Life's classroom

Sure, I felt a little guilty about sending my older child, E down that steep hill on his bike. I knew that scraped knees and elbows were probably waiting for him at the bottom. On the other hand, this child is my risk-averse, fearful, 9 year-old not confident on his two wheeler. My child who fears failure so much that most of the time he won’t even try. I gave him this push, metaphorical and literal, towards the boundaries of his comfort zone and beyond. I sent him down that hill to show him that failure is the worst that can happen.
As it turns out, always the overachiever, E, failed in fantastic style. In snow skiing, his fall would have been known as the ski chalet-various paraphernalia splayed around him like in a shop. I ran to the scene of blood and sweat and dirt and tears and anger and failure. I consoled, I assured, I praised him for taking the plunge. I convinced him to get back on, and while I couldn’t get him to try that steep hill again, we did finish the ride. Back home.
Summer, the season of bike riding and exploring, of collecting frogs and beetles, of jump rope and swimming races and stickball and secret picnics in secret forts is the true classroom of our childhood. As these glorious (though unreasonably hot) months draw to an end, kids and moms alike bemoan the return to the stifling air conditioned classroom, the drudgery of homework, uniforms, haircuts, and carpool. We’re saddened by the end of that freedom.
While we, as responsible parents, are supposed to allow our children to fail, to experience hardship and persevere, we are also concerned about grades, and notes home from teachers, and the school district‘s permanent record. Summer is the best classroom, because failure is allowed. It’s not graded or ridiculed or lectured over. The kids are at liberty to blow it--epically--and be consoled and reassured and convinced to go on. Summer is learning with our peers and parents rather than unfamiliar teachers and intimidating principals.
As I wrapped my arms around my nearly-as-tall as I am son, snotty nose, filthy hands and bloody knees I swallowed a chuckle--the wipeout was truly spectacular--and smiled. For even as he sobbed and sniffled, he had just experienced the best lesson of the whole year. And all it cost him was the skin of his knee.
　

Parents back to school: grade C+

It's back to school, here in Alabama. I wish I could say we go back to school so early because our education is longer, better, or in some way distinctive from other places--in a positive way--but, alas. In mid-90 temps, the kids go back to school, instead of waiting until after Labor Day when temps and therefore the cost of air conditioning would be lower, but no. We end school in the lovely month of May and go back in the soupy, hot August. I will never understand.

By and large, there's a good vibe around here about going back to school. While the kids aren't doing the 'woohoo' dance around the living room, I do think there's a general consensus that it's time to do something besides lounge around the house, play Wii, watch TV, swim, and eat bonbons. In fact, if school started later in the day, and the boys could just chill in the morning instead of being herded out the door, school would be mighty fine. Nobody, but nobody wants to get up before 6:30.

I hate packing lunches in the morning. I hate pouring juice, opening the bag o' ham and smelling deli meat before coffee. I don't like trying to think of something new and exciting to send. I don't like not being able to default to peanut butter and jelly. Not that I want to actually kill the allergic children at school with my pb&j, it's just that I'm lazy. I don't like signing a jillion papers and sorting through the 20 fliers and handouts. And I'm not even a kid.

But, yesterday the house was quiet. Really, really quiet. I could hear the refrigerator kick on and off and the ice maker deposit the ice into the bucket. I lounged. I ran errands in a timely, efficient fashion without being interrupted, begged to stop, harrassed for lunch and/or snacks, or having to referree.

I got a latte and ran errands in civilized clothes. I browsed at the shoe store, since I was out, and though I found nothing, I didn't have to hear, "BUT YOU PROMISED WE ONLY HAD TO MAKE ONE STOP AND THIS ISN'T IT!" Which was a relief.

I washed laundry and put it away. I picked up Legos without having a new trail laid out behind me. I went for a walk. I listened to music I like in the car. And when there was no music that I liked, I sat in silence. Life is very different without the kids.

Not once did I get begged for a (unhealthy) snack, did I have to break up a fight, did I have to play Lego or Wii, or in any way intervene in the childhoold plague of boredom. It was a big contrast to the whining and bickering of Sunday.

I ran into a friend at the grocery who said I looked "liberated" without my kids. I felt liberated, too. Like I could enter into a conversation without my children turning into clinging interrupters. I felt adult, and decently dressed and ready to be out "in the world," rather than rush-showered, unmade-up and frantic to finish everything before the kids became unruly. Everything was rather zen and relaxed, and kind of the way I expected it to be on the first day of back to school.

And then some woman had to wreck it. She overheard my friend and me talking about the return of school and what a relief it is to have a break, however short, from our kids and to move through the day as adults. But, there was this woman. Late 40s, maybe, clucking her tongue and reminding us how fast everything passes by. How she's taking her third child off to college. And how her heart is breaking. And how just yesterday, her college student was a toddler.

I GET IT. But, nostalgia, people, is for people who have the luxury of looking back. Those of us with elementary-aged kids, are still in the midst of 'the shit.' We have no light at the end of our tunnels, and feel as though we will be running errands, chauffering to activities and participating as PTA parents forever and ever without end. I know, your college student/adult child grew up so fast, you just blinked and it was over. This is the process of parenting. I WILL, surely, feel the same way when I take my baby off to college, but for now, parents of adult children: STOP TELLING ME TO ENJOY THIS.

Did you enjoy this? Running around to lessons, activities, whatever after school birthday/event/thing was going on? Did you enjoy buying whatever obscure school supply the teachers have sent you scavenging for? Did you enjoy kids growing out of shoes, and complaining about the seams in the socks, or whining about dinner, or complaining about bedtime, or "forgetting" to wash their hair in the tub, or flooding the bathroom, or hating their uniforms, or, or or or? No, this is the grind. This is the elbow grease of parenting that will, someday, gods willing, lead to the joy of accomplishment: having a successful child who wants to continue a higher education and, simultaneously, still loves me enough to want me to drop him off at said college.

There are moments--we all have moments--of pure happiness. When a child is so sweet, so likeable, so smart, so kind, that we never want him to change. But those moments are scattered among the realities of life, and the challenge of being a good parent--oh, fine, of being a mediocre parent--is to remember those moments when your child has left Legos in the tub, or underfoot, or has left food crumbs for the cockroaches, or has failed to let the dog out before the dog's bladder gave out, or or or. Mediocre is my realistic goal. It's back to school, and I'm shootin' for average.

This bed is my bed, that bed is your bed

I stumbled onto another fight on Facebook (remember the last one was about moms having a life?). I learned a lesson and decided not to participate in this one, which was raging on several different status updates.

This one was about family beds.

I want to say one thing up front and loud and clear: IF you sleep in a family bed, I AM NOT JUDGING. (Shocking, right?) There are a lot of things that are none of my business--your checking account balance, your spouse's pet names, how long you think leftovers are edible, your comfort level with mildew in your shower--and sleeping with or without your kid is one of those things.

By posting this, I only ask that you extend the same courtesy.

I have been reading in a flood of momblogs, parenting blogs, and tree-hugging, love thy mother, we are allonelife blogs, that a family bed is the only way to go. That putting my child in a crib alone from the age of 1 minute is a cruel yet easy way to turn him into a black trench-coat wearing sociopath.

These articles paint me as the antichrist of moms: apparently, I sit in the vastness of my king bed's unused space, laughing like an evil genius at my child's piteous crying. Alone, sad, and miserable in his giant crib, his brain and soul are being malformed with every moment. I, on the other hand, should have my parent license revoked for ignoring his desperate need to be near me every second of his life.

I will concede that I value my personal space more than the average human being. I hated pregnancy because I had a giant parasite sitting on my bladder and punching my lung for 3/4 of a year. So, it's true that I may be at an emotional disadvantage with my children. I don't like crowds, I don't like it when strangers feel comfortable enough to touch me, and I really don't like it when my kids feel the need to hang off of me all the time.

After 9 months of of having my body transformed into a Macy's Parade balloon, I was admittedly not eager to bring that little sucker into the bed with me. When the kids transitioned out of cribs, I had the luxury of buying them each queen sized beds. Now, if they are sick or have nightmares or want a little cuddle, I can accommodate those needs and then boogie on back to my own bed when done. I don't have to try to fold up onto a toddler or twin bed to soothe, read stories to, or snuggle. But, be sure that the moment the fever is lowered, the books is closed, or the boy is asleep, I am out of that bed as fast as I can stealthily go.

Kids are hot little furnaces, they kick, they gnash their teeth, they flail their arms, they talk, whimper and whine, and frequently wind up perpendicular to the pillows when they sleep. It's like sleeping with a Wild Thing. On vacations, or other times when I'm forced to co-sleep, I have awoken with feet in my kidneys, inexplicable soreness, feet and hands in my face, and general malaise from a lack of rest. Always after these experiences, I am eager to return to my blissful temperpedic; M can jump on the bed and not even spill my wine. Perfect!

So, no. I have never slept in the same bed as my child unless unreasonable hotel/cruise rates required it. Am I a bad parent? I don't think so. When they were babies and cried in their cribs, I retrieved them, rocked them, soothed them, and stuck them back in their cribs. I wasn't a horrible ogre who ignored heart wrenching wails and let them gut it out alone. I loved them, but I gave them the space I would want.

The boys are now school aged, and have never had anxiety about leaving me or their dad for a day at school. They know that we will always be there for them, and that if they fail in any way, we are here to console them, and cheer them on again. I resent that family-bedders are telling me that, somehow, my children are suffering from that lack of closeness. Why does different have to be worse?

I am SURE there are benefits to the family bed. Those were just not benefits that outweigh the cons for our family. AND THAT'S OKAY. My kids are not suffering, I promise. PLEASE STOP TELLING ME TO DO IT YOUR WAY. I'm not telling you to do it mine.

A two person limit per bed worked for us. It may not work for you. Please don't lecture me, criticize me, or tell me how cruel I am.

This bed is big enough for all of us.

Other People's Kids

You know what sucks? Taking care of friends' kids. Not because there are more kids to look after, but because you realize that your friends are doing a damned sight better than you at raising their kids. Yesterday, I picked up two extra kids from school. W is 2 grades older than Ethan, and one is Sam's bromance, T. Their sister, V, is a toddler and stayed with grandma. So, the usual whine and cry of snack is delayed because all kids are chatting happily. There is no bicker and bitch about the day at school. We drive home as I outline the plan for the afternoon: homework, play, dinner, tee ball for S. No complaints. Everyone piles into the house smelling of summer and boystink. S has a meltdown. Probably because he's hungry, but he should always be hungry, so that's really not an explanation. He sits on the stairs cursing my name, parenting techniques and questioning my intelligence. E does his homework as though he's a space cadet, and trying desperately to impress W, his senior and therefore guardian of all coolness. W finishes his homework and cracks a book silently. T watches and asks him questions periodically about Harry Potter. Does W snap and call his brother stupid? Does T physically pester, poke and annoy his brother? No. They have normal, adult verbal exchanges. I look on, mystified. When homework is done, everyone boogies upstairs to play Lego. Like Lego is what the world is missing to create world peace. They are up there, giggling and playing, and actually complimenting each other and admiring one another's workmanship. I can hear mine squabbling. S slips into his uniform without complaint and we all head off to dinner. The OTHER boys both agree on where to eat. Mine bicker. We go with majority rules, and grab burgers and fries. W is very responsible about taking care of some stitches (for a previous injury that I had nothing to do with, thank you!). He swallows medicine, gargles with nasty peroxide and complains NONE. The salty fries, however, irritate his injury, and I offer to stop and get some Advil. This is the response (Brace yourself, as these are words not normally appropriate for a child): "No, that's ok. I'll be fine. I don't want you to go out of your way or spend extra money on me." Just for that, we're stopping. At the tee ball park, the three non-participants play catch with one another nicely in the shadows. No bickering, no drama. They even come over and watch the final inning of S's game without mentioning how boring it is OR how S was the final out of the game. "Good job. Nice game, S." Did E offer S words of praise? Nope. Hell is still toasty. Everyone came home, and W and T went off to bed and shower without a single complaint, even though I know that I sent them to bed earlier and with night time baths which isn't how they do it at home. E and S accused each other of flooding the bathroom, using all the soap and going into one another's rooms without permission. To top it all off, I go up for lights out and W is all snuggled in reading his Bible. "Can I just finish this paragraph?" Of course. I don't need another reason to be struck by lightning in the middle of the night.

12 Things I've learned after 12 years of marriage

1. Never underestimate the ability of one partner or another to say something insanely stupid. 2. Always assume that if a partner has lied to get out of an obligation, the other partner will blow it within the week, as in "Oh. RIGHT. Friday. We WERE stuck at some work obligation, not sitting home talking about how glad we were not to be out with you guys." 3. If your husband leaves socks by the bed when you are single, he will still leave socks by the bed 12 years later. Cats are easier to train. 4. Asking your husband how his day was and then interrupting him to talk about your day doesn't score any more points with him than not asking about his day at all. 5. At some point in your marriage, you will watch your husband eat a salad and think to yourself, I would rather die than grow old with this person. 6. Children, to be best loved, should be an indistinguishable blend of both parents. One that resembles a partner too much may suffer unfairly for it on occasion. 7. Someone always has to be the bad guy. 8. A sense of humor will not get you through everything. The last laugh is not usually worth it. 9. Couples have been fighting about housework since the first man dropped his spear in a cave. They will be fighting long into the future. Accept your place in this history, know you will fight about it, and be prepared to do it anyway. 10. Couples have been fighting about money since the first woman spent her shells on a new teepee. They will be fighting about it long into the future. Accept that you spent too much on something you didn't REALLY need, and try to do better next time. 11.When people tell their kids that the divorce isn't the kids' fault, they are lying. EVERYTHING is the kids' fault. 12. Don't let your husband know your blog's web address.

Biological Laws of Chilren

Black and white. Up and down. Tom(eh)to. Tom(ah)to.

Such are my kids. I think part of evolutionary biology should be studying the frequency that siblings are completely different from one another. Many reasons, I suspect ( extremely amateurish and anecdotal "science" to follow):

1. Diversity. If both my kids were total dorks, neither one of them could perpetuate their genetic material. Presumably the dork will attract a dorkette and they will contribute smart nerd genes to the pool. The non-dork might attract a (short) hottie and contribute good looks to the pool.

2. Parental quality. Having children with distinct personalities, polar behavioral tendencies, and requiring completely different discipline methods keeps parents on their toes. Evolution doesn't want you to get lazy and let your second batch of genetic material wind up neglected and unable to cope in the world. We can only hope that there is some health benefit for the parent.

3. Sanity. Perhaps this is the sole health benefit for the parent. If one child enters into a phase of completely irrational, drive you up the wall behavior, the other child generally falls into line. Until he doesn't. Then he's driving you up the wall while the first one moves along without incident. If children somehow synced themselves, then all hell would break out, and parents would be committed at alarming rates.

I announce these non-scientific conclusions based on recent 'spring' cleaning. While I discovered the aforementioned treasures in E's room, I found nothing of the sort in S's.

S's room was much more like him--lacking mystery or a pensive side. It was straightforward, pretty much what you'd expect from a 5 year old boy whose room hasn't been cleaned out for 6 months.

Treasures? No. Contraband. Candy wrappers, lollipop sticks, greasy foil potato chip lunch bags. Even a grotesquely solid sippy cup of milk. (Cringe.)

Well-loved and meaningful books/toys/stuffed animals? No. Legos and Hot Wheels, though well catalogued in the kid's head were stashed, crammed, forgotten under/over/on top of everything else.

Dirty socks? Yes, everywhere. Under the bed, dresser, toys, rug, everywhere.

So different was my experience in both kids' room, that I wandered back into E's room just to confirm that reality. One boy, emotional, sensitive, secretly imbuing objects with meaning and feeling. One boy, straightforward, sneaking that which is forbidden, playing with and promptly forgetting, toys.

While E's bedroom required a special jar of loved things, S's required none. While E's bedroom yielded only a single bag of trash, S's yielded 2. It's not scientific, but it does quantify things a bit.

The most interesting part is which elements of myself I see in each one. Which brings me to evolutionary biology point #4:

4. Murder prevention. If each child retains personality traits or physical resemblance to each parent, each parent is far less likely to strangle that child at any given time.

To toss or not to toss

First of all, as I write this at 8 in the morning, it is dark, dark, DARK outside. Really...all the lights are off in here and it could be the middle of the night. Which I hate, but I do love the rain.

Anyway, what was I saying? Right. I have holed myself up in the house for spring cleaning. Before you leap to the comments section, I know it is not spring. But when spring comes, I have to go outside and clean the outside before it gets hot as hades out there. Ergo, my cleaning seasons do not align with Earth's seasons. (Does this surprise you at all?!? Sometimes I wonder if I even live on this planet.) Winter=cleaning inside house, Spring = cleaning outside house, Summer = cleaning anything with a hose (it's hot!) Fall = organizing clothes.
Yesterday, I worked a couple of hours in E's room. I moved the furniture, vacuumed and wiped down all the baseboards behind and under the bed. I washed the interior windows, vacuumed the valances, washed the curtains, cleaned out the drawers, sorted clothes to save for S and to give away, culled 'treasures' from trash, washed and ironed bed skirts and comforters, flipped the mattress, hand washed the floor. Today, I have to brave his closet, and then start on my bedroom. (UGH)
Kids have funny ideas of treasures. E had an Oriental Trading catalog with pages that had furred from his constant rereading. (I pitched it.) He saved M's broken watch. He saved a key he found on the ground in NYC. I remember having treasures in my room, too. When you have so little independence, when you can't go buy something meaningful or receive something valuable, I guess you have to assign meaning to things you find. E's drawers were like a homeless person's grocery cart: tattered scraps of paper, unusual bottles, broken beaded necklaces, old rabies tags from the dog, remains of art projects long faded, rocks. Surely, some items found their way in to his underwear drawer on accident, but clearly others were stored there, ferreted away to be studied later. I didn't throw away most of it, and collected it for him in a jar.

I truly didn't want to pry, and won't ask him about his treasures. I wonder what he thinks about when he looks through those dear collections. I wonder if he'll remember those odd objects as an adult, the way we sometimes do: ordinary things completely imbued with mystery and meaning, recalled as shinier or larger, or somehow better than they actually were. Tokens that became talismans.

It's hard to put myself in my kids' shoes on a day to day basis. I do remember so much of my childhood, but not in a readily accessible part of the brain. I remember having an entire playroom full of toys. In that room, though, there were other things that stand out so clearly. Things I yearned to touch but wasn't supposed to, things on shelves up high, so that I could only see their lids and was left to wonder what they were like. A lot of those things didn't make it to my parents' new house. One was a piggy bank, but it was metal and heavy and in the shape of the John Hancock Building in Chicago (where was that, anyway?). Another thing was probably (in retrospect) a small brass pitcher for olive oil (coffee?) in the middle east. There were strange things too: a pelican bone that stayed in a pitcher on the bar, and (what I later discovered to be) a roach clip and rolling paper in the very very back of a drawer. (tsk tsk)

My parents recently brought a couple of totes full of crap from my childhood room. There were souvenirs from vacations, photos of people without heads, (when I was shorter, I failed to angle the camera up, so the photos were a child's-eye view of people's abdomens) small gifts. One of the things was a heart shaped ceramic box with a rose. As soon as I saw it, I knew what was inside: the torn corner of an envelope with my 3rd grade teacher's return address. I thought it made me terribly special to know exactly where a teacher spent her out of school life.
In any event, I was merciful with most of Ethan's squirrelled-away goodies. I collected a bag of clothes for the Goodwill, and a smaller bag of trash. I filled a pickle jar with his odds and ends. And realized, too late, that a winter cleaning is a battle with the dust bunnies, sure, but also with nostalgia.
I know treasures lurk in my own closet. I dread having to sort them. My closet has rescued stuffed, very loved animals (Boys: "I don't want this anymore, it's for babies.") and a Ziploc of the tooth fairy's prized baby pearls, first art projects with "moom" scrawled in crayon, locks of hair, chewed-on board books, and favorite baby outfits. There are treasures from my own youth: a favorite stuffy, my blankie, the velvet box proffered on bended knee.
When I think of all the stuff in this house (and there is a LOT of stuff) and all the times I've screamed, "don't touch that!" I think of S, too short to see the things on the lower shelves, climbing up on stools and tiptoes to explore what's there, and I have the impulse to save everything forever.
Not the best mindset when tackling an eight year old's closet.

The Physics of Parenting

As far as I understand physics, which is not very far, current theories abound on alternate dimensions, alternate realities, wormholes through mulitidimensional spaces, the possibility that our reality is merely a hologram, and a space/time continuum that can be disrupted with a flux capacitor.

Very intelligent people with very advanced degrees and brains much bigger than mine are probing the universe both vast and miniscule for proof of these ambitious theories. I, however, have found proof.

Yes, it's true. I know that you're thinking, "J, I've seen you try to calculate a tip at lunch. There is no way you have solved the enormous mysteries of the universe."

But, I have seen and heard with my own senses the reality of an alternate universe. For real. And people, that universe is beautiful.

First, let me explain the players in our universal dilemma:

Reality A: That is the reality I know. It's the reality in which my friends here exist, the planar dimension in which children, laundry, discipline, homework, and all other trappings of mortal life exist.

Reality B: This reality has accidentally intruded upon my reality. This is the reality for people without children who live in real cities, have disposable income and free time.

Wormhole: The cell phone, equipped with the flux capacitor, with which I am able to communicate with Reality B.

Holographic Me: HM. The person on the other end of the flux capacitor cell phone. Sounds a lot like my younger, married, blissfully childless sister.

Now, the first blip, if you will, of the space/time continuum between Realities A and B occurred last week. HM contacted me through the Wormhole and asked what I wanted for Christmas. Christmas? That's like 2 Reality A months away! Nobody in Reality A is thinking that far ahead. Reality A people have dug their claws in and are just trying to survive effing Halloween. Clearly, Reality B time accelerates much faster than ours.

The next blip occurred three days after the conversation with HM. A box arrived on my doorstep. Was this UPS man MY UPS man? Was he a Reality A UPS man? Or was he the John Connor of UPS men? Was he a messenger not of material goods, but of space and time itself?!?

Upon opening the box, I found a gorgeous Williams-Sonoma salt-keeper made of hand polished Italian olive wood. This very item was what I told the HM I wanted for Christmas. Holy shit!! HM is sending me my wishes from an alternate dimension.

Yesterday, another box arrived from HM. It was a very appropriate, hip and well-fitting sweater for M. HM had processed my request for clothing for my husband and sent it through the wormhole device through the personage of the intergalactic UPS man? Things were indeed getting seriously cool.

THEN. This conversation. Between me and HM through the Wormhole. all the evidence in the Reality A that another reality clearly exists.

HM: You said your kids needed pj's for Christmaskah. (wow. HM even knows my hybrid holidays)

Reality A Me: Yes. PJ's are things that children on our planet sleep in.

HM: Yes. I am in Target. In the boys' section. I see pj's. I need to know what size your boys are.

RA Me: S is XS. E is M. Thank you!?!

HM: E likes this Bakugan (buh-KU-gun) thing, no?

RA Me: Yes. It is called BAK-u-gan. I don't really understand it, but it appears to be something Earthlings his age are playing with.

HM: Target has these bak-u-GAN pjs here. They seem to be navy with some kind of bomb thingys all over the pants.

RA Me: Oh, yah. He has those. Weird. Those exist in your universe, too? Perhaps they have Phineas and Ferb pjs in his size. His brother already has the Phineas and Ferb ones, but E would probably like them, too.

HM: What are you saying? Fin YAY us and Fur?

RA Me: Sorry, the Wormhole connection must not be clear. Phineas and Ferb. It's a cartoon series.

HM: How would I recognize this Finny and Fur pj?

RA Me: Phineas and Ferb. There's a ninja fighting platypus on the front.

HM: Now you're just messing with me. You can't just put random words in order and make a sentence. You must use proper, sensical words in my universe.

RA Me: No, for real. His name is Agent P. The pants have his nemesis on them. Jewish looking dude in a lab coat? His name is Dufenshmirtz. Wanna hear his theme song?

HM: Seriously. I am looking for pajamas. I do not know what the hell you are talking....oh, shit. Look at that! I found the Ninja platypus. Part mammal, part reptile, entirely effed up.

RA Me: Yes, and my son tells me that the male platypus has a poisonous spur on his hind food. Seriously strange. But I digress.

HM: OK. I have the Finny Furry pjs. Now, what about the other son? They have something here with animated cars that talk and have eyeballs instead of headlights?

RA Me: No. Those aren't cool anymore.

HM: Does S want the Backy gan pjs?

RA Me: No. S hates Bakugan. (Why can HM not learn this word?!?) What else do they have?

HM: It appears as though there are Star Wars characters made out of....Lego pieces?

RA Me: Yes! PERFECT. He loves Lego Star Wars.

HM: There were no Legos in Star Wars. Also, what is this creature that looks like a lizard? What is a Clone Wars?

RA: Yes. We call it cross marketing. Lego has recreated the entire Star Wars Universe in Lego pieces. They sell the kits for bazillions of our monetary units. Also, George Lucas created another episode of the Star Wars saga with animated aliens to expand the time between the young Jedi Anakin's training and his rebirth as Darth Vader. I think the lizard thing you see might be Ahsoka. Is it female?

HM: What the @#(*() are you talking about?

RA Me: Actually, that was way nerdier than I anticipated. Yes, get the Lego-ized animated alien pajamas. That will make son #2 happy.

HM: Great. These are only like $12. Their Christmas shopping is done, too. I'll go over to the Lego store and pick up a couple of those kits.

RA Me: YOU HAVE AN ENTIRE LEGO STORE!?!? S would explode with happiness.

HM: Yes, it's right next door to Banana Republic.

RA Me: YOU HAVE BANANA REPUBLIC?!?! I would explode with happiness.
I love your universe.

HM: I've been shopping for like 3 hours. I'm almost done with my Christmaskah list.

RA Me: But how did you shop with the kids whining and bitching and touching and begging to go home?

HM: Don't have 'em. Don't want 'em. I'm done. I'll drop these things in the mail tomorrow. Bye.

RA Me: (left staring at the Wormhole) Woah. No kids. Banana Republic. Amazing. Christmas shopping all done in peace and quiet? Woah. *Shiver*

It's humbling, people. It's a big universe. And CLEARLY, there is intelligent life out there.

Conspiracy Theory

They're out to get me. It's a plot. A conspiracy. An evil league of evil doers completely set on two things and two things alone: making me insane and destroying my worldly posessions.

Shhhh. They'll hear me. I don't want them to know that I am on to them. They might attack in a new way. Do you think they can read this? Are they online now, watching me?

M made a paper boat for them on Sunday. They set it out to sail on the pool. Naturally, it got wet. S turned it into a wadded ball and put purple marker on it while it was still wet. He threw it up on to the ceiling where it stuck like a spitball. Until I got it down. But it left a purple stain on the ceiling.

See what I mean? That clearly can't happen without tremendous foresight and evil planning? How did they convince M to make the paper ship? How did they know? How did S know to use purple marker instead of yellow or some other slightly less conspicuous color? How did he know to throw it up on the ceiling directly over the TV so that I notice it every time I sit down?

They must have been planning. For a long time.

How did they know that leaving sticky lollipop residue on the cabinets would cause navy lint from their uniform shorts to adhere and leave dark, sticky mess all over my cabinets? How many experiments did they secretly run to determine the stickiest adhesive? The most obvious color of lint?

I think I am being regularly drugged while they conduct their experiments. It's why there are never enough hours in the day...I'm telling you...

Shhh. They're right here. Watching. Always watching.

I just want my theory to be written down. Just in case something (else) happens to me. So there's a record. I think they just put something in my drink...EUYHRIKLFWEUISQWUI#*#(&@$

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Motherhood, formerly known as Your Life

I accidentally got into a Facebook discussion thread that turned all argumentative and political.

Wait, I got into a Facebook discussion thread that accidentally turned all argumentative and political.

At least, I thought it was accidental. I hate it when this happens. But the thing is, this thread looked stable--there was no Sarah Palin, no Glenn Beck, no outlandish stakes or claims--nothing nuclear incendiary about it.

But, no.

The thread was borne from a newspaper Dear Abby type clipping: childless woman is miffed that her child-having friends never have time and always claim to be exhausted blah blah blah.

So, discussion begins as follows:
Poster: Is having children REALLY that hard for us childless people to imagine?

Me: Yes. It is a thankless, hellish, never-ending task that sucks the life force directly from your veins.

Third Poster: Only because you allow it to. We make these choices, we could not be weighed down by guilt and exhaustion.

Me: (though I shouldn't have) Something about sitting up with sick children in the middle of the night and feeling completely exhausted and isolated. Thus, parenthood is isolating and exhausting and thankless.

Third Poster: Only because you choose to be. You could wake up husband, call family for help, assume child will be fine and go back to sleep. You choose to carry your cross.

Since Facebook threads are notorious for convincing nobody of anything, I thought I would continue my argument in my own personal forum. Because, let's be honest, at cinnamon I am never wrong, and I can delete dissenters.

I want to say that I intentionally use humor and alcohol to deflect any accusations of schlepping a cross around. I don't want to be the mom who says that her children are everything and that their little lives matter more than her own. These moms eventually wind up in the full fetal when the youngest child leaves home, and have to be nursed back from their Gollum-like precious mumblings to a quasi-human existence.

I fully realize that in the hypothetical I set up that a) most children will not die of fever b) the emergency room is always open c) that I could wake my husband. Though Third Poster should realize not every one has the advantage of nearby family. It's very geo-biased of her. She should also realize that husbands and wives throughout history have an agreement: (the first example was found written on a cave wall) when it comes to babies' needs and the sun is not up, moms are responsible.

Look, I have said before that I can not imagine working outside of the home and raising kids. It seems impossible to me. Why, then, is it so hard for non-breeders to imagine that they CAN'T imagine being a parent?

Let me try to describe a day to my non-breeding friends. Shall we begin at pregnancy? Imagine you swallowed a watermelon whole. It's sitting on your bladder and occasionally kicking you in the lungs. You are in a permanent state of PMDD for 9 months. Then, like that scene from Alien, something slimy, loud and inexplicably evil erupts from your midsection as you beg to be euthanized.

So, that is how parenthood starts.

Now, you've got that little sucker home. For the first half-year of its life, the torture is like a Vietnam Vet's horror story. The enemy deprives you of sleep, leeches fluids from your body, creates lists of manual labor as its laundry/trash/dish washing/housekeeping slave, and keeps you pasty and filthy so that you rarely leave the house.

The next four years, known as the "toddler/preschooler" years are only dimly recognizable as your pre-sucker life.

First, imagine yourself as a conjoined twin. Now, imagine your conjoined twin is a sadistic maniac. Now, take your sadistic maniac twin to Target. Are you with me? Your sadistic twin doesn't want to go and whines the whole way there. In fact, she may find something in the passenger seat and throw it at you. When you get there, SCT doesn't want to walk, but wants to ride in the cart. This is tricky. When you are three-quarters of the way to the back of the store, SCT has to pee. You take SCT all the way back to the front of the store to the bathrooms, which might have been cleaned during the Nixon era. You hold your breath and enter. Meanwhile, SCT is using her hands to touch everything she can reach while she sits on the toilet. She only washes her hands reluctantly when she's done.

You return to your errands. You need food for you, SCT and your husband. Of course, you haven't had conjugal relations w/ your husband since SCT came around and you're wondering since he doesn't ever get up when SCT is sick, why you're feeding him anyway. SCT touches everything down every aisle, occasionally knocking very fragile things off the shelves. You can't slap her, despite every impulse in your body, because, honestly, it's frowned upon to slap conjoined twins in public.

You're halfway through the frozen food section when SCT has decided she is done. Not a little done, not sorta done, but altogether DONE. She starts screaming and making a scene (as though conjoined twins walking through Target don't make a little bit of a scene to start with). You appease her by opening a box of Fruity-ohs from the basket. Persevere. You think to yourself that the household budget is a little tight these days, mostly because of SCT's insatiable needs, but that you could really use a cute shirt. And, hey, you deserve something even if it's going to be ill fitting because it has 2 armholes and you and SCT have four arms. But you deserve something. SCT disagrees. She pitches a fit for the ages, compelling you to check out.

During check-out, it appears that SCT has completely lost all control of her limbs, and is flailing them about wildly. The ENTIRE gum display erupts into the air, and every single little impulse item is something she covets beyond reason. You bribe with popcorn and ICEE.

The bill at Target for groceries and your $10 shirt rivals the GDP of a small country. Husband will be displeased.

You buy ICEE and popcorn and head to the relative safety of home. SCT runs out into the parking lot and nearly kills you both. Apologetically, you salute the driver, and throw everything into the back of your car.

On the way home, ICEE magically finds its way on to your prized new shirt. It was blue raspberry ICEE. Unloading groceries with SCT is about as easy as you'd imagine. Legs, arms flailing some more. Total lack of cooperation from her half of your body. She's dying of hunger or exhaustion or boredom or Spongebob is on. You sit down and wonder if this is how you expected your life to be. And you realize it's already 11:30. Only 11:30. And you're ready to die.

Granted, things are less irrational during the school years, but they are nonetheless busy. And SCT was only one child. Whatever innate need people have to produce second offspring must be a pretty powerful survival instinct. Right now, I am procrastinating on no fewer than 6 things by posting this entry. The boys will be waiting in carpool before I know it. I rationalize that this is my time, but no one will be appreciating the concept of my time if there is no milk for cereal tomorrow morning. Or food for lunch, or library fines, or or or everything else I'm supposed to do today.

Yes, parenthood is a choice. Not necessarily a well-informed one, because it is not possible to anticipate what motherhood is. You can petsit, babysit, niece-sit, go to ten thousand family reunions, but that doesn't capture it.

Unlike regular jobs, this job defines you. It's impossible not to: you are forever Johnny's Mom. You are thrilled with his successes and crushed by his failures. You want everything to be perfect for him, yet understand that hardship is essential. You cringe when new studies reveal that the sippy cup he wouldn't put down for 3 years was laden with BPA and is probably going to make him sterile or stupid, or kill him when he's 36. You hope against hope that he will learn the skills to be happy. Because happiness doesn't fall in your lap--like everything else, it is earned. Will he be able to identify a career that he loves, or be equipped to be professionally satisfied without one? Will he find a person to love who loves him in turn? Can you impart to him the lessons of your failures, or is he doomed to repeat them? Did he watch too much TV today?

Of course, you can parent without being dogged by these issues. Of course, you can raise a child without karate and French class and violin lessons or soccer. But each mother I know makes decisions, all different decisions, based on a truth she honestly believes to be the best for her child.

Sometimes, even when the SCT is sleeping, those decisions leave us up and alone in the dark.

Objects in mirror sound angrier than intended

Someone left a comment here at notcinnamon the other day, which just made my week for two reasons: one, hey! A comment! Woohoo! two, he remarked that my blog is so real-life.

And my blog IS so real life. In so many different ways. First, I have bucked the trend of embracing parenthood and married life as just one beautiful, unicorny miracle after another. I'm just not buying it.

Second, as I do in my actual life, my blog just sometimes blanks out for days on end.

Which brings me to my parents, who call and say, "you haven't blogged, you haven't called! We're beginning to wonder."

Wonder what? If I'd fallen off a bridge, been in a car wreck, gone insane, or somehow disappeared, then surely a morgue, a hospital, a mental institution, or a milk container would have notified you as next of kin or asked if you'd seen me. Sure, it's not Facebook, and you wouldn't instantly receive my status update: JULIE "is kidnapped. In trunk of '87 Cutlass, traveling west on I-10, near Pascagoula," but eventually you'd hear about it through the appropriate channels.

In fact, what I have been doing is FAR worse than falling off a bridge. My butt and the driver's seat of my car are becoming molded to one another. It's like some horrible evolution. Instead of developing webbed feet from being in water, I've developed carpool ass, which is changing the contour of my body to be more commuter friendly. Without exaggeration, I pack up my car as if for a road trip: water (it's a bazillion degrees out and I'm giving up soda), protein bars (trying to eat healthy and don't want to just grab junk), Kindle (reading in carpool line slows imminent mental dulling), walking shoes and clothes (for exercising during carpool, but I don't want to run errands in the Springhill Walker uniform, so I pack it and change behind the reflective dashboard solar blocker thingy), cell phone (so as not to be incommunicado), calendar (to schedule more crap to do during the upcoming days/weeks/months), cooler with snacks and cold drinks for kids, music class materials (for S, not me), lap desk (for E to do homework during S's music class), reusable grocery bags (to save the planet), insulated grocery bag (so everything I just bought doesn't spoil in bazillion degree heat), library books to return, coupon folders, extra car seats, baby wipes, car wipes, umbrellas--you name it, I've got it. And I'm schleppin' it around because I just NEVER KNOW. How is this possible? When did I become this person? Where did the day go?

It's not like everything in the day is slavishly devoted to my family and my errands, and my kids. But, if I want to visit with friends, or meet for coffee, or have lunch out, I have to wedge it into the day with a crowbar. And, the worst part is, I don't have an out-of-home job! HOW is everybody doing it? What is it that everyone is neglecting that is suddenly going to explode from neglect and bring us to our knees? Am I the only one worried? Am I the only one waiting for Martha Stewart to show up and say, "Hmmm, I see you have not been following the six month plan for rotating your furniture cushions. Just go ahead and throw that couch away now. It's gonna be useless." What am I forgetting? I have to be forgetting something, because right now I'm functioning like a super-saturated solution. Everything's going along ok, as long as no one adds one more crystal of sugar. Cuz then we're doomed. Everything's going to come to a grinding halt, and we're going to be paralyzed in a maze of rock candy.

So, no I didn't call. No, I haven't blogged. I haven't updated my Facebook status. (To my current knowledge I still may be "waiting for the weekend! Or "wishing summer would end!") My butt has melded to the seat in my car, and I can't move. I'm supermom! I'm doing it all and loving it. Right? RIGHT?!?

When you're hot, you're not

Just when you think you've got it wired. They. Keep. On. Coming. Back.

So, sometimes you think your kids/pets/husband really like something. My dog has two favorite non-squeaky toys, duck and frog; my husband well, you know; and the kids have a favorite restaurant, outfit, plan of attack. I'm anticipating it. I'm prepared. I'm ready.

Here comes the curveball.

I've done it right, a few times, but not many. For example, when S was teething, he really liked these $1 orange squirty trucks to chew on (much like the dog, actually). My mom, sensing his affinity for these, cleaned out the dollar store's supply of squirty orange trucks. Those suckers were EVERYWHERE. Under car seats, in restaurant booths, wedged in crib rails, EVERYWHERE. He loved those. In fact, they were such a significant part of his life that I saved one in his baby box. We will preserve the memory of the orange truck for future generations.

But, despite the success of the orange truck episode, I've had more than a few failures. Yummy crust chorken? Kids LOVED it. Thought it was chicken, when it was actually pork, hence the name, but they loved it. A good dinner standby. Hand-panko breaded, lightly fried in olive oil, served with a pasta of some sort. Everyone was happy.
Until they weren't. Last week, yummy crust chorken was greeted with moans, groans, and temper tantrums vowing never to eat again. WTF did chorken ever do to them?

Comfiest shorts EVAH were another failure. S loved them--elastic waistband, lotsa pockets, soft, comfy. Not awful and the worstest like those other shorts. Until, apparently, the Velcro on the rear pockets became too much to endure. Now I've got a drawer of outcast shorts whose butt pockets have the misfortune of closing.

I have heaps of no-longer liked Goldfish crackers, not-so favorite frozen Go-Gurts, rejected half-boxes of frozen waffles, flip flops abandoned and forsaken, reject Legos that are of a worser kit. Haphazardly rejected former friends. Old necessities forgotten like last night's trash.

What is with the switcheroo? How does something go from must-have to dust-shelve so quickly? How are such fickle children ever coached into semi-permanent conditions such as loving their parents? Each other? A future spouse? How do goldfish won at carnivals survive? Why don't those poor things just cast themselves into a toilet upon their first opportunity--knowing, surely that they will be starving in 48 hours when their winner/child grows weary of their very existence? Dogs, cats, rabbits, rodent pets everywhere should be training to learn new tricks, dances, MAGIC routines to try to engage those flighty children for just a day longer. Another moment of sustained interest... poof.

We promised each boy a "big boy" room upon his entry into kindergarten. E got a room featuring scale actual photographs from Voyager of all the planets and sun (including the planet-ling, Pluto, which was at the time of the installation of said photographs, still a planet). They're those Post-It adhesives that peel off without damaging the walls (who's thinking long term?). The room is dotted with glow in the dark stars, and has a 64" hand painted (by moi) headboard of the planets and solar system that glows in the dark. Would you not have considered this the coolest room EVAH?

Well, I am sure it is about to be the UNCOOLEST room, evah, because brother is getting his room redone in honor of kindergarten. It's light gray, features new distressed black furniture, and is going to feature a 6' Millennium Falcon and a 4' Death Star. I think actual planetoids are going to pale in comparison with fake ones proven to destroy Alderron.

But, no matter, because E will be able to move into the coolest room EVAH,because S has decided he doesn't like sleeping in his room anymore. S, who would not, for love or money, sleep on the floor in the hotel room on our vacation last month, has decided the only place he feels comfortable sleeping is on the floor immediately adjacent to my bed.

So, let me sum this up for you, in case you are confused:

• Former coolest room ever decorated with actual space-science stuff = no longer cool & older child's stuck in it
• New coolest room ever, decorated with life size characters from Star Wars = abandoned. Resident of former coolest room ever wants to occupy new coolest room ever, while actual resident of current coolest room ever wants to occupy my floor
• Former my room = camp. Younger child has forsaken furniture and wants to sleep with his dog on my floor with blankie, comforter and pillow, risking life and limb to sleep next to me, who nearly steps on him during my 47 nightly pee breaks

Clear? Crystal. My family is nuts. I don't even know why I try. I should wake up every morning as though I am a droid and my memory of things past should be erased. A blank slate. "What cereal do you like?" "Duh, mom don't you know?!?!"

I have no freaking clue.

Has the tide turned? I'll eat to that!

So, it's possible, maybe. That summer may not be out of control just yet. The kids have hit their stride in a nice, easy schedule. They've been punished strictly for the last couple of days, so maybe I've laid some nice groundwork about fighting, kicking, hitting, mangling, and otherwise harassing one another and me. I'm giving them lots of fun time on the TV, Wii, and playing together.

Everything's coming up Julie.

IN FACT, yesterday, M came with us to look at a kitchen table...and we found one. It's not the dream kitchen table, but that seemed unobtainable.

See, I found the dream table in a catalog:

http://www.crateandbarrel.com/family.aspx?c=14228&f=28562

It's gorgeous. I LOVE it. I called Crate and Barrel to see about delivery and to ask a couple of questions.

The woman who answered the phone was wonderful, and I am eternally grateful for her candor. She said that she had the coordinating credenza and loved it, and thought it was so natural, so zen, so clean looking.

I'm thinking, "yup. Zen and clean, that's what I'm going for!"

She goes on about natural oils, sustainable teak, blah blah....and then, then she says something that makes my ears perk up: "Did you read about the cleaning and caring for this table?"

Wait. Hold it right there. There's a cleaning and caring section? For a table?

There's an audible hiss, the sound of my heart's fantasy deflating.

I explain that I had not, in fact, seen that section, and in fact, have 2 kids. Then, dreading the answer--"is this going to be at odds with my love for zen and clean lines?"

"Ohhh. With two kids, I would reconsider buying this table."

The saleslady is talking me out of a sale? This has gotta be bad.

Just like in the cartoons, the little cloud of my dream with the zen table goes poof.

"Hmmm? Why?"

"Well, because this is a natural, unsealed wood, it is going to absorb oil. So, for example, if you set a pizza box down on the table, and it has a greasy bottom, then the table's going to soak that up. To clean it, you will have to sprinkle talc or baking soda on the grease, let it stay overnight, and then give it a light sand the next day."

"A light sand?"

"Yes, a fine grit sandpaper will remove the outermost layer of the grease stain."

"..from a pizza box."

"Well, anything with oil really. Salad dressing, cheese, anything fried."

"So, what you're telling me, is if by chance, a chicken nugget, or a french fry were to accidentally fall off a plate and alight upon the table or the bench, a grease stain will form and be impossible to remove without an overnight cleaning process that involves a trip to Lowe's?"
"Yes. See? It's not really a table for families."

"So, let me see. By the end of the second week of ownership, I will have four chairs sitting around a heap of sawdust and sanding residue. My table will be sanded away. And yet, the catalog suggests years of use?"

"Not really for families."

No. Not really. Or for people with thumbs. Or people with homework, crafts, school projects. Or for people who eat food, except for raw vegetables and salads without dips or dressings. Or people with skin, whose natural oils MAY leave fingerprints on the table.

"In fact, the credenza that I use in my home office is deeply worn and stained where my hands touch it every day. I like the worn look, but that may not be what you're going for."

What the hell happened to zen and clean? Now we're looking at worn and stained?!

Needless to say, the zen kitchen table porn turned out much like all porn when viewed in high-def: kinda blemished, overly made-up, and disappointing. So, after the remarkably candid conversation with the Crate and Barrel woman a few weeks ago, I gave up.

Until two days ago at the fountains on the other side of the bay. I went with friend MT to look for a desk chair for her new home office area. We walked in, and lo, there was a table: half the price of the catalog porn. Capable of handling greasy fingers. Not quite the heavenly vision, draped in halos and golden robes, but feasible. Possible. Real.

Yesterday, I took M back to survey the table. Price? Better. Not screaming at the kids when they spill? Much better. I got him signed on.

The biggest problem was, of course, that said table could not possibly fit in my car. I abandoned M and E at the store, and ran over to Lowe's (again with the hardware!) and bought webbing tie-downs. Came back over, and Brian, the style consultant and Wade, his sidekick, ratcheted that sucker down on top of my car.

Of course, everyone dreaded the trip back over the bay with a 200 pound table strapped to the car, but we made it without incident. (Great job Brian and Wade!) Legs secured, painters (here to repair the damage from the flood) helped to carry it in, and voila:

Low-def kitchen table porn. Suitable for life. Families. Grilled cheese.

This is the End.

I don't want to be too Chicken Little-ish about this--but the end is near.

This is how I know--it's 7:28 AM. I already want to kill my kids.

This is how it started:
S runs around with Clooney--the time is barely 6 AM. They are chasing each other around my bed, on to my bed, off of my bed, around the corner, up the stairs, down the stairs over and under the table downstairs. (Wonder why S always has stitches in his head?) Finally, at some point, I asked if they could not thump quite so hard on the floor.

Immediately after: the heaviest rope toy we have thumped down 14 stairs.

E comes in and asks me to cut a watermelon for him. I ask about the time. It's 6:35. Who, besides a starving child in Somalia, needs a fresh watermelon cut for him before 7 AM? Mind you, I bought special chocolate chip muffins for the kids so they could obtain their own butt-crack-of-dawn breakfast specials. They can have a nosh and then I'll make a healthier breakfast when I wake up. Or not. But fresh cut fruit waited until 7:17. At which point, I had to beg E to put down his book and eat his much desired watermelon.

He ate two cubes and went back to his book.

Sometime during the cutting of the watermelon, S screams like a girl. I run in, expecting profuse amounts of blood, and find only a cockroach (a large one, the size of a small hummingbird) twitching, gasping in the throes of death and under intense scrutiny from S. E, shrieking like a diva, has already left the room. S is contemplating the thick body, the 'very fragilest antennae' and the desperate, uneven spasm of the legs. E said he wouldn't leave his bed perch until the thing was gone. S said we shouldn't get rid of it that it was 'intgergesting.'

I smacked it and flushed it. End of cockroach.

In the interim, S has had a hugely high fever since Friday. We fought it all day Friday, and yesterday it flared up in the afternoon, as fevers often do. This morning, the poor thing is covered head to toe in a rash. He often gets these towards the end of a virus, but they itch him nonetheless. I sprayed some Benadryl on there and ohmygod, you have never heard such a sound. Apparently, the skin is raw or he's been scratching, or it's not the kind of rash you should spray Benadryl on. But he was hopping and whimpering and screaming, and writhing. (Kinda like the cockroach, actually) I'm blowing and shh-ing and blowing and shh-ing.


In the end, I gave him some liquid Benadryl. Which, I am sure, is only going to succeed in making me drowsy.

So, now it's 7:44 and they've fought about where they're going to play. And what they're going to play. And the dog is tuckered out from the chase of this morning. And now I'm up. And the day has begun.

But it's one of the last, I promise. The Apocalypse will not be ushered in by four horsemen. It will be brought, kicking and screaming, by my two boys trying to ride an 11 pound dog, wanting a ridiculously sweet snack.

Some thoughts on S's first day of summer, or the limitations of a capitalist society on the domestic manager

My dad used to say, "another day, another dollar." Which I have amended slightly: "...spent." Not having a grown up job that pays real green American dollars is depressing. When one is gainfully employed in the public or private sector (as opposed to the fantastically well paid and growing domestic sector), one showers, dresses oneself, consumes a breakfast, perhaps prepares a lunch to take along, and commutes to the appropriate place of business.


In the domestic sector, a shower is a luxury snatched during unpaid breaks, a breakfast is snarfed down in record time over the sink so as to minimize dishes, and the commute is just one long circular trip from one child's entertainment venue to the next.

In the real world, one interacts with adults, actively solves problems, resolves conflicts, fulfills responsibilities, sets goals, and is subject to a process of peer review. One's employment performance is rated by the efficiency of goals set and met, one's dynamic with coworkers and management, one's quantifiable achievements as put forth by the workplace expectations.

The domestic sector is an arbitrary process of occasionally succeeding. The expectations are vague at best, impossible at worst. The dynamic is a constantly evolving power struggle. Employment performance is based on whether or not your child matures to become an anti social psychopath or a stripper. Short term achievements (matching socks) are often overlooked.


That life, the external existence is the very core of human experience. Since Neanderthal times, the boundary between domestic and external has defined our very survival. In modern times, this process of offering labor in exchange for monetary compensation and marginal benefits is widely considered a benchmark by which we esteem our fellow humans.

WORK IS EVERYTHING.

And then. Then, there are those of us in the domestic sphere. We, the huddled masses yearning to accomplish something which is recognized as an accomplishment. We, the downtrodden voiceless of the home maker, mother, wife. We, who cannot log on to the Internet or enter an automobile without spending (in varying quantities) money that we did not earn. We, who toil under the dictatorship of wee tyrants--be they toddlers, preschoolers, tweens, teens, or *worse* adult children at home. We, who thanklessly undertake Sisyphean tasks of unutterable futility. Laundry (because every 7 year old needs to change clothes hourly), feedings (because every 5 year old needs a processed carbohydrate every 33 1/2 minutes, cleaning (because no child or husband has discovered that the giant bin next to the door filled with shoes is there to deposit shoes into) and entertainment (because every child needs something to distract them every second of the day, unless he is watching TV, in which case he requires someone to deliver processed carbohydrates on a silver platter).

We, WE who defend Internet purchases because (hey, they sent me an email advertising a sale) and because we cannot take our dastardly mini-bosses out into public lest they humiliate us further. We, who agree that while a $50 pair of shoes may not be indulgent, the fact that this is our third pair this week might be. We, who understand that Lego translates from Swedish into "bare foot piercing pain most approximating the searing agony experienced when Romans nailed Jesus' foot." And that these mini weapons of podiatric destruction must be searched out and removed before inflicting this pain on dozens. And that should these Swedish foot piercers be trapped in the Dyson, they must be removed lest our bosses miss the one blue 2 dot rectangle that will irrefutably transform a rickety stack of bricks into the 3 ion-cannon blasting space ship driven by radical space pirates capable of destroying the universe if able to achieve hyperspace.

WE KNOW THESE THINGS.

We know the nuanced difference between the wanky plea for attention and the gut wrenching scream of an imminent ER visit. WE negotiate peace daily, re define boundaries and political alliances, WE keep the shoulders to the grindstone, desperate to keep our unyielding miniature bosses in relative calm.

WE pay ourselves in Land's End capris and Merona flip flops. WE award ourselves bonuses of TCBY and puffed rice treats. WE rationalize our self denials as necessary for the benefit of an entire family. WE have transitioned from a time of external perceived value to a current de-valued status:

MOM.

We are moms. And our day came and went. And our bosses continue. And like AIG and Goldman Sachs, our bosses have rewarded themselves with a 12 week vacation bonus. And we, WE pay for that most dearly of all. On your toes, moms. Summer's startin'.

Judge Julie: A Response to Surviving the Mommy Mafia

This morning, I read a post on CNN.com about surviving the "mommy mafia."
http://www.cnn.com/2010/LIVING/wayoflife/04/13/mommy.mafia.jen.klein/index.html?hpt=Mid

While I certainly agree with the author's claim that moms and women judge one another, as the primary judger in my household, I feel compelled to offer my two cents. And judge her assessment of the underground mommy life.

It's a 'dirty little secret' that's 'not really a secret'? First of all, most moms are women. If, by the age that you become a parent, you haven't figured out that your female cohorts are judging you, then you have either been raised in a barn, or blissfully ignorant and mercilessly teased behind your back. Girls judge, tweens judge the most, high school girls judge, and even cultured young women of college age judge. Don't you remember? Being too thin/fat? I was too thin until some time in middle school. Then, not thin enough. Don't you remember having glasses/thick eyebrows/pimples/braces/poor fashion advice from your mother? We all went through it. Even that annoying head cheerleader went through it on some level.

I notice now, by the way, that one of my high school's class cheerleaders has a Facebook page that could illustrate a John Cheever novel.

Being judged is a widely known part of life. Who's judging you and why and how you cope with it...those are the dirty little secrets.

First of all, I'll be honest. I'm probably judging you. Whether you're a mother, or not, my first mental process upon meeting you is assessing you. I hope, to some degree, that you're doing it to me. That's why we have a term for it in our language: the first impression. I don't care if you're wearing white after Labor Day, what I care about is that crazed look in your eyes...is it the kind of crazy that instantly bonds me with others or is it the kind of crazy that says 'potential serial killer, beware'?

I can't instantly form an opinion of the quality of your character, but I start forming an idea right away. I can tell if you're health-conscious (are you eating a Snickers for breakfast?), trendy (iphone in hand?), have a regular babysitter (this, I infer from whether or not you have a professional-looking haircut and color. No one has fantastically coiffed hair unless they have time for it. And with kids, this means babysitter.) And, let's be honest, if you have a babysitter, there's a good chance I'll befriend you. Who would have thought that sixteen year old girls would become a commodity in parenting econ 101?

Of course, first impressions are often misleading. And mine remain pretty malleable until I know you better. Do I judge you based on the cleanliness of your children's clothes? No. Do I judge you based on the sparkle of happiness hiding in the corner of their smiles? Hell, yeah.

The mommy mafia author suggests that we judge based on a myth of the perfect mom. Does some one still think there is a perfect mother? In this, the 21st century, uber-tolerant social veneer, a digital age where you can find cohorts on the Internet for every niche of interest? No one, except my mother, still believes in The Perfect Mother. My mother thinks that she was clearly NOT perfect, and judges herself for it, which is ridiculous, because of course she wasn't perfect, but no one is.

June Cleaver is dead.

Judging is such a strange term for what we do. Certainly, we compare. We watch others, we learn from others. When we see that kid in Wal-Mart ripping stuff off the shelves, and telling his mother to shove it, we compare. We judge. It's part of how we learn to parent--don't we judge our own parents in our own minds?

I don't compare moms to this rubric of a perfect mom, as though I were grading an essay:
4/5 for children's fashion
3/5 for personal fashion
4/5 for consistent discipline
1/5 for publicly spanking
1/5 for having a cocktail with dinner in front of children
5/5 for child's use of napkin and cutlery

18/30=60%=D parenting. I'd prefer to think that judging is done on a curve. Wouldn't we all rather be a little more like some moms we know than other moms we know? Isn't that necessary role modeling? Isn't that how we strive to be better parents/wives/friends/people?

As I get to know you, I form judgements based on what I think is important in life. Are the things in my life the only things that are important? Of course not. My life lacks things that very clearly other people think is vitally important. The core things, though, are shared by nearly everyone in my life. Those are my friends, my frenemies, my circle, my peers. This is the cohort in which I am raising a family. Therefore, these are the things I judge my friends by. These are the things upon which I base my advice when it is sought, these are the ideals by which I measure and judge myself. This is how I own my failures and savor my successes.

There are few things that are absolute in the complicated life/job that is parenting. These are the ends. The means are variable. If you were to ask me for advice, (which I know you really want to do right now, after reading this. Your thoughts are undoubtedly running the gamut from A to B: what a bitch to what a megabitch) you would be asking me to make a judgement. And here is how I am judging you:

Is your child happy? Perhaps not at this particular, sitting in the corner moment, but overall?
Do you seem satisfied with your life? No, you are not running through meadows in a Massengill commercial. But, are you the black and white frowny face in the depression medication ad?
Are you making your parenting choices from a rational, well-informed place or are you hopping on the trend bandwagon? Trendy Parent Magazine's article on "The All-Kale Diet" is not a reason to change dinner plans. Especially when three months later, Trendy Parent prints a tiny retraction, noting that the "All-Kale Diet" may turn your child green
Are you doing what's best for your individual child, or are you signing up for competitive cheer leading to avenge Lucy Perfectpants from the 7th grade cheer squad?
Do you have a semi-objective support network? A partner who's around enough to have valuable input? A mother (in-law) who doesn't always second-guess? A sister who has kids older than yours who aren't in the juvenile justice system? A sister who doesn't have kids, but has the nerve to tell you that yours are wild hoodlums? No one can raise a child alone. A meaningful support network tells me you're not trying to go it alone.

So, yeah. I'm judging you. If you tell me that your child can only eat organic raw foods, I'm going to be skeptical. You tell me that you're buying an oxygen tent for your kid to sleep in because of pollution, I'm raising an eyebrow. You're telling me that your 3 year old is taking Latin because it'll help his understanding of English etymology, and I'm rolling my eyes.

These aren't problems. These are choices to make, and things to focus on to avoid thinking about the things that scare us all about being parents.

On the other hand, you tell me that your kids' obsession with candy is making dinner time a nightmare, I hear you. If you tell me you're worried about the quality of your kid's education and are investigating alternatives, I'm listening. If you tell me your doctor recommended a procedure, and you're just not sure, I'm on it.
These are dilemmas, and every parent agonizes over them. (If you don't agonize about them, I'm judging you) These are the things that take mettle. These are the things that evoke the judgement of others. These are the things for we seek out our friends, our families, our support networks to help counsel us. These are the very decisions for which we, and ultimately, our children will be judged.

Two If By Air: The Inlaws Are Coming

Nothing makes me crazier than my family. And I mean this in a good way, mostly. And since my family live across the country in the land of fruits and nuts and crazy liberal Californians, I am made crazier pretty infrequently.

I should clarify that I am pretty crazy even when my family doesn't come to town, but that is another story.

So, I guess if my parents lived in town, I wouldn't care if my house was dirty when they came over. I guess if they came over ever day, some days would be cleaner than others and holidays would sparkle. But, since they don't come over, I feel compelled to put my best foot forward and demonstrate through cleanliness that I, in fact, have my shit together.

In reality, the few days before my family's arrival are a tornadic symphony of NOT having my shit together. At. All.

And this time, it's worse. My family room looks like this:

and the dust and mess this generated is everywhere. The DVDs that used to be in the storage cabinet are in the guest room. As are the pictures that used to be on the walls, the coffee table, the lamps, the pillows, the EVERYTHING THAT USED TO BE IN MY FAMILY ROOM. This picture, which could be a metaphor for me and my totally untogether shit, distinctly says, "Do not invite people over. Your family room is still naked." Ironic that it is the family room that is in total chaos.

And yet, my family arrives today. My family room looks like that. The dust is a quarter inch thick over everything in the house. I have tile/floor/fabric samples strewn pell mell. I have sawdust as thick as autumn leaves in the carport. I have heaps of drop cloths and used paint cans on the porch. So, naturally, this morning, I am running around with a broom and a mop and a dust cloth trying to clean. It's like post-Katrina New Orleans and I'm gonna clean it all with a sponge.

This is nuts.

Even more so than usual.

Alright. I gotta go. I can at least empty the sink of all the dirty dishes.

Babies Babies, Everywhere!

The official start of spring is nearly upon us. The time of year when flowers bloom, the air is rich with the scents of thaw and growth, and when farms and forests everywhere witness the birth of ridiculously adorable baby animals.
I notice on Facebook pages of friends, that many, many people I know are celebrating spring with their own ridiculously cute human babies.
I stare into baby-eyes in full screen photos, or squint at thumbnails. I cock my head sideways to try to decipher ultrasound pictures. New baby girls born into families of boys. More baby girls added to families of girls. Baby boys with mischief already sparkling in their new, toothless grins. Babies, babies everywhere!
And, of course all of these new babies are born as we celebrate the spring birthday of S. Five years ago, we welcomed our fuzzy little spring bundle. Round, and soft and smelling sweet. Now, he is all Lego-playing, stitches-requiring, tball-playing boy. There is no baby left.
As I see my smaller baby--my last baby--grow into boy, I have a sense of why some of my friends are having more. That ephemeral sweetness of a baby. The tiny sigh accompanying a full tummy, the tiny fingers clutching mine. All of that is behind us. And some part of me misses that.
But then, THEN, another realization strikes. It's all behind us! The next time I change diapers, it will either be on a grandbaby or myself! No more crappy silicone spoons falling down the garbage disposal. No more rotten sippy cups under the car seats. No more hours of rocking an inconsolable baby in the middle of the night. No more piles of throw-up covered onesies. Aha! Done! Bazinga!
Nostalgia remedies itself.
Sure, I have pangs. Last night, as I scooped a sleeping S out of my bed to return him to his own, I nuzzled his soft cheeks and thought of how cozy it was to snuggle a sleeping child. But I'm over it.
I am so proud of who my boys are and what they can do now. I love watching E read everything he can get his hands on. S swinging a bat vaguely in the direction of the tee is perfect. I am relishing these accomplishments. They are the hints of the full potential these boys can achieve. They are tangible to me in ways that the accomplishments of infants--grinning, crawling, babbling--are not. And while those baby milestones are significant, these new ones are for us all to enjoy together. Even the boys realize the significance of their new found abilities.
Yesterday, S was laying in the floor of the bathroom while M was readying for work. M playfully heaped his towel upon S's resting body, and S responds with: "So this is how it's going to be on my birthday? Covered with wet towels?" And I realize that we truly are shaping this child and his humor and view to life. And I love that there's going to be one more wry person in our family. Another soul who can look at his life, himself, and laugh. I know that S was the perfect spring addition to our family.
But when I recall that first spring with S, that second spring with S, indeed that third spring with S, I know that he is the perfect last addition.
Happy Spring, babies everywhere! Happy Birthday, S! Here's to knowing you'll never be a middle child...

This is your brain at school

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: kids are dumb.

This time, though, I mean it academically. My kids are home AGAIN for ANOTHER week of holiday. Because...it's....??? Friday, they got to stay home because of the threat of "wintry weather." I love this descriptor. Being February, wintry weather should be expected, no? It did snow on Friday. A little. It didn't stick, or freeze on the ground, or even really accumulate on anything at all. By all rights, the kids would have already been in their classrooms, snug and warm, by the time the snow arrived. The skies would have cleared by the time carpool started. Excessive risk--parents driving under wet conditions, children requiring jackets for the temperature--really was not a factor at all. Why not leave school open, and make it a parental decision whether to send the child? Why pre-emptively close schools at the mere suggestion of snow? (Hilariously, and to the note of science education in this country, the forecast was as follows: HI of 41, LO of 36 with snow.) This is, by the way, the second weather day that the school has called for this year. The first was the weekend before Thanksgiving Break. Yup, coincidentally, school weather cancellations have lengthened scheduled holidays twice this year.

Which brings me to this week's holiday: Presidents' Day (Monday) Mardi Gras (Tuesday)...the rest of the week--gravy! Why oh why do the kids need an entire week off in the middle of February? Ski week? Let's go trekking off to the Alps, shall we?

I counted the full school days during the 2009-10 school year. Keep in mind that E goes to private school, so I am really getting jobbed on value. I always feel like I shouldbe getting more bang for my buck. Using some research skills I learned in school, I came up with the following numbers illustrating school year lengths around the world:
Nation/School Year in Days

1. Japan 243
2. South Korea 220
3. Israel 216
4. Luxembourg 216
5. Netherlands 200
6. Scotland 200
7. Thailand 200
8. Hong Kong 195
9. England 192
10. Hungary 192
11. Swaziland 191
12. Finland 190
13. New Zealand 190
14. Nigeria 190
15. France 185
16. United States 180
17. Our School 174

(MSN, Speech by President Obama)

Now, using some mad math skills I learned in school, let me synthesize this information for you:

• Our school year is 6 days fewer in school than the national public schools'
• My kid spends 16 fewer days in school than the average kid in Nigeria, a country which: the majority of the population lives off $1.25 per day, has a life expectancy of 47 years, and 68% of the population is literate

How many kids in American schools can find any of these countries on a map? I, for one, had a tough time with Swaziland. Turns out, my beloved penguins from Madagascar might have landed there during Madagascar 2, Escape to Africa. If you need help, I posted a map.

Even better, how many kids can spell Luxembourg? According to this same speech, 33% of 13 year old kids here can't read at grade level.

View Larger Map

In a related note, ETS, those nasty people who administer the SAT (remember that?) have the following report:

• Estimates of high school completion rates tend to be inaccurate, and range from the official 69.9% (2000) to independent estimates of 66.6 to 69% (2000)
• The state with the highest completion rate is Vermont at 88% to the District of Columbia at 48%
• Alabama is at 65.1%, which was lower than 38 other states (including D.C.)

Now, I fully expect my kids to finish high school. But, these statistics are scary. Two thirds of kids in Alabama have something better (?) to do with a measly 2,088 days over the first 18 years of their lives. Sadly, they haven't realized that if they don't spend those 2,088 days in school, the next 23, 725 days of their lives will be spent scraping half eaten shrimp off plates at the Red Lobster. That's what Chris Rock did before he was 'discovered.' Which may be an inspiration to some, but what are the odds that a high school dropout in Alabama is fall off my ass funny?

So, to summarize:

• Kids are dumb
• Kids can't find countries on a map
• I couldn't find a country on a map
• Google Maps is useful
• The SAT people are interested in keeping kids in high school so that they may make more money by administering more SAT exams, although, I guess if the dropout rate remains high, they can recoup some losses by administering the GED to people in their early 20s who are filled with regret and loathing for their minimum wage McFrappe-making job
• Kids in Alabama seem to be dumber than the kids in more than half the other states
• My kids are home too much
• When my kids are home, I spend a lot of time on Google Maps finding Swaziland
• When my kids finish watching TV, I will let them play Where in the World is Carmen San Diego? so they can learn to spell and find Luxembourg
• My kids are home too much

On a cold winter's day

I remember now why I hated winter. Perhaps it is just my Southern California bones refusing to yield to the chill, or perhaps it is a psychological barrier that prevents me from enjoying it. But, whatever the reason, I do NOT like the cold.
And it is cold today in Mobile. It was in the teens this morning, and threatens to be in the tweens by Friday.
Everything is more difficult (as if it isn't difficult enough already). Kids need extra layers and forget their extra layers. The car takes longer to warm up & go. My skin is dry and itchy. The dog is all static-y. The pool pump requires M's attention. The fountain is frozen. The plants are all frostbit. The line at Starbucks is huge.
Two things, and they are closely linked, keep me from moving to Aruba for the next two weeks.
One, I can try to hurry up some weight loss while still wearing the marshmallow man outerwear. Maybe no one will notice the holiday/stress poundage I have packed on.
Two, all the winter foods are so yummy. Hearty stew. Beefy bolognese. Rich strogonoff. Comforting soups. Ahhhh.
So. Forget one. I will just go ahead and bare my Stay-Pufft-ness to the world come spring. For now, bring on the food. I've got blubber to build.