Swish

Dearly Beloved, 
We are gathered here to celebrate the all-too short life of Cupcake the goldfish.  She was the best fish we "ever had".  She was a master of pebble picking and spitting, the queen of plastic plant pilfering, and was sensitive enough to seven year old sensibilities do her "business" after we had gone to bed, unlike a certain fishy counterpart who shall be nameless, (ahem Star, ahem).  We mourn your graceful swishiness, and your spirited flake consumption.  We will miss your burbly bubble blowing. 

Cupcake leaves behind a family of humans with varying levels of emotion.  Namely, a seven year old who has realized the pain of loving something and losing it.  A child who knows that another fish is not a replacement.  A child who has been pierced once again by the ever-present spear of growing up.  Loving something is never easy; never one hundred percent rainbows and unicorns beautiful.  When we see something possessing life, we want it to always be so.   Alas,  in the history of humans, and especially humans with goldfish, it is not to be.

40 Days and 40 Nights

Just a quick observation here.  The world is changing. My parent's generation wanted to give us the things they didn't have.   My generation has exceeded the call of duty ten-fold.  What have we done?

 I recently read an article on a 40 days and 40 bags challenge in which one has to tackle areas of the home and remove one bag of clutter daily.  It hit me with jaw-dropping awe that my challenge would not be finding forty bags of unneeded clutter, but instead deciding which of the too many and too much would go.  And then I was struck with the most horrible crushing inertia.  It's all just too much. 

We don't need over thirty coloring books.  We don't need twenty-plus coffee mugs.  WE don't need this much of ANYTHING.  I don't know how to get off this crazy train, but someone please pull the emergency signal..I'm starting to covet the spare environment of Miss Hannigan's orphans.   

So lest anyone become alarmed that a) I've written twice in 24 hours after a year's absence, or b) fear that my children will be left playing with a stick and nothing else...this is all just musing.

 Something will be done, just what,  I don't know.

 I started by moving the kitchen table.  (I know you are gob-smacked by my logic.)  And then I thought, "You know, I really should go read that 40 days thing again..."  Which led to printing out the schedule, (please note it makes me feel more organized if you pronounce it "shed-yule"), and tracking record, (because one thing we "type A" folk love is a chart and a deadline), and then...well, here I am; talking to you and pondering how to begin. 

Anyway, I have a bag to fill, two children to shower and some clutter to divest myself of.   And of small consolation, even Noah was allowed to collect two of everything ;)

Enough Already

When was the last time I wrote?....Well, not that long ago…What?  A year?  No… I meant to write.  I wrote to you all in my head a bunch of times…Okay, it’s been a year.  Well,…A generous year.  How in the world did so much time go by?

The biggest piece of news falls into the category of ancestry.  My middle daughter has determined that she is a “real and true princess”.  There is no dissuading her.  Don’t try logic or genealogy.  She knows.  She is a real princess because of her voice and the fact that she wears dresses all of the time.  (Which is indeed a radical switch from her pants and “adventure shoes" gear of only a year ago.)  In trying to discuss this, Little Middle decided to call me at my own game, thereby dubbing me “Queen of Book-Reading”.  Well, if I get to be the queen...maybe. 

And, to my credit, I have been able to use her princess-hood as leverage, as in “A real princess” would eat all of her vegetables/ try a bit of the meat/ not grumble about her food.”  Manipulative yes, but it works and right now, I’m willing to gamble against future therapy in order to keep her alive long enough to decide she needs it and that it is all my fault.

Miss Seven is turning Eight(teen) in a few days and we are all in the throes of redefining how we interact with one another.  This has been less a planned and rational execution of forethought and more a hostile take-over.   On a moment to moment basis we vacillate between really deep and sophisticated conversations about big, real-world problems, and whining about not being allowed to watch television, or eat candy for breakfast, or the fact that we are breathing in the same room in a way that annoys her.   

I miss my capricious and mischievous younger child.  This territory is a bit scary without a map and frankly, I thought we would be farther into this journey before we hit the stage where I suddenly lost every ounce of cool and became the most ridiculous adult in the world.    

 However, those days are often closely followed by request for me to stay until she falls asleep, scare away the monsters in the dark, or make room in my lap for her.  As hard as she pushes me away, she still wants and needs me.  I’m struggling to make the switch as rapidly as she does throughout the day.  It takes a lot of grown-up talk to myself to be the grown-up and not my wounded Mama Pride.

Meanwhile, the outside world continues to rumble along and the girls have developed an awareness of the social sorting they witness, feel, and possibly take part in during the day.  When I was eight, the worst thing I could imagine was being called stupid.  For my children, fat is the shame-filled word.  And with that has come the realization that their Mama is not skinny.    I am also the oldest Mama in second grade.  (Don’t be jealous, I had that distinction in first grade too, overachiever that I am.)  Miss Eight’s definition of beautiful comes replete with being young, fashionable, having long hair, impeccable (albeit glittery) make-up, a skinny frame, and impossibly high heels.    On a good day, I have time for make-up.  My natural lack of athleticism and coordination precludes heels.  And as for the rest…It remains to be seen. 

And Little One, now eighteen months old.  Walking, talking (a little), and climbing everything in our house as though it was her ordained job.  I recently entered the room, having exited long enough to throw a towel into a hamper in an adjoining room, to find her standing in the middle of the table, with her head haloed by the three lamps of our light fixture.  Although she was not stuck, she didn’t know how to extricate herself and the tug-of-wills-war began with her wanting my help, just not my help off the table.  “Hep?  Hep?..NO Mama!  NO Maamaa…Hep?”  You get the picture.

So until next time, I bid you enough.  Enough love, patience, and gratitude to take each day as it comes.

Honeybees, Communion and Ponderings.

This is strange new territory we are in right now.    Familiar and yet, kind of like returning to your college campus, things are not quite the same and your vague recollections will get you to the right area but not quite the right location.    "Didn't we used to do...?",  "Wasn't there something that worked...?"  These half thoughts and ponderings fill our days now.  "What did we do with the first two?",   "Is this normal?  I don't remember so much (sleeping, pooping, crying, etc.)"   We thought it would be easier this time around because we were experienced, but what we've learned is that in three years the IOS (infant operating system) has had an upgrade and our memory banks have become slightly inadequate to the task. 

This is how I started a blog entry about four months ago.  You may notice you have not seen it before.  True.  You got me there.  I started it and it took me three days to write that paragraph between trying to balance the start of first grade for Miss Six, adjustment issues for Little Middle and can we just talk for a second about cluster feedings?  

Things began to level out and feel like familiar territory right around week ten which is ironically when I returned to work.  Suddenly we were right back in the land of chaos and unhappily so on my part.  I was beating myself up daily for the ways in which I was not up to the task:  forgotten lunches,  barely brushed hair, "good enough" clothing matches, forgetting about meetings, missing a form, forgetting my name, resenting my spouse who continued to just roll with his schedule uninterrupted on a work day.

We are blessed to have a home childcare provider who loves our children as her own and this made the return to work as easy as it would ever be, but I still drove away the first morning in tears.   And let's be honest it's really hard to be a nursing mom at work.  While no one will tell you that you can't take a break to pump, in my case, there isn't a guaranteed space throughout the day and the job pace doesn't really include breaks at the right times, and how many times do I want to bring my boobs into conversation, even if indirectly, by asking others to leave my "designated" space for ten minutes or apologizing for being late because I was pumping in a closet with my back against the door that doesn't lock?  The guilt over wanting to be a nursing mom and then the guilt over feeling it would just be easier to hand over formula in the morning and not have to sit exposed several times a day at work.  The guilt.  The great big, bone-crushing, soul-sucking guilt.

And then there comes the introduction of growth into the equation.  We are doing one of many of our push-pull dances with Miss Six.  Her darling little mouth has taken on a sassiness that stops me in my tracks.  She exhibits weird, graceless "rock star", (her words), poses that involve shaking of a booty she doesn't have.  I have recently had a conversation that included the following "Unless you are a honey bee, we don't communicate in this house by butt waggling."    And trying to help her find boundaries.  Yes, we can have fun and giggle about bathroom humor in the house, but no, you may not take it to school and share it with your teacher.   Yes, I will check your backpack every morning from now on because you have hoarding tendencies and I do not want a repeat of day two of school.  (For those of you who are curious, Miss Six took a collection of tampons in a tin box into school and asked her teacher of two days what they were.  UGH....No, I didn't skip parent conferences, but yes, I wanted to!)

And my house.  There are interventions for people who are not yet at my stage of disorganization.  Mine probably involves a torch and a rebuilding plan.  My living room can hold twenty six-year-olds based on past experience.  Right now, it just looks like they all came home from boarding school and got naked.  Laundry as far as the eye can see...Always.  Never-ending uphill climbing, nailing of Jello to a tree, cat herding.  And if by some grace of divinity I get it to the upstairs, one of the Bigs will need the pair of undies at the bottom and suddenly it will all be on the floor indistinguishable from the clothes that were on the floor needing to come down to be washed again.

 And into this mix, I decide that it's time to reintroduce church to my children.  The first attempt was on Communion Sunday.  In our previous church, children were downstairs in the children's room.  This was Miss Six's first experience.  As the bread was passed, she had many questions about the little cubes and why could she only have one piece and was it really made of His body?...  When the passing of "wine" came around, I expected her to react more strongly to the idea of his blood...Not a peep.  Thinking myself in the clear, I took a deep breath and as the congregation sat in silence she faux-whispered "That wasn't a very good snack!"  We have some work ahead of us .

 So, in the event that it is another four months before I get a chance to post again.  Have a fabulous holiday season, winter season, and early 2014.

 Much love and  exhaustion,

Mama

Babies, Boots, and Parachutes

We are entering a phase where we can count the time until our third daughter's arrival in days rather than weeks or months.  It is no less scary or daunting this time around in many ways.  Even having done this twice before, I still lie awake wondering "How are we going to do this?"    The responsibility of this whole new life is awe-filled and fraught with the seriousness of "getting this right".  Some have asked if we are ready.  I don't know.  I don't know that we were ever ready with any of the girls, or that one can ever truly be ready. 

I've begun likening it to parachuting.  You want to do it.  You get on the plane with your kit packed.  You know it's almost time and you get to the door and freeze.  Are you ready?  Suddenly, you're not so sure.  Fortunately nature, much like the military, has planned this moment out.  There is someone whose sole job is to place their aggressively-soled boot squarely in your rear quarters and "help" you through the door.  Wee #3 has been going through her warm up paces.  Several nights we have been counting contractions and questioning "Now?"  Her boots are small and not so rugged, but no less insistent that really, I am not the boss here.  When it's time, I will not be in the driver's seat.

 I take comfort in knowing that there are many families who have taken the leap from two to three or more and are managing to stay afloat emotionally, financially, and in terms of sanity.  My paternal grandmother managed to do so with seven children, five boys and two girls, and a twenty year span between oldest and youngest.  Surely we too can do this.

 The consolation prize for still having this level of worry and wonder the third time around is the many ways in which we are more relaxed.    With the first baby, everything was matched and carefully color coordinated.  The nursery was ready months in advance.  The car seat was not only purchased but installed by the end of the second trimester.  Nothing wrong with any of that.  Nothing at all.  And I expect many of my first-time expectant mom friends are in the same place.  This time around we found ourselves needing to replace many of the necessary items because of the span between our first two and our last baby.  Is this crib set up?  Nope.  Do we have a coming home outfit?  Nope.  Are the baby clothes washed in special detergent and carefully laid out in sizes and seasonal need?  Nope.  Is my hospital bag packed?  Nope.  Do we have a carseat?  As of yesterday, we do.    With twenty days to spare.  All good.

 Also somewhat rewarding is the sense of peace that we have this time around knowing that there's no point in worrying about how big the baby is.  It isn't as though we can do anything about it.    I had one night of angst and then put it away.  Meh...she'll be what she will be.    The doctor who ran the ultrasound stated she had a "prominent nose".  Heard it before.  Didn't happen.  Not going to let it get in the way of enjoying the last weeks of being the mother of two.  The first time around, I spent a month pondering how a baby wearing the equivalent of nose glasses could possibly capture my heart.  Would I be able to see past an enormous schnoz?  Was I capable of that kind of blind love?  I'll never know, because it didn't happen of course.  She was born with the tiniest little button nose and the most intense blue-eyed gaze and we were of course so smitten that other than making sure she HAD a nose, we couldn't tell you anything more about it.

 So are we ready?  I guess it depends on the definition.  I still find myself thinking of things I promised myself I would do in my forties when my two daughters were a certain age and realizing that these plans are now at best, late forties.  I find myself planning our trip to Disney and then realizing that this has been moved out a bit farther and my oldest will be a pre-teen when this happens.   I've counted how old I will be when my youngest graduates high school and recognized that I will have a college freshmen and a middle school student at the same time.    These all give me pause.  But with two babies to our credit, both growing into interesting and vastly different children, I know that there is no way to really KNOW what kind of ride we are in for with Wee #3.  But our tickets are purchased.  The plane has left the ground and we are at cruising altitude.  The boot is mere inches from our collective caboose.  

 Ready?  We will be.

My Life as a Shelf

I am noticing lately how my routine is preparing for being forty while my brain solidly resists, firmly believing I am still only twenty-five.

For example, my shelf in the bathroom now contains a product that promises to lift, smooth and plump parts of my facial landscape I never previously thought about.  It sits there in its squat, solid glory in a glass container that quietly announces a long-term relationship.  It isn't flashy.  it doesn't smell like a tropical fruit.  It isn't tinted or fancy by any stretch.   It doesn't have a fancy pump or sparkly letters.  It doesn't promise overnight success.   And it has sunscreen.   A lot of sunscreen. 
 
(If that doesn't scream long-term commitment I don't know what does, especially when I think about my routine of younger years which included trying to have as much sun-color as possible. )
 
And this seems like a statement about my life in general.  This year I have started to allow that life doesn't last forever.  I am fallible.  My packaging is weak and needs care.  I am not immune to breaks, serious illness, etc.  Perhaps this is because I have lost two souls dear to me and am in the agonizing process of yet another.  Perhaps it is simply that some part of my primitive brain is telling me to slow up and make long-range plans.  There isn't endless time for frittering and waste.  Take care or you may be sorry later.  Maybe it was the stark realization when my grandfather passed that everyone in my family moved into a new slot.   The new oldest generation was my parents.  Which meant....I was now taking my parents spot.  Life was marching on and we all had new roles.
 
Whatever it is, I find myself thinking about things in long-range perspective.  Will I still want this five, ten, more years from now?  Do I need it?  What is it teaching my children when they see me doing X?  How do I want to spend my fifties?  My seventies? 

My mother and Oprah swear that forty is when you find yourself.  Know who you are.  Find the inner strength to accept who you are and ignore those who don't.   Maybe this is the first tinge of this awakening.  I don't know.  And I don't know what to think of it. It's foreign.   It's one of those things that I find myself only vaguely aware of unless I stop and question.  Kind of like this first time you feel your baby move and you question "Wait?  Was that it?  What was that?"  It's not unpleasant, it's just kind of "not me" or at least not the "me" I'm used to being.

And so if the bathroom shelf is a euphemism for this stage, it seems that my life is moving toward quality not quantity, solidity not flash and sparkle, and investment in the future and not a focus on passing fad.    It will be different.  But I kind of like this girl I'm getting to know.  I hope she sticks around a while.

W(h)ine with my Cheese, (depending on what kind it is and whether or not I like it today).

In trying to convince myself to go grocery shopping today, I started looking at recipes .  Looking at recipes made me realize I don't enjoy cooking anymore.  Realizing that I began to wonder why, because I used to be a bit of a foodie.  After pondering  few moments I came to the conclusion that it was related to the fact that everything I place on the table becomes a point of contention.  

Little One is in a fairly typical toddler pattern of loving something one day and abhorring it the next the next.    We recently went through a phase where pasta in sauce had to be taken noodle by noodle to the sink and washed before being consumed, like a little raccoon.  I can grit my teeth and try to outlast this phase, but it's the hardcore "I'm not trying it.  I don't like it {based on the way it looks} and I never will." refusal that wear me down.  And what makes this harder for me is that I can't just take a break from the battle and offer them quick and easy offerings once in a while, like frozen pizza, mac in the blue box, etc. because they won't eat those either.   

To this end I made a list today of the foods that my children will eat at least 50% of the times they are offered. It was not very long.   It was not particularly balanced.  It was a little shameful honestly. 

So, hot dogs yes but hamburgers no.  Peanut butter yes but not on a piece of bread, rice cake or celery.  On a spoon in isolation.   Apples occasionally, but only if peeled, sliced and cored.   Deli meat no.  Cold meat of any persuasion no.  Anything served on bread, no.   Carrots raw with hummus for one , and only cooked for the other.  Broccoli as long as it doesn't have a stem of unusual length.  Eggs, never.  Grains, (barley, oats, quinoa, wheat berries….), nothing doing.  Cheese for one, but only if it's cheddar.  No bagels, English muffins, or muffins that contain berries.  The list goes on and on. 

What I can count on day after day is a glass of milk.  A tablespoon or two of peanut butter.  Rice.  Beets.  These are the only four constants.  Can a child live on this?  Thrive?  For how long? 

The advice I receive from other parents is all fabulous and sensible.  It just hasn't made a difference yet almost 18 months in.  I keep waiting for the light to come on and the choir of angels to reward waiting them out, but it ….Just. Isn't. Happening.