Friday, March 29, 2013

the Climb

The rule to climbing trees around here is as follows:
You are allowed to go as high as you can manage independent of outside assistance.
If you can't get into the tree, then you're out.
If you can't reach a branch, then you're done.  You've reached your limit.

I suppose it's criminal to insinuate that a child can have limitations.  It's standard practice to teach they can be whatever (or would it be whomever?) they want to be.  Is that really true?

Like all clean slates, there are endless possibilities to fill an empty void.  Add a dash of personality and a splash of hard-core drive, and, yes, a person can evolve into many forms.  Seemingly endless possibilities await....

When an infant is born, they inherit a cradle of sorts:  a cradle of mahogany, gold, recycled barn wood...perhaps, molded plastic, or maybe nothing more than a simple tattered blanket.  A social class.  A cultural distinction.  Shackles.  Aren't all children born into shackles of circumstance or expectation to be bound, overcome or live up to?  We hope they will find freedom from anything to which we were inherently burdened, and when we witness glimmers of aptitude, we want them to succeed uninterruptedly.

It is all too easy to live vicariously through the broad horizons of our children.  To be where we stand in life, limited to a path of circumstance and choice, and see the road map of possibilities before them, glimmering in early morning light, with so much time to journey.

How high can they climb?  Will they grasp every branch they struggle to reach?

I wish it only depended on talent or sheer determination.  How many of us have desire?  Burning desire.  Or, how about willpower?  Is it really a lack of willpower that makes us unable to out pace the road blocks of a life going completely status quo?

One thing I do know about life is the unexpected nature of events taking shape at all times.  I have attained many goals I have sought; but more often than not, I have been blind-sided by random circumstances I could not control.  Some events have been mere hiccups, nothing more than a passing annoyance. Others have been tragic, monumental.

Looking back on disappointment or pain and seeing the other side is called survival, and survival is not nothing.  It may not be glamorous.  Life in it's everyday form is not an inspirational poster.  Trophies aren't awarded for hard choices and monotonous work and sacrifice.  When a glass ceiling is smeared with clawing desperation, it can become nothing short of an obsession to break through.  And, now we must take pause, because an obsession will dominate everything is touches.  How hard should we push to climb higher...and, at what expense?

I suggest, while we teach our children to strive for goals, we also take the time to celebrate the accomplishment of adaptation.  Sometimes it's the decision to stop climbing or find satisfaction with the heights we were able to attain, without risk to life or limb, that we must acknowledge and celebrate.  It's not failure I congratulate, but, rather, sincere effort and the modesty to know when we gave it our best and still find value in it.  Contentment does not mean abandonment of dreams.  Contentment is peace.  Contentment is satisfaction without the gnawing static of discontent sapping the beauty of the delicate, fleeting present.

It's so difficult to see what is out of reach, rest our gaze on it, and be fine with not touching it.  It may always be beyond us to hoist any further, but higher does not always mean better.

The climb can take on different purpose, and for that be wary.  A person may stretch for a branch of personal growth.  But, sometimes, our tree becomes a competitive pursuit.  In ecology, competition is:  "the simultaneous demand by two or more organisms for limited environmental resources, such as nutrients, living space, or light."  What is force driving us on?  Has our tree grown greedily tall just to starve out neighboring growth?  Just because a tree reaches beyond our sight doesn't mean we have to go there, that we must sacrifice the view below for an unknown, perceived gain that lies above.

Some may say "You can have it all."  But, it's not true.  It's really not.  Our children, though, can have so much.  It is a privilege to be witness to the unfolding of intellect and skill harnessed in such small, hopeful packages.  Perhaps, though.....it is not what they Become, but, rather, their ability to Adapt, for the sake of valuing what is their life alone and not in comparison with anyone else, that will be most extraordinary.





Wednesday, March 27, 2013

in sickness & in health

Thursday, I had an intestinal "malfunction" of sorts.  As I blinked to consciousness, my mind quietly whispered uncertainty.  Something was amiss, but I preferred to doubt.
Too many things to do.
Kids to get off to school.
People counting on me.
This gnawing feeling had to be a fluke.
 My insides, however, were mounting nothing short of a mutiny.   

My daughter began preparing her lunch in the glow of the kitchen, the outside still dark with night (thank you very much daylight-savings time), and I began to sense urgency.  A medical "red sky at morning" was dawning on the horizon of my day.  I was on borrowed time, because something was going down in a hurry, and I needed to get these kids on their way before it all broke loose.

***
Moms dread sickness.  Not just for the illness, but the incapacity that comes in tow.  Viruses don't give you a "heads up."  They appear, anywhere, anytime.  In good clothes.  On vacation.  When you've agreed to chaperon a school field trip.  A mother doesn't have much room for "down time," should she be stricken, especially when little ones are bobbling precariously about the home.  I've had anywhere from one to three preschoolers at home with me for twelve years now.  These opportunists require an adult at full operating capacity because they are always hungry or inflicting personal injury.  They do not understand suffering on the part of an ill parent, except to say, it is the ideal opportunity to play in the dog water or try on makeup or yank a container of yogurt from the refrigerator onto the kitchen floor, where they will happily eat and finger paint the stainless steel appliances.
***

Already squirming to the discomfort of what was building, I drove those kids to the school that morning like Danica Patrick meeting a bomb squad.  Van doors opened at a rolling stop and they fell to the curb, backpacks softening the landing.   And, as I dispensed of right-of-way etiquette at each of the seventeen four-way-stops between the school and my home, I broke into a cold sweat, ready to meet my maker.

Although I felt significantly better after the "purge," I wobbled to a vertical position to muster the strength to go to work, collect my son from an overnight excursion to his grandparent's house, and find my way back to a sofa with my name on it.

The mind has incredible will when necessary.  It can fixate.  It senses desperation to fulfill a goal or meet a deadline, and will commit to the pursuit of it's prey.  Distract the body to empower the mind...

Must get to work.

Driving, unfortunately, leaves the mind vacant, restless.

Must use music to keep forward momentum.

Could have tried talk radio...but a topic like the children of Charles Dickens may not be enough to deflect the physical discomfort, nor the mental stress of not knowing if my intestines had reached a truce with my body.

I landed on "18 Wheels on a Big Rig" and sang loud and proud to a song I hadn't heard in probably 20 years.  (I totally nailed the Roman numerals part, by the way.)   My brain was functioning on another level now, ignoring the invasion, ready to complete the task at hand.

What do you do when left alone to tend children when you need to sleep?
or curl into fetal position?
or camp on the bathroom floor for awhile?

I think, in all the years, I've only had the need for adult reinforcement twice....maybe three times.  Each time required an infant to be delivered to my den of infection to be nursed and whisked away to avoid further contamination.  Otherwise, any illness to which I have fallen victim required creative management of any children stuck with me, while I lay as motionless as possible.  The TV gets props here.  When kids don't get a lot of screen time, the glow becomes a magnet to their impressionable brains.

This time, I had jumped a hurdle to which I wasn't even aware.  I saw how far I had come in these twelve, short years.  (Yeah, I'm being sarcastic, but grateful.)  When my middle-school-aged daughter arrived home minutes after I did, I briefed her on the situation.  Somewhere along the line, she had developed the ability to become a pretty stellar care-giver.  I never once had a reason to peel myself from the sofa to make a snack or break up an altercation between siblings.  With an appreciative smile, I relaxed against the understanding that my kids were going to survive in her care.  Better yet, I was going to survive in her care.

Of course, there was some aftermath.  Food had wandered out of the kitchen.  The TV did become a hypnotic presence.  The candy stash was breached.  However, the backpacks were hung and homework did get done and snack time didn't become a brawl over the Cheddar Bunnies, so dear o'le dad had only to make dinner for the kids while I entered a coma until morning....

Perhaps, at this stage in my life, my insides can melt, and I can actually indulge myself in 12 hours of uninterrupted recovery.  Who knew that succumbing to an illness could become such a fulfilling accomplishment?



Monday, March 25, 2013

Feeding man and bird

No talk of the weather this week.  I give...

After my small 20-hour stint with illness, I re-grouped, took a 40-minute spin with a shopping cart at the local super-center searching for supplies for a 3rd-grade Spring craft I was assigned to bring to school later that day.  There is nothing like some hard-core procrastination to get the blood pumping.  At 2:30 pm, it was show time.  The teacher turned over the class to "Mrs. Calbert."  (I always laugh inside when anyone calls me that!)



I came up with a bird feeder made from a rice cake.  Fortunately, none of the kids had an allergy to peanuts. 

You will need:
*unsalted rice cake
*pencil (or anything to punch a hole in the middle)
*string
*peanut butter (or nut butter)
*bird seed
*small dowel rod




First, we punched a hole in a rice cake.














Then, we pushed a string through the hole and tied it in a knot.











We covered both sides of the rice cake with peanut butter and then pressed them into a pile of bird seed.








 

(If you cover one side with the peanut butter first and then leave it in the seed while you cover the other side with the  peanut butter, it is much easier and cleaner.)










Finally, we pushed a  small dowel rod through the completed rice cake so the birds had a spot for their leisure!










Here's what us humans ate this week:

*Chili

*Butternut squash risotto (didn't have saffron, but this dish was delicious regardless)

*Green chili chicken tacos

*Spaghetti and meatballs

*Roast chicken and potatoes, green beans


Wednesday, March 20, 2013

“Is the spring coming?" he said. "What is it like?"...
"It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine...”
Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden

A transformation does not happen overnight, and for those of us who live in a climate of four full seasons, we know they do not always segue peacefully or politely, for that matter.  The battle of cold and warm air renders the atmosphere volatile and unpredictable.  As far as I'm concerned, Warm is "good," and Cold: "evil."  So evil.

The kids tumbled into the van this afternoon, chapped faced from a stiff North wind blasting them while they endured my inching from the end of the pick-up line.  Today is the first day of Spring.  A calendar will not convince me.  Not today.

From what I understand, it was 83 degrees on this day last year.  Oh you fickle temptress, Spring!  I'm cloaked in my Sherpa and Mukluks denying an 8-day forecast with snow.  I surf the Internet for real estate in North Carolina...

I rely on warmer weather to increase the square footage of my life.  A family of six out-grows 1400 square feet in about four hours, let alone four months.  The children pine for the outdoors.  As do I.  There is little better than dining alfresco when daylight has lost intensity and shadows are long and sheltering.  When the glowing green illumination of life is still warm from the mid-day sun.  When the sky is the bluest until daylight falls to the pink horizon. The kids jump up from their half-eaten plates of pasta to run barefoot to the swing set.  And, they ascend and descend in air that tickles the back of their necks like warm puppy breath.

The best part of outdoor dining is letting the bread crumbs and rice grains and irreverent green beans fall to the ground to face nature and her many hungry appetites, and the time we save from cleaning up is spent talking and gazing at the twirling, spinning, chasing activity of the kids.

Soon, the battle will wage along a dipping and flexing jet stream, and Warm will win.  Fresh, tender green life will push up and out now with each passing day, fighting for the fullness of a beauty coming anew.  It's like a gift of life every year wrapped in blossoms and song.  This annual reminder of emerging life will arouse a desire gone dormant to regain a pulse:  beating, pumping, rushing into our very spirit.  An awakening to the damp soil and light that inspires the morning melody and activity of birds calling out for the warmth it holds.

So we wait, pacing and impatient, while nature brings to birth a miracle to warm the souls of all who shall touch it.




Monday, March 18, 2013

TV or not TV? That is the question....

I have observed for some time a profound psychological effect on children after exposure to an electronic, screen-based device.  This, of course, is not scientifically founded.  (I will add that disclaimer to protect against an obscure defamation law suit for any negative opinions I might now share on the subject.)  Science gains credibility from case studies, and I have case studies times four.  Animation appears to be the primary offender when it comes to possible paralysis of their prefrontal cortex.   The strobe light of pixelated scenes flashing across their fat baby cheeks renders them socially incapacitated for at least 30 minutes after exposure.  The damaged area also seems to affect their hearing of live, adult voices, and the strength of their lower jaw muscles become compromised, as they hang limp under a glazed stare.

I also suspect, with a healthy dose of conspiracy paranoia, that there must be undetected components laced into cartoons brainwashing our children like the White Album of our parents' generation.  This could be the only plausible explanation for the pop culture phenomena we see functioning as Farmville, Instagramming pictures of a dinner plate, or live Tweeting a TV show.  What else could explain the popularity of such senseless behavior?  I'm just saying....think about it.....  Our minds have been breached!

When the kids...okay, the first two or three kids....were babies and toddlers, I really didn't let them watch much TV.  The third and fourth kids pick up more exposure by default, even though I try to hold a strong front.  I didn't want to condition them, or myself, to a crutch for everyday activity.  I refused to bring a portable DVD player with me for errands, eating out, or doctors appointments.  (Remember, this was the prehistoric early 2000's before tablets or iPhones.)  We have had a few crazy moments, certainly.  Kids just really like those small, spinning doctor stools too much....  It takes some creativity on the part of parent. Coloring books might be needed to survive a waiting room or slow service at the local Olive Garden, but at least they aren't plugged into a mind-numbing, zombie device to manage an appearance in the outside world.

At home, I want them to tumble and bumble and even get into things they shouldn't, driven by sheer curiosity and imagination.  It keeps me busy.  It makes me crazy.  But, it's authentic and enthralling to be a witness to their world.  I see a little boy rolling cars and trucks, circling round about himself, racing and chasing in hot pursuit, sound effects included.  I see a little girl coloring...inside the lines.  Total dedication to the art.  The quiet scratch of color against paper.  One page after another, a rainbow of masterpieces donning all 120 Crayola colors, cramping the side-by-side refrigerator with more art than we have magnets to hold them.  I see children at a pink particle board kitchen set, balancing plastic plates of  faux chicken legs and hamburgers stacked with strawberries and pickles and a banana falling to the floor, clanking and bouncing, snatched up with pudgy hands.  I see pea gravel pushed and scooped and dumped with mustard yellow Caterpiller bulldozers and dump trucks, excavating and filling the fire pit under a large shade tree buzzing with mid-summer cicadas.

My sister has a habit of opening her eyes to how toys lie, before scooping them into submission at clean up time.  She points out the dinosaur flying the airplane.  The airplane with no wings, mind you, always ripped off in vigorous play.  We find baby dolls wrapped in bandages, left in the make-shift hospital that was once a bedroom.  One of my personal favorites was the slingshot fashioned from the thick branch of a tree and a pair of size 6 boy's underwear.

It has become obvious to me that a child without television and the same child saturated with television are two entirely different children.  I admit using the TV as a babysitter, from time to time.  Sometimes a mom needs to talk on the phone or paint a bedroom or just drink a cup of coffee without sharing the scone.  But, you must pay the piper, because a funny thing happens when the television goes black.

When I announce the dreaded conclusion to TV time, and the animated scenes die to a vacant screen, they recover conscientiousness and look at me with shock and dismay.  Of course, it's a total surprise because they've tuned out two prior warnings, and now they stare at me, mouths still open, damp with drool collecting in the corner of their mouths.  Three, two, one...they moan in harmony, pleading for more.  But, they're cut off.  Cold turkey.  Ready to play?  No....ready to turn on each other.

They grapple and groan and snip and scrap, until imaginations awaken and boredom fades to the necessity of outside exploration or an adventure into another world altogether.  And, so it goes....unplugged from the flickering, stupor-inducing, flat-screened hypnosis into the 3-dimensional, hi-def world of minds filled with a million storybooks and daydreams.




Weekly menu

Okay!  I give up!! 

I must surrender to an Indiana winter until the official Spring Solstice, I suppose.  It looks like a grim week ahead.  While I'm trying to tighten up my diet, with the loss of heavy sweaters and boots on the horizon, all I want is a good dose of comfort food to warm me against the bitter chill of a relentless, apparently jaded, March.

What did we ever do to you, March?!  You are a most anticipated month.  With you, we all look with keen anticipation the break of Winter's icy grip.  What's wrong?  What has happened?  Has global warming been overly compensated in some secret governmental plot to establish an ice-pack in the Middle West?

It is so S.A.D. indeed!


Here's what we had cookin' this week:

*Black bean soup (slow cooker recipe)  Don't salt the beans while they cook, but we used plenty when they were done.  Couldn't find cumin seed, so used powdered cumin and added lime juice to the sour cream as well.

*Balsamic-glazed salmon (I only used the salmon portion of this recipe), rice, green beans and spinach salad
  this glaze is so easy & so amazing!

*Sloppy joes -made from scratch- Rachael Ray's recipe

*Asparagus Pasta -loosely based on recipe from Neeley's.  I warmed the shallot and garlic and kept the dish warm.  Substituted Parmesan cheese for the goat cheese, because that's what I had on hand.

*Beef stew
  


Friday, March 15, 2013

remember your life

“What matters in life is not what happens to you but what you remember and how you remember it.”
Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez

By the end of the day, I've already forgotten "the funniest thing" my son said.  He caught me off guard in his innocent, matter-of-fact way, and I laughed.  I laughed so hard that surely the memory would somehow indelibly adhere.  So poignant.  So hysterical.  All forgotten...

People say you should write this stuff down, and I do....sometimes.  I have a notebook and a small calendar I hunt down before the aging trap door of my mind loses the moment forever.  Children are so reactive and uncensored.  They blurt and observe and appreciate a simplicity that comes from a 3-foot perspective and a life experience involving little more than sandboxes and applesauce.

I find that life can be remembered in two different ways: task or observation.

wake up kids.
breakfast.
drop off at school.
errands.
clean up.
pick up.
dinner.
bed.

vs.

The sun has cast the most amazing glow on the curls falling in Ellery's quiet, sleeping face.
Syd said, "Mom, you really outdid yourself with the french toast today."
Does anybody ride the bus anymore?
Met sis at car wash; Jude tumbled in her van while I vacuumed mine; I love
     bumping and fumbling in eachother's lives like we do.
How come dirty dishes piled in the sink look so bad, while clean dishes
     drying on the other side look so much better?
Again with this endless snaking line of cars around the school?
Asparagus made a few enemies tonight.
Is it possible the kids could go to bed without wandering out again to
     address some phantom injury or need for water or some ridiculous issue
     with a sibling?

***
Here is a real-life entry from my "memory" calendar on September 12, 2012:

"Had to tell Jude to stop eating the salt today.  When I asked Sydney to look up a word in dictionary, she threw her hat, stormed off muttering 'stupid person who invented English!'  Then, Aidan said, 'Then we would just have a Spanish dictionary...'  Forgot trash day.  Ellery screams A LOT!"
***

Thankfully, we have access to a camera 24/7 thanks to Apple, Samsung, Blackberry...
Cameras can capture the joy and the beauty, but also the awkward and embarrassing.  Click away, my friends, and you will not be disappointed.

Memories fade so quickly, and in blink are gone.  Jotting a note or clicking a quick picture (and having an extra battery for camera because it just ran out) are tools to keep those memories alive.  Before long, you're looking back at things you have forgotten, and there it is, in black-and-white or photo paper staring back at you like it came from a different life.  But, no.  It was your life, and now you hold a gift.  The gift of a memory that will suspend an age never to return, or pour around you a day full of sights and sounds and emotions long since gone.  You pause and remember and grab hold of what your life has been, a story that still intrigues you, and you see that you have something real to show for it all.

So parents, take a moment today to remember your ongoing life.

Never may I forget the day baby girl tried to eat mulch,
  or the creamy purity of baby skin,
  or the varied positions their bodies found sleep,
  or the day I sat on the toilet, 7 months pregnant, 2-year-old waiting at my knees, while my 4-year-old son called from the opposite end of the house: "MOM!"  "What!!!" I shout back.  "I have something on my finger and I don't know what it is!"  Taking stock of what I know of him and a good dose of mother's intuition, I replied, "Is it a booger?"
A pause..... "It doesn't taste like a booger!"

Or, last week:  when I didn't know how to finish a post for this blog.  I needed one last thought to wrap it up.  I was stuck, and my niece said, "Why don't you just write 'The End' in a really cool font?"

THE END



****

please share your kid's funniest moments or thoughts, 
email me at: jencalbert@gmail.com  to be included on a future post
  



Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Our little teachers

“Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them”
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Children interrupt.  They interrupt an adult life.  They interrupt the briefest of conversation.  They interject a presence that will not be denied, and you adjust and adapt....willingly, unwillingly....it really doesn't matter.  The force of their needs and cognitive awakenings forever impact how you will function and, if you are fortunate, who you will become.

Do not mistake this "interruption" as a perceived disturbance.  (While it may be when I'm trying to talk on the phone....)   I was once an adult plowing forward in life, and I was interrupted.  I became a parent.  I cannot escape it, nor can I take shortcuts.  It is an ongoing journey of honest, sometimes painful, self-awareness.  Children hold a mirror, one of those horrific magnifying mirrors, in fact, where every flaw and blemish a parent could have is fully exposed.  I am grateful that they force me to face myself.

Life has a way of imprisoning us to mundane routines that, ultimately, become the basis for any accomplishment or achievement.  We must better ourselves with  the very tools that oppress us.  Diet, school, work, even volunteerism requires commitment, and the more we dedicate ourselves to the positive outcome of these commitments, the more we learn about our ability.

Of course, blinding obsession to any task becomes a course of selfishness.  Raising children, however, is altogether different.  Children become the purest commitment to pull any essence of goodness we have within.  Children will also expose the holes in our character apologetically. 

“Level with your child by being honest. Nobody spots a phony quicker than a child.”
Mary MacCracken

How does a parent truly teach honesty, generosity and  industriousness?  Lectures and persuasion do little good.  I believe age 6 is the age when hypocrisy is comprehended, and I have always chuckled the first time my kindergartener says without blinking an eye, "You're a hypocrite."  I wish I could say those words are strictly reserved for the siblings in the house, but dad and I have been busted on a couple of occassions.

Kids will call you to the mat for truth.  They want to know "why."  Why anything and everything exists as it does, and why it is contained in a particular "box" of application or understanding.  "Why can't we build a robot that does the dishes?"  "Why do I have to go to school every day?"  "Why can't we just ask the bank for more money?"  "Why can't we build our own car?"  "Why do people hate other people?" And, they are flat-out serious.  We shake our heads and explain from our parental-Wikipedia-understanding just how things must be, or worse, how some things cannot be controlled.  How frustrated they must get with contingencies and parameters and rules and laws of the universe slowing them down all the time!  And, sometimes, they force us to pause and ask "why" too.

I love that any "box" in a child's comprehension oftentimes falls over and spills out and loses it shape.  Children see morality in black and white and everything else in hi-def color, and nothing is bound by the laws of physics or common sense.  It's when they challenge "common sense" that a parent will find themselves dancing in the rain or wearing a necklace made of macaroni
or painting a horse or eating ice cream for breakfast or maybe even skipping a day of school.  (Who would ever do that?!)



I'm a huge proponent of discipline and order, but sometimes when we give our children a voice and an opportunity to choose their own course for a day, an afternoon, or even an hour, we find our own childhood again.  A child is all too ready to put the world on pause and just find joy.  A child will introduce you to your long-lost imagination, and find an artist in you.  A child will get you dirty or very wet.  A child does not have rules and does not judge, and there is refreshment in that.  A child wants to eat a lot of sugar, but also wants to burn a lot of calories.  A child finds snuggle time an essential part of every day.   And, a child will also teach us that the exhilaration in a game of hide-and-seek is the seek, the pursuit of one another and the grabbing on and finding that moment of wanting to be found and held.

Monday, March 11, 2013

Three strikes....you're out!

Judge: n. a public officer authorized to hear and decide cases in a court of law; a magistrate charged with the administration of justice.

Referee: n. one to whom something is referred, especially for decision of settlement; arbitrator; a person chosen to decide a dispute or settle differences.

So, which is it?  A mother wears many hats, but as a domestic decision maker and settler of disputes, would I best be described a judge or referee?

I like the sound of  "Judge."  It sounds official.  Robes are involved.  A judge is called "Your Honor."  I like the sound of that, too.  Decisions are based on law and reflect a high moral standard for society at large.  Precedents are established as patterns of future guidance-which means: rulings carry weight for any similar cases to come.  Plus, gavels are cool.  I could blast all decisions with the rap of a gavel and the plaintiffs and defendants alike would leave the room, slumped or vindicated without further arguments or testimony, since I would be the Supreme Court of these parts.  I would probably carry the gavel with me everywhere, so these kids know I mean business, and I would carry it under my robe with my fanny-pack of sea salt chocolate caramels, and nobody would make fun of my fanny-pack because it would be under my robe.

Let's face it:  referees don't carry the same status as a judge.  I would imagine their salaries also reflect that difference in stature.  A referee is involved in determining the adherence to rules of a game.  Some fanatics might find this of utmost importance, but let's face it: it's a game, and the rules of said game are usually nothing more than patrolling the location of a ball.  Referees wear funny costumes...oh, excuse me...uniforms.  If stripes are involved, they are usually bold and unflattering.  Referees are commonly heckled and their decisions can be overturned by a slow-motion camera.  You can't be held in contempt of court for yelling at a ref.

I'm not delusional.  I recognize who I really am.
I'm a referee.

My kids are actually great at play.  Imaginations bubble over.  Forts are built, horses are trained and hot lava is flowing.  Let me tell ya, it's not all rainbows and butterflies, though.  Regularly timed conflict arises without fail.  The most congenial of activity eventually deteriorates into screams and anguish and cries of treasonous behavior.  They either duke it out until I fear blood will be drawn, or they come seeking a settlement from me: the referee.

I feel like I'm always set up to fail this type of jurisdiction.  I haven't witnessed the crime.  They come at me hysterical, and portray their vested interests in earnest, meaning: they lie.  Raw instincts must guide me now.  I'm searching for the shifting eye and piercing the holes in their ridiculous stories with their contradictions. Is it plausible that sister was "helping" brother find his favorite toy (while hand feeding him gummy bears), and he hauled off and nailed her for no reason at all?  Hmmm...

A well-constructed series of incriminating questions leading to a "check mate" is the only jury I need, and as they stand aghast, reeling in my deductive reasoning,  I'm so tempted to quip in classic  Judge Judy manner something like: "Liar, liar, pants on fire." or "Don't pee on my leg and tell me it's raining."

Most of the time these kids give me impossible situations to delegate:
"Mom, she hit me!"
"Why did you hit her?"
"He bit me first!"
"Why did you bite her?"
"She took my book!"
"It's not his book, it's my book!"
"How is it your  book?"
"Grammy gave it to me."
"When did Grammy give it to you?"
"I don't know, a long time ago."
"You can't share it?"
"It's special to me."

I want to scream, "I don't care!"  I don't care if your sister has a "grown up" plate set for dinner. I don't care that trinkets from the carnival were "probably" stolen or how brother looked at you like "a meanie."  I don't care which seat you choose, or "they" choose, for that matter.  Do you know how many times I have to address the fact that I only have two sides to my body and four children clambering to "sit next to mom."  Meanwhile, dad is officially chopped liver.

It's clear that the majority of disputes are simply demands that I take a side.  Someone has fallen in the pecking order and is not going down without a fight.  I like to keep them on their toes.  I don't know if they think they can determine who is the "favorite," or if the momentary pleasure of victory is complete in simply rubbing it in another child's face.

Whatever the case, I am one tired ref.  They get the minimum attention for these petty disputes as possible.  I care about them wholeheartedly; but, little by little, they will need to handle their own foolishness, because nobody else out there is going to referee their lives for them.  So, as much as I am trying to play by the rules, my days as a referee are numbered.  They will have to learn the art of settling their disputes themselves (and more importantly, avoid them in the first place) to truly be judged a winner in the game of life.












Dinner Time

“The only time to eat diet food is while you're waiting for the steak to cook.”
Julia Child


 This week was a week I couldn't wait to end.  One obligation flew right into the next until I fell, completely spent, into a plate of pizza Friday night.

I did manage to try out a few new recipes:

*Mushroom Bourguignon
(smitten kitchen)
 -the kids loved this!  I added the leftover roast beef from last week to "beef it up"...get it?  The kids picked out the mushrooms, but raved about the dish, much to my surprise.  I, personally, didn't add the pearl onions-didn't have them and didn't want to shop for them.

*Turkey Burgers, tater tots and broccoli

*Spaghetti w/ Italian sausage red sauce

*Ginger Fried Rice
(smitten kitchen)
  -I served this with some teriyaki chicken and garlic green beans.
I made the fried egg for myself and Tom (not quite as runny) and the kids begged to be included.  So, fried eggs for all, until Jude dropped his on the floor.  (I picked it up and he still ate it...  What?  I cleaned the floor that day..)

*Noodles-n-Company rounded out the week.  Indonesian Peanut Saute....the best!


Thursday, March 7, 2013

Shout Out Entries

 My first "Shout Out" Response!

And, as the first person to make their contribution, you are the proud winner of my respect and appreciation!  I know it's hard to formalize words for the world wide web, but, as you can see from the entry, it's well worth it!


My “Shout Out” goes to my boys, Ethan and Cy

Ethan you are a respectful, intelligent young man.  Your confidence and ability to see black and white in a grey world, amazes me. Your creativity and ability to develop countless Lego creations and drawings are an inspiration to me.  Your ease and naturalness in learning new things, reflect the depth of your individuality.  I look at you and can’t believe the transformation from that dependent baby to a young man of 13; in spite of, the learning curve that you have had to endure, and still endure, with being the firstborn.  So, E, journey on… keep that fearless, confident, and sensible  qualities as you continue to experience life.

Cy you bring such life and excitement into our home.  I’m amazed at your love of life and how you are so eager and excited to try new things.  In your 7 years of life you have all ready taught me so much and have forced me to ease up on my OCD mindset.  Like your older brother, it is so much fun to watch you grow up and become an individual.  Your sense of humor and contagious laugh along with the countless, spontaneous things you say and do never go unnoticed by those fortunate enough to know you.   So, my baby boy, keep singing in the shower, playing in the dirt and loving the adventure of life!   

I love you, boys!
Mom

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Touchdown!

Ahh... to witness a thing of beauty.  To have a moment outside of my familial hurricane to observe and admire another parent in action.  We are all not so different, you know.  Families share a common pulse, no matter who we are.  I'm just usually sidetracked stalking and shushing and "evil eying" my children in public, to keep them from knocking over the elderly or licking the buffet food, to fully recognize any other humans around me.

So, what stopped me mid-sentence, slack-jawed, in some much needed adult conversation?  The breeze of a  two-year-old stumbling forward in manic escape, and father, in what seemed to be theater-quality slow motion, gaining on the child with pure, concentrated determination.  A dad "in the zone."  He was fed up and  ready to dance, my friends.  The visual was enriched by the 3-month-old baby girl cradled in arm, wide-eyed and oblivious to the hawk-like swoop of her father, zeroing in on "the kill." 

Turning to his wife, delightfully unshackled for the moment, I said, "Don't move."  But, she knew to hang back.  He had it under control, and the only way to assuredly derail disciplinary progress was for mother to get involved.

There is an unspoken game between parents.  I have seen it, and I have participated in it.  Participation is, basically, all inclusive, because very few parents are clamoring to attend to their children.  Simply put, we are all playing the "waiting game."  The game begins when the nurse rolls swaddled baby to bedside.  Eventually, the sleeping bundle tightens and squirms and with furrowed face begins to cry.  You both glance through the plexiglass bassinet and pull your eyes to one another.  Who wants to take charge of that?

At first, the wait is brief, the slightest hesitation.  You quickly assume responsibility of the infant.  Of course...baby needs you.  No problem.  You've got it.

Fast forward a few sleepless nights and some good, old-fashioned colic, and maybe your response time increases a bit.  Eventually, the waiting game is perfected with a variety of techniques.  You have come to understand that making eye contact with your partner has proven to unwittingly weaken your strategy.  No eye contact is imperative to maintaining control. It must be believed that you can't hear the cry.  What cry?  Oh!....was baby girl crying?  I didn't even hear her! 

In the darkness of night, eye contact isn't nearly as important as keeping very, very still.  Breathing patterns must stay soft and slow....and you wait.  You wait through each chilling wail hoping against hope that the faker next to you will assume consciousness and rescue the poor baby left to call someone's bluff.  Who's it gonna be?  Okay, moms, I know which way the scale usually tips.   I can't tell you how many times I throw back the covers in a dramatic display, so IF he isn't awake....he is now.

Far be it from me to take sides, but....I think moms probably cave more quickly.  Or, dad's are just really adept at the game.  They seem to develop their strategies quickly and effectively.  I can't beat my husband at basketball or Boggle, so why should this surprise me?

Sometimes, though....sometimes dads don't play the game.  Sometimes they are all-hands-on-deck, and isn't it a thing to behold?  My husband is the best when they are sick.  He's not a germaphobe like me, spraying the kids with Lysol before they can burn with fever in my lap.  Kids respond differently when dad disciplines.  He has a no-nonsense way that they can't plead and debate as easily as they might with mom.  Most importantly, he knows how to mediate the ever-escalating hormone-induced debates occurring more often between myself and my almost-12-year-old daughter.  When he steps in, he shuts us both down to cool off and gain some much needed perspective.  He has better instincts for reading a situation without paranoia and operating out of a sense of priority and not guilt.

Discipline is not pretty.  It has never "hurt me more than it hurts them," but it does challenge me to follow through on a course that I may not feel like traveling.  Kids are stubborn and unpredictable and have very little to lose, in all actuality.  We stand to lose a great deal in our quest for victory:  time, patience, dignity, confidence, energy, completion of whatever had been in motion at the time of dissension.

For those of us not alone in this, we must take a moment to appreciate the partnership, the backup, the support, the love.

So the next time a dad is "in the zone," sit back, and enjoy watching him score, what is most assuredly, a touchdown for his entire family.

Monday, March 4, 2013

Literature and laundry

I'm staring at a periodic table of elements in these jeans, hoping a product named "Zout" will remove the clay and chlorophyll from the faded kneecaps.  Laundry is a constant reminder of how easily I can slip behind in all things domestic.  It piles quickly, six outfits at a time with accompanying linens, towels and outerwear.  As I'm pitching and sorting clothes into piles of graduating color, I try to imagine myself in character.  Perhaps I'm a domestic steward of a grand estate, no...  I prefer something more metaphorical, like the giving tree....but a person.  Surely, there exists a Victorian-era mother of sterling disposition and limitless charity, the very summation of all that is inexhaustibly selfless.  I'm mentally ticking through my mental files for such a maternal literary figure, and I'm drawing a blank.  Where are all in the mothers in literature?

Literature is chuck full of female protagonists.  They are determined and young, seeking redemption, purpose or love, and rarely is she packing children in a station wagon along the way to self-enlightenment.  The most famous of mothers in literature are more aptly described infamous:  Hamlet's Gertrude,  Madea (pre-Tyler Perry), or the absurd Mrs. Bennet.

On another, yet somewhat related point, literature loves orphans!  What's better than the abandoned or motherless child surviving neglect and want, and emerging triumphant in character?  Huck Finn, Anne (of Green Gables), Jane Eyre, Pip, Cosette, Oliver, Mowgli, Peter Pan, Bambi....

Now, I'm pulling the arms and legs of dirty clothes right-side out so they can churn in the murky wash water more effectively, and as I'm popping open sock balls, a low groan in the manner of modern-day mother, Marge Simpson, rumbles from my throat.  I might have a clue why all the mothers of literature are missing...

It's one of those classic:  "as if it wasn't bad enough..."
As if it wasn't bad enough washing, drying, folding and putting away clothes for five other people, besides myself, they have to pull their clothes off like iron-on transfers, peeling them inside-out, so that I have to unfold them for washing.
As if it wasn't bad enough doing dishes, including the stainless-steel pan of scrambled eggs, the soggy tea bags are still floating, bloated and cold in their respective mugs, and the dishwasher is already too full to accommodate the stack in the sink.
As if it wasn't bad enough to scrub the scum ring from the kids bathtub, I must disinfect every matchbox car, Barbie and plastic replicas of the entire Jurassic time period scattered and scummy from the underwater dino-demolitian-derby-fashion-show (who am I kidding...is there ANY Barbie on the planet with clothes on?  Couldn't be a fashion show as much as just a general mosh pit).
As if it wasn't bad enough taking out the trash, the liner has slipped below the towering peak of garbage, and I must fish for it while banana peels and Chinese take-out containers tumble to the floor.

I wonder if mothers aren't Pulitzer Prize material because, although we are ever-present, we exist in the background.  Truth be told, we are a supporting role.  Perhaps we are nothing more than the pages in our children's lives, the basis on which their tale is told.  Eventually, they will have a family of their own and that will be their story, not ours.

In the meantime, as I jam one too many sweaters into my son's dresser drawer, I have high hopes for my leading young ladies and gentlemen.  Hopefully, I won't have to abandon them or die a tragic death for them to build character and forge a journey of epic proportions.  I would like to think that with my influence, and not without, my daughters will daydream and feel the world with all their senses like Anne and possess the steely, principled strength of  Jane.  And, maybe my sons will be have the virtue of Oliver and discover life's lessons steadily, albeit at times naively, as did Pip.

I may not inspire a literary documentation of my life doing this laundry, but I would like to think whatever characters my children become, a little piece was inspired by this washing, drying and folding mom.

Sunday, March 3, 2013

Menu

"It's spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you've got it, you want! Oh, you don't quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!"  -Mark Twain

I know for what my heart aches!  It aches for the light and the hope for the warm, damp earth saturated with bated life to spring forth!  Alas! Snow has literally taunted us this week, flitting about like fairy dust, so innocent and luminous, wrapped in a bitter, cutting wind.



Hopefully, Winter's last stand....
A cold, gray week.  More soup.  Ready for some Spring.  Come on, March!



THE MENU:

*roast beef (nice slow-cooker recipe), sweet potatoes, green beans

*tomato & roasted red pepper soup (in the box from Trader Joes) & grilled cheese
the kids had traditional grilled cheese, while the grown-ups warmed a naan flatbread with honey goat cheese, caramelized onions, and some diced chicken leftover from last week

*chicken piccata (from Giada De Laurentiis), rosemary roasted potatoes, steamed broccoli

*lentil soup with sausage, chard and garlic (from Smitten Kitchen)

only four recipes this week-we cheated and went to Chipotle!

Friday, March 1, 2013

SAHM

That's what I am:  a Stay At Home Mom.

Is it just me, or does that sound more like a prison sentence than a career choice?  I mean, the word "Stay," first of all, seems to imply we are bound, chained...or, maybe, more like a well-trained Labrador..."Stay, boy"... I guess that would be "girl"...

The "Home" part is true, mostly...  I do get out.  It's allowed.  In fact, at one time, I thought Target should charge me rent. Between the Crayola products, toys, personal effects, snacks and restrooms, it was a veritable home-away-from-home, frequented because of a shortage of some essential household item that demanded a stroll with a red shopping cart.

When the kids were very little, especially babies, I relied on an afternoon outing to "break up" a day.  By the time I managed to dress myself, usually by 10 a.m. (What can I say?  I'm an over-achiever), I needed some actual daylight on my sallow live-in-a-cave-like-an-olm skin.  (Look up olm, you will not be disappointed.)  Errands were a part of survival when "Home" starts growing gray and stale and becomes a reminder of all that is stagnant.  The same walls, the replenishing sink of dishes, the laundry basket that never empties, the toys that continually bounce from their appropriate containers no sooner than put away.  The same boring cereal, sandwich, chicken nuggets...arrggghhh!  When we're "Home" for a string of days, breathing up all the oxygen, the atmosphere gets thick and difficult to breathe. 
..."What's that?  We're out of toothpaste?  Well, then...to the store we must go!"

These little outings gave me a sense of control, a change of scenery, and interaction with the human world.  I longed for a diversion when the monotony felt like a straight-jacket, and it made me appreciate returning home when things got a little wild and started to unravel.  It was a distraction, until I could come up with more.

More what?  I don't know....  Motherhood is an ongoing series of slow, but constant, adjustments.  It calls on creativity and patience.  But, 'patience' is almost too idealistic.  Sometimes, we are enduring, just enduring a confinement that leaves little light in a long tunnel of boredom.  Motherhood can be lonely, exhausting, dead quiet or jarringly loud.  Motherhood has the worst hours and the "clients" are intrusive and needy.  They rely on you to provide everything that means anything, and demand unending concierge service.  It absolutely WILL call on you to become something you may not know how to be.  It will reinvent who you thought you were.  It will leave you dazed, sometimes, wondering what step to take next.

I'm at home wearing yoga pants right now, not because I'm in Lotus position-oh, no!  To be honest, they're not for yoga at all.  They are my pajamas.  I wear this androgynous clothing so no one will know I didn't choose to get dressed, maybe I just left the gym...well, maybe I did.  There are many days that aren't worth brushing my hair, much less face the unrelenting honesty of denim.  I admit, I feel a little greasy sometimes shuffling about the house scrubbing showers and excavating the mash of belongings in the bottom of the kids' closets or under their beds.  But, it's so much more than that:  A mom is the pulse, the witness, and the mood of the home.

“Being a mother is an attitude, not a biological relation.”
Robert A. Heinlein

Now, for the "Mom" part.
Career mom vs. Stay at home mom has been a hot topic probably since Eve sold her first loin cloth.  I'm at least smart enough to not even touch the debate.  I would, however, like to be an advocate, a cheerleader, for a moment for any mom who feels "stuck," for whatever reason. 

I am not a "crafty" mom.  I do not home school.  My kids do not, necessarily, come first in all arenas of my life (because sometimes putting them second IS putting their best interests first).  I truly believe life thrives with balance.  I find it pointless, and really quite petty, to vilify another mother and the decisions she has labored to make for the good of her family.  That being said, I am passionate about being a stay-at-home mom because I have learned more about my strengths and creativity and nurturing and compassion and endurance than any other thing I have ever done in my life. 

“I looked on child rearing not only as a work of love & duty but as a profession that was fully as interesting & challenging as any honorable profession in the world and one that demanded the best that I could bring to it.”
Rose Kennedy

One day I finally realized there has never been a job I was employed to do that I did not give 100%. Yet, I realized how hard I was resisting the "inconvenience" of motherhood, when I felt like it was swallowing me alive and holding me back from other pursuits.  I had to make motherhood my illustrious career.  What career does not demand organization, effective communication, conflict resolution and multitasking skills?  Guess what are included among the "Top 10 Leadership Qualities" list?  Integrity, dedication, humility, openness, creativity, fairness, assertiveness and a sense of humor.  Sound familiar?  We, basically, have an MBA ladies!

It's difficult to be a mother, no matter what.  I simply urge that when we have one of those want-to-jump-off-a-bridge-into-a-boat-that-will-take-us-straight-to-Cancun days, I know from experience: it does get better.  Most challenges or stages are very short-lived in the grand scheme of things, and when you put your all into something, amazing accomplishments result.

So, take courage, all you moms!  May you find strength for the endless work at hand, find resources for the ever-evolving challenges, find resilience against doubt, find joy in your children, and find pride in all the inspirational altruism you give your families every day.