Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Techno-geek..?

“I know there's a proverb which that says 'To err is human,' 
but a human error is nothing to what a computer can do if it tries.”
Agatha Christie

You want the good news, or the bad?

Let's start with the good news (it's a miserably cold, rainy day today):  I have now surpassed 1,000 page views in just under a month!  I know that's nothing in the World Wide Web, but it is a thrilling accomplishment for me.  

So, now, the bad:  Yesterday, I accidentally deleted all of my comments!  The comments I have received, thus far, have been nothing but endearing and motivating.  When I realized what I had done, I felt as though I had inadvertently thrown away precious little 'gifts' wrapped in personal encouragement in the infancy of this endeavor.  Now, I must move on and accept it as a "learning experience."

Comments are already starting to trickle in again, and, hopefully, the technology learning curve will ease up a little (after this morning, when I accidentally deleted yesterday's post and had to frantically recreate it from the rough draft!)   I'm a little amazed that I continue to manage this blog venture, considering that I'm not technologically proficient at all.  I am also pleasantly surprised at the response, and thank you for all your beautiful words so far (that I no longer have on screen, but in my memory).  Keep the comments coming, and I will handle them with more care in the future.

I thought to "celebrate" what this blog is about I would ask for some participation.  I was hoping to post an upcoming "Shout Out" page to acknowledge the children in our lives that bring a smile to our hearts.  If you have a child in mind, email me at:  jencalbert@gmail.com with your message.  (That would NOT be www.jencalbert@gmail.com-you know who you are!)  You can use real names, pseudo-names, nick-names.  You can send a message to your child, or, perhaps, niece, nephew, grandchild, etc...  Doesn't matter how old these "kids" are, if they are "kids" to you.

To get the ball rolling, I'll start with my own "Shout Out":

To Silas and Maika:
  
You know I am a crazy busy, all-over-the-place, jumping-jacks-in-line-to-stay-warm-at-4 o'clock-in-the-morning-on-Black Friday kind of mom, and maybe not the best Aunt. 
(I know it's Bethany, and I can't blame you!) 

Even though we spend a lot of time together, I don't always get the chance to tell you what great kids you are.  I yell at you like my own kids, and am actually glad to be that close to you.  
(You may not be so glad...)

I've known you both since your lungs expanded to this world, and was there to hold you in that striped hospital blanket, still pink and stunned to the light and movement and joy around you.  It is part of my personal wealth to have witnessed your milestones and accomplishments equal to those of my own babies. 

I wanted to take this opportunity to say...
To Silas:  You are a fun-loving, extremely intelligent young man who is getting way too close to eye-level for my liking!  I love your sweetness.  I love that you laugh at my jokes.  I love that you are simply good, through and through, and you have your mom's sense of justice and propriety.  You are a little computer of knowledge for your love of football, just like your dad (and I am quite sure play it better than him!)

And, Maika, you are a stealthy observer, and like your mother, a very witty comedian.  You have those deep, chocolate eyes filled with so much calm like your dad.  However, your creative 'eyes' are  your mom's, colorful and bright.  I love how you drop your voice when you say a "matter-of-fact statement", which always proves to be a simple, poignant bulls-eye on life.

Thanks to both of you for being best friends with my kids and being a part of so many wonderful and hysterical memories.  Looking forward to many, many more as I have the privilege to watch you grow and become brilliant, beautiful people!                -your aunt, Jen




Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Vamos

When the kids were little, I found that on many days the idea of leaving the house was optional.  From late Spring to early Fall, I remember spending days at home, enjoying the light shifting and crawling throughout the house and air welcomed through curtains billowing and dancing with the breeze. Brisk mornings, warmed with activity until the dewy end of the the day when we all smelled like iron earth from a day mingling with the lawn and park and flower beds. 

(I exclude Winter from these memories because the entire season always felt like us huddling for warmth during the 2 hours of light eked out in a day-and mind you, light does not mean sun in Indiana, it just means an illumination of the slate gray sky.)

It feels like so long ago that  mother and child met quietly in darkened nursery, pulling back drapery from the window, light spilling greedily into every crack and crevice of the room.  Snuggled puppy breath. Over to changing table to freshen up.  (I used to sing as I opened the door 'Your-n Urine'...tacky, I know.)  Onward, to kitchen. Fill a bottle, break bread, nibble and smear.  Cheerios pinched by fat, slobbery fingers.  We get dressed, we find activity.  A little work, a little play.  A stroll outside.  Roll in the grass.  Push a swing.  Fold some clothes.  Slumber.  Regroup.  Reset.  The day is stretching to maturity.  Family dinner.  Dishes.  Feet slapping along the warm wood floors, blocks stacked and crashed.  Bath time.  Bedtime.  Aahh... peace.

I look back on this, now, as children have been added to the equation and growth has propelled us all forward into ravenous schedules with responsibilities seeking a juggler. Meeting teachers. Backs packed.  Lunch box love notes.  Homework tears.  Dance practice.  Recital.  Friendships.  Appointments and employment pasted around what used to be spare time.  Everything has quickened and the demands accelerate, and what is the biggest challenge of all?

Getting everyone in the van.

"C'mon, guys, get your shoes on...where are your shoes?  Well, you need at least one for each foot.  Why are they so muddy?  Is that mud?  Oh, I hope that's mud.... Go to the bathroom...yeah, I know you don't have to go, but we call it "insurance potty"; your bladder has had notoriously bad timing.  I know you're not cold now, but please bring your coat, just in case.  No, I don't want to carry it!  You carry it.  Ok, fine.  But, if you're cold, I don't want to hear any crying about it.  Wait! What is that?  You do not need 16 books for a 15 minute drive.  I know it's your favorite...how about just two?  Did you forget something?  It's on the kitchen counter.  Where is everyone?  I have three kids and I need four.  Why is she outside already?  Ok, then, I think we're ready: Let's get in the van!"

In the time it takes for me to grab a handbag, the shoes that never made it on number 4, and a sloshing cup of lukewarm tea, I awkwardly pull the front door shut to turn and find children who have apparently lost their way.  They are spinning in a kaleidoscope of activity.  They run around the van.  They climb snowbanks.  They are sword fighting with tree branches.  They are scaling the tree for more branches.  Look!  They found a nest!  They find a 2-inch puddle with magnetic properties that demand attention.  My personal favorite is when I find them running in the street.  They have a need to chase each other in a real-life game of Frogger, or at least on a mission of public humiliation for any peeking neighbor who are still wondering if I do, in fact, have control, or if they have need to notify the proper authorities.


Occasionally, they do make it into the van.  I know this happens because before I can spill the tea on my shoes as I close the front door I can hear the sound of shrill battles being fought over seating arrangements, or who gets in first.  They will walk on the seats or walk on each other or walk on the seats AND each other.  Sometimes, someone will "accidentally" fall into "the way back" and I must retrieve them from the tailgate as I grumble and mumble and try to maintain control so as not to attract the attention of aforementioned neighbors, phones in hand with speed dials set to CPS.

I have a dream.  I have a dream that one day my children will walk to the van with dignity and treat each other with "shot gun" equality.  That they will check for mud on their shoes and look where they are walking before trampling various elements of clothing or school materials.  They will talk quietly and politely so that I can focus on my 10-and-2 defensive driving skills.  They will buckle their seat belts without being asked five times and will shut the door, instead of sitting there like the UPS man, ready to spill out onto the asphalt with my first left-hand turn.

Maybe....someday....  A mom can dream...

Although, it may be chaotic, maybe even borderline embarrassing, at times, to accomplish something so simple, we are getting where we need to go.  I guess that's the goal, oh...that, and having both shoes.

Sunday, February 24, 2013

Le Menu

 “One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.”
Virginia Woolf



 A cold week and it looks like February is not letting go just yet.  A week of warm soup and good friends.

Kids were out of school Monday and it was a blustery day at the park that ended with 1/2-priced books for all, a smoothie for the ride home and a butternut squash soup topped with sour cream and bacon for dinner...yum!





Menu for the week:

Butternut squash soup & Salad
Burritos
*Rosemary chicken (I only prepared the chicken part of this recipe.  Very basic, very easy, very good)
       Citrus rice salad (not really a salad, but the best citrus rice side dish you will ever eat)
       Green beans
Bar-b-q pulled pork sandwiches, sweet potato fries and cranberry cole slaw
Chili

Friday, February 22, 2013

Sticks and stones...

Is it true that words "will never hurt me"?

It probably takes nothing short of a narcissistic level of self confidence to be impervious to verbal attack.  To feel inadequate, insecure, misunderstood or even vilified, can force any of us to question if we have any worth at all.

Our children are basically born on a red carpet for most of us.  "Celebrity status" doesn't imply a reality show, tiara-wearing, spray-tan, monster-diva of a child.  It simply means that we see boundless potential and unbridled hope for this person-in-the-making.  We are invested in all this child can and will become.  We cheer.  We high-five.  We celebrate their accomplishments as we see the building blocks of their lives lay a foundation that will support all the dreams they will ever dream.

While this may sound a little "Disney," isn't it true that no child will ever compare to our own?  In no other child (or children) will we invest more.
 
Unfortunately, some of the biggest challenges parents face become almost cliché, especially as media attention brings a level of awareness to an issue, but in the process, fatigues us with constant, ineffectual harping.  I think, specifically, of the topic of bullying.  School systems appear to be attuned to the problem and have policies in place to address such cases, but when push comes to shove (no pun intended), you quickly realize how powerless they are to the constant flow of ridicule our children have to choke down day in and day out.

Like static in the background, schools everywhere hum with quiet, relentless cruelty.  It's not a surprise that kids are mean, but, somehow, you hope your child will be the exception.  I'm here to tell you there is no vaccine to protect any child from being bullied.  A bully isn't instigated because a child doesn't wear the "right" clothes or they aren't skinny enough or they wear glasses or hold to a particular faith.  Any child can be bullied.

Name calling and exclusion are probably the minimum forms of bullying we tolerate as a society, and when it hits our children, we try to be cool and deflect the pain with some practical advice:  Ignore it.  Be the "bigger" person.  Know who you are and be proud of it.  You don't want them as friends, anyway....right?

But, inside, you're boiling....you know who you are, and you'd be proud (as the actual bigger person) to acknowledge the perp, open "A Can" and lay it out for the punk.  Might not solve the problem, but we want our kids to see what we would do for them, what a powerful advocate we want to be.

Like allergies and ADD, I wanted to put my head in the sand and hope that, if unacknowledged, these plagues would not penetrate my family bubble.  Undue concern is a waste of precious energy, but when these situations occur, the game plan has to be solid enough to support the pieces of our child that, very well, may start to crumble.  We must be aware of the first signs of erosion to their character and fight against the unruly, destructive influence that could change who they are.  We are their levee and every sandbag we tirelessly stack against a flood of ridicule might just keep their heads above water.

I'm no expert, but I can easily see how essential it is to communicate about school life.  Ask about the people in their life.  They exist...do we know them?  Ask about bullying specifically, and if they indicate they are not having problems, ask if they know someone who is.  They can still learn from the third person, or even relate their struggles in the third person.  Make home a safe haven and speak to them the way you want others to speak to them.  And, if you do not personally have children in school, please make it your goal to talk to the children in your life about their experiences and show that you care about their struggles.  Let them know there is more of "us" than there is "them."

It seemed to hurt me more than my daughter when she revealed how a handful of kids demean her at school.  But, appearances can be deceptive, and I can't assume it won't affect her eventually.  All I can do for now is keep my finger on the pulse of her life, not as a helicopter parent, but as an advocate who proves that her value is weighed only through the eyes of those who love her the most.

***
What are your thoughts?  Please share any advice, tips or strategies that can benefit any of us facing bullies at school.  We have modified the accessibility to comment on the blog so that anyone can easily posts their opinions.  This is a family-based site and I encourage my children to read it, so I respectfully ask that any who comment please refrain from vulgarity. 

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

Stage mom

“For art to exist, for any sort of aesthetic activity or perception to exist, a certain physiological precondition is indispensable: intoxication.”
Friedrich Nietzsche

At some point, when you have children, you will find yourself pragmatically shuffling into an auditorium with a  crowd of parental constituents, not to mention a sprinkling of wide-eyed grandparents, scooting across bleachers or high-stepping over knee caps to plop into a velveteen seat.  Yes, you are at a school play, recital, musical, whatever you want to call a junior-amateur performance.  They are, basically, all the same.

Children love art.  Art dominates their brains, starving the logic and reasoning side, because the world they know is abstract and opened to boundless interpretation.  They see things as they could be, not only how they should be.  Pants can be hats and ketchup can be finger paint and the dog can be a baby doll.  That's why they love the boxes.

Once exposed to "structured" art forms, there comes a time to perform or exhibit their newly developed talents.  Granted, the "talent" is raw, and may never be more than glorified mumbling, a sequined bunny hop, or a Jackson Pollock...well, wait a minute...

***
My oldest daughter spent most of her ballet class admiring her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, twirling recklessly until she ricocheted off fellow students.  Her arabesques were better suited for lay-ups, and with recital rapidly approaching, I was fairly confident she would never spend therapy dollars on treatment for OCD.  When all was said and done, and little ballerina buns were loosened and the last of the glitter was swept from the floor, the only thing I remember from that 3-hour marathon of dance was: her, and the part where she "messed up" was the best part of all.  She mistakenly stood up to Captain Hook, even though she was not supposed to participate in the scene at all.  Her four-year-old mind saw the art as reality, making her courage real and unexpected.  I can't explain how proud I was to see her stand up to the "bad guy" all on her own.

Years later, her school choreographed a Chinese fan dancing routine as a facet of there annual musical.  Despite the memos and newsletters that come home and fall like confetti, I somehow missed the fact that she had been selected to participate.  So when I arrived to see the third-grade show, before I knew it, there she stood, cloaked in red, gliding with maturity and form, ruby cloth fans clapping opened with more drama than one could imagine possible with a small company of 8-year-olds.  Her munchkin face was thoughtful, but not strained, and captivated my presence like I was the only one in the room, privileged to know this beautiful child well on her way to being grander than I could have dreamed.
****

Now you sit, scanning through a sea of adorable-but, let's face it: meaningless-mugs, you lock onto the only one that matters.  Your eyes meet.  You wave like a crazed stalker-fan, forgetting you parted ways only 15 minutes prior.  In that small amount of time, however, you have taken your seat as an observer.  The other children fade away, even though you attempt to give due credit by panning the entire scene from time to time, perhaps even pointing out another performer to your significant other, and said "significant" will nod in agreement, as they, too, attempt equality.  Even so, you snap back to attention with any movement credited to your own flesh and blood.

Once that curtain parts, anticipation meets wonder, to behold the oneness of a being to which you have attached so much of yourself.  They stand exposed.  You drink them in.  Their vulnerability creates a paradox.  You are nervous for them, but with bated breath you admire anything they muster to perform to an audience of strangers.  In that moment, the world melts and falls away and they stand in the spotlight of your eyes, and they are so much more than bed head or mac 'n' cheese or play dates or stinky sneakers.  They are art.  They are themselves.  And, you are intoxicated.

Monday, February 18, 2013

Gap insurance

When you're screaming up on 40, the first indications that you may not be a super hero emerge, and you thank the Lord Almighty you lived to appreciate this discovery.  You lose the desire, no, you recoil at the notion, of leaping buildings or running with bulls or playing chicken behind the wheel of 400 horses (or in the swimming pool, for that matter).  Yes, you are a chicken, and proud of it.

So....you buy insurance.  You purchase coverage to save what precious viability you have remaining, because you're too tired to attempt amassing you're heaping pile of....well, let's just say "treasures"...again.  A freak flood or 60-mph encounter with a 21-year-old at 5:00 am (as you drive to work and they are weaving their way to bed), and you must reconcile it's either the homeless shelter, a beat up 2002 Impala....or, insurance.

Paying premiums is a sure sign of conceding defeat-an acknowledgment of impending disaster-but, an attempt to hedge your bets that someone else will pay for it.  Just when you've taken a deep breath, and your health, life, disability, mortgage, collision and comprehensive policies have protected you and yours from most conceivable forms of untimely death, maiming, disease and accident, and the inner sanctum of your mind is practically swaying in a hammock to the rhythm of the gentle breeze of your underwriters, you discover gap insurance, which, in essence, is insurance for your insurance.

Walking into an auto dealership is like stumbling into Chalmun's Cantina to speak to the Wizard of Oz.  The salesmen are like a bunch of Wookies who can't answer any specific questions regarding money, so, they scurry off to the "Wizard" for any pricing, financing or term adjustments in hope that the average person will tire of waiting out this ridiculous Wimbledon of negotiations.  Should you be fortunate enough to determine a value on the vehicle you wish to buy and sign the dotted line, as soon as you drive through the invisible bubble of "Oz" to drive down the yellow brick road, you're ride is no longer worth what it was 2 seconds before.  Thus, the "gap."   

At least our homes are a reliable, appreciating investment due to the fact that the banks can accurately assess value and protect against risk.........right?  Okay, let's take Lehman and Franny and JP Morgan and S&P out the mental leap here and recognize that the need for gap insurance has always existed for a home with a child resident.  If nothing else, a child, and especially children, will cause a home to depreciate more quickly than a Kia.

I flashback to the day when attempting to intercept the kids from carving their initials into my dining room table.  My voice dropped a full octave while some of my father's most legendary words belted out of me with such ease and familiarity:  "Why can't we have anything nice?"

On one such occasion, my three siblings and myself were spinning in a vacuum of frenzy, drunk on exposure to our cousins, which resulted in dislodging brand new closet doors in the master bedroom.  I don't even know why we had the audacity to enter the hallowed space, but once discovered, we promptly learned we had "crossed the line."

Our kids depreciate their bathroom on a daily basis.  We fear that one day the tub will give way from the rot that must permeate the sub-floor due to the fact that bath time is just a smokescreen for the pursuit of Moby Dick himself.  They like to slide down the back of the tub, plunging into water that is then sent sloshing from side to side, spilling and spitting water over the edge like an intermittent cascade.

They try to sneak scooters into the house, like the rumble of Razor NASCAR on the hardwood floors would escape my attention.  They have sprayed water into the house with the garden hose.  Our screen door was breached, and what started as a tiny hole in the grid became an opened flap that we all eventually took to walking through rather than bothering to open and close it.

Of course, the damage is not limited to the house, it includes all things we value and they don't.  (Again, the "gap.")  Boring things like mini-van paint, upholstered furniture, wood furniture, metal and glass furniture, musical instruments, clothing,...you get the point.

My husband says when each of the children set up house and, hopefully, invite us over for that first dinner, he will stab a steak knife into their dining room table.  I laugh at the fantasy and defer to reality, "No you wouldn't," I say.  I pause at his silence and the crazed look in his eyes.  Maybe they will have gap insurance by then....

Sunday, February 17, 2013

What's for dinner?

I'm not Giada or a "Barefoot Contessa."  My kitchen is not "Smitten."  I do, however, appreciate having access to these culinary miracle workers.  Like most moms, dinnertime is a blend of outside inspiration and a rotation of family favorites.

Planning a week's menu is essential for my survival.  I can no longer "fly by the seat of my pants" and it's not practical to run out for a couple of things to prepare a meal at the last minute.  I assemble a menu that includes 5 meals and rely on leftovers, take-out or weekend entertaining to fill in the gaps.

Due to a gluten sensitivity in the family, the meals I feature are tailored for a gluten-free lifestyle, but the menu isn't exclusive to gluten-free ingredients or gluten-free variations on a "traditional" recipe (i.e. lasagna or spaghetti...).

I wanted to include a basic menu to, hopefully, inspire some ideas.  And, to keep things interesting, I will include a feature recipe* to spur me to try something new, to the chagrin of my children I would imagine...

My menu from last week:

Pad Thai
Roast chicken, roasted butternut squash, sautéed kale with cranberries.
Italian beef, roasted red potatoes and salad
Risotto w/mushrooms and broccoli
*Spaghetti with lemon and olive oil (we added some mild gourmet chicken sausage to this for a little protein)
http://smittenkitchen.com/blog/2011/02/spaghetti-with-lemon-and-olive-oil-al-limone/

The feature recipe is from one of my favorite blogs: the smitten kitchen.

Friday, February 15, 2013

lions and tigers and bears, oh my!

Conception is the beginning of fear.  Planned or unplanned...what + sign on a stick is not laced with the purest of panic?

It's commonly believed that women spend significant more time needlessly worrying about "what if's" than men.  I would agree with that.  My solar plexus would also concur.  However, I still notice my father swallow hard every time my family piles in the van to depart on what could very well be a highway of death.

As soon as we touch that infant still warm from mother's womb, we assess what we know in that moment.  Perhaps it is a cry or the fact that they do, indeed, have 10 fingers and toes.  Then, we begin to choke down and silence the flood of fear that is lingering in the vast unknown.

“Expose yourself to your deepest fear; after that, fear has no power, and the fear of freedom shrinks and vanishes. You are free.”
Jim Morrison

Sounds simple.  History, unfortunately, indicates that, perhaps, he did not find this freedom at all.

It almost feels instinctual to avoid fearfulness.  It's uncomfortable, but it is self-perpetuating because facing a fear will in some manner destroy it.  A fear is not a reality.  It is imagined, and lives in the murkiness of indecision and haunting uncertainty.  Fear feeds on avoidance.


What do I fear the most for my children?  I do fear losing them.  Once that fetal heartbeat is heard, a parent is determined it should outlast their own.  But, I suppose, even worse than loss of life is a life not worth living.  I fear that they somehow end up hollow and restless and in need of an outside something to "fix" them, that their adult bodies will ill fit them and childish inhibitions will impede them from growing into complete competence.  I see the goodness woven into them and I fear, somehow, that they will not.

What do I fear most for myself?
That I will not be able to do what needs to be done.  That I am incapable.

A dark subject, I suppose...but, I find that fear creeps in and weakens us when we need to be strong.  And, I also find there can be a great deal of fear in parenting.

Ultimately, in some way, we fear our child's fear:  what they can't, or don't, want to face.  Thankfully, fears start small.  We offer a bite of broccoli, we peer into closets for monsters, we introduce a new friend, we wander a maze of hallways to their kindergarten classroom, and acknowledge the intimidation of unkind words from a ruthless peer.  We urge them to take leaps.  (Not too high...well, ok...if you think you're ready..) 

 "Without fear there cannot be courage.”
Christopher Paolini

 At some point, our assistance dissipates in order to make their abilities stronger, and they begin to face their fears with their own mind and determination.  The reward is complete in facing fear, and when our children take on the monsters and the bullies and the bicycles with no training wheels, regardless of the "success" in it, we understand that courage has found a place in them.

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

To market, to market...

Shopping with kids....where do I begin?


Life has a way of developing masterful caveats, does she not?  Yes, life is a "she."  Why not?  She is infinitely defined, always changing her mind, and, in some disturbing way, it somehow feels like you put on her same ratty bathrobe every single day.  You can't outsmart her, you tediously plan for her and, yet, loops are thrown and hurdles jumped, admittedly quite clumsily, and she still demands more time, more energy, more money and more snacks, oh..and socks, or was it printer paper...?

So, you go to the store.

Interestingly, I've never found a "big box" establishment that suits my needs.  Ironic, says Alanis, because it is the very point of their existence!  Maybe that's why there are so many versions of the "big box," and yet, they are all so very much the same: vast parking lots of rolling asphalt where SUV's belly-up to the loading dock to secure pallets of Cheetos and Coca-Cola.

I would sell my soul in Rosedale, Mississippi if I could find the "big box" that could combine a Trader Joe's, Costco, TJMaxx and Target.  I would call it: Trader TarCoMaxx, and it would be great because I would have exclusive shopping hours, and wine and cheese samples, and super wide isles so the kiddos would stop driving their mini shopping carts into my Achilles.  Cashiers would not hand out stickers that become immediately adhered to my van windows, in fact, there would be a drop-off daycare.  (Then I could take the precious time to decide whether we were to eat our pasta with marinara, or if I was gonna go crazy and splurge on the gluten-free chicken meatballs.)

Enter the caveat...  By continuing to avoid bringing the children, you also avoid training them how to accompany you on an errand without behaving like some kind of mutant ninja puppy-chimp.   It's so much easier to independently glide throughout the store, inspecting the cooking directions for the gnocchi  and gently asking to be excused as you reach past a fellow shopper to grab asparagus bundled like obedient green soldiers.  OR...pack up the kids, take a deep breath and try to just get them through the sliding doors without resembling an over-sized, epileptic octopus.

They tend to scatter.  The more children you have, the more they scatter. One is always ahead, one is always behind and if you have enough, one goes right and one goes left.  I'm seriously not joking.  I tap into my organic-mother librarian voice and tell them ever so kindly to come back and stay with me.  "Look, Johnny (ok, none of my kids are named Johnny), you're in this kind gentleman's way."  They look around, dazed on re-entry into the world us mortals are standing in next to the refrigerated luncheon meat.  With opened mouth they glance at said gentleman and spin off in the other direction.

Perhaps you're thinking, "Get control, lady."  And, I would agree.  Once, I saw a mother of four commanding her way through the entire grocery store with each child holding onto a corner of her shopping cart.  I stood, mesmerized by the order and efficiency, and declared that we too shall follow the same course of decency! 

My children, however, felt it more effective to stand on the sides and be pushed around like "garbage men."  Yeah, they aim high... In the end, our version involved bickering over cart position and ultimately deteriorated when a disproportionate weight-to-cart ratio caused the cart to fall over in the middle of produce, apples rolling feverishly just to get away from the embarrassment.  That's when I employed my super low, intense voice and whispered commands like a creepy-calm psychopath with eyes like a wolf.

I have to be a wolf sometimes, because I don't think they are really born human.  They are trying to go feral and we dress them like little humans and try to take them out into the world and expose them to humanity.  This is when I feel for humanity...

I remember our mother taking us to the fabric store.  I don't know how long she was there at any given time, but I would guess about 3 hours a pop.  That's what it felt like to us, and I now know it felt like 16 to her.  Honestly, she kinda let us go into our natural state.  I think it was the only way she could concentrate.  We ran and rolled amongst bolts of fabric and imagined a world of clandestine operations.  We fingered through the large drawers of patterns and perused the ribbons and buttons and green Styrofoam craft balls.  I don't remember mom getting bent of shape very often when shopping, but this was also back in the day when you could park your kids in the car while you ran into the store, and we did spend a fair amount of time in the vehicle panting at the windows like a bunch of golden retrievers.

I have had a child lying on my chest while getting my teeth cleaned.  I've had to get up from a beautician's chair, hair clippings cascading to the floor, to re-seat a child gone astray.  I've taken a child, or children, with me to every OB/Gyn appointment from second pregnancy on.  They are with me most of the time because I feel like they should know how to navigate the waters of errands and appointments and learn to abide by someone else's time line or needs (without being plugged into an electronic device).

We've had a few embarrassing moments, or "behavioral learning opportunities."  But, to be fair, I have also had compliments from strangers, medical staff and waiters that my children are well-behaved.  And, therein lies the payoff, because what could be better than a great story about a toppled shopping cart and yet discover, one day, that they can be human after all?

Monday, February 11, 2013

TMI

“Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.”
Dr. Seuss

Probably my favorite Dr. Seuss quote...

Pregnancy is the most common miracle on the planet.  Bearing that in mind, I would be calloused and inexcusably ignorant if I failed to acknowledge the grief and disappointment of those women who painstakingly struggle to have children of their own.  I have always made great efforts to imagine that side of the equation, the struggling side, because our experience has been quite the opposite... 

We have, admittedly, stumbled into pregnancy...four times over...  and, by "stumbled," I mean for you to imagine baby Bambi's first steps in roller skates down a flight of stairs.  We stumbled naively, and repeatedly with harried attempts at recovery and adaptation before it happened again.  

I do not intend to come off glib, but we have determined, by careful evaluation and deliberation, that we must be morons.  It's just not plausible that we could be blind-sided on four separate occasions.  Our parents did not miserably fail us with the whole "birds and bees" shtick.  We knew about the "parts"....and how the "parts"...well, you know...EVERYONE knows!  After the third baby, I literally studied the topic of fertility and applied everything in the reverse:  the counting, the tracking, the monitoring of all things in the world of feminine "ick."  I had the power of medical science behind me now!  I was equipped with more knowledge of myself than I had ever cared to hold before. 

Jude was born 14 months after my self-administered Associates Degree in "Reverse Fertility."

Now, here's the most amazing part...
The power of existence.

These children obviously have a tenacious desire to exist, and we have pondered the indisputable character laced into the DNA of those stubborn zygotes.

Oh, yes, these children are not just unique.  They are a "me."  I remember how, with sly smile, I taught each of my 18-month-olds the concept of "you" and "me."  For me, they were a "you," but to them, they were a "me"...the very conception of Identity!  Too look into a mirror and no longer see another generic baby, but eyes that peer into oneself.  A gaze that goes beyond image and into the conscientiousness.

The miracle of pregnancy really boils down to this humbling awareness of the mother:  that in the vast expanse of the universe, a "Me" was made to be; and you carry, not just a bag of bones (that grind into your ribcage), but an intellect, a personality.  Who they choose to be, impressed by the mold of nature and the caress of nurture, remains to be fully seen at first.  The decision is ultimately up to them, but you have the undeniable privilege to witness the unfolding and expanding discovery of within.   And, while you hope to assist in making them the best version of themselves they can be, they are still something beyond us and we have to respect it while we guide it.

I don't mind letting it be known that I did not plan my children, because I will also readily admit my foolishness, my ignorance, at not anticipating how perfect it would be to have two girls and two boys.  No, scratch that.

I was too short-sighted to understand how I would be enriched by the gregariousness of a Sydney, and the tenderness of an Aidan, and the diligence of an Ellery and the tenacity of a Jude.


They have so much to offer.  To me, to the world....

I have come to understand that they will, in fact, have something to teach me, and I will be forever enriched for it.






So, with a heart full of gratitude, I say to my children,  "I love 'You' because no one alive is Youer than You!"


Friday, February 8, 2013

A mother's love

What's more cliche than "a mother's love"?  It's sappy and sticky and annoying because we all know that it's, at the very least, conflicted a significant part of the time.  Within the last 12 hours, I happened upon two very real stories that smacked me in the face with perspective regarding a mother's love.

I believe people are elements of the natural world like wind and water and the seedling breaking through the clay toward the sun.  We all harness a power, positive or negative.  We are all channeling decisions and goals toward a purpose, carving and manipulating the product of our life.  And, we grow and bear a fruitage with undeniable assistance from a foundation of opportunity or faith.  And, like a storm brewing and unleashing it's harnessed strength, or like a delicate bud opening it's color to the light of day, we encounter one another.

In some people, quite unexpectedly, we find a spark of contention or attraction.  It's the attraction that fascinates me because it doesn't begin in words or even interaction...it's just there, like it had always been there, just panting to be discovered.  A benign identity that holds an impact-a friendship, perhaps, or epiphany-that you could have never predicted when you made your bed that morning.

A woman who works at my vet called me to arrange for an appointment and, during the conversation, revealed that her mother was in the hospital.  As she spoke of her mother's affliction, she unreservedly poured a sparkling glass of testimony, overflowing and bright...a sweet, uncensored record of admiration and love.  I came to understand undeniably that never was there a stronger fighter than her mother, and that her mother was "her best friend."  Even though I was a stranger to her, the deeply personal feelings she had for her mother struck me as so pure and genuine that it could flow anywhere, at anytime, to anyone.  There was no barrier constricting that pipeline from her heart to her mouth.  It was so effortless.  Her feelings weren't flanked with disclaimers or sapped by emotional baggage.  I have no doubt that her feelings flourished from the tap root of her mother's love for her.

Eleven and a half hours later, I'm driving to school and I hear a small piece on NPR.  A simple story of mother and daughter.  The simplicity was, in fact, the very power of the story.  A handicapped single mother and her only daughter.  The handicap was not what you would expect.  It did not involve a wheelchair, or extensive treatments, or prolonged medical intervention.  The story involved Bonnie Brown, who suffers an intellectual handicap, and her daughter, Myra.

As the piece relates:
"Myra says she never realized her mom was "different," until she told her.
"I said to you, 'Myra, I know I am not like your friends' mothers, but I'm doing the best I can.' And you said, 'It's OK, Mommy,' " Brown recounts. "And that made me feel so good.""

http://www.npr.org/2013/02/08/171382156/a-life-defined-not-by-disability-but-love?sc=emaf

The very nature of a love so simple and unfettered with the complicated notions and ambitions with which most mothers burden themselves, was like punch in the gut.  It hit me squarely how complicated we can make mothering.  We saddle ourselves with so much chatter in our heads, shackled to an intellect that so often has absolutely nothing to do with love.  We fear too much, and thus turn "love" into a handicap.  We become too ambitious, and "love" becomes a competition.  We guilt ourselves into believing that love can be bought or indulged.  We think love is giving our children something we didn't have, when, in fact, love is simply giving them ourselves.

If we look our children in the eye when they speak....That is love.
If we teach them to respect our personal boundaries...That is love.
If we equip them with the skills to take care of themselves...That is love.
If we value the quiet moments instead of the things or the rush...That is love.


Love is very simple; at least, the purest love is.


Thursday, February 7, 2013

Do what you can...

“Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.”
Theodore Roosevelt

Everyone who knows me, knows how I feel about the winter season:
bleak
cold
gray
cold
confined
cold
dark, and...
cold, so cold...

There is no motivation for me when a chill wraps about my neck and reaches icy tendrils of goosebumps down each vertebrae of my spine.  I fold, fetal.

I bought my husband a sherpa throw last year and have subsequently taken ownership.  It is the only blanket that doesn't need a warm up period-where body temperature must first transfer to the blanket before it can maintain heat.  It's just always "pre-heated."  I wear it loosely from my shoulders as much as is practical.  It can be challenging to wash dishes while fighting to keep the sherpa from falling off my shoulders, and, it is also difficult to navigate the icy driveway with the trash and still keep the sherpa from hitting the deck.

Sometimes, I will turn on the burner to the stove and stand above it warming my hands like I'm outside, homeless, with nothing but a burning metal drum. (I do this when I'm cooking, not just randomly during the day...)  Or, if I'm baking, I'll crack the oven door and bathe in the escaping radiance.

I realize if I just move, I will generate heat, but I would probably have to leave the sherpa behind.  It's very difficult to do jumping jacks while retaining the sherpa; besides, it's counterproductive because the flapping fabric generates too much breeze....

The other challenge to winter is the kids seem to multiply. There just seems to be too many bodies banging around because there is no outside to send them.  The house seems smaller without the square footage of the backyard, and while they do go out when it's cold, it doesn't even last long enough for me to sneak a piece of chocolate in the pantry.  Before I know it, a chapped-cheeked, snot-nose kid is tapping at the door, "Mom, wadda ya eating?"

My children also have the misconception that if they enter the frozen frontier, they somehow inherently "earn" hot chocolate, and after the chocolatey pot has been drained and the cups and spoons-for fishing out the marshmallows-are left abandoned at the table in the remaining tidal pools of milky sweetness; it all seems more trouble than it was worth.

The other day I happened upon a picture in a magazine of a frozen, flooded field in Connecticut.  The local fire department had flooded the field so that it could provide a place for the kids to play ice hockey.  Behind the field sat a red barn, and the whole scene was so idyllic, especially considering the endearing communal implications.

I live in Indiana.  Barns aplenty.  But, somehow, that Connecticut barn represented more.  It wasn't utilitarian.  It did not sit adjacent to a field for planting, but rather, a grassy knoll.  It didn't need a crop.  It was part of that community's theme: rustic and authentic, where the goats made the cheese and quail sponsored the frittatas, and Martha Stewart blessed it all "New England Kosher."

A few days pass and something amazing happened.  Warm air found it's way here, to central Indiana, with enough rain to flood portions of our local fields, and then, just as abruptly, the temperatures  took a nosedive and froze it all.  It just rained and froze.  No snow, just large portions of skating rink from God himself.

I bundled up the kids and we found our way to the middle of a field where our personal rink sat.  We slid and slipped and knocked some pucks across the glassy cold.  We skated through the stubs of harvested corn stalks suspended erect in the ice.  We found a place in the ice where the water must have been blown to freeze the perfect shape of a heart, and we stood two-by-two in the "ice heart" and proclaimed love for our partner; and when I tried to take a picture of the "ice heart," the wind was so cold, the battery gave out.

The cold was bitter enough to make our faces red and raw, but we laughed and played until our fingers and toes stung.  And, when we got home, yes, I made hot chocolate.

It was so cold.  I usually hate the cold so much, but that day-February 1, 2013-gave us something so organic and simple and....warm.

Oftentimes, mothers do what they can..
with what they have...
where they are.

Those are the memories we cherish because we see that we are capable..
that we are blessed with so much..
and, if we are together as a family, then there is no other place to be.

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

Look, mom...blue!





This happened today. 

Prompted by the above quote, the rear view mirror revealed the meaning, and the reaction was all too familiar.  A gasp that turned into a laugh and tapered into opened-mouth dismay.  

The revelation of a child’s face tattooed by Crayola, or worse yet…Sharpie, is always jarring and confusing because it is so funny- BUT-you can’t laugh, if you’re smart..  Because, laughter, you see, generates repetition, and I don’t know a mother on the planet who is looking for an ounce more repetition in her life.


Much like hair cutting, it happens so quickly, with the potential of having some relatively long-lasting results.  Urban legend has it that the makers of the “Magic Eraser” had to include warning labels to dissuade mothers from using this product on the skin of their children, as it was resulting in “burns."  Evidently, this happened enough to warrant a new paragraph on the packaging, and, perhaps, there is an untapped market in “marker removal from skin of minors."

The reason children fall prey to random acts of self staining is due in large part to the fact that they live in a world without consequence.  It is our job as parents to teach the entire concept of consequence, and, eventually, that becomes the element of maturity.  Maturity understands that every action has an equal and opposite…wait a minute,,,I think that is actually one of Newton’s laws of motion, but you see where I’m going with this: our actions have an effect, an outcome that must be handled…or cleaned…

The lack of this awareness is why children think things can be fixed simply with tape; or why “we could just buy more;" or why we could just “wash” it.  (“No, we cannot put the sofa in the washing machine…” ) This is why they believe the food pyramid should be constructed of cookies, Twizzlers and ice cream, and also why they want to camp in January or drink out of wine glasses.  
 

Parents are so often left to care for the "love child" of “Unreasonable Optimism" and “Untempered curiosity."  This is the best part of children.  They have no hang ups.  They never pause to consider ramifications.  Conceptualizing an idea is a mere jumping off point.  The real product of their ventures stems from the escalation...and, oh, how they escalate!

In the end, it may be messy, but it's endearing, in a way, to see how far they will go, and wish that you were still so uninhibited.  I relish peering from the edge of a window, protected by the glare, to observe their genius in action, like a crew of mad scientists, hurling their constant flow of ideas at one another at lightning speed, implemented or denied-it doesn't matter-because they are pushing forward to the moon...


Monday, February 4, 2013

FLSA

If you're like me, the building blocks of your legal prowess may be limited to the scope of a 42 minute David E. Kelley television drama or a John Grisham novel.  However, I have recently come to understand that FLSA stands for the Fair Labor Standards Act, which is the framework of child labor laws in this country.  Thankfully, many precious appendages have been spared the blades, needles and cogwheels of the industrial age! (The laws did exclude labor involving agriculture, in which case, you could strap on the yoke and drive them out to pasture for "unlimited hours"-so long as they went to school.)

As I ponder the most notorious conspiracy theories, from the Kennedy assassination to landing on the moon, I recognize the plausible right-wing involvement in formulating the child labor laws.  I have seen my children "labor," and it is not a pretty thing.  It is not efficient, nor productive.  It is not quiet, effective, or safe.  It would not generate a product or a piece of something that could construct a product.  It is nonsensical and exhausting.  It is what a band of bush babies wielding dish soap and a leaf blower in laundry baskets full of styrofoam peanuts would create.  It is madness.

The child labor laws were undoubtedly rushed through Congress to protect all industries from the "labor" of children.


I do ask for the help of my children and try to hold them responsible for the carnage they produce in the wake of their play, and there is an unmistakable pattern to the process that thus ensues: 

Step 1:  Ignore the parent.   No eye contact is made and all movements of the body must continue in the exact perpetuation of motion.  Otherwise, any pause of the slightest nature would give away the fact that the vibrations from my mouth did, in fact, bang on their English-receptive eardrum.  They will be exuberant and unusually joyful at this time, and no altercations between siblings will occur, for they know that a mother will not break a cycle of peace, not willingly anyway, to introduce a cycle of  drama.

Step 2: Flop.  Eventually, the cracks in their facade will emerge and contentions develop.  The mother is impelled to re-direct to the original request.  And, in an act of defiance, they will literally flop their bodies onto the floor, against the wall, perhaps (if they were smart, into an upholstered piece).  Their arms will hang as if detached from the sockets and loosely bang ineffectively, with half-opened hands, against the arch of their torso, heads back, moaning like a cow giving birth.  (I really don't know what that sounds like, but I would bet money I'm close.)

Step 3: Re-engage play.  Yes, they will re-enter the scene of the crime and commit to more criminal activity.  The love affair with the toy that had previously been set aside in a moment of deficient attention has now become tantalizing.  A Lego spaceship begins to take form again, and in another corner a soliloquy has ensued as Princess Pinkie-Pink has been rescued by a bedazzled Stallion from an imposing two-inch Tyrannosaurus Rex.  Again,....a cycle of peace...

By now, beds must be occupied, or shoes put on (that is an entire post in and of itself) to go to a doctor or run to the school (again!) or pick up some cilantro (because pad thai just isn't the same without cilantro, and as much as I've tried to convince myself it's not worth an entire trip to the store, I really love cilantro even if nobody else does, and I'm also out of my Two-buck Chuck!)

Step 4:  The Blitz.  Threats are flying, time is running out, pressure is on....it's "Go Time."  The atmospheric pressure has changed and it's a blinding moment of centrifugal force blowing the primary colored shrapnel into the corners and crevices of the room, under the bed, into the closets..  You would think parents would monitor this counter-productive behavior, but we don't, not after the first kid.  We don't want to see it.  We're in denial.  We don't really want to acknowledge their lack of skill or desire to do well, no....scrap that...that they don't even have the desire for average, even sub-par.  We see that the floor has room to walk and the surfaces are cleared, somewhat....(there is still a pair of underwear strapped to a slingshot cradling the Lego spaceship), and we must press on, move forward...

Yes, in a day or two I will go back to separate the Polly Pockets from the Memory game, from the puzzle pieces, from the rock collection, from the paint brushes, from the Operation game body parts, from the silverware, (why do they always need my silverware?) from the matchbox cars, from the Highlights magazines, from the doll clothes...

And, that's okay, because I didn't pay them a dime.