On Kindness...

 I recently started reading To Heaven and Back By Dr Mary Neal. I haven't gotten very far, but somewhere around Chapter One, in the context of choosing how to approach our lives, this phrase jumped off the page:




React with Love





Oh yeah.

Now I remember.

That's what we're supposed to do.


I talk to my kids alot about kindness. Of the many things I want them to be, it's the most important. And yet, sometimes, I realize that I do a crappy job of teaching by example.

I'm impatient. I get overwhelmed. And irritable. I have a family to raise. And a husband. And a job. And a business to help run. There are naps to take (unfortunately not mine). And a house to clean. And laundry to do. Always laundry to do. And some days--most days--I just crave a little silence in my life.

And most days it's really hard to find it.

God help the people who show up at my door when I'm craving silence. Or who keep me in the check out line too long when I'm impatient. Or who ask me to do one more thing when I'm overwhelmed. Not to mention the select few who somehow possess the ability to make my head spin (no, of course you don't fit into that category).

No, I don't say anything unkind to the people in these situations.

Most of the time.

But I don't really go out of my way to be kind to them either.

Which isn't the way I'm supposed to be if I value kindness so much in my children.

I mean, we're supposed to love our neighbors, right? And there's no clause that says "except if you're  impatient, or overwhelmed, or irritable, or craving silence, or they possess the ability to make your head spin".


Trust me. That clause is not in there. If it was, I would have found it.

Cause I've looked.

Fortunately, there's also no clause that says "except if she's impatient, or overwhelmed, or irritable, or craving silence, or she thinks you possess the ability to make her head spin".




React With Love



Ok, so I'll keep trying.


Some day I may even get it right.

Liar Liar Pants on Fire

A lot seems to change between kindergarten and first grade. In kindergarten, N's social angst was limited to disbelief that some kids didn't believe in fairies. What was wrong with them? How could they not believe in fairies, when everyone knows they're real?

In first grade, fairies were still important, but I noticed that she started to pay attention to other things. Who had longer hair. Who was best friends with whom. Who had a tendency to be a bit bossy.

And who seemed to have an issue telling the truth.

This last one was a biggy. Apparently, first graders are just beginning to understand the concept of one upmanship. Unfortunately, they don't really have the concept of believability down yet. This year, N came home with stories frequently told by her friend T.

"T said she's going to live in a submarine this summer".

Wow. Well that certainly tops our weekend at the beach.

"T said she's going to Japan for the weekend"

Huh. Can you say jet lag?

"T's going to be in movie this summer".

Wait, what about the submarine?

Ok, so they're seven. Kids lie. Eventually, they realize that there's no benefit to doing so, because the very people they are trying to impress know that they're lying their little asses off  realize that they're not telling the truth.

The issue for N was that these people were her friends. Friends don't lie to each other. Why would T say she was going to live on a submarine if she wasn't? I figured it was a teachable moment and told N that T's lying didn't have anything to do with their friendship, and that maybe T was just looking for a little extra attention. We talked about the importance of telling the truth. Then I told her to ignore it and move on.

Because that's what we need to teach our kids.

Of course, we don't just teach them through our words. We teach them through our actions.

And sometimes, our actions need a little explaining.

(Quick survey of facebook friends and other potential blog readers to make sure none of them work at our grocery store...)

A lot of nice people work at our grocery store. So does someone who, while apparently friendly, makes my mommy radar go off. Can't tell you why, because I don't really know why. But when I am with the kids and in this cashier's line, my internal High Alert button goes off. I may be wrong. I don't have any specific reason to feel this way, other than that he makes me uncomfortable. And that's reason enough for me.

So I try not to go through his line, but occasionally I have no choice, and in those cases I try to keep our interactions brief and pleasant, but not exactly familiar. And yet (and maybe this is precisely what makes my mommy radar go off), he attempts to get somewhat familiar. Specifically regarding the kids. So, during one visit, when he asked me where they got their red hair, I said "Oh, it's in the family". And when he said "But does their father have red hair?" I just said "No." And when he asked if I had red hair when I was younger, I resisted the urge to say "Just ring up the damn groceries, please",  and just said "No." So when this person who makes my mommy radar go off asked a fourth question regarding my children, in the form of asking if we were Irish, my instinct was to lie my ass off  not give him any more information about us. So I told him we weren't Irish.

As we walked out, I could feel N staring at me.

"Mom? Are we really German?"

Oh. Well, no. Not exactly.

"Well then why did you tell that man that we were German?"

A conversation followed in which I explained that not everyone has a right to information about us. And if someone is asking more questions than we are comfortable with, or asking things that aren't any of their business, and especially if it's not someone we know, it's ok not to be completely honest.

I think this is a good time to tell you my Aunt the nun's perspective on lying. Lying, according to her and the priest who allegedly shared this perspective with her, is keeping the truth from someone who has a right to know.

I figure if your Aunt the nun tells you it's ok to lie sometimes, then it's ok to lie sometimes.

(Quick survey of my facebook friends and other potential blog readers to make sure none of them go to our community pool. Ok, so there might be one or two that do. Whatever).

We were at our community pool yesterday. I love that the kids have a pool nearby to spend summer days, but with one child who swims, though not perfectly, and two children who are nowhere near swimming, I find that I have to be watching two pools at once. I have to be in the baby pool with B and O, and while there are life guards watching the big pool where N is, the reality is, they may have twenty or more kids to watch. So I make sure I'm watching, too. But if N wants a break from the big pool, or if it's adult swim, she comes to us in the baby pool. Which admittedly makes my life tremendously easier. And where, I found out this week, she is apparently not allowed. Because she's over six.

Often, we are the only ones in the baby pool. Occasionally, like yesterday, there is another mom in the same situation as we are--two small kids and an older child. If it's not bothering those of us who are there that our "older than six" kids are in the baby pool, there's no issue, right?

Well, no. Wrong. Because that would be too simple.

Apparently, other kids who are older than six are not happy that they can't be in the baby pool during adult swim. So, yesterday, one of them--who appeared to be about eight--took it upon himself to interrogate the kids in the baby pool regarding their ages. He came to the fence, pointed at N, looked at me, and said "How old is she?"

I have to admit, my first instinct was to respond with a very mature "None of your business", but reason won out, and I remembered that I was the adult in this situation. My next instinct was to ask where his mother was, and if she knew that he was interrogating people in the baby pool. I decided that wouldn't be the best response either. So, I gave him the next response that came into my head.

"She's six".

N looked at me. The boy eyed me suspiciously, and said "She's not allowed to be there if she's six".

I smiled and said, "Yes, she's allowed. It's six and under".

"I don't think so".

He is staring at me. I can't believe I am arguing with an eight-year-old, and wonder again where his mother is.

We have a stare down, which I am only semi proud to say that I won.

He walked away.

N came over and said, "Why did you just tell him that I'm six?"

"Shhh. You're six. Six-year-olds don't question their mothers".

"I'm NOT six."

"You're six," I said under my breath.

"Why am I six? If you're going to lie, why can't you say I'm ten or something?"

I look around to make sure the baby pool Nazi isn't watching us.

"You're six because six-year-olds are allowed to be in the baby pool. Seven-year-olds aren't. Neither are ten-year-olds. Just be quiet. And be six".

Ok, so maybe it wasn't right to lie. But no one was being hurt, disturbed, or inconvenienced by my seven-year-old being in the baby pool. And besides, she's only been seven for a month.

I'm also pretty sure that my Aunt the nun would say that the boy in question didn't have a right to know the truth.

In fact, she'd also say that children should be seen and not heard.

Something I am beginning to agree with more and more.

Chance of a Shower...

 I love showers.

 I used to love baths, but now just the word bath conjures up images of a flooded bathroom, flying bath toys, and someone either screaming at me that they don't want to get in the bath, or screaming at me that they don't want to get out of the bath.

So baths don't really do it for me anymore.

Now, I'm all about the shower.

Jimmy says I take too long and waste water. I probably do. But I figure what I waste in water, I save in money not spent on psych meds.

I think it started when I had a newborn and realized that it was possible to go for days without having time to take a shower. I also realized that, when you finally do have time to take one, showers are new mom utopia.

Yes, I would have thought that was a ridiculous statement before I had kids, too.

It's all relative.

Fortunately, I get to shower every day now. Try not to be jealous. And keep in mind, I said I get to shower. I didn't say I get to shower in peace.

I usually get a whole four minutes to myself before someone interrupts me. Four minutes might be OK if my shower was strictly functional.

But it's not.

I think in the shower. It's often the only place I can.

I plan our day--and sometimes our week-- in the shower. Just in my head, of course. I tried bringing my planner in with me, but it didn't go so well.

Some days, I plan future vacations in the shower. The ones I will take by myself.

I even pray in the shower. I figure God doesn't care. He's probably just happy to hear me complete an entire thought without stopping in the middle of it to tell someone not to hit their brother.

So, yeah, I guess you could say my showers are sacred.

If only the kids would realize that. Maybe they wouldn't come find me after four minutes to tell me that someone changed the channel on the TV. Or that someone was sitting too close to them. Or that someone was breathing next to them.

Today N interrupted me to tell me that the dog had bad breath.

I thought maybe that was my sign to institute a new policy. It's called "Don't bother mommy in the shower unless you are bleeding. Profusely. And it won't stop. And the 911 people need my signature to take you to the hospital".

And they better have a water proof pen.

What Not to Expect...

I was recently going through old books and came across a book about what might happen in the first, oh, twelve months or so of your child's life. You might have heard of it.

 It was a good book. I found it helpful. Most of the time. But the things is, there were just a few things that weren't covered in as much detail as they could have been. Like oh, what not to expect.
And I happen to think that that part is important, too.

Don't expect to be free of poop for more than an hour. Holy...poop. Babies poop a lot. I had no idea how much they pooped. Newborns--especially breastfed newborns--poop up to 12 times a day. Though, some days, I swear mine pooped that much in an hour.

Speaking of breastfeeding, don't expect it to be easy. Seriously. It's a natural process. I thought that meant it should be easy. And not painful. Well. It is not easy. And it is painful. And those pumps. Wow. I never knew that I would get to have a baby, have five different women handle my nipples, and hook myself up to something that made me feel--quite literally-like a cow, all in under 48 hours. Oh, and don't expect that milk to be confined to the places you might think it's supposed to be. It will end up everywhere.

Don't expect your baby to sleep. At all. Ever. That way, if he/she does actually sleep for three twenty minute stretches a night, you will be pleasantly surprised. But let's be clear. Babies don't like to sleep at night. They like to nurse from your already sore nipples, thus contributing to your new self image as a cow. Oh sure, a few babies sleep at night. Allegedly. You've seen their moms...perky and chipper as they tell you that their sweet little newborn is a great sleeper. Here's the thing: those moms are delusional. In their own sleep deprived state, they don't know how long that baby really slept. In fact, they were likely  nursing in their sleep for most of the night and just have no memory of it because well, they are now moms,and for the next eighteen to twenty five years, they will have no memory of much of anything.


Do not expect that your second child will be anything like your first. God often sends us the mellow, mild mannered children first, in an attempt to trick us into having additional children. Then, bam!  Jokes on you. Of course, don't expect that this means you will love said child any less. You will still love him or her with all your heart. And you will still have moments of awe and wonder. Awe that you could actually be this exhausted, and wondering the heck you have gotten yourself into.

Do not expect that your easy child's temperament is due to the fact that you are a wonderful parent. You may be a wonderful parent. Or, like most of us, you may have moments of wonderful parenting that you pray cancel out the moments of really crappy parenting. But your child is not easy because you are wonderful. Because if he is, that means that the next child--the one who is not quite as easy--is that way because you suck as a parent. And, of course, we know that's not true.

Do not expect that you will remember every moment. You may want to, but you won't. Remember, you are sleep deprived, and you are a cow. Sleep deprivation isn't known for helping us remember things, and I'm pretty sure cows aren't known for their memories, either.

Do not expect to love every minute. You won't. It's OK.

Do not expect to have an actual adult conversation in which you sound articulate or intelligent for at least several months. If then.

Do not expect your house to ever again look the way it did before you had children. Trust me on this. It's much better if you just accept it now.

Do not expect to do everything perfectly. You won't. Get over it.

Do not expect this stage to last forever. It won't. Some day in the not so distant future, you will realize that you're not quite as tired as you used to be. You will realize that you no longer feel like a cow, and that your breasts belong to you again. Well, you and your belly button, since that is where they are hanging out these days. Do not expect them to look like they did before, unless you get a boob job. Sorry.

Do not expect the second year, or the third, to be drastically easier than the first. It will be different. It will be easier in some ways. It will be harder in others. It will still be exhausting. But expect to find comfort in the fact that you (usually) get to sleep through the night, and at least you're no longer a cow.

Do not expect your life to look like the Pampers commercials. And don't expect it to look like the life you had before you had kids. It is messier. And more exhausting. And sometimes more short tempered. There will be moments of baby bliss, but there will be many more moments of being up to your elbows in poop, being in awe that you could be this tired and still breathing, and wondering why you no longer own clothes without stains on them.

Most importantly, do not expect that any of this means it's not worth it.


It's worth every second.

The Futility of Motherhood

I'm an optimist.

I think.

Or maybe I'm a realist.

All I know is, I'm not a pessimist.

If I was a pessimist, I would have stopped after child number one.

I would have looked at her sweet face, smelled her sweet baby smell, and then looked around at the piles of laundry, stacks of mail I had yet to go through, and baby toys everywhere, and thought I cannot live like this for the rest of my life. No more kids.

Instead, I looked around and thought, This is just temporary.

And it is. Of course it is.

But the thing is, temporary can be a very, very long time.

And the other thing is, it gets worse--way worse--before it gets better.

Especially with several kids under one roof.

While I'm cleaning the bathroom, someone is pouring pickle juice all over the kitchen floor. While I'm cleaning up the pickle juice, they go to the bathroom I just half cleaned and unroll several rolls of toilet paper. As I'm attempting to put the toilet paper back on the roll, they decide to move into my room, where they throw my neatly folded pile of laundry all over the floor.

Yes. Motherhood is full of futility.

I clean. They mess it up.

I organize. They destroy.

I wash clothes. They get them dirty.

I change diapers. They, well, you know.

But of course, I can't just let everything go completely, as tempting as it sometimes may be. So I keep cleaning, organizing, washing, changing. Or at least attempting to. And they keep messing it up, destroying it, getting it dirty, and well, you know. And, I have to say, they are much more effective at their part than I am at mine.

Fortunately, the house is only part of my job.

So I hug them. And they hug me back. And I read to them. And they light up. And I tell them I'm sorry for yelling at them, but I really, really wish they wouldn't pour pickle juice all over the floor.

And they hug me and say, "I love you mommy. It's just that I love pickles, too."

And I realize that some parts, at least, aren't futile after all.

Smile!

So, I took B to the dentist today.

When you're done laughing, I'll tell you the rest of the story.

OK, so I knew it wasn't a good idea. I knew it. I know this child, and I knew he was not ready for the dentist. But there's this small part of me that thought that, since he is almost four, it was time. Images of him as a five-year-old with horrible teeth kept popping into my mind. The dentist shaking his head as he looked at the x-rays and said "Well, if you had brought him in when he was three like you were supposed to...."

So I called, and I said "I don't think he's ready. But I think we should try."

They agreed. Of course we should try! Why wouldn't we try! (That will be one hundred and thirty four dollars, please).

So we tried. I made the mistake of telling B ahead of time that we were going. I figured if we told him as we were leaving where we were going, there wouldn't be time for a meltdown. Yeah. Well. What I had somehow momentarily forgotten is that, if he makes time for nothing else, B will make time for a meltdown.. So twenty minutes and alot of sweat (mine) and tears (his and mine) later, we got in the car. Minus his shoes, which he refused to put on.

B reiterated his feelings all the way to the dentist's office.

"NO dentist!"
"I am NOT going!"
"I said NO DENTIST!"
"And no HAIR CUT either!"
"And I'm not going to preschool!"

Ok, so I think we're all pretty clear on his feelings. About everything.

We went in. We walked into the hygienist's room. She talked sweetly to B.

He hid behind me. And growled at her.

She asked him to show her his teeth, and he did, when he loudly shouted "NO TEETH!"

"Don't get too close," I warned her. "He could bite".

She smiled as she backed away and decided to look over my paperwork.

"You checked off that he has emotional problems".

"Yes, " I told her."He's a three-year-old boy."

"Does he have any other problems?" she asked

"No, I think that about covers it". That wasn't enough?

"I can't read what you wrote under "reaction to going to the dentist".

"It says combative", I explained.

She smiled and left for a minute to talk to the dentist as B continued to hide behind my back.

She was back in under thirty seconds.

"Well, thanks for coming in to see us today," she said with a smile. "Lets try again in a few months".

"No dentist today?" I asked

She shook her head. "I don't think he's ready".

Huh. Imagine that.

I'm really not sure if she was talking about B or the dentist, but at least there was no charge for our little social visit.

As we were getting in the car, I thought that maybe I should tell B how much fun he'll have the next time we go to the dentist. But I was pretty sure I knew how that would go. So, instead, I looked at his sweet face as I buckled him into his car seat and said, "It's ok, B. I know what you look like without teeth. You'll be adorable."

And since we now know he's not going to pre-school, we don't even have to worry that other kids will make fun of him.

Gratitude

I try to remember to be grateful, though some days it's easier than others.

Yesterday I was trying for what seemed like hours to get all of us out the door. B was not cooperating. Then he couldn't find his shoes. He finally found them, and proceeded to  throw them at me. Hmm...this would normally require a time out. But the whole morning had been a time out. We needed to go. And besides, if anyone is getting a time out around here, it's going to be me. Someone will read this and think how I'm not being consistent. Yeah, whatever. I figure that being consistently exhausted and consistently losing my mind is probably enough consistence. B did not get a time out. But he did get his shoes on. Then O needed a diaper. I thought we were finally on our way out the door, when O decided to pour the dog's water all over the floor. N promptly slipped in it, so she had to change her clothes before we could go.

Some days I really do wonder where the hidden camera is.

We finally got in the car. B and N were fighting. Someone is crying. I think it might be me. B unfastens his seat belt as I'm backing out of the driveway, causing me to stop and re-fasten it. I tell him, in my mean mommy voice, that it is NOT ok to touch your seat belt. N tells me I'm scary. I briefly think how sad that is, and then remember that was the effect I was going for.

None of this made me feel particularly grateful at the time. But as I am writing this, I am feeling incredibly grateful. Because they are sleeping.

B also tries to remember to be grateful. He is particularly thankful for Chuck E Cheese. He said so himself in his prayers the other night. He's also thankful for ice cream. And for pie. I think the last time he had pie was on Thanksgiving, but that's the great thing about gratitude. It's never too late.

Me, I'm grateful for kids who can be grateful for Chuck E Cheese and pie, and who say things like "Mom can you carry me? My eyes are awake, but my legs aren't."

I'm also grateful that the only things wrong with their legs--or any other part of them--is that they are asleep.

I'm grateful that they can say completely wonderfully random things like,  "Wow, what a beautiful day. And no skunks today. They must only come out on Wednesday".

I'm also grateful when they say things like, "Dad, are you gonna die if I cover your mouth and you can't breathe?"

I'm grateful for that one because at least he asked first.

To My Sons...What I Want for You

I feel like I already spend a lot of time telling you what I want, sweet boys. I frequently want you to be just a little bit quieter. I want you to stop throwing things. I want you to listen to me the first time. I want you to sleep through the night. I want you to please, just pee on the potty. But of course, you already know all of that. And that's really not important anyway. Here is what I really want for you:

First, I want you to be boys. Play in the mud. Dig up worms. Play with sticks. Of course, your sister can do all of these things, too--getting dirty isn't just for boys. But it is part of being a boy. So go ahead. Be a boy. Get dirty. But wipe your feet. When necessary, take off your shoes. Leave the worms outside. And wash your hands. I will thank you, and your future respective wives will thank me.

I realize that someday, playing in the mud will likely turn into four wheeling in the mud. Playing with toy race cars may turn into racing real cars. And playing with sticks may someday turn into hunting something with shotguns. I know you think you're invincible. But here's the thing I want you to remember: you are not invincible. Really, you're not. You can get maimed, killed, or incarcerated just like anybody else. Have fun. But don't be stupid. If necessary, I will take away your car (assuming you save enough to buy yourself one while you are still living at home), your phone, and your freedom in order to keep you safe. I will not bail you out of jail for doing something dumb. But I will still love you. Always. And it is my profound preference not to sit by your bedside while you are hooked up to machines in a hospital. Or worse. I will do what ever it takes to prevent these things from happening, even if that makes you not like me for a while. So I want you to remember two things that will likely make your childhoods easier on both of us: stop and think.

Of course, if you do mess up, which we all do at some point, it's not the end of the world. Life goes on. We learn from our mistakes, and there is absolutely nothing you can't come to me with. Ever.

That reminds me-- the whole boys will be boys thing? It works for you now, because boys can be boys while they are actually boys. But once you are no longer a boy, it's, excuse me, bullshit. Be a boy while you are a boy. But when you are a man, be a man.

This doesn't mean you can't have fun. It means you need to also act responsibly. Find a job you enjoy, because you will likely be doing it for a long time. But even if you don't enjoy it, be grateful that you have a job, and do it well. In fact, be grateful for everything you have, even if you don't have everything you want.

Remember to be respectful. Be kind. Think of others. Be a gentleman.

Realize that women can do pretty much anything you can do, and treat them accordingly. But they might need your help lifting that heavy dresser. And it's OK to open doors for them. And pull out their chairs. And pay for dinner. Just be wary of the ones who always need you to pay for dinner, or who seem to desperately need you. And remember that, while there are a lot of cute girls out there, you probably want something besides just cute. The reality is, in thirty years, she will likely have gained thirty pounds and that tattoo you think is so sexy at twenty-two is not going to be anywhere near where it was when it started out, so it's probably a good idea to end up with someone you can actually hold a conversation with.

And yes, I want you to remember it's OK to hold a conversation. Talking is good. You can even talk about your feelings. Or at least listen to hers. And don't just nod and pretend you're listening. We are so onto that.

I want you to always laugh as much as you do now. Just not at others. Or when the teacher is talking. Or when your mommy is trying to tell you something important.

I want for you to remember that your family is here for you. Rely on each other, your sister, your dad and me. Your sister will likely be in a position to get you out of some kind of trouble at some point, so be nice to her. You may want to stop throwing things at her now, so that she has some more positive memories of your childhood interactions.

Remember, always, how much you matter. How much family and friendships matters. How much love, and kindness, and Faith matter. Realize how little pretty much everything else matters in comparison.

Most importantly, I want you to remember this:

Your mommy was the first woman who looked into your eyes and fell in love.

Call her.

Dads....

So, I sometimes get the impression that some people think that dads don't matter all that much.

Women who have babies knowing ahead of time that the guys are not good dad material. While I'm glad they decided to have their babies, a little more thought beforehand might have been a good idea. Because dads do matter.

Of course, it's the dads in these situations who are really messing up--and missing out. They may not know their own value because they didn't have a great relationship-or any relationship--with their own dad. So they settle for being an an every other weekend dad, or a once in a while dad, or a completely absent dad. It's sad all around, since dads really do matter.

If you don't believe me, just ask someone whose dad isn't in their life. Fortunately, many moms do an incredible job of being both mom and dad. And grandfathers, and uncles, and step-fathers can be amazing dad substitutes. But still, dads matter.

Dads matter because they are their sons' first example of who those sons should aspire to be, and their daughters' first example of how those daughters should expect a man to treat them. They matter because the way a child is treated by their parents--both parents--often sets the tone for how they will expect to be treated later in life, how they will allow themselves to be treated, how they will treat themselves, and how they will treat others.

I know that dads matter because I was fortunate enough to have an amazing dad.  He worked incredibly hard, and he raised most of his seven children--to some extent or another-- on his own after my mom died. And he did it well. He instilled in all of us values, and discipline, and most importantly, a love of life.

He made sure that we knew right from wrong, but he also made sure that we knew joy. And love. And laughter. He was often busy working, but he made time to take us to the beach. And the pool. And--to our dismay--Church. He instilled in us a love of travel, and people, and fun. He drove to Florida with six kids. Repeatedly. I don't know if that qualifies him for Sainthood, or just a medal, but I know it would qualify me to be heavily medicated, and I only have three kids.

There's more, but suffice it to say: I had an amazing dad.

And fortunately, so do my kids.

Oh sure, as his wife, I could tell you the five hundred different ways Jimmy knows to drive me crazy. And he could tell you the same about me. But one thing is certain: my kids have a great dad.

He works really hard his ass off. He loves us to pieces, even though we all have our own special ways of driving him to the brink of insanity. And sometimes beyond. He takes the kids to work with him. And fishing. And on nature hunts. And even shooting. Yes, this part scares me. But sometimes, that's a dad's job, too. He tells N how cool she is. He can deal with a tantruming B way better than I can. And he won't admit it, but O has him wrapped around his finger. He gives them haircuts, and hugs, and the last bite of his sandwich.

Most importantly, he gives them himself.

As a mom, I sometimes worry about my kids, and what the future holds for them. But I don't worry that my daughter will grow up and pick a bad guy because her dad didn't show her enough love. I don't worry that my sons will grow up not knowing what kind of men they are supposed to be, and I don't worry that any of them will ever say "I wish my dad had been there for me."

Because he already is.

Happy Father's Day to all the great dads out there.

You matter more than you know.







I was wondering what to get Jimmy for Father's Day. I mean, he has us. What more could he ask for? And then, the kids and I saw the perfect gift.

Sometimes when you see it, you just know.

To My Daughter....What I Want for You

So I recently wrote your birthday post, about how incredible you are, and how you amaze me, and how lucky I am to be your mom. All of that, of course, is true. But I didn't touch on what I really want for you. And the truth, sweet girl, is that there's no end to what I want for you.

Right now, as I write this, I want you to have a good night's sleep, so that tomorrow, when one of your brothers throws a shoe at your head, you will just throw it back at him, instead of bursting into tears because you're over tired.

I also want you to continue to believe it is cool to be smart. Because it is.

I want you to always be as proud of yourself as you are when you dance. No matter what you're doing. And yes, that means you'll sometimes have to stop and ask yourself "Is this something I'm going to be proud of later?" But I also want you to remember that if you do something you're not proud of, it's never the end of the world. And there is nothing-nothing-you can't come to me with.

I want you to continue to remember how important it is to be kind. To other kids. To your friends and family. To old people. To animals. To old animals. Well, you get the picture.

I also want you to remember that sometimes it's possible to be too kind. It's not your job to stay with a jerky boyfriend because he tells you he would be lost without you. Nor should you remain friends with someone who repeatedly doesn't treat you well. There is no such thing as love where someone abuses or belittles you.

It's OK to be kind to strangers when you're older. But don't ever get in their cars, or go for a walk with them, or tell them where you live. Not now, and not when you're twenty-seven. And trust your instincts.

I want you to ignore those bitchy girls you will likely encounter in  middle school. And I want you to believe me when I tell you they're just jealous. Cause it's true. But if they ever become anything more than bitchy, I want you to come to me. Immediately. So that I can bring my own inner bitch to the principal's office. That's another thing I want for you. When you're older, you must get in touch with your inner bitch. You shouldn't let her out all the time. In fact, most of the time, you should keep her tucked safely away inside. Also, don't ever let her out in my home. But trust me when I tell you, there will unfortunately be a few times when she will need to come out. So, when absolutely necessary, you shouldn't be afraid to use her. (If you were a boy, we would just call this "being assertive" or "standing up for yourself". Since you're a girl, we get to have an inner bitch).

If bringing out your inner bitch doesn't do the trick, call your family for back-up. If your inner bitch isn't working, you can use mine. Your dad will help, too, though he doesn't need an inner bitch. His power is just in being your dad. Your brothers will also be great back-up when they're older. Come to think of it, they would probably be pretty good back-up now, too.

When you think your heart has been broken by that guy in high school--or preferably, college--I want you to come to me, sit on the couch, put your head on my shoulder, and eat ice cream. Then I want you to realize that your heart wasn't broken after all. It was just a little bruised. And besides, he was an idiot.

Then we'll go shopping.

I want you to remember that you are smart, and beautiful, and talented, and capable. I want you to remember that you are one of the centers of my universe, and of your dad's universe. But, sweet girl, please remember, especially as you get older, that that is not the same as being the center of the universe.

 I want you to believe that you can do anything you want. At times, I still catch you trying to fly. You may not always believe you're a fairy. But I hope you'll always believe you can fly. And if you fall, that's OK, too. You just get up, dust off your wings, and try again.

I want you to realize that life may not always go exactly the way you hope. God doesn't consult us before making His plans. I want you to make the most of it anyway.

I want you to remember to laugh. With others. At yourself. To yourself. Just not at others.

I don't ever want you to forget what's important:

Family. Friendship. Faith. Love. Laughter.

You.

And everyone else, too.

Desperate Soccer Moms Unite

Like a lot of moms, I primarily stay home with my kids.

And by "stay home with them", I mean that I spend the vast majority of my days in the car, running them to and from school, dance class, play dates, the dentist, or the doctor's office to remove sausage and/or a Barbie shoes from someones nose.

The rest of the time, I can usually be found at the grocery store.

Or my therapist's office.

Spending your days this way used to classify someone as a stay-at-home mom, though you may have noticed that "stay-at-home" was no where on that list. Apparently, though, in some circles, moms like me are now classified as "desperate soccer moms".

Even though you may have also noticed that soccer was no where on my list. And, I'm pretty sure working moms can be considered desperate soccer moms, too.

I initially thought that maybe I should be offended to be considered a desperate soccer mom. But the thing is, I have three kids.

Of course I'm desperate.

I'm desperate for a clean house, though I don't really expect that I'll have one for the next fifteen years or so. I'm desperately in love with my children, in spite of the fact that they won't allow me to have the clean house I'm so desperate for, and at some point during almost every day, I'm desperate for a large vodka latte. I have yet to find one.

I'm frequently desperate for a little peace and quiet. I'm desperate for someone in my house--anyone--to start putting their own shoes away. And I'm desperate for a full nights sleep. In my own bed. Without two, or four, or six small feet kicking me in the back. Or the head. Or the back of my head.

 I'm also desperately clinging to my sanity. That is, when I'm not already desperately searching for it.

So yeah, it's true. I'm desperate.

But like most things in life, it's all what you make of it. So I think it's only right that, like so many other people do these days, I profit from my desperation.

I'm thinking it's time for a new reality show.

Desperate Soccer Moms. 

Or maybe The Real Soccer Moms.

Or, my personal favorite, Really Desperate Soccer Moms.

The best part is, your kids don't even have to play soccer for you to be a part of it.

You just have to be desperate.

Or, in other words, a mom.

To Be Honest

I hesitated to write about this.

It's not a happy topic. It's probably not what people who come here to read funny kid stories want to read. It's not even fun to write about. And, frankly, it's a topic I hesitate to write about because it's just too important.

And yet, it's too important not to write about.

In the past four months, I have heard about four teen suicides. Of course, there have been many more than that in that time frame. Those are just the ones I know of, by association with someone who knows the family impacted.

As a mom, this horrifies me.
As a mental health professional, this terrifies me.
And as a human being, it saddens me to no end.

No one knows the exact thoughts that go through these kids' heads--nor, of course, are kids the only ones who have these thoughts-- but it's safe to assume they are along the lines of:

This will not get better.
Life is not worth it anymore.
I am not enough.

While everyone always wants to know "why", there is no one reason why. Of course, we keep looking for it anyway, hoping that if we could only say "Yes! That! That's what did it!" then maybe we could somehow wrap our own children in a protective bubble, and as long as we could keep them away from that, they would be OK.

If only it were that simple.

Depression and other mental health issues. The pressures of high school, college acceptance, living up to expectations . Family problems. Drug or alcohol use. A break-up. Friendship issues. Feelings of not being loved. Not being accepted. Not being enough.

These may all contribute, but none of them is the cause. And the reality is, plenty of kids deal with those issues and, fortunately, don't kill themselves. It's not that they weren't loved enough, or accepted enough, or talked to enough.

It's that they couldn't get past their own pain, their own hopelessness, and their own despair.

It's their perception--in their not yet fully developed, very often depressed, impulsive teenage mind--that their life is not worth living, and that suicide is the solution.

If only they would stick around to see how quickly perceptions can change.

I see kids' facebook pages, and they are often filled with messages of "TBH"...To Be Honest.

TBH...You are really pretty.
TBH....We don't talk enough.
TBH....You seem nice.

Just as there is no one cause of teen suicide, of course there is not one simple solution. But that doesn't mean we stop trying to solve it.

It means we try harder.

Maybe it's time to take honesty a step further.

Maybe it's time to teach our kids to say:

TBH: I need to talk to someone.
TBH: I am incredibly sad.
TBH: I need some help.

And to teach our kids to say:

TBH...I will be kinder.
TBH...I will no longer bully you, torment you, make fun of you, or tease you.
TBH...I will be more accepting, and remember that you have feelings, too.

And maybe it's time for parents, and teachers, and adults in general to remind our kids:

TBH...You ARE Enough.
TBH...You are meant to be here, on this earth. You have amazing things to do, and lives to touch, and love to give.
But first you have to stick around.

TBH... Life is incredibly hard sometimes, but there is hope, and help, and people who love you.
Things can and will get better.
But first you have to talk about it.

TBH..As the adult in your life, I will be here to talk whenever you need me. To give you a hug. And to listen.

TBH...You are not just enough. You are so much more than that.
I want to help you.


Be well.
Be amazing.
Be here.


If you or someone you care about is having thoughts of suicide, please call The Samaritans Hotline at:
1-800-273-TALK

Goldfish, Fireflies, and Kittens, Oh My!

It's been a fun filled week for NBO.

Earlier this week, a neighbor kindly asked if we wanted to come over and see their new kittens. NBO were thrilled. The kittens were adorable. The neighbors, who have a beautiful, immaculate, antique filled home, were terrified.

Oh, sure, they can deal with kittens.

But kittens stay in their little box in the bathroom.

NBO do not.

Once our neighbors had locked us in the bathroom with the kittens, set us up for our little visit, B asked where the baby kittens came from. And how they got there. And how they got out. And I thanked God for our neighbor, who taught small children for many years and has the whole I'm-making-you-think-I'm-answering-your-question-but-I'm-really-not thing down to an exact science.

I think I'm going to ask her to give me lessons.

20 minutes and many "Be carefuls", "Watch out for thats", and Please don't touch that honeys" later, we left.

And I'm pretty sure I heard the door lock behind us.



This morning, I looked into our fish tank and saw something...amiss. We have had fish for a year and a half. N feeds them. Jimmy helps clean the filter. I try to make sure that my involvement is limited to a daily check to make sure the fish are still alive, so that if they are not, I can offer them a respectful burial down the toilet at sea, before going to the pet store to buy replacement fish of the same size and color. Jimmy and B also have frequent conversations about eating the goldfish for dinner, and while I think they're joking, you can really never be sure around here, so it's a good idea to check. So this morning, it appeared that one fish had been impaled by what a thought was a small plastic sword--as odd as they may sound, it is definitely within the realm of possibility in our house. But as I looked closer, I realized that the object wasn't a sword. And whatever "it" was appeared to have little pearl like objects on it. The goldfish appeared to be laying eggs. Of course, I had to Google what goldfish ovulation actually entails to see if that's what was really happening, and Google confirmed it for me. I marveled that such an amazing and absolutely disgusting process was taking place in our very own fish tank.

Google also told me to be on the look-out for a "milky white substance", since the eggs still need to be fertilized to turn into actual babies.  What kind of mother would I be if I didn't use this wonderful teaching opportunity to explain to my children how goldfish eggs are fertilized? I'll tell you what kind. The kind that keeps my sanity. No talk of milky white substances here. "Look kids! Eggs! Maybe they'll be babies. And maybe they won't. Speaking of eggs, it's time for breakfast!"

I should tell you that I believe that life continues to present the same lesson over and over again until we learn it. I should also tell you that sometimes this really pisses me off. I mean, if I didn't want to learn it the first or second time, why would I want to learn it the third time? Kind of like high school geometry.

Anyway, tonight we were playing outside and watching the fireflies. We caught a few, and let them go, and then I stumbled upon one in the grass and picked it up. I noticed it because it was lighting up alot. And then I realized, as N stared at it, that it wasn't one firefly. It was two. In fact they were both lighting up a lot. I don't know much about fireflies. But if I had to guess, I would say that they light up when they're really, really, happy. Or, maybe they light up the same time some people do--just after they've been very very happy.

N looked at them and said "Look mom! Two! Cool!"

"Wow!" I agreed that was really cool. "Who knew fireflies gave each other piggy back rides?"

She looked at me and rolled her eyes.

"I think they're probably mating, mom. I've heard that when some animals mate, they actually get on top of each other. Isn't that funny?"

I try to ignore the fact that my seven-year-old is talking to me about mating fireflies. Why couldn't she have just humored me and gone with my piggy back ride scenario?

N is looking at the fire flies more closely.

"Wow mom! There aren't two! Look, there are three! Cool!"

Sure enough, there are three.

"Mom, I wonder why three are together like that?"

Well, honey, I guess because some fireflies just have an adventurous streak.

Wow, look at those little lights go.

Drive Through..please

Pre-kids, I thought drive-throughs were for lazy people.

I mean, really, you can't even walk inside to get yourself that cheeseburger? And drive-through banking? Is that really necessary? What's next...a drive through pharmacy? (Well, yes, as it turns out, they were next).

That's not to say, of course, that I never used drive-throughs. I just acknowledged that I was being lazy when I did.

Growing up, there was only one drive-through that certain members of my family used. The drive through liquor store. Now that one makes sense. Why would you want to get out and stumble inside if you can just pull up to the drive through and order your "six best of Milwaukee's pack, please"?

I don't think drive-through liquor stores exist anymore. That's probably a very good thing. But there are drive-through banks, and drive-through pharmacies, and even drive-through churches (unfortunately none around here. I would be all over that faster than B could say "Would you like a beer" to the person next to him). And, of course, there are more drive-through fast food places than I can count.

A funny thing has happened since having kids. My perspective has changed. I've realized that drive throughs aren't for lazy people. They're for mothers! Of course! Now it all makes perfect sense.

We are quite fond of drive-throughs, as experience has taught me that it's best not to take the kids inside. Anywhere. Ever. We are at the bank at least twice a week, and each night when we say our prayers, I make sure the kids add "Thank you God for the drive-through at the bank, so that mommy didn't have to lose whats left of her mind by taking us inside with her".

NBO love the bank people, since the nice bank people give them lollipops. The bank people also love NBO, as they find them quite entertaining. Apparently, that little speaker works both ways, and one day recently, when I looked in to see all the bank people laughing, I realized that they had been listening to us. Seven years of drive through banking flashed before my eyes. I'm sure they'd heard more than enough screaming over the years, but had they also heard all our conversations about body parts? And why mommies and have "boop boops"? Had they heard B repeatedly tell me that "Mickey needs to pee now, mom". Had they heard me tell each child 27 times to get their finger out of their nose? Had they heard me, in my desperate mommy voice, begging the children to please.just.stop.talking?

My guess is that they heard all of that, and more. In fact, I'm quite sure that the people at the bank know more about us than they ever wanted to. So I instituted a new rule. No talking at the bank. The bank people only give lollipops to silent children. So far, this rule not only works, but actually gives me approximately four minutes of absolute silence. Thank you God.

I discovered the downside of four minutes of silence today. It had been a long morning. I was incredibly grateful for those four minutes, and I was starting to drift off. I did this once before, when O was an infant. That time, I woke to the sound of me laying on the horn. This time, I woke to the sound of the bank lady saying "How many shots do you want?"

Shots? They're offering me shots at the bank? This is better than the drive through liquor store! Of course, I'll have to take them to go, since I would never do shots while driving. But still...shots!

The bank lady is staring at me, and I'm realizing that she must not have offered me shots.

"How many pops?"

That makes more sense.

A few seconds later, three lollipops arrive in the tube.

OK, so I was a little disappointed, but they're always asking what they can do to improve our banking experience.

And now I can tell them.

Coming Home

While out running errands with the kids today, I passed a church we pass several times a week.

But this time, it looked different.

This time, there were what appeared to be hundreds of small flags, surrounding the perimeter of the parking lot.

And many more larger flags outside the church.

And  police cars.

And fire trucks.

And an honor guard.

This time, I realized as I recalled recent news reports, they were saying good-bye to a twenty-two year-old soldier.  He was killed on Memorial Day, and was being laid to rest on the forty-eighth anniversary of D-Day.

I wanted to stop the car.

I wanted to tell his family that I'm sorry.

And thank them.

And tell them that we won't forget.

I also wanted to somehow show my children what an honorable moment this was, while shielding them from what a heartbreaking and devastating moment it was.

Of course, it was the family's moment to grieve their horrendous loss, and I don't know them.

And there is no way to show what an honorable moment this was without also showing what a heartbreaking and devastating moment it was.

So I said a prayer, and I kept driving.

I was going to include his name here, but I'm not sure it's my place.

And while his family's pain is theirs alone, in some ways, he is every soldier.

He is every one who's left too soon.

And every one who's sacrificed.

He is every soldier whose homecoming was supposed to be met with cheers, and hugs, and tears of happiness. But has been met instead with quiet respect, and flags at half mast.

His mother is every soldier's mother.

His father every soldier's father.

And so, to all of them:

I'm sorry.

Thank you.

And, no, we won't forget.

What Matters

I feel like I spend a lot of time talking to kids--my own and those I work with--about what matters. I find myself asking,  "How much does this matter? Is this important? Is this what you're going to lose sleep over?" more often than I can count. And while feelings are certainly valid, I can't help but feel that sometimes, we just need a little perspective.

So, for what it's worth, here's what I think matters.


It doesn't matter how well you do in school.
It matters how hard you try.
If you try hard, you will likely do well.
And if you don't do well, you will know that you did your best.

It doesn't matter what you do for a living.
Hopefully you will do something you like, but what matters is that you do it honestly.
It also matters that you do it well enough to assure that you won't be living in your parents' basement when you're forty.

It doesn't matter who you know.
It matters how you treat those that you do know.
And those you don't.

It doesn't matter how many friends you have.
It matters that you appreciate the ones you do have.
And it matters that you are a true friend.

The people who treat you poorly don't matter
What matters are the ones who treat you well.

It doesn't matter what kind of car you drive, or how big your house is, or how expensive your clothes are.
It matters that you have a car to drive, and that you drive it responsibly.
It matters that you have a house to live in, and clothes to wear.
Many people don't.

It doesn't matter that your family isn't perfect.
No one's is.
It matters that they love you.
Forgive.
And love them back.

It doesn't matter if you like, agree with, or see the value in the rules set by your parents, your teachers, or your boss.
It matters that you follow them.
At least until you've had enough life experience to know which rules are meant to be broken.

It doesn't matter if you're great at what you do.
It matters that you're grateful that you have the ability to do it.

It doesn't matter if someone doesn't love you back.
It matters that you love yourself.
They didn't deserve you anyway.

It doesn't matter if life goes according to your plan
What matters is what you do when it doesn't.

It doesn't matter who thinks you're amazing
It matters that you know you are.

It doesn't matter what gifts people give you.
What matters are the gifts you already have.
And how you use them.

It doesn't matter if you make mistakes.
Mistakes are a part of life.
It matters that you try to do better, work harder, and move on.

It doesn't matter if you cry sometimes.
You wouldn't be human if you didn't.
What matters is that you don't forget how to laugh.

It doesn't matter if your life lives up to all of your expectations.
It's quite likely that it won't.
It doesn't matter if you don't have the exact life that you want.

What matters is that you live--and love--the life that you have.






Copyright 2012 Author of  The NBO Chronicles. All Rights Reserved. No reproduction without permission from author.

Relax!

This weekend, a neighbor commented on what a relaxed parent I am.

"You're so laid back", she said, not for the first time.

I know her intentions were good, but I think what she really meant was, "Your house is a disaster. Your kids are running around in wet clothes. And barefoot. And throwing things at each other. And you're sitting on your patio, eating crabs and drinking beer."

Yeah. So?

 I was eating crabs and drinking beer. But I was also running after O, continually getting up to tell B to stop throwing things, and watching N on the swing set.

Her husband chimed in. "I couldn't believe how relaxed you were when B was dumping sand over O's head yesterday".

Well, it's sand, right? I mean, it's not like he was pouring gasoline over O's head. I try to stop him right away when it's something flammable.

So yeah, I guess I'm laid back.

I blame it on the children. They've left me no choice.

I don't think I was this laid back with one child. In fact, I was a little too focused on her, if that's possible.

Every fever over 100 had me calling the pediatrician.

When she smelled like syrup, I took her to the pediatrician. She was fine. And they laughed at me.

When I saw what I thought were worms, I took her to the pediatrician. They weren't worms. They were toasted coconut. They didn't laugh at me that time. Until I was walking out the door.

Then I had a second child. When he had a fever, I gave him Tylenol and prayed it would make him feel better. And then prayed even harder that it would make him sleep. I don't remember taking him to the pediatrician for anything other than his regular check ups.  But it's possible I had him there every week and just don't remember.

Then I had a third child.

I don't remember the last time he had a fever. Then again, I don't remember much of anything.
And I'm not sure I've ever taken his temperature.

It doesn't bother me if they go barefoot, because in order for them not to go barefoot, I would actually have to find their shoes. It doesn't bother me that their clothes are wet because I'd rather let them stay in those clothes than fight with them-repeatedly--to change. It is (almost) summer, after all.

 I walk instead of running when B is dumping sand over O's head  because, well, it's sand. And if O's not worrying about it, why should I?

And OK, in all honesty, my reflexes aren't what they used to be, given that I've averaged approximately twenty-seven minutes of sleep a night for the past seven years.

So maybe I am a relaxed and laid back parent.

Or maybe, at this point, I'm just brain dead.

This...

So, last week, I read this on Momastery:

I Think Jesus’d Be Gay or…No She DIDN’T

The post, not surprisingly, caused quite a response--some of it very negative, but most of it in support of its message.

I don't know if Jesus would come back as poor, black, and gay. But I am in full agreement with the premise that, in the context of spreading a greater message, it would make sense. Or, if not poor, black, and gay, maybe an illegal immigrant. Or a homeless alcoholic. Or an incarcerated drug addict.

I'm in full agreement with the idea that, sometimes, we forget that the most important thing we are supposed to do is love one another.


What the heck does any of this have to do with NBO?

Well, it has to do with them because I'm their mom. And they are my children. And if one of them happened to be gay, I wouldn't want them for one second to think that that made them any less than the amazing, incredible, miracle that they are.

I wouldn't want them to think they weren't loved.

I wouldn't want them to think they weren't accepted.

I wouldn't want to them to think they weren't worthy. Of their parents' love. Of their family's love.

Of God's love.

And if one of them happened to be gay, I certainly wouldn't want them for one iota of a second to think, like so many gay teens and young adults do, that taking their own life was a more appealing option than living as the person God made them to be.

This also has to do with NBO because, as their mom, I am always thinking about what I need to be teaching them.

To use the potty.
To say their prayers.
To tie their shoes.
To write their name.
To eat their vegetables.
To clean their rooms.
To play fair.
To be nice.
To work hard.

And yet, the Momastery post was yet another reminder of the most important lesson we need to teach our children.

To love everyone.

Admittedly, this can sometimes be the hardest lesson to teach by example.

It's also the one that matters the most.