Summer Daze...

"Mom, why does that lady have purple eyes?"

We are sitting in the play area of McDonald's, where I am practicing my deep breathing to keep my play area induced PTSD at bay. I was hoping B and O would play while I drank coffee, but instead O is attempting to lick a stale french fry he found on the floor, and B is staring at the lady with purple eyes and loudly asking me questions about her.

We just dropped N off at Bible Drama Camp and have an hour or so to kill before picking her up. Who knew there was such a thing as Bible Drama Camp, right? Kind of makes sense when you think about it. I mean, if there wasn't all that drama in the Bible, what would the priest talk about during Mass?

 I wrestle the french fry away from O before he manages to lick it. Well, before he manages to lick it again. I whisper to B that it's not nice to talk about the way people look.

At least until after they're gone.

The lady with the purple eyes leaves, and I tell B it was probably just make up. A whole lot of make up, but I leave that part out.

"No mom, I don't sink so." He tells me as he shakes his head.

I wonder if he thinks she had a black eye. Or two.

"I sink it was crayon, mom. Or maybe magic marker".

Of course he thinks that, because in our house, if you want purple eyes, you just grab a crayon.

I decide O has licked enough stale french fries and we go to pick up N. We're early, so we walk around the prayer garden outside, and stop in front of the statue of Jesus.

"Look, there's Jesus", I tell them.

O walks up to the statue "Hi Jesus".

B walks up to the statue. "Hey Jesus!"

He then slaps the statue's hand. I'm not sure, but I think Jesus statue etiquette discourages hand slapping. I tell him to be gentle with Jesus.

"I was just giving Jesus five, mom." He slaps Jesus' hand again.

"Hey Jesus! Give me five!"

O is now slapping Jesus' other hand and repeating "Give me five Jesus".

An older lady walks by.

I wonder if it's possible to get kicked out of the prayer garden. I decide to leave before we find out.

We pick up N, and I ask her how camp was. She tells me in great detail about the coconut-zucchini muffin she had, and that the blueberry looked good, too, so she wants to try those tomorrow. I ask how the actual drama part was, and she seems surprised I would ask such a question. She shrugs and says "Oh, it was good".

Later, we go for a walk in the park. The woods are beautiful. We round a corner and two young deer run out across the path in front of us.

"Wow. Did you see that?" I ask.

They nod and O says "That was cool mom".

I don't know if my two-year-old knows what he's saying, but I agree with him.

B says it was cool, too, and asks where the deer went.

I tell them they ran into the woods.

He frowns and says he wants them to come back.

I think how great it is that he is appreciating how beautiful they were. 

B turns to our dog Bella and says "Bella! Go get the deer and bring them back!"

I tell him the deer are far away, and we wouldn't want to scare them anyway.

He frowns again and says. "But Mom! I want them to come back! I really want some deer bologna".


What a nature lover.

Runaways

No, none of the kids ran away from home.

Yet.

Well, OK, maybe one of them did, but I was with her.

So I guess I ran away from home, too.

It was just one.of.those.days. I'm blaming it on summer. Staying up late. Skipping naps. Spending hours frolicking in the pool. But never quite getting the amount of sleep they need to compensate for all the frolicking.

Oh, you can get away with it for a while.

Until you can't.

As I told a friend the other day when she asked how our summer was going, I'm really enjoying summer days with the kids.

When I'm not wondering when the hell school is going to start.

I really do love summer, and I'm looking forward to more of it. But I'll admit it. I'm also giddy with excitement that it's almost August.

Because after August comes......September.

As it happens, today I was thinking a lot about September.

I mean, a lot.

I had great intentions for today. In truth, I have felt like a slacker mom lately. Oh sure, the kids are fed (constantly), dressed (usually), and loved (completely). They have plenty of toys that they repeatedly throw at each other's heads play with. They have lots of books--a few of which I even manage to read to them occasionally. Several days a week, we go to the pool, or to visit friends, or they splash around in the sprinkler outside. This is what summer is about, right?

Well, it was.

Before stupid facebook.

Now, instead of being content that my kids can play, and swim, and splash their summer away, I am confronted by other people's pictures of what they're doing with their kids this summer. Of course, they're playing, and swimming, and splashing, too. But there's another common theme in most of these pictures:

Crafts.

Apparently, summer is no longer summer without getting in touch with your creative side.

I do that. I have a creative side.

You're looking at it.
 Right here. On this page.

Unfortunately, though, this isn't really something the kids and I can do together, as much as they might like to. Besides, I don't think it qualifies.

No, in order for summer to truly be summer, at some point, you apparently have to make something.

With your kids.

And dessert doesn't count.

With this new knowledge in hand, N and I went to Michael's yesterday. I have to say, I love Michael's. It inspires me. I walk in, and I want it all. I want to do it all. I want to scrapbook. I want to paint. I want to make Fall flower arrangements in July.

But mostly, I want to have a yard sale to sell the closet full of stuff from Michael's that I have accumulated over the years.

This time, though, I had a plan. I knew just what kind of crap  craft we were going to make. We were going to make hand prints. Easy, yet still crafty. And the best part is, it's cheap. Canvas and finger paints here we come!

Well, and maybe some model magic in case the whole hand print thing gets them in touch with their crafty side. And some new crayons. And a few picture frames. To keep all the other empty picture frames in my closet company. And just one wooden castle because, after all, it was on clearance.

OK, fine, I have a problem.

But at least we were all set to do hand prints. So today, I got all our supplies out, made sure the kids had on their grubbiest clothes--which they happened to already be wearing--and we headed outside.

We were going to do some fabulous crap  crafts.

N was ready. So ready, in fact, that she was done putting her hand prints on canvas by the time I got her brothers out the door. I put B's hands in the finger paint, and he proceeded to wipe them on his shirt. As I put O's hands in the paint, B decided to do his hand prints after all. All over the dog. O screamed that his hands were messy and he needed a towel. I told him the canvas was a towel and got one half-assed adorable hand print on it before he wiped the rest on my pants. N yelled that B put his hand prints on her canvas. I gave up on separate canvases and told them we would do one canvas with all of their hand prints. O sat on the ground as he looked at his paint covered hands in horror and cried for a towel. B told me he was done with hand prints, as somewhere in the background I heard N explaining the finer points of fingerprint analysis. Or maybe it was palm reading.

Who the hell knows.

I tried to figure out my next tactic, and when I turned around, B and O were gone. N looked at me and shrugged. I decided it must be time to make dinner, and went inside to find that most of our appliances were now covered in various colors of finger paint.

Who needs a canvas when you have a refrigerator?

After dinner, during which we set a new world record for how many times one child can be sent to his room in one sitting, J (who, by the way, had been mysteriously absent for stupid ass finger painting  craft time) offered to stay with the kids if I wanted to go out for a while.

Go out for a while?

Well, yes, I would like to go out for a while.

But really, where would I go? On a Sunday night. On short notice. In the limited time frame I know I have before J deliberately drowns himself in finger paint.

Maybe I could go to Michael's, and bring them back their stupid ass finger paint leftover paint. Or maybe I could go to Home Depot, and see if they have a paint color to match our new appliance colors--something in a shade of red-blue-yellow-and-even-friggin-green, perhaps?

I decide that neither of these is really appealing to me, and since the sky no longer looks like rain and the neighborhood pool is open for another hour or so, I signal for N to get her bathing suit on and put her clothes back on over it. I whisper for her to grab a towel and meet me out back.

Five minutes later, we are sneaking out of our own back yard. We stay low as we walk down the street. We move quickly to lessen the chances of being caught.

We must not be caught.

We talk quietly and look straight ahead. We can't take the chance of stopping to talk to a neighbor.

They might see us.

Finally, we are out of sight of the house. We keep walking. N is laughing.

"Pretty sad when you have to sneak out of your own house, mom".

Yup, sure is.

We stay at the pool for an hour.

There are fifteen kids there.

And yet, it feels quiet.

No one is wiping finger paint on me.

I even get to swim in the big pool.

We walk home, proud of ourselves for accomplishing our mission. N is wearing her wet bathing suit under her clothes and tells me I need to start keeping an extra pair of underwear in my purse for future stealth missions.

I tell her I didn't have time to bring a purse, let alone underwear.

She asks me if the boys will notice that our hair is wet.

I tell her we'll say that we were washing the finger paint out of it.

She laughs and says, "This was really nice, mom."

I make a mental note to run away from home with my daughter more often.

And my sons, too.

Eventually.

When we get home, B falls asleep in my lap.

I lay him in bed, and say prayers with O, who adds his own prayer.

"Thank you God for mommy and daddy".

I have my own prayer, too.

Thank you God, for finger paint.

And swimming pools.

And small, lopsided hand prints.

And thank you God, for September.

Great Expectations

N and I were in the car the other day when she asked me to turn up the radio.

Be one of our first two hundred callers, and your child can have a chance to be on the Disney channel. Agents will be in your area this weekend...

I quickly changed the station and started talking about nothing in particular, hoping I could distract her.

"Mom, can you call that number?"

I make a mental note to disable the car radio.

We were pulling into the bank parking lot as I considered my options. I could just say no, and then end up explaining repeatedly and in great detail why I said no. Or I could try to call, knowing that it would likely be busy anyway, and that would end that.

I try to call. Busy.

A few minutes later, I try to call again. Still busy.

I think, naively, that this will be the end of it.

It's not.

Of course it's not.

N asks how we can get in touch with them.

I explain that we don't even know exactly what it was. And that, anyway, it was some kind of advertisement. And there's no guarantee we would have even done whatever it was.

"But why? Why wouldn't we have done whatever it was? I could be on the Disney Channel!"

Um, well, because whatever it is will, at some point, cost money. And it would take time. And really, because, I don't want my seven-year-old to have an agent.

"Even if it means I'd actually be on a TV show?"

Especially if it means you'd actually be on a TV show.

But I leave this part out.

She is not happy.

She is pouting. And then crying. But this isn't sobbing, attention grabbing crying. These are silent, genuine tears.

She asks me why I wouldn't want her to have an agent.

I think what an absolutely absurd conversation this is to be having with my seven-year-old.

And then I remember being eight. And going to see Annie. And spending hours laying on my bed, singing along to the tape. Wishing I could be Annie.

And I know it's not at all absurd to her.

In my mind, I tell her things about growing up too fast, and not getting to be a child, and missing out on normal childhood things.

But what I say instead is:

"You're seven. You can be in all the school plays you want. But you're not going to be on the Disney Channel anytime soon. I'm not getting you an agent".

She won't get out of the car when we get home.

I roll my eyes as I tell J why she's not coming out of the car. But then I remember Annie again, and  my heart hurts just a little.

Because that's what your heart does when your daughter is crying silent, genuine tears.

Even if she's crying because you won't get her an agent.

Eventually, she comes in and goes up to her room. After a few minutes, I wonder if she's still crying. I wonder if she'll come down for dinner. I wonder if she'll kiss me good-bye before I leave for work.

Then she dances into the kitchen, dressed as a ballerina.

She is smiling, and laughing, and asking for ice cream.

And I think, This.

This is why.

Because I will do whatever I can to keep you just like this.

For as long as I possibly can.

Doing the write thing....

So I have been thinking recently about taking a little blogging break. The problem is, every time I think about taking a break, something pops into my head that I have to write about.

I mean, I have to write about it.

When things don't make sense in my head--which is often--it usually starts to make a little more sense when I write it down. And when my head feels like it's going to explode from all those thoughts rolling around in there not making any sense, I can remember the funny parts of something and write them down, and my head doesn't feel like it's going to explode anymore.

And sometimes, I just have to write.

Maybe I have a form of OCD.  Too bad it didn't manifest itself in day long cleaning frenzies.

The thing is, I still have a lot of ambivalence about putting my writing out there for anyone to read. There's just something unsettling sometimes about knowing that anyone who wants to could be reading about my life, my kids, and well, me. Because, as we all know, not everyone in this world is as normal as you and I are.

On the other hand, the only thing more unsettling than the thought that anyone could be reading this is the thought that no one could be reading this. I mean, as much as I do this for myself, what's the point of putting this out there if I don't want anyone to read it?

Yes, this is exactly what I mean about my head feeling like it's going to explode from all those thoughts rolling around in there not making any sense.

But, once in a while, something happens that makes things just a little clearer.

Today was one of those days.

As I was thinking "Maybe I'll just take a break for a while", I received an email from an old friend about something she had read here. I don't see this friend nearly often enough. We are separated by miles, and responsibilities, and obligations. Phone calls are rare, and when they do happen, they are usually interrupted by a screaming child (usually mine) or a screaming mother (always me). And yet, we share a history. In what sometimes seems like another life, we shared an apartment, and twelve packs of cheap beer, and secrets. These days, we don't get to share much at all. But her e-mail reminded me that we still share something.

We share the experience of motherhood--and all of the joy, worries, and sadness that come with it.

That's also why I write. To share my experience of motherhood, and all that it entails.

Not everyone is going to relate to everything I write. Some days, maybe, people won't relate at all.

But most days, someone can relate to something.

And on those days, I resolve to keep writing.

Because there's nothing like knowing that somewhere, someone has the same thoughts rolling around their head as you do in yours.

Yet Again.....

I don't watch the news anymore.

I used to be a news junkie, but then I had kids. Obviously, I can't have the news on when they're around. Today is another example of that. Another mass shooting, again in Colorado. This time the victims were in a movie theater. They were there to see a Batman movie, though from the pictures of the trailer that's now being shown everywhere you look, Batman isn't quite what he used to be. It looked..explosive. Coincidence that this is where a gunman chose to kill 12 people and injure 40 more? Who knows.

What we do know is the horrific influence that this twenty-four-year-old has had on the world. And unfortunately, while we don't know the details, we also have a pretty good idea of the influence that the world has had on him.

Obviously, the gunman is the one ultimately responsible for the devastation that he created, but I can't help but wonder what prefaces a decision like this.

Was he bullied? Did his parents spend time with him? Were people kind to him? Did he grow up playing violent video games for hours on end, and watching movies about the apocalypse? Was he mentally ill? Did he get the help he needed? Did he talk about doing things like this? Was anyone paying attention?

I know what you may be thinking. Who cares? We should be focused on the victims and their families,  not the gunman who killed them.

My heart is 100% with the victims of this and their families. But here's the thing:

Now, he's the gunman. But once, he was a little boy. And then a teenager. And then a young man. He was exposed to things. And people. And experiences. He learned things. He explored things. He traveled a path. He reached a fork in the road.

And this is where he ended up.

Right now, there are many more little boys who are being exposed to similar things. And people. And experiences. And they are also learning things. As we speak. And exploring things. They, too, are traveling a path. They are reaching forks in the road. Where will they end up?

When we have an epidemic, isn't it our job to find out where it started?

Isn't that, in fact, the only way to stop it?

I'm not suggesting there's an easy answer. I have no idea what this gunman's life was like. In the absence of substantially more information, I wouldn't presume to blame his parents, or his schools, or the police and/or mental health health professionals who may or may not have had contact with him. But clearly, something, somewhere went terribly wrong.

Is it gun control? Maybe. Personally, I don't know why anyone who's not in the military or law enforcement needs access to a high powered semi automatic rifle. On the other hand, it seems that people who want to find a gun will find a way to find a gun. Which begs the question, why would anyone want to do something so devastatingly heinous in the first place?

We may never know the answer to that. But for me, it does lead to more questions:

Do we really need the kind of violence that is regular part of movies and video games today?

Do we as parents spend the kind of time with our kids that they need us to?

Are we teaching them what's really important?

Are we exemplifying what it means to treat others--all others--with dignity, respect, and kindness?

Are we truly placing value on human life?

Are we paying attention?

Because our kids are.

I'm not an expert on any of this. I'm just a mom who wants my kids to be able to walk across a college campus. Sit in a restaurant. Go to the movies.

 In peace.

I don't pretend to have the answers.

But that shouldn't stop us from asking the questions.

Almost Wordless Wednesday

Finally....a cart for three.

 During shopping trips like these, someone usually tells me that I have my hands full.

Sometimes they smile. Sometimes they shake their head. Sometimes they give an obvious sigh of relief that their own hands aren't quite as full.

And I'm reminded to be grateful that mine are.

Because I remember when they weren't.

Teachable Moments

Lately, when I've been ready to lose my mind because someone is not listening, or talking back, or throwing things yet again, I try to remind myself that these are all potentially teachable moments. I have a choice. I can lose it. Or I can stay calm, and seize the opportunity to teach.

Most of the time, I still lose it.

Sometimes, though, I'm able to work thought it and do things the "right" way--whatever the heck that means. I used to think I knew what the right thing to do--or at least one of the right things to do -would be in most parenting situations. But then I had a second child, and realized that what worked for the first did not work for the second. Shortly after having a third child, I stopped caring about what worked or what didn't, as my focus shifted to just trying to hold onto the few brain cells I have had left.

So, yeah, sometimes I make the most of these moments, sometimes I wish I knew what to do to make the most of these moments, and sometimes I just lock myself in the bathroom and ignore it all. I was doing that recently when it dawned on me that I was missing a teachable moment. Someone had just thrown something, and someone else had thrown something back, and someone was yelling, and someone was screaming, and I was locked in the bathroom, missing my teachable moment.

But it also dawned on me that maybe the moment wasn't mine to teach.

Maybe some of these moments are not so much about what I'm teaching, as what I'm learning.

To be more patient.

To just let it go.

To know when to just.shut.up.

To know when to step in.

And when to step away.

To know when to ignore.

And when not to.

To know when to keep bugging them.

And when to just hug them.

And sometimes, to know when to just breathe.

I'm pretty sure these particular children were sent to us because we're a pretty good fit. But I'm also guessing that we're supposed to teach each other a thing or two. I have a pretty good idea of what I'm supposed to be teaching them. But I only recently started thinking about what they're supposed to be teaching me.

They each taught me something incredible just by being born, but I would be naive to think that's the end of what they are supposed to teach me. And I have no doubt that, just as they will all learn their own lessons in this life, they will each help me learn mine, in their own way.

I can't help but think that it's not a coincidence that N is a mostly mellow, forgiving child who just shrugs when I can't find her favorite shirt or didn't get her the right color folder for school--the types of things I tend to beat myself up over--but who can also show no mercy when she feels strongly about something.

It's also no coincidence that B is the exact opposite of mellow, and that he manages to push every single button I have while driving me to the brink of insanity, and simultaneously wrapping me around his adorable, defiant little finger.

And, of course, it was no coincidence that O is a quieter, gentler version of his brother, who will wreak havoc like there's no tomorrow as soon as I turn my back. It's at those moments when I think I hear God himself whisper, "What? You said you wanted one more".

So when I'm confronted with a mouthy seven-year-old, or a defiant four-year-old, or a tantruming two-year-old, I'm trying hard to grab hold of the teachable moments. To help them listen and not talk back, to help them express themselves appropriately, and to help them work though their own frustration.

At the same time, I'm trying to remember that, in addition to everything I have to teach, I still have a lot to learn.

Fortunately, I have three pretty incredible teachers.

Blind Ambition

So, I'm not really ambitious.

At least not by most people's standards.

Ambitious for me is trying to do laundry with three kids who are simultaneously and repeatedly calling my name, hanging onto my legs, and throwing things at me.  Ambitious is trying to unload the dishwasher without a certain two-year-old getting to the plates before I can, and smashing them on the floor. Ambitious is trying to take a shower. By myself. And actually getting to rinse the conditioner out of my hair before they find me.

But occasionally, I have delusional moments where I forget the limits of my own ambition, and I think I am a normal person who can plan things, and organize things, and create things, and actually do things. So, a few months ago, I thought it would be a great idea to have a booth for Jimmy's business at a local festival. A few business cards, some free stuff to throw at people as they walk by, and a tent. How hard could it be?

So I ordered some pencils with our name on them. And then, thinking pencils may not be very enticing, I ordered some tape measures with our name on them. Then I realized that we needed a banner, so I ordered a banner with our name on it. I arranged to borrow a tent, and then read the fine print about the tent needing to have certain wording on the label, so I bought a tent. Then I read the fine print about providing insurance documentation so I called the insurance company. Repeatedly. I bought five cases of water to give away, and then I read the fine print about not being allowed to give away water. I ordered pictures. I put them on a display. I ordered samples. I drove two hours to pick it up the samples. And I realized, this was way more work than I had anticipated. It was all probably just a little too, well...ambitious.

The festival itself was fine, thanks to Caca staying with the kids while we set up, and then bringing them later in the day for a while. Jimmy had thought it would be best if he stayed home with the kids once we'd set up. Yes, I did just say that Caca had the kids at the festival for part of the day. Huh. Funny how that worked out. Anyway, It was about 90 degrees, which I thought might be a problem, but there was also a beer stand thirty feet away. Fortunately, I took high school geometry not once, but twice, so I happen to know that 90 degrees-30 feet to the beer stand= approximately 60 degrees. And if you factor in the several trips I made to the beer stand throughout my eleven hours of giving free stuff away in 90 degree temperatures, it was practically freezing by the time we left last night.

The pencils were not, in fact, enticing. To put it simply, no one goes to a festival for a free friggin pencil. I know this now. I will be mailing them out with our Christmas cards instead. Or maybe sooner. If you'd like one, please let me know. I'd be happy to send you one thirty. The tape measures, however, were quite a hot item, especially with the under ten crowd. They made jump ropes with them. They made belts with them. They made lassos with them. They also made other fair goers crazy with them, as they swung them around as people attempted to walk by. And, I suspect, they are making their parents insane with them at this very moment. The tape measures were also a hot item with grown ups--at least the ones who knew that they were, in fact, tape measures. One woman repeatedly pushed the red "release" button and asked me if it was a panic button. Another held it up to her ear and waited for...something, before looking at me quizzically and walking away. A grown man dressed as a gladiator took one and excitedly began playing with it, before thanking me several times for what was apparently the best gift he has received in quite some time. Overall, women were much more into the tape measures than men were. I think they might make men a little nervous for some reason.

A few friends stopped by throughout the day. Even they didn't want our friggin pencils.

At one point, I took a break and caught up with some old friends who were listening to the band. They offered to buy me beer. I offered to give them pencils. They didn't want our friggin pencils either. I took the beer anyway.

Later in the day, the people who stopped were all, well, drunk. They told me that the pictures of Jimmy's work were beautiful. They told me that they loved our banner. They told me that they loved the festival. And beer. And I think one guy told me that he loved me.

I gave him two tape measures.

I tried to give him a pencil, but apparently, that was a little too ambitious.

Abundance....

Today I took NBO to Sam's Club.

I hate taking them to Sam's Club. Three kids and a cart that's made for two kids leads to fighting and/or whining the whole time. Yes, I agree that this should be a non issue since at least one of my children is too old to be in a cart at all. Tell that to her.

Then there's the issue of where I'm actually supposed to put the items I came for--most of which are in large boxes--since there are two children in the cart. So, inevitably, I end up piling boxes on top of boxes, and around children, and under the cart, and OK, fine, on top of children, and then putting a few smaller items precariously on top of the boxes. By the time we leave, it's hard to tell there are kids in there at all. Until I hit a speed bump in the parking lot and everything falls off the cart.

Then you get a glimpse of the kids.

I also have a new reason to hate going to Sam's club. B now uses the potty. Yes, it's true. This is a good thing, right? Sure it is. Except that now of course, he has to go to the potty often, which at Sam's Club means I have to take him and O out of the cart, which means I first have to remove the boxes that are surrounding them, and then do it all in reverse when we come back. In addition, this new potty experience leads to conversations I never imagined myself having, like:

"No, you can't take your bagel in the bathroom".
"Bagel in bathroom!"
"No bagel in the bathroom".
"Yes bagel in bathroom!"
"Bagels are not allowed in the bathroom!"
"BAGEL IN BATHROOM!"

Just in case you're wondering,  he didn't bring the bagel into the bathroom.

I also find myself saying things I never expected to say, like:

Please don't lick the shopping cart, Get the cheese stick out of your nose, Stop spitting yogurt at your brother, and Please don't run with the salami.

Having said all of that, I also love going to Sam's Club.

 I love that I can buy huge boxes of diapers. And wipes. And paper towels. And juice boxes. I love that, if I wanted to, I could feed my kids lunch by walking around to the sample stands. Not that I would ever admit to it actually do that, of course. Without a doubt, all of this is excess, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't cause me to have some middle class American guilt. But behind the excess--the reason for the excess, and the reason I love theses trips--is abundance.

Three kids who need to eat. And drink. And, of course, poop. In fact, I think they do a lot more of that than eating and drinking, but I digress. I know that I'm incredibly lucky to be able to walk into a store and buy everything we need. I may wonder exactly how that credit card will get paid off, but I know that it will get paid off. I don't wonder how my kids will eat this week, or whether they will have clothes to wear to school, and thankfully, I never had to seriously consider using cloth diapers because they might be a cheaper alternative (and trust me, while I appreciate the valid concerns about our environment, that is the only reason I ever would have considered using them).

Maybe I have a love-hate relationship with places like Sam's club because taking the kids there is just like my life in general, only on a smaller scale.

It's exhausting.
And difficult.
And chaotic.
And messy.
And frustrating.
And exhausting.

And yet, as O is throwing apples on the floor and an elderly lady passes us and smiles--actually smiles--I am reminded once again that in the midst of all of this, there is simply abundance. 

I sometimes wonder if my kids have any concept of  this. I suspect they probably don't.

They don't know the concept of abundance because, fortunately, they have never known deprivation.
They don't how lucky they are to have a refrigerator full of (mostly) healthy food, because they have never known otherwise. There's nothing special to them about having  a father who works so hard and a mother who is able to be with them all day because, in their world, that's just the way it's always been.

At this point in their lives, they don't have any idea what abundance even means.

But me?

I have a pretty good idea of what it means, because behind every exhausting, difficult, chaotic, messy, frustrating day of motherhood, there is an abundance of just about everything good.

Sometimes, you just have to move the diaper boxes to see it.

Awakenings

I love seeing my kids first thing in the morning. I particularly love getting up and walking quietly into their rooms to watch them while they're still sleeping, before I sneak downstairs for a cup of coffee in silence.


Of course, I haven't actually had a morning like that since 2007. But I would love it.

Instead, most days begin like yesterday did. I wake to realize that morning has come a little sooner than I would have liked, and that there is a small elbow/foot/head pressing into my back. Eventually, it becomes clear that N, this morning's owner of said elbow/foot/head is not going to give me any space in my own bed, so I settle for a few more minutes of something vaguely resembling sleep, as I cling to the side of the bed. I am awakened again a few minutes later.

By a finger in my eye.

"Hey mom. You awake?" B asks me in what I think is supposed to pass for a whisper.

I consider pretending that I'm not awake, but I'm afraid of getting a finger in my other eye. So, instead, I cautiously open the eye that I'm currently able to open.

"Mom! You're awake!" He is happily surprised. I wonder if he would just keep sleeping if someone put their finger in his eye. I make a mental note to try it and find out.



We talk for a minute. About not poking people in the eyes. About whispering in the morning. About staying in your own room and playing quietly until mommy wakes up. He listens. He actually gets quiet. And then he picks up a toy drum, and starts playing it. When I ask him to stop, he does. And then he throws it across the room.

Then we talk some more. About what we are doing this summer, and how in the Fall, it will be time for military pre school.

Somehow, I drift off again, and it gets quiet. I realize the quiet could be a very bad sign, but at the moment I don't care. And then I realize something.

I am being fondled.

B is rubbing my head. And my arms. Then my stomach. And my legs.

I open my eyes--both of them this time, and in my nicest why-the-hell-won't-anyone-in-my-life-just-leave-me-alone-and-let-me-actually-sleep-for-a-change voice, I say,

"Please. Stop. Touching. Me."

He looks at me. And smiles.

"I just love you mom. I just love every part of you."

I love you too, sweet boy.

But it's important that you learn to keep your hands to yourself.

Fondling sleeping women will very likely get you kicked out of  military  pre school.

Let There Be Light....Please

We recently lost our electricity for four days as the result of severe thunderstorms. It led to a few realizations for me:


In the grand scheme of things, considering that some people lost their homes, cars, or even their lives, it is not a big deal to lose your electric for four days.

Having said that, with three young kids inside and one hundred degree temperatures outside, losing your electricity for four days can feel like a big deal. Especially when it also means that you have no water.

The value of having family and friends nearby who share their air conditioning, water, and pools with you should not be underestimated.

My husband works very hard to make sure we're comfortable. The kids and I went away on a short pre-planned trip in the middle of this, and we returned to a generator powered air conditioner and working TV in our basement. Yes, it has also occurred to me that he did this to guarantee that we would, in fact, return home.

I don't do particularly well cooped up in one room of my house with my children for two days, even if it's a cool room with a working TV. And by "don't do well", I mean that sometime during day three, I'm pretty sure I watched bits of my sanity walk right out the door.

 My children don't do particularly well cooped up in one room with me for two days, even if it's a cool room with a working TV. And by "don't do well", I mean that they actually loved the idea of a slumber party in the basement. Unfortunately for me, slumber parties generally involve very little slumber. One night, O finally fell asleep on the couch with Jimmy. An hour later, I woke to find him on the other couch with me. I moved to the floor, and when I woke up again, he was hanging from said couch, with his head two inches from the floor, still sound asleep. Apparently at least one of my children is part possum.

When the alternative is being outside in one hundred degree weather, I don't care how much TV my children watch. And I started not to care what they watched. When they had watched twenty seven episodes of Bernstein Bears, I started thinking that maybe The Real Housewives of New Jersey was appropriate for kids after all. (Yeah, I know what you're thinking. I should have turned off the TV and played a game with them. Really? Have you tried playing a game with all three of them? N, bless her heart, actually tries to play. B just wants to see which game piece he can hit the ceiling with, though he is usually limited to whichever piece O is not trying to eat. Don't believe me? You try it. Let me know how that goes for you.)

In spite of none of us doing particularly well under these conditions, there are advantages to not being able to cook, do the dishes, do the laundry, or clean the house for several days. But eventually, when your electricity comes back on, you will have to cook, do the dishes, do the laundry, and clean the house. And it's not pretty.

People are much nicer to one another in a crisis.  One of the few restaurants that had electricity had long breakfast lines, but instead of  tapping their feet impatiently, people actually wanted to talk to those around them. What makes this even more amazing is that most of these people had no water, and had therefore not taken a shower in a day or two. Did I mention it was one hundred degrees outside? Taking time to talk to the person in line behind you is one thing. Taking time to talk to the smelly person in line behind you is something else entirely.

Most importantly, I realized that if God had wanted me to live with my family of five in one small room with one hundred degree temperatures outside and limited access to water, I would have been born into a tribal culture in some other part of the world.

OK, so that last one probably isn't true, and yet--while I suspect that those who do live in one room huts with their entire families could teach me a thing or two about gratitude and acceptance--I'm feeling pretty grateful that my day to day life includes things like electricity, and water, and air conditioning.

I'm even grateful for the Bernstein Bears.

Almost.