Feeling Zany....

A few weeks ago, N brought home a flyer that offered discount tickets to see Dan Zanes and Friends in concert.

 Since we'd listened to some of his music, and seen him on the Kids Music Channel, and since its fishing season AND football season--both of which are guarantees that Jimmy will be otherwise occupied--it seemed like a good idea

OK, fine, the other thing that influenced my decision is that after watching Dan Zanes videos on the Kids Music Channel for 597 hours, I started to develop a crush. They don't show very many actual people on that channel, so it was either him or the Wiggles, and the Wiggles seem to enjoy each other's company just a little too much for me to think we could ever have a thing.

Don't judge me. When you've been home with kids for seven years, and you realize that neither soap operas nor tequila shots are acceptable forms of entertainment for mothers who are home with their children, the guy singing kids songs on tv starts to look kind of cute.

So we went.

And he is cute. In that rocker-turned-family-music-guy-who-intentionally-mismatches-his-clothes-and-doesn't-comb-his-hair-kind-of-a-way.

I mean, if that's your thing.

Anyway, on the way there, we reviewed appropriate concert etiquette. You sing along and dance in your seat, unless someone tells you otherwise (which I thought they might). Our etiquette lesson got side tracked at one point when B blurted out the word "stupid" (not in relation to my etiquette lesson. At least I don't think so).  I told him we don't say that word. N informed me that, earlier, he was calling someone named Bob stupid.

I'm pretty sure we don't know anyone named Bob.

"B", I told him, "That is not a nice word and I don't want to hear it again."

"But why, mom?"

"Because it's not nice, B. I don't want to hear it".

"OK, mom."

He was quiet for a minute, and then said "Mom, I really don't understand why I can't say Bob".

Yeah.

Once the show started, we did dance in our seats for a while, and then Dan (I don't think he minds if I call him Dan) told us that this wasn't that kind of a concert. That this was, in fact, a party.

Which, of course, meant that insanity immediately ensued.

The room became one giant toddler mosh pit. There was slam dancing. And body surfing. At one point, I even thought I smelled something familiar--something that took me back to my own concert days.

But surely, no one would have that here. Surely, no one would be passing...

Gas.

They were just passing gas.

A lot of it.

Apparently when you put two hundred pre schoolers in a room together and tell them to start jumping around, it really gets things moving.

For the rest of the show, I chased O to and from the exit doors while B slammed into children we don't know and N alternately swayed in the aisle or sat in her seat and pretended that she wasn't singing along.

Eventually, we waited in an absolutely ridiculous line to buy a CD, and some groupie mom butted in front of us and got the last CD of Dan's newest release. I know her type. She's just like those girls who used to throw their underwear on stage at Bon Jovi concerts.

No matter.

We still got Dan's autograph.

And I'm pretty sure he winked at me.

Depth Finder...

I've been trying to make time to read lately.

I am amazed at how some people can put their thoughts on paper. Deep, complex, so much bigger than all of this kind of thoughts.

It makes me think that I'd like to write something that deep, that complex, that much bigger than all of this.

I tell myself that those other writers clearly have a wisdom that I don't yet possess. An ability to put their thoughts into words that I don't quite have. A gift for writing that far surpasses my own attempts.

But that's not all.

There's something else that keeps me from writing as deeply as they do.

I'm too busy scraping dried peaches off the floor.

I'm too busy chasing toddlers who inform me they are just going out to get the mail, as they unlock the dead bolt and head for the road. I'm too busy checking homework. Too busy kissing boo boos. And teaching manners. And trying to find the forgotten sippy cup that is stinking up my living room.

At least I hope it's a sippy cup.

I'm too busy climbing through windows to rescue the child who was locked in the basement by his brother. Too busy reading books. Too busy telling kids to clean up their toys, or they will lose pieces to their games and we won't play them anymore. Too busy playing games that long ago lost most of their pieces. Too busy thinking that I'm kind of a like a game that lost most of its pieces.

Only in my case, I lost most of my marbles.

I'm too busy looking around me at the mess that drives me crazy, as I remind myself that this too, shall pass. I'm too busy washing clothes, and drying clothes, and folding clothes.

But somehow never putting clothes away.

I'm too busy laughing. And crying. And pulling my hair out.

I'm too busy driving. Driving them to school, driving them home, driving them to dance, and Girl Scouts, and play dates.

They're busy, too. Driving me crazy.

But someday, I think, maybe I won't be so busy. And then I can write something really deep. Something complex. Something bigger than all of this.

For now, the only thing deep is me.

 Knee deep in dirty clothes. Up to my elbows in dirty dishes.

Deeply in love with these little people who cause me to deeply question my sanity.

Deep seated in the knowledge that there's probably not much that's all that much bigger than this, anyway.

Breaking and Entering...

I've discovered that there is a positive aspect to your septic system overflowing all over your basement.

When the septic system overflows all over your basement,  you have to rip up all the carpet, and your husband installs tile on the basement floor, and you decide to get an area rug for the middle of the room, and the rug has that new rug smell, so you open the windows to air it out.

And fortunately, even though your husband closed the windows last night, you decided this morning that they really needed to be opened, cause that room still had the new rug smell.

And amazingly, you actually remembered to open them.

Which you are grateful for a few hours later, when your four year old informs you, through his laughter, that he has locked his two year old brother in that same room.

And this time, for some reason, the old coat hanger trick isn't working.

So you go outside, and you remove the screen, and you pray that the neighbors aren't watching, as you haul your butt through the window. At one point, you think maybe you should have brought your phone, in case you get stuck.

But then you realize, there's no way in hell you would ever actually call anyone to tell them you are stuck in the basement window anyway. You would just stay there, half in and half out, hoping that someone passing by would bring you some Crisco, while never actually acknowledging that you are stuck in your window.

Fortunately, you have enough room, and don't need the phone anyway.

Or the Crisco.

You do, however, realize that someone should be cleaning the outside window sills. Those things are disgusting.

But as half of your body is through the window, and you are contemplating how exactly to get your legs in without breaking one or both of them on the newly installed tile, your sweet two year old who has been quietly watching cartoons looks up at you, and says,

"Hi mom! Are you having a good day?"

Well, you know. I've had better.

Once you are in, and give your two year old lessons on how to unlock the door, you retrieve your four year old from his room and explain that he cannot lock his brother in the basement.

It's not nice. It could have scared him.

And besides, only mommy gets to lock people in the basement.

You then text one of your dearest friends, to fill her in on how exactly your day is going, and because she's one of your dearest friends, who has only your best interest at heart and wants only good things for you, she responds with, "Hahahahahahahahahahahaha".

Because that's what friends are for, obviously.

And then, to drive your point home with your four year old, you tell him that you had to crawl through the window to rescue his brother from the basement.

He stares at you for a minute, and you think that at least he now realizes the error of his ways.

And then he smiles and said "Really, mom? You crawled in through the window? Wow. You are cool, mom. You are so cool".

Yup, that's me.

So the next time you drive by our house and see my legs sticking out of the basement window, just remember...

I'm cool.

Irish (Dancers) Need Not Apply...

N started taking Irish dance a few weeks ago. This means that I no longer get to be embarrassed each week by B and O's antics at the ballet studio.

Now I get to be embarrassed each week by their antics at the Irish dance studio instead.

The Irish Dance classes are held at a large community center. When we walked in the first week, I noticed what a beautiful studio the class was in. I noticed how kind and knowledgeable N's teacher was. I noticed that there were several other types of dance classes going on at the same time.

And then I noticed that there were approximately 597 parents and siblings waiting in the hallway, which only had 27 chairs.

If it was just me, that wouldn't be so bad. Admittedly, I don't like crowds. But I would know to bring a vodka  pumpkin spice latte and a book and park myself in a corner somewhere. But it's not just me. I have B and O with me. They'll never let me drink my vodka  coffee in peace. Nor are they going to sit quietly in a corner for forty-five minutes if there's no duct tape involved.

So we wandered around to look at the Rec center's facilities. We found an indoor track. We walked it. For almost the whole time.

This, I thought, is a perfect way to spend the forty-five minutes while N's in class.

So yesterday, we again dropped N off at class, and headed upstairs to walk the track.

We completed all of two laps before an employee yelled at me as she pointed to B and O.

"Are they in Irish dance?"

Well, they obviously aren't in Irish dance because they are, in fact, here, on the track, with me. And besides, look at them. Do you think anyone has a chance of getting them to do an actual dance step, unless maybe it's "One, two, three, kick your brother in the knee"?

I decided these thoughts were better off in my head, and told her we were waiting for my daughter who was, in fact, in the Irish dance class.

"You need to wait in the hallway downstairs".

Huh?

I think I may have said that part out loud.

"Irish dance people aren't allowed up here. You need to wait in the hallway downstairs."

Yeah, that hallway. The one with 597 parents and 27 chairs.

I wondered why it was only the Irish dance people who couldn't use the track. Apparently, the ballet, tap, and jazz people were more than welcome to use it. Not that they were, since there were all of two other people on the track.

I thought of telling her this was clearly discrimination.

I thought of telling her a few other things too. But I didn't.

Instead, I grabbed B and O and told them we weren't allowed to walk on the track anymore.

"But why?" B wanted to know.

"Because we're with the Irish Dancers honey, and the Irish dance people aren't allowed to walk on the track with all the other people". 

Even though there were hardly any other people.

Then I smiled my sweetest, fakest smile at the employee, who was obviously not leaving until we had gotten off her track.

Apparently, the Irish dance people aren't allowed on the track because the Irish dance teacher only rents space from the Rec Center.

She did inform me that we were welcome to walk the track for twenty-one dollars each time we were there.

I told her I thought we'd just wait outside.

But next week, if you're looking for me, I'll be in the hallway downstairs. In a corner. With a pumpkin spice vodka latte.

I think I'll bring duct tape.

But then again, maybe I won't.

Just Call Me Martha...

When I made the decision to stay home with N, I had visions of my new life as a full time mom and homemaker.

Since I'd be home all the time, I figured I'd have time to make homemade dinners every night  more nights than not,  keep the house spotless relatively clean, and get in touch with my inner Martha Stewart around the holidays.

I soon discovered that there was just one thing--well, one thing at that particular moment-- that was preventing me from getting in touch with my inner Martha.

The baby.

Who was I kidding? There was no time for homemade meals every night. Or cleaning, let alone decorating. My days were consumed by breast milk and diapers. And then by baby food and diapers. And then by solid food and diapers.

And then, when I thought there might actually be a light at the end of the Tunnel of Lactation and Elimination, it started all over again.

And then again.

I'm not complaining. Not in the least little bit. But I did have to adjust my expectations just a little. Fortunately, I was never much of a domestic diva even before kids, so it wasn't too hard to adjust to the fact that, with the exception of nesting induced cleaning frenzies in the weeks before each child was born, my house wouldn't really be clean again for another eighteen years or so.

I did manage to get back to cooking dinner practically every night.

Some nights, someone even eats it.

At times, though, I still have delusional episodes where I become inspired, as I sit in front of the TV watching decorating shows and eating bon bons, to try once more to get in touch with my inner Martha.

So yesterday, as I was shopping all by myself, I had a few minutes to browse. I'm not sure how I was shopping all by myself. In fact, now that I'm writing this, I'm not sure that I really was shopping all by myself. I know there weren't three kids with me. I don't think there were two with me. But there may have been one with me. Well, whatever. Shopping with one is almost like shopping all by myself.

Anyway, me and little whoever-may-or-may-not-have-been-with-me were looking at festive Fall place mats. They had bright orange pumpkins on them. They had colorful leaves on them. Some even had "Fall" spelled out in various shades of orange and brown. And, since my inner Martha Stewart learned long ago to lower her standards when it comes to decorating, I thought they'd look great on our dining room table.

I put them on the table today when N was at school and B and O were napping, and was quite proud of my inner Martha as I stood back and looked at them.

OK, so I hadn't made them myself, and it's not like they surrounded a hand made ceramic pumpkin, or even a hand carved pumpkin. But really, who has time to be Martha Stewart? I'm convinced Martha Stewart doesn't even really have time to be Martha Stewart. She just has enough money to pay other people to be Martha Stewart once she's had enough of herself.

The important thing is, we had place mats in a variety of festive colors, and Martha or not, Fall was clearly in the air.

Having accepted several years ago that Jimmy doesn't give a shit care all that much about these types of things, I didn't bother to show him our new festive place mats. But I knew N would appreciate them when she got home. After she walked in the house, I pointed to the table and said,

"So? What do you think?"

She looked at the table and smiled, as she said "Those are pretty. What are they?"

Huh.

I'm wondering if it's actually possible that she's never seen place mats on our table before, when B comes downstairs and says, "Mom, why are there big napkins all over the table?"

Oh.

Maybe it is possible.

I bring O downstairs a few minutes later. I show him the pretty pumpkins on one of the place mats. He's looking at the other place mat--the one that spells out "Fall" in various shades of orange and brown.

"F!" he says

I point out the other letters and spell out Fall.

He is stuck on F.

He is pointing to the pumpkin as he says "F..F...F"

"No O, there's no F in pumpkin", I tell him.

But we do have new effin place mats.

Happy Fall.

We're in it Together...

B was throwing broccoli the other night at the dinner table. Shocking, I know. Jimmy and I told him to stop. So did N.

He stopped throwing broccoli.

He threw a dinner roll instead.

Again, Jimmy and I told him to stop.  So did N.

He stopped.

And he encouraged O to throw his dinner roll.

I told them both to stop. At this point, Jimmy had left the table to go look for his sanity, but N was happy to step into his place. She told B to stop, she told O to stop, and she told both of them they were going to end up in  their room.

This time, I thanked her for her help, but I also felt a need to point out the difference between mothers and sisters, and reminded her that I was, in fact, the mother. I also reminder her that it's generally the mother's job to send brothers to their room.

She looked at me quizzically. "Really?" she asked

I nodded. "Really".

She shrugged. "Huh. I thought we were in this together".



Yesterday, as I was waiting in the pick up line at school, I  started going through the Halloween costume catalog I'd picked up with the mail before I left the house. I knew N would want to see it, and I figured I should first tear out pictures of the costumes that were inappropriate for seven year olds.

I started out with forty pages. Once I got rid of the sexy costumes, the violent costumes, and the gory costumes, there were two pages left.

Two.

I was never really good at math, but I'm pretty sure that means that 95% of the costumes were inappropriate crap, and 5 % were OK.

Kind of.



When we got home, N flipped though the costume catalog. She told me she wanted to be a crayon.

And then she showed me the picture.

I looked at it and wondered how I had missed the picture of the crayon costume with the plunging neckline and hemline that was well above the knee.

"No, you can't be that crayon".

I tried to go back to doing the dishes so I wouldn't have to talk about it, but it didn't work.

"Why can't I be that crayon?"

"Because it's....inappropriate."

I love the word inappropriate. It covers everything.

Besides, I had been texting Aunt Lion earlier in the day about all the trashy Halloween costumes, and she reminded me that it was a teachable moment, and an opportunity to point out that those costumes were really inappropriate.

Which I was now doing, as I was also thinking how over rated these teachable moments are.

"What do you mean? How can a crayon be inappropriate?"

As usual, she is not letting this drop.

"Well, it just is. It's not a crayon for kids".

"It's a crayon. How can it not be for kids?"

I take a deep breath. "Well, because its a crayon for older girls..who dress like sluts  differently".

So she rolled her eyes at me.

ROLLED her eyes.

At me.

So then we had a little chat.

About eye rolling.

About how we just don't do it.

About how maybe they there's too much eye rolling on TV, so maybe we'll need a little TV break.

About how I know there's no eye rolling on Sesame Street, so maybe we should just stick with watching that.

About how maybe there are some friends at school who think its OK to roll their eyes, so maybe we need fewer play dates.

She listened. She laughed. She sighed a little.

But she did NOT roll her eyes again.

And I didn't have to talk about the inappropriate crayon costume anymore.

I told her I would find her a nicer crayon costume. For nice, sweet seven year old girls.

And then she ran off to go boss around her brothers.



But what I really wanted to tell her was this:

You were so right, sweet girl.

We are in this together.

We are so in this together, in fact, that I will make sure that you get to be a child for as long as you possibly can.

Adolescence will come entirely too quickly, and then adulthood, and before you know it, you will have your very own children to boss around and send to their rooms. So let's not rush it.

I will also make sure that you know that it's not OK to roll your eyes at me.

There are many reasons for this, most of which have to do with being respectful and approachable and just not being the kind of girl who thinks it's OK to roll her eyes at her mother when she is seven.

But there's another really important reason you can't roll your eyes at me.

It just pisses me off.

A lot.

In addition, I will make sure that you don't dress like a slutty crayon when you're seven. Or twelve. Or seventeen.

Unless, when you're seventeen, you sneak out of the house and change into a slutty crayon costume when I'm not looking.

At which point I will send you to your room, even though I know that by seventeen you will probably have perfected the art of climbing out of your bedroom window so silently that you will think I won't possibly be able to hear you.

But I will.

Because I'm the mom, and that's my job, too.

Yes, we are in this together.

All of it.

Winging It....

A friend was recently telling me about her fourteen year old who is, well, acting like a fourteen year old. Of course, she doesn't see it that way. She just  KNOWS that he's acting out because of something she's done.

Or hasn't done.

Or hasn't done correctly.

In her mind, his acting out is clearly all her fault because after all, she's the mother, and she has somehow taught him to act this way.

She went on to tell me that she doesn't know what to do with an acting out teenager.

"Really, " she told me quietly as if it was just going to be our secret, "I'm just winging it".

Well, yeah.

I mean, aren't we all?

We have to wing it. There's no book. Well, OK, there are hundreds of books. Thousands maybe. But there's no one book for this child.

In this family.

With this issue.

At this particular moment in his life.

Unless maybe you as his mother decide to write it.

Sometimes, we have no choice but to make it up as we go along.



So maybe you take a little knowledge from one book. And a little more from another.

A little advice from your mother. Your mother-in-law. Your sister.

You commiserate with friends. Or your husband. Or your cousin.

You talk to a teacher. A therapist. A minister.

Maybe even a police officer.

So that you hopefully don't have to talk to a judge.

Sometimes, you cry on a shoulder.

Or into your pillow.

Or into your wine.

Then you practice shrugging your shoulders. You need to do a lot of that.

Now you practice letting stuff roll off your shoulders.

You need to do a lot of that, too.

And then, you add some laughter. No, wait.

More.

Definitely more.



Add a  healthy dose of acceptance.

Of your children.

In all of their exhausting, mind numbing, at times unimaginably difficult glory.

And now add some more acceptance.

This time for you.

Because you're doing this thing the best way you know how.

Now add some prayer.

More.

No, a little more.

OK, a lot more.

No, that's not too much.

There's no such thing.



Don't forget some perspective.

Take as much as you need.

And if you have some left over, share it.


Are you doing it right?

Am I?

Who knows.

But you're doing it the best way you can.

And so am I.

And if sometimes you have to wing it, well, welcome to the club.

Why I Don't Pay Attention in Church...

OK, so I admit it.

I don't always pay attention in Church.

I try. Really, I do. I try to follow along with the readings. I try to listen to the Gospel, and I try really hard to understand the message behind the homily.

And for the most part, I'm successful. I get the message, or I think about the message, or I get that I need to think about the message.

But the thing is, at some point, something always distracts me.

Sometimes it's a thought. Or a feeling. Or a feeling about a thought.

Sometimes it's that I'm wondering how that woman in front of me has five kids, and is wearing clothes with no stains, and that her clothes appear to have actually been ironed. She also appears to have brushed her hair. Today. And I don't see a single blob of yogurt in it. I'm sorry, but things like this are just way too distracting to moms like me. Maybe we shouldn't worry so much about separate seating areas for  noisy kids, and instead should have the Hot Mess Moms seating area. That way, we wouldn't become so distracted by the moms who appear to have it all together.

Sometimes, I'm distracted by the cute baby next to me, or the crying kid behind me, or the lady singing off key a few rows back. And OK, fine, sometimes I just can't help but notice all the shoes that pass by as people come back from communion, and I start wondering if those cute heels come in a size 10.

Yesterday, I was pretty successful in paying attention until about halfway through Mass, when I got distracted again.

The visiting priest who was saying Mass seemed very nice, but at one point he started to go into more "political" issues of the Church, and it was clear that he was pretty old school when it came to these topics. He started out talking about abortion, made his way to immigration, and by the time he got to divorce--and how it wasn't an acceptable option even in the face of infidelity--I found myself tuning out.

Instead, I noticed the little girl four rows up, who was sitting on her dad's lap. She was about four,with long blond hair, and piercing blue eyes, which I noticed as she seemed to look for a moment at every person around her. Occasionally, she stopped looking around long enough to smile at her dad before putting her arms around his neck and whispering in his ear. He was doing a much better job than I was of paying attention to the homily, but every time she did this, his full attention shifted to her and he smiled back and whispered something back to her. To those of us watching them (I'm guessing there had to be others who were as distracted as I was at this point, didn't there?), she was an adorable little girl who happened to have Down syndrome. But it was pretty obvious that to her dad, she was just his little girl.

When it was time for the sign of the peace, I turned around to shake hands with a woman behind me who was wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt over a tee shirt. Not exactly typical Mass attire, but hey, who am I to judge? I probably had yogurt in my hair. As I said "Peace be with you", she smiled, and nodded, and quietly said in heavily accented English something that kind of sounded like "Peace".

After communion, an elderly couple shuffling back to their seats caught my attention. Though they were both moving pretty slowly, he stopped to wait for her as they got halfway down the aisle. They held hands as they made their way back to their seats, and he smiled at her as she patted his hand. I wondered how long they'd been married, and if she still made him breakfast every day, and if he put his dirty socks in the hamper, or left them laying on the bedroom floor.

As I left, I realized that I hadn't listened to the priest as closely as I probably should have. I didn't cling to his every word--and if I had, I probably would have disagreed with several of them.

But as I watched the elderly couple shuffle out of Church together, I also realized that even though I wasn't listening, I was still paying attention.

And somehow, I think I still got the message.

Please Excuse the Mess...

Sorry my house is such a mess. I had hoped to get it looking a little better before you came over, but well, you know how it goes.

I was downstairs folding laundry when I heard a commotion upstairs, and went up to find my four year old sitting on top of my two year old. Or maybe it was my two year old sitting on top of my four year old. Well, either way, someone was crying, and I kind of forgot about the laundry.

I started doing the dishes, since the kitchen is right next to the living room. I thought they'd do better if I was just in the next room. And they did, for a minute. And then they decided to help me, by taking the dirty dishes out of the dishwasher as soon as I put them in. So, you know, I kind of gave up on the dishes.

I went upstairs to straighten their bedrooms, and actually got the boys room looking pretty good. And then I came out to find that, while I was in their room, they were in their sister's room. Trashing it.

I picked up her room, only to discover that they were in their room. The one I just cleaned. Trashing it.

I thought maybe more coffee would help, and then I thought maybe vodka in my coffee would help. But then I realized that people who drink in the morning AND have a trashed house often get their kids taken away, so I decided to stick with coffee.

Of course, I still have a trashed house.

I picked up some crayons from the dining room table.

 While they were dumping out blocks on the living room floor.

I picked up shoes from around the house.

While they were throwing their socks everywhere.

I managed to wash the kitchen floor.

Just before they smeared it with jelly.

And I finally managed to scrub the stove.

As they were painting the bathroom walls with toothpaste.

I was in the middle of trying to vacuum when someone hit their brother, and I had to put him in time out.

He did it again five minutes later, so I had to put myself in time out.

Eventually, someone asked me to sit down and read a book.

So I did.

And as I looked around at the blocks, and the socks, and the toothpaste on the walls, I realized that maybe I was just looking around too much.

Instead of looking at what was right in front of me.

So, please, excuse the mess. I'm sorry you have to step over those toys.

Yeah, I wish it was a little cleaner, but I've been pretty busy.

Reading a book to my kids, even though the book has seen better days.

Dancing around the kitchen, even though we almost slipped in the jelly.

Teaching them right from wrong, even though that meant leaving them alone in the room I just cleaned.

Learning to spend less time looking around.

And more time looking in front of me.

As I try not to trip over the shoes.

Remembering...

Tonight as the kids and I were taking a walk around the neighborhood, we noticed two planes flying next to each other, closer than we would normally see. We wondered out loud why they would be so close. B thought maybe they were writing the alphabet in the sky. N suggested they were just heading to the same place. O just pointed and said "Look! Two planes! Two!" over, and over, and over again.

A few minutes later, as we arrived back at our house, we noticed two more planes flying right next to each other. This time, I could see that one was the size of a commercial airliner, with a smaller plane flying just off to its side.

It occurred to me then that the larger plane (which, as someone pointed out on facebook, could have also been Air Force One) was likely being escorted into National Airport--or maybe another local airport-- because tomorrow is Sept 11th.

Not that I had forgotten what tomorrow was, or that I hadn't thought about it. Probably like most of you, even eleven years later, I can't not think about it. I just hadn't thought about it in terms of increased security, or threat levels, or escorted airliners.

These, of course, are the things that remain with us from that day. They are necessary things. Beneficial things. Sad things. And yet, none of these are what I think about most when I think of September 11th, 2001.

I think of what a beautiful morning it was, without a cloud in the sky, as I headed out to work. I think of being fresh out of grad school, and arriving at my new job as a foster care social worker as the second plane hit the Twin Towers. I think of sitting in a meeting, hearing that the Pentagon had been hit, and then hearing the woman running the meeting say, "Wow, that's terrible. OK, now, let's get back to our agenda".

I remember being grateful for the mutiny that eventually took place in that meeting room as someone informed her that our country was under attack, and maybe this could wait for another day.

I remember a TV in our office being turned on, and hearing that a fourth plane had crashed in Pennsylvania.

I remember going into the bathroom, uncertain if I was going to cry or throw up.

Instead, I just prayed.

I remember coming home to the house we had moved into two weeks earlier. Calling Jimmy. Calling my siblings. Calling my mother in law in Ireland to say that we were fine.

I remember watching the news, and crying.

And yet not being able to turn it off.

I remember realizing how odd it was that the skies above our home--where several planes an hour could normally be seen--were empty. And silent.

For days.

I remember thinking that our future plans for children needed to be revisited. How could we justify bringing a child into a world where people could do something so evil?

I remember being grateful for the leadership of our President and lawmakers, as a few days later, they stood in front of the Capital--together-- and sang God Bless America.

I should say that I didn't actually lose anyone that day, but somehow, that doesn't feel accurate.

We lost 2819 people that day.

I remember that.

Sometimes, I remember it this way:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fvj6zdWLUuk


Other times, I remember it this way:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2yI6-1e9pKw

And sometimes, it's like this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1v1esiP0w6c&feature=related

But mostly, I remember as I watch my children play.

And hear them laugh.

And listen to their explanations of why two planes could possibly be flying so close to each other.

Wishing it really was because they were just heading in the same direction.

Remembering that it's not.

My Cup is Overflowing...And so is my Toilet

A few days ago, we discovered that our septic tank was overflowing. Into our basement. Fortunately, it was contained to the basement bathroom, and after having the plumber and septic pumping people out, it appeared to have been resolved.

Jimmy wasn't too happy with this whole scenario. Oh, he seemed to take it all in stride, as he does most things. But every once in a while, he would make a comment that indicated that he wasn't really taking it in stride.

"B, what did O flush down the toilet lately?" he'd ask pointedly.

"Just Spiderman, Dad", B informed him with a shrug. "I sink it was Spiderman. Cause I haven't seen him in a while. But it could have been the green guy. I don't know where he is either"

I consider adding that it could have also been a toy car, because O has developed a fondness for flushing those down the toilet lately, too, but I decide there's probably not much to be gained by relaying this information.

Personally, I was just happy that someone was flushing.

So of course now Jimmy is convinced that Spiderman is the cause of our septic back up.

I, on the other hand, know the real reason.

Our septic backed up because, just a day or so earlier, the mom of one of N's friends told me all about her own recent septic issues. A flooded basement. An expensive visit from the plumber. New carpeting. And then, she asked how I was. And I, in all my stupidity, said

"Well, my septic hasn't backed up lately, so I guess I'm pretty good".

So, then, you know, my septic backed up.

We thought we had it resolved. And then, yesterday, we noticed a little water in the basement bathtub. And it wasn't the kind of water that would have been there after someone used the bathtub.

Unless that someone was really, really dirty.

So we figured our septic issues weren't really resolved, though they seemed much better than they had been.

Then today, I took O to Caca's, and N to school, and  B and I went to the "meet and greet" at his preschool. I checked the basment before I left. In spite of the fact that I took a quick shower this morning (sorry, septic issues or no septic issues, I was not going to our first day of preschool smelly), there was no water in the bathtub.

So we went to preschool, where B apparently hid in the corner for an hour while I went to the parent orientation across the hall. When we were done, I peaked in to see how B was doing. I couldn't see him anywhere. After a few minutes, the kids lined up to leave. Still couldn't see him anywhere. Eventually, as they were all filing out into the hall, he appeared, and hugged me, and told me he only cried for a few minutes, which made me want to cry for more than a few minutes.

As we left, I mentioned how nice his teacher seemed. She is a retired kindergarten teacher who came out of retirement to teach pre school part time. She has a wealth of knowledge and many years of experience. B looked at me and said "She's nice, mom, but I wonder where the other lady is. The one we saw the last time".

The last time was the day we signed him up, when we met with the director, an attractive, fortyish woman with long blonde hair.

"You know the one I mean, mom. The one who's hair falls down when she moves her head"

I tell him that was the director, and ask if he liked her, too.

He nods.

"I liked her mom, because she was really pretty".

Forget nice. Forget experienced. And forget knowledgeable. I now know exactly what kind of teacher this child needs.

A hot one.

I make a mental note to go through N's yearbook to find the most attractive kindergarten teacher for next year.

We pick up O from Caca's and head home. I put the boys down for a nap, and Jimmy arrives home a few minutes later, though I don't recognise him at first. In fact, I think he has the wrong house. I look him over. Looks like Jimmy. I look around and make sure I'm in the right house.

Yup, no one's cleaned the kitchen yet today. Must be ours.

I look at Jimmy again and accept that it must be him...even though he has flowers in his hand and is holding them out to me.

I eye the flowers suspiciously. I know I'm not supposed to do this. I know I'm just supposed to say thank you, and take them, and put them in a vase. But well, he just doesn't do flowers. In fact, the last time he brought me flowers was when our septic overflowed two years ago. That time, it ruined our carpet.

In other words, I generally have to put up with a whole lot of shit before I get flowers.

In spite of my suspicions, I did remember to say thank you. I smelled the flowers. I told him they were beautiful.

I wondered where the hell I could find a vase.

And then I said "What did you do?"

Because it's really just not like him to bring me flowers for no reason.

A few scenarios came to mind.

He found the flowers on the side of the road.

He needed change and decided to ask the guy selling flowers at the intersection rather than go into a store.

There really is a reason for the flowers, and I just don't know what it is yet.

Of course, the other scenario is just that he loves me, and he was thinking of me.

I decide to go with that one.

As it turns out, Jimmy only came home to give me the flowers. Then he had to go back to work. But first, he wanted to pour acid down our basement bathtub to hopefully clear whatever small clog remained.

So he went downstairs, and I immediately hear a slew of cussing which tells me that the clog probably wasn't as small as we thought.

In fact, while we were all out, the septic system had been overflowing into our basement. This time it got the carpet in the family room.

Again.

He asked me what happened. I reminded him that we weren't home.

He asked me if I took a shower.

I reminded him that he was still here when I did. And the water didn't overflow then.

He tells me someone had to put something down there.

I tell him that all two year olds, four year olds, and spidermen were accounted for.

He doesn't laugh.

Instead, he tells me that he's sorry, but he really has to go back to work.

And he does.

Which means I'm the one left to mop up the basement, and the one left to decide that Jimmy was probably right when he said we should have just put tile in the basement instead of putting in new carpet the last time this happened.

I think I should go get towels to clean this mess.

And bleach.

And I wish I hadn't left that pile of dirty clothes on the floor near the washer, since I probably need to throw them out now.

Or at least wash them.

If I actually had a septic system that would let me use my washer.

I'm thinking about all of this, as I walk upstairs and sit down at the computer. And decide to blog about it all instead.

At least I got flowers today. And I was right. There was a reason I got them.

I just didn't know what it was yet.

But now I do.

Loving Every Minute of it...

I had a few minutes recently to read a few new blogs I'd stumbled upon. It's always fun to see what other moms are up to, but for me, there's also something , well, unsettling about it. The truth is, reading other moms blogs sometimes causes me to question my own experience. It causes me to wonder if I'm doing something wrong. It makes me think maybe I should finally get that script for xanax.

Because, the thing is, so many moms who blog about motherhood just love.every.single.minute.of.it.


I've written before, of course, about how I most definitely don't love every single minute. I love being a mom. I love my life. I am grateful for every day. But love every minute?

Nope. Sure don't.

Don't get me wrong. There are lots of things about motherhood that I love. Earlier this week, I loved N's first day of school. I loved that we had time to do her hair in the pig tails she so desperately wanted, and that she had her new back pack that she was so excited about, and I loved that, as she got on the bus, she just looked happy.  I loved B's first boat ride yesterday. I loved that he smiled the whole time, and I loved that when we stopped and he looked like he might be a little sea sick, he just looked at Jimmy and said "Why did you stop, Dad? Go! We need to go FAST!." I love that O still wants to climb onto my lap five times a day, and I love that he still lets me give him as many kisses as I want.

And although I don't love every minute of motherhood, it has caused me to love other things more than I otherwise would have. I  love every minute that I get to be in the bathroom by myself. I love every minute that I get to talk to a grown up on the phone (although in truth, this usually only lasts about one minute). And when I get the chance, I love every drop of my margarita.

I think this loving every minute thing bothers me, though,  because well, I have to wonder what planet these moms are living on.

Do they really love every minute that they're feeding a newborn, when they haven't had more than two hours of sleep a night for over a month? Do they love every minute of those ten diaper changes a day? What about dragging a tantruming two year old through the grocery store, trying to prioritize between appropriate discipline and getting the groceries you need? Do they love every moment of that?

B has been waking up at six am every morning this week, growling at his brother until he cries. Yes, I said growling. I realize this may sound funny, but trust me, at six in the morning, a growling four year old and a screaming two year old really isn't that funny.

And I don't love every minute of it.

I often think about a lady I met in the grocery store when B was a baby. She told me she had four boys--all now grown with kids of their own--and not a single one of them ever gave her an ounce of trouble.

Really? Not a single one? Not an ounce? Ever?

Maybe it depends on your definition of trouble. Maybe, as long as her sons didn't end up in jail, or rehab, or sleeping in her basement when they were forty, she really didn't think they'd given her any trouble.

Maybe its all in how you look at it.

Maybe the moms who love every minute of it just look at things differently. Maybe in reality, they mean "I hate that I am up to my elbows in poop for the third time today, but I wouldn't trade a moment with my child for anything".

That, I can get.

Because I wouldn't trade a moment of it, either.

Even the moments I don't love.

Like when I have to change my four year old's diaper. Or when my two year old decides he's no longer sleeping through the night. Or when when my seven-year-old knows  thinks that she knows more than I do.

I don't love those moments.

But I wouldn't trade them for anything.

I still won't claim to love every moment, because that's just not my reality.

But I also won't claim to love every moment because, somewhere, there's a mom out there who's also not loving every moment, and she needs to know this:

It's OK.

You don't have to love every moment.

And it's OK to admit it.