Visions of Sugarplums

Christmas.  What a heck of a lot of pressure I put myself under every year.  It has to be "perfect".  The kind of perfect that Martha Stewart and Norman Rockwell would create if they had produced a holiday.  This is whole-heartedly my doing.  I do this to myself.  No one calls me on Thanksgiving night and says "Now get busy making every weekend memorable.  Pack your free time with cookie-making, decorating, kid crafts, and most of all, [drumroll]… MEMORIES YOUR CHILDREN WILL TREASURE FOREVER.

So, we have been on a crazy roller-coaster of Christmas joyfulness of my own making, resulting in this morning's cookie debacle.  Yes, I know that there are pre-made sugar cookies that I could have sliced or placed and baked.  Santa wouldn't know the difference.  Having been raised on black and white Hollywood visions of holiday perfection however, this simply wouldn't do.  Don we now our 50's style aprons, fa-la-la, la, la, la, LA, LA, LA.

Stand mixer at the ready, ingredients for a double batch of sugar cookies ready to roll, I have eggs, sugar and butter whizzing festively 'round the bowl when I say to my elf-y helper "Now we need two whole eggs…"  (Notice my wording…Do you see what's coming?)  With a groan heard at least two streets up, I watched as my four year old threw two WHOLE (i.e. in the shell) eggs into the bowl, right into the maw of the KitchenAid. 

CRACK, slop, crunchety-OH NO!

Round two went slightly more smoothly until Little One got into the mix, pinching up the dough every time I turned my back and gobbling sugar and raw eggs and butter in a ratio that fast out-paced  her body weight. 

This is where perfect came in and bit me.   The memories my children will have of this particular Christmas Eve morning, should they not repress them  fully, are of Mommy sobbing hysterically;  egg shells and butter on two cabinet doors; a few Santa cookies with bizarre two year old fingernail tracks across  the abdomen, looking something like a holiday attack by Wolverine, and finally, if I'm lucky, they'll remember that we did start a second batch and we did spend the morning baking together and we did sing Christmas carols before and after the crying jag.

Time always renders our memories more bright and shiny…right?

Merry Christmas my friends.  Happy Holidays.  Best wishes for a bright and healthy, happy and certainly imperfect New Year.

XO

License and Registration Please...

You know that old quote that goes something like "They make you pass a test to drive a car or adopt a dog, but any old idiot can have a baby..."? 

Well, Miss 4 is definitely the child who makes me think I should have had to prove I was up to the challenge before being allowed to take her home from the hospital.  Lately she is completely fascinated by a children's encyclopedia of the human body.  She refers to it as her "bone book".  She has been known to spend several detailed minutes drawing red blood cells and the oxygen they are absorbing in vivid, primary red and blue.  I don't know whether to be thrilled that she is inquisitive or worried that she's quirky...

Her interest has led her to all sorts of deep questions that require more intellect than I possess on any given day.  Most recently she wants to know where things go when they die.  What happens to their skin and eyeballs?  Having recently explained what the stones in cemeteries were all about, she is more than a little concerned at all of the faux headstones cropping up this last week of October in yards around our house and neighborhood.

This leads to this morning's adventure in parenting.  I found her with an early reader Bible, looking at the page of Jesus drawing the little children into his arms.  She was more than a little perturbed.  The following conversation took place.

Mama:  What's up Boo?
M4:  It's not fair that these kids got to meet Jesus and I wasn't there.
Mama: But this took place a really, really, really long time ago.  None of your family was alive.
M4: But I want to meet him too.  Is he still alive?
Mama:  Remember our conversation about spirits?...
M4:(interrupting) Jesus is dead?!?
Mama:  No! Wait!  Just...remember about spirits and heaven?
M4:  Well who has Jesus' skin and eyeballs and bones?
Mama:(breaking into a panicky sweat and way over my head)  Um...You don't need them in heaven, so his spirit...
M4:  If I'm bigger can I go looking for bones?  I only want to find one little one...Hey!  What happens to eyeballs?  How come you never find eyeballs in the ground?

This went on for several more minutes and never really resolved.  Finally, unsatisfied with my information Miss 4 went off to find something more interesting to focus on and left me feeling like I just am completely unprepared.  I mean, explaining death, spiritual beliefs, decomposition and burial practices is really just above and beyond me at the best of times. 

I remember years ago, in a previous job, fielding a phone call from a parent who was about to have a baby and wanted parenting support and a list of parenting classes.  In talking to her for a bit, she revealed that she had been watching Jeopardy and suddenly came to believe that she didn't personally know enough to teach her children all that they would need to know.  At the time, I didn't understand how daunting it is to be responsible for continually teaching a child and answering their questions. I hear you now Sister.  I get it.   Kaplan Test Prep has nothing out there for this kind of evaluation.

In the meantime, Miss 4 has learned that I often have to go to the computer and get the answer she needs; so yes, my child does occasionally say "Mama?  Can you Google it?"   It's a strange territory I have found myself in. 

I will love you...

A window into my reality…

I have bathed my two children and they are "jammied".  This is no mean feat in and of itself.  (During my recovery phase, one of my brave friends bathed my children, not once but twice.  She knows that washing Little One's  hair is something akin to water-boarding.)  I have brushed their hair and we are settling in with the last sippy cup of the evening. 

Miss 4 has settled behind me on the couch and is asking to brush my hair.  The following conversation/monologue takes place.

"Your hair is pretty. .. I like the gray part…  How come when you get old your hair turns gray?...I will love you even when you are as old as sixty-nine years old.  That's pretty old….  I'll probably be sixty-nine in about two hundred years. … I made a swirly curl in your hair.  I bet you wish it was like Auntie B….  Your hair is like the inside of my new boot.  It's all brown with shiny bits in it.  Like the stuff on the Christmas tree….What's that stuff?  You know,… tinfoil?....It's like that in my boot fur and on your head too…Your hair is having Christmas."

And that, my friends, is why I just can't take life that seriously.    Don't mind me, I'm just having a holiday on my head.

Free Therapy

Thank you for being my free therapy today. 

Admission:  I am at that stage of parenting where there are more challenges than not and more questions than answers.  In my house, we are on both ends of the toddler/preschool span; one turning two in a month and one almost five.  It all feels so terribly big and important; each decision is fraught with uncertainty.  I am stuck in a cycle of not being able to see the forest for the trees.

Parenting is not for the faint of heart.   I am humbled daily.  

I am lucky enough to be surrounded by a cadre of strong parents who are at every different stage of parenting.  I cannot recommend highly enough having a cocktail of parenting ingredients that looks something like the following:

·         A sprinkle of new parents to remind you why you got into this game in the first place and to give you a laugh over where you yourself have been.

·         A dash of parents in the same stage of parenting.  Misery loves company.  They are in the same foxhole and sometimes give you the one piece of advice you haven't yet tried.   And at the very least you can take turns driving each other home from asylum.

·         A handful of parents who are ahead of you.  These are your light at the end of the tunnel friends.  They can give you tried and true advice, tell you which parenting books to abandon and which are worth your precious little reading time, and remind you that it is a phase*.  They are also the friends who will bring their children over to play and entertain your children.  These friends are priceless.  Cultivate this friendship and tend it well.  (Something I am not always as diligent at as I need to be.)  Also, this is where the best  hand-me-downs come from.  The best stroller and the coolest winter jacket came from friends who have a child a year older than our oldest.  Her best party dress came from another friend blessed with two daughters.  Our oldest daughter looks on these bags of treasure as a year-long Christmas event.

·         At least one "airy-fairy" friend who can tell you that the child's behavior is caused by gravitational pull, tides, phase of the moon, barometric pressure, astrological sign, etc.  I'm not saying these things aren't all possible, rather that sometimes you desperately need to feel that the craziness stems from something that well and truly is out of your control.

·         A good dose of parents who have grown children to remind you that this is fleeting.    As aggravating and crazy-making as this stage may be, you will one day look back with nostalgia.  You will actually miss this day that can't end soon enough.  These parents also remind you that even children who resist toilet-training, turn up their nose at dinner, have tantrums and tease their siblings grow up to be productive members of society.   This friend helps to balance you out in moments of sheer desperation that it will ever turn out okay.

*Please note, nobody really knows what a phase is.  It sounds good and it is reassuring, but there is no time frame attached.  Nonetheless, the one thing about phases is that they do eventually end.  This part is true.  I swear.

Thank you to my friends who have been at my back with words of encouragement, liberal doses of humor and patience, and glasses of wine when they are needed. 

Some Friday Wine, er Whine...

When parents of one child ask me "Is it very different with two children?" my answer is usually that it isn't really.  You are usually doing the same things, just in larger volume.   One diaper or two, not really different.  Brushing two sets of teeth, making two sandwiches, bathing two…completely not a big difference.

What I have failed to factor into this discussion is grocery shopping. 

I'm not referring to the cost of grocery shopping, but rather the sheer Herculean effort of managing my two children in the grocery store.  At the end of that hour we don't like each other very much. 

Not only am I a sweating, near-crying, shell of the person who walked into the store, but I have put on a public show of my parenting skills and deficits for a wide cross-section of the local population.  I have hissed under my breath, I have glared; I have raised eyebrows, verbally and physically redirected and bribed.  I have taken away privileges.  I have put my child in timeout in front of the meat case.  (Want to get really disgusted glares?  Try that sometime on a Friday morning.)  I have tried everything short of spanking.

And then when I get home I realize I bought none of item A and three of item B.  I have somehow missed the pint of must-be-gold-plated-based-on-the-price blackberries that my daughter snuck into the cart and all of the meat has finger-sized holes in the cellophane.  The bananas have been squeezed and whatever damages the children didn't do the bread, the bagger has completely finished off.

I miss the days when the girls lay in their bucket infant seat, cooing at passers-by, garnering admiring smiles from the grandparent-types and my groceries were unmolested and unprotested.  I miss putting something into the cart and not having to deflect the set of hands that "doesn't eat THAT!  EW!" and the other set who just wants to grab it and fling it on the floor.  (Hey kids, if you want the biggest bang for your flinging buck, try throwing angel hair pasta and a box of orzo!)

I would still tell any parent considering a second child to go for it, just don't take them to the grocery store.  Ever.

This wasn't in the handbook.

Miss 4 frequently asks me questions I can't answer.  My favorite was about two years ago when she fired off the following in rapid order, leaving me no time to answer; "Where do we go when we die?  Who is God?  Can I have chicken nuggets?"  I'll admit it, I let her have the nuggets.  But deep down, beyond that place that questioned the nutritional integrity of processed, compressed, chicken product, was this tiny flicker of fear that has been fanned into a roaring blaze over the last two years.  And it sounds something like the drums in a survivor tribal council ceremony, over which is the panicky thought of "Holy Crap.  They didn't teach me anything about this in school/at the hospital/ in that parenting book!" 

We have entered a phase of sassiness I am completely unprepared for.  In fact, it seems that Miss 4 asks me questions, for the sole purpose of being able to shake her head with pity and say with a slight amount of juvenile sarcasm, "nuh-uh!"  She will argue with me over anything.  And honestly, everything is negotiable in her mind.  Shoes?  Negotiable.  Dinner?  Negotiable.  Underwear?  Negotiable.  And she has a quick reason for why she wants or NEEDS to go around the imposed restriction etc.  Always.  I mean instantly at the ready.  At the drop of a hat.  She doesn't appear to think about it.  It's just there.  So, either she is already smarter than me, or she lies awake at night scripting these scenarios so that she'll be ready.

She has figured out how to outwit her little sister.  It pains me to watch her take her sister's trust and use it to her advantage.  I know that kids do it, and I know that olders trick the youngers.  I get it.  I'm an oldest and I'm sure I was equally evil and conniving.  But, the other day I watched Miss 4 eat the middle of an Oreo, stick the cookie sides together and sweetly offer to trade with her sister, who had barely made a dent in her cookie.  Trading is what we use to get a beloved toy back, or out of harm's way; a distraction that we taught Miss 4 for good, not evil.  I happened to be there that time, and intervened and expressed my displeasure, but I'm not sure my message was received the way I intended it. 

And this is the thing that will keep me awake.  Am I doing a good enough job with the moral education of my kids?  I can forgive the occasional nutritional slip-ups, the chipped fingernail polish I've been meaning to help her take off and haven't gotten to, the occasional snarly, uncombed hair.  How do I know that I'm raising them with heart and soul, goodness and intention?  Where is the rule-book on that little matter?  I don't have the answer...

Did you miss me?

About six weeks ago I had reconstructive surgery on my foot.  This meant a minimum of six weeks of being off my foot and at the mercy of those willing to care for a less-than-patient patient. 

It was both a blessing and a curse to be forced to step back and let someone else do those things that I firmly believed could only be done correctly by me.  (My husband will be the first to say we do it VERY differently, so this statement will not surprise him in any way.)

I learned:

• First and foremost, I don't like imposed growth opportunities.  I am not patient with slowing down and letting go.  In fact, some would say, I can't.
• My daughter who cannot hear me ask her to pick up her laundry and put it in the hamper, can hear me mutter under my breath and will repeat any criticism to the party in question.  Oops!  Another learning opportunity for me.
• "Making breakfast" is a very different thing to a Dad than to a Mom.  But, yes, in fact one can survive on toast and banana for six weeks.
• If my husband had to pack a suitcase for me without my assistance, he really has no idea what I wear on a daily basis.  This led to a few memorable fashion ensembles being presented to me without the slightest indication that they were jokes.
• My daughter will auto-correct daddy's fashion faux pas approximately 85% percent of the time.  This is not a bad percentage give her age.  However, we did learn the phrase "fashion refugee" during the time frame of Mama's recuperation.  (Refer to entry #2).

Perhaps one of the kindest and most humble moments in the six weeks came when my family got together to celebrate my mother's birthday.  I overheard my husband tell my father "I don't know how she gets it all done.  I didn't realize how much she does in a day." 

Our household is not completely traditional in its role assignment, but 90% of the time, if the lawn is mowed or the garbage taken out, it is done by the Mr., and 90% of the laundry, food prep, daily cleaning is done by Mama.  I'm sure there are millions of small details that go unnoticed by me in the chores Mr. takes on, and perhaps someday I will have the chance to be humbled by taking on his role as well.  Still, it was a silver lining in this LONG  recovery to know that he is far less likely to ask "What did you do all day?" when he comes home and finds the house in shambles and the kids dirty and clamoring for a sandwich and Mama having a bottle glass of wine and trying not to cry as dinner is still, STILL, not done!

Things my husband has learned:

• Kids will not tell you they are hungry until it is too late to feed them peacefully.  They are around the bend by the time they tell you they are hungry.
• Laundry piles up faster than you think it will.  Stay ahead of it.  You can't always wait until there is a full washer load of one color.  Sometimes a small/partial load, while not eco-friendly, will guarantee that the beloved blanket is dry by bedtime. 
• In relation to the above, if you are line-drying the blanket, HIDE IT BETWEEN OTHER CLOTHING, or buy earplugs and sedatives.  Give yourself time to guarantee that the little bugger is dry before naptime.  Trust me on this one.
• Do not start a non-negotiable request with "Do you want to...?"  You're sunk, pal.  Anything you say afterward is just more quicksand.
• We will be protecting Mama's foot like it is the Hope freakin' diamond.  There is no way any of us will survive another six-week stretch.

And now for something completely different

We cooked dinner tonight out of our own garden.  Zucchini and squash and basil from our own backyard.  Tomatoes from Edgewater Farm. 

Happy Birthday to me!!

Baked Ziti with Summer Veggies

Ingredients

• 4 ounces uncooked ziti
• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• 2 cups chopped yellow squash
• 1 cup chopped zucchini
• 1/2 cup chopped onion
• 2 cups chopped tomato
• 2 garlic cloves, minced
• 1 cup (4 ounces) shredded part-skim mozzarella cheese, divided
• 2 tablespoons chopped fresh basil
• 2 teaspoons chopped fresh oregano
• 3/4 teaspoon salt, divided
• 1/8 teaspoon crushed red pepper
• 1/4 cup (2 ounces) part-skim ricotta cheese
• 1 large egg, lightly beaten
• Cooking spray

Preparation

• Cook pasta according to package directions, omitting salt and fat; drain.
• Preheat oven to 400°.
• Heat a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add oil to pan. Add squash, zucchini, and onion; sauté 5 minutes.
• Add tomato and garlic; sauté 3 minutes.
• Remove from heat; stir in pasta, 1/2 cup mozzarella, herbs, 1/2 teaspoon salt, and pepper.

(See that chiffonade, yes I said chiffonade, of basil?  That was out of my garden and picked by my own Miss 4, who went out and picked it herself while I waited in the kitchen and counted to thirty.  I'm working on this independence thing!)
• Combine ricotta, remaining salt, and egg. Stir into pasta mixture. Spoon into an 8-inch square glass or ceramic baking dish coated with cooking spray; sprinkle with remaining mozzarella.
•  Bake at 400° for 15 minutes or until bubbly and browned.

I do..

"Mama?  Do you remember when you married Dad?"
"Yes."
"How do you remember?"
"I just do.  It was a big day.  A big deal."
"Do you think Dad remembers?"
(insert adult punch-line here)  "I'm sure he does."
"What was I doing that day?"
"You weren't there.  You weren't born yet?"
(indignantly)  "Why didn't I get to go?"  (stomps off)

"I made this for you."

"It's you and Dad marrying."  (Clearly, Mom has been up all night based on her deep-sunken, completely dilated eyes.  Please note that Dad has also been in a recent fight as he is sporting a bloody nose.  I further offer that Mom is wearing a barely there slip-dress.  How chic!  Clearly no skirt was required that day.  Finally, shoe size has not been exaggerated for artistic effect on either party.  Sadly,....)

"That's beautiful Miss 4!  Look how happy we are!"

She scampers off and quietly works for another few minutes returning with the following:

"This is a better wedding.  See Little One and Miss 4 are there!" (I am clearly so overjoyed there is a balletic leap into my husband's mid-section,...or I am auditioning for the Matrix.  One of my children has succumbed to exhaustion, but happily, while the other stands by on one very, very long foot, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.  Clearly this is a happy day.  Veil, askew I gaze vapidly into the future, while my husband stares vacantly into space.  Actually, maybe this is a picture of parents with young children.   Dazed and glazed parents...child underfoot...sibling grinning mysteriously...Hmmmm.)

And before I can respond, she runs away and returns with the final episode of the trilogy:

"This is when we were jellyfish."   Gone is my jaunty leap, my fluttering veil and lithe figure.  Now I am a many-appendaged child-minder.  However, note that I am still happy.  I gaze lovingly at my tiny jellies.  I may be pulled in many directions, propelled by the ebb and flow of life around me, but it is okay.

"Do you like being my Jellyfish Mama?"

I do.  Unequivocally, I do.

Don't ask, Don't tell.

Like many parents, we freeze yogurt tubes and call them "pops".  Our oldest would eat them all day long and our youngest, would like to be like her big sister, but hasn't quite figured out what to do with them just yet.  She grins from ear to ear and then gives a confused look that I interpret as "Well, that was a whole lot of nothin'.  Now what do I do with it?"

Today Miss 4 finished hers and began taking bites from her sister's pop.  They alternated nicely back and forth and Little One began tentatively trying bites of the frozen yogurt.    There were grins and giggles and everything was going smoothly. 

Now Little One held the pop out to me.  "Bite?"  I would honestly almost rather put my own foot in my mouth than share ice something like ice-cream or a popsicle with a child, especially a child with a runny nose.  But in the spirit of reinforcing sharing and trying new things, I tentatively took the tiniest bite I could muster. 

Patting myself on the back for getting through it, I watched them walk away happily.  I was just far enough behind them to hear Miss 4 say "Now it's [dog]'s turn again."

AGAIN???    I think the lesson I learned today is that sharing, while a lofty principle, is not meant for food application in my household.

 Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a boiling water, Listerine and/or bleach cocktail to address.

All in a day's work...

It has been nearly fifteen seconds since the last crazy, child-related incident in my home.  It has been the quietest and most bizarre fifteen seconds of the day.  Thus far today

·         Little One has figured out how to remove her diaper like a Chippendale removes his tear-away pants.   She has mastered the art of grabbing and flinging the offending article nearly across the room.  I have resorted to using postal tape on this last diaper just to buy me enough time to kick a path through the toys littering the downstairs and possibly make dinner.

·         Miss 4 has decided that she wants to have pink hair like the server at the local diner.  She has been following me and asking "How does the hair grow in pink?  Do you have to eat pink food?  Is it like the flamingo in Sylvie?" alternately changing it up with "How old do I have to be?  Why do I have to be 18?"

·         Somewhere in early toddlerhood Miss 4 began referring to her diaper region as her "bits".  I didn't put a stop to it as it was initially entertaining, but now I think we're stuck with it.  Miss 4 has a slight lateral lisp as well, therefore when she says "bits" her little sister has heard "beets".  Little One has stood in front of me chanting "wet beets" every time her diaper is wet today. 

·         I was writing down information from a book I was reading when Miss 4 approached.  "What are you doing?  Are you erasing the words you don't like in your book and writing in new ones?"

·         "Mama?  I need a wooden spoon and a piece of string……(why?)….So I can play ManPuppy….(how do you play that?)…"I'll tell you when you're little again.  But its gonna save the whole world."  That’s one fine wooden spoon right there.

La-La-La...I still hear you!

When I was a child, my sister and I could not chew gum or eat potato chips in the car because the sound would drive one of my parents right out of their tree.  It was one of the childhood moments that both mystified me and later became part of my list of things I would NEVER say as a parent.  How can anyone care THAT MUCH about a small noise I wondered?

Today I am humbled by the restraint it must have taken for said parent not to open the car door and leave us perched on the guardrails for the next available circus recruiter. 

For today, my oldest has followed me from room to room clicking her tongue, hissing, and singing in the vibrato soprano known especially to four year old girls for no fewer than two hours.  When this concert ended, the ghostly wailings and moanings began.  At the end of this round, we were presented with an operatic rendition of "I'm starving and I need a peanut butter sandwich".  (It closed to mixed reviews.)

It is taking everything I have not to scream and pull hair, (mine or anyone else's).   This is the kind of moment when I think I might be slightly too crazy to be a parent.    When I finally broke and snapped between clenched teeth, "Please go and sing somewhere else.  Away from me.  Away!"  She left the room singing in vibrato "Somewhere else, somewhere else, somewhere else."    I counted 32 repetitions before she moved on to random beatbox noises.

Are you freakin' kidding me?!?  I may not survive this.

Now that I have used my self-imposed time-out to fly the parenting distress flag, I need to go and be a Mama again. 

One with earplugs.

There Is Enough

Last night Miss 4 committed a particularly egregious act of sibling nastiness against Little One.  It was clearly premeditated and unprovoked.  It was a power-play; a total act of bullying.  I may or may not have over-reacted and sent Miss 4 immediately to bed.  By which I mean no stories, no lullaby, no snuggling and cuddles.  It was in fact nearly bed-time.  For nearly an hour she wailed and flailed and sobbed and moaned theatrically.  When the tempest was over, I went to her room and the following conversation unfolded.

"Miss 4, I will always love you.  I will also always love Little One.  I have enough love for both of you.  I will not ever, EVER, let one of you hurt the other one on purpose"

"But sometimes it doesn't feel like you love me."

"I always love you, even if I don't like the thing you are doing.  I love you even when I'm mad at you."

"It doesn't feel like you love me at all."

"I do.  I show you that I love you when I read to you, do projects with you, help you brush your teeth, keep you safe, snuggle you to sleep, and when I keep you and your sister safe.  I have enough love for both of you."

"I think you only love my sister."...

The conversation lasted much longer, but this is the blow I'm still reeling from.  I too am an oldest child with a younger sister.  I remember feeling like my parents loved my sister more because she was little and cute and never got in trouble.  Is it just a stage that kids, particularly oldest kids, go through?

I do know that there are times when I find myself expecting more, (too much?), from Miss 4 because she is older and I question whether I am giving her enough outward love and approval.  I also know that there are times when Little One takes a nap and we get to do big kids things together and I thoroughly enjoy the benefit of her age.  Does she know how cool I think she is?

So, here is my quandary; I don't want to give too much power to "You don't love me..." because she is sure as shootin' smart enough to use THAT against me indefinitely.  I also don't want to ignore a genuine feeling of imbalance, despite my attempts to give her the best of me as frequently as I can.  Pairing this with recent research that you can actually cause unintentional damage to a child's self-esteem and self-worth by providing too much praise and affirmation, what is a Mama to do?

This morning I have to content myself with the following thought: 

“Thousands of candles can be lit from a single candle, and the life of the candle will not be shortened. Happiness never decreases by being shared.” 

Yes.  There is enough.

Happy Summer Vacation

"Mama!  I made a platypus footprint for you!"  yells Miss 4 from the other room.  She rounds the corner covered in blue and green watercolor paint which I know without looking is covering my dining room table, as well as the paper it was intended for.  Her hair is in natty dreads embedded with peanut butter sandwich and paint.  I am elbow-deep in dismantling a watermelon into child-sized pieces and covered in bits of melon mush and juice.  At this moment Little One begins to scream from the area of the dining room.  She, who had just been at my feet waiting for another piece of watermelon, had gone to explore the atelier, when lured by the siren song of watercolor paint, she had climbed into the chair, tipped it over and wedged her wee, tiny arm between the slats.  I could not free her arm, and so, suspending her with one arm, and holding the chair up so that it wouldn't pull on her little arm until I could figure out how to get her loose, I walk into the kitchen to see a UPS delivery man standing at the door.  Without batting an eyelash, he says "I have a package." drops the article at the door and saunters off.

What the hell has this man seen in his day, that our domestic horror-show didn't faze him? 

Holy cow. 

Another day in the life.

(P.S.  The arm is fine.  Once she relaxed her arm, and stopped screaming, it came right out of the chair-back.  The paint on the other hand....)

The wonder of words

Even as a professional specializing in speech development, I am awed by the rate at which babies/toddlers pick up new words.  In a week's time my 19 month old daughter has blossomed from about 65 words I was absolutely sure of, to close to 100. 

My favorite this week is "Gonkine"  which is her version of penguin. Sure, there are people who would argue this is not a word, but let's looks at this carefully; she uses it consistently to mean the same thing, with the same intonation and inflection each time.  In my book, that makes it a word.

Another wonder this week, has been the beginning of referencing herself by name.  It is cute and we elicit it as many times as possible.  She knows she has us captivated and is beginning to toy with the power of when and for whom she will perform.

At the same time that this is happening, I have been reading   "Einstein Never Used Flashcards".  http://www.amazon.com/Einstein-Never-Used-Flash-Cards/dp/1579546951  The timing couldn't be more perfect.    I needed a healthy dose of reality right about now.  The research in this book reinforces the idea that children need time to play and follow the biological plan for development that cannot be improved upon by drill, flashcards and multi-lingual electronics.  What kids need most from us right this very minute, is just that; more of us.

So, my friends, right now, I am going to go round up the Gonkine and my babies and play.

Happy Saturday to you!

Just one more thing...

Tonight I spent the dinner hour with my parents, sister and her family, and my grandfather. 

It was humbling. 

Quite often I forget what it is all about.   Quite often I get lost in the "don't haves" and "can't do its" of my current moment in time.  So let me frame my evening for you with the following facts.

First, both children had napped, and were clean and smiling.  Second, my grandfather and I see each other every few weeks, but up until last year lived on the same plot of land, separated by a driveway.  Third, my grandfather has dementia and it is following the usual course.

 My youngest came out of the car seat and wrapped her arms around my father in a hug that lasted minutes.  My grandfather was happy to see all of us and seemed especially happy to get cuddles from his great grandchildren.  My oldest child was thrilled to be going to play with her "big cousin" and let out a shriek of joy when she saw him. The kids played nicely together, with the big taking care of the small, etc.

During dinner, my children ran, tipped things over, spilled, and did nearly everything but eat.  Just as my patience was about to wear thin to the point of snapping.  My grandfather looked at me and said "You've been blessed.  You have two beautiful and happy girls."   And you know what?  He's right. 

I am blessed to have them in my life.  I am blessed to have time with them that allows us to get under each other's skin.  I am blessed to have messes to clean up and teeth to brush and laundry to wash.  All of it means we are family.  We are living.  We are living together as a family.  It isn't always pretty, but it is a blessing.

And just one more thing, as we prepared to leave, my youngest climbed into her great grandpa's lap and leaned into his chest and began singing.  For a moment, I was able to see my grandfather as he was when I was a child; A mountain of a man who felt like the safest place for a child to rest.  Someone who would guard and guide me, protect and prepare me, and ultimately continue to teach me so much about life in very few words.  

I have been blessed.

Oh for the love of...

I am not winning mother of the year.  Phew!  I feel better already.  Here is a list of my transgressions in the last 24 hours:

• Lying about the time so that my oldest will go to sleep when she is tired versus when the clock gives her a number she likes.
• Further lying by telling her it was light out because it was a special sun holiday and therefore, it "really, really was night-time".
• Skipping three pages in the worst Cat in the Hat series book ever and refusing to go back and read them when caught.  It was the book or my sanity and frankly, I'm the one paying the rent.
• Finally, losing my patience and refusing to let Miss 4 leave the dinner table last night until she ate her dinner.  ( I am really, really tired of the "I'm hungry.....  I'm not eating that.  I'm already full" game.

I longed for children, and on nearly every day since they were born, I have been grateful for them.  Four days of non-stop Mommy time has made me long for the days when I could lie in a chaise lounge in the sun, tempting sunburn and read a book or nap.  Mommy's batteries are getting a bit low.  My low-memory indicator is in the flashing mode and frankly, I think we are facing a disastrous Mama meltdown.

My upbringing is one of total deference to the task of raising children.  My parents did without, sacrificed and placed my sister and I at the top of their hierarchy.  I'm grateful to them, but what I'm finding is that in doing so myself, there is nothing left for Mama.  I can't allow myself to hire a sitter and do something independently because I feel guilty for being a working mom and not spending all of my downtime with my kids.  I feel guilty for spending money to do something for myself, without them.   I feel guilty.  Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.

I know that it's time for a change because I caught myself snarling at a magazine that offered advice on parenting; "Oh yeah?  Well I'll get you my pretty and your little twenty-something,photo-shopped, never-had -a-C-section, bikini-clad spokesperson too!" 

I don't yet know what it will be, but in the words of Sheryl Crow,  "A change will do you good."

Just Do It

Right now I am in a sleep deprived funk.  Oh yeah, it has also rained for at least a week straight.  That isn't helping.  So, after slogging through rain, being glared at by someone who felt I wasn't walking my girls fast enough in the BJ's parking lot in the pouring rain while wearing a walking cast, the final straw was my four year old, who has refused to nap,  climbing me and screaming that I am not getting her a "squeezy yogurt" fast enough.  Really, I just lost it.  I'm not proud, but I will admit to quite sarcastically calling her "your highness" while handing her the entire box of 12 and going to the nearest bathroom to count VERY slowly. 

I am clever enough to know this one moment isn't going to ruin her life, (I'm not even putting change in the therapy jar), but it does kind of smart to realize that I can be undone by a four year old.  I am normally a calm and patient person.   I am, dare I say it, really, really good at working with kids professionally.  I just need some sleep. 

In answer to the Barenaked Ladies call "Who Needs Sleep?" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BP67E0AfhAI, (Waving hand frantically, i.e. Arnold Horshack)."Me!  Right here!  Oh, Me!  Please, oh please, dear God, me!"

This episode also brings into focus my huge anxiety that my kids don't sleep through the night with any regularity; that my four year old can only fall asleep with an adult settling her in and staying with her until she's out; and that on most nights of the week, there are at least three, if not four family members in my bed by morning.  I love their little toddler and preschool presence.  I love snuggling them and smelling their little kid-ness when they first wake up.  I just want it to be closer to 5:00 or 6:00 in the morning and preferably after 6-8 hours of my own sleep.

I am apparently not alone.  This week seventeen Mama-friends sent me a link to a spoofy children's book called "Go the F*** to Sleep".  http://www.outsidethebeltway.com/new-childrens-book-go-the-f-to-sleep/   Why does it seem so hard to get little people, (who do have a routine- let me spare someone the time of suggesting it), to just go to sleep?  I'm exhausted.  They're exhausted and glassy-eyed.  Please, dear ones, just do it?

Mama CrankyPants and another quarter for the therapy jar

Little One has just enough hair now that, with some imagination, one can see the makings of a ponytail....well to be honest, it's more like the rat-tail thing that kind of caught on in the mid- to late-80's.  So why is this important?  Because I'm tired of this conversation:

Stranger:  "What a handsome little boy.  What's his name/How old is he?"
Me:  "Her name is .../ She's 18 months."
Stranger:  Was he named after someone in your family?  That's an unusual name."

Mind you, most of Little One's clothes are pink, floral, frilly, girly, cute, feminine...I know it shouldn't bother me, and I honestly don't know why it does, but please, can we just keep comments on stranger's children more ambiguous so that neurotic Mamas like myself can stop worrying about the whole gender thing at 18 months? 

And, I know I'm a stickler for this kind of thing, but if you are going to stop me in the middle of the store and ask me about my child, please know that I expect you to listen to the air flow I have effortfully forced through vocalic folds while simultaneously producing alternate voicing and devoicing and moving rapidly those articulators which shape the airstream into specific sounds at specific formants and frequencies to answer your question.  In other words; you asked and I want you to listen to what I've said.  "SHE is 18 months old.  HER name is..."

This recent episode coincides with Miss 4 informing me that a peer recently told her she needed to wear "tighter clothes" if she wanted to be pretty.  I still don't have a rational argument or response to this because I am so thrown off by the fact that four and five year-old girls are having this conversation.  I am secretly pleased that my daughter was more concerned that her friend "didn't know she was wrong.  Pretty clothes have sparkles.  Tight clothes go to your little sister."  So for a few brief moments I am relieved that the world has yet to define my daughter completely by her external self. 

And yet I feel like I am part of the problem.  On some level when a stranger comments on my "little boy", (and I react from a place that I am ashamed to admit is more about that stranger thinking my toddler is "handsome" rather than "pretty"), I know I am perpetuating the practice that looks are of some primary importance.  And I wonder, would I be pondering things the same way if I were raising boys?

This one might deserve an extra quarter for the therapy jar.  One for the kids, one for Me.

And so it begins...

Tonight, my darling toddler and Miss 4 joined forces.  They rallied to fight the power.  They rose up against the oppression forced down upon them by Mama.

It began innocently enough...(doesn't it always?) 

It was time to change a diaper and while wrestling Little One to the floor, Miss 4 built a tent out of a quilt and dining room chairs.  It had been raining all day and we are just getting back into the groove of being outside most of the time after a long winter, so anything that keeps them entertained is cool beans with me.

Another important detail...Little One is also fully capable of pulling off her own pants, (and diaper), and chose to do so as soon as she was turned loose.

Moments later I hear "Mooooo-ooo-ooom!  My sister is peeing in the tent!"  Now Miss 4 is at the stage of potty humor so I was not immediately as alarmed and reactive as I might have been a few months ago, so imagine my surprise when I flung back the quilt and found Little One commando, in a crouch, looking in amazement at the puddle of wee she was now standing in.

Stifling the sobs, I re-diapered Little One, cleaned up the wee, re-established the camp site in a less damp location and thought ever so briefly that I might have a moment to make a cup of coffee.  (Poor dotty Mama.  She used to be somewhat clever in her earlier days.)

As soon as the rear pocket of my pants hit the sofa, the wailing began.  Miss 4 had "...accidentally, not on purpose Mama, really!" flicked Little One in the forehead through the tent door.  Little One was setting up a noise to make an opera diva proud. 

I comforted the little one, talked to the big one and garnered assurances that there would be no more flicking, poking, water-boarding, etc. and sent them both back to the tent with a starter idea for getting back into the game.  Just as I was about to congratulate myself, I heard Miss 4 say, "C'mon sister...let's get away from Mama.  I'll play with you!"

Are you serious?  Already ganging up on Mama?  That coffee is gonna need a little fortification.

The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe

My four-year-old has a STRONG fashion identity.  This is not surprising really.  She has made her desires known loudly clearly since she was about four months old when it came to clothing.  There were sleepers she would, well, ...sleep in... and those that would create such a tempest of unrest that they were kept in the closet for sheer decoration and cuteness factor.  She had a penchant for shoes as soon as she could reach over the shopping cart side and snag them with her own two hands.  If Sex and the City staged a toddler revue, my daughter would be a contender based on sheer shoe volume.

Now given this, you might assume she is a Toddler and Tiara's kinda girl.  Well....in a word, no.  Is her hair brushed and neatly coiffed?  Rarely.  It still bothers me but I have to content myself for now with it being clean.  I could poke at the lion in her cage every morning by insisting that she can't leave until it is tangle free, but for now, I'm erring on the side of maturity to help me with that battle.  And, to my relief, I am slowly seeing signs of her caring that her hair is taken care of.  Praise Be!

All Miss 4 wants to be right now is a pink witch.  She saw a rather, shall we say, "provocative", Halloween costume last year and has not forgotten it.  Clearly, the sparkly bustier and thigh-high tights are emblazoned on her brain.   I am hanging on tightly to the notion that my being totally unbudging about her donning a bustier at four will not scar her for life.  Or at least I am banking on it not being as detrimental as perhaps letting the blatant sexualization of little girls not begin in my house at four.  Can she be a witch for Halloween?  Sure!  I'll help paint her face, buy the pointy hat, even find her some stripedy tights.  Will they come with garters?  Not so much.  If I'm wrong, I'll put the extra quarter in the therapy jar.  She'll have a nice tidy sum by adulthood.

...Stepping slowly off the soapbox...

Long ago, I decided that barring frostbite and sheer negligence, Miss 4's attire was not a reflection of my parenting and not something I wanted to battle daily.  So I no longer offer "She dressed herself." with a nervous and apologetic giggle when we go out in public.  I assume you will look at her red glitter shoes, floral leggings, camo skirt and neon green fleece and either get it, or not.  So, given my total acceptance of all but the most illogical and unsafe of attire, I expected something similar in return.  This week I donned a rather exceptional podiatric appliance.  I now have a walking cast.  Upon seeing me, Miss 4 immediately stated "I hate the color of your boot!"  She is unfailing in her criticism.  Because she is four, it is hard to separate her fashion sense from her fear of the unknown.  So daily, I get to hear that she "hates" the color of the boot.  We'll work on empathy as we go.  For now, at least she's stepped away from criticizing my "brars".

Don't ask...Just don't ask.

Upon arriving home from an extraordinarily meeting-filled day, one's mind drift ever so urgently to the possibility that the small members of the household will sit quietly while allowing you to drink a bottle glass of wine.  And of course, the darlings were willing to comply...

Of course, first I had to do the following:

• examine the mangled hyacinth and the trail of individual blossoms scattered across the yard, while agreeing that the crumpled, bedraggled mass was "pitty Mum-mum".
• determine whether the ants under my four year old's sneakers were "dead or just pretending, Mama?"
• Take a small rock out of the 18 month old's mouth
• Explain why Mommy couldn't read "Sing a Song of Sixpence", while pouring juice and extracting two gummy vitamins from the childproof jar.
• Explain why we don't have "Nakey" time in the front yard
• pull a baked bean out of the 18 month old's ear
• give a dissertation on the varying sizes of underwear on our clothesline and judge whose are prettiest
• and finally, try to work up some enthusiasm when the four year old says "Don't you think it would be lovely to have a nice bath" 

(Why, thank you, yes that would be perfect.  Please let me know when it's drawn!)

Independence

Apparently, the joy of toddler-hood is increasing independence.   

Our youngest, 18 months, has been a little slower to acquire words and phrases, but is making up for it now. 

Today, no fewer than four times I heard "Nuuuuu!" (NO!) accompanied by wrinkled forehead and pursed lips.  (Need a visual?  Picture a dainty, elderly, church-lady type discovering that she has dog excrement on her Sunday best shoes.  It's that face.) 

This face and utterance have been used for everything from "nuuuu juuuush" (which of course means "Non maman. Je veux du lait, pas de jus.") to "nuuuu pup" (which of course means "Silly mother.  Of course my pants are befouled, however I just do not wish to stop putting small pebbles in this knothole I have found.  Go away silly woman and do not bother me again."

Perhaps the most exciting discovery was that she can open the corner cabinet unit and retrieve her own snacks.  Initially I was delighted that her snack of choice was shredded wheat bites.  Iron fortified!  Full of wheatly goodness.  Full of....(crap!)....fiber. 

It's been an afternoon.  And now I have just one thing to say.   "Nuuuu pup!"  I've had enough.

Mother's Day High/Low

So for mother's day, here's a snippet of the high/low...

• delicious breakfast with my sister's family and parents/ children who refused to eat it
• road trip to pick up building material/ full-blown four-year old temper tantrum, complete with high pitched shrieking, kicking and flailing
•  Walpole Creamery ice cream/ too much ice cream=tummy ache (mine)
•  "I love you so much and I'm so lucky to be your Mommy"/ "If you throw that toy at me again while I'm driving I'm going to toss it out the window for someone else to have!"  ( I did apologize and own up to my poor behavior...)

As you can see, I'm still evolving. 

My four year old informed me that she has changed her mind.  She has come to the conclusion after fifty months of living that she will, in fact,  be getting married. 

Imagine my surprise when she informed me that she already knows who she is going to marry!  My darling child, who only four days ago told me she hated me and wanted a better Mom, has "proposed" to me.  Yup, she wants to marry her mother.  "When I'm bigger of course." she added. 

Mind you, this is not the first big, life-changing conversation we've had in the last two weeks.  On a recent car trip she burst into tears.  Alarmed, I asked what was happening and she began in full wail "I don't want to have a baby!"  ( I can only hope we don't have this conversation again at 15!)  I tried to assure her that not everyone has babies; that she can choose when she is a grown-up.  There was a brief, and I hoped calming, pause.  "But Mom, how will my body know?!"

So twice now I have been offered a chance to tackle big issues and explain how life works, (or at least life as I know it), and twice I have dodged, hedged and otherwise avoided trying to explain.  In my childless twenties I had such strong opinions about what the right answers to these questions should be.  I knew how I would answer when these moments came up.  What changed?

I actually live with the children asking these questions now.  My oldest is at an age where information is its own currency and one piece of knowledge begets the need for yet one more.  Trying to explain why she can't marry Mommy is only going to lead us to full-scale social observation  at the grocery store.  Gone will be the days of simply shopping and minding our own business.  My preschooler will now be polling the populace, wanting to know marital status and why, or why not, are you married to this person.  Sure, she's a cute four year old, but would you like to explain to her how your "...baby got in", (or for that matter, out of), "your tummy" in the middle of the rice cake aisle? 

I thought not, so really, I'm doing a public service.  I know, I know...you can thank me later.

A Challenge...

In January I swore I would try one new thing a week for a whole year.  It pretty quickly became apparent that this was a bit lofty and an immediate revision was necessary.  So, the one-a-week, became one-a-month and then, well, let's just be completely honest here....I'm now shooting for one new thing per season.

What can you expect to find here?  Hmm....Something along the lines of the Seinfeld premise of a show about nothing.   On any given day you may find a rant or a recipe, a book review or a bad joke, a story about my two young children that I think is hysterical or illustrative of the struggle of trying to work, parent, relate and live well, all at the same time.  In a nutshell, this is me...and motherhood, unscripted.