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.