Category Archives: Life

No Place Like Home

My children come from a broken home.

Literally.

Our home is broken. 

The microwave doesn’t micro any waves.  The glass stovetop is held together with duct tape.  The washing machine sounds like a freight train, and it costs less to buy a new one than it would to repair this poor thing that has lived such a hard life.

All but one of us uses the guest bathroom to shower because the master bath is almost exactly the same as it was in 1964, except no longer new and shiny.  Try old and nasty.  We did change the toilet to a Toto many years ago, since the company’s claim it could flush a golf ball erroneously made us think it could handle this family’s output.  Toto toilets have different insides than the standard chain and valve toilet.  There is some sort of plastic tube shaped gadget that is responsible for the flushing.  Something is wrong with ours because when you flush it, it sounds like a fog horn, and is just about as loud.  Or maybe it’s just howling in distress.

Six people using the tiny guest bath with poor ventilation has led to the entire bathroom rusting.  The faucet handles are rusted and can’t be removed without breaking the porcelain.  Same for the pipes that lead from the wall to the pedestal sink.  All around the edges of the medicine cabinet mirror is, you guessed it, rust.  The bathroom window is cockeyed and the seal broken between the double panes, so there is something funky living in that space between.  However, it is very easy to open if you forget your keys and need to break in.  I can attest to that personally. 

There are two pocket doors in the house but the tracks to both were broken years ago by boys roughhousing.  Since fixing them means cutting into the sheetrock to replace the tracks, the doors remain stuck forever between the walls.

I don’t have enough chairs to seat people at the kitchen table even if the table were available for seating.  The matching wooden chairs broke one by one over the years, and then most of the folding chairs.  In the living room, our lovely sofa made it through three cats until Toby came along and shredded it to pieces.  I keep covering the shred with a throw blanket, and the should-be-grown kids keep pulling it down to use as a lap blanket, and never replace it.  The matching chair started to fray at the arms and someone who refuses to confess picked at it until all the stuffing is exposed.

In the family room, the sliding glass door has no handle.  There’s a finger sized whole where the handle should be that works great for opening and closing, unless you have sausage fingers.  Then you have a problem.  The lock is a 2×4 cut to just the right length to fit behind the closed glass pane.

The box spring on my bed has also been shredded to pieces by my fat cat, and the mattress has a Jerry-sized valley on one side.  I cuddle up to my husband at night but then I roll downhill into his valley and can’t get out.  It’s safer to stay on my side. 

The decay has spread from major installed appliances to small appliances.  I took out our blender when preparing desserts a couple of days before Thanksgiving, and it was broken.  I bought a new one at Best Buy, but the motor burned up as soon as I plugged it in.  And it didn’t even blend first.  Thanksgiving morning, our trusty coffee maker wouldn’t make any coffee.  The green light came on but the machine moved no water.  I ended up boiling water and pouring it slowly through the filter. 

We had so many plans for this fixer of a house when we bought it almost 20 years ago.  We fixed some things right away, but those things now need to be fixed again.  Five kids and years of crisis after crisis have taken their toll on the house and on our finances (not to mention our psyches, but that’s another story).  No repairs are in sight.

My kids don’t care; they have friends over with no shame.  But me?  If you come to my door, I’m going to block your entry.  We can chat on the porch.

I know it’s all surface nonsense.  The roof is sound, thanks to my dad paying for a new one once we could see daylight when we looked up in the attic.  The walls are solid and the doors all close (well, except the pocket doors).   

This house has raised three kids which became five, seen the birth of a child, four high school graduations (fifth pending, he’s a senior), been home to many beloved pets, and witnessed untold laughter, tears, celebrations and arguments. 

It’s been a home.  And really, what more could I ask?

Katie and Roy

Our family was transformed in the summer of 2008.  It was then that my husband and I met our two children, Katie and Roy, and the three children we already had – Julia, Jackson, and Jamie – welcomed two new siblings.  Technically it didn’t all come about so quickly, and it would be four more years until Katie and Roy shared our home for good, but they were a part of our family long before that.

I met them first.  Katie was a wild thing, like an animal uncaged.  She used each minute to have as much fun as possible, to live as much as possible.  You could see the energy coming off of her in waves. Roy was clingy, desperate for attention and affection.  Both were extremely thin, and very hungry.  Roy was eight years old, had just finished second grade, yet he was only as tall as Jamie, who was six.  He had just lost his two front teeth, whereas most children I knew had lost them in kindergarten or first grade. 

It was clear from the beginning that something was wrong with their home life.  The more time they spent with us, the more obvious it was that they were neglected, at best.  Possibly more than neglected.  They spent a lot of time at our house, and never wanted to leave. 

Roy, who couldn’t say his r’s, cemented himself in my heart permanently the day he asked, “Can you buy me fwom my dad?”

“Well, I would if I could, but it’s against the law to sell children,” I explained.

He thought about this for a minute, then asked, “Can you give them away?”

When I explained that yes, in some circumstances you can go to court and a judge will say if a child can live with somebody else, he said “I’m going to ask my dad tonight to give me to you.”

I can still see his snaggletooth grin, his skinny body in his borrowed swim trunks, planning a way to come be with us forever.

This is a long story of abuse, neglect, drugs, and other ugliness, and all the ways in which the system did not work.  Said system is geared to protect the rights of the parents more than the rights of the children, despite horror stories you hear of the reverse.  The ugliness has been told elsewhere in writing, to the court.  It doesn’t bare repeating here.

Child Protective Services was involved many times, but it is difficult to prove neglect.  Each time they would give parenting advice to the custodial parent, their father, check up for a few weeks, and then close the case.  The children had been primed on what to say, warned that they would be sent separately to live with strangers, and their father would go to jail if they ever said anything other than what they were told to say.

As summer gave way to fall, weeks turned into months, and months became years, we struggled to give these kids all we could, without having the rights to truly change their lives.  My husband taught Roy to play baseball.  We bought him gear and paid for Little League.  We put him in soccer.  We paid for soccer camps and baseball camps. I helped both kids with homework.  I talked to teachers.  I bought Katie maxi pads when she started her period, and I bought her her first real bra.  We bought both kids clothes, fed them, and had them over our house as much as possible.  We celebrated birthdays, and had belated celebrations together for Christmas and Easter.  Katie called us Mom and Dad.

Years before meeting Katie and Roy, I had felt as though our family was not complete.  I wondered if we should adopt, or maybe foster a child.  But our own children had so many needs and special issues, I wasn’t sure they could handle an addition being thrust upon them.  Our house was too small for any more people, and we didn’t really have the funds, so I put those thoughts away, thinking maybe when our three were older it would be a better time.  I remember asking God to lead me if he had plans for us.

Frankly, I didn’t think Katie and Roy would ever get away from their father.  My husband had to constantly remind me that they were not our kids, not legally.  We prayed for them.  We thought the best we could do for them was to provide a better example, take care of them when they were with us, and give them a respite from their stressful lives.  It wasn’t easy, as they both had emotional issues which affected our family dynamics.  But, our three biological children accepted that Katie and Roy were a part of our family, understanding that they needed us.  I can’t count the number of times Julia said, “Let’s just not take them back.”

Fast forward to 2012.  Things were not going well for Katie and Roy.  But in the span of one hectic 24 hours, things came to a head and they were here.  Living with us. There was a court dependency case that lasted almost two years, and a lot more ugliness.  Yet within that ugliness, just as nature reclaims with new growth areas devastated by disaster, tiny seeds sprouted and grew.

Our house is very small, still we somehow managed.  We bought a loft bed for Katie, and Julia made room for a sister in what had been her private domain.  In order to fit three boys in one room, we had a custom three-layer bunk bed made. We were officially a family of seven.

I don’t’ know how to explain what came next except to say it was very, very hard.  For all of us.  We were crammed into our house like sardines, and our biological children suddenly had to share everything, including their parents, all the time.  Katie and Roy had to adjust to new rules, and Roy particularly suffered as the move brought home to him the fact that his biological family would never be a functioning unit.  A lot of childhood hopes and dreams were obliterated overnight. 

Kids who have had trauma in their young lives do things that are strange to the rest of us. Katie would fill her plate to the brim, leaving nothing for others, then not finish what she had taken.  She hid food in her bed.  Actually, she kept all of her belongings in her bed, and hoarded everything. 

She was a sophomore with almost no hope of graduating, ever, let alone with her class.  She had no sense of who she was, did all sorts of things that we had to make clear she understood were not allowed while living in this house, and entertained no thought beyond the present moment.

Roy was argumentative, desperate for affection and attention, and prone to tantrums.  He was so hyperactive he would watch TV, play with a moving toy, and play a handheld video game all at the same time.  He was 12 years old and could barely read.

Katie had to go to adult school every day after her regular high school classes, and had to go to summer school every summer.  It was touch and go, but she graduated with her class.  She is now slowly making her way through college, studying psychology and American Sign Language, and working in the floral department at Safeway with her sister.

I fought tooth and nail to get Roy tested for special education.  After being told endlessly he would not qualify, once tested he qualified in three categories.  With the proper support, he slowly made up for lost time.  Today he is in college in Minnesota with his older brother, where they both play baseball.  He works on campus, and is academically sound and independent.

Sometimes I look back and wonder how all of us made it this far.  And yet, we are all so blessed to be a part of this bumpy journey.  Our biological kids learned compassion, forgiveness, patience, hope, and to love when loving isn’t easy.  For Jerry and I, it has been a fascinating process, watching all of our kids grow.   Many times we get so bogged down in the day to day struggles that we don’t see the progress, but when we get a chance to breathe deep and step back, it truly has been amazing every step of the way.  I marvel that God placed such trust in us.  We are so ordinary.  We are not out to save the world.  Shoot, sometimes it seems like a miracle we even get through the day!

Katie and Roy are still a work in progress, as are we all.  But this is a story of what may lie hidden in every kid who seems like he or she is going nowhere.  Every kid who gets in fights, skips class to get stoned, has no friends, has too many friends of the wrong sort, acts out, shuts down, and is academically light years behind, has a spark inside that just needs a little fresh air and fuel to brightly blaze. 

The story here is what stability, unconditional love, and a safe place to call home can do for a kid. This is Katie and Roy’s story of courage.  Jerry and I are the supporting players.  We opened the door, but they had to walk through it. 

Lessons from Oz

UPS isn’t going to leave it at your door in a plain brown box.  Of this I am certain.  Oh, the UPS man (or woman) might leave you something that gives you a fleeting taste, but it doesn’t fit in a box, so no shipping service is going to deliver it.  The wizard doesn’t have it in his black bag.  And it won’t hit you like a stray meteor from some random act of the cosmos.  If you are lucky, once life has pushed you around a little bit, you learn this.

I am speaking of, dare I say it, happiness.  I hesitate to even use the word, it is so overexposed.  Once you have adequately suffered, you realize that happiness is merely a state of mind, an attitude.  It is always available to you.  At least that’s my theory.  Don’t get confused with joy, that euphoric state that we experience when grand and wonderful moments color our lives, such as the birth of a child.  I am talking about everyday, garden variety happiness.   How would you answer the question “Am I happy?”?

During a very low time in my life when I was bemoaning the events that had left me so miserable, and the cruelty of this world to leave me feeling thusly, a dear friend told me “You are responsible for your own emotions.  It’s your decision to be unhappy.”

Huh?  I don’t think so!  I was unhappy because I had reason to be unhappy. 

“I’m not saying it’s unreasonable to feel bad,” she explained.   “I’m saying that you have decided that this is worth feeling bad about.  It’s OK to feel bad, you just have to take ownership of your emotions.  The world is not responsible.”

Now that took a very long time to digest.  I actually coughed it back up a few times before I could finally hold it down.  This friend of mine had had her own challenges in life:  alcoholic parents, a failed marriage at a young age, date rape, and more.  Yet somehow she overcame it all, and pulled her life together.  She was the strongest person I knew, and I valued her perspective.  I thought about what she said for a long time, and then I finally got it. 

You can’t do something or get something to make you happy.  You might decide that you like your new something so much that you are happy about it, but that new something didn’t make you happy. 

Conversely, when unpleasant things happen, our reaction is the product of our evaluation of the situation and our own personal determination whether or not we will be sad over this thing.  What happened didn’t make us unhappy, even though we may be unhappy because this thing happened.  Nor are we at the mercy of the happiness gods that allow happy and unhappy to strike without warning or cause.  And, most importantly, good things and bad things happen to everybody; the world owes us nothing.  It’s how we choose to feel in spite of all that life dishes out. 

That said, it doesn’t mean of course that we always have control over ourselves.  Mental illness, such as depression, cannot be overcome just by singing “High Hopes.” And when we lose someone dear to us, we can’t just say to ourselves, “Well, I don’t want to be sad so I’m not.”  But it does mean, however, that most of us have control over our everyday attitude. 

Haven’t you ever known someone who has “a bad attitude”?  “Nothing ever works out for me,” they may say.   “Something always happens to ruin things.” Or even, “My life is terrible.”  Nobody’s life is exactly as he or she would like.  There are things we need, things we want, situations that just don’t work out very well, and annoyances up the ying yang.  And for all of us, some very, very bad times.   But I have never known anyone yet who didn’t have something worth celebrating, however humble.   I have come to realize that it is the quiet celebration of what is good in our lives that not only leads to general happiness, but that builds strength to endure the worst in our lives.

Think of the biblical Job on his dung heap, praising God.  If we can be happy with where we are at the moment, then it really doesn’t matter if we are not where we would really like to be.  I am sure Job would have preferred to be somewhere else, yet he chose to glorify God despite his hardships.  The happiest people I have known are probably those that most people would say had suffered the most.  There were many things they wanted to change, or wished had never happened, but they saw with such clarity and brilliance all that was good in their lives.  The unhappiest people I have known are generally those who have had rather ordinary lives, with their share of hardship, but nothing shocking or unusual.  Most of these failed to see all the wonderful aspects of their lives, or could not appreciate what they had.

We can choose to appreciate what is good and to tolerate the day to day hardships.  It is not always easy to do, especially if that has not been your pattern.  It takes work like a good marriage. But if you let the little things knock you to the ground, you will never be on your feet, and you will be simply swept away by the big things. 

This is what unhappiness has taught me.  That happiness is being OK with who you are at the moment, even while striving for something else.  That happiness is your child’s smile and a sunny day, even though the car is in the shop, you’re late for a job you hate, and the toilet is clogged.  You may be worried, tense, frustrated and annoyed, but you are not overcome.  It’s OK.  You are OK.  And little by little you will work on all these things and more, but doesn’t the sun feel good as you walk out the door?

Lessons From My Children

Parenting is a humbling experience.  Whatever vague notions you may have about how your children will be, God doesn’t really take that into account.  You get what you get.  Leaving egos and expectations behind to find the unique and complex creations with which our lives have been blessed is the journey of parenthood. 

When I was single and childless, I was very critical of other people’s children.  If they were unruly, or rude, or loud, or impertinent, or whatever, I told myself that my children would never get away with that.  They’d tow the line or know the wrath of Mommy.  It was just that simple. 

It isn’t.  It’s not about misbehaving, either.  At least, not always.  Beneath the round cheeks and toothless grins lie complicated little people with all sorts of talents, emotions, and issues.   When I first held each of my children, I promised them I would love them and take care of them, no matter what.  I do, and I have.  But there was no understanding with that first kiss how that promise would change me. 

I didn’t know then how watching my child run after a group of children on the school playground who didn’t want him to play with them would tear my heart in two.  Or how heavy I would feel seeing him happy when they finally agreed to let him be the bad guy in their game, since nobody else wanted to be.  I didn’t realize that a child of two well-educated, reasonably intelligent, avid readers, would suffer severe anxiety about school, and would struggle with basic reading and writing.  And I didn’t know that same child, who couldn’t pass the test, would impress his teachers with his vocabulary and ability to understand and recall details of science and history.  I wouldn’t have guessed that this child would be the most insightful and empathetic of my three, the one who would love and feel the most intensely. 

And if I had known those things, I would still have never anticipated the convoluted mix of emotions when other parents roll their eyes at my child, or lose patience with him.  How many times I have wanted to take those parents aside, and ask them to switch children with me for a month, because perhaps then they would be less judgmental, and would feel compassion instead of impatience.  What a loss to these parents, and to their own children, that they cannot see beyond the surface, that they cannot see the amazing spirit in each and every child.  Who are we, any of us, to judge the worthiness of God’s gifts? 

I don’t believe there is such a thing as a bad little kid.  Yes, they test their boundaries, and that is part of their natural growth.  Those that exhibit extreme amounts of testing are rarely being “bad”, they are coping with something in their lives in any way they can.  Children don’t have the cerebral development to stand back and analyze their feelings, put a name and a source to it, and figure out what to do about it.  Whatever “it” is comes bursting out in ways that seem strange to us adults.  I’m no expert in child development; these are simply my observations and personal experience. 

And in the same strange way that I have ultimately been grateful for the worst times in my life because of the personal growth and eventual rewards that pain brought, I consider myself lucky to have complex children, and one in particular who works very hard at tying my angel wings in knots.  Because if all my children were as happy and adaptable as my youngest, I would continue today with the one dimensional view of children with which I began this journey, and with which I see some other parents still afflicted.  I would have missed so much

.

Metaphor for Life

I’m changing my address from the nice suburban street where I now live to “Van, Down by the River”.  By rights, that’s what it should be, because although we have steadily been updating our older home, and have added some lovely features, at heart we remain urban hillbillies. 

Our front yard is tastefully landscaped.  We live very near the local elementary school, and many parents who pass our house going to and from the school have commented on our garden.  Oh, if they could only see what lies beyond.  The backyard is a combination of wasteland and landfill.  The automatic lawn sprinklers died years ago, replaced by an ineffective hose sprinkler that is powered by a manual timer called “Whenever I Remember”.  Thus it’s green under the mulberry tree in the corner, brown around the edges, and yellow in the middle, except for the patches of healthy local grasses (i.e., weeds) that pop up here and there.  Beyond the grass is dirt, highlighted by a dilapidated play structure that we have officially condemned, a rather nice raised vegetable box where my husband practices his unfulfilled farming urges, rotten tree stumps, and a contrasting well-groomed line of roses up against the house.  

On the side near the gate is the “basketball court”.  It is a slab of cement with a nice backboard at one end, but it also houses the garbage cans, a barbecue, and a toilet.  Makes for a pretty interesting game of hoops.  The toilet was removed in an effort to find a more powerful model that could accommodate both my husband’s voluminous output and our home’s crappy (pun intended) plumbing..  To replace it we found the mother of all toilets, which has only succumbed once to the plumbing, but unfortunately the cast-off has no place to go.  It’s not a bad toilet, either, and only a couple of years old.  Where do unemployed toilets go to look for work?  

But the pièce de résistance is the patio.  Ah yes, the patio.  The terrace.  The veranda.  The cracked aggregate concrete housing weeds, insects, a lopsided cheerful yellow patio set, stray toys, more roses, and the couch.  Yes, I said “couch”.  Doesn’t every nice home have a sofa on the veranda?  We did have a leather armchair as well, but that went to a new owner for $30 in a garage sale.  

The couch is a casualty of redecorating.  Five years ago it was deep blue, plush, ultra comfy, and seemingly well built.  Today it is threadbare and stained, with broken springs popping up between the cushions, all complements of the Kea children.  I dragged it out the sliding glass door to the patio the day the new furniture arrived.  Although I regularly shifted it to sweep and mop underneath, as I heaved it toward the door, left behind was a trail of crumbs, wrappers, plastic arms disconnected from some long lost superhero, marbles, popsicle sticks, and numerous other sticky detritus.  Apparently the sofa had been gobbling this debris for years, only to regurgitate in its death throws.  To add insult to injury, since moving it to it’s “temporary” spot, we’ve had our first rain.  

So in keeping with the image, we have a dead, moldy, decomposing sofa on our patio.  Do you know how hard it is to get rid of a yucky sofa?  It’s too far gone to give to the poor.  The local dump wants $125 to leave it there.  Which actually I’d be willing to pay if my husband and I could lift the damn thing down our steep driveway and into the truck, but we’ve already tried and failed.   So we are stuck with the only other option, which is to pay a hauling company $225 to take it away for us.   I guess we might as well add another $100 for the poor toilet.  

My husband, who was born and raised in the deep south, had another suggestion.  He’s very sensitive about redneck comments, feeling stuck up Californians look down upon his pan fried roots.  But seeing he’s sort of an “in your face” kind of guy, he is lobbying for moving the sofa and toilet to the front lawn, lighting a bonfire with one of the broken chairs from the garage, and sitting back to enjoy a Bud Lite.  He’d probably suggest having a shotgun at his knee, but I don’t allow firearms.  

He’s only joking (I think).  He doesn’t even like Bud Lite.  He likes expensive scotch.  Actually, I think he just likes to brag that he likes expensive scotch.  Anyway, the presence of a sofa outside our sliding glass doors seems to bother him less than the lawn needing to be mowed, or the condition of his lettuce crop.  I, on the other hand, am mortified.  After years of fearing guests because the inside of our home was so frightening, now I fear guests because they might see the outside.  No matter what I do, I cannot seem to keep up with the feculence of life.  “Feculence”…isn’t that a great word?  I found it in a thesaurus as a synonym for “excrement”.    

Perhaps we should keep the toilet, then, as a symbol of our struggles.  A literal symbol for my husband, more figurative for me.  Maybe my husband can plant a crop there.  And you can interpret that any way you like.

God Only Knows

When payment here is rendered,
And this life not to retrieve,
I’ll seek answers from my Maker
Which I cannot now conceive.
 
I can better comprehend the pain
Of body, than mind and soul.
The doctrine and the theology
Can not explain the whole.
 
Why the haste to repatriate
Those who see His vision purely,
When their beauty offers sustenance
To those who see less clearly?
 
And how is it that the salve and balm
Our bodies eagerly ingest,
Soothe the aching deep inside,
Yet imperil our earthly quest?
 
And most important I must query
Now that we’re clear of earthly debt…
Well, hell, what I mean is,
Does heaven have chocolate?

Reflections

Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the continuity of life.  The vastness of spirit that flows throughout time, that came before us and will continue beyond our presence here on earth.  It is humbling and comforting all at once.  The year I graduated from high school, I searched through my record albums for a quote to put beneath my senior yearbook picture.  I guess you can figure out how long ago that must have been, at minimum, since I was still spinning vinyl for tunes.  Oh, all right, since you don’t have your calculator, it was in 1980, OK? Anyway, I chose a line from “Within You Without You” by George Harrison from the Beatles’ Sergeant Pepper album.  The Beatles were long gone by then, but timeless as ever.  I didn’t actually care for the song much, but I liked the line “And to see you’re really only very small, and life flows on within you and without you.”

I still like that line, but especially the second half.  I think of what our life may have been before this earth, if our soul existed with God first, about our life in this body, and about what it may be after.  I think of life in all its forms all over the earth, and of how we are a small part of that beating force.  And I think of my family members, some of whom have passed, of my children who were just a vague dream barely 10 years ago, and of their children who have yet to come. 

There are other quotes I can recall from different times in my life that bring me back to the same themes, the endless flow of life, and love, although they were given breath by those dear to me, not by famous musicians with funny haircuts.  When I must have been in my early teens, I remember my grandmother saying absently to my mother, as she watched me at some task, “Nana [my great grandmother] said you love your grandchildren just like your own, and it’s true.”  I didn’t have any children of my own yet, of course, and I heard this with the ears of a child, but I knew it meant something special.  Now that I do have children, I can appreciate the enormity of what she was saying.  I can envision her heart expanding to include me and my sister in the special circle of love that only a mother can conceive.

Many years later, I had my first child, Julia.  What a beautiful baby! Oh, I know, every mother says that, and every mother means it.  And my mother, who has always adored babies, was completely enraptured by her.  In fact one of the clearest memories I have from Julia’s birth is the pure joy in my mother’s smile as she watched.  The only other time I saw her smile quite like that was the day I was married.  I have only one sibling, and I remember when I was small my mother wanted another baby desperately, although I didn’t really understand why you just couldn’t have one if you wanted one!  One day when Julia was only a few weeks old, my mother and I were going somewhere together with the baby. I drove and my mother rode in back next to Julia.  My mom muttered something, but I didn’t quite hear.  “What?” I asked, watching her in the rearview mirror.  Without looking up from the baby, she continued her own little conversation. 

“I was just thinking, this is the best time in Grandma’s life.  You are that baby I wanted all those years ago.  I didn’t know then that God would give you to me as a grandchild.” 

I’ll never forget those words.

Still more years later, my Gammy grew old and weak.  She suffered from dementia, remembering things from decades ago but not that her husband had passed, or if she had eaten breakfast.  She lived with my mother after my grandfather passed away, until her body grew so feeble that she needed constant medical attention.  Reluctantly my mother had her transferred from the hospital to a convalescent home, but Mom went to see her for hours every single day.  I had two children by that time, and later a third.  I tried to go at least once a week, at lunch time when my mother was there, and to bring my little ones with me to make Gammy smile, although I am ashamed to say I didn’t always make it.  One day Gammy looked at my pretty daughter and said to my mother , “Diane, what happened to my little girl?”  She looked worried and perplexed.  Where was her own pretty little girl with big brown eyes?

“Well, Mother, I’m your little girl, remember?  I’m all grown up now, and I have grandchildren.  These are your great grandchildren.” 

“Oh,” Gammy said, and nodded, but she didn’t look convinced.  Her first child, a pretty little girl, just like mine, burned forever into her memory too deeply for dementia to touch.  Her love for her little girl was the same as it had been 65 years earlier, the same as it would be in 65 more years.

In my children’s faces I see God, and I wonder how anyone who has ever loved a child could possibly doubt that there is indeed a God, that there is indeed an ongoing life that flows from one of us to another, day after day, year after year, decade after decade, forever.  I remember the things I have heard that I keep in my heart, and I know that at least once, George Harrison was right.  Life flows on, within us and without us. 

Apple Season

That was one freakin’ expensive apple.  I don’t even particularly care for apples, and to pay for just one, your entire life…well, I hope it was good. Kind of turns you off fruit. 

I am talking, of course, of that apple from the Tree of Knowledge.  Yeah, that’s the one.  The one Eve just had to have.  I really question the validity of that story.  I do not know one single woman who would stick around long enough to hear what a snake has to say, let alone be persuaded by one.  Every woman I know would have run so fast she didn’t leave tracks, or grabbed the biggest rock she could find and smashed that sucker’s head, then made a nice snakeskin purse. 

But no, Eve had to have an apple.  Well, I guess if there’s no chocolate in existence, you’ll get your sugar where you can.  She probably didn’t have some power thing going at all, she just had a sweet tooth.   

And what’s up with Adam?  Did he do everything his wife told him to do? Who wore the fig leaf in that family?  There’s a name for guys like him.  It’s not nice, and it can’t be printed here.  Rather ironic that at the beginning of time it was the woman who called the shots, a risk taker, and the man who followed along.  That pretty much blows a few stereotypes away. 

So here we are, millions of lives later, still paying for that one piece of fruit. Bloating, cramps, irritability, not to mention the convoluted joy of squeezing a human being from your loins. 

Then comes the extended payment plan.  I’ve moved onto that part of the arrangement.  Let’s talk about night sweats, shall we?  Until recently that referred to the sweat pants I wore to bed in the winter.  Now that means sitting up in bed and flapping my T-shirt in the middle of the night. 

And how about sipping your coffee on a frigid winter morning, huddled over your cup, when suddenly instead of reading the newspaper, you are waving it wildly in a back and forth motion while simultaneously pulling off your sweatshirt, as the internal seasons switch from mid-winter to August in the wink of an eye. 

But the best part is the PMS from hell.  Anxious, irritable, hair trigger temper.  Mood swings that make a stay in a sanitarium sound like a viable vacation option.  I’d like to have a talk with that Eve.  She could have had an Eden bag with matching shoes, but no, she picked the freakin’ apple. 

And if I ever see that damn snake, he’d better slither fast.  He doesn’t stand a chance against one middle-aged, pre-menstrual, stressed out, pissed off, mean ass modern day woman. 

Eve was a wimp.

Thoughts On Being Old and Tired

I’m tired.  I’m almost always tired.  There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with me physiologically, I’m just tired.  Pooped.  Worn out.  Zonked.  There are probably quite a few reasons why I am tired, all acceptable but all related to the fact that I have three young children.  I wouldn’t not have my children for all the zing in all the Red Bull in the world. I’ll take tired if that is the price.  But if it’s not, can somebody please tell me how to not be so tired?  Don’t say more sleep, that is not one of the choices. 

I want to be able to have enough drive to really clean my house.  Get rid of all the dust bunnies, cob webs, and cat hair.  Go through all the stacks of papers, and find a place for everything.  No piles of stuff that doesn’t really have a home.  Organized neat closets that are easy to navigate.  Spotless toilets.  Socks all folded and in the appropriate drawers.  Nothing sticky on the floor, nothing yucky in the corners.  The very top shelves of my floor to ceiling shelves dusted.  

I want to be zippy enough to take out the sewing machine after the kids are asleep and sew some cute outfit for my daughter.  I enjoy sewing, or at least I think I do.  I used to.

I’d like to read a book just for fun, and not on the toilet.  I’d like to try a new recipe that is really hard and takes lots of time, just because. 

I want to go to the gym every day, ice skate at least twice a week, take walks in between.  I want to be able to drive to the mountains early in the morning, ski all day, and drive home that evening without falling asleep at the wheel.  I want to be young again.  Except that when I was young I didn’t have a home, husband, children, and I don’t want to go back to life without those things.  So I am going to have to struggle with old and tired, doing the best I can. 

I have a theory about aging.  The young suck the life out of you.  Literally.  My children grow and thrive by drawing the very essence of life out of me and my husband.  And they are welcome to it.  I would rather creak and ache and groan while watching my children discover the intricacies of life than remain young and strong all by myself.  Such is the love for our children that we would gladly lay down our lives for them, and in fact we do. 

Well, that’s my theory, anyway.  I know that isn’t the literal truth, but it does feel as though I am physically passing something (no, it’s not gas).  Sort of lends a quixotic, romantic flavor to aging. 

I haven’t worked out how that applies to childless people.  I mean, it doesn’t seem so idealistic to have your life drained by other people’s children.  It seems more gothic that way.  Frightening, really.  So maybe if you don’t have children, you age because the life simply evaporates with no new home to go to.  That’s a sad thought.  Maybe all the orphans and unloved children of the world receive that energy.  Yes, I like that.  I like to think that even if they are unaware of it, lonely children are the receptacles for the life energy of childless grownups from all over the world. 

It’s a credit to my graying hair and sagging butt that my children are so strong and exuberant.  With every ounce of love, I pass along a little more of my youth, until finally there will be no more, and my little boos will be all grown, feeding hungry young lives of their own offspring.  My spirit, forever strong, will gently leave this place of trial and worry, one last gust of life and love breathed upon those I leave behind, until they too, pass the essence of their physical being, and join me in watching the slow relay of life and loving.

Should Have Gone to Clown School

My hair is turning gray, and I don’t like it much.   When I was in high school I said I would never dye my hair when I was older.  I wanted to grow old gracefully.  Well, the hell with that.  Miss Clairol and I get together every now and then and we have ourselves a little home beauty spa. 

I still have enough of my original color to get away with using semi-permanent dye, which means I can save some money and do it myself.  The semi-perm stuff doesn’t leave roots, either.  It’s hard to find the right shade when you are not an expert, but with a little trial and a lot of error, I figured out that mixing two colors together gets me a pretty good match to my own non-gray color. 

Now normally I like to do this when my hair is freshly cut, because I have very thick hair, and one bottle is barely enough to kick that stubborn gray to the curb.  If my hair is too long, well, there just isn’t enough dye, and those dry ends like to soak up all the color.  I’ve been having a little trouble connecting with my hairdresser lately, however.  The result is that the weight of my hair has pushed it down on top, and the curls are all growing out at the sides.  Sort of a Bozo look.  A graying Bozo.  I just couldn’t stand it anymore, and last week I hit the bottle.  

When the two older kids were at their institution of lower learning, and the little guy was at preschool, the party began.  You’re only supposed to leave the stuff on for a maximum of 20 minutes, but my wicked curls hold out for a full 30 before succumbing.  The color may be semi-permanent on your head, but it’s plenty permanent on everything else, so I always cover my head while I’m waiting for the transformation to be complete.  With a towel?  A do-rag?  No, no.  Those would stain! I use a plastic grocery bag.  A do-bag, if you will.  

It’s a good look for me.  I cover all my stinkin’ dye-soaked hair, and tie the handles on top of my head.  Oh, yeah.  Paris Hilton ain’t got nothin’ on me.  I know fashion. 

As I tied my stylish petroleum based “scarf” over my head, I noticed something bright red on my face, right by my ear.  Oh geez!   I must have bought the wrong color dye, and I really was going to look like Bozo!  I double checked the bottles, and no, numbers 18 and 20, just like always.  I poked at my scalp in a couple of other places, but the color was brown, just like it was supposed to be.  With a hunk of wadded up toilet paper, I wiped off the red stuff.  

Blood!  This looked like blood!  Where the heck was I bleeding from?  Nothing hurt!  Did I have some sort of mutant zit that had exploded when I rubbed in the hair dye?  What would happen if the dye got into an open sore? 

I couldn’t find any sign of injury or acne, so baffled, I decided my hair color was more urgent than my health, and I went into the kitchen to clean up while Miss Clairol worked her magic.  As I put dirty dishes into the dishwasher, I absently scratched the base of my scalp.  My finger came away bright red. 

Good grief!  I panicked.  The dye must be having some sort of strange reaction!  I ran into the bathroom and frantically ripped my do-bag from my head!  I looked from my head in the mirror to the bag in my hand…the bag. 

Crap.  This wasn’t a grocery bag.  It was a Target bag, and the red bulls eyes were run together in a bloody mess.  I wasn’t going to look like Bozo, I was going to look like the Target dog.  

I tossed the bag and jumped into the shower, frantically scrubbing out all the color, both the one I wanted and the one I didn’t.  The water going down the drain looked like I must have been out slottering hogs all morning.  

Now I know why my hair grows in this Bozo pattern…I am Bozo.  It’s hard to believe somebody could be well educated and still be such an idiot, but they don’t teach you how to deal with gray sparklers in your part in business school.  Too bad I didn’t have that on hidden camera.  I’d like to play it back in about 20 years, recalling how gracefully I had grown old.

That’s a Crock!

There is a renowned child psychologist or some such “ist” who writes a syndicated column carried by our local newspaper.  I cannot remember his name, which is just as well since I am about to misquote him dreadfully, but I do know he has written several books and is considered an expert.  His picture printed just above his column must have been taken the day his hemorrhoids flared, or right after he took a sip of vending machine coffee.  He has the sourest look on his face.  He looks like someone more likely to abuse your children than counsel them.  Supposedly he has grown children, all psychologically whole, and productive citizens, but that is by his account.  I have no proof of this.  I have never seen him pictured with any sour faced children purported to be his offspring.   

Even though I seldom agree with him, I do read his column from time to time just so I can roll my eyes and say, “Yeah, right.  Like that would work with my kids!”.  Of course, I am not an expert.  I would not even say I am an expert with my own children.  I am just a regular mom doing her best to raise her children well.  But here is the point of this little tirade.  Potty training.  I am on my third and last (I believe) episode of potty training.  The Expert believes we have become a nation of potty training wimps.  Apparently children were potty trained at a much younger age when our parents were in diapers.  The secret, he maintains, is to let your child go without a diaper for a week.  Then when he messes you can put him on the potty.  After no more than a week the little darling will understand and start using the potty.  There is probably more to it than this, but that is the skeletal version. 

OK, well when my parents were in nappies they didn’t have any kind of stay dry lining, so maybe he has a point there.  Grandma probably got really tired of Cloroxing all those smellies and was very motivated to move on to toilet training.  But in regards to Dr. Expert’s method, I do not think a week of having poop and pee on my sofa is going to do Mommy any good psychologically.  And our grandmothers were home all day.  They didn’t have to worry about baby pooping in the minivan, or peeing in the dance studio while big sister practiced plies. My bigger objection, however, is that I have learned something important from my first two children.  They control their own bladder and bowels.  Yes, that is shocking news, isn’t it?  They themselves have the ultimate control over when they poop and pee, and where.  

When my daughter was little, I tried just about every version of potty training, beginning at an optimistic 18 months.  She understood.  She didn’t care.  She didn’t want to use the potty.  Messy pants?  OK.  Pee on the rug?  OK.  Whatever.  I didn’t give up, but I made no progress.  The pediatrician told me not to worry, just keep sitting her on the potty, and when she was ready, she would be “trained” rapidly.  At about 2 ½ years of age, just as I feared she would wear diapers walking down the aisle, I tempted her with pretty “big girl panties”.  I explained that she had to use the potty to wear these, and that if she went poo or pee in her panties, I would throw them in the garbage.  She really wanted to wear them.  The first day she pooped big time in her pants.  She watched me throw them away.  That was the last accident we had. 

Wow!  It doesn’t happen young, but I had the answer!  Then my son came along.  I went down the same path.  I familiarized him with the potty.  If he should happen to let something loose while sitting, I would praise him loftily.  Still, he really had no interest in getting to the potty whenever the urge to go hit him.  I tried big boy pants.  I explained just as I had to my daughter that the dinosaur underwear would go in the garbage if he went poo in his pants instead of the potty. 

The first day he did a huge doo.  I made a big show of throwing them away.  I put on another pair.  

He did another doo.  I made a big show of throwing them away.  I put on another pair.  

He peed.  He took them off and threw them away himself.  Then he went to his drawer and told me I needed to buy some more. 

When I told him “No more, you will have to wear a diaper if you won’t use the potty,” he just looked at me and said, “OK, dyepah.”  He was almost three years old when he decided on his own that he liked the potty after all, and overnight he was “trained”.  

Now I am working on my youngest son.  He will be three in March, but he is much more “babyish” than the other two were at this age.  Still, I have been going through the routine.  Oh, he gets it.  He just doesn’t want to.  Last night before bath time, I had him on the potty.  “Go pee pee!” I encouraged.  “Just like Jackie and Julia, go pee in the potty!”  He grinned happily, pointed down between his legs to the water and cried “Pee pee!”  Except he hadn’t done anything.  Eventually I put him in the bath.  He stood there proudly and said “Mommy, wah dee!” (“Watch this!”).  He then proceeded to grab his penis and direct a spray of urine across the tub, laughing the whole time.  

Recently he has decided he does not like any poo or pee in his diaper at all, which I take as a good sign.  Before he could swish around in it all day and not care.  The down side is that he keeps taking off his own diaper and handing it to me.  Today he marched up to me naked and handed me a diaper full of chocolate nuggets. 

Uh oh.   “I’ll bet some escaped!” I thought. 

Sure enough, as I retraced his steps he had left a doo doo nugget trail, like Hansel and Gretel in the forest. 

“Jerry, help!  Jamie spilled nuggets!” 

My husband ran to assist as I quickly secured and swabbed the poopetrator.  

“Wait, you missed one!”  I said, pointing at a Hershey’s kiss size brown ball of poop, camouflaged well in the multi-colored runner of the hallway. 

“Move, move!” he shouted.  “You’re on one!  No, not there, you’re smooshing it into the carpet!” 

Just now as I am writing this Jamie handed me another loaded one.  Fortunately this one appears to be fully intact.  But what now?  Teach him how to put on a clean diapie himself?  That would be helpful.  I am not stressed about this at all, despite the day’s poopisode.  After all, the first two taught me that they will go when they are ready, and not before.  I can go through the routine, but the timing is up to them.  They will respond to motivation, or will motivate themselves, when they are ready.  I’m not really sure how our grandmother’s did it.  I mean, bowel control is not new.  So maybe we really are a nation of potty training wimps.  Maybe we need to send our babies to potty training boot camp.  I don’t know.  I just know I am less stressed by letting the kids develop at their own pace, and it seems to suit them better, too.   

So Dr. Expert I-can-raise-your-kids-better-than-you-can will just have to shake his head in disgust at me, and continue to glare sour facedly at the world from his throne of newsprint superiority.  Wimpiness seems to work OK for our family, and we’re not going to doo it any other way.

The Dance

My five year old son is torn between needing his Mommy, and becoming a Big Kid.  I know he is going to continue along this vein for several years, until finally he is an adult and breaks away from me.  He has an older sister, yet the struggle seems more pronounced in Jackson, my middle child.  My daughter moved gently into Big Kid status.  Not Jackson.  Nothing is subtle with him.  As such the transition is more painful, perhaps because I see our inevitable destinies so clearly.

We have had rain here on and off for three weeks.  This morning the school office called, and told me Jackson had dried the kindergarten slide with his butt.  Well, they didn’t phrase it like that, but they asked if I could please bring him some dry pants.  We live quite close to the school, so I grabbed a pair of pants and walked down the street.  Jackson was waiting for me in the office.  He grinned when he saw me, happy I had come to his rescue.  I took him into the office bathroom and helped him change.  His pants were not really that wet.  His Disney-enhanced undies were still dry.  If he were at home, of course, I would have popped him into dry pants immediately, and I guess he wanted that level of comfort and attention.  He continued to smile the whole time he was changing, and as I retied his shoes.

Transformation completed, as we left the office I told him I would walk with him back to his classroom. 

He put his hand up, palm toward me.  “No!  I know the way!”

“Well, I’m sure you do, but I’m going to make sure you get there.”

“No, Mom, really, don’t come with me!”

Oh dear.  Have we reached that age already?  But the truth is, Jack is very mischievous, and I simply didn’t trust him to go back to his class without a detour.

“OK, I won’t go with you, but I am going to stand here and watch you.”

With that he took off, scampering across the courtyard to the doors that opened into the group of kindergarten classrooms.  As he pulled one of the doors open, putting all his weight into it and leaning back slightly, he didn’t move out of the way fast enough and stubbed his toes on the door.  Abruptly he let go and stood there jumping up and down, looking across the courtyard at me, howling.

“Owie, owie!  I hurt my toes!”

I hurried over, examined the damaged extremity, kissed my fingertips and planted them firmly on the insulted toes.   Miraculously cured.  “I’m OK now,” he said slowly, testing the foot as he turned once again toward the double doors.  I opened one for him, and watched him as he walked down the short hall.

Turning around he said exasperatedly, “Stop doing that!”

Sheesh.  Make up your mind.  I closed the door and turned toward home.  My path took me directly past the kindergarten playground.  I watched discreetly as Jackson emerged from his classroom to join the other children.  Hands in pockets, smiling, he sauntered over to a group of little girls who appeared to be asking something.  He gestured toward his pants, still smiling.

Ah, of course.  Mom would totally spoil the cool. 

Yet I understand his conflict.  I am torn between wishing he would grow up a little and do some things for himself, stop messing, stop doing the kid things that are not so cute and adorable, while another side of me watches him when he is unaware, committing the sweetness of childhood to memory.  Not wanting to let go of the last vestige of the little baby who slept safely next to my chest in a sling while I worked at the computer.

Of my three, as a toddler Jackson would most vehemently proclaim, “No, me do!”.  He would never hold my hand, whereas the other two reached for my hand automatically.  Jackson always wanted the freedom to break away from me at will.  Interestingly enough, this year, his first year at Big Kid School, he holds my hand on the way to school voluntarily.   He has reverted to wanting me to dress him, though he has been wriggling into his own threads since he was two.

Letting go and holding on. 

The sacred dance between parent and child.  So it has always been, so it always will be.    

3:00 P.M. Dentist, 4:00 P.M. Dance, 4:45 P.M. Soccer…

I have wasted a lot of time flogging myself mentally for not measuring up to the level of wife and mother set as an example by my own mother.   Maybe my memory is frayed, but I do not recall my childhood home ever being as messy and frenetic as my home now.  My memories of my mother when growing up do not include a harried and harassed lady with little time for any but the most basic personal grooming, and whose very being emitted a sense of no control.  Granted, these are the memories of a child, but I am afraid my mother herself has confirmed the worst:

“Your life is crazy!”

What really burns my biscuits is that my life is less crazy than some other mothers I know, who seem to be able to cram in a whole lot more, and still keep their roots from showing.  I quit my work-at-home-so-you–can–be-stressed-all-the-time job when my youngest was about 11 months, and yet I do not seem to be faring any better with all the “extra time”.   I’m not lazy.  I try very hard.  My life is crazy but I believe I am reasonably sane (of course, what looney believes herself to be looney?).  

So what the heck am I doing wrong? 

The answer came to me a couple of weeks ago.  My five year old son had a friend over for a play date. The boy’s mom stayed for a little mom-to-mom chat while the kids tore the house apart.  It had taken me a week to get ready for this little event.  A kid, not my own, was coming over to my house, coming inside my house, with his mother.  That required extensive preparation.  Like not letting them see how we really live.  And making sure I had an assortment of healthy kid snacks in case he was picky, and a similar array for his mom.  The kids had a great time, and so did I.

But here’s where the realization set in. 

I never had a play date when I was a kid.  My mom had nothing to do with my playing with other kids.  I’d walk or ride my bike to a friend’s house, knock on the door, and ask if so-and-so could come out and play.  Come out and play.  We would almost always play outside, and in fact we had to ask permission to play indoors.  Many times the answer was “No!”. If the house was a mess, I never saw it.  There was no need to “get ready” for your kids to play with other kids.  And although I received the occasional glass of milk, my friends’ mothers were under no obligation to provide snacks.  Sometimes I never even saw a parent.  The child would come outside to play, and when it seemed like it was getting close to dinner, I went home.  A similar scenario played out if a child came to my house.

With the dawning realization of just how different my stay at home mom life was from my mother’s, I thought about all the other areas I had to be involved in with my children that was unheard of in Mom’s day.  We didn’t have a lot of after school activities, because we could go and play outside, on the sidewalk, down the street, wherever, without worry.  Mom didn’t need to keep us under her watchful eye every single second.  If we did have an activity, chances are it was within walking or biking distance, and we had to get our little butts there ourselves.  Mom didn’t haul us all over the county.  I didn’t have a schedule.  Didn’t want one.  I was a kid, for gosh sakes! 

My life, in contrast, revolves around my children’s schedules.  They cannot safely walk two blocks to play with a friend, or go to the school playground or local park without supervision.  Anything they do outside our own home requires parental involvement.  No wonder I feel sometimes like I have lost myself.  I’m not lost, but I am certainly low priority.  The world is so much more complicated and threatening than my childhood world.  I don’t know if there is really more danger, but there is certainly more awareness.  I’ve seen the online state list of prosecuted pedophiles who live in my zip code.  How many little faces arrive on flyers in the mail, asking if I’ve seen them?   Like any 21st century mother, I am determined my children will never be anyone’s victim, will never have their faces on any mass mailings. 

I still hate the mess.  I hate always having to hurry.  I hate never having enough time for anything.  But I look at it differently, now.  I see it is not my fault I can’t be like my mom, at least not entirely.  She really did have more time to get things done than I do.  She cared for us, and did it well, but she didn’t share every moment of our lives with us. 

My life is crazy because I am not living my life.  I am living my children’s lives, or facilitating their living their lives.  I have chosen this.  If I still worked outside the home I could probably find a piece of my mind and maybe a few intelligence cells that still work, but I sacrificed that willingly, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.  

Besides, I really couldn’t guarantee that more time would make me a better housekeeper or more organized.  At least this way I have an excuse!  Heaven help me when the kids are grown and gone.  I’ll just have to plead senility then.

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.

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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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 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.”