Celery, Guns N Roses, and a Fight

You would be amazed at the solid connection between 80's pop and the stage of independence and rebellion we are in right now.  Let's take Twisted Sister,  We're Not Gonna Take It: 

 

We're not gonna take it
No, we ain't gonna take it
We're not gonna take it anymore

We've got the right to choose and
There ain't no way we'll lose it

 

My children are in a developmental turning point and I am in a gestational turning point.  Simultaneously.  There is a seriously large lot of emotion in our house of late.  My husband is fortunate that he is working mandatory overtime right now as usually things are all cried out by the time he walks in at bedtime and the snuggly, doe-eyed daughters have returned.  His wife, well, not snuggly or doe-eyed, but usually not planning the demise of anyone either….anymore.

 

Both girls are working through a struggle for independence.  For those who have met my daughters this is more hostile, hysterical take-over than mere "let me do it myself".  What is particularly hard to watch and live through is that often their need to assert independence comes when I most need compliance.  For example, Little One wants to dress herself, but with one arm in the neck of her shirt and trying to put the other in through the cuff first, it is blisteringly hard to refrain from just taking over and doing it myself.  This is often happening as I stand at the door waiting to leave for work, with a meeting looming on the horizon.  (Also important to know that the clothes have been on offer for nearly an hour and frequently I have had her dressed once and she is naked again for need of one more ballerina twirl in the fairy princess dress.) 

 

Miss Six is struggling with the natural step down that comes from being too big to curl up in my lap completely or be toted around on a hip, but still needing that cuddly time.  She is simply not satisfied by an arm around her shoulder while we read or holding her hand as we grocery shop, etc.  She wants to be in my lap.  (A lap which is gradually less present than the week before these days.)  For her, independence comes from alternately pushing me away and then begging to return to babyhood.  It's a somewhat scary push-pull to be in the middle of.    I know that much of what I'm seeing is her search for an answer as to who she is in our changing family dynamics, but there are times when the foreshadowing of her teen years shows through and my blood runs cold…( and  not because …"my angel's in the centerfold".   Sorry, I digress, Pandora is running on 80's pop)…  I know it's normal but it doesn't take away the sting of sarcastic, know-it-all.

 

Sweet Child O Mine, was a song I loved in high school and while I know it was not written from the perspective of a mother watching her child, try for a minute to abandon what you know about the song and think about watching your child grow and become someone other than your little girl.  Try to allow it to encompass that moment when you see her for the person she is becoming and not for the small bundle you brought home from the hospital. 

 

…She's got a smile that it seems to me
Reminds me of childhood memories
Where everything
Was as fresh as the bright blue sky
Now and then when I see her face
She takes me away to that special place
And if I'd stare too long
I'd probably break down and cry…

 

The Mr. is lovingly referred to as "the stubborn one" in his family.  The horror stories of his childhood are often bandied about over family dinners.  The phrase "I hope you have one just like you." sounded funny until the realization hit that this also meant it happening to me, and lately mostly to me because of our schedule.  Little One is apparently the legacy in the co-ed fraternity of "Stubbornousity".  The potential for pushing the line, digging in the heels and forcing Mama to make a decision about which hill to die on seems endless.   Some days I applaud her and want to bow at the feet of the master and other days and I just want cry and scream and have a tantrum myself.  If Little One had a theme song, she would likely channel REM with I Won't Back Down.

 

Well I won't back down, no I won't back down
You could stand me up at the gates of hell
But I won't back down

Gonna stand my ground, won't be turned around
And I'll keep this world from draggin' me down
Gonna stand my ground and I won't back down

 

Which leads me to my own turning point.  We are soundly in the second trimester, lovingly alluded to as the one where your energy rebounds.  HA!  Not for this Mama of two approaching her fourth decade and working full-time.  You know that celery that gets lost in the bottom of the crisper drawer and comes out bent into a hairpin yet still green?  That's me.  I still look like myself on the outside but I have the structural integrity of wilted vegetation.  By 5:00 I am dicing my vegetable likenesses and hoping that I remembered to turn on the burner under the soup pot, (and not the one under my cutting board),or standing at the fridge door with carrots in one hand and no clue what I needed them for in the other.  Or I find myself staring at my old friend Shiraz and wishing we lived in France where a daily glass of wine is not frowned upon during pregnancy.

 

In a moment of reflection on my own childhood, I remember a commercial that came on in between adult shows that used to catch me by surprise because it made my stoic mother cry.  Sometimes I play it to remind myself that time is fleeting and my children are only temporary in many ways.  They will always be mine, but not always as they are now.  And so, while this song may have been written any time, it is a song of the 80's for me because that is when I became aware of it.  Grab a tissue and enjoy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A9Tn-H251Uc

 

Reality In A Box

Reality.  Every time I think I finally have a handle on it, the darn thing becomes more elusive.

About Christmas time my husband and I began to suspect that the "stomach bug" that I couldn't shake was of the nine month variety.  This immediately led to a furtive trip to the drug store with a home test tucked snugly into the basket of last-minute gift wrapping needs etc.

While the box says something to the effect of "so easy a caveman could do it", I have to tell you that confirmation line is not always quite so blaze blue as depicted on the box.  In my house, that leads to a really long 24 hour wait until you can wee on the second stick the following morning.  Again, the lines look possible, but wait, maybe not.  I'm just not sure.

So I say to the Mr.  "You go to the store and get another kit and we'll do this again.  Just to be sure."  And why do I send him?  Because I work in this town and the weekend cashier is a former student of mine and I guarantee that while I am in the aisle trying to find the box I need, I will run into at minimum six people I know.  Questions will be asked.

You gotta love a man who is so freaked out about the prospect of a third pregnancy-to-newborn run in the house that he buys the economy pack of tests; 6 in a box! 

Yes, we used them all.  Yes, we stood shoulder to shoulder watching the line get more pronounced, and then we scrutinized the living hell out of it.  "That's two lines right?....  I mean, they are intersecting in the middle and making a 'plus'....  Aren't they?....Can you do one more?" 

Then we both looked at each other shell-shocked but grinning just the tiniest bit.  Okay, we can do this thing.  It'll be okay.  We have to keep saying that out loud. 

Because, let's be honest.  I am closing in on 39.  We have two daughters who are amazing and brilliantly growing and changing, but never, ever easy.  We both work.  Both jobs are crazy in their demands on time and both are important.  And, in the very near future, we will be outnumbered.  (A good friend of mine refers to this as "zone defense".)

There's a lot that is scary in making the jump from family of four to mini-van-required territory.  As the person who typically gets us out the door in the morning for school, daycare etc.  I really don't begin to know how I will get three children ready and not be at work in my skivvies with bed-head and yesterday's eyeliner in Tammy Faye streaks from this mornings stress-induced crying jag. 

I worry.  A lot.  (This is just a given.)  But currently I worry about my ability to make all of the balls stay in there every morning so that everyone lands where they need to at the right time of day. 

The most common reaction to the announcement of this pregnancy has been, "So you're gonna stop working now, right?"  This is so hard.  Yes,  if the financial world were different, it would probably make sense to take a few years off and get this brood settled and into school.   But the reality is, that's not my life.  And yes, I do feel guilty about the time I miss with them when they are at school, daycare etc. and I am at work.    Being a mother isn't easy no matter what.  Being a mom who works away from home and her kids, (because let's be honest, SAHM are working too and Damn hard!), comes with the perpetual balance of knowing that nobody can ever get your 100%.

And so I leave you with the reaction of my OB when I called in to request my first check-up.  "You're shitting me!  You went for another one!  Didn't we talk about what caused this in the first place?.......You husband is HOPING for another girl?  He does know they go through puberty right?"

Reality....Zone Defense....Worry.....Balance....

And then the first ultrasound, and hearing the heart beat for the first time.  Instant blissful love.  Tears and magic.

This will be okay great too. 



 

Little Girls

"Some day I'll land in the nut house
With all the nuts and the squirrels
There I'll stay
Until the prohibition of
Little girls."

-Annie, the musical

 

I love my duo of girlies.  I love that they are creative and imaginative.  I'm just drowning in little girl accessories and cast-offs right now and a little overwhelmed and this song has been cycling through my head most of the morning.  Can you hear Carol Burnett cackling as Miss Hannigan?  I can. 

 

Because I feel like I don't have enough time to spend with them during the week and then our weekend time is often used up with errands, grocery shopping and house cleaning,  I easily get suckered into "projicks".  "But this one isn't messy!" they cry.  "We'll pick it up!" they protest. 

 

And just like the infomercial for losing half your body weight without diet or pesky exercise, I fall for it. 

 

Currently, (and let me say that this "projick" started somewhere in the 6:00 a.m. time frame),  Miss 5 has cut two dozen construction paper hearts out of the very center of each piece of paper, abandoning the scraps in her wake.  She has pulled down markers to write her messages "Hape Holuda"  (Happy Holidays) and left them scattered across the table sans caps.  Two paper plates have been taken from the pantry and ragged eyeholes cut into them.  Mid-"projick" the string to hold it onto ones head was deemed too short, so both masks and the related props have been relocated to the living room floor on the way to a more desirable venture.

 

Tape.  Let's pause for a moment to reflect on the magnificence of tape.  Miss 5 has found the tape and has made a remarkable bandage for one of her dolls.  She has also taped each and every one of her Barbie dolls eyes and has moved onto the button-eyed scare-master, Lalaloopsy. 

 

"I'm giving them contacts." she tells me.  Well, of course. 

 

She is clearly running an understaffed office as she is currently the doctor, receptionist, and patient's mother.  The split personality conversation in the other room is about the only thing that is keeping me from crying.   My favorite so far is "Where is your shirt?!  You went to the doctor without a shirt?  What were you thinking?...(quick aside)  "The rest of you will have to wait your turn.  I don't have any more shirts."  I don't know what's going on in this office, but I think I may cancel my appointment.

 

Everywhere you go in our play space, you'll find a Barbie shoe.  Vampy, trampy, plastic detritus.  They look cute in the box, they're even remotely cute on her feet.  (The one and only one time they were ON her feet.)  But mostly, they are just underfoot.  Irritatingly pokish, but low on the Lego scale of pain induction.  Our vacuum has hoovered up a few.  Several are somewhere in the dogs digestive system.  And yet, everywhere I go, there they are.

 

It seems that everything a little girl might desire comes with many, many little accessories.  As do the little girls themselves.  Miss 5 has just donned her third party dress in an hour and I'm sure the rejects are lying in a heap on her floor.  Little One aspires to be as well dressed and has come downstairs in an outfit of her own making.  (Read undies, tank top, wool hat and snow boots.)  The volume of laundry in our house is stunning already.  The addition of "I needed a new ow-fit" to our repertoire is not helping.  And let's be honest, sometimes it really is easier to potentially needlessly rewash it than it is to run through the three-point cleanliness check for each item.  Socks and undies are an automatic re-wash.  Some things I just don't want to inspect too closely.

 

It was way easier when they couldn't open gates, reach the top shelf, move a chair to create a ladder, etc.  This independence that I longed for is turning on me.    

It's just a normal Monday 'round here

 It's been a morning of educational experiences...For example, if you leave a three year old to her own devices she will improvise a stool or chair out of whatever she can find available.  In this case, overturning the cat's litter box and dragging the box to the desired location to use as height enhancement.  So, in this New Englander's hurricane preparedness kit, there will need to be some wine to balance out the skeeviness factor of being mostly sure, but not absolutely sure that I have cleaned up all the random litter pebbles and wiped down all surfaces that could have been touched. 

 

When the rest of the region is preparing for a hurricane, it is a super time to contract pinkeye as a family.  I mean, no better time.  It keeps things fun and frisky, just not in that Cosmo cover-story kind of way.   Also, as a side note,  our doctor's offices have recently moved into a new complex.  While they are technically closer than before, I failed to factor in the "We've-never-been-here-before-can-we-touch/look at/lick it" factor.  Yes, lick.    I don't know what sensory madness possesses one of my children, but things continue to be touched with the tongue well beyond the age and stage where the world is experienced by the mouth primarily.    So yes, I did enter into the waiting area of our new doctor's office saying "Do not EVER lick the elevator buttons again.  EVER." 

 

Related to the above, there is fabulous art displayed in the entrance and it just happens that the entry is an echo chamber.  We walked the length of the hall with Little One chanting "Echo…echo…echo…Do you hear me?  I'm saying 'echo'."   An older gentleman stopped us and said "Boy, she really likes it here doesn't she!  I bet she could really get running in here if you turned her loose!  It's like a race track!"  Um, thanks, but no.

 

With all of this entertainment, we walked into the waiting room as they were calling our name.  Of course, the fact that four of our collective six eyes were cotton candy pink may have had something to do with getting us out of the waiting room quickly…

 

If you want maximum fun, come home with children who are a little frenzied by the impending storm and the ambient stress of all the adults around them and convince them that you need to put greasy, goopy medicine in their eyes every three hours and just for fun, estimate how frequently you will say "NO! You cannot touch your eyes!"  (HINT:  'cuz I like ya….It's a lot!)

No one to blame but myself...

 

It is the season.  That weirdly  all encompassing Merry HallowThankMas season that moves Miss Five in consumerist kinds of ways.  It begins with the first roadside pumpkin stand which sends us almost immediately into "Ineeedacostuuuuume!" and "Can we put this on my Santa list?".    

Don't get me wrong, I remember when the Penney's catalog would arrive in our mailbox in late August, (bear with me here….I know some of you have no idea what I'm talking about), my sister and I would sit down with our notebook paper and a pen and circle everything we wanted and write out detailed lists that enumerated page number, color, description, etc.   When we were done, we would start again and add things we had missed the first time.  Avarice and greed did not begin with my daughter's generation.    I am a consumer from word one.

Today we went to buy Miss Five's costume.  She is no longer content to be the adorable and cuddly costume wearer.  Now she wants to be fierce and flashy; dangerous and dastardly.  We settled in the middle on a witch costume that was more tricks and treats than "tarty".  I was congratulating myself on our compromise when I turned over the tag.  Are you kidding me?  $45 for a KMart costume?  Now I had to convince her to scale back her costume wishes once again. 

The problem was, I had just done such a good job of convincing her that this costume was the epitome of cronely comeliness  that now she was locked in.    Not budging.  Completely, utterly,  mired to the mudflaps stuck.  And….I had done it to myself.  Damn.

Just for a sidecar of entertainment, it should be noted that Little One has just turned three, no longer wishes to stay in the cart and was free-range in the double wide aisle of simultaneous ghoulish wailing and crepey mummies lurching to the tune of Jingle Bells, while Mickey in a blow-up snow globe frolicked with one of his pals who needed a hefty dose of something designed to treat erectile dysfunction.  Good times people, …good times.
After trying every crafty, loosely disguised bribe I could think of, I finally resorted to holding out the two items I could reasonably both condone and afford and asked her to choose.  She simply could not.  I had derailed her Halloween train and there was no hope of bringing her back.  She allowed me to choose one for her and we walked out of the Holiday zone with her crying and moaning dramatically.  Two aisles later I turned to her as she said "I just don't understand why you told me I could get it and then said I couldn't.  That's so mean I can't stop crying."  True to Miss Five's style, she never brings up a tough conversation when we are alone or in a place where we can have a thoughtful conversation.  We were standing at an end-cap of feminine hygiene products and Little One was flinging box after box into the cart with wild abandon stating loudly "I need these pencils with the flowers on the box!"  (Now from the safety of my home, I can see the humor.  Not so much then.)

In sheer fatigue and desperation,  I finally said to Miss Five "I just can't spend $40 on a costume for one day.  Does that make sense?"  And this is where she shows me that I have still SO much to learn about parenting.  "Mama?  Why didn't you just say that?  $40 for a costume is crazy.  And look how cool this one is!"  

Wait.  What just happened here? 

I'd like to say the heavens opened up and there was glorious birdsong and harp music, but truthfully there were more fits and starts before we got out of the store and the moment was soon forgotten in the craze of two children with four hands and two loud voices and consumer mindsets.  But in that singular moment I was so proud of her and so humbled by her ability to see outside of her own need.    

And then, she was back to her own self  before we were buckled into the car.  "Mom?  Do you think Santa would bring me that too 'spensive costume for Christmas?"

I bet he will.  Right after he does the Monster Mash with a giant turkey bearing a basket of candycanes.    Merry HallowThankMas!

Betwixt and Between

Today I read an article about spanking. 

Let me say this; I was always opposed to spanking and felt that it did absolutely no good.    I have staunchly supported those who would never, ever spank their children, and at one time counted myself among their ranks.   In my subsequent parenting of two children, I have *cringe* spanked.    It was out of sheer desperation and yet I know, the fact that I won't do it in the middle of the grocery store or  the local library is an indication of how wishy-washy at best I feel about defending it. 

And it is completely ineffective in our case.  All that happens is an already taxed and tired Mama is now additionally upset and overwhelmed with guilt and increased frustration.

 

Both of my daughters are going through a Daddy phase.  So much so that a co-worker recently asked me how long I had been a single parent as my children referred to "Daddy's house" and "Daddy's day" so frequently that she assumed we were not together.    Lately, Daddy is the only one who can make it better, and I'm the one who is home more often.  Daily, I hear "I want my Daddy!" .  (Usually at a time when I wish that I could "I Dream of Jeannie" blink myself out of here and am holding on by a toenail and an eyelash.)

 

After venting about this recently, I was subsequently told that my "real" problem is that I expect to have control of my children.    At first I protested loudly and then I realized that maybe I do expect some level of control.  A few days out, I'm thinking that maybe I'm not looking for control so much as compliance in certain circumstances.    And as much as I think that my children have a right to be who they are, separate from myself, I know that I also want them to be, in some ways, well-behaved on demand.

 

Tonight though, I had a moment of perspective.  To quote Dave Matthews,  it's about "the space between".  My children are not always nice; not always calm; not always gentle with each other, their surroundings, belongings or their Mama's heart.  But, in between those gut-wrenching moments, there are moments that make me proud.   When  Miss Five spontaneously apologized to Little One for calling her names before I could intervene, I knew that she does have compassion and remorse.  When Little One offered her doctor's office reward to her big sister who had not received one, I saw the seeds of a human being who is able to think of others and put aside her own wishes for a moment.  As we settled into our bedtime routine, Little One said "Miss Five really is brave too Daddy", I had a moment of seeing the hero worship that a younger sibling has and that an oldest never really truly appreciates for the gift that it is.

 

And so, tonight, I still have no idea what I am doing but I resolve (again) to parent with as much calm as I can muster, make apologies where they are due, and trust that in the spaces between we are finding our way and learning from one another and hopefully, loving each other a little more and a little better than the moment before.

 

Donna Reed wouldn't...

I am old.  Not necessarily chronologically, but my numbers definitely sound less fresh and dewy as I get closer to this birthday.  I am old as in black and white classics, crinolines and pearls.  Old fashioned.  I want to live in place ad time where things are a little more…classy.

I am old-fashioned and more conservative than I would have imagined in my teens.  I am easily embarrassed and blush furiously when friends launch into private aspects of their lives, marriage, relationships, and body functions.    I'm not offended.  I can giggle and laugh, see the humor, even sometimes join in the conversation, but not without a lobster-red patina. 

This is great fun for my co-workers, most of whom are younger than I am and way more cool than I have ever been, but it also leaves me wondering if I am raising my children to be as ill-fitting as I was as a teenager?    Still, I can only teach what I know and what I know is 1950's culture and values.

Recently I realized that I probably emerged from the womb at age 40 in terms of my social sensibilities.  I spent weeks agonizing over finding the right dress for my upcoming high school reunion and found that what I am drawn to is the fashion of the movies I grew up watching with my mother.  Movies where women wore dresses every minute of the day, vacuumed in pearls, and never broke a sweat.   I love dresses that seem to appear only on fetish sites these days.    

I finally found my perfect dress only to find that it is probably more dress than the occasion calls for.    So could someone please have a cocktail party with 40's jazz so I have a reason to buy this dress?  I NEED it….

Today Miss Five and I had a lesson in being lady-like.  It seems that at the age of five, some things are just not going to go away through sheer modeling or indirect suggestion.    And at this time, as well as all the others that came before it, I ask "Who am I to be teaching this?  What if I'm really all wrong and my poor daughter ends up carrying on my legacy of 'not getting it'?"    What if, for example, retrieving a "wedgie" is actually totally acceptable in the middle of the check-out line, and I'm just the last to know?

Lesson one:  If you are wearing a skirt, criss-cross applesauce may not be your go-to seated position.  Why you ask?  "Everyone can see your undies…."  (Assuming that this was a morning you actually put them on and didn't give your bear an uber-fashionable hat.)"….Yes, yes, I know your undies are really nice and have Dora on them and that your friends love Dora…No, it isn't okay to show them to your friend at daycare even if he is the boy you are going to marry…Why?  Well,…big girls just don't.  Why?....because they cover parts of your body that are more private and not for sharing with everyone…Why isn't an elbow private?...Um….I think…well, I don't know exactly, but for now  the rule is undies cover things that are private and undies are not for everyone to see."

Lesson two:  "When you are sitting in a skirt, maybe try sitting with your legs on one side….okay, nice try, but maybe on one side and your legs together?"  We actually went through a step by step that had my grown-up brain hearing it being broadcast in therapy years later…."Well first, try getting down on your knees"…(OMG, that sounds all wrong)….and then kind of sit on one side and bend your legs…together…bend your legs together on the other side…..What do you do if a bug crawls up your skirt?"…(whatever the heck you have to do to get the bug out of your skirt!  Run!  Flap!  Shake, whatever!)…"Um…I think that won't usually happen, but people will understand if you have to get up quickly."

Lesson three:  "If your hands are messy, wipe them on a napkin and not on your shirt.  Oh, no, we don't wipe them on pants or skirts either.   Socks?  Um, no….Undies?  Even bigger no….Why?  Because the Queen wouldn't do that…..Yes, I'm pretty sure that queens and princesses do not wipe their peanut butter hands on their royal undies."    We have even made up a pseudo-Mary Poppins song that cycles through "We wipe our hands on a napkin, never on a shirt.  A shirt is for a kiddo and a napkin is for dirt."

It seems like every day there is a new layer of reminding to be done and it seems increasingly a miracle to me that children ever go off to school with manners and a lack of ferity.      It seems equally amazing to me that the same child who cannot care less that her hair is an untamed bundle of fuzz; her face has peanut butter from chin to eyebrow; and fights tooth-brushing; is the same child who walks by a rack of fashionable printed bras and coos  "Oooh…..Mama, isn't that pretty?"    

Yes, very fashionable, but please… stop retrieving your undies while standing in the middle of the aisle?