When trying to describe something that is completely futile, why don't people ever say "It's like trying to sweep up macaroni and cheese"? Because have you tried that? It's horrible, spending a full minute trying to catch each noodle and whisk it in the general direction of the others, all the while watching it get more and more covered with the dog hair and sand that perhaps will unstick it from the floor enough to make it mobile. I finally end up on my hands and knees, manually picking up each and every piece of macaroni, every time. Don't even ask what it looks like when we have couscous.
No matter how much we are intellectually aware that the human experience is essentially the same for all of us, we can't help but feel that we are the first one ever to experience the things that are truly profound. Clearly I am the first person ever to fall in love, ever to lose someone I cared about, ever to watch her toddler dance in the kitchen and be overwhelmed by the urge to call everyone I've ever met and tell them, "You'll never believe what she's doing right now!" Never mind that kitchen dancing is a pretty common toddler activity. There has never been a little girl with soft curls down her back, pushing the button on the Leap Frog farm again and again, so proud that she's mastered this way of making music, twirling around in front of the refrigerator, whispering to herself, "Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance..." Or if there has, I don't want to hear about it, because I want to tell you about mine.
Sometimes there simply are no words. The other day, Zachary and Ezra were in their room doing something they weren't supposed to be doing, maybe wrestling after I'd told them for the thousandth time that they were going to get hurt and that game was done for today. So I walked in and, I admit, raised my voice a little. Ezra turned to me and said, "Mommy, will you leave the room now? I want to tell Zachary that you're a yelling machine."
And finally, just because he didn't get featured here and his siblings did, I would like to announce to the world my pride that my oldest son, my first-grader, is the best reader I have ever met. (Or if there's a better one, I don't want to hear about. See the reasons cited above.) It hasn't been a struggle exactly, but it hasn't come easy. I was one of those who was reading by kindergarten, but with a November birthday, I was almost 6 when I started, so I had nearly a year advantage over the rest of the students. And I don't remember whether it came easy or was a struggle. Zachary was barely 5 when he started kindergarten, and I've worried so much that he's at a disadvantage because he's younger than his classmates. But last week, he read--all by himself--an entire "Captain Underpants" book. If you're not familiar with them, and I wasn't, they're chapter books, but with a lot of graphic novel components thrown in. And he didn't just flip through the pages; he read it. He happily answered all my questions and then filled me in on the plot. Then he read another one. I've ordered numbers 3 and 4 from PaperBack Swap and he's asking every day if they're here yet. There are so many wonderful books in his future and such pride to be gained from learning to read them, and I'm delighted that a superhero in his undies is getting us so far.
Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
My Fortress of Solitude
I have recently realized something: I am never going to be really alone in the bathroom again.
When I was about 22, I moved into a miniscule apartment in downtown Minneapolis. It was the first time I'd ever lived alone--no roommates, no parents, no nothing. Just me and 200 or so square feet. So I immediately went out and got a cat--apparently it was vital that I start living up to crazy-cat-lady stereotypes right away. Many things happened, of course, when I was living in that apartment. The battery on my phone died as I was talking to my dad after I'd only been living there a few days, and he sped the entire half hour from his house, to come make sure I was okay. I sublet my apartment to a coworker and moved to LA for three months (three of the most painful months ever, but that's another story). I met the man who would become my husband. And I learned to pee with the door open.
Now, as a woman, and a pretty self-conscious one at that, closing the door when I entered the bathroom was kind of a requirement. But if you've ever had a kitten who was somewhat over attached to you, you know what happens if you try to close the bathroom door. First comes the whining, then the scratching, then the incredibly pathetic little paw starts feeling around under the door, trying to figure out where you've gone and how to get you back. So rather than dealing with that every time I wanted to go to the bathroom, I started just leaving the door open. It was an incredibly freeing development in my life. I even started wandering around my apartment (sometimes) naked (partly). I couldn't turn into a free-thinking nudist overnight, but it was a big change for me nonetheless.
Of course, when I met my husband, I realized that I was still the kind of person who would prefer to close the door. I can live with a cat wandering around the sink while I pee, but I can't be one of those "I'm on the toilet while you're brushing your teeth and we're both fine with this" people. We moved in together a few months after I got back from LA, and while we were living together, his father stayed with us for several weeks after he had a stroke. He moved back into his own apartment later, but when we decided to buy a house, we concluded that having him move in with us was a good idea for everyone involved. Another reason to be a "bathroom door closed" kind of person.
Now we've come to a point I probably could not have envisioned when I was trying to get the cat to leave the bathroom door alone. My father-in-law's bedroom is across the hall from the bathroom. I have three small children who apparently cannot exist unless they are interacting with me in some way. I usually have a house full of other people's children, who are in all likelihood fighting with one or more of my kids. And the bathroom door? Well, until recently, I was convinced it was the one thing separating me--just for a few minutes--from all that. Right? I don't get to take leisurely baths; I don't even get showers without a 5-year-old suddenly needing to potty the second I turn the water on. I don't have a commute to complain about the other drivers while secretly enjoying this time that doesn't belong to my family or my employer. I don't have a bedroom to disappear to; while I do officially have a bedroom, it's shared by our daughter until the addition to the house is complete. So I am not out of line to expect that I get to go potty without interruption.
Except it seems that I am. One of the things about the blogosphere is that it's like having lots and lots of mom friends, and you can ask them anything you want or listen to them rant about anything they want, as though you had this endless back fence you can talk over anytime you want. And one thing I keep running up against is that no mom in the world can claim that she is left alone in the bathroom. There is always a kid who needs you the very moment you close the door, a dog who is scratching at the door, a spouse who doesn't understand that maybe you don't want to answer any questions right now.
I know that someday my kids will want to be left alone, that I will not think of the bathroom as the only place in the house I can hide. Someday I will miss them. I will bug them in their rooms when they just want to close the door and be left alone for a little while. I know that I ought to cherish these years, when they just want to be near me. But inside, I will grieve for the bathroom I once knew, the place I could think my thoughts, my onetime fortress of solitude.
When I was about 22, I moved into a miniscule apartment in downtown Minneapolis. It was the first time I'd ever lived alone--no roommates, no parents, no nothing. Just me and 200 or so square feet. So I immediately went out and got a cat--apparently it was vital that I start living up to crazy-cat-lady stereotypes right away. Many things happened, of course, when I was living in that apartment. The battery on my phone died as I was talking to my dad after I'd only been living there a few days, and he sped the entire half hour from his house, to come make sure I was okay. I sublet my apartment to a coworker and moved to LA for three months (three of the most painful months ever, but that's another story). I met the man who would become my husband. And I learned to pee with the door open.
Now, as a woman, and a pretty self-conscious one at that, closing the door when I entered the bathroom was kind of a requirement. But if you've ever had a kitten who was somewhat over attached to you, you know what happens if you try to close the bathroom door. First comes the whining, then the scratching, then the incredibly pathetic little paw starts feeling around under the door, trying to figure out where you've gone and how to get you back. So rather than dealing with that every time I wanted to go to the bathroom, I started just leaving the door open. It was an incredibly freeing development in my life. I even started wandering around my apartment (sometimes) naked (partly). I couldn't turn into a free-thinking nudist overnight, but it was a big change for me nonetheless.
Of course, when I met my husband, I realized that I was still the kind of person who would prefer to close the door. I can live with a cat wandering around the sink while I pee, but I can't be one of those "I'm on the toilet while you're brushing your teeth and we're both fine with this" people. We moved in together a few months after I got back from LA, and while we were living together, his father stayed with us for several weeks after he had a stroke. He moved back into his own apartment later, but when we decided to buy a house, we concluded that having him move in with us was a good idea for everyone involved. Another reason to be a "bathroom door closed" kind of person.
Now we've come to a point I probably could not have envisioned when I was trying to get the cat to leave the bathroom door alone. My father-in-law's bedroom is across the hall from the bathroom. I have three small children who apparently cannot exist unless they are interacting with me in some way. I usually have a house full of other people's children, who are in all likelihood fighting with one or more of my kids. And the bathroom door? Well, until recently, I was convinced it was the one thing separating me--just for a few minutes--from all that. Right? I don't get to take leisurely baths; I don't even get showers without a 5-year-old suddenly needing to potty the second I turn the water on. I don't have a commute to complain about the other drivers while secretly enjoying this time that doesn't belong to my family or my employer. I don't have a bedroom to disappear to; while I do officially have a bedroom, it's shared by our daughter until the addition to the house is complete. So I am not out of line to expect that I get to go potty without interruption.
Except it seems that I am. One of the things about the blogosphere is that it's like having lots and lots of mom friends, and you can ask them anything you want or listen to them rant about anything they want, as though you had this endless back fence you can talk over anytime you want. And one thing I keep running up against is that no mom in the world can claim that she is left alone in the bathroom. There is always a kid who needs you the very moment you close the door, a dog who is scratching at the door, a spouse who doesn't understand that maybe you don't want to answer any questions right now.
I know that someday my kids will want to be left alone, that I will not think of the bathroom as the only place in the house I can hide. Someday I will miss them. I will bug them in their rooms when they just want to close the door and be left alone for a little while. I know that I ought to cherish these years, when they just want to be near me. But inside, I will grieve for the bathroom I once knew, the place I could think my thoughts, my onetime fortress of solitude.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Bruce Wayne's Car
So first the big news: This morning, for the first time ever, Ezra pooped in the potty! We were sitting on the couch when he announced that during nap time, he was probably going to poop in his underpants (fortunately, I do put him in a pull-up during naps, since that happens often). So I suggested, if he was planning to do it, that we try now. He was pretty iffy about the whole idea until I suggested that, like his friend who has been learning to poop in the potty, if he does it successfully, I would take him to the store and get him a new toy. Well, that was all the pushing he needed! It took a couple of minutes and a couple of tries, but he did it! I was extremely proud of him and think that we may go the "pooping chart" route that worked with his friend. This little boy had to fill his chart (the size varied; I think the first charts had only a few squares, then as he got more proficient, he had to do more to fill it), and when it was full, he would earn a toy. Usually the toy was preselected, and often it was already purchased and sitting in plain sight, like on top of the refrigerator. Ezra has really wanted a toy of Frank from the movie "CARS," but it's a little expensive for just a random toy, so I think maybe I'll try that as an incentive.
So after this big news, we had to call Daddy at work. Ezra got to tell Daddy his big news, and he got to talk on the phone--very exciting. Then after we had hung up, Ezra got pretty worked up because he saw something out the window that he wanted to tell Daddy about--Bruce Wayne's car.
I was understandably confused about why the Batmobile might be parked out in front of our house, but I got it in a minute. Our next-door neighbor's name is Wayne, and he delivers pizzas. This means that his car has a topper on it with the name of the pizza restaurant. Zachary is very obsessed with Batman right now, and Ezra is obsessed with whatever Zachary is obsessed with. So when he saw our neighbor, Wayne, pull up in front of his house in his pizza delivery car, Ezra concluded that it was "Bruce Wayne's car."
Maybe I ought to worry that Ezra seems to know more about a fictional superhero than he does about our next-door neighbor, but I still think it's cute.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Things My Mother Taught Me
Several years ago, I wrote this essay. I submitted it to a parenting magazine and, in one of the more humiliating events in my life, received only a smudged photocopy of their submission guidelines in response. After scouring the document, I confirmed that it did in fact meet their guidelines; I don't know why they chose to send me that. But I was thinking of it this morning and still like it. So in honor of Mother's Day (because there's no way I will remember to post this on the actual day): Things My Mother Taught Me
When I was a little girl, I always looked at the cover of the coloring book to see what color the pictures should be. Then as closely as I could, I matched them. To me, staying inside the lines was an accomplishment to be proud of. And imitation was the closest thing to perfection.
I never mixed the play-dough. Such a thing would never have occurred to me. My creations were always of a single color, dismantled and returned to their canisters before they had a chance to dry.
Then one day, when I was about seven years old, my mother sat down with me at my little table to color with me. I remember clearly, it was a Tom and Jerry coloring book, and calm as can be, she started to color Tom purple. I was in shock that such a thing was even possible. There, right before my eyes, my mother was creating a lavender cat. It was my first inkling that the right way was not the only way to do something.
Last week, I was playing with my 11-month-old son in his room. He has several wooden puzzles with farm animals and food-shaped pieces. He had recently discovered that there were pictures underneath the pieces and was enthralled with the process of removing the pieces, one by one, from their puzzles. He would then hold them up, examine them, sometimes suck on them. I found myself asking him again and again, "Where does the cow go? Can you find the cow?" I even guided the pieces to their correct places and applauded when they fit. And suddenly I remembered my mother coloring Tom purple.
Now that I am a mother, I have the opportunity to shape my son's view of the world. I can teach him that there is only one way to do everything, or I can show him that there are a million ways to look at a problem and there are a million solutions. Putting pieces into puzzles is one way to play with them. Sucking on them, banging them together, and putting them into drawers are others. And are they any less useful? When I color the cat purple, I am showing my baby that he can do anything he wants, that the borders of thought and action aren't closed. I am letting him try out life and see what works. I am letting him mix the play-dough.
He will figure out what cows are and what they say and how they fit into the puzzle. That will come with time, I have no doubt. But more importantly, he will figure out who he is, what he has to say, and where he fits into the world.
When my mother colored that cat purple, I'm sure she was thinking only that it was pretty. But she taught me a lesson that day, one that I will be sure to pass on to my son: No matter what they tell you, there is more than one way to color a cat.
When I was a little girl, I always looked at the cover of the coloring book to see what color the pictures should be. Then as closely as I could, I matched them. To me, staying inside the lines was an accomplishment to be proud of. And imitation was the closest thing to perfection.
I never mixed the play-dough. Such a thing would never have occurred to me. My creations were always of a single color, dismantled and returned to their canisters before they had a chance to dry.
Then one day, when I was about seven years old, my mother sat down with me at my little table to color with me. I remember clearly, it was a Tom and Jerry coloring book, and calm as can be, she started to color Tom purple. I was in shock that such a thing was even possible. There, right before my eyes, my mother was creating a lavender cat. It was my first inkling that the right way was not the only way to do something.
Last week, I was playing with my 11-month-old son in his room. He has several wooden puzzles with farm animals and food-shaped pieces. He had recently discovered that there were pictures underneath the pieces and was enthralled with the process of removing the pieces, one by one, from their puzzles. He would then hold them up, examine them, sometimes suck on them. I found myself asking him again and again, "Where does the cow go? Can you find the cow?" I even guided the pieces to their correct places and applauded when they fit. And suddenly I remembered my mother coloring Tom purple.
Now that I am a mother, I have the opportunity to shape my son's view of the world. I can teach him that there is only one way to do everything, or I can show him that there are a million ways to look at a problem and there are a million solutions. Putting pieces into puzzles is one way to play with them. Sucking on them, banging them together, and putting them into drawers are others. And are they any less useful? When I color the cat purple, I am showing my baby that he can do anything he wants, that the borders of thought and action aren't closed. I am letting him try out life and see what works. I am letting him mix the play-dough.
He will figure out what cows are and what they say and how they fit into the puzzle. That will come with time, I have no doubt. But more importantly, he will figure out who he is, what he has to say, and where he fits into the world.
When my mother colored that cat purple, I'm sure she was thinking only that it was pretty. But she taught me a lesson that day, one that I will be sure to pass on to my son: No matter what they tell you, there is more than one way to color a cat.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Pants Optional
It's been brought to my attention that Ezra almost never wears pants. I mean, seriously, he never wears pants. Somehow, since he is: 3, at home with me, and extremely strong willed, I haven't made a big deal about it. But maybe the time has come.
We're working on potty training, which means that some time after he gets up in the morning, I get him out of the (with any luck) poopy diaper and into underpants and a clean shirt. He's currently convinced that he can't poop on the potty, so I'm not making a big deal of that at the moment. So every morning, I say, "Pick out a shirt and underpants." And every morning, he answers, "I don't want pants, though." And since I convince myself that he's more likely to have potty success with fewer barriers to making it to the toilet on time, I agree. But this morning, I realized I'd really set up a system, when he added, "But after nap, when Zachary gets home from school, I'll put on pants and we'll go outside."
So I've apparently established a system where you don't have to wear pants, as long as you're in the house. How is this going to play out in the next few years? Will I convince him to wear pants to school, only to have him take them off as soon as he gets inside because, hey, we're not outside? Will he disrobe in front of his girlfriend's parents, explaining, "I don't like to wear pants"? Will he have to find employment in a pants-optional office?
Considering that we are talking about Ezra here, that's actually a possibility. The kid's got more force of personality than anyone I've ever met, including his father, which is saying something. But I figure I've got a few years before the kid with no pants on becomes an actual problem. Until then, he can go pants free--except when we leave the house. Then we all wear pants.
We're working on potty training, which means that some time after he gets up in the morning, I get him out of the (with any luck) poopy diaper and into underpants and a clean shirt. He's currently convinced that he can't poop on the potty, so I'm not making a big deal of that at the moment. So every morning, I say, "Pick out a shirt and underpants." And every morning, he answers, "I don't want pants, though." And since I convince myself that he's more likely to have potty success with fewer barriers to making it to the toilet on time, I agree. But this morning, I realized I'd really set up a system, when he added, "But after nap, when Zachary gets home from school, I'll put on pants and we'll go outside."
So I've apparently established a system where you don't have to wear pants, as long as you're in the house. How is this going to play out in the next few years? Will I convince him to wear pants to school, only to have him take them off as soon as he gets inside because, hey, we're not outside? Will he disrobe in front of his girlfriend's parents, explaining, "I don't like to wear pants"? Will he have to find employment in a pants-optional office?
Considering that we are talking about Ezra here, that's actually a possibility. The kid's got more force of personality than anyone I've ever met, including his father, which is saying something. But I figure I've got a few years before the kid with no pants on becomes an actual problem. Until then, he can go pants free--except when we leave the house. Then we all wear pants.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Swine Flu Means
"Swine flu means you shouldn't go around licking pigs."
That was Ezra's thought upon seeing this picture my mom emailed me.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
In Other News
Okay, I feel kind of bitchy about that last post. I'm still not happy about it, but I love my dad and would someday like to have a relationship with his wife again. It will never be the way it was, but I know I can either spend my life being angry about it or I can stop being angry and start feeling better.
So here is some other news.
First of all, Matilda has been giving kisses the last couple of days. She selects her victim, uh, recipient, and waddles up to them. Usually it's another kid, so she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him in tight. The first time she did this, I was nervous, since she's had a bit of a biting habit in the past. But once she's got a firm hold, she plants a giant, open, slobbery mouth on top of her friend's head. Then she smiles at me to make sure that I know what a wonderful friend she is. Of course, I'm sure to let her know that I do know what a nice person she is, which usually leads to more kissing. I'm still always a little nervous that she's going to bite or strangle, but the thought is there. (As I am writing, Zachary and Ezra are standing at the dining room table playing play-doh. Matilda just took the opportunity to walk up and kiss Zachary's bottom.)
Second, I received 6 separate emails today about swine flu. Three of them were from our health insurance company, and three were from child care organizations. Let me summarize the information they contained: There is this thing called swine flu. It's not like the regular flu, so your flu shot? Worthless. It's really dangerous but so far only in Mexico. If you get sick, don't come to work, because that could make others sick. If you're a day care provider, tell parents if their kids get the swine flu, they shouldn't come to day care. The best way to prevent it is by washing your hands. Seriously? For this, they emailed me six times? If you have a vaccine or a cure or a case in my town, that warrants six emails. But "wash your hands"? I think I could have figured that one out on my own. And no, no day care parents have been asking about my swine flu policies. I know perspective can be a difficult thing to come by, but it doesn't help to have 35 channels screaming that we're all going to die (maybe) and getting the same advice we get for preventing the common cold.
Finally--and definitely best--my mom called this morning to say that my brother had called her. He wants to know if he can give his girlfriend the ring my dad gave my mom for their 30th anniversary. She said she wanted to ask me and my sister before she told him it was okay, so no one felt slighted. I told her of course it was okay, that I think it's an absolutely beautiful gesture. He's been saying for years that he can never get married, because with mom and dad in such bad shape, how would he manage the wedding? I think that concern faded a few years ago, but I think it was replaced by a very real fear of marriage--that if his parents' marriage could turn into this mess, what would happen to his? So we learned never to ask if they were ever going to get married. They live together, and he just got a job in New Orleans, and it's been understood that she would go too. But we were never allowed to ask about permanence. And now my baby brother's going to get married! She made it very clear that this is a big secret, but this is the advantage to not actually telling anyone you know about your blog: you get to spill the beans, because if anyone reads this, who are you going to tell?
So even in this messy world that makes me so mad sometimes, good things happen. And I'm so grateful.
So here is some other news.
First of all, Matilda has been giving kisses the last couple of days. She selects her victim, uh, recipient, and waddles up to them. Usually it's another kid, so she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him in tight. The first time she did this, I was nervous, since she's had a bit of a biting habit in the past. But once she's got a firm hold, she plants a giant, open, slobbery mouth on top of her friend's head. Then she smiles at me to make sure that I know what a wonderful friend she is. Of course, I'm sure to let her know that I do know what a nice person she is, which usually leads to more kissing. I'm still always a little nervous that she's going to bite or strangle, but the thought is there. (As I am writing, Zachary and Ezra are standing at the dining room table playing play-doh. Matilda just took the opportunity to walk up and kiss Zachary's bottom.)
Second, I received 6 separate emails today about swine flu. Three of them were from our health insurance company, and three were from child care organizations. Let me summarize the information they contained: There is this thing called swine flu. It's not like the regular flu, so your flu shot? Worthless. It's really dangerous but so far only in Mexico. If you get sick, don't come to work, because that could make others sick. If you're a day care provider, tell parents if their kids get the swine flu, they shouldn't come to day care. The best way to prevent it is by washing your hands. Seriously? For this, they emailed me six times? If you have a vaccine or a cure or a case in my town, that warrants six emails. But "wash your hands"? I think I could have figured that one out on my own. And no, no day care parents have been asking about my swine flu policies. I know perspective can be a difficult thing to come by, but it doesn't help to have 35 channels screaming that we're all going to die (maybe) and getting the same advice we get for preventing the common cold.
Finally--and definitely best--my mom called this morning to say that my brother had called her. He wants to know if he can give his girlfriend the ring my dad gave my mom for their 30th anniversary. She said she wanted to ask me and my sister before she told him it was okay, so no one felt slighted. I told her of course it was okay, that I think it's an absolutely beautiful gesture. He's been saying for years that he can never get married, because with mom and dad in such bad shape, how would he manage the wedding? I think that concern faded a few years ago, but I think it was replaced by a very real fear of marriage--that if his parents' marriage could turn into this mess, what would happen to his? So we learned never to ask if they were ever going to get married. They live together, and he just got a job in New Orleans, and it's been understood that she would go too. But we were never allowed to ask about permanence. And now my baby brother's going to get married! She made it very clear that this is a big secret, but this is the advantage to not actually telling anyone you know about your blog: you get to spill the beans, because if anyone reads this, who are you going to tell?
So even in this messy world that makes me so mad sometimes, good things happen. And I'm so grateful.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
I hate all things sharp and pointy
That's it, I am clearing out the house. At the curb, I am placing all things pointy. Forks, knives, pens, scissors, all yours for the taking. Everything must go. Especially shelves that stick out of the wall at forehead level and then attack without warning when all you did was drop a can of juice that you were trying to put in the recycling like a responsible person until you bent down to pick it up and then--wham! On the floor, sobbing, for five minutes.
It had been a cruddy afternoon. No one was listening to a word I said, then they decided to pull out every single puzzle. Some time ago, I took all our jigsaw puzzles of 100 pieces or so and put them in zip-loc bags and put the bags in a plastic tub. Clever storage, no? Yes, until they decide to open the tub, take out every puzzle, and open the puzzles on the floor in Ezra's room. I told them several times that as soon as all the puzzles were picked up, we could go outside. But every time I turned around, there were more. So I was near the end of my rope anyway. I decided to take a break from the puzzle-related anger and make more juice. And then came the dreaded shelf to the forehead. I was bending over, didn't realize it was right there, and now I have a giant, red, swollen rectangle on my forehead. It hurt enough to justify some serious swearing, but probably not the actual crying that ensued. I just couldn't believe that the world was being that mean to me today--and that the house full of children, whose owies I kiss, whose butts I clean, whose fights I referee, not one of them asked if I was okay, as I lay on the floor crying.
That was several hours ago, and it still hurts. When I suggested that it would be a good night for a pizza, my husband reminded me that we're going out of town this weekend and will be eating out for several meals. Of course, he's not doing any cooking tonight, so what does he care? My head hurts, and no one is being nice to me. Zachary and Ezra are playing "sneak up tp Mommy and pull her hair, because we're spies... or something." Matilda is following them around and getting pushed over occasionally. They need baths, and I don't feel like giving them. I'm so cranky and really want someone to take over my jobs--all my stupid keeping-everything-in-this-house-clean-and-alive jobs--for just a few hours.
On second throught, maybe I won't put all the pointy things out on the curb. Maybe I'll just sit out there. Maybe someone will offer to take me away, or maybe I'll just get a little time to myself.
It had been a cruddy afternoon. No one was listening to a word I said, then they decided to pull out every single puzzle. Some time ago, I took all our jigsaw puzzles of 100 pieces or so and put them in zip-loc bags and put the bags in a plastic tub. Clever storage, no? Yes, until they decide to open the tub, take out every puzzle, and open the puzzles on the floor in Ezra's room. I told them several times that as soon as all the puzzles were picked up, we could go outside. But every time I turned around, there were more. So I was near the end of my rope anyway. I decided to take a break from the puzzle-related anger and make more juice. And then came the dreaded shelf to the forehead. I was bending over, didn't realize it was right there, and now I have a giant, red, swollen rectangle on my forehead. It hurt enough to justify some serious swearing, but probably not the actual crying that ensued. I just couldn't believe that the world was being that mean to me today--and that the house full of children, whose owies I kiss, whose butts I clean, whose fights I referee, not one of them asked if I was okay, as I lay on the floor crying.
That was several hours ago, and it still hurts. When I suggested that it would be a good night for a pizza, my husband reminded me that we're going out of town this weekend and will be eating out for several meals. Of course, he's not doing any cooking tonight, so what does he care? My head hurts, and no one is being nice to me. Zachary and Ezra are playing "sneak up tp Mommy and pull her hair, because we're spies... or something." Matilda is following them around and getting pushed over occasionally. They need baths, and I don't feel like giving them. I'm so cranky and really want someone to take over my jobs--all my stupid keeping-everything-in-this-house-clean-and-alive jobs--for just a few hours.
On second throught, maybe I won't put all the pointy things out on the curb. Maybe I'll just sit out there. Maybe someone will offer to take me away, or maybe I'll just get a little time to myself.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Hooray for spring!
In happy news, spring has finally arrived--in the form of summer.
When I was little, I always thought that the adage "April showers bring May flowers" was some kind of taunt. In Minnesota, April showers are promptly followed by April showers, then April snows, then April general cruddiness, then some rain that freezes on top of the almost-melted snow. May is when we finally start to get something that looks a little like spring. But this year, we seem to be having actual spring weather, and in April no less!
I swear it was just a couple of weeks ago that I was swearing about the new snow, replacing the snow that I had dared to dream was gone for good. And today, it was 75. Is that confusing for anyone else? I just yesterday finally removed the hat, mittens, and scarf from Zachary's backpack, trusting that there wouldn't be a snowstorm while he was at school, trapping him 2 blocks from home without adequate winter gear. And today it was uncomfortably warm with all the windows open (yes, I am a big baby when it comes to the weather, and I only have about a 2-degree comfort range). I also figured it was probably safe to take the paper snowflakes off the window, since they look kind of silly surrounded by green grass--though no more silly than the Halloween straw broom I still have hanging from the front door. At some point we're actually closer to the holiday next year, so I may as well leave them up.
So I told the kids yesterday that since it was getting to be real live spring, maybe we should make some construction paper flowers to replace the snowflakes we were taking down. And then we spent a mostly cheerful hour or so cutting, folding, gluing and coloring paper flowers. It was nice because: it killed some time, I could send day care kids home with concrete evidence that we did not just stare at one another or Baby Einstein all day, and because it reduced the number of pounds of construction paper in the house. (I couldn't help it. I found it at Sam's Club. Cheap construction paper! Must... purchase... it!)
That was yesterday. Today was the last day for one of the kids, so I decided to make cinnamon rolls. And as I was in the kitchen, mixing and rolling and rising, the kids were playing on and under the dining room table--a favorite pastime. And I should have been worried when Ezra and his friend came in and started apologizing. First Ezra said he was sorry he had ripped his paper flower. I told him it was fine, it was his, and it wasn't a bad thing if it tore. Then his friend said he was sorry he'd been playing with the scissors; I had left the safety scissors on the dining room table in case we decided to make more flowers today. Any idea where this is headed? So I told him never to play with scissors if I wasn't there, and I walked in to check on the situation. And there sat the other little boy in this particular trio, holding a pair of safety scissors in his hand, scraping them in a half circle over and over across the dining room table--the nice, wood dining room table that, I might add, predates me in my husband's life. I washed away the pile of sawdust and looked at the damage. It's not pretty. I tell them every day not to put their forks on the table (they like to drum) because it will scratch it. I sort of thought that "don't dig into the table repeatedly with safety scissors" was sort of implied. Clearly I was wrong.
Apparently there are wood crayons, some sort of wax markers, and Old English wood markers--or something. I Googled fixing a wood table and came up with a lot of possibilities. I think it's going to result in me wandering around Menard's until I find someone who can explain to me in the simplest possible terms how to fix this. Hopefully I can do that without altering my husband to the terrible thing that I allowed to happen to the table. I hate getting in trouble. I also hate the giant scratched quarter of the table. This is what I get for trying to celebrate spring--and make cinnamon rolls.
When I was little, I always thought that the adage "April showers bring May flowers" was some kind of taunt. In Minnesota, April showers are promptly followed by April showers, then April snows, then April general cruddiness, then some rain that freezes on top of the almost-melted snow. May is when we finally start to get something that looks a little like spring. But this year, we seem to be having actual spring weather, and in April no less!
I swear it was just a couple of weeks ago that I was swearing about the new snow, replacing the snow that I had dared to dream was gone for good. And today, it was 75. Is that confusing for anyone else? I just yesterday finally removed the hat, mittens, and scarf from Zachary's backpack, trusting that there wouldn't be a snowstorm while he was at school, trapping him 2 blocks from home without adequate winter gear. And today it was uncomfortably warm with all the windows open (yes, I am a big baby when it comes to the weather, and I only have about a 2-degree comfort range). I also figured it was probably safe to take the paper snowflakes off the window, since they look kind of silly surrounded by green grass--though no more silly than the Halloween straw broom I still have hanging from the front door. At some point we're actually closer to the holiday next year, so I may as well leave them up.
So I told the kids yesterday that since it was getting to be real live spring, maybe we should make some construction paper flowers to replace the snowflakes we were taking down. And then we spent a mostly cheerful hour or so cutting, folding, gluing and coloring paper flowers. It was nice because: it killed some time, I could send day care kids home with concrete evidence that we did not just stare at one another or Baby Einstein all day, and because it reduced the number of pounds of construction paper in the house. (I couldn't help it. I found it at Sam's Club. Cheap construction paper! Must... purchase... it!)
That was yesterday. Today was the last day for one of the kids, so I decided to make cinnamon rolls. And as I was in the kitchen, mixing and rolling and rising, the kids were playing on and under the dining room table--a favorite pastime. And I should have been worried when Ezra and his friend came in and started apologizing. First Ezra said he was sorry he had ripped his paper flower. I told him it was fine, it was his, and it wasn't a bad thing if it tore. Then his friend said he was sorry he'd been playing with the scissors; I had left the safety scissors on the dining room table in case we decided to make more flowers today. Any idea where this is headed? So I told him never to play with scissors if I wasn't there, and I walked in to check on the situation. And there sat the other little boy in this particular trio, holding a pair of safety scissors in his hand, scraping them in a half circle over and over across the dining room table--the nice, wood dining room table that, I might add, predates me in my husband's life. I washed away the pile of sawdust and looked at the damage. It's not pretty. I tell them every day not to put their forks on the table (they like to drum) because it will scratch it. I sort of thought that "don't dig into the table repeatedly with safety scissors" was sort of implied. Clearly I was wrong.
Apparently there are wood crayons, some sort of wax markers, and Old English wood markers--or something. I Googled fixing a wood table and came up with a lot of possibilities. I think it's going to result in me wandering around Menard's until I find someone who can explain to me in the simplest possible terms how to fix this. Hopefully I can do that without altering my husband to the terrible thing that I allowed to happen to the table. I hate getting in trouble. I also hate the giant scratched quarter of the table. This is what I get for trying to celebrate spring--and make cinnamon rolls.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Madeline Alice Spohr
I am not what you would call a person of faith. More like a person of doubt. I was raised in a church but have spent most of my adult life struggling with the most basic questions. I am deeply envious of people of faith, since they seem to have something to lean on when things are difficult. But on this day, I am calling out to whatever is out there, in a prayer of equal parts gratitude and confusion.
About 6 months ago, I got a copy of Sleep is for the Weak. It was funny and touching and introduced me to this world of mommy blogs--that though I didn't know them personally, there was this whole world of funny, supportive, smart women who were moms, just like me, dealing with kids just like mine. And I started reading these blogs--the ones I link to from my blog. These moms are so honest about their lives, so caring of their kids and their friends. And they make me feel so much less alone, in this world where I really don't have that many connections with other women.
Tuesday I learned for the first time of a little girl named Madeline Alice Spohr. Unfortunately I met her too late. What an ungodly tragedy to meet someone when it is too late to know her. I read of her on Baby on Bored and on Mommy Wants Vodka. And though it is always horrendous to learn of the loss of a child, something about Maddie has touched me deeply.
Maybe it is her beauty. She is so vibrant in all the photos I see, so very present, that it is so heart-wrenching to think that she is gone. Maybe it is the way I see she has touched the lives of people who have touched mine. Becky, of Mommy Wants Vodka, insists that "Because Maddie Alice Spohr was here, dammit, and she mattered." Yes, she was, and she did. Maybe it is because my own children are driving me crazy today. And as I try to deal with them and all their minor dramas, I am torn between finding it hard to focus on who stole what from who, with my mind full of the loss of a beautiful life, and wanting to scoop them up and hold them tight, so grateful am I that they are here to fight and scream and complain.
And maybe it's because this doesn't feel like something that happened to someone else, someone so unlike me. When I first read about Maddie, I went to her mother, Heather's, blog, to get a sense of who she was and who she had been. And as I read down the posts, I got her April Fool's Day post. Every year, I read or see something that reminds me why April Fool's Day is just about my favorite day of the year. Google's annual joke, or someone telling me they just got convinced that the government is going to start subsidizing pet health insurance. It's such a delightfully silly day, and I enjoy all the ways people celebrate it, with such wonderful humor. Heather's post was one of the best. An April Fool's grilled cheese sandwich, made with pound cake and frosting. She describes it so simply, even including pictures of the process--and, of course, of her dad falling victim to the prank. She had me smiling and thinking, "I'm going to have to try that one!" And at the end of the post, a picture of sweet Maddie, enjoying the prank and the laughter. And that got me. No matter what I'm doing, I keep stopping to think of that silly sandwich. Just such a beautiful, simple moment, the sort of thing that wouldn't really stand out in a life over all--except that to me, who only got to know her after she was gone, this is Maddie. Surrounded by people she loves, who love to laugh, who are just so much like us.
So I am reaching out today, to whoever is listening, whether reading this blog or up in the heavens somewhere. Thank you, thank you, with my whole heart and soul, for the safety and well being of my family. I know that I am lucky. But why? Why must another mother suffer a loss I can't imagine? I don't know if this pushes me further toward faith or doubt, only that it makes me feel more like there ought to be answers somewhere.
And the final reason I may feel so deeply the loss of Maddie: her name. I have been nervous about what to share in a blog. How private ought we to be? I don't want to be unsafe, in a world where you don't who you can trust. So I haven't shared much in the way of identifying information. Sure, if you knew me and you came across this blog, you'd almost certainly be able to identify it as mine. But a stranger wouldn't be able to track me down using the information in here. I haven't even shared my kids' names. But in honor of sweet Maddie, I'm going to trust the world a bit more. My kids are Zachary (5), Ezra (3), and Matilda (13 months)--Mattie. And every time I look at my chubby, spoiled, loud little Mattie, my heart breaks yet again for a family that has lost theirs.
I wish I could do something to ease the pain, but I wouldn't know where to start. Instead I will send them a meal from a friend they didn't know they had--one they didn't have until just now. And I will pray--for guidance, for answers, and for grieving families.
(If you would like to donate to the March of Dimes in her honor, visit http://remembermaddie.com/ and you will find instructions. It is the most tangible way I know to help a little life.)
About 6 months ago, I got a copy of Sleep is for the Weak. It was funny and touching and introduced me to this world of mommy blogs--that though I didn't know them personally, there was this whole world of funny, supportive, smart women who were moms, just like me, dealing with kids just like mine. And I started reading these blogs--the ones I link to from my blog. These moms are so honest about their lives, so caring of their kids and their friends. And they make me feel so much less alone, in this world where I really don't have that many connections with other women.
Tuesday I learned for the first time of a little girl named Madeline Alice Spohr. Unfortunately I met her too late. What an ungodly tragedy to meet someone when it is too late to know her. I read of her on Baby on Bored and on Mommy Wants Vodka. And though it is always horrendous to learn of the loss of a child, something about Maddie has touched me deeply.
Maybe it is her beauty. She is so vibrant in all the photos I see, so very present, that it is so heart-wrenching to think that she is gone. Maybe it is the way I see she has touched the lives of people who have touched mine. Becky, of Mommy Wants Vodka, insists that "Because Maddie Alice Spohr was here, dammit, and she mattered." Yes, she was, and she did. Maybe it is because my own children are driving me crazy today. And as I try to deal with them and all their minor dramas, I am torn between finding it hard to focus on who stole what from who, with my mind full of the loss of a beautiful life, and wanting to scoop them up and hold them tight, so grateful am I that they are here to fight and scream and complain.
And maybe it's because this doesn't feel like something that happened to someone else, someone so unlike me. When I first read about Maddie, I went to her mother, Heather's, blog, to get a sense of who she was and who she had been. And as I read down the posts, I got her April Fool's Day post. Every year, I read or see something that reminds me why April Fool's Day is just about my favorite day of the year. Google's annual joke, or someone telling me they just got convinced that the government is going to start subsidizing pet health insurance. It's such a delightfully silly day, and I enjoy all the ways people celebrate it, with such wonderful humor. Heather's post was one of the best. An April Fool's grilled cheese sandwich, made with pound cake and frosting. She describes it so simply, even including pictures of the process--and, of course, of her dad falling victim to the prank. She had me smiling and thinking, "I'm going to have to try that one!" And at the end of the post, a picture of sweet Maddie, enjoying the prank and the laughter. And that got me. No matter what I'm doing, I keep stopping to think of that silly sandwich. Just such a beautiful, simple moment, the sort of thing that wouldn't really stand out in a life over all--except that to me, who only got to know her after she was gone, this is Maddie. Surrounded by people she loves, who love to laugh, who are just so much like us.
So I am reaching out today, to whoever is listening, whether reading this blog or up in the heavens somewhere. Thank you, thank you, with my whole heart and soul, for the safety and well being of my family. I know that I am lucky. But why? Why must another mother suffer a loss I can't imagine? I don't know if this pushes me further toward faith or doubt, only that it makes me feel more like there ought to be answers somewhere.
And the final reason I may feel so deeply the loss of Maddie: her name. I have been nervous about what to share in a blog. How private ought we to be? I don't want to be unsafe, in a world where you don't who you can trust. So I haven't shared much in the way of identifying information. Sure, if you knew me and you came across this blog, you'd almost certainly be able to identify it as mine. But a stranger wouldn't be able to track me down using the information in here. I haven't even shared my kids' names. But in honor of sweet Maddie, I'm going to trust the world a bit more. My kids are Zachary (5), Ezra (3), and Matilda (13 months)--Mattie. And every time I look at my chubby, spoiled, loud little Mattie, my heart breaks yet again for a family that has lost theirs.
I wish I could do something to ease the pain, but I wouldn't know where to start. Instead I will send them a meal from a friend they didn't know they had--one they didn't have until just now. And I will pray--for guidance, for answers, and for grieving families.
(If you would like to donate to the March of Dimes in her honor, visit http://remembermaddie.com/ and you will find instructions. It is the most tangible way I know to help a little life.)
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Project Honesty 2: I Love My Husband
I was trying to fall asleep last night, while the baby (13 months old, but still my baby) was fussing in her crib across the room. And I was trying not to get frustrated with her, so I started thinking about how much I love her--and everyone else.
My darling little girl: I love you purely. Who else would I allow to keep me up all night, every night, because you'd rather suck on me than sleep? Who else has such kissable cheeks, such a tickle-able belly, such sweet curls? When I look at you, I am horrified to think that there was ever a chance you would not be in my life. We were clearly not a complete family until you arrived. You are my daughter, and as the daughter of a mother myself, I know that our relationship will not always be so simple. I do not relish the day when you accuse me of being selfish because I won't allow you to do something, or when I worry that you're making all the same mistakes I made--and that I am making all the same mistakes my own mother made. But I will always love you, no matter what. And when things between us are hard and complicated, I will look back on this time, when I cheered your every word, when I laughed with you as you discovered how to roll a ball across the room, when I swung you up in the air and watched your two little bottom teeth flash as you screamed with delight, and I will know that I love you with a pure love that can never be tainted.
My sweet middle boy: I love you fiercely. I think that is the only way to love you. It is certainly the way you love me. You approach everything in your life with the same no-holds-barred intensity, it floors me. I remember the night we were staying at a hotel, on our way to our vacation. You were refusing to settle down, keeping your brother and the entire family up, and nerves were frayed. Finally Daddy told you, "That's it! If you don't go to bed right now, I'm going to put you in the car, and you're going to have to sleep out there, all alone in the dark, all night." You quietly gathered up your blanket and pacifier and prepared to head out the door. That was the night Daddy called you "Cool Hand Luke" for the first time. I love the way that you stand up for yourself, never compromising for a second. You may get scratched, pushed, even bitten, but you give as good as you get. You are a force of nature, and I admire the hell out of that. But I also love the way that you curl up against me, rest your head on my chest, insist that I snuggle you just so, and remind me that for all your intensity, you are 3 years old. You must have your water from the "big giant cup" (the pitcher), in your orange cup, often insisting on ice. You will agree to put your head on your pillow at nap time, but you insist that you will not be closing your eyes. You drive me to distraction, bringing me to levels of frustration I have never known before. Then, in the same breath, I find myself loving you with a mother bear intensity that almost scares me. We fight to be sure; you push my buttons and my limits. But the ferocity of my love is astounding.
My wonderful firstborn: I love you with my soul. The way I feel about you fills me up from the inside. When I think about how I love you, my heart drops into my stomach for a moment, as though being your mother is some sort of carnival ride I never understood until I was strapped in for good. You are so much like me that it frightens me. You look just like your daddy did at your age, and you have his imagination to be sure. But sometimes I look at you, and I think you're going to turn out just like me, and I get scared and sad. You're so sensitive that you cry at perceived slights, not just the real ones. You regularly complain of throat and stomach pain, when your emotions get to be too much for you. You don't want to ride a bike or jump off the edge of the pool, so afraid of what might happen. And when you do these things, I think: That's me. That's the worst of me, coming out in my son. And I try so hard to encourage you to try, and then I push, and then I see myself turning into my mom. I don't want you to live a life scared of what might happen, and I don't want to hurt you by pushing too hard. But I also want you to have a better life than I have, to be more confident and proud than I am. Because believe me when I say: You have no idea how spectacular you are. I didn't know I could love someone as much as I love you. It consumes me, and I burn up inside of it, then rise again to love you some more. And if I make mistakes, if I push too hard or not hard enough, if I understand you too well or too little, know that it is only because my love wants to wrap you up inside it and guarantee that you will live the best, happiest life there is.
My beautiful husband: I love you unfairly. I know this. I love you intellectually, timidly, fearfully. I admire you. I enjoy you. I live afraid that you will stop loving me. We have three amazing children together, and we both know that we love our kids; we say so all the time. And loving our kids is so much easier than loving each other. They're uncomplicated in their love, they're flesh of our flesh, and they depend upon our love for their very survival. We, on the other hand, have our own agendas, our own complicated desires, our own assumptions about the world and about each other. And without me, I know you would go on living. So what is it that keeps you here? Is it just that I'm a good mother? Is it that staying is easier than leaving? Or is it that you truly, deeply love me? I'm afraid to even ask the questions, so afraid of what it looks like to be asking why my husband stays with me. At the root of our relationship, I know, is our friendship. You are there for me in a way that no one else is. You protect and encourage me. You listen to me and you guide me when I need it. As our children grow, I know they will need us less, and we will have more and more time with the two of us, to remember why we fell in love in the first place. I worry that your love is conditional, that one day you will simply run out of reasons to love me. But though I may not love you with the completeness you deserve, I hope that you will hang on and love me anyway, giving me time to believe that, the same way that our children know there is nothing that would stop my love, you and I really will be in love forever.
My darling little girl: I love you purely. Who else would I allow to keep me up all night, every night, because you'd rather suck on me than sleep? Who else has such kissable cheeks, such a tickle-able belly, such sweet curls? When I look at you, I am horrified to think that there was ever a chance you would not be in my life. We were clearly not a complete family until you arrived. You are my daughter, and as the daughter of a mother myself, I know that our relationship will not always be so simple. I do not relish the day when you accuse me of being selfish because I won't allow you to do something, or when I worry that you're making all the same mistakes I made--and that I am making all the same mistakes my own mother made. But I will always love you, no matter what. And when things between us are hard and complicated, I will look back on this time, when I cheered your every word, when I laughed with you as you discovered how to roll a ball across the room, when I swung you up in the air and watched your two little bottom teeth flash as you screamed with delight, and I will know that I love you with a pure love that can never be tainted.
My sweet middle boy: I love you fiercely. I think that is the only way to love you. It is certainly the way you love me. You approach everything in your life with the same no-holds-barred intensity, it floors me. I remember the night we were staying at a hotel, on our way to our vacation. You were refusing to settle down, keeping your brother and the entire family up, and nerves were frayed. Finally Daddy told you, "That's it! If you don't go to bed right now, I'm going to put you in the car, and you're going to have to sleep out there, all alone in the dark, all night." You quietly gathered up your blanket and pacifier and prepared to head out the door. That was the night Daddy called you "Cool Hand Luke" for the first time. I love the way that you stand up for yourself, never compromising for a second. You may get scratched, pushed, even bitten, but you give as good as you get. You are a force of nature, and I admire the hell out of that. But I also love the way that you curl up against me, rest your head on my chest, insist that I snuggle you just so, and remind me that for all your intensity, you are 3 years old. You must have your water from the "big giant cup" (the pitcher), in your orange cup, often insisting on ice. You will agree to put your head on your pillow at nap time, but you insist that you will not be closing your eyes. You drive me to distraction, bringing me to levels of frustration I have never known before. Then, in the same breath, I find myself loving you with a mother bear intensity that almost scares me. We fight to be sure; you push my buttons and my limits. But the ferocity of my love is astounding.
My wonderful firstborn: I love you with my soul. The way I feel about you fills me up from the inside. When I think about how I love you, my heart drops into my stomach for a moment, as though being your mother is some sort of carnival ride I never understood until I was strapped in for good. You are so much like me that it frightens me. You look just like your daddy did at your age, and you have his imagination to be sure. But sometimes I look at you, and I think you're going to turn out just like me, and I get scared and sad. You're so sensitive that you cry at perceived slights, not just the real ones. You regularly complain of throat and stomach pain, when your emotions get to be too much for you. You don't want to ride a bike or jump off the edge of the pool, so afraid of what might happen. And when you do these things, I think: That's me. That's the worst of me, coming out in my son. And I try so hard to encourage you to try, and then I push, and then I see myself turning into my mom. I don't want you to live a life scared of what might happen, and I don't want to hurt you by pushing too hard. But I also want you to have a better life than I have, to be more confident and proud than I am. Because believe me when I say: You have no idea how spectacular you are. I didn't know I could love someone as much as I love you. It consumes me, and I burn up inside of it, then rise again to love you some more. And if I make mistakes, if I push too hard or not hard enough, if I understand you too well or too little, know that it is only because my love wants to wrap you up inside it and guarantee that you will live the best, happiest life there is.
My beautiful husband: I love you unfairly. I know this. I love you intellectually, timidly, fearfully. I admire you. I enjoy you. I live afraid that you will stop loving me. We have three amazing children together, and we both know that we love our kids; we say so all the time. And loving our kids is so much easier than loving each other. They're uncomplicated in their love, they're flesh of our flesh, and they depend upon our love for their very survival. We, on the other hand, have our own agendas, our own complicated desires, our own assumptions about the world and about each other. And without me, I know you would go on living. So what is it that keeps you here? Is it just that I'm a good mother? Is it that staying is easier than leaving? Or is it that you truly, deeply love me? I'm afraid to even ask the questions, so afraid of what it looks like to be asking why my husband stays with me. At the root of our relationship, I know, is our friendship. You are there for me in a way that no one else is. You protect and encourage me. You listen to me and you guide me when I need it. As our children grow, I know they will need us less, and we will have more and more time with the two of us, to remember why we fell in love in the first place. I worry that your love is conditional, that one day you will simply run out of reasons to love me. But though I may not love you with the completeness you deserve, I hope that you will hang on and love me anyway, giving me time to believe that, the same way that our children know there is nothing that would stop my love, you and I really will be in love forever.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
19 and other tricky concepts
There are few things I love more than listening to my kids talk to one another. They are trying so hard to piece together the world, and much the same way I do, they often have to fill in the blanks.
My oldest son is in kindergarten this year, and it's been extremely exciting. He loves going to school every day, even if he doesn't love getting up. He tells me he has 4 friends (though their identities vary) and that there's not that many girls that like him. He tells me he's being bullied, but when I talked to his teacher, she said that it was a pretty boy-heavy class this year; he's not being targeted, there's just a lot of boy energy going around the room, with a lot of rough play and some fights. Then, a few weeks after that conversation, I happened to walk him to school (he usually gets a ride). I decided to take the chance to poke through the lost and found for the various hats and mittens that have gone missing this year (no luck). And as I was on my way back toward the door, his teacher hailed me. It seemed that she had been out one day recently, and she wanted to know if I had heard about the "incident." I hadn't, and of course I immediately wondered what my kid had done. I shouldn't have worried--about that--because as it turns out, another student had choked him because he wanted my son's crayon. That's right, strangled over a crayon. She assured me that she was dealing with it and had spoken with the other child, but in case my son had said anything, she wanted to make sure I knew it was being handled.
Of course, I told my husband about it that evening, and we both sort of had the same reaction--that we were very surprised that it had happened but more surprised that he hadn't said anything. So after dinner that night, I asked him: Are you doing okay in school? Yes. Are you getting along okay with the other kids? Yes. I heard you had trouble with another kid the other day. No. Okay, cards on the table: Your teacher told me that another kid tried to choke you--that he put his hands on your neck. Do you remember this? No. Can I watch my show?
I couldn't get over this: My kid keeps telling me that he's being picked on, that there are bullies in his class, but it's no more than what he deals with from his little brother at home. But the one time he has every right to complain, that a kid actually is mean to him, he not only doesn't mention it; he apparently doesn't even remember.
Some time later, there was a day when both my boys went to work with Daddy one day. While they were there, he got them each a little toy from the hospital gift shop--a miniature measuring tape. They love the real ones and are always getting in trouble for playing with them, so these were extra cool toys. In the car on the way home, they were measuring everything in sight--the windows, their seats, one another. And my oldest said something about 21 inches. So I said, "You were 21 inches long when you were born. Your brother was 19 inches long. Can you find 19 inches?" He's been having trouble with the teen numbers, mixing up 19 and 90, for example, so learning to properly identify all the teens has been a math goal lately. He worked hard for several minutes, looking all over his measuring tape, considering and then rejecting several choices. Finally, very thoughtfully, he announced, "I found 19. Except it has a 2 in it."
Never stop finding the answers, my son. And in the absence of any useful answers, never stop provinding your own.
My oldest son is in kindergarten this year, and it's been extremely exciting. He loves going to school every day, even if he doesn't love getting up. He tells me he has 4 friends (though their identities vary) and that there's not that many girls that like him. He tells me he's being bullied, but when I talked to his teacher, she said that it was a pretty boy-heavy class this year; he's not being targeted, there's just a lot of boy energy going around the room, with a lot of rough play and some fights. Then, a few weeks after that conversation, I happened to walk him to school (he usually gets a ride). I decided to take the chance to poke through the lost and found for the various hats and mittens that have gone missing this year (no luck). And as I was on my way back toward the door, his teacher hailed me. It seemed that she had been out one day recently, and she wanted to know if I had heard about the "incident." I hadn't, and of course I immediately wondered what my kid had done. I shouldn't have worried--about that--because as it turns out, another student had choked him because he wanted my son's crayon. That's right, strangled over a crayon. She assured me that she was dealing with it and had spoken with the other child, but in case my son had said anything, she wanted to make sure I knew it was being handled.
Of course, I told my husband about it that evening, and we both sort of had the same reaction--that we were very surprised that it had happened but more surprised that he hadn't said anything. So after dinner that night, I asked him: Are you doing okay in school? Yes. Are you getting along okay with the other kids? Yes. I heard you had trouble with another kid the other day. No. Okay, cards on the table: Your teacher told me that another kid tried to choke you--that he put his hands on your neck. Do you remember this? No. Can I watch my show?
I couldn't get over this: My kid keeps telling me that he's being picked on, that there are bullies in his class, but it's no more than what he deals with from his little brother at home. But the one time he has every right to complain, that a kid actually is mean to him, he not only doesn't mention it; he apparently doesn't even remember.
Some time later, there was a day when both my boys went to work with Daddy one day. While they were there, he got them each a little toy from the hospital gift shop--a miniature measuring tape. They love the real ones and are always getting in trouble for playing with them, so these were extra cool toys. In the car on the way home, they were measuring everything in sight--the windows, their seats, one another. And my oldest said something about 21 inches. So I said, "You were 21 inches long when you were born. Your brother was 19 inches long. Can you find 19 inches?" He's been having trouble with the teen numbers, mixing up 19 and 90, for example, so learning to properly identify all the teens has been a math goal lately. He worked hard for several minutes, looking all over his measuring tape, considering and then rejecting several choices. Finally, very thoughtfully, he announced, "I found 19. Except it has a 2 in it."
Never stop finding the answers, my son. And in the absence of any useful answers, never stop provinding your own.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Who Do You Think You Are?
I've been thinking a lot lately about identity. I'm sure that for some people, they think of themselves first and foremost in terms of their profession. "I'm a lawyer." (I guess that when you spend that much money to become something, it better be a pretty important part of your personality when you're done!) And I hear other people describe themselves in terms of their hobbies or interests: I'm an avid read; I'm a volunteer; I'm a passionate fisherman, or whatever. And of course, a lot of people describe themselves as parents. And I do the same thing. I mean, to most of the people who know me, I'm Z, E, and M's mom. But a few years into parenting, especially if you're a stay-at-home parent, I think you have to start to wonder if you're ever going to be anything other than your kid's mom again.
There was a time when I was widely considered to be smart; when people actively sought out my opinion about things ranging from punctuation to politics. There was a time when I had an active social life and knew which places to frequent when, depending on the kind of crowd you were up for that night; when I knew how to make a martini and how to drink one and still usually chose beer. There was a time when I had all kinds of friends, all ages, all interests, all backgrounds; when we used to get together and just see what was going to happen that night. There was a time when I was considered funny; when I used to say witty things and people would laugh. And let's not forget one of the fundamentals: There was a time when I used to spend all my time with people who were totally, completely potty trained--people whose poops were no one's business but their own. Those were the days, huh?
Now I'm considered an authority on how to get babies to sleep, on how to stop fights from getting out of hand, on how to handle diaper rash (there are several schools of thought on all of those, just so you know). Now the places I go rarely vary: the living room, kitchen, and E's room for most of the day, occasionally interrupted by the TV room and bedroom. Once a week or so, I venture out to the bank, and on Saturday I usually make it to the grocery store. Once every couple of months, I make it to book club, and I'm trying to make it to PTA once a month. I remember only that you shouldn't put too much vermouth in a martini; but I'm very good at mixing a bottle, even with that tricky, crazy thick formula. I still usually drink beer, but now it's always at home. I haven't heard from most of my old friends in years. We lost touch when I got married and had kids and they didn't. I had birthday parties and day care, and they had budding careers and new relationships. Now they may have the birthday parties and day care, but too much time has passed, and we just don't connect anymore. We try to email or call occasionally, but it never lasts. And new friends are hard to find when you never leave the house. No one thinks I'm funny anymore, unless you count my 10-month-old, who laughs when I stick out my tongue and wiggle my finger at her. And very few people in my life are potty trained. Let's face it: poop is now a major player in my life/
I'm not complaining per se. It's not that I would leave my kids and go off to some sparkling new job all day if I could. I love getting to be here with them, and I love the kids I stay with. (Both genuinely true and the "standard mom disclaimer," as my sister calls it.) But I think in addition to the isolation that comes with staying home with kids, which is another post in and of itself, it really calls into question who exactly you are; if you're not all the things you used to be, who are you instead? And have all the previous dimensions of your personality been replaced by "my kid's mom"? I try to do things--this blog is an example--that remind me and everyone else that I am more than just the person I appear to be from day to day. But I wonder how everyone else handles it. And how women have handled it for hundreds of years. Because I do wake up most mornings wondering, now that things have changed so much in the last 5 years or so, just who I think I am.
There was a time when I was widely considered to be smart; when people actively sought out my opinion about things ranging from punctuation to politics. There was a time when I had an active social life and knew which places to frequent when, depending on the kind of crowd you were up for that night; when I knew how to make a martini and how to drink one and still usually chose beer. There was a time when I had all kinds of friends, all ages, all interests, all backgrounds; when we used to get together and just see what was going to happen that night. There was a time when I was considered funny; when I used to say witty things and people would laugh. And let's not forget one of the fundamentals: There was a time when I used to spend all my time with people who were totally, completely potty trained--people whose poops were no one's business but their own. Those were the days, huh?
Now I'm considered an authority on how to get babies to sleep, on how to stop fights from getting out of hand, on how to handle diaper rash (there are several schools of thought on all of those, just so you know). Now the places I go rarely vary: the living room, kitchen, and E's room for most of the day, occasionally interrupted by the TV room and bedroom. Once a week or so, I venture out to the bank, and on Saturday I usually make it to the grocery store. Once every couple of months, I make it to book club, and I'm trying to make it to PTA once a month. I remember only that you shouldn't put too much vermouth in a martini; but I'm very good at mixing a bottle, even with that tricky, crazy thick formula. I still usually drink beer, but now it's always at home. I haven't heard from most of my old friends in years. We lost touch when I got married and had kids and they didn't. I had birthday parties and day care, and they had budding careers and new relationships. Now they may have the birthday parties and day care, but too much time has passed, and we just don't connect anymore. We try to email or call occasionally, but it never lasts. And new friends are hard to find when you never leave the house. No one thinks I'm funny anymore, unless you count my 10-month-old, who laughs when I stick out my tongue and wiggle my finger at her. And very few people in my life are potty trained. Let's face it: poop is now a major player in my life/
I'm not complaining per se. It's not that I would leave my kids and go off to some sparkling new job all day if I could. I love getting to be here with them, and I love the kids I stay with. (Both genuinely true and the "standard mom disclaimer," as my sister calls it.) But I think in addition to the isolation that comes with staying home with kids, which is another post in and of itself, it really calls into question who exactly you are; if you're not all the things you used to be, who are you instead? And have all the previous dimensions of your personality been replaced by "my kid's mom"? I try to do things--this blog is an example--that remind me and everyone else that I am more than just the person I appear to be from day to day. But I wonder how everyone else handles it. And how women have handled it for hundreds of years. Because I do wake up most mornings wondering, now that things have changed so much in the last 5 years or so, just who I think I am.
Monday, January 5, 2009
I'm losing a battle of wills with my 3-year-old
First of all, in the name of full disclosure, I feel like crap. I've caught some sort of cold that immediately went to my chest, leaving me with a perpetual smoker's cough, without any of the fun nicotine buzz. And M, now 10 months, is teething or something and is up approximately all night long, wanting to nurse, but not really, and ideally on the other side, and plus on her stomach. So I was a little crabby. But this was the worst parenting day I can ever remember, at least for a few hours.
E is apparently outgrowing the need for a nap, which is leaving me breathless with terror. I can't tell you how much I count on that hour or two in a 24-hour period that I can kind of call my own. He wasn't napping at all well the last 2 weeks, but Z was off school, so I blamed it on having a non-napper in the house, making just enough noise to keep him up. I was seriously looking forward to today, since the husband was back at work and I would have some naptime me-time for just a little while. I got the little day care kids down and settled E and his friend in his room. We tried a new approach today: "You don't have to sleep today. There are only two rules. Stay in your bed and be quiet." Holy crap. I seriously thought that was a practical request. I got M to sleep, nursing, and just as I put her down, I realized two things: Z would be home from school in 20 minutes, and E and friend were running and yelling just above M's head. Thus followed several of the worst hours of my life.
I tried the nice approach: "You don't want your sister to cry, do you? You're going to wake her and make her cry. Do you have your book? You can read, you just have to be quiet." I tried the stern approach: "That's it. You are going to plant your butt on your bed and shut your mouth right now. And if you want a book, there's one right there. You don't get a different one." And I tried the mean approach: "You don't get a show for the rest of the day. No Baby Einstein, no SpongeBob, nothing. And if you don't shut your mouth right now, you don't get anything tomorrow either!" And while all this was going on, M woke up and started screaming--twice. (My new approach to getting her to sleep more at night--let her work it out during the day. I'm way more willing to let her scream for 10 minutes at 2 PM than at 2 AM.) And E, whom my husband has referred to as "Cool Hand Luke" and as "a force of nature," sat through it all. I swear to god, I have never actually met a more strong-willed child. I've seen the titles referring to "the strong-willed child" and always thought "I could get that, but nah." I mean, in order for you to get a book because a description of your kid is on the cover, your kid has to be diagnosed with something, right? I mean, mine must not be what they're talking about because he doesn't have Strong-Willed Child Syndrome--or something. But I think the time has come. He's a really smart kid, no question. He obviously listens closely to what people say, and then later I'm always shocked at the way he uses them in context. And when he's really engaged in listening, I can see what a great learner he is. But the strength of his will just gets in the way of his comprehension. As I explained the consequences of his behavior, he would just scream at me that he wanted to listen. And I would tell him that he wasn't listening, or that he had already lost one thing and was on the way to losing more. And he would just scream that "I WANT TO LISTEN!" I know that the idea--that a person makes a choice and there are consequences that follow that choice--makes sense to him. He sees it with his siblings and the day care kids, and even with his parents. But when he gets all up in arms, he just can't grasp that things aren't going to happen the way he wants them to. And he gets into a mode of just consistently making them worse.
By the time Z got home from school, E was in major trouble with the bedroom door closed (which he hates), M was crying her eyes out, and I was barely holding it together. An hour later, I think everyone but Z was in tears. Fortunately he was pretty into his Dora game and didn't really notice my tears--I think. But I was amazed. I am admittedly a pretty emotional person. But this was over the top. I thought I was going to have to run away for a few minutes so I didn't lose it completely. My husband has said that E is about 4,000 times better at conflict than I am, and about 4 times better than he is. So I know I'm outmatched. But if I want him to grow up into someone the rest of the world loves as much as I do, I have to find a way to deal with this insanely strong will of his. (We came up with a reward system for quiet naps, by the way; we'll see in the next week or so how it pans out.)
UPDATE 1/6: After tearfully describing my day to my sweet husband, he suggested a chart approach instead. Every day that E is quiet at nap time (being "a god listener," which is what we're always telling him he needs to be), he will get an X on his chart. If he fills his chart (6 Xs), then he will get a special big treat like going out for fast food or getting to pick a movie. Today was like night and day. The chart incentive worked absolute wonders. I realized first that I would always rather give them something than take something away; it just feels better as a parent to make them happy rather than sad. And second, he's much more motivated by working toward something than he is by avoiding something bad. Fingers crossed that it will continue to work well!
E is apparently outgrowing the need for a nap, which is leaving me breathless with terror. I can't tell you how much I count on that hour or two in a 24-hour period that I can kind of call my own. He wasn't napping at all well the last 2 weeks, but Z was off school, so I blamed it on having a non-napper in the house, making just enough noise to keep him up. I was seriously looking forward to today, since the husband was back at work and I would have some naptime me-time for just a little while. I got the little day care kids down and settled E and his friend in his room. We tried a new approach today: "You don't have to sleep today. There are only two rules. Stay in your bed and be quiet." Holy crap. I seriously thought that was a practical request. I got M to sleep, nursing, and just as I put her down, I realized two things: Z would be home from school in 20 minutes, and E and friend were running and yelling just above M's head. Thus followed several of the worst hours of my life.
I tried the nice approach: "You don't want your sister to cry, do you? You're going to wake her and make her cry. Do you have your book? You can read, you just have to be quiet." I tried the stern approach: "That's it. You are going to plant your butt on your bed and shut your mouth right now. And if you want a book, there's one right there. You don't get a different one." And I tried the mean approach: "You don't get a show for the rest of the day. No Baby Einstein, no SpongeBob, nothing. And if you don't shut your mouth right now, you don't get anything tomorrow either!" And while all this was going on, M woke up and started screaming--twice. (My new approach to getting her to sleep more at night--let her work it out during the day. I'm way more willing to let her scream for 10 minutes at 2 PM than at 2 AM.) And E, whom my husband has referred to as "Cool Hand Luke" and as "a force of nature," sat through it all. I swear to god, I have never actually met a more strong-willed child. I've seen the titles referring to "the strong-willed child" and always thought "I could get that, but nah." I mean, in order for you to get a book because a description of your kid is on the cover, your kid has to be diagnosed with something, right? I mean, mine must not be what they're talking about because he doesn't have Strong-Willed Child Syndrome--or something. But I think the time has come. He's a really smart kid, no question. He obviously listens closely to what people say, and then later I'm always shocked at the way he uses them in context. And when he's really engaged in listening, I can see what a great learner he is. But the strength of his will just gets in the way of his comprehension. As I explained the consequences of his behavior, he would just scream at me that he wanted to listen. And I would tell him that he wasn't listening, or that he had already lost one thing and was on the way to losing more. And he would just scream that "I WANT TO LISTEN!" I know that the idea--that a person makes a choice and there are consequences that follow that choice--makes sense to him. He sees it with his siblings and the day care kids, and even with his parents. But when he gets all up in arms, he just can't grasp that things aren't going to happen the way he wants them to. And he gets into a mode of just consistently making them worse.
By the time Z got home from school, E was in major trouble with the bedroom door closed (which he hates), M was crying her eyes out, and I was barely holding it together. An hour later, I think everyone but Z was in tears. Fortunately he was pretty into his Dora game and didn't really notice my tears--I think. But I was amazed. I am admittedly a pretty emotional person. But this was over the top. I thought I was going to have to run away for a few minutes so I didn't lose it completely. My husband has said that E is about 4,000 times better at conflict than I am, and about 4 times better than he is. So I know I'm outmatched. But if I want him to grow up into someone the rest of the world loves as much as I do, I have to find a way to deal with this insanely strong will of his. (We came up with a reward system for quiet naps, by the way; we'll see in the next week or so how it pans out.)
UPDATE 1/6: After tearfully describing my day to my sweet husband, he suggested a chart approach instead. Every day that E is quiet at nap time (being "a god listener," which is what we're always telling him he needs to be), he will get an X on his chart. If he fills his chart (6 Xs), then he will get a special big treat like going out for fast food or getting to pick a movie. Today was like night and day. The chart incentive worked absolute wonders. I realized first that I would always rather give them something than take something away; it just feels better as a parent to make them happy rather than sad. And second, he's much more motivated by working toward something than he is by avoiding something bad. Fingers crossed that it will continue to work well!
Friday, October 10, 2008
The "Smart One"
I imagine it's true in every family, but I've been thinking a lot lately about how in our family, everyone got assigned roles--and pretty early, it seems to me. For as long as I can remember, my brother, sister, and I have all had pretty clear labels in the family structure. I was "the smart one" but also "the disorganized one" and often "the emotional one." My sister was "the organized one" and "the social butterfly" (read: the pretty one). My brother, four years younger than her and six younger than me, seemed to have his own set of rules. He is the only boy so inherited the "boy" identity: the sporty one, the daredevil, daddy's boy. He's also the baby, so he got to be the special one in some ways. (I think that sounds resentful, but it's not meant to be. I don't think any of us really chose our family roles; he just took what he was handed.)
So fast forward: We're now 32, 30, and 26. And in many ways, we're still acting out these same roles. My brother has moved halfway across the country. My sister has lived all over the country and has settled (for the moment) here in Minnesota with her husband and 1 1/2 kids. I'm the mother of three obsessing over whether I'm assigning them roles the same way they were assigned to us. My parents split up in a very, very messy divorce just as my second was being born (he moved out when I was 8 months pregnant.) Now my dad's remarried and I have a step-mother and step-sister to wrap my head around (particularly tricky, as step-mom is my age, and step-sister is in kindergarten, just like my oldest). The family as we knew it is gone with the wind. The more we think and talk about it, the more we realize it was never really there. And yet there I am, still trying to live up to being "the smart one," still accepting that I'm disorganized and will never be any better. And my sister is realizing that she went through much of her life thinking she had almost no emotions, and she's only now trying to get in touch with the ones that have been there all along.
My oldest is sweet and sensitive. He's been that way since the day we brought him home from the hospital and I slept on the couch with him in the bassinet next to me, eventually bringing him in with me--where he then slept for the next year. My middle son is, as my husband says, "a force of nature." He's surprisingly sensitive, but I am often reminded of Stampy from "The Simpsons," head butting people just for kicks. And my youngest, our girl, is so far pretty sweet and easy going. And I'll admit to wanting to dress her in sundresses and hair ribbons until she eventually screams in protest. So how do I look at these three and stop myself from assigning them the roles of "the sweet one" or "the strong one" or even "the girl"? Long after they're at all relevant, my siblings and I are still acting out our family roles and trying to outlive their impact. I know I'm going to screw them up somehow, but shouldn't it count for something that I see this one coming?
So fast forward: We're now 32, 30, and 26. And in many ways, we're still acting out these same roles. My brother has moved halfway across the country. My sister has lived all over the country and has settled (for the moment) here in Minnesota with her husband and 1 1/2 kids. I'm the mother of three obsessing over whether I'm assigning them roles the same way they were assigned to us. My parents split up in a very, very messy divorce just as my second was being born (he moved out when I was 8 months pregnant.) Now my dad's remarried and I have a step-mother and step-sister to wrap my head around (particularly tricky, as step-mom is my age, and step-sister is in kindergarten, just like my oldest). The family as we knew it is gone with the wind. The more we think and talk about it, the more we realize it was never really there. And yet there I am, still trying to live up to being "the smart one," still accepting that I'm disorganized and will never be any better. And my sister is realizing that she went through much of her life thinking she had almost no emotions, and she's only now trying to get in touch with the ones that have been there all along.
My oldest is sweet and sensitive. He's been that way since the day we brought him home from the hospital and I slept on the couch with him in the bassinet next to me, eventually bringing him in with me--where he then slept for the next year. My middle son is, as my husband says, "a force of nature." He's surprisingly sensitive, but I am often reminded of Stampy from "The Simpsons," head butting people just for kicks. And my youngest, our girl, is so far pretty sweet and easy going. And I'll admit to wanting to dress her in sundresses and hair ribbons until she eventually screams in protest. So how do I look at these three and stop myself from assigning them the roles of "the sweet one" or "the strong one" or even "the girl"? Long after they're at all relevant, my siblings and I are still acting out our family roles and trying to outlive their impact. I know I'm going to screw them up somehow, but shouldn't it count for something that I see this one coming?
Monday, September 29, 2008
Welcome to the Blog, My Dear
The time has come to join the technology generation. Now that I'm the mother of three kids who will all grow up with cell phones, PDAs, mp3 players, and other technology that I haven't heard of yet but which they will all positivly die without, I guess it's time for me to try to keep up.
A little about me: I'm 32 and grew up in Minnesota. I met my husband the day after Christmas 1999, and we were married in Itasca State Park in September 2002. Our oldest son, Z, was born the following August. In December 2005, our second boy, E, was born. And this past March, we had our daughter, M. Until E was born, I worked outside the home, but since March 2006, I've been doing day care. It's been a phenomenal way for me to stay home with my kids, though I do get a little nuts for grown-up talk sometimes. I crave adult conversation and have recently joined a book club and the PTA mostly to get to talk to grown-ups. I swear I used to have actual friends, but between the kids and staying home and my old friends sort of disappearing, I'm pretty much down to my sister and a few "virtual" friends. Not that I object to "virtual" friends--they're a damn sight better than nothing. But I would love some more actual people in my life--you know, people who are potty trained.
Things get stressful and you start looking around wondering if this is where you really expected your life to end up. That's when you start blogging, I guess, sending your thoughts out into the universe to see if anyone else out there has any insight, or whether your thoughts are even worth anyone's time. We'll see.
A little about me: I'm 32 and grew up in Minnesota. I met my husband the day after Christmas 1999, and we were married in Itasca State Park in September 2002. Our oldest son, Z, was born the following August. In December 2005, our second boy, E, was born. And this past March, we had our daughter, M. Until E was born, I worked outside the home, but since March 2006, I've been doing day care. It's been a phenomenal way for me to stay home with my kids, though I do get a little nuts for grown-up talk sometimes. I crave adult conversation and have recently joined a book club and the PTA mostly to get to talk to grown-ups. I swear I used to have actual friends, but between the kids and staying home and my old friends sort of disappearing, I'm pretty much down to my sister and a few "virtual" friends. Not that I object to "virtual" friends--they're a damn sight better than nothing. But I would love some more actual people in my life--you know, people who are potty trained.
Things get stressful and you start looking around wondering if this is where you really expected your life to end up. That's when you start blogging, I guess, sending your thoughts out into the universe to see if anyone else out there has any insight, or whether your thoughts are even worth anyone's time. We'll see.
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