What's Not to Love?

N started a gymnastics class the other day. As I sat in the waiting room without the boys and watched her through the glass,  I couldn't help but overhear the two moms talking behind me. OK, fine, I probably could have helped it, if I had tried. But I didn't try. So, as I was eavesdropping, I overheard them talk about being teachers in the same school, and now being home with their kids for the summer.

"Are you enjoying your summer?"

"Enjoying it? It's GREAT. I mean, whats not to love?"

I almost laughed out loud at her obvious sarcasm. What's not to love?  How about the whining? The fighting? The screaming? The never ending adjustment issues we all face as we get used to spending every waking moment together?

I briefly turned around to show my appreciation for her sentiments, and that's when I saw it.

The look of complete and utter sincerity on her face.

She actually meant it.

I do love summer at home with my kids. I love the free time, and the fact that we can spend our days however we want to, and not having to get up early and rush out the door every morning. And soon I will love other parts of summer. But right now, not quite two weeks into it, we are most certainly not in What's not to love? mode. In fact, we are still rather firmly entrenched in How will we survive without killing each other? mode.

This phase will pass. I know it will. And soon, there will be a  lot of things we love about summer.

But even then, I tend to think that I won't go quite so far as to say Whats not to love?, because in spite of all that I do love, the first two weeks of summer have reminded me that there are also a few things not to love.

Like swim lessons, as your eight year old freaks out when she's told to jump off the diving board, and your five year old refuses to do what he's told, and your three year old, who hasn't taken lessons at all, decides to jump into the pool. Simultaneously.

And like the locker room after swim lessons, with the two screaming boys who ultimately require us, once again, to do the walk of shame to the parking lot, barefoot and in wet clothes.

Like deciding that summer is the perfect time to potty train O, and then thinking that he can now go to the frozen yogurt place without a diaper on.

So that he can pee all over their floor.

Like the fact that someone is always talking to me.

Yes, I realize I'm their mother. But the thing is, I'm also an introvert. At times, the two are mutually exclusive. No one tells you that, but it's true.

Yeah, I'd say there are just a few things not to love about summer.

But here I was, apparently alone in this.

I went back to watching N. She was pulled aside from the group of girls she had started the class with, and was now getting her own private gymnastics lesson. I realize it must be remedial gymnastics, for daughters of women who could never do a cartwheel. Although she can do a cartwheel--quite well in fact. But I decide that she somehow must have not have been up to the skill level of the other girls in her group, and that's why she's getting private attention. I am perplexed since one girl is about four, but she must be the daughter of a woman who could do a cartwheel, and has probably been taking gymnastics since birth.

My heart hurts for N. I wonder if she's about to cry. She doesn't look like it, but I know that if I had been pulled into remedial gymnastics at her age, I would have cried. She goes through the drill that the teacher asks her to do. I watch the other group, and the four year old gymnast-since-birth. They don't look that far ahead of N. I decide it's definitely because she's the daughter of a mother who could never do a cartwheel.

I give her a big smile and thumbs up as she passes by the window to get a drink, and I hope she can read my mind.

Don't cry, sweet girl. It's OK to be a remedial gymnast. Unless, of course, you really WANT to cry. Then screw it, we'll just leave and go eat ice cream.

I listen to the women behind me as they talk some more about how much they loooooove summer.

I decide they're pathological liars. Pathological liars who can do cartwheels.

Eventually, N is done. I plaster a big smile on my face, in case she is about to cry.

"Mom!" she tells me excitedly. "I was the only one who showed up for my class today! All those other girls are in the cheer leading class! I got my OWN PRIVATE lesson!"

I tell her how great that is.

I don't tell her what an idiot her mother is. She'll figure it out for herself soon enough.

"I LOVE gymnastics. Did you see me do those cartwheels? And I made friends with one of the cheer leading girls. It's so weird. I don't know how, but I seem to make friends every where I go."

On the way home, we pass a sign for a financial planner, and N asks me what that is. I give her a brief explanation, and she says "Oooooh, I get it. Kind of like, should I buy an i pad.....or a unicorn."

"Yeah, just like that," I tell her.

"I would totally buy the unicorn," she tells me.

"Me too", I tell her. "Definitely the unicorn".

And for a brief moment, at least, I think What's not to love?

Summer...

Yesterday was our first official day of summer vacation.

Ten unstructured weeks that belong to no one but us.

Long, free days of endless time.

It's not really endless. I know this. But compared to the school year craziness of school drops offs, and pick ups, and end of year parties, and field days, and school lunches, and dance, and Brownies, and swim classes, and birthday parties, and homework, and trying to find time to wash, dry, and maybe even actually fold laundry, well, in comparison to all of that it seems endless.

For now.

We could go the pool, or have a picnic outside, or run a few errands and stop for ice cream on the way home.

Because this is Summer

But as I looked around, I realized that our house is a disaster and that first I must instill some kind of order.

I also did this because we had already been on summer vacation for two whole hours, and I had already broken up three fights and put two people in their room repeatedly, and then I heard this incredibly shrill voice practically scream that we do not eat birthday cake in the living room.

And I realized that the voice was mine.

So I thought I should probably take a little break

And that's when I remembered this is Summer, too.

I tried to start with  laundry, because our house is about to be swallowed up by dirty towels. And maybe also just a little bit because doing laundry briefly allowed me to lock myself in the family room with the mostly crazy but still entertaining Real Housewives of New Jersey. I also find them therapeutic, because as much as I dislike laundry, I realize that, given the choice, I would much rather spend every precious moment of my life folding laundry than having to interact with some of those women in real life.

But they found me. The kids, not the housewives. And then they thought that we were all going to hang out with the housewives, which for obvious reasons wouldn't have been the best plan.

So I decided to catch up with the housewives another time, and went upstairs to go through school bags, and binders, and folders.

I was trying to throw away most of it, and only keep a few things, but how to decide?

I noticed how much their work had changed between September and June.

B can write his name perfectly now.

N is writing stories like she's been doing it her whole life.

I think back to when she was just learning to write her name, and when B swore that he was never going to pre-school. Didn't those things happen just last week?

I go through folders of artwork made by small clumsy hands, and short answers written by an almost overly conscientious hand. Pages of the letter D printed over, and over, and over again. A packet of  the alphabet written in cursive. A picture of a stick figure holding a hose, with "I want to be a fire fighter" in a pre-school teacher's handwriting. A drawing from a friend, because that's what second grade girls do.

I think of where they will be a year from now, and realize that I don't even know. I have some idea, of course, of what they will be learning, and how they may change and grow. But I also know that when we get there, it will still surprise me somehow. As if they grew up without me knowing it. As if I somehow haven't been here every step of the way.

Except that I have been.

I know that I've been here, because I remember taking a three year old to her first day of preschool, as I carried her infant brother in a carrier. I remember going to her preschool graduation with him as a not quite two year old, and a brand new brother just home from the hospital. I remember her first day of kindergarten, and being home with two wild boys all day every day for two years, before one of them finally went to preschool.

It felt like finally. But now I know that it wasn't. Not really.

In B's binder, I find a butterfly made out of foot prints that I realize will no longer fit his feet next year. In N's, a handwritten answer contrasting caterpillars and people.

Caterpillars get to be butterflies after being in a cocoon. But people have to be teenagers first.

I have no idea what this means. It makes no sense.

And I know exactly what it means.

It makes perfect sense.

And so I keep it.

In fact, I keep almost all of it.

Some day I may get rid of it.

But not yet.

I think about O possibly going to pre-school this Fall. B's teachers have told me how ready he is, and I have no doubt he will do just fine.

And yet, he just turned three. He has time.

We have time.

At least, a little.

I look at the butterfly footprints in front of me, and the handwritten answer contrasting caterpillars and people.

I don't understand everything about caterpillars, and cocoons, and teenagers, and butterflies.

But, looking at these things, I know the truth.

Time is not endless

Not at all.

Two Men....

I always knew that I had a great Dad. Although I only had him for eighteen years, we squeezed a lot into those years. And yet, it's only since I've become a parent that I've realized that he wasn't really great.

He was amazing.

He was widowed at forty-five, with seven children between the ages of six months and eighteen--six of them still at home. He continued to work at the fire department for the next eight years, while raising us on his own. When he retired, he worked as a limo driver, and a restaurant manager, while raising the few of us still at home, and being an involved presence to those who had already flown the nest.

I won't bother telling you what his schedule was like, or what our house was like. You can probably imagine. Or you probably can't. In which case, me telling you isn't going to change that. But that's not what really matters anyway. What I will tell you is that he successfully raised us, and while he had the helping hands at times of friends and family, he also did it very much alone. Our clothes weren't fancy, though since he somehow managed to send all of us to Catholic School at some point, there wasn't much of a need for that anyway. I didn't go to school with my hair in cute pigtails--in fact, I was probably lucky that most days I went to school with my hair brushed. No one got a new car for their sixteenth birthday--or--in most cases, a used one, either. There were no college funds, or wedding funds, or down payments for houses.

And yet, we had laughter, and we had love, and we had vacations every year, because when you grow up as one of seven children during the Depression, and never get to go to the Jersey Shore like a few of the neighbors with smaller families did, you learn that family vacations are important. Even if that means that you have to drive for two days with most of your seven children in the back of the station wagon.

Did I mention that this was before xanax?

My six siblings and I are all different to some degree, but we are all alike in the important ways.

We all had the same teacher.

We know how to laugh, and how to work hard, and that, ultimately, there's not much that's more important than family.

I suspect that we also know that when things sometimes seem hard,  we really have no idea what hard truly is.

We also know that life is short.

My father gave many gifts to all of us, and I don't know that there is one greater than the rest.

But today, on Father's Day, there is one that stands out more than the rest.

He showed me what a good man is, and what a good father is, and what things in life are important.

And as a result of that, when the time came, I knew what a good man looked like.

Though it's not always easy to be married to the daughter of a man like my father, my children also have a pretty incredible teacher.

I won't be at all surprised if some day they write about their own great dad on Father's Day.

And I know that by then, they will come to understand that he, too, is amazing.

Children...Sometimes They Shouldn't be Seen OR Heard...

As we were stopped at a light on the way to school one morning a few weeks ago, it struck me that, at that moment, our car was absolutely silent. While I should have just enjoyed the moment, it felt...odd. Surreal. Maybe even a little....unsettling.

Had I left a child at home? Had someone lapsed into unconsciousness? Had I forgotten to remove the duct tape?

Then O's newly three-year-old voice spoke up from the back seat, "Mom, is this for real?"

I love it when they read my mind like that.

"I think it is", I tell him.

"Oh", he says.

"What are you talking about?" B asks.

"It's OK, O. It's always good to check", N tells him.

Now everyone is talking at once. Talking over one another. Interrupting each other.

So glad everything is back to normal.

I ask B if he has his back pack.

"It's not a back pack, Mom." he tells me, clearly disgusted by my ignorance.

"It's a toke bag".

And if I had any doubt about things going back to normal, I was further reassured at home that afternoon, as I was in the kitchen making dinner and  heard N yell "Eeew! Get my book out of your butt crack!"

Yet another phrase I didn't think I would ever hear in my home.

I agree with N that a butt crack is no place for a book, and get back to making dinner. The boys are loud. Not listening. Defiant.

Yup, definitely back to normal.

We eventually sit down to dinner--without Jimmy, who is working late-- and half way through I realize that O is sitting at the dinner table completely naked.

But he's eating his vegetables, and you know, you can't have everything.

B asks to be excused from the table and tells me he has to go the bathroom.

He starts up the stairs, and then comes back.  "But don't worry Mom. I wont need your help. I'm just peeing. Not pooping. So I don't need to wipe".

He disappears again and then sticks his head around the corner.

"You do have to shake your mickey, though. Oh sorry. I didn't meant to talk about that when you were eating."

He leaves again, and then his head appears around the corner again.

"The poop talk, I mean, and the pee. And the part about shaking my mickey".

So glad he cleared that up.

I get up to get N a drink, and turn around to see O standing on the table. Still naked.

"Mom, can you get me down?"

"Why are you on the table?" I ask

"Cause I can't get down".

Well, of course.

A few days later, we are in the women's locker room at the pool. This is a no no. Well, a kind of sort of no no. Apparently you aren't allowed to bring boys over three into the women's locker room, so I had been attempting to change them in the family "changing room". But one day, when I, soaking wet, and disheveled, and OK, fine, maybe about to cry, mentioned to the manager that it would be really nice to have a family changing room that was an actual room and  not a bathroom, where my three year old  plays in the toilet while I'm sitting on the floor helping my four year old get dressed, the nice manager decided that she didn't want my apparently imminent nervous breakdown to be on her watch and told me we could use the women's room, as long as we stayed in the separate stall.

Yeah.

Good luck with that

But we do try to stay in the separate stall. Which is where we were this particular day, as B danced naked on the bench, while loudly singing "We're the naked family".

Over, and over, and over again,

We are finally dressed and ready to leave. I open the door to make sure the coast is clear, and start to usher the boys out toward the exit. We're almost home free.

Except that at that moment, a completely naked woman decides to walk from the shower to the stall on the other side of ours. She sees us and stops. We go back into our stall. She backs up around the corner. Thinking this is our chance, I bring the boys out again. But she also thinks this is her chance, and we are back to standing in front of each other. And there we are. All of us. Some naked, others not.

All equally humiliated.

I cover the boys eyes and turn them toward the exit.

"Mom!" B yells, "I can't SEE anything when you do that!".

We make a run for it--quite literally, and I stop at Sam's Club on the way home. I am meandering through the store, wondering if anyone had every gotten PTSD from a trip to a pool locker room, and forgetting what I am even in this store for.

A man waves me over from a sample stand. I almost ignore him. I'm not in the mood for frozen pizza bites or fat free, sugar free, mango-pineapple-coconut flavored Greek yogurt.

But he's not giving away samples of those things. Instead, he holds out a small cup and says "Would you like to try a sample of a our margaritas?"

Did he just offer me a margarita? I am giddy. I briefly forget about my locker room induced PTSD.

But then I realize that there must be a catch.

I eye him suspiciously as I sip it.

"Does it have booze in it?"

"Uh, no".

"Why not?" I ask him

"Ummmm, well, because we're Sam's Club. We don't have a liquor license".

"When are you going to get one?" I ask him

He looks at me as if I'm not well in some way. Well, I'm not. I have PTSD. But I decide not to tell him that.

"You're welcome to add your own alcohol. You just add it to the bag. And we have five different flavors".

I decide to take one of each.

The man tells me they'll be great at parties, or for a girls' night, or just to relax with on warm summer nights.

But me?

I'm thinking they'll fit nicely in my toke bag the next time I have to go into the PTSD inducing locker room with my children.

The Rules for Summer

Dear Family,

Very soon, we will all be spending a lot more time together, and while I cherish this time with you, I also think we should set some ground rules so that we all keep our sanity.

Or so that at least I keep mine.

Showers. Since some days, this is my only time to myself, it is important that it really is time to myself.  This morning, for example, I was interrupted seven times in ten minutes by someone needing me. Or, more precisely, thinking that they needed me. Let's talk about need. If any of the following are happening, you have a NEED:

Blood (copious amounts)

Choking (involving airway obstruction)

Unconsciousness

I think that about covers it.

Changing the channel on the TV? Not a need.

Telling your brother/sister/father/dog to be nicer to you? Not a need.

Finding your socks? Not a need.

Getting you a drink? Nope.

Buttoning your pants? Uh, no.

Deciding that this moment is the perfect time to tell me about something that someone said to you at school three weeks ago--something that, come to think of it, you can't really remember all that well anyway, is not a need.

Asking me where the butter is, in case you were wondering, is also not a need. Especially when you are the only other grown up in the house. And because there is only one place the butter could be. Unless, of course, you ask me again where the butter is when I'm in the shower.

Then there will be another place that the butter could be.

Naps. If I say take one, then you take one. I may tell you it's because you look tired, or because I want you to have lots of energy to do something fun the next day. In truth, if I tell you to take a nap, it's because I am about to loose my mind and I need you to take a nap. I don't care if you're not tired, haven't taken naps in five years, or just woke up. Just.take.a.nap. Or pretend. That's fine with me, too. Just keep in mind that truly pretending means that your eyes remain closed at all times and you do not speak. Or move.

Conflict. If I have to spend my entire summer breaking up fights, working out compromises, and telling you to be kind to one another, I will have no energy left to take you to the pool, the playground, or for ice cream. Just work.it.out. Or ignore each other for the next ten weeks. That works for me, too.

Sleep. For the past nine months I have gotten up early almost every morning to get you to school, church, or religious ed classes. For the next ten weeks, I would prefer not to have to get up early every morning. But some of you seem to be under the false impression that when you get up, I must get up. This is, in fact, not the case. When you get up, you are free to turn on the television (keeping the volume low) or help yourselves to something to eat. I know that you are capable of doing this since I have, on more than one occasion, found an empty box of granola bars, which had been previously kept on the highest shelf in the cabinet. Alternately, if you would like to come snuggle in my bed, that is fine. However, snuggle does not mean talk, cry, yell, tattle, sing, play with toys, or steal my blankets. It means snuggle. Please note that snuggling, in our house, is a silent, motionless activity.

Me Time. I would do anything for any of you at any time. In theory. In reality, we will be spending almost every waking moment together for the next ten weeks, which means that in order for me to continue to function as a mostly kind, mostly sane mommy, I will occasionally have times when the shower wasn't enough and I need a few minutes of down time. You may see me go into my room. Or maybe get on the computer. Or maybe go outside. DO NOT FOLLOW ME. I will be back, I promise. But please do not choose this moment to ask me for a drink, a snack, a new shirt, or to read to you. Mostly nice, mostly sane mommy will be mostly happy to do those things for you in a few minutes, but if you follow me and hound me until I do them for you RIGHT NOW, mostly unkind, mostly insane mommy will be throwing your juice, granola bar, t-shirt, and book at you from across the room. And  really, you just don't want that.

Noise Levels: There are three of you. There's only one of me. I know you get loud when you're excited or happy, and even louder when you're unhappy.  Like when someone takes a toy away. Or looks at you funny. Or when they get the last cupcake  carrot stick. But the thing is, the louder you get, the more over stimulated I get. And when I get over stimulated, mostly nice, mostly sane mommy leaves, and mostly unkind, mostly insane mommy comes out. So, please, since you know I'm going to tell you to do it anyway, just lower your voices. Or, better yet, take them outside.  It's summer. Go outside and enjoy yourself. I know it's 100 degrees/thundering/mosquito infested out there, but trust me, come September, you'll miss these days.

Questions: You each get to ask me five questions a day. Questions are non transferable and cannot be saved up to be cashed in later. Choose wisely.

Bedtime. Nine pm. I don't care that it's summer. That IS a later bedtime. Take it or leave it. But if you leave it, you'll be in bed at eight instead.

Good night sweet cherubs.

And when you say your prayers tonight, please don't forget to pray for me.

God knows I'll need it.

Love,

Your Mother

P.S. Happy Summer!!!

Are We Done Yet?

It's June. Do you know what that means?

It means I'm done. I'm done waking small people up in the morning, while I make sure that I have a smile on my face, because after all, smiles are contagious and if I'm smiling and pretending to be happy to be out of bed, maybe they will smile and be happy about going to school.

I'm done with that.

I'm done with lunches, or more precisely, I'm done standing in front of the refrigerator as I stare into it and wait for something to jump out at me and tell me I should put it on a sandwich and call it lunch. I've been making lunch almost every day since...well, forever...but I've been making school lunches for the better part of nine months. Peanut butter. Turkey. Tuna fish. Egg salad. I'm sick of all of you. So are they. What's left?

Who the hell cares.

Here, have some crackers and cheez whiz. No, I didn't write a note on your napkin today. I stopped doing that three weeks ago. Just know that I love you, and think of me when you wipe the cheez whiz off your pretty face.

I'm done with finding clean clothes for everyone every day. I don't know why this part has gotten hard, but it has. Just wear...something. I don't care what. That shirt that I said was inappropriate last Fall because of the big open part on the back? Wear it. No, it's not inappropriate anymore. Why not?

Because it's June. And I no longer care.

About anything.

I'm done with homework. Just do it. Or don't. I don't care. I don't know why they started teaching you division when there are exactly six days left in the school year anyway. In fact, I don't know why they teach you division at all. Get a calculator and call it a day. And I'm sorry that I can't help you, though that's not because it's June.

It's because I suck at math.

Show and tell? Yes, you have something for show and tell. You have...YOU! And let me tell you, there is a lot to show and tell about you. Just don't show too much.

Come to think of it, you probably shouldn't tell too much either.

You need a picture for the letter web? What letter are we doing this week? Are we still doing letters? Is it Z yet? It must be Z.

Or, come to think of it, maybe it's F.

Cause I'm pretty sure it's F'in June.

And I'm done.