Author Archives: mkea

Pass the Kryptonite, Please

I’m hanging up my cape.  It hurts to admit this.  I’m not even sure if I can really do it.  The ugly truth is that I stink at being Super Mom.  I’ve always been an over achiever, but I just can’t pull this one off.  I cannot meet my own expectations.

God knows I’ve tried.  I bake cakes, cookies, and cupcakes for all sorts of occasions and school events.  Help in the kindergarten classroom, although only once a week, and I feel badly that I cannot handle committing to more.  I spent hours this fall putting together gift baskets for the school carnival silent auction.  I sew Halloween costumes.  Make Christmas ornaments with the kids.  Help get holiday gifts for my parents to give others since shopping is harder for them now.  Chauffeur to soccer, ice skating, basketball, dance, and birthday parties.  Help with homework.  Discipline, encourage, laugh and cry. 

But when I am not dressed as the caped crusader, no Bruce Wayne with faithful butler Alfred is left to fill the void.  More of a very mortal Oscar Madison with Felix aspirations.  My home is a pigsty.  I clean every chance I have, every spare moment.  Going to the bathroom?  Well, I’ll just grab that laundry basket and empty the dryer on my way.  Phone call?  Fold clothes or do dishes while talking.  Four mornings a week are devoted exclusively to serious cleaning.   The two oldest children are pushed to do what they can to contribute, although I have to threaten dire consequences to get results.  My husband works long hours, but spends his weekends vacuuming and doing yard work.  Despite all this, we live in a landfill. 

I know there are worse homes than mine.  I’ve seen them on TV.  They make me look like a pretty good little housekeeper.  Ever seen the show “How Clean Is Your House?”  with the two British ladies who go to the nastiest abodes in the U.S. to clean them up?   Having seen how those more than two standard deviations from the mean approach household hygiene, I think I am safe in saying the health department will not be putting yellow tape across my front door and taking my kids away.   But my hovel is bad enough that I live in fear of unexpected guests.  It takes me a week to get ready for a play date.  

There are so many other tasks left undone.  Lots and lots of papers to be filed.  The blinds I keep meaning to put up in the boys’ room because Jackson thinks his window is scary.  The ancient and filthy sheers in the office window I need to replace.   Pictures never hung.  The disaster I know awaits me in the back of my closet where the cats have been sleeping.   The mystery boxes in the garage that have been there since we first moved into this house four years ago.  The dust on my floor-to-ceiling shelves.  The huge box of photos where every memory is stuffed haphazardly.  The pants that need mending,   The toys that need to be sorted and donated, or dumped.  

And then, there is me.  I am gaining weight and breaking out.  My hair needs a cut and at least a quickie home dye job.  I am so tired at night I fall asleep with my two year old, before I’ve had a chance to brush my teeth or take nightly medications.  I look like hell and I know it.  So, I am going to have to re-prioritize and learn to live with what I cannot do before I find myself drooling in a hospital bed somewhere.    Somehow I am going to have to forego some of those things “I have to do.”  Of course, as Mom my children will always come first, but I am going to have to draw the line and make room for me.  I feel guilty even saying that. 

I would like to know how other moms pull it off.  The ones who are active in every possible school event, teach Sunday School, and are Girl Scout Leaders.  When you stop by to return something their child left at your house, they come to the door with makeup on and invite you in to their tidy home for a cup of tea.  What is their secret?  Is it a God given talent I was born without?  I can’t find any other moms who are so obviously as discombobulated as I.  

One mother I know had to rush off after helping with the kindergarten Halloween party to have her “brows done” before meeting her husband for lunch.  My plans after the party involved the grocery store and a bottle of Pine Sol.  I don’t even know what one does to ones brows that needs to be done by a third party.  I mean, I pluck the unibrow and hunt out strays, but that’s as “done” as my brows get.  I can’t imagine having the time or funds to even consider anything more.  

Another friend was commiserating with me, laughing about mom’s whose children’s scrapbooks are always up to date.  Huh?  My kids don’t each have a scrapbook.  Unless you consider their whole rooms scrapbooks.  Oh, my mistake, I was thinking of scrapheap.   I’ve already told you where the family photos live.  If my children want additional mementos of their youth their mom has saved, they will have to look in the manila folders and plastic storage boxes where handprints and crayon drawings are tucked away, in mom’s jewelry drawer where plastic bags with names and dates hold tiny teeth, and in their own memory. 

Yet my children are bright, happy, and healthy.  They are well cared for and well loved, and they know it.  My husband and I are best friends.  There is enough love and laughter around our house to please Johnboy Walton.  I know in my heart that the rest of it is just window dressing.   And that is why I’ve decided to stop trying to ditch my day clothes for a leotard and tights every time I pass a phone booth.  The desire to do it all will probably never go away, but I am going to have to work harder at not doing it all than I ever have at trying to be Super Mom.  Our family memories will be of meals shared together, human pile ups on the sofa with Daddy at the bottom, good smells from the kitchen, and the same overall warm fuzzy feeling my parents gave me as a souvenir of my youth.   They will not be of how clean the carpet was, a skinny mom with great brows, or of our lovely décor.  

So be it.  I don’t look good in a cape anyway.

Flirting with Reality

I like to watch some of the “reality” TV shows.  I know, it’s like reading a trashy novel instead of Tolstoy, but the occasional trashy novel is good for you.  My husband shakes his head, “I can’t believe you watch that [crude noun]”.  Well, he likes to read history, classics, and, ahem, comic books.  The comic book is his version of the trashy novel.  So you see, we both have a need to turn down the brain power now and then.  My favorites are on after nine o’clock, which means it is actually quiet enough in my home to hear what is happening.  

“Extreme Makeover” (not “Home Edition”, I get enough of home improvement) does exactly that.  Most of the people on the show have some sort of physical flaw about which they feel so terribly that it has affected their daily lives.  The primary flaw is fixed, usually surgically, and the patient also gets bigger breasts or straighter teeth thrown in free of charge.  To round out the package, hair, makeup, and a super cool designer outfit.  To be fair, most of those I have seen on the show (although not all), really do have a flaw that is noticeable, like horrendous teeth, or a colossal schnoz.  

If I were on the show, my main request would be a tummy tuck.  I remember when I was little being with my mother in the dressing room of a department store.  Her tummy, though flat, was all wrinkly and flaccid around the belly button.  I thought it was gross.  Well, God bless her, after three children I have her tummy, although mine is a little fuller than hers was.  I would really like to have a smooth tummy again.  I know, it is only temporary, old age will take over anyway, but the childbirth transition takes you from smooth to gross in only nine months.  That’s a little faster than aging.  I’d also have one of my chins removed, preferably not the one that has a jawbone.  I’ve always had a little bit of a double chin, even when young and thin, but when I look at myself in pictures now, it looks like my neck is part of my head.  I have a big flabby head that sits directly on my shoulders.  

Have you seen “What Not to Wear”?  The show’s hosts, Stacy and Clinton, are absolutely brutal with the guests, who are being re-trained in how to dress themselves.  Stacy once told a guest she looked like an Oompah Loompah.  They take all of the guest’s clothes, and one by one throw them in a garbage can.  Sounds great, doesn’t it?  I’ll bet you’re checking your TV Guide right now.  But here’s the good part:  the guest gets $5000 to spend in some of the finest stores New York has to offer.  Stacy and Clinton give the guest “rules” to follow when selecting clothes so that the person picks out what is most becoming.  And they are always right.  The guests look so much better in the types of clothes they recommend.  A new do from a fancy New York hairstylist and a makeover are also included. 

I’d probably cry if Stacy called me an Oompah Loompah, but I’d take that risk to get some hot new clothes in Manhattan that accentuate what is good, and draw attention away from what is not.   Heck, I know my clothes are sad.  I’d probably throw in a few choice adjectives myself, and Stacy and Clinton had better move away from that garbage can, ‘cause there’s a truckload coming in. Yep, I could do some damage with somebody else’s money.  And oh how I would love an expert hairdresser to find a hot new look for my curly locks, and give me a really good dye job.  Wash and wear, of course.  I would be changing my look, not my lifestyle. 

The real low end for me is “The Amazing Race”.  A bunch of two person teams race each other all over the globe, doing all sorts of ridiculous stunts along the way.   The winning team will get $1 million.  There are married couples, dating couples, parent/child couples, friends, and even some ex’s teamed up.  I don’t think it’s supposed to be a comedy, but it’s hysterical.  Some of the teams are obnoxiously competitive.  Others seem intellectually challenged.  Some are arrogant, some put the “eek” in geek.  I like to sit and mutter snide comments to myself about the more annoying competitors. 

I traveled some when I was younger, but this show runs through more exotic locales than any I ever got to.  I know who I would team up with if I were one of the contestants.  My friend Rose has traveled widely including some rather unorthodox locations, she’s adventurous, and good fun to boot.   It would be a real laugher.  I could just see us arguing about whether to shoot the rapids or slide in the mud.  I’d never leave my family for that long, but if I were younger and unattached…well, heck, why not? 

So in any given week, I can get a younger looking body, a dazzling wardrobe, and gallivant all over the world.  All this from the comfort of my juice stained sofa, a diminishing bag of M&M’s by my side.  Yep, life is good.

Caught Un(der)aware

I love my kids.  I think they are each talented and bright.  But sometimes they do things that make me wonder if I am either a terrible parent who is twisting their little minds, or if they are just goofy.  I am often faced with situations I just don’t know what to do with.  Some serious, some humorous, all baffling just the same.  Things not found in books, never mentioned in anecdotes from family and friends. Subjects not covered in any of the 117 Brady Bunch episodes, and I’ve seen them all.  Time doesn’t seem to make it any easier, and I have no more answers with children two and three than I did with the first.

Everyday is trailblazing uncharted territory. 

Let me illustrate.  

Shortly before my daughter started kindergarten, I bought her some new underwear.  She has the cutest, roundest little tush, but her behind kept outgrowing her panties.  This time I bought them a size larger, hoping after allowing for shrinkage she would not outgrow them so quickly.  I guess I overestimated, because they were too big.   They bagged a little right where it counts, and were a bit loose around the legs.  Consequently, they tended to ride up and get stuck in the, uh, well, crack.  There’s no genteel way of saying it.  

Here’s where the story strays outside the lines.  She liked it.  She liked her panties all bunched up in her, um, well, between her buttocks.  So much so that if they slipped out, she would reach back and cram them back in.  This got to be quite embarrassing, at least for me.  If she was wearing leggings you could see this big bunch emerging from the top of her, uh, crevice.  And then there was the constant readjusting.  I explained to her that most people are concerned with keeping their panties out of that place.  However, after prompting, reasoning, and finally demanding got no results, I gave up.  It had gotten to the point where she would walk in backward circles around me to keep me from seeing her bum.  If I came into her room while she was changing, she would get this terrified, guilty look on her face and quickly sit down or cover her bottom.  

Geez, I wasn’t trying to traumatize the kid.  If she wanted a continual wedgie, it certainly wasn’t worth this much anxiety.  She could wear her panties any way she liked, but I let her know it would be nice if she would refrain from repacking in public.  

Then about two weeks into the new school year, I got a call from the kindergarten teacher. 

“I’m concerned about Julia.  I am wondering if she has some sort of medical condition.  She scratches her bottom a lot.” 

Oh, dear. 

“Uh, well let me explain,” I began.  “Actually, she’s not scratching.  I bought her some panties that were too large and rode up on her, and she decided she likes it that way.  So now whenever they start to slip out, she pushes them back in.” 

“Oh, uh, I, um, well, I see,” her teacher stumbled.  “Well, as long as there is no physical problem.” 

No, no.  No physical problem.  “Gosh, Miss Kindergarten Teacher, my five year old daughter is just jamming her panties up her divide.  Thanks for calling!”  Sheesh, write that one down in the book of Life’s Awkward Explanations.  

I told my psychiatrist uncle about Julia’s little obsession and the subsequent conversation with her teacher.  Perhaps he had some suggestions about how I could discourage this behavior, or could tell me if this was even worth worrying about.  He laughed so hard I thought he was going to turn blue.  “Get her some kindergarten thongs,” he gasped out between guffaws. 

Thankfully, Julia soon figured out for herself that people take note when you are constantly touching your butt.  She went back to normal panty wear on her own.  But you see what I mean, don’t you?  Oh, I was ready for booger eating.  I have no problem at all with decapitated Barbies, and I was pretty calm about impromptu safety scissor haircuts.  It’s the things they come up with that you’ve never heard of before that really make you doubt your gene pool.  

This was a lighthearted example, but I never realized before I had children that there would be so much uncertainty.  I didn’t realize there would be so many times when I just didn’t know if I was doing the right thing for my child, or not doing something I should be doing.  Maybe I yelled too much and this behavior was some outward exhibit of a ravaged psyche.  Maybe we didn’t spend enough one on one time, and this was a desperate cry for attention.  Maybe she’s just a goofy kid like a hundred other goofy kids.  But in the end (no pun intended), all I can do is whatever I think best, and do it with love.  I guess this and other interesting episodes are just part of the grand adventure of parenting.


Brain Drain

I don’t know if it is old age, motherhood, fluctuating hormones, or a combination of all three, but I am getting stupid.  I hold a graduate degree, was Phi Beta Kappa, valedictorian of my high school class, and classified as “gifted” as a youngster.  I don’t say this to brag, but to establish a reasonable base of intelligence from whence I began.  Apparently, however, I have already peaked intellectually, and am on my way down the other side.

I never used to need an organizer, although I kept one anyway.  I could remember due dates, meetings, ideas that came to me in the middle of the night.  Now I sit at the computer gazing at the calendar page, trying to remember what I need to put on it.  Eventually I fill in all the information I can remember or find paper reminders for, but then I forget to check the calendar, and find myself in a constant last minute frenzy to meet the day’s obligations. 

I make a list before going to the grocery store.  I carefully check my list against the sale ads, and see which items I have coupons for.  Thus armed, but handicapped by three children, I brave the aisles of the local grocer.  Unfortunately, I usually forget my list, or drop it somewhere in the store.  Sometimes I check the list while shopping and still forget to buy everything on it.  Of course, that assumes that I remembered to put everything I needed on the list in the first place.  The real grocery store kicker is that we go through a gallon of milk a day, yet I always forget to buy milk.  Hellooo!  It doesn’t matter whether we have any at home or not, we need it!  We always need it!  Buy it every time you step through the door, dim wit! 

Now granted, much of the trip is spent issuing commands. 

“No, we are not getting that.  I said no!” 

“Stop pushing your brother.  I said stop!” 

“Don’t do that, you’re making a mess!” 

“Again?  You just went!  Julia, please take Jack to the bathroom.” 

“Ow!  Jamie!  Stop pinching me!” 

And so on and so forth.  Still, I thought women of my generation had perfected the art of multitasking.  I seem to be an outlier.  

I can lose permission slips for field trips without ever seeing them in the first place.  In the past year and a half, I accidentally threw away one pair of glasses, and ran over another (don’t ask).  And phone numbers?  Forget it (no pun intended).   Not only can I forget numbers I have dialed seven thousand times from memory, but I also like to “jot down” numbers given to me, and then throw away the paper on which I jotted. 

My daughter takes ice skating lessons.  Twice a week we travel 30 minutes each way to get to the rink.  I am a figure skating enthusiast as well, and when my husband is home and I don’t have to take Big Stinker and Bigger Stinker with us to the rink, I join my daughter on the ice.  We skated together last Saturday.  Wednesday, before leaving for the rink, I took my skates out of the bag so that when we arrived I could pull out her gear more quickly, since it is always a bit of a rush for us.  When we finally got to the rink and I had both boys and my daughter seated, I pulled out her skating socks, yanked them on, and then reached for her skates.  Except only one was hers.  I had brought one of her skates and one of mine.  We had to cancel her lesson and go home.  What makes it worse is that we have different color soakers (terry cloth covers to absorb moisture) on our blades.  It is very easy to identify whose are whose.  Unless you’re stupid.   

I can’t wait for the day when my daughter asks for help with her homework, and I can’t figure it out.  It shouldn’t be long.  She is extremely bright and …wait a minute.  Of course, how stupid (well, yeah, that’s what I’ve been saying).  The kids are sucking the life out of me and I really am getting stupid.  That must be why teenagers always think their parents are idiots.  They are idiots.  And when the children are grown and they realize their parents are actually quite bright after all, it is because the kids have left the nest and the intelligence has returned.  

Oh yes, I see it clearly now.  This is a natural life phase.  I haven’t lost my mind, it is merely on sabbatical.  Perhaps that is nature’s protection against the ravages of motherhood, like how the memory of childbirth pain fades and you go and have a second child anyway.   Yet despite my frequent brainpower outages, I have never yet accidentally forgotten a child somewhere, knock on wood (I am knocking on my skull as I type).  I do not forget birthdays, anniversaries, or special days of any sort.  So there is still something left there, I suppose.   Yes, yes, the intelligence drain must be selective!  And that is why…  

I was going to finish that thought, but I forgot what I was going to say.  Well, never mind, I have to go to the store for milk.

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Keeping the Beat

My husband has an impressive set of tom-toms, and a ride any man would be proud of.  No, not his physical attributes, I’m talking about his new drum kit.  At 40, Jerry has decided it is time to learn a musical instrument.  He told me he has always wanted to learn to play the drums, and never had an opportunity as a young person.  

He works very hard at a stressful job that is seldom rewarding, and is pursuing an advanced degree at night.  If he can find an outlet about which he is passionate, then I say go for it!  He located an instructor, and started lessons.  A beautiful new set of Pearl drums now sits proudly in the middle of our living room.  

The final destination for this lovely set is the garage, since we have no extra bedrooms in the house, and a full set of drums does not meet my criteria for living room furniture.  The garage right now, however, is home to a car that needs to be donated to the blind or some other group that takes useless hunks of junk off your hands, boxes of stuff stored for the next neighborhood garage sale, bags of clothing I meant to leave out on the curb when the veterans group was picking up donations, and all the miscellanea of our lives.   The plan is to get rid of what we can and fix up a nice little spot where the drum set can live.  But in the meantime, it is an indoor pet. 

The kids, of course, are fascinated.  They cannot turn away.  They are drawn to these drums as if by some magnetic force they could not resist even if they wanted to.  Which they don’t. 

The first morning after the drums arrived, I awoke to an arrhythmic boom ka-boom rat-a-tat-tat.  I would prefer to be awakened by a quartet of leaf blowers outside my window.  Daddy, it seems, was giving them a “turn”.  How about giving me a turn at sleeping?  I wanted to give them all a turn…a turn out into the backyard with the cat.  Just scratch at the door when you’re ready to come in.

Jerry left for work, and I struggled to pull the kids away.  “You’re going to ruin them!”  

“But Daddy said!” 

Daddy said they could play while he was at work?  It seems he told them they could play while he was gone as long as they were nice.  Good grief, Jerry, what were you thinking?  Are you mad, man?  Our children are ages 2, 5, and 8.  They may (note “may”) start out nice, but invariably the two oldest start arguing and a full scale battle ensues.  

“It’s my turn!” 

 “No, it’s my turn, poopyhead!” 

 “Give me those sticks! Mooommmm!  He’s not sharing!” 

“Ooowwwy! Mommmmyyy!  She hurt me! On purpose!” 

I foresaw disaster for his precious drums.  And the two year old, well, heck, he’s two for gosh sakes!  He is not going to understand “Only bang them in the middle!  Don’t hit the sides!  Don’t climb on top of the floor tom!  No apple juice on the snare!”  I just knew a foot or a head was going to go right through the bass before Jerry ever got home from work that night.  

But more importantly, he left me home alone with three small children and a full set of real drums.  It’s the noise.  The noise…the noise…dear God, the noise! 

I made a new rule:  only playing with Daddy’s supervision, thus not at all when Mommy is the only parent present.  Not a popular rule, but I am used to being the bearer of bad news.  I have no sympathy whatsoever.  Unfortunately, Daddy was home all day today.  From noon until 6 pm, the drums never stopped.  Sometimes Jerry was practicing, and the rest of the time the children had their “turns”. 

Bam-bam! Bam-boom! Bam-rat-a-tat! 

I found my anxiety level rising with each stroke of the sticks.  My jaw clenched.  I yelled at the kids, they fought with each other and threw temper tantrums.  Everyone was out of sorts (except my husband).  Now I understand why some cultures used drums to get the warriors into fighting mood before a war.  I felt homicidal myself. 

Jerry’s a head banger when it comes to music, whereas Mickey Dolenz and Chris Partridge are the first drummers that come to my mind.  After this week, however, I am sure I will become a head banger too.  Only with me, it is literal, not a musical preference.  

But the truth is, even though we have not yet adjusted to the presence of percussion in our home, I am truly excited about his new venture.  He seems to really love it, and he needs something he can look forward to that is purely for joy.  I support his endeavor whole heartedly.  And I am going to tell him so.  Just as soon as they let me out of my padded cell.

Still Going Back to School

At 42 years of age, I am long out of elementary school.  But with just a thought I can call up the butterflies launched into flight each year in recognition of the first day of school.  I grew up here in Walnut Creek, and Walnut Acres was my school.  The weeks before school was to begin, the excitement began to build.  My mother would take my sister and me shopping for new clothes.  We would get five or six new dresses (girls were not allowed to wear pants to school).    We each got a new package of pretty colored underwear and a new pack of white undershirts with little bows sewed onto the bodice.   My mother would take me to the Junior Bootery, the only store that carried wide width shoes for my chubby little feet, and I would get one pair of school shoes to last the whole year.

Class assignments were mailed in August, and every day I would ask if mine had come yet.  There was some anxiety associated with this, anticipating the unknown.  I can still remember every teacher, from Mrs. Anderson in kindergarten to Mrs. Templeton in 6th grade.  Back in those days elementary school was K through 6.  As soon as I knew what teacher I was assigned, I would call my friend Christy to see who she had.  My mother would check with Mrs. Seamount across the street to see which class her son Brian was in.  The last week of the summer, we would go to the school to find my new classroom.  Then my mother would take me back to the entrance of the school, and have me find the classroom again on my own.  I would try to peak in the windows, and gaze at the door.  What would it be like?  Would I have any friends in my class?  Was the teacher nice?

The day before the big event, I would pick out my first day outfit.  Everything would be laid out, waiting.  I had a new book bag, paper, pencils, and erasers all ready to go.  And of course, a special new lunch box.  One year I had a Monkees lunchbox.  Another year, we bought a plain brown vinyl lunch pail with a zippered closure, and my mother put violet appliqués all over it.  It was beautiful.  Fresh from the bath, my damp hair neatly braided, I got to select a new pair of undies, and put on one of my new white undershirts to wear to bed.  It would still be hot in September and we didn’t have air conditioning, so the window was open.  I could hear the crickets.  It wouldn’t be quite dark yet, and Mommy would let us color in bed for a few minutes.  But I could never focus on my coloring book.  My heart would beat a little faster than normal, and I would feel funny in my tummy.  Surely I could never sleep. 

And here I am, years later, graying hair and all, still just as excited.  Only this time, it is my children who are going to school.   The routine has changed some since I was a child.  My children get many new outfits.  They get new shoes, but I do not expect them to last the whole school year.  Girls and boys can both wear shorts to school.  Book bags have been replaced with backpacks.  But still, it is a thrill to pick just the right backpack.  Should it be Hello Kitty or Barbie?  Ninja Turtles or Scooby Doo?  And of course a new lunchbox, in the same theme.

First day outfits are still carefully selected and laid out for the next day.  Flowered undies, Scooby Doo briefs, are tugged out of plastic packages.  Each child has a big bag of school supplies, as requested on the list from the school.  Clean and smelling of baby shampoo, they climb into bed.  A book or a video is allowed for just a little bit, because it is so hard to go to sleep this night!

The morning of the first day of school is the only day of the year I don’t have to take a steam shovel to get my daughter out of bed.  She is up before I am, gets dressed without a single nag, and is waiting at the door for me.  The rest of the year we barely make it to school on time, even though we live just down the street, but this one day she is ready to go and we are early.   I pull all three kids out to the front porch, and take our traditional “First Day of School” picture.  Happy scrubbed faces, new outfits and shoes, still stiff backpacks and unscuffed lunchboxes.  They are precious.

And I am excited.  Excited to meet the new teachers, to see what kids are in their classes, to learn what field trips there will be and see the new books.  Excited because my children are excited.  Because I get to be part of these days they will remember for the rest of their lives.  It is a privilege.  And each year, as I escort my little ones to their first day, I think “How lucky I am!”  This is the stuff life is made of.

Catharsis

My husband and I are going to buy a minivan.  This is big.  Not the car itself, the fact that we are getting one.  OK, the van is big, too, but that is not the issue.  Who drives minivans?  Moms.  Mothers.  Hausfraus.  Ladies who have willingly subjugated their lives and bodies to their offspring.  As have I, but the minivan is the last symbol of wifery and mommyism for me to adopt.  I have held out as long as I could.  At one point in my life I swore I would never drive a minivan, but now, I must confess, I can hardly wait. 

It is so much easier to get three kids into and out of a minivan than it is a sedan.  I can seat them far enough apart so that little arms cannot reach across and grab a Happy Meal toy out of a sibling’s hand, or poke any available body part.  There is no problem fitting one car seat and two booster seats, and it is easy to buckle all three.  No squeezing my hand between child seats searching for the seat belt latch.  No struggling to lift a little body past the booster seat to the car seat in the middle.  Absolutely no possibility of the oldest child having to ride in the front seat because three child seats do not fit across the back.  Plenty of space, plenty of drink holders for everyone.

And why should I ever have objected?  After all, being a stay at home mom is what I always wanted, and I waited a long time to get here.  I love toting them to soccer, ice skating, and birthday parties.  I embrace my life as a mom.  I just don’t embrace looking like all the moms looked when I was a little kid.  You know, warm and loving, but kind of, well, sort of like yesterday’s lettuce; post-peak, you might say.  A little thick around the middle, just past the glow of youth.  That is exactly what I look like, but somehow the minivan has come to symbolize all this for me.  So I held out.  I put up with a too-small deteriorating old sedan for too long because it was not a minivan.  I couldn’t afford anything else, either, but that is beside the point.  I repeatedly insisted that when I had the money for a new car, I was going to buy a bigger, nicer sedan, not a minivan.  Any nerdy family car was OK as long as it was not a van. 

Of course logic tells me that although there may be a correlation between minivans and encroaching middle age, that does not indicate causality.  But logic is not involved here; this is emotional.  So let’s cut to the chase.  I am on the cusp of middle age.  Some would say I am already there.  I have born three children, and I look it.  No matter how hard I work out, I am never going to be the same woman who could wear allover Lycra and look good.  So if the minivan is some sort of personal rite of passage, bring it on.  I am ready to let go of all previous prejudices, and just be who I am.  Actually, I kind of like who I am.  And that person needs a new car that can handle a family of five. 

And let me tell ya, there are reasons why these lumbering boxcars are so popular, and it ain’t their good looks or great mileage.  It’s convenience, baby.  And when kids are around, that’s what it is all about.  That, and safety.  So I am going to get the whole shmeer.   Leather seats, 6 disc CD changer, subwoofer under the driver’s seat (I have no idea what this does except it has something to do with good sound), air deflector on the hood to keep road damage down, fenderwell trim to do the same, auto doors and power seat adjustments.  I am going to be a minivan mama.  Woooo hooo!  I have arrived!

It’s the Wurst

I packed myself like sausage into casing today.   I went to my cousin’s wedding, where I knew there would be people I had not seen in at least 15 years.  Pre-marriage, pre-children, pre-tonnage.    It was a fancy to-do and I wanted to look sharp, so some serious effort was required.  I was even willing to spend money.  I don’t think I have worn a dress in years, but I found something au courant on sale at Macy’s, and found a stylish pair of 3” heels to match.  New bag and new earrings completed the façade. 

Ah, but what about the stuffing?  The same store has an excellent selection of shapers.  These used to be called girdles, but somewhere along the line manufacturers figured out they could sell more if it weren’t so embarrassing to buy one.  Girdles are for fat women.  Shapers are for anyone wanting a clean line underneath her clothes.  Yeah, right.  I tried on the kind that covers you all over like a swimsuit, but I thought that might be a bit warm for a summer wedding.  Then I tried a pair of panties that come up above the waist  with stays in the side, sort of like a corset without any lacing.  I couldn’t breathe in that, so that was a “no go” regardless of performance.  I ended up buying one that proclaimed “firm control” on the drop tag, and felt like a panty vise.  But it did help smooth out the bulges, it wasn’t too heavy, and it didn’t pinch my waist so much that big rolls flopped out over the waistband, so it won by default. 

Then I had to deal with my bustline.  I have never been lacking in this area.  My dress was a straight piece, but not loose.  My usual stretchy comfortable bras with a token underwire lift, but offer no form, if you know what I mean.  And from the side my dress hung out a little too far from the rest of my body.  Without hesitation I selected an industrial strength little number masquerading in black lace.  Lift, separate, and no movement whatsoever.   Barbie couldn’t have done better. 

Thus equipped, I was flirty and feminine on the outside, but made of iron from bust to thigh.   It couldn’t be helped that all the people who hugged me felt like they were hugging a piece of scrap iron in frills and polka dots.  The point here is I looked nicer than I have looked in a long, long time.  I have little reason to dress up.  I work at home, and spend most of my time chasing kids.  Jeans, t-shirts, sweats, or shorts are my usual attire.  Comfort and ease of care are mandatory for my regular wardrobe.  But just for one day, I wanted to look nice.  I used to always look nice.  I had an incredible wardrobe, wouldn’t dream of stepping outside the house without makeup, and didn’t need to buy a shaper.  My own natural shape was just fine. 

Somewhere along the line, with the pounds and gravity of motherhood and middle age, looking nice became optional.  It was too hard, not kid friendly, and frankly uncomfortable.  So for one afternoon, I relived a bit of my youth.  I actually wore my darling little shoes for five hours before my big toe on the foot with a bunion starting sending out sharp pains.  It felt good to suffer for fashion.  It felt right.  The planets were appropriately aligned, and all was well with the world. 

Back to School

At 42 years of age, I am long out of elementary school.  But with just a thought I can call up the butterflies launched into flight each year in recognition of the first day of school.  I grew up here in Walnut Creek, and Walnut Acres was my school.  The weeks before school was to begin, the excitement began to build.  My mother would take my sister and me shopping for new clothes.  We would get five or six new dresses (girls were not allowed to wear pants to school).    We each got a new package of pretty colored underwear and a new pack of white undershirts with little bows sewed onto the bodice.   My mother would take me to the Junior Bootery, the only store that carried wide width shoes for my chubby little feet, and I would get one pair of school shoes to last the whole year. 

Class assignments were mailed in August, and every day I would ask if mine had come yet.  There was some anxiety associated with this, anticipating the unknown.  I can still remember every teacher, from Mrs. Anderson in kindergarten to Mrs. Templeton in 6th grade.  Back in those days elementary school was K through 6.  As soon as I knew what teacher I was assigned, I would call my friend Christy to see who she had.  My mother would check with Mrs. Seamount across the street to see which class her son Brian was in.  The last week of the summer, we would go to the school to find my new classroom.  Then my mother would take me back to the entrance of the school, and have me find the classroom again on my own.  I would try to peak in the windows, and gaze at the door.  What would it be like?  Would I have any friends in my class?  Was the teacher nice? 

The day before the big event, I would pick out my first day outfit.  Everything would be laid out, waiting.  I had a new book bag, paper, pencils, and erasers all ready to go.  And of course, a special new lunch box.  One year I had a Monkees lunchbox.  Another year, we bought a plain brown vinyl lunch pail with a zippered closure, and my mother put violet appliqués all over it.  It was beautiful.  Fresh from the bath, my damp hair neatly braided, I got to select a new pair of undies, and put on one of my new white undershirts to wear to bed.  It would still be hot in September and we didn’t have air conditioning, so the window was open.  I could hear the crickets.  It wouldn’t be quite dark yet, and Mommy would let us color in bed for a few minutes.  But I could never focus on my coloring book.  My heart would beat a little faster than normal, and I would feel funny in my tummy.  Surely I could never sleep.  

And here I am, years later, graying hair and all, still just as excited.  Only this time, it is my children who are going to school.   The routine has changed some since I was a child.  My children get many new outfits.  They get new shoes, but I do not expect them to last the whole school year.  Girls and boys can both wear shorts to school.  Book bags have been replaced with backpacks.  But still, it is a thrill to pick just the right backpack.  Should it be Hello Kitty or Barbie?  Ninja Turtles or Scooby Doo?  And of course a new lunchbox, in the same theme. 

First day outfits are still carefully selected and laid out for the next day.  Flowered undies, Scooby Doo briefs, are tugged out of plastic packages.  Each child has a big bag of school supplies, as requested on the list from the school.  Clean and smelling of baby shampoo, they climb into bed.  A book or a video is allowed for just a little bit, because it is so hard to go to sleep this night! 

The morning of the first day of school is the only day of the year I don’t have to take a steam shovel to get my daughter out of bed.  She is up before I am, gets dressed without a single nag, and is waiting at the door for me.  The rest of the year we barely make it to school on time, even though we live just down the street, but this one day she is ready to go and we are early.   I pull all three kids out to the front porch, and take our traditional “First Day of School” picture.  Happy scrubbed faces, new outfits and shoes, still stiff backpacks and unscuffed lunchboxes.  They are precious. 

And I am excited.  Excited to meet the new teachers, to see what kids are in their classes, to learn what field trips there will be and see the new books.  Excited because my children are excited.  Because I get to be part of these days they will remember for the rest of their lives.  It is a privilege.  

And each year, as I escort my little ones to their first day, I think “How lucky I am!”  This is the stuff life is made of.

The Fair

Every now and then the crust of everyday life withdraws and you are left momentarily with the fundamental core of motherhood.  You never know when you are going to have one of those moments, because it is not necessarily when something of great magnitude is happening.  You may be changing a diaper, watching your children play in the backyard, helping with homework, doing or hearing something you have done or heard before.

I had one of those moments today at the county fair.   My almost-five-year-old son was on an airplane kiddy ride. About 8 miniature red baron type airplanes on long arms extended from a central pole.  As the pole turned and the airplanes went around in a circle, the long arms slowly raised and lowered the planes.  I watched my little boy run up to a grounded plane and climb inside.  He looked uncertain as the ride started, then slowly grinned.

This son of mine, of my three children, is the one most likely to drive me to drink.  This is the one who pushes every button his temperamental 8 year old sister has, just to see the show.   He is the child who tries to climb the display of Pepsi 12-packs at the grocery store, and hides from me behind massive packages of paper towels at Target.  He has more than once deliberately dumped an entire bottle of shampoo in the bathtub to make bubbles.   He will scream and throw himself on the floor, wrapping his arms around my feet in an effort to prevent me from moving until he gets his way.   His water glass empties, and his dinner plate becomes an ocean for an armada of lettuce leaves around a mashed potato island.  He has locked me out of the house, laughing as I ordered him to open the door, and said things I cringe to repeat.  Oh, I could go on and on.

But he is also the child most likely to spontaneously hug you and tell you he loves you.  He can be happily playing with toys, will look up for a moment, “I love you, Mommy”, and go right back to his play.  He even hugs his siblings and tells them he loves them, when he is not torturing them.  He is the child who thinks to thank me for small pleasures, like making more lemonade or washing his favorite shirt.  If he and his two year old brother get a Happy Meal for lunch, he asks for one for his sister, too, even though she eats lunch at school.  He remembers to console family members who have suffered a loss. He asks more questions about life, love, God, death, and heaven.  He is the child who told his Daddy that he would never forget him, not even when Daddy got old and died.  He is my middle child.

And as I watched this exacerbating, wonderful, contradictory little boy of mine fly up and down, I felt a tidal wave of love.  I stood in the hot relentless sun, squinting up at my airborne boy, treasuring his joy.  The noise from the midway slowly receded. Time stood still.  I stared at him as he flew, and concentrated hard to commit this exact moment to memory.  His grin, his dimple, how the breeze from the flying plane moved his hair, his wave each time he passed the spot where I was standing.   I will remember this as long as my mind is my mind.

When such special moments occur, I think of a passage from the Gospel of Luke.  Unlike Mary, Mother of God, I was born with a large helping of original sin and my son is no Messiah, he’s just an ordinary boy.  But Mary was a mother who loved her son, too.  And I remember that Mary, watching her child, “kept all these things in her heart.”   Of course the situations are far different, but somehow the words seem to fit.  Everything else slips away,  I am left with something intense and basic that I somehow must preserve, and I keep these things in my heart.

Middle Child

There was a fully hosted bar.  The wedding guest rested one foot on the railing of the bar, caught the bartender’s eye, and motioned to his empty glass.  “Hit me again”, his silent gaze seemed to say. 

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough, son?” the bartender said quietly. 

The guest looked at the bartender with sad hazel eyes.  “Please”, he said with a catch in his voice. 

The bartender took pity, and filled the glass with a dark liquid, adding a squirt of something red.  My five year old son Jackson said “Thank you”, and walked off with his fifth cherry coke.  

My cousin walked past me, laughing.  “Jackson sure looks at home at that bar.  That kid cracks me up!” 

Sigh.  I worry about that boy. 

Dear Jackie, what am I going to do with him?  He tries to climb the stacks of Pepsi 12 packs at the grocery store, and hides on the shelf behind huge packages of paper towels at Target, ignoring my frantic calls.  He delights in torturing his older sister, who is so sensitive.  He knows every button she has, and pushes them at will.  He has repeatedly dumped out entire bottles of shampoo in the bathtub to make bubbles or wash his Rescue Heroes.  Tonight he deliberately threw rice in my water glass at the dinner table, laughing until he saw my look, then saying belatedly, “Oops.  That was an accident.”  At five years old he still throws tantrums, wrapping his arms around my legs in an attempt to hold me hostage until I agree to his demands.  No punishment, no incentive seems to reach him. 

Yet this same child, who is most likely of my three to drive me back to the bar for a refill, is also the most likely to spontaneously hug you and tell you he loves you. He can be happily playing with toys, will look up for a moment to say “I love you, Mommy”, and go right back to his play.  He even tells his sister he loves her, between button pushings.  He remembers to thank me for the small things, like making more lemonade, or washing his favorite shirt. 

This contradiction in Underoos asks more questions about life, love, God, death, and heaven.  After nighttime prayers with his Daddy, he told my husband, “I love you, Daddy.  Even when you get old and die, I’ll never forget you.” 

One night his sister Julia asked at the dinner table “What does steak come from again?  I forget.”  I opened my mouth to say “cows”, when Jackson piped up and said,

 “It comes from God, Julia.  God made everything.  He loves us, so he gives us food to eat.” 

My sister wonders at his range.  How can one child be so blatantly disobedient yet so loving and sensitive? 

When Jackson was born, our pediatrician, with whom we have a wonderful relationship, was busy giving birth to twins.  When she returned to her practice and met Jackson for the first time, she held him in her arms and looked intently into his eyes.  “Julia will always be our angel”, she said, “but this one…there’s something special about this one.” 

Yes, his spirit is larger than life.  What will become of this child of mine?  Will he be president or criminal (or worse, both)?  Watching him terrorize the household, my uncle once laughingly commented, “Better put bars on his windows now, so he can get used to them!” 

Recently we started giving Jackson an allowance for completing simple chores, and thus discovered his avarice.  Well, maybe we could use this to both our advantage.  After misbehaving dreadfully on allowance day in spite of several warnings, my husband sentenced Jackson to surrendering one of the two dollars he had received.  He was very proud of his allowance.  This will hit him where he lives, we thought.  He was upset for a moment, but then calmly took his remaining dollar, made copies on the copy machine, colored them green, and cut them out with safety scissors.

 “Now I have lots of money!”  he said gleefully.  “Do you want another one, Daddy?” 

Oh my.  Our son the generous counterfeiter.   We are so proud.

Rhymes with Onion

I have a bunion.  It hurts.  It’s an obnoxious little knob that sends sharp pains radiating through my foot.  I don’t even have to be walking.  Sometimes I am just sitting there, and the pain starts.  A bunion (from the Latin “bunio”, meaning “enlargement”) is formed when the big toe turns inward toward the other toes, forcing the joint of the big toe and the foot outward.  It is officially a deformity.  I’m deformed.

There are treatments to alleviate the pain, and for desperate cases, surgery.   But the foot is a complicated piece of skeletal machinery, and it is does not reconstruct well.  My physician recommended I consider surgery about the time the pain became so intense I would consider amputation a viable therapy.  Otherwise, she suggested, “Live with it.”

I owe this handicap to stiletto heels.  When I was young, these were quite the rage, as they seem to be again.  We even wore heels to high school, unlike teenage girls today, who are either indistinguishable from the boys, or whose fashion focus seems entirely upon exposing the abdomen.  Four years later, I was still in high heels.   I walked on concrete all over the Berkeley campus in white pearlescent plastic pumps, red strappy sandals, shiny black pumps with bows on the toes.  I must have had 30 pairs of shoes.   Of course, there was the Birkenstock faction, this was Berkeley after all, but comfort wasn’t fashionable, and I never was an earth mama.

I remember one particular day wearing above said red strappy sandals.  They had 3 ½ inch stacked pointy heels.  I wore white pedal pushers, and a red and white striped T-shirt, my book bag jauntily hanging from my shoulder.  I owned a backpack, of course, but that was for flats.  Heels required the book bag, even though it really hurt to hang 25 pounds of books from my shoulder.  As I was walking across Kroeger Plaza, past the architectural building, a very aggressive bee decided I either looked like the best nectar producing flower he’d seen all day, or that I was definitely competition and must be eliminated.  All I know is this darn bee chased me across the plaza to Bancroft Avenue, and partway up the street, uphill.  I ran as fast as my well-shod feet could go.  But I looked good.  Back then, I could run in heels.  Now I couldn’t even limp across the plaza in anything higher than Keds. 

So, my bunion is a souvenir of my darling little outfits of the 70’s and 80’s.  Constantly putting my body weight on the ball of my foot, and squeezing my fat little feet into pointy toe boxes, has left me with the cretin foot I have today.  But perhaps, upon reflection, I should wear my deformity proudly.  It is a badge of courage, an undeniable mark of fashion fortitude.  My foot knob silently proclaims that I was willing to sacrifice life and limb, or at least extremities, to look sharp.   It sticks out between the straps of sandals, and leaves a fixed bulge in leathers.  It is a permanent remnant of my youth.  Like stretch marks from childbirth, it is the price I paid for something greater than myself.  

The Wall

It’s hard not to want things.  It’s human nature.  Sometimes we want things we need, or think we need, and sometimes we want things just because we want them.  Most of us here in the United States are better off than so many others in poorer parts of the world.  I try to remind myself of that, and to not place too much importance on anything I don’t have.  But sometimes knowing you have all you need is not enough.  You have to feel it.

When my daughter Julia was two and a half, and I was pregnant with our first son, we lived in a tiny condominium.   There were technically two bedrooms in the 880 square foot dwelling, but the second bedroom was more like an exaggerated closet.  There were three humans and three cats sharing the space, and I wanted a house.  I needed a house.  I deserved a house.

Never mind that our little condo was in a nice neighborhood, and within walking distance of the BART train that took my husband to his job.   There was no yard.  Sure, there was a park across the street, but it was a very busy street, and I had a toddler!  There was only one bathroom.  Our daughter was potty trained, and there was some competition for toilet time.  The kitchen was too small for more than one person at a time, and the dining area not nearly large enough to seat all our family for holidays and birthdays.   And storage space, well, let it suffice to say that we had to use the trunk of the car for things most people would put in a utility closet.

In the San Francisco Bay Area where we live, home prices are astronomical.  Our little condominium was worth more than two hundred thousand dollars.   We needed more than twice that to buy even a modest older home, and we just couldn’t afford the mortgage. My parents lived close by in the same home I grew up in.  I would drive through my old neighborhood, and see new families in the houses that used to be occupied by my young friends.  The schools near my childhood residence are the most sought after in the area, and the homes, though old, sell for premium prices. “How can these young families afford to live in a nice established neighborhood like this?” I would agonize.   

Back in our own cramped quarters, we had a routine, my little girl and I.  After bath time, I would snuggle up with her in her tiny toddler bed, and we said our prayers.  “God Bless Mommy and Daddy, Papa and Grandma, Gammy, Niki, Lisa, Papa and Grandma Carolina, Cindi, Danny, and Emily.”  Then I would ask Julia what she would like to thank Jesus for today.   She loved this part.  She would look around her room, and pick a stuffed animal, her shoes, a doll, whatever seemed special at the moment.  Sometimes she would put her little arms around me, and say “Thank you for my Mommy and Daddy!”

But on one particular evening, nothing seemed to be special enough.  I made some suggestions, but she shook her head.   “No, not that.”  She looked around her small cluttered room, and then smiled as inspiration struck her.  She put her dimpled little hand on the wall next to her bed, and said proudly “Thank you for my wall!”  She patted the wall soundly, “Amen!” 

“Amen,” I repeated.

Snuggling close, I curled my legs up, and held my child as she drifted off to sleep.  Leave it to a child, I thought, to put everything back into perspective.  The wall separated her warm cozy bed from the dark night.  It kept strangers out, and those she loved in.  Everything she loved, everything she needed, was on her side of the wall.  Nothing else mattered.  Why didn’t I see that before?  “Forgive me, Lord,” I thought.  “And thank you for my wall.”

Reason for the Season

The lights are on the roof,
The presents are all hid,
Mom’s checking her list twice,
And spending too much quid.
 
Ice shows and recitals,
Parties at the school,
Baby picks the darndest times,
To have to do a stool.
 
Mom’s driving hither nither,
Got too much to do,
Thinks she can get home soon,
And then she sees the queue.
 
Shopped for evergreen,
But simply couldn’t agree,
Accept that 97 bucks,
Is too much for a tree!
 
Need to mail the gifts,
For the folks so far away,
Too late to send them ground,
Gotta pay for Second Day.
 
Had to bake some cookies,
To make some memories,
Ate them all by midnight,
The hell with calories.
 
Haven’t bought the rib eye,
To cook on Christmas day,
But did check out the egg nog,
Now don’t care anyway.
 
It’s the same way every year,
As hectic as can be,
Mom tries to plan ahead,
But still works frantically.
 
The kids are so excited,
“We’ve been good girls and boys!”
“By whose account?” Mom says,
“But it’s not about the toys!”
 
“It’s not about the goodies,
Or trees and blinking lights,
It’s not about the presents,
Delivered in the night.”
 
“It’s an enormous birthday party
Where we all receive,
A beautiful remembrance,
Of the miracle we believe.”
 
“Food, lights, and endless shopping,
For the gift we hope that pleases,
Is really to remember,
The birth of our Lord Jesus.”
 
.


 
 
 
 
 


The Wall

It’s hard not to want things.  It’s human nature.  Sometimes we want things we need, or think we need, and sometimes we want things just because we want them.  Most of us here in the United States are better off than so many others in poorer parts of the world.  I try to remind myself of that, and to not place too much importance on anything I don’t have.  But sometimes knowing you have all you need is not enough.  You have to feel it.

When my daughter Julia was two and a half, and I was pregnant with our first son, we lived in a tiny condominium.   There were technically two bedrooms in the 880 square foot dwelling, but the second bedroom was more like an exaggerated closet.  There were three humans and three cats sharing the space, and I wanted a house.  I needed a house.  I deserved a house.

Never mind that our little condo was in a nice neighborhood, and within walking distance of the BART train that took my husband to his job.   There was no yard.  Sure, there was a park across the street, but it was a very busy street, and I had a toddler!  There was only one bathroom.  Our daughter was potty trained, and there was some competition for toilet time.  The kitchen was too small for more than one person at a time, and the dining area not nearly large enough to seat all our family for holidays and birthdays.   And storage space, well, let it suffice to say that we had to use the trunk of the car for things most people would put in a utility closet.

In the San Francisco Bay Area where we live, home prices are astronomical.  Our little condominium was worth more than two hundred thousand dollars.   We needed more than twice that to buy even a modest older home, and we just couldn’t afford the mortgage. My parents lived close by in the same home I grew up in.  I would drive through my old neighborhood, and see new families in the houses that used to be occupied by my young friends.  The schools near my childhood residence are the most sought after in the area, and the homes, though old, sell for premium prices. “How can these young families afford to live in a nice established neighborhood like this?” I would agonize.   

Back in our own cramped quarters, we had a routine, my little girl and I.  After bath time, I would snuggle up with her in her tiny toddler bed, and we said our prayers.  “God Bless Mommy and Daddy, Papa and Grandma, Gammy, Niki, Lisa, Papa and Grandma Carolina, Cindi, Danny, and Emily.”  Then I would ask Julia what she would like to thank Jesus for today.   She loved this part.  She would look around her room, and pick a stuffed animal, her shoes, a doll, whatever seemed special at the moment.  Sometimes she would put her little arms around me, and say “Thank you for my Mommy and Daddy!”

But on one particular evening, nothing seemed to be special enough.  I made some suggestions, but she shook her head.   “No, not that.”  She looked around her small cluttered room, and then smiled as inspiration struck her.  She put her dimpled little hand on the wall next to her bed, and said proudly “Thank you for my wall!”  She patted the wall soundly, “Amen!” 

“Amen,” I repeated.

Snuggling close, I curled my legs up, and held my child as she drifted off to sleep.  Leave it to a child, I thought, to put everything back into perspective.  The wall separated her warm cozy bed from the dark night.  It kept strangers out, and those she loved in.  Everything she loved, everything she needed, was on her side of the wall.  Nothing else mattered.  Why didn’t I see that before?  “Forgive me, Lord,” I thought.  “And thank you for my wall.”