didn't know if they were Democrats, Republicans, Independents, Green Party, or something else. And if I did know, it wasn't something we talked about much. It wasn't something that divided us, or separated us, or caused us to think horrible thoughts about one another. It didn't matter. They were my friends first, and everything else second.

But now, thanks to Facebook, and Twitter, and email, I'm pretty clear where many of them stand politically, which is fine. But I'm also pretty clear on what a lot of them think about people like me. And I'm clear on what some of them think about people like you.

Because, somehow, that's what it's come down to. If you vote this way, you're one of those. And if you vote that way, well, you're one of those.

Did you know that someone shot at an Obama campaign office?

Did you know that there are now death threats all over twitter against Romney?

Really?

OK, fine, so those are extreme examples. But attacks are taking place every day. Most of them just don't happen to involve actual guns or death threats.

Most just involve incredible amounts of name calling, and head shaking, and finger pointing.

Somehow, electing our country's next President has come down not to what great things I think my guy can do for this country, but how horrible your guy is. It's not about the strengths of my candidate. It's about the weaknesses of yours. It's not about the hope I feel when I think of what good thing can happen if mine is in charge, it's the depression I feel when I think of yours.

Not to say that there isn't some validity in that line of thinking, of course. We're all entitled to our opinions, and I for one am grateful to live in a place where we can share them freely.

But it's no longer just about the candidates. It's also about the voters.

As this election draws near, it's not about what you or I want for this country. It's about how what I want is better than what you want. Because I'm one of them and you...well, you're one of those. More than once, I have seen posts or emails by otherwise compassionate, intelligent people calling anyone who would vote for the other guy names like "stupid", "naive", "clueless", "hateful", and "crazy".

Senders of emails I've received have clearly assumed, for whatever reason, that I am "one of them", as if it never occurred to them that, with all that we have in common, I could lean in a slightly different direction than they do politically.

I realize there's a lot at stake here. I realize that people love this country and want what they believe to be best for it, and have a hard time imagining what will happen if their guy doesn't win.

But I just have to say: Please, get a grip.

Call me naive, but I thought we all wanted the same things.

I thought we all wanted to live in a peaceful world, with healthy kids, where there's help for people who need a hand up, but also jobs, and social security, and laws that protect us, while still allowing us the freedom to make the decisions that we decide are best for us and our families.

I mean...is there anyone who doesn't want those things?

We just have different ideas of how to get them. My way may not be your way. Your way may not be my way. But neither of us is stupid, naive, clueless, hateful, or crazy just because we don't vote the same way

For other reasons, maybe. But not for the way we vote .

If your guy gets elected, I will drink several beers and rant to my husband, who will roll his eyes at me and ask why there's no football on TV, and then I will get over it, grateful that I live in a country where we had--and have-- a say.

I will also know that life goes on, and that if things don't go well, there's always next time.

What I won't do is call people stupid, naive, clueless, hateful, or crazy because of the way they voted. I'll assume that the vast majority of them voted thoughtfully and with their conscious, with what they believed to be our country's best interest at heart.

Then I'll pray that God changes their minds by the time the next election comes around.

But I'll never tell them that.

 I'll also hope for the best, and live my life the best way I know how, and remember that regardless of who's in office, we're all supposed to be on the same team.

And the irony is, if my guy wins, well, I'm pretty sure I'll do the same things.

Thank You, Turtle Man

As I was driving B to pre-school this morning, I was trying to ignore the fact that we were late, and instead focus on how well he was doing in school.

We were late because, for the third night in a row, both boys woke up in the middle of the night. This time, B had a nightmare that the fish in his fake aquarium "got really, really big and turned into sharks". As I was sitting on the side of his bed at 3 AM, listening to tales of giant imaginary fake aquarium fish, O woke up and said "Mom, I had a nightmare, too. B was driving a car".

Well, yeah, that is a pretty scary thought.

 I finally got back to sleep at five thirty this morning, and slept right through the alarm an hour and a half later, so I opted to drive N to school rather than rush to make the bus (and miss it anyway). As we all finally piled in the car, I noticed my tire pressure sensor flashing "EXTREMELY LOW TIRE PRESSURE", so after driving N to school on a mostly flat tire, I stopped to get air in it before taking B to school.

So there I was, thinking that at least he wasn't fighting me about going to school, and that at least he loved it, and wasn't having any trouble, and seemed to be following all of the rules--well, except for that one about needing to stop running before he reaches the gym wall--or, more precisely, before his head reaches the gym wall--but he's working on that one.

And, at that moment, as I was thinking about how well he was doing at his preschool, which just happens to be run by a Baptist Church, he said,

"Mom? What's an evil bastard?"

I forced myself to put on my stepford wife mommy voice and said " What did you say, B?"

Because surely, I heard him wrong.

" I said an evil bastard, mom! What's an evil bastard?"

Huh. No, I'm pretty sure I heard him right.

Now, I could point out that I worked last night, and I could also point out that if I was the type to document the times and dates of when these types of words come out of my sweet boy's mouth, they would almost always come out of his mouth after I have been working.

When he was home with his father.

But I won't point any of that out.

"MOM! Please tell me! WHAT is an evil bastard?"

I rack my brain trying to think of where he could have heard this. It had to be on TV--I'm pretty sure we don't know anyone who uses words like "evil" and "bastard" together in the same phrase.

Admittedly, I have gotten lax about letting the boys watch N's TV shows with her. I would prefer that they all watch Sesame Street until they're twelve, but I'm reluctantly accepting that N is past that point, and sometimes she wins the TV coin toss. But has it gotten that bad? Is Evil Bastard now an acceptable term on the Disney Channel?

I never really liked that Phineas and Ferb. I don't like their language. And more than once, I've had to say that just because Phineas and Ferb say something doesn't mean that we say it.

But evil bastard?

B is drawling a blank when I ever so sweetly ask where he thinks he may have heard those words, which by the way, aren't very nice, and we probably shouldn't be saying them.

Especially not in preschool, which we are arriving at as we speak.

I am still trying to figure out where he heard it. Though I haven't watched much of them, I heard that the presidential debates were getting pretty intense. Maybe B saw some of it with Jimmy last night. Are they now calling each other evil bastards?

I dropped B off in his classroom, with a hug and a kiss, and a whispered reminder not to say those words we just talked about in the car, and as O and I drove away, it dawned on me.

Turtle Man.

Of course.

Since the Discovery Channel is one of the few allegedly "safe" channels we watch with the kids, Jimmy had let B watch a few minutes of Turtle Man's show with him before bed last night. Turtle Man is a little rough around the edges, but his antics are generally limited to diving into murky green swamps and coming up with a snapping turtle that has been tormenting some poor rural family, so we figured it was probably OK.

Except that Turtle Man has some colorful language sometimes.

And sometimes, apparently those turtles can be evil bastards.

Thanks, Turtle Man. One more thing that the kids can't watch.

I am happy, at least, that our presidential candidates aren't calling each other names like this.

Yet.

As it Turns out...Pre-School is Cool

So when B makes up his mind about something, there's usually no point in trying to change it.

From the time we first started discussing potty training, he was determined that he wasn't going to pee on the potty, and he didn't.

Not until he was four, and I locked the two of us in the bathroom and told him we weren't leaving until he used that toilet.

Before that, he was adamant that he wasn't getting his hair cut, and he didn't. Not when I took him to the nice ladies at the kids hair salon. Not when I took him with me to the Hair Cuttery. Not when Jimmy tried cutting his hair in our kitchen.

Eventually, Jimmy took him to the barber shop with him, and B decided that that was an acceptable time and place to get his hair cut.

So when B declared that he wasn't going to preschool, I was little nervous. Of course, I knew otherwise. I knew that he was going to go to preschool. I just didn't know what was going to happen when he got there.

Would he kick?

Scream?

Throw things?

What actually happened was this: We went one morning together, and he started to cry as I went across the hall, and he was off by himself, hiding, when I came back to pick him up an hour later. We went back again a few days alter, and as I dropped him off, he gave me a look that said "I know I'm staying, but if you stand in that door way one more minute I'm gonna cry". So I left.

And I cried.

And then he came home, and he told me that he liked his teacher's pretty red dress, and he hoped she would wear it again soon. And he started asking when he could go back to school. He started counting the days. He talked about his friends. And his teachers. And he smiled.

Now, when we pull into the pre-school driveway, he claps.

Claps.

And cheers.

And I wonder what I was so worried about.

B recently asked me about college. The part about possibly moving out of our home didn't go over so well. He informed me that he wasn't going to college. He wasn't moving out. He wants to stay here with me.

After all, I make him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and read him stories, and lay down with him at night before bed.

Besides, we have a cool play room. Who would want to give up all of that?

I thought of telling him that he doesn't have to move out, and that I'll make him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches until he's fifty, but I realized that probably wasn't the right answer.

Instead, I told him that he might change his mind when he's older, and that if he has a wife someday, she probably won't want to live here and have me lay down with him at night before bed.

"No wife!" he yelled.

Phew.

I made him put it in writing.

Of course, I don't really want him to live here forever. I hope he can at least make his own peanut butter and jelly sandwiches by the time he's thirty. And if he ends up with some bitchy wife who won't let me lay down with him at night and read him bedtime stories, I can probably deal with that.

I just want him to WANT to live here when he's thirty.

I want him to be happy playing with the miniature cars in the playroom, instead of wanting to drive a real one. I want him to be in my kitchen drinking milk instead of out in a bar doing shots of Jagermeister.

I want to be able to sneak into his room at night to watch him while he's sleeping, instead of having him sneak out of his room when he thinks I'm sleeping.

But if past experience is any indication,  the things he tells me he never wants to do are the exact things that he will someday love.

"No haircut! No potty! No preschool!" was his mantra for a while.

And now he's quite enamored with all three.

I guess that means that someday, our playroom won't be cool anymore.

In spite of his declarations to the contrary, I suspect that he'll someday move out, and go to college, and maybe even find a wife.

And that, of course, is how it should be.

But me?

I'm still making him peanut butter and jelly until he's fifty.

Just try to stop me.

Dear China...

First off, China, I have to say thank you.

Thank you for Chinese food. Egg rolls really are the best thing ever invented. Granted, I'm not always sure what's in them, and I know what people say about the mystery meat, but really, it's OK with me.

Just as long as it remains a mystery.

Thanks, too, China, for your beautiful children. I mean, it would be good if you would value the female ones a whole lot more, but hopefully you're working on that. I know people probably think I'm a stalker, but when I see a beautiful Chinese baby, I can't help myself. I want to ask if I can hold her. I want to ask how to pronounce her name in Chinese. I want to offer to baby sit. Yes, I realize that actually doing anything of those things would be, well, extremely weird, which is why I don't actually do them.

There are a couple other things I need to mention to you though. One, the made in China pieces of crap have got to end. I mean, enough already. Some people have wall to wall carpeting. We have wall to wall made in China pieces of crap. Please, just stop. And if you have to make stuff, at least make stuff that lasts, or that won't be recalled in three weeks due to lead paint, small parts, choking hazards, or potential exposure to typhoid. (Maybe if you had a few million more women in your country, they could help you figure out how to make stuff that actually lasts, and people would stop referring to it as made in China pieces of crap.They would refer to them as Authentic Handmade Crafts from China instead).

Lastly, stink bugs. Please. I don't know why you ever decided to send them here. Maybe they snuck in with a shipment of made in China pieces of crap, but really, enough already. Those things are everywhere, and they have got to go. I have a four year old who wants to keep every one he sees as a pet, and a two year old who wakes up screaming at night if he so much as thinks there's one in the house. How do you think that's working for us?

Yeah, not so well.

I realized the role you play in our lives last night, China, at about 2 AM, as I got up to assure a certain two year old that there weren't any stink bugs in our house. On my way to his room, I tripped over several made in China pieces of crap, and then when I actually found a stink bug on his wall, I was thinking that one of those made in China pieces of crap would have made a really good stink bug smoosher.

Except that I heard that you shouldn't smoosh stink bugs because well, they stink.

Go figure.

So instead, at 2 AM, I was gently picking up a stink bug with a tissue, and attempting to walk him to the bathroom, when I tripped over more made in China pieces of crap.

Then I flushed his ass down the toilet.

I think we need to work out a deal. For every one thousand pieces of made in China pieces of crap you send here, we'll send you five thousand stink bugs. I think it's only fair. Alternately, maybe they can be incorporated into the mystery meat in some of those restaurants.

Please, just keep them out of the egg rolls.