susan hayward photography

Tips for a Great Family Picture

Dude wanted a family picture. I wanted one, too, only one taken in the backyard with the kids dressed in whatever they happened to be wearing, their hair messy and their shoes untied. You know, like how we really are, not as the magazines say we should be. It reminded me of the time someone came over right after I had cleaned the house and I told them, “This is what our house would look like if we didn’t live here.” 

Likewise, Paul told his father after being ordered to comb his hair and put on some nice jeans--which would require a change from the shorts he had worn to school that day-- “Why take a picture looking like you don’t really look?” he asked. Why indeed?

So it went something like this: Dude got home from work expecting to find three boys perfectly coiffed and dressed, lined up at the door giddy to take a picture. Instead, he found three zombies glued to the Playstation, still wearing their school clothes. The sun was slipping down the sky, threatening to extinguish all hopes of the fall-colors-in-the-canyon picture that we had planned on. There were some caustic words exchanged between Dude and children, a few hostile glances toward me, which I interpreted as, “Why didn’t you get the kids ready before I got home?” There were a few doors slammed as hairbrushes were retrieved and hair combed to perfection, the sound of a few quick spirts of hairspray. I recall some mopey slogging back to the bedroom when dirty shorts and a t-shirt didn’t pass the Dude Review. There was some yelling, that much I remember. And a few mutterings of “What’s his problem?” and “[Insert any one of five family member’s name here] is acting like a jerk.”

By the time we arrived at the picture location, we did not find the sun peeking through yellow-leafed aspen trees as it had when we had scouted the place the day before, providing a touch of warm light around the head. The sun hung precariously close to the mountains like a yo-yo dangling from a string. "We're losing light!"Dude yelled. But, light or no light, I was not about to try again another day, and neither was anyone else, especially our oldest, who madly texted “This is soooooo stupid” to all of his friends. So we muddled through the best we knew how. Dude set up the camera, our offspring assembled themselves by a fence, and I pushed the self-timer button and ran to the family. This is what we got:

Shortly after, the sun fell behind the mountain and the moment was over. As we hiked back to the car, the stench of fresh horse manure hung like a storm cloud over the minivan. "Well, this has been a crappy evening," I said. And I meant it literally.

The moral of the story is, if you want a family picture, have the youngest color one for you. Nine times out of ten everyone will be smiling, no one’s eyes will be closed, and the sun will always be shining.

 

The Conversation

Once upon a time, I had a toddler who loved to talk. When asked, "How are you?" he would respond with a toddler-sized account of what he did that day.

"Uhh-uh-uh, I played dinosaurs," he would say, holding plastic toys on top of his head. "Roar," he'd bellow as he dropped to all fours and began attacking my legs.  Then he'd pop back up to tell me, "T-Rex is my favorite." As if I didn't know.

Now that toddler is thirteen and no longer  lumbers through the house  pretending to be a prehistoric monster. When we bring up his past obsession, he chuckles indulgently, but never owns up to the time that he was so wrapped up in playing T-Rex that he took a bite out of a houseplant. (Luckily, I caught him before he swallowed.) He doesn't remember much of anything, it seems. Including how to talk. 

I was thinking of the dinosaur days this morning as I dropped my kid off for school. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: "Hey, didn't you have a Spanish test last week?"

Him: "Yep."

Me: "Well, how'd it go?"

Him: "I dunno."

Me: "Your teacher didn't tell you your grade?"

Him: "Nope."

Me: "He WON'T tell you your grade ever?"

Him: "Nope." 

Me: "You can't look it up online or anything?"

Him: "Nope."

Me: "Seriously? How are you supposed to know your grades if he never tells you?" (I find this impossible to believe. I used to be a teacher in a land far far away.  I know how kids can tune out important information and then go home and tell their parents that it's your fault they don't know what to do.)

Rolling of eyes here. Audible exhalation from son. One hand thrown forward for emphasis.

Him: "Mo-om." 

Once he hits the two syllable pronunciation of my job title, I know the conversation is over. And so it was. When we reached the school, my son shot out of the car, slamming the door behind him. As I watched him climb the stairs two at a time, I tried to make sense of what just happened. As much as I tried, I couldn't shake the feeling that even though we still lived in the same house, he had moved out and left me no forwarding address. 

I drove up the hill toward home, my foot heavy on the accelerator. I could still smell my child in the car, a mixture of manly deodorant and Irish Spring soap, so different from the scent of his toddler years, when he'd come in from the backyard covered in sand and dirt and little-boy sweat. But that's all gone now, and so is my son.

And yet. I recall how his voice squeaked this morning when he said my name, like the rusty hinges of an old metal box.  I remember how he sat all the way through a picture book the other night without even complaining. I remember how he lingered on the deck during his little brother's birthday party, watching the children play Red Light, Green Light with a look that said, "I want to play, too."

So this is what I'm thinking. Even though my kid has moved out, I haven't. I may not have his address, but he has mine. And just maybe he'll come and visit every so often.  And when he does, I'll be here, ready to talk. Or, more importantly, to listen. 

Things I Want to Remember

 

Two things about Jake today:

"I have something bad to tell you," he said yesterday. Inwardly, I groaned. Usually this is the prelude to an announcement of something broken, lost, or spilled. But not this time (and I'm starting to think this kid's a little melodramatic and I shouldn't assume the worst when he says things like this). 

Jake took a deep breath. "I want to collect these little bobble head animals," he said. I saw nothing wrong with this. Jake's a collector: so far he's collected Pokemon, Bakugan, marbles, and rocks. He is also working on a collection of dirty socks shoved in between the couch cushions. Jake likes animals, so this latest infatuation seemed reasonable enough, given that we've been reading chapter books about magical pets. The illustrations on the covers of these books feature kittens and puppies with glowing eyes that would be a little creepy were it not for the hint of glitter sprinkled around them. 

But Jake seemed embarrassed. He covered his eyes and squirmed while he waited for my reaction, as if he had just told me that he wanted to paint his fingernails and wear lipstick. "What's wrong with collecting those little animal things?" I asked Jake.

"Girls like them," he answered. "You know, they're girly things. And I'm not a girl." That I know very well, seeing as how I gave birth to him and changed a few million of his diapers. Also, he's always resisted the idea of painting his room pink. 

So when we ended up at Wal Mart this afternoon, Jake wanted to check out the bobble head animal aisle. Only, he made me go down the aisle by myself while he waited by a store display. I immediately understood why. Everything--even the signs above the toys in this particular aisle--was pink. And everyone shopping in that part of the store was female. It was like I had walked into the gynecologist's office, which I'm quite familiar with. Or a Disney princess movie, which I'm not so familiar with because my boys won't watch princess shows with me. Suddenly I felt like spinning around and singing, "Someday my prince will come." I envisioned Jake and I waltzing through the store, a crew of Wal Mart employees singing and dancing along with us. The stuffed animals would come to life too, only they wouldn't be like the evil kind in Poltergeist. They would be cute bunnies who would beat their feet on the linoleum and say, "My name's Thumper, because I'm thumping." I would laugh, but not a snorting laugh like I usually do, but a high trill of delight befitting royalty. And there would be birds, little ones with speckled wings, and they would flutter around my head twittering happily. Little grey and white mice would come too, carrying tiny scissors and needles. They would make me a dress--no, make that a gown--and then they would get me some pearls from the jewelry cabinet and put them on my neck, which had magically become smooth and soft, like it was when I was twenty. Oh, this was indeed a magical place, this Aisle Twelve. And I wanted to stay forever. 

But I could not. I had a little boy waiting for me. And he was standing at a safe distance, watching me. 

"Hey, Jake," I called. "Come help me choose a new bobble head kitty for my collection."

Jake's eyes widened. "Mu-ther," he said, his voice low and gritty. This was not part of his plan. Nor was it part of mine. He didn't move. And neither did I. But this was a good idea, or so I thought. I wouldn't have to remember all the prices and Jake would get to see the animals under the guise of helping me.  

Then, slowly, he walked to my side. I put my arm around his shoulder and pointed to the kitties and the puppies. "What do you think of that one?" I asked, gesturing towards a purple cat in a plastic purse. He said nothing, just looked. So I shut up and let him shop. 

In the end, Jake didn't have enough money to buy anything. With shoulders slumped, we walked out of the store into the parking lot, empty handed. And then I thought of something. Eventually, if he saved his allowances, Jake could start his collection. That would mean we'd have to come back to the Land of Aisle Twelve, where the fluorescent stars shine brightly in the warehouse woods. I giggled at the thought and nearly skipped to the car. 

"What's wrong with you?" Jake asked, studying my face. 

I took his hand and squeezed it. I considered asking Jake for a waltz through the parking lot. But from his dejected expression, he wasn't in the mood. This was not going to be a happily ever after day. At least not for him. "Oh, nothing, my little prince," I said.     

#2: The other day we hit upon an infomercial about stuffed animals that turn into blankets. While everyone else made fun of it, Jake grabbed a piece of paper and wrote down the phone number. But then, the price flashed on the screen. "Nineteen ninety-five?" he said, his voice incredulous. He threw his pencil down. "What a rip-off." 

Paul's Summer LIst

Since I have a summer fun list from the youngest, I thought it would be nice to get one from the middle kid too. Paul is eleven going on twelve in October, so his list is a little flashier than Jake's. He's not one for picking flowers, and simple pleasures to him usually involve physical activity. Though he reads and eats, they are not the main attraction. Also, Paul prefers to write in cursive, probably because he earned his "writer's license" last year, which is a small card that says he can write words with as many curls and swirls as his little heart desires, which apparently is a lot. 

I told Paul to make a reasonable list, meaning nothing too costly. "Make it cheap or free," I said. He heard me, aside from the zipline and motorbiking, which he was nice enough to warn me would be expensive. 

There were some things I would not have guessed, like sleeping in a fort. "You mean, a fort inside or outside?" I asked him. He said he wanted to sleep inside. But in a fort. Like camping without the bugs and the rocks. Like his father, he enjoys nature well enough, but he "doesn't want to sleep in it." 

And last, Paul would like to celebrate Sloth Day again. Of course, to most kids, isn't every day Sloth Day?      

 

Flowers from Jake

I felt a tug on my sleeve the other night. I looked down to see Jake, a grin on his face and a mischevious gleam in his eyes. "I have something for you," he said, his voice almost a whisper. I braced myself for a wiggly worm, a water balloon, or on the tamer side, a new card trick. These are the kinds of things a mother like me is presented with from boys like mine. But no. Jake pulled a small bunch of flowers from behind his back and thrust them toward me. 

"Aww, for me?" I asked. Jake nodded. And so I had to take a picture to remember the moment. Although I think I probably would have even without it. 

 

 

Dear Calvin,

This morning it was just you and me while we waited for your brothers to get home from their last day of school. You finished seventh grade yesterday, and seeing this opportunity for alone time with mom, you requested a trip downtown. I like going downtown, and I love being with you, so I said yes. 

You may be wondering why there's a picture of a pasta package in this letter. That's not just any pasta there, mister. That's genu-wine noodle product from Italy, purchased with you from Tony Caputo's Italian Market downtown. You really wanted to go to a sporting goods shop to look at an airsoft gun, which I'm less than happy about (mostly because you look like a crazed lunatic with those goggles you wear while toting this big black gun thing through the back yard. Also, I worry that one day you'll turn that thing on the blue jays just to see what would happen. Or you'll shoot your eye out, which you tell me is impossible because it's "only an airsoft gun" and not the real thing. But I don't believe you. It's my job to worry, and it's your job to make me worry, and I'd say you're doing a bang-up job of it. And that pun was fully intended.)

I managed to delay the gun shopping by suggesting we get a pastry first. I know I said I wasn't going to eat pastries anymore, but I also know you didn't think I would stick to that. And you were right. Thanks, by the way, for sharing your pain au chocolat with me, even if it was a puny little corner piece with just a smidge of chocolate smeared on the edge. And thanks, too for not laughing or rolling your eyes at me when I held my hand out next to the window and said, "Hey, that's nice light." You patiently waited for me to daydream for a moment about what it would be like to have a natural light studio in that little bakery with its tall old windows and its creaky wood floors the color of honey. You and I know that it's necessary to daydream, if only for a minute or two each day. I dream of light and pictures, you dream of basketball and hunting. These things keep us going. I don't know where these things keep us going to, but I do know that if we stop dreaming, reality will settle in and spread, like the mold growing in the shower. (It's precisely because of this metaphor that I don't clean the shower too often.) 

After our pastries, I suggested we stop at the Italian market next door. And you, my sweet child, readily agreed, even though we had only a little time left before we had to head home. "You're like a kid in a candy shop," you said as I scurried from shelf to shelf, oooh-ing and ahh-ing at the olive oils, the noodles, the bread. You're right. And you, what were you? You looked at everything with delight too, albeit guarded delight. But I saw your smile when you pointed out the shelf of jams and jellies. I watched you examine all of the bottles of Italian sodas, picking up each one and reading the label aloud. I saw you run your fingers over the packages of pasta, and I surely saw you lean down to examine the chocolates in the glass case at the checkout counter. You smacked your lips just like I did when we tried little bites of bread dipped in balsamic vinegar laced with molasses. Face it. You're a foodie just like me. It can't be helped, so it must be nurtured.

And then finally, we made it to the sporting goods store. You stood in front of a dozen airsoft guns, stewing over whether you really wanted to buy one or not. I held a tiny little mouse of a hope that you would change your mind and decide to save your money for a big blowout shopping trip at the Italian Market or a five-course meal at a fancy French restaurant. But no. You chose the gun. You may be a foodie, but you're still a boy. I wondered then, were you so patient at the market so I'd agree to this purchase? Was this a set-up? I hope not. Because there's a little French pastry shop I want to try and hoped you'd come along for the ride. That is, if you're not too busy shooting up the neighborhood.         

Later, after you had sprayed the back yard with little plastic bullets, I tiptoed towards my room, rubbing my hands together at the thought of spending more time with a pile of library books by my bed. But you caught me in the hall. "So, reading time?" you asked. I hadn't planned on it. But then, I thought of our morning together. I thought of how many love calories I consumed by spending time with you. I'm still hungry for more. And so when you wanted to hang out a little longer, I sighed so softly that you wouldn't hear. I looked at you, or rather up at you, since you are now taller than me, and smiled. "Yes," I said. "I'd love to." 

Passing Notes

Yesterday, Jake and my husband exchanged a few notes during church. I chose to be the reverant one, which is to say I was sleeping at the time. But that makes no difference, because Jake's list of things to do after church did not involve me. Smart child. After only eight years on earth he's figured out that my Sunday afternoons are reserved for sleeping or baking. Or both.  

Instead of snatching the notebook out of my husband's hands when I woke to find him and the kids giggling and passing notes, I chose to save it here. This memory was too cute to toss. Also, I think Jake may be a future writer, or at the very least a future foodie. (He has his priorities straight. Food first, play second.) 

 

I can't help but notice that "help Mom make dinner" was not listed. Perhaps an oversight? Or maybe he knew Mom wasn't going to make dinner anyway. And of course big brother Paul had to get in on the conversation and point out the impossibility of having that much fun in so short a time. But you know what? When it was time to go to bed, my dude turned to me and said, "Well, we almost did everything on the list." I stared at him, wondering how he managed to do it all, especially since he had spent time with me and the other kids, too, in addition to doing the dinner dishes and going on a walk. Oh yeah, and he brushed the cat, as he does every night.  

It's times like these that I look up at the sky and mouth "thank you" to Heavenly Father. I am one lucky girl.  

Day of the Sloth

Today I made up a new holiday, which I call The Day of the Sloth. It was around 2:30 when I thought it up, just as I was heading over to pick up Calvin from his last day of school. I'll admit, I am dreading the thought of summer, but also loving it too. I'm dreading the end of my freedom from children for six hours a day, but loving not having to drive to the junior high every other day or worry about homework or practice or projects. It will be fun to just hang out with the kiddoes.  

But still, the end of school for them means vacation. Yet for me it means the end of my vacation and the start of more work. So, today I invented a little holiday for myself. I've been nauseous for the last few days of my vacation, and instead of rushing around to all of my favorite museums or shopping at thrift stores (both of which the kids won't let me do), I lay in bed trying not to startle my stomach into hurling. Today I finally felt better and took myself to Barnes and Noble for an hour. But I still needed a treat, and there was no way I was going to be the one to make it. Plus, I needed some TLC in the form of a good video. 

It occurred to me that what I really wanted to do was to lay on our ugly beast of a couch with a bowl of ice cream and possibly a bag of red licorice. Even though our laundry room is covered in piles of clean clothes awaiting folding and hanging, I didn't want to have anything to do with them. I wanted to just do nothing. I realized I wanted to be a sloth. Hence, the holiday was born. And it was lovely. Calvin and I watched a movie, noshing on the licorice and slurping ice cream. For dinner, we had frozen pizzas and carrot sticks. And for dessert, more ice cream. When Rick came home, he found us bloated and happy, the cat curled up next to Calvin. 

"Welcome to The Day of the Sloth," I said, waving my arm imperiously. "Come, join us."

But slothful behavior doesn't come naturally to my husband. He just shook his head and stomped up the stairs to the kitchen. Calvin and I looked at each other, shrugged and continued the celebration. 

Now my stomach aches again. But in a good way. The Day of the Sloth was so successful that I'm thinking of expanding it to an entire week. Perhaps even a whole summer. But then, who would do the laundry? 

Summer List

I asked Jake to make a summer list and this is what he came up with:

 

I'm totally down with the most important item: EAT. Sounds good to me, as long as I'm not the one making the food he wants to eat. And I'm not sure where we're going to get a canoe, but I do know where we can find some books. 

The Green Hour

Remember the website we talked about in the summer ideas post? Greenhour.org has plenty of ideas to get your kids out in nature, but if you want them all in a handy book, pick up this tome by Todd Christopher. You'll find chapters on exploring your backyard (with instructions on how to make a bug vacuum!!), the mountains, the seaside, the meadows, and understanding and observing weather. So get this book. Then head outside!

 

Summer Fun with Kids

Though it snowed here in Utah this morning, summer really is just around the corner, and I'm still not ready. But thanks to all of you who commented on my plea for summer fun ideas, things are looking a little better. You had some terrific tips and wonderful suggestions. I thought I'd post them all here, along with some things I've thought of, too.

Letterboxing and geocaching: I'm not sure what these are, exactly. But I'm curious. From what I gather it's a scavenger hunt type of thing. And maybe there's cash involved? Here's a link: letterboxing.org.

Water parks: As long as I can just watch, not actually wear a bathing suit in public and fling myself down a Plexiglas tube, I'm okay with this one. 

Backyard: Oh, yeah. I forgot about that one. We have a large back yard, with a swing set and a sand box (which my youngest claims to be infested with spiders. Okay, so we had some brown recluse spider problems last year, but we called Spider Man and he killed them all. At least, that's what he told me when I handed him the check.) The point is, sometimes good old fashioned fun in the back yard is better than the big trip to the art museum that your kids will moan and groan about it anyway (I know from experience). And it's close and free, and you can lock the doors to the house if you don't want the kids to come back in too soon. While they're out, you can catch a nap or hide the video games. You know, summer fun for mom.

Frisbee Golf: Our family loves to play frisbee golf. (Real golf takes too long and we'd rather spend our money on other things, like milk shakes and pizza.) There are a few parks around Salt Lake that have a frisbee golf course, and I believe there's one on the campus of Utah Valley University, but my husband has come up with one that encompasses our front and back yard. It involves a lot of trees, a swing set obstacle, a mailbox, and a cat. Don't worry, the cat is not a goal, she just likes to follow us while we play.

7-11: Hear me out on this one. I'm not a big proponent of that convenience store, 7-11, but there is one day a year that I'm a fan. On July 11 every summer you can get a free slurpee at any location. One year we set out on a All-City Slurpee Tour. We topped out at five, as I recall. Even the kids were clutching their guts and moaning, "I can't take it anymore." Great fun, that. Start early, though. Lots of people are hip to this one. And when they run out, you're out of luck. 

For the little tots: Summer's not too different from all the other days of the year for little ones, but with the warmer weather, they get to go outside a lot more. Think playdoh, shaving cream art and homemade popsicles, all of which are better outside. Give your little ones an old paint brush and a bucket of water and let them "paint" the sidewalk. Sidewalk chalk is always a hit, too.   

Family Fun: Hang out with cousins you don't get to see all the time. Go to the park or get together for a barbecue, or just run through the sprinklers in your back yard. 

Camp out in your back yard: My older kids and husband camp with the scouts every month, but the younger kiddo and I are always left at home. I'm thinking we'll borrow a tent and camp in our back yard one of these summer nights. 

S'mores: My sister's kids like to make roasted marshmallows over candle flames, but I'm thinking a little bigger this year. I'm working on convincing my dude that we need one of those nifty bonfire in your backyard things. One of the kids suggested digging a hole in the back yard for summer fires, but sadly the Dude vetoed that one. Here's a tip: To make s'mores easier, buy fudge striped cookies instead of graham crackers and chocolate squares. They're a lot less messy and taste just as good when you stick a roasted marshmallow between two of them. 

Beach/Mountain Wienie Roast: If you live near the ocean, head out for an evening bonfire. If you live near the mountains, head up the canyon for an evening under the stars. Bring along a package of hot dogs, some buns, a bag of chips, and some marshmallows. Oh, and binoculars might come in handy too. 

Brainstorm: Shannon suggested buying a poster board and brainstorming with the kids what they'd like to do for fun. Then try to cross off as many activities as you can. That way you'll have an on-going list of ideas, and the kids will have a visual reminder that they got to do a ton of fun stuff, despite what they may think.  On this note, take a look at this funny blog post suggested by Shelby: http://heymaughans.blogspot.com/2009/09/just-sittin-around.html

Use Coupons: Gocitykids.com has calendars of activities around town, and Utah Kids Club offers good deals for families for only $6 a month. (Think B1G1Free on kids' meals). Add to that an Entertainment Book, and you could do a lot of fun stuff on the cheap.

Antelope Island: Located on the Great Salt Lake, this island is home to antelope and buffalo roaming free (well, behind the fences anyway). You can camp here, ride bikes, or hike. Bring your bug spray, though. And don't go in the middle or end of summer, as the mosquitoes and freakishly large flies will send you home screaming. Also, it kind of smells bad. Kind of like the tuna cannery I once went to with my church youth group. Only tuna fish don't live in the Great Salt Lake--but brine shrimp do. 

Sports: Recreation centers offer team sports as well as Just-for-Fun sports programs. Just be careful what time of day you sign your kid up for. If you think your kids will enjoy running around the park when the temperature hovers around 105, you're in for a big surprise. Better to do the outdoor sports thing in the early summer, or if later in the summer, in the early part of the day. 

Swimming: In past summers, we've joined the recreation center pool. This year some of my kids don't want to swim, so we'll probably go a few times a week instead.  

For all you moms slathering down your kids with sun screen, don't forget to put some on yourself, too. As I've recently discovered, when you reach a certain age those cute little brown spots on your face can no longer be called freckles. They're age spots, and the sun just makes them darker. Swimming does involve wearing a bathing suit in public, which as you know I'm morally opposed to, but it's not so bad if you can find one with attached shorts (still on the look out for a replacement for mine). 

Camping and Hiking: In addition to church or scout camps, you can go camping and hiking as a family. If you're getting antsy to sleep out in nature, Christy suggested Moab is good place to go in the early summer, before it gets too hot down south. She also wrote that her family tye-dyes shirts to match so they can easily spot each other when they're out hiking. This would also be great for a day at Disneyland, or any crowded place where you can lose a kid. Brilliant! 

Two book suggestions for those of you hikers with kiddoes: Sixty Hikes within Sixty Miles of Salt Lake City and Hiking in Utah with Children. 

Festivals: Look in the paper or online for art festivals, ethnic festivals, or music festivals. In June Park City holds a huge art festival, and local communities have some too.  

Movies: Our dollar theater offers a summer movie club for kids that works out to be pretty cheap. As I recall, you pay ten bucks per kid and get to see a different movie each week all summer long. They're not new releases, or course, but they're all kid friendly. I really like going to the movies. And I really hate paying full price.  

Library: With free books, music and movies for the borrowing, story times, activities for teenagers, book groups, and family entertainment, who doesn't love the library? Our county library system has a summer reading program that involves prizes. I don't know about yours, but my kids love prizes. And I love that they're reading. 

Projects: Build a tree house (if you've got a good tree with strong branches), a bird house, or a bird feeder. Family Fun Magazine has tons of woodworking projects for both parents and kids on their website. If you and your kids are the more crafty sort, try your hand at collages, murals, or jewelry making. Or have your kids write a blog, start a book group, or organize a writing group. Sewing makes me break out in a rash, but I wouldn't mind learning how to do it better. And my kids should at least learn how to sew on a button, because I won't always be around to glue it back on for them, you know? 

When I was a kid, my mom created a notebook full of summer projects and skills. She assigned points to each project and paid us accordingly. She included typing, quilting, cooking, and sewing, among other things. One of the bigger projects involved cooking dinner for a week. She helped us make a menu, gave us money for groceries and helped us with the shopping. We were then in charge of all of the cooking and post-dinner clean-up. It was a useful experience, though according to my mom, none of us ever asked to do it again! I plan on carrying on this tradition with my kids, with a no frozen burrito, frozen pizza, or corn dog stipulation. And I want dessert every night. 

Also, remind your kids they can do SERVICE projects around the neighborhood for new moms, or tired moms, or the elderly. You know, without pay. Just to be nice. (Thanks, Michelle for that one.)

Grandma Camp: I heard about this a long time ago and have fantasized about it ever since. If you live close to your mother or in-laws, ask them to teach your kids how to make cookies or embroider or whatever, kind of like a summer day camp. It could be one day, a whole week, or if you're lucky, one day a week all summer. My sister suggested that if you don't live close to a grandma, perhaps you could divvy up camp days with a friend. Or maybe you know someone the grandmotherly age who would be willing to teach your kids something in exchange for some weeding or lawn mowing. 

Unplug Your Kids: When I was complaining about my kids being glued to the Wii for hours on end, my mother sent me an advertisement for a website devoted to getting kids outside for at least an hour a day. This reminded me of a news report I watched about tweenagers addicted to video games in Korea. They showed Korean kids about my boys' ages, zoning out in front of their computers, playing some online game that involved interacting with other players' characters. They'd play for hours--sometimes literally all day and all night. Their parents were so worried about their emotional and intellectual detachment from the family that they sent them to rehab clinics for video game addicts. And what do you think they did at these clinics? They jumped rope. They climbed trees. They played. Like little kids. Or at least like little kids used to play.

Anyway, the website is greenhour.org. If you're looking for suggestions of things to do outside, this is the place.  

Learn: Start a nature journal and go on a nature hike or walk, learn about birds and go bird watching, learn about animals and go to the zoo or a farm. Go on field trips that involve getting to know people in your community. On my street, there's a helicopter pilot, an air traffic controller, a nurse, a musician, and an older couple with an inordinate amount of bikes in their garage, which leads me to believe they know a bit about cycling. All of these people would probably be at least willing to talk to my kids about what they do, and if we're lucky we might be able to see where they work as well. 

Read: Keep your kids reading this summer and they'll do better in school next year. Bribe them if you have to. My kids love to have me read aloud to them every night (even the older ones!), and I must admit it's my favorite part of the day too. We like authors Roald Dahl, Beverly Cleary, and Mary Pope Osbourne. James Herriot and Jean Craighead Jones is good for middle schoolers. If you're going on a car-trip, check out some books on CD from the library. We like the Harry Potter books (can't beat Jim Dale's narration) most of all, but we've also enjoyed Kate DiCamillo stories. For those interested in wilderness survival, Hatchet is not only an excellent read, but a gripping tale listened to on CD as well.   

If you have a reluctant reader, try setting up a reading tent or nook either inside or outside your house. Stock it with a blanket, a litte battery-operated lamp, and a pillow. Or, if your child likes to play teacher, suggest she read to some stuffed animals or younger siblings. Offer points for books and a prizes to redeem. Reading may be too solitary for some kids, or a power struggle with the parent in charge of making sure the reading gets done. If that's the case, maybe it's time for your spouse to be the reading buddy. Sometimes if my kids get to read to their dad, they're more willing to do so. And if he'll read to them, they'll come running without any fuss. 

Schedules: My mother-in-law told me that when she was a child, she always had to do some chores before she could go out to play. I'd like to do that in my house, but my kids pitch a fit when I mention it, probably because they've seen me ignore the dirty dishes in the sink to slip on over to the library for a couple of hours instead. But this summer I'm determined to do things differently. I have already started talking to myself about this, repeating daily, I will not be the kitchen slave scrubbing thirty five dirty cups every day. I will not be the sock meister, picking up socks all over the house. I hereby declare that I will not get stuck in the kitchen making snacks and meals all day and all night. (My mother always said, "I'm not running a restaurant!" which was annoying when I was a kid and wanted pizza when she had made cabbage burgers. But now I get it. I really get it.) 

This brings up the idea of having a schedule for all those lazy summer days, not a rigid one mind you, because we are talking about summer vacation, after all. But it's a good idea to have a general theme for each day of the week. My sister-in-law Julie's schedule looks so very practical and so very fun, that I thought it would be a good idea to repost her comment here:

This is what I do, and my kids are 12 and 15.

1 day a week for groceries and chore stuff. One or both children is required to come with me.

1 day a week for basic shopping or appointments like hair cuts, dentist, getting shoes, etc.

1 day a week we go to the park or outside- preferably with friends.

1 day we have a field trip to a museum or fun zone of some kind. I use coupons, and find ideas in the Utah Mama's Handbook www.utahmama.com

1 day for library day.

That takes up either the morning or the afternoon. I also have each child choose a recipe to make for the week, and they aren't allowed to just make desserts. They have to make a main dish, a breakfast and a snack before they can make dessert.

We also have a craft project a week. This has changed some with my children getting older, and it has turned into bigger projects like sewing something. I'm toying with the idea of starting a dollhouse this summer.

That should be enough for now. My head is stuffed full of ideas and I don't think anything more will fit in there. If I think of anything else, I'll let you know. Same goes to you. If something occurs to you, shoot me an email ([email protected]) or comment on this post. Because we're all in this together. And if our kids don't want to do any of these fun things, maybe we could start a Mother's Summer Fun Support Group. No kids allowed. And no frozen burritos.  

How Many More Days?

I just looked at the calendar and noticed how close we are to the end of school. THE END I tell you. The end of a peaceful, quiet house and the beginning of chaos. Kids home all day long, moaning, "I'm bored" every five minutes while I try to get something important done, like read a book. I've been known to resort to cleaning just to have some time alone (because what kid wants to clean at all, let alone in the summer?) And you know how much I love cleaning. 

So I'm going to make a plan. I want to create a summer activities list for my kids, much like one my mother made for me back when I was young and annoying. But I can't find the notebook she made for me, and my sister has misplaced hers too. I've asked my mother to make a list of what she can remember, and my sister has given me a few ideas as well. Yet I know I will need more. My kids have Wii Brains, which means they have the attention span of sand fleas. Aside from moving to the woods or a third world country, my only other option is to come up with stuff that is appealing to a thirteen-year-old, an eleven-year-old, and an eight-year-old--and to me, since I'll be doing most of it with them. 

This is where you come in, dear readers. Any ideas?

Happy Mother's Day!

You know, this is one of those times I'm glad to be a mother. I could get all sappy about how much I love my children and how happy I am to be their mother. And that would be true. It was a joyous day when my ovaries kicked in and the first occupant moved into my uterus. But that's not what Mother's Day is really about for me. It's more about relaxing without guilt. Getting my way without argument. Not cooking. Not cleaning. Going where I want and when. Come to think of it, this is kind of like reverting to my pre-mother status, back when selfish was acceptable and even expected. Back when my biggest worry was what to wear the next day. 

My wish for you is an equally rewarding weekend. Also, I hope your family will do the dishes accumulating in the kitchen sink today instead of waiting for you to do them on Monday, when you are no longer the Queen Mother, just "Hey Mom!" Now if you'll excuse me, there's an electric blanket and a good book calling my name, which doesn't start or end with an "M" at the moment. But it does begin with "Your Highness." And with that I say, Cheers to Motherhood and Ovations to Ovaries. 

   

  

Stephanie Nielson

I've heard of the NieNie dialogues, and read a lot of See Jane Enjoy It, but I've never watched a story about the creator of this incredible blog devoted to the joys of motherhood. You probably have all seen it, but I thought I'd post it here in case you haven't. (And thanks to my friend Chizuko for telling me about it on Facebook!) Besides, it's a good reason to spend a few minutes on LDS.org as opposed to, say, MSNBC or some other such nonsense.

Incidentally, it was good to hear from a woman who sees her role as a mother from a divine perspective. Nielson has a genuine sense of purpose in her mothering. She doesn't see herself as the free housekeeper and chauffeur. She's a mother "who enriches and teaches," which she views as a priviledge. "To me," Nielson says, "beauty and motherhood are the same thing." I could learn a lot from this woman. 

 

Bad Karma

One of my favorite things to do is to scare my children when they have the hiccups. As soon as I hear the faint tiny burping sound come from their precious little bodies I rub my hands together and smile, my mind already at work on my plan of attack. Then, when they least expect it, I do my best Large Marge impression and yell, "BOO!" They shriek, I laugh, and the hiccups flee.

For years, the scare tactic has worked much better than the standard drinking-a-glass-of-water-without-coming-up-for-breath method. But lately, I've not been able to cure anyone of their hiccups. Mostly, I've just managed to annoy, inspiring such phrases as "Mu-ther, cut it out." Or, "I hate it when you do that." So the other day, when Paul, my eleven-year-old, came down with the hiccups, I knew I had to do add something unexpected to my usual routine. I decided I would hide in Paul's closet, then leap from the t-shirts yelling something frightening, like, "Clean up your room!" 

It didn't take long for Paul to come searching for me. With his father busy downstairs on the computer and his brothers fighting over the Wii, there was nothing left for him to do but come looking for his mother. When I heard his footsteps on the stairs, I stepped into the closet. Now, you need to know there are no doors on the thing at the moment, so it wasn't like I was hiding in a dark pit and Paul would have to search for me. But the closet is deep, with plenty of room for an adult to stand in it without being detected right away. Paul called out, "Mom? Mom? where are you?" he hiccuped as he said it. I had to cover my mouth with my hands to contain my giggles. It was like waiting for Paul to turn the handle of the jack-in-the-box so I could spring out and scare the socks off him.

Paul walked into my bedroom. "MOM?" he said again, hiccuping. I could hear some concern in his voice, like he thought I actually skipped town as I sometimes threaten to do. "Look in your own room," I willed him in my mind. He must have had the same thought, because his footsteps were getting closer. He stood in the doorway, asking one more time, "Mom?" I could just barely see his hand clutching an orange plastic cup from my hiding place. He took a swig from the cup and stepped closer to the closet. It was time for action. 

I jumped out and hollered "Ah-hah!" Paul screamed, then instinctively threw the contents of his cup in my face, which, luckily he had just drained. But still, there were quite a few drops left in the bottom, enough to cover me in a small rain shower of Paul spittle. This was unfortunate, considering Paul had been home sick for the last two days. "You scared me," Paul said in a voice filled with fright, tinged at the edges with hurt and accusation. I hugged him. "Maybe so," I said. "But your hiccups are gone, right?" And so they were. Yet for some reason, Paul didn't thank me for curing him. Instead he skulked off, taking the cat with him.

A couple mornings later, my throat felt dry and hot. "It's like the Sahara Desert in my mouth," I told my husband as I lay groaning in bed, trying to swallow. I might as well have been drinking sand for how scratchy it was in there. It was official: I was sick. And I knew how it must have happened: Me, in the closet, Paul raining on my parade with viral drops of fear.  

Paul wandered into the room at that moment and looked me over. "What's wrong with you?" he asked. 

"I'm sick," I answered. "And you know why? You threw your germs on me when I scared the hiccups out of you." 

Paul laughed. I had expected sympathy, perhaps even an offer to make me breakfast in bed as I did for them when they're sick. But, no. In his eyes I could not see concern, only the hard glint of revenge. "Well, that's karma for you," he said. 

I didn't know Paul even knew what karma was, let alone how to wield it against me. "That's the last time I cure you of the hiccups," I said. But he was already gone.  

Taking a Look Inside

This lovely egg was made by me and my first son Calvin years ago. You can see that I suppressed the urge to take over and make it perfect. I remember how much I wanted to show Calvin how to make the frosting pretty, but then as I watched him grinning as he swirled the green icing all over the top in great swoops of the butter knife, I thought better of it. Inside, Calvin placed a picture of Jesus, a few yellow jelly beans and some coconut we dyed green for grass.  

When I look at my egg, I remember how determined I had been to make it a Martha Stewart project. I was convinced that I could make it so perfect in every way that Martha herself would want to feature it in her magazine. But I couldn't figure out how to squish out the frosting in pretty flower shapes, the bottom of the egg was uneven and wouldn't sit straight on counter, and my Jesus picture turned out too wide and I had to trim it to a lopsided oval that certainly would not have passed muster with Martha. So I resorted to blobbing frosting all over the top of the egg and sticking jelly beans on top. And that turned out all right, considering I threw five jelly beans into my mouth for every one that I stuck to the egg. 

I keep these eggs wrapped in tissue paper in a shoe box under the house, and every year around Easter I drag them out to display in our front room. I put them there so that I will see them numerous times a day. But this year I thought of throwing them away. With no little hands to pick them up to peer inside, they look suspiciously like clutter. My oldest does not remember making them, and the only one who has shown genuine interest in them is the cat, who was caught licking the frosting from one. But the funny thing is, I care. Mine are the hands to pick them up every day to look inside. And every time, Jesus is there, his arm around a child, pointing to a butterfly. And every time, he makes me smile and feel a little more hopeful, a little less frustrated, a tiny bit less crazy than I had been the moment before. It's almost as if that's me he's putting his arm around in there. 

When I look into the eggs, I wonder how many times God has wanted to reach down and take over for me. There have been many times when I've messed up his plans. "You're doing it wrong," he might have said when he saw me saying the same thing to my child when he slopped frosting all over an egg made of sugar. But God didn't say a word. He let me figure it out for myself. Or rather, he let my son tell me instead. It took me awhile, but I finally got it, and me and God are still on good terms. That's the thing about God and Jesus. They don't care if your eggs look great or even if you've got them all in a basket. They like you anyway. They even love you. And they don't hold a grudge. (Unlike me and a lot of other people in the world.)

So I will keep the eggs a little longer. Or maybe a lot longer. Because they remind me that the handiwork of children is beautiful in its imperfection. And they remind me that I am loved in my imperfection, too. And most of all they remind me of the time I kicked Martha out of the house and opened the door to Jesus.

Here's a link to a site that has great directions on how to make these sugar eggs. 

Pet Peeves

Sometimes household drudgery can drive me insane, especially when the mess isn't mine. My mess is cleaner than everyone else's right?

So I walk into the boys' bathroom and this is what I see:

Am I the only one who knows how to take out the trash?

And then I open the refrigerator and find this:

Do you see what I'm talking about? Do you see the empty plate on the second shelf, placed there because Someone didn't want to at least put it in the sink?  

I have heard that if you aren't home as much, your kids have to learn to fend for themselves more. I wonder about this all the time. If I were to work full time, would the children pony up and pick up after themselves a bit more? Or would they just leave it for me to deal with when I got home from the office? 

Or maybe it's just bad karma, and all those times I left a trail of clutter through my childhood home are coming back to bite me in the bum. This makes sense. And it gives me hope, too. I will encourage my children to have lots of their own children who will make lots of messes that my kids will have to pick up. Is this what they mean when they talk about the circle of life? Anyway, it's the theory I'm clinging to. Otherwise, I'd eat a pound of licorice to cope. I've found that revenge and spite, though bad for the complexion, are easier on the figure.

A Monday Morning Run

 

When I wake up in the morning, it usually feels like a truck has spent the night testing its brakes on my back. This morning my body was so creaky and worn that it felt like an entire fleet of trucks had run over me repeatedly. All night. This, I'm told, is one of the perks of being in your late thirties. Your body starts to break down incrementally. And then your mind goes. And then before you know it, you're wearing a hat that says, "I want my senior discount" printed on the front. 

But I'm not that old, I keep on telling myself. And my body keeps on telling me that I'm wrong, so very wrong. I had meant to wake up at 5:30 or so, but this morning when my cat pawed at my cheek to ask me for breakfast, I tossed her across the room and went back to sleep. 

Then a couple hours later my middle child poked at my arm. "Mom, Mom," he said. 

"Umph," I replied. The poking continued. My eyes flickered open of their own will, not mine. 

"Look at this," my son said, shoving his ipod in my face. "I got this funny email." He showed me a picture of a cat at a bathroom sink, shrieking at its reflection in the mirror. Just when my eyes fluttered back to their desired position, that is to say, shut tightly, he poked me again. 

"Look at this one too." He brushed his finger across the screen to reveal the next picture. This time the cat sat in a car, its paws on the steering wheel poised to drive. For this, my son woke me up. It was like the time I took our cell phone to the movies and left the kids home to fend for themselves. I told the kids not to call me for just any old thing. "Only an emergency," I said in my most serious tone of voice. I guess I should have specified that an emergency would involve blood, because halfway through the movie I got a call. After climbing over a dozen knees to get to the theater lobby, I whipped open my phone with shaking fingers. I expected my oldest to be on the line to tell me that someone had severed a finger or broken a limb. But no. It was my middle child. "Can I have a burrito from the freezer?" he asked. I can't remember my exact response, but it went something like this: "Arrgghhh."

This morning it was the same child demanding interaction. I'm sure he thought the cat would make me laugh. But I was not in a humorous mood. "You, know," I said to him while still supine, my eyes closed, my arms crossed on my chest, "When a person is laying on a bed with her eyes closed and the room is dark, that means she is SLEEPING." 

He left, and I felt vaguely guilty at how peevish I had been. But then, his departure did give me a few more minutes to re-engage in a weird dream I was having in which I was dressing an owl in baby clothes and trying to rock it to sleep. The owl's solid form felt good in my arms, and when he looked at me, his eyes were gentle and penetrating. I sensed the owl had something to say to me, and I was eager to hear his message. 

But I would never hear the owl speak. After a few minutes, my youngest padded into the room. Even with my eyes closed I knew why he was there. I could hear the crinkle of paper, the tapping of a pen against a notebook. "Will you sign my planner?" he asked. I opened one eye. My son handed me a pen and pointed to a box at the top of his paper. I scribbled my initials in the designated spot and snapped my eye shut. 

Then someone else came in the room. I could tell from the sound of his footsteps that it was my middle son again. He is more nimble than his brothers. Also, he has no sense of personal space, so when he sidles up to you he practically glues his skin to yours. My middle dude leaned over me and shook a plastic bag in my face. At that point, I was squeezing my eyes closed, which wasn't really sleeping but an attempt to communicate to my little turkeys that I would absolutely not get out of bed before I was ready. And I was nowhere near ready. 

"Mom, Mom," he said. "You gotta make me a lunch for my field trip today." He handed me the bag. Inside were two slices of white bread that he had hidden from his brothers for this specific purpose. I slapped my forehead and shot out of bed. "Oh my gosh!" I said. "I forgot!" 

I popped out of bed so quickly that I got dizzy from the effort and had to lean against the wall for a moment while holding my head. I glanced at the clock. I had about five minutes. That was enough time to slather the bread with peanut butter and Nutella, extract a Gatorade from the fridge, fish out the skittles and potato chips I had hidden in the pantry and stuff the whole lot in a paper sack. With one minute to spare I even had time to write "Paul" on the side of the bag in purple pen. Then I kissed the kids goodbye and made my way back to the bedroom. I had hoped to get more sleep, but by that time I was too awake. So I went for a jog (really a slog) instead. 

As I shuffled my way past the elementary school, I saw two women running. I thought they were together, but suddenly one dashed out in front of the other. She had something clutched in one hand and as I got closer, I realized it was a paper sack, the top folded down, a name scribbled on the side. I turned my head to the left and there, pulling out of the school parking lot, was a giant yellow school bus full of children. The woman waved at the bus, wildly pointing toward the sack lunch that she held high for the driver to see. She increased her stride, her arms pumping with determination. I could envision what had happened that morning. Her son went to school thinking it was going to be like any other Monday. Only this day everyone had a sack lunch full of Twinkies and soda. That's when he remembered about the field trip. He would have called his mom in a panic. "We're leaving in twenty minutes," he would have shrieked into the phone. So his mom, who was just sitting down to a nice hot cup of tea and a plate of buttered toast would have jumped up from the table and scoured the kitchen for sack lunch fare. When she had the lunch packed, she would throw herself and the lunch into the car. That's when she would discover that the car wouldn't start, and so she would have to run six blocks to the elementary school in the next five minutes. 

There was a time in my mothering life when I would have called this mom a slacker. Had this happened during the two weeks in 2004 when my household ran smoothly I would have been smug at the sight of a harried mother running towards a school bus with a sack lunch in hand, because I would have been more on top of things. But not now. Now I am so buried under things that I don't even want to get out of bed for fear of what I've forgotten to do, or say, or make. I understand, I wanted to tell this mother. But she was running too fast. And as for me, I'm not even sure I was really awake.  

On Holey Pajamas

Today's Deep Thought:

Why is it just when I get something broken in, it breaks and then I have to get another one and start all over again? This happened with my pajamas just last week. The material was soft, the waistband nice and stretched out, the material thin enough to wear in the summer. But I must have taken too many pictures crouched on my knees while wearing them, because there's a big rip in one knee now. I could try to repair it, but that would require sewing. 

This applies to having babies too. I was talking to a friend whose daughter just started walking and asked if she was ready for another. Turns out, she is ready for more kids. "No you're not," I wanted to tell her. "You just think you are." Lack of sleep messes with your mind. It's like torture--you lose all sense of reality and start to imagine it would be possible to breastfeed a newborn and diaper a toddler simultaneously. 

But I couldn't say this to her because I'm guilty of wanting another baby when our first was a mere nine months old. I'm pretty sure I was delirious when I decided that would be a good idea. And so, just when I had a routine and a rhythm to all the baby stuff and had figured out how to work a car seat, I turned on the vacant sign in my uterus and got to work. You see? I had my life all broken in and then I had to go and have another baby and start the whole process over again. And, three years later, just when I had my sanity back and could stuff my body back into my pre-pregnancy clothes and could almost complete a thought without dropping off to sleep in the middle of it, I had our third baby. And, you guessed it, had to begin again, right where I started with the first kid. 

Yet now, thirteen years later, here I am without any babies or little kids. It's just me and the cat all day. We have a routine, she and I. I putter around the house while she sleeps. And while this kind of life has been fun, I think there are some holes in it. It's time to shake things up, rip a few routines, try something new, or do something different. Maybe when something you've broken in finally breaks, it's not supposed to be mended. Maybe my holey pajamas are a kick in the pants from the Universe, or God, or the Man Upstairs, or whatever you want to call it. It's a cosmic message to throw out the old and bring in the new, whatever that new thing may be. 

Or it could just mean that I need to buy new pajamas.

Romeo

Earlier in the week, my oldest son came home with body graffiti, penned by a girl in one of his classes. She had written "I love your face" on his left hand. I almost didn't notice it. But it was almost like he wanted me to see it, gesturing with his hand while he talked, lifting it to take off his glasses, all within inches of my face. 

When I saw the blur of letters on his skin, I grabbed his hand to look closer. There was an outline of a heart where the word "love" should have been. And the exclamation point had been dotted with another, smaller heart, this one colored in with blue ink. The letters were written with the same plump handwriting that I used to have in junior high. "What's this?" I asked. 

"What's what?" my son said innocently. I noticed that the first "what" sounded like a man's voice, but the second "what" sounded like a kid's. Clearly, I was making him nervous. And it made me glad for some reason, as if my mom power could stop this tide of testosterone.   

As I sat there examining my son's hand, I traveled back in time to when he was little and I used to draw smiley faces on his thumb. He would giggle at the tickle of the pen against his skin, wiggle his nose at the smell of ink on his fingers. This is something handed down to me from my mother, who would draw smiles on my big toe as I lay on the floor reading. Even now in her letters she'll often pause in a sentence to draw a smile, and often she'll sign her name with a smiley face too. Those tiny smiles from my mother make me feel she is near somehow, and that I am still her little girl. 

My son took his hand away from mine. But I wasn't done with the inquisition. "So who wrote this?" I asked. 

"No one," he answered. He turned away to look out the window. "A girl." 

"Which girl?" 

He said a name I've heard him mention before, a girl I do not know. Then I realized that to write on someone's hand, you needed to hold it. And if you're going to draw hearts, you might just hold on to that hand for awhile so you can do a really good job of it. When I pointed this out to him, asking if that was his experience, he just laughed. 

I laughed too. But not as much. It's harmless enough to write on someone's hand. She had, after all written I love your face, which is not quite the same as I love you. Yet I do sometimes worry that teenagers--especially girls--get carried away with the idea of love. I've read the Twilight series and I've seen the movies. I get how tenuous the line between love and infatuation can be, especially when you're young. But real boys are just that--boys. They are not one hundred year-old vampires wearing pasty-face makeup and amber colored contacts, driving sports cars, and feigning American accents. Girls are bound to be disappointed when they declare their attraction to the normal, non-vampire boys inhabiting their real world. "I love your face!" would most likely not be met with, "You are my Bella, my reason for breathing." Rather, I think my son would snatch his hand back (although the evidence indicates that the girl wrote a complete sentence without resistance--no smears, no wavy letters) as if bothered, but then read her words for the rest of the day, all the while marveling, "She likes me." 

That night, he washed away the love note without any remorse. And by morning, we had all forgotten about it. Then I picked him up from school. And this is what I found when he got in the car:

"She's persistent," I told my kid. "Apparently she still loves your face."  

He smiled. "Yeah," he said out loud. And by the way his eyes danced as he said it, there's a good chance he was also thinking, "Isn't it great?" 

And that's when I remembered that he had dressed up as Edward Cullen for his sixth grade dance less than a year before. A few of the girls had shrieked with delight when they saw him. He had danced with some girls that afternoon while all of us mothers watched from the sidelines, the smell of popcorn and hot dogs mingling with the scent of perfume and sweat as the kids gathered in the middle of the room. He had not made eye contact with the girls as they shuffled in circles on the dusty linoleum floor. He had looked off in the distance as if considering something deeply meaningful to him. And when the music sped up, he closed his eyes and danced by himself, his long limbs swinging to the beat, his lips moving with the words. It was as if I was watching a stranger. 

Back in the car, I pulled into traffic and headed home. My son was silent, perhaps contemplating the significance of the words on his hand. "So what are you going to do now?" I asked, referring to the face-love thing going on between him and this girl. 

But he didn't get my meaning. "Probably go home and make a sandwich," he said. "I'm starving." 

That's my boy. 

  

 So the other day my youngest and I were stuck home alone. I can't remember where everyone else was, but I'm sure they were having more fun than we were. "What should we do?" my kid asked. I had been wondering the same since the day I realized it would be just me and him for an entire Saturday. It's been a long time since I've had only one kid to entertain, but these days it's happening more often. And while in my younger years I often thought that I would lose my mind if another baby took up residence in my womb, it's been quite handy to have given my little critters playmates in the form of siblings. Instead of me having to play Hot Wheels with my son for hours on end, he could coerce his little brother to play with him instead. 

But here's the problem. When you have your first couple of babies less than two years apart and then take a breather for three years, the caboose kid gets left out of quite a few things. Plus, when you have all boys, they are not interested in mothering the baby as I'm told girls are, so you get no help, only thinly veiled resentment. Through the years I've impressed many people with my excellent reflexes, but I have to be honest. The only reason I can catch things whizzing by or at me is because of how often I had to dodge toys my toddlers launched at my head while I was breastfeeding their baby brother. 

The caboose kid doesn't always realize he's getting the shaft, though. And maybe that's because he doesn't see it that way. With his brothers out of the picture, he gets time alone with me, and sometimes with his dad, too. Sure, he may not be invited to go see Avatar, but at least he gets my full attention for three hours. And for now, that seems to be working for him. And for me too. While the older kids ease into the cynicism that comes with old age, the youngest still enjoys going for nature walks, telling knock-knock jokes, and sleeping with stuffed animals.

So what to do on a Saturday with an eight-year-old? Why, build a tent, of course. In your front room. 

As a kid, I would spend many happy hours making forts by draping blankets over the pool table. That stopped when we moved to an apartment and didn't have room for a pool table anymore. But I never quite got over the delicious feeling of mystery as I crept into my blanket cave and disappeared into the darkness, the muffled sound of the television filling the silence with a warm familiarity. In later years, I would hide out in my closet, which was not as good as a fort, but still served its purpose. I could read without disruption, escape my family without being too far from them, and sometimes pretend that I was camping without having to deal with bugs. 

But we don't have a pool table, and our closets are full with other things. We do, however, have thin rope and an old duvet cover, all of the necessary items for tent-making. 

With Jake supervising, I strung the rope between a window frame and a doorway. Then I ripped the duvet cover in strategic places, threw it over the rope and voila! Jake had himself a tent. He dragged the couch pillows inside, rigged up a front and back door with old sheets and clothespins, found himself a good book, and disappeared. 

"Can I sleep in here?" he asked me that night. I said sure, it'd be like camping. Only warmer, and with less bugs. And so, for the next week, this is where my son lived. He dragged all of his stuffed animals inside. He asked for a small lamp and his alarm clock, too. Many nights I would pass the tent on my way downstairs and see the shadow of his little body crouched over a book. In the morning, he'd stagger out with wild hair and sleepy eyes, smiling to himself for no particular reason. He was one happy camper, much happier than the time we all crammed into a four man tent and spent seven miserable hours laying in the dirt on sloped ground. But that's another story best left untold.  

After awhile, I forgot the tent was there. It had become so much a part of the room that my eyes failed to see it as an imposition. But then, we had some visitors, and when I led them upstairs I realized there was nowhere for them to sit. Two chairs anchored the tent and the couch cushions had become Jake's bed. Clearly, the tent was in the way. And so I finally took it down. 

Yet although it's tucked away for now, the tent is not forgotten. Or at least its purpose is not forgotten. As I sit here writing, I've thought about Jake's closet. There just might be a spot big enough for a pillow, a small lamp and an eight-year-old. And if I move a couple boxes, there might be enough room for me, too. 

Junior High Spy: My Life Story

This is me in 8th grade. I didn't wear a bike helmet because I figured my shield of Aqua Net hairspray would do the job. Not that I did much bike riding back then, or that anyone cared about bike helmets. 

In language arts, he's typing a five paragraph essay in the computer lab. It's not his best work. I want to tell him to start with a hook instead of the predictable "My essay is about my favorite season." I almost say, "Is that the best you can do? What, are you twelve?" And then I realize that he kind of is twelve, having just turned thirteen a few months ago.

When I think about it, I realize that this is how I started essays in school. "My essay is about what I did over summer vacation" and the like. But now I want to try again. Also, I'm tired of watching my son clack away at his essay. So I will write my life story in the five paragraph form.

My Life

by Susan Hayward

This essay is about my life story. My life can be divided into three parts. My birth, my elementary years, and my kids.

My life story begins in a hospital in a small Colorado town. I guess my life started before then, but when I was born all I knew was that for almost a year I had relaxed in a jacuzzi of semiotic fluid and then my mother kicked me out. This pattern of relaxing into a routine and then getting evicted from said routine would be a recurring theme for the rest of my life. 

Next, I went to school. In kindergarten my favorite toy was a steering wheel attached to a wooden box, which I would "drive" to imaginary destinations, like KMart and TG&Y, two of my favorite stores. (Many years later, those kindergarten driving lessons would prove totally useless when I would smash my mother's car into a tree.)  My teacher made us take naps on green mats every day, though I don't recall ever actually falling asleep. (Had I known the sleep deprivation that comes with babies, I would have stocked up on it when I was younger.) In second grade, I played kissing tag at recess with a boy I had a crush on. One day I finally caught him. I can still see him now, standing by the big tractor tire embedded in the playground sand, a grin on his face. So I kicked him in the Privates. It seemed the thing to do.

After surviving public school (but just barely) I went to a private college, where I met the man who would become my husband. We did not like each other at first, which is always a sure sign of attraction in Jane Austen novels. So I should have known we'd end up getting married. For my wedding dinner I ate a subway sandwich in the parking lot of the reception center. I was worried about two things: getting intestinal gas and getting naked. Fifteen years later, not much has changed.

I got pregnant three times and had three babies, all boys. By the last sonogram, I was not surprised to see a one-eyed snake on the screen. "It's a boy," the technician announced. As if I didn't know. But even though I thought I'd have a girl in there somewhere, I like these dudes my husband and I grew from seed. They make us laugh. They make us cry, too, but not as much as they make us laugh. They make us see things from a different perspective as well, like the time I was frying bacon and one of the kids said, "That sounds like a hundred people kissing." And they make us understand what it means to love someone so much, you'd spend the entire day in junior high with them. Plus, they often do dishes and clean the toilets. And that is what makes me love them most of all.

So anyway, that's my life story. Up until now, that is. I know this makes six paragraphs, but if there's one thing I've learned since junior high it's this: some things just don't matter in the end. Or in the middle either. Algebra, for example, doesn't matter in the least. Guess jeans and Swatch watches just don't matter, even if they seemed vital to my popularity in junior high. It's taken me thirty-eight years, but I think I've finally figured out what is important: people--the people you are born to, the ones you live with, the people you marry, and the people you parent. In the beginning, in the middle, and in the end, it's not the movie stars who have the most influence on how you turn out. It's the mom who tucked you in every night, the sisters who attend your impromptu pity parties, the big brother you've always looked up to (literally and figuratively), the husband who endures four nights of turkey leftovers and never complains, and the kids who give your days a shape and a rhythm that sometimes drive you mad, and sometimes--more often than not--make you glad. You just can't squish that into five paragraphs. And you really shouldn't have to. At least not when you're a grown up.

THE END 

Junior High Spy: Lunch and the Ladies' Man

For lunch, we eat salads with ranch dressing on top. This is unfortunate. I am morally opposed to ranch dressing, having spent a semester in college washing out five gallon buckets of the stuff. You haven't experienced food torture until you take a steam bath in ranch dressing every day. This could be why my chin hasn't been free of zits for the last twenty years. But with no alternative, I open the dispenser and try to think happy thoughts. This proves impossible when thick globs of white, preservative-filled goo drop to my lettuce and I imagine what it will do to my digestive system. 

There's so much noise in this room, which once seemed so large until it was crammed with kids, that I want to leave immediately. I am one who needs her personal space, and who needs quiet and tranquility for at least a few moments of each day. But there's none of that here. It's worse than Who-ville in the Grinch, when all the Whos were making a racket with their Christmas loot. Everyone's yelling so loud that I want to hold my ears and lament, "Noise, noise, noise!" 

A kid screams intermittently, writhing in his seat. I wonder if it's ranch dressing poisoning, but by the looks of his buddies, it's not. The boys at his table laugh at his antics, going so far as to bang on the table in approval. Someone else takes up the beat and soon it starts to feel like we're in an earthquake. And indeed, a part of me wants to take cover under the table until it's all over. Also, if one more kid hits my bag as they pass our table I'm going to lose it. 

I start to shovel salad into my mouth, hoping to escape the mayhem as quickly as possible. Then I decide I should be having a conversation with my son. So I ask him about a poster I saw on my way to the potty that morning. 

"Are you going to the Valentine's Dance?" I say. 

"Dance? What dance?" He thinks for a minute. "You mean the dance on Friday?"

"That's the one." 

"Well, yeah," he says in between mouthfuls of salad. 

"You do know they'll play slow songs," I tell him. I assumed this would make him change his mind. From what I recall, boys at this age don't know how to dance to slow songs, nor do they want to. But Calvin surprises me. 

"Good," he says, grinning. I stare at him, then remember how many girls have giggled while looking his way, how many he's waved to in the hall. Then there's the girl who has repeatedly pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head while we've been trying to eat our lunch. Obviously, the girls notice him. And that's a good thing, I guess. It's not like I want him to ignore girls. I'm just not ready for him to get all hormonal about them. I'm not ready for him to pull a girl close to him and dance in the dimmed lights of the school gymnasium, and I'm definitely not ready for him to kiss anyone. I want him to think girls have cooties for as long as possible. What I really want is for him to be my little boy for a lot longer. 

When we finish our salads and make our way to his locker, an older kid grabs Calvin by the arm. The kid turns to me and says, "Your son is quite the ladies' man." Calvin opens his mouth to protest. But the kid cuts him off. "He doesn't talk to anyone but girls," he says with a grin.

Calvin looks confused. And slightly embarrassed. "You don't talk to anyone but girls," he manages to sputter as the boy disappears in a throng of kids swarming the halls. I decide not to point out that both boys have been talking to each other, which would mean that they do not only talk to girls. But the moment is over, and I'm left to wonder if there's some truth to what the kid said. 

Calvin leads me to his locker, where he chats with the girl at the locker next to him. I notice that although his smile is the same one he's always had, his voice is deeper now. And while I used to be able rest my hand on top of his head, by the end of summer he will probably be taller than me. But he's not done being my little boy entirely. He will still linger in the doorway for a goodbye hug in the morning. And at night when I ask, "Who wants reading time with Mom?" he always wants to be first. Granted, we no longer read stories about steam shovels and dinosaurs. Nowadays it's James Herriot, Harry Potter and the like. But there are times when it seems like the old days. There are times when Calvin will forget himself and rest his head on my shoulder just like he used to when he was a toddler. When he does this, I sit very still, remembering how warm his little body felt next to me, how small his hand was in mine. These are the thoughts that make me smile as I follow my son through the halls of junior high. My son is growing up. But he's not done just yet. And neither am I. 

Junior High Spy: Math and Morticia

A mother snaps a picture of her son, who sits with his head averted. He doesn’t look at her. But even if he did turn his head, he couldn’t see her through a thick curtain of dark hair. “Oh, come on,” she says. “Smile.” The boy doesn’t budge.

Finally she gives up and bounces over to where I’m standing. “I told him I would do this,” she said, gesturing to her camera. “I’m a scrap booker.” All of us mothers standing in the corner nod in understanding. Though I’m not a scrap booker myself, I am a blogger, which is almost as bad. As such, I can’t help looking at every situation as a possible story. And to this mother, a day at school is definitely scrapbook page material. I actually considered bringing along my camera too, but figured that would be going too far. Better to scribble notes all day than to be Mama Paparazzi. Plus, I’m trying really hard to raise my child so he doesn’t end up in therapy because of something I’ve done. (It might be too late for that, though.)

It’s during math that I finally break down and use the bathroom. All morning (all two hours of it, so far, though it seems like the day should be about over now) it felt like I needed to go. But I just went! I kept on thinking. Then I remembered that I usually have to pee about five times every morning after I drink my Big Gulp of water. I’m almost always home in the morning, so I don’t notice how many times I have to go. This is another reason why I cannot get a real job. I’d have to find someone who’d give me a desk next to a private bathroom, preferably with a fan for cover noise and a small, well-stocked library. This may be the reason I have yet to find my perfect job. 

On my way to the potty, I see a swine flu poster. This makes me nervous. School is, after all, one big germ pit, teeming not only with hormones, but also with invisible, disease-causing microbes. I do not trust any of these kids to wash their hands properly. But when you gotta go, you gotta go. 

Surprisingly, the bathroom is much cleaner than my junior high bathroom. My junior high bathrooms were were plastered with lumps of wet paper towel wads stuck to the ceiling. But this one had none of that. Nevertheless, I followed my germ-free practices. 

Use the pinky to open doors.

Do not sit down, ever. Crouch.

Read inscriptions on stall, but do not run your fingers over the lettering.

Flush with foot, not hand.

Scrub hands for at least 20 seconds, if not more.

Use elbow to dispense paper towels. 

Back in the classroom, the math teacher calls on a girl to explain an equation written on the white board. About two seconds into her explanation I’m lost. While she blathers on about X and Y, I’m mesmerized by her foot swinging into the aisle. The girl is wearing brown suede boots with a fringe of fur on top. I wonder where she might have bought them and if I could pull off wearing them, too. That’s when I see another girl take off her sweatshirt and let it drop to the floor. I grip my pen tightly, trying to stop myself from snapping, “Pick that up!” Today I am supposed to be a fly on the wall, not a mother. I am not supposed to embarrass or harass my son or anyone else. At least not out loud.

Another girl sitting next to me hasn’t done a blasted thing all period but scratch a few words in her notebook, tap her foot against the desk in front of her, and examine her nails. She wears a plaid shirt over a black t-shirt, low-slung black jeans tight on her skinny legs, big black sneakers, and an ipod tucked into her pocket. Her pale face is framed by long, straight, black hair. She reminds me of a character from that 1960’s series, The Addams Family.

I want to lean over and say, “You look just like Morticia.” I’d snap my fingers and hum the theme song. But I think the reference will be lost on her. She looks like what we used to call Stoners. Only she doesn’t smell like she bathes in nicotine and smokes smelly socks for breakfast. Yet. 

The teacher is talking this whole time, and I consider that he might mistake my incessant note taking for actual comprehension of his subject. But he would be wrong. I’m hearing words I’ve not heard in years, like negative inverse, variables, integers-- things I didn’t understand when I was in seventh grade and still don’t understand now. A thick fog descends upon my brain. There was a reason why I immediately forgot algebra when I graduated from high school. It’s totally useless, for one. And not so interesting to discuss for another. With math, there’s only one interpretation of the information. You can't argue any other interpretations because there aren't any. And unlike literature, math offers no hidden meanings or applications to the human condition. 

When Morticia/Stoner Girl stands up, she’s as skinny as a black licorice whip. Her pants are held precariously aloft her slim hips with a wide white belt. I notice this because she does the classic teenager pant pull-up/pull-down as she saunters out of the classroom. Morticia grabs the waistband of her pants, tugs slightly, then carefully pushes her pants down to within a centimeter of where they were so that the material in the crotch hangs almost to her knees, forcing her to take baby steps down the hallway. She looks ridiculous. 

This may sound like a criticism, and that’s only because it is. But one day Morticia will agree with me. Sometimes I think it would be nice if we could see ourselves from the perspective of our future self. If someone had told me how awful my 38-year-old self would think my 13-year-old self looked in dark foundation, bright green eye shadow, and frosted pink lipstick, I think I would have made some changes. I would have skipped the pink leg warmers for sure. I wouldn’t have teased my bangs so unmercifully. I would not have permed my hair. I would not have pegged my pants at the ankle. And I would definitely not have worn black nylons with a white dress and white plastic pumps. 

Yet when I’m seventy-five, will I look back at me at thirty-eight and wonder why I wore overalls so much? Will I shake my head at how often I let my hair get to the Janis Joplin stage, all frizzy at the edges and shapelessly long, with coarse strands of grey sprouting from my scalp? Perhaps I will be embarrassed by how often I wore running shoes instead of cute shoes. And maybe I’ll shudder at how I stopped wearing foundation even though my complexion was less than luminous.

But then again, maybe when I’m seventy-five maybe I just won't care anymore. I can only hope. 

PS

I have been watching Calvin for two hours now. He has not done anything alarming, like kiss a girl or pull out a flask of whiskey from his backpack. So far, this surveillance has turned up no clues into his psyche, other than the realization that he’s grown two inches since we bought him the jeans he’s wearing.   

Junior High Spy: The Big Bag Theory

In the first hour of junior high, I’m not allowed to actually sit with my son. He makes a beeline to his desk, where he immediately starts talking to a girl next to him, leaving me to fend for my own. I’m not surprised. It’s not that he’s girl crazy—as far as I know—it’s just that he hasn’t cultivated the art of being a gentleman. If, for example, I’m hefting five grocery sacks from the house to the car, he will not leap up to open the door. “A little help here!” I have to shout. Most of the time, no one comes running. As for swinging doors swinging into my face, there have been too many to count. Admittedly, there was a time in my life when I insisted on opening my own doors. But that was a long time ago, back when I was a feminist college student. In college, everything seemed so clear cut. I could put oil in my old clunker car, I could bring home the bacon (though I was a vegetarian at the time, but I could at least bring it home. I just wouldn’t eat it), and never let any man forget that he was a man—a chauvinist oinker, to be precise, one who would not be allowed to open any doors for me. 

I was so taken in my personal movement for Susan’s Liberation that I actually performed “I Am a Rock” for my French 101 class. “Je suis un rocher,” I declared, my voice heavy with conviction.  The other students stared, their faces impassive, almost bored. 

But I ignored them, channeling all of my feminist angst into the performance. Plus, it was a large part of my grade. So I continued. “Je suis une ile,” I said defiantly. I’m not sure, but I might have even raised my fist to the ceiling when I recited this bit about being an island. I was trying to declare a loner’s manifesto. But what it really sounded like was “I am a roach. I am going to be ill.”

Simon and Garfunkel’s song made me think I really could hide out in my room, “safe within my womb.” But it turns out that saying these things to boys doesn’t make them like you, which is what every girl wants, even if she won't admit it. It scares them. And being stuck on an island gets old after awhile. It’s like living on Alcatraz. You can see people having fun through a little window in your cell, but they’re so far away, they can’t hear you yelling, “A little help here!” As it happens, it wasn’t safe in my womb either. Just ask my son, that kid over there trying to ignore the fact that I’m shadowing him for the day. 

While I sit lost in these memories, other parents wander in. We give each other what I call the “man wave,” which is a slight nod, a silent acknowledgment of the other’s presence, but not an invitation to chat. I note that I am carrying the biggest bag out of all the parents. One dad has nothing with him, and another mom has a sensible-sized purse that she holds in her lap. I, on the other hand, look like I'm lugging a small suitcase, an old habit from my diaper bag era. When I had babies, I carried extra diapers, wipies, granola bars, water bottles, an extra change of clothes for the inevitable baby poo blowout, and a book to read to the kids if we got stuck in line somewhere. Now I don’t need any of these things, but for some reason, I can't let go of my big bag.

But here’s a thought. Does this thing go back earlier? Does it hearken back to junior high, when I first noticed that the smart students carried huge backpacks stuffed with books and notebooks, scientific calculators, British novels, and musical instruments? Following suit, I insisted on using a big bag, too. I filled it with all sorts of junk: notebooks, paper, pens, pencils, markers, highlighters, textbooks, hairspray, brushes, face powder, supplies for Bellatrix encased in a drawstring bag. You name it, and most likely it was in my bag. It was my little house, packed and ready to go. Meanwhile, the slackers never brought anything to school except for a stubby pencil in their back pockets, and sometimes not even that. They were the ones who always asked,  “Can I borrow some paper?” with raspy voices and smoker's breath. “And a pen,” they’d add. Or course, they always asked me because they knew I’d have those things. They could tell from the size of my bag.

My son has followed the tradition and now walks the halls with a backpack the size of a steamer trunk. And, true to my theory, he’s a good student. But here’s the thing: Today I am not a student. Yet I carry the bag of one. So I’m wondering, is this really the residue of mothering babies or do I want my son’s teachers to think I’m an intellectual? Am I hoping that they'll think I’ve come prepared to take notes on everything they say? That I am not a slacker? This strikes me as pathetic on both counts and I shove my bag under the desk to hide it.  

Later, the teacher invites the parents to join a group discussion. We are invited to work with four other students on a poster. Then we are supposed to walk around the room and write comments on post-it notes that we stick to everyone’s posters. I enjoy writing anonymous comments on my post-its. It's almost like being in college again, a place where I flourished for many years. That's when something in my head starts to percolate, and I realize it's my brain. This is a hopeful thing. When I had kids, it was like my mind flew south. I feared it would never came back. But now I can just make out the flap of wings in the distant sky. I am mentally flagging down the flock now. “Over here!” I’m yelling. “I’m right here.” The mind is a wonderful thing, is it not? I think to myself. Just when you think your kids ate your brain, you find it on the front porch, waiting for you to come home. Maybe, I say to myself, I’ve moved out of the mom phase far enough to go back to the college student phase. I imagine myself sitting in the classroom, making brilliant comments. Or, here's another one--I'm teaching a class of young twenty-somethings, and they are awed by my intellect.  

But then again, maybe not.

I’m standing by a poster, trying to compose something witty on my little paper when a kid approaches me. “What do I do when I run out of post-its?” he asks.

I don’t know what to say for a moment. The boy looks totally confused, like he has no idea where the post-its came from in the first place, even though his teacher handed him some only ten minutes earlier. He looks at me expectantly, as if he thinks I'll pull some post-its out of my pocket. I point to the teacher. “Ask her for more,” I tell him. He stands there, his forehead scrunched in thought. After a moment, he decides that I'm telling the truth and goes to his teacher.

Why did he ask me, I wonder? Then I figure it out. I am not a rock or an island. I am not a student or a teacher. I am a mother. And that kid knew it. He could tell from the size of my bag.

Back to School

It was supposed to be fun. “You’ll love junior high,” everyone told me when I graduated from elementary school.

But they were wrong. 

Junior High started out well enough, but the more I went, the worse it got. There was homework, for one thing. Lots more than what I had in elementary school. The math was harder, the kids were bigger and meaner, and the teachers all seemed to be about one hundred years old. Sure, there were some good moments. At least, I think there were. But for right now all I can recall are the bad ones, and some of the worst have to do with the discovery that Always maxi pads do indeed leak at some point during the day, usually when you’re wearing pastel colored pants.

 

So when my son brought home a bright pink note from the PTA inviting me to spend the day going to all of his seventh grade classes, I hesitated. Would the memories come back? Would I be reduced to my former thirteen year-old self, unable to comprehend algebra, painfully unfashionable, with bad hair and a spotty complexion to boot? By the end of the day would I need to inhale a milk shake to recover from the pain of adolescence? Possibly.

But I wondered what junior high would look like from an adult’s perspective. And though I’ve observed classes as a student of educational studies, I have never spied on my own son. Sometimes it’s disturbing to think that I don’t really know what he does all day. In elementary, I didn’t worry so much. He had a teacher-mother who kept an eye on him, and only twenty-five other kids to be influenced by.

But that’s all changed. I see the kids who come out of junior high when I wait for my child every day. Some look like they’re escaped convicts, others look like they're on their way to becoming wanton hussies, and still others stumble along the sidewalk like drunken slugs. Surely, he’s not tangled up with these kids. Or is he? If I were to spend the day at junior high, I could find out, taking notes in an innocent-looking composition notebook. And if anything were amiss, I could do something about it. What, I don’t know. But knowledge is power, right? Or is ignorance bliss? I forget. 

Anyway, starting tomorrow I’m taking you on a little journey to junior high. I’m giving you permission to look over my shoulder at the copious notes I scribbled throughout the day. It’ll be fun. And you won’t even get in trouble for it.

Conversations

It used to be that my kids and I would work on their Valentine’s boxes together. We’d get out the red construction paper and plan our design. We’d use stencils to write their names. And sometimes we’d paint shapes with glue and scatter glitter over them to make the whole thing shimmer.

This year when I asked the kids if I could help them make their boxes, one said, “The Mother Helper is going to wrap them for us.” Who? Don’t I qualify as my child’s Mother Helper? This felt like the day I got a polite note from a teacher explaining that all treats needed to be store bought and individually packaged. This after I had brought in REAL cupcakes with REAL frosting for my son’s birthday, made in my own kitchen. And now, my youngest, my last hope for bonding moments through construction paper crafts, was not going to need my help. So I tried the next kid.

“Do you need help with your Valentine’s box?” I asked him. “I’ve been saving a red shoe box since August for the occasion.” This was not a lie. When Paul came home from school clothes shopping with shoes packaged in a red box, I tucked the box high on a corner shelf and waited for February. 

Paul frowned. “I don’t want to use the red shoe box,” he said. “I’ll just cut a hole in the top of this one.” He pulled out a grey box that came with his brother’s new church shoes, size tens. Granted, his brother’s box was larger than his red one, but still. Grey is so not a Valentine’s color. 

I was horrified. Just the week before I had found some red doilies among my decorations and thought we could incorporate that into the lid somehow. And of course, being a glitter addict, I thought we might use our vintage stencils to trace his name in glue, which we would outline in silver glitter, then fill in with blue sparkles. But it was not to be. Sensing my uncontrollable urge to take over, Paul got to work. He rummaged through the cupboard and found some blue paper. Then, while I was in the bathroom, he got out the Elmer’s glue, swirled a few lines of it on the sides of the box, and slapped the paper on top. By the time I got back to the kitchen, he was sawing a big rectangle in the box lid with my best paring knife, which also happens to be my only paring knife. What could I do? I admitted defeat and calmly trimmed the edges for him--with scissors, not an Xacto knife like I wanted to.

When I was finished, I tried one more time. “Do you at least want to use the stencils to do your name?” I asked.

“Nah,” he said. “I’ll just write it.” He grabbed a pencil, scrawled “Paul” in the corner, and then ran outside to play.

My boys aren’t the only things that have changed this Valentine’s. While shooting pictures of candy conversation hearts, I noticed that some of the sayings now include “tweet me” and “text me.” And when I ate some, they tasted and even felt different than last year. Curious, I went to the Necco (which stands for New England Confectionary Company) website. Apparently, Necco revamped everything for 2010. Not only did the company ditch many of the old sayings and come up with new ones, they changed the recipe too. “The new Sweethearts have been re-formulated to be softer and more fun to eat,” they say on their website. As a person who ate quite a few conversation hearts during and after a photo shoot with them, I can tell you that the new version stinks. They do not taste like strawberries or apples or lemons, as the package would have you believe. They taste like solid Sweet n’Low—with the same funny flavor and the same bitter aftertaste. And they don’t make nearly the same satisfying crunch when you bite down on them. Instead, it’s like you’re eating a slightly soggy Smartie, only Smarties taste better. I want my old conversation hearts back, the kind that left dust on your fingers and a chalky taste in your mouth.

But I guess change is inevitable, whether you’re talking about your kids or your candy. However, there’s something you can do about it. On the Necco website, there’s a spot where you can suggest sayings for next year’s batch of conversation hearts. I’m going to propose that they stick with the original recipe and add a few new sayings that are truly seductive like: “Make your own dinner”, or “Do the dishes” or “Let me sleep in”, or “Take the kids for the weekend”, or “No, seriously, I really do have a headache.” I could give these to my sweetheart and see what happens. Maybe nothing will. But at least I’ll enjoy eating my words. 

  

Love Letter to My Son Paul

This is a letter written for my son's "Cool Kid" week at school. He was not amused by the reference to his early eating habits. "You embarrassed me," he said when he got home from school on the day his teacher read it aloud to the class. "It was also too long--eight minutes!" he added. 

"Yeah, well, I'm supposed to embarrass you," I said. "I'm your mother. That's my job." 

Personally, I think I deserve a raise.

Dear Paul,

As you know, this week your father and I have spent a lot of time looking at baby pictures of you. I have the stack of pictures here with me as I write this, so I’ll tell you what I’m looking at. There’s a picture of you sucking your thumb, a grin visible beneath your curled fingers. There’s you in a snowman costume, strapped into the stroller, clutching the hat you’ve just pulled off your head and laughing. When I look closer, I see that you hold one sock you’ve just torn off your foot, which you are holding up for the camera to see. Your nose is painted red, and with your mouth open, mid-laugh like that, I can see two tiny teeth on the bottom and just a hint of two on top. And your hair! It’s so blond and fine and silky that it’s almost white, like the strands of a spent dandy lion.

But my favorite photographs are of you in the high chair. In one picture you’re wearing a blue terry cloth sleeper suit, and of course you’re smiling, this time without a thumb in your mouth. You’ve got one fist resting on the tray and the other hidden from view. Apparently you’ve had a good meal, because you sit slouched in one corner, as if you’ve just devoured Thanksgiving dinner and couldn’t possibly eat anything more. The tray is smeared with what looks like maple syrup. Something shiny and sticky-looking covers your cheeks and forehead, and your sleeper suit. And what’s that in your hair? You guessed it. Maple syrup. 

We must have wised up after awhile, because in the next picture, you’re not wearing a shirt. Spaghetti sauce covers your little chest, your cheeks, your hand, a sippy cup, and some toys. This time your hand is spread wide and covered in sauce. I’m pretty sure I caught you painting the tray with it. Of course you’re smiling, as if to say, “Don’t you just love the feel of spaghetti sauce on your skin?” Quite often I had to bathe you after meals, so thoroughly covered in food you were. But I laugh about that now, because you obviously enjoyed the process of eating as much as you enjoyed the meal itself. You didn’t just eat a meal; you liked to dress yourself in it, too. 

This way you had of doing things on your own terms we dubbed “Pauly-style”, and it started even before you were born. When I was pregnant with you, you didn’t just give my belly a karate kick now and then, like most kids. You did three-sixties, cartwheels, Ollies, and back flips. Once in church, a friend turned around from her seat in front of us just in time to see your acrobatics. She looked at me, saw your limbs doing the watoosie inside my belly, and gasped. I just giggled and shrugged. I knew that you would be an active kid--and a fun kid, too. 

And I was right. You have this amazing ability to do anything that involves physical activity, be it roller blading, snowboarding, BMX biking, skateboarding, soccer, or basketball. Your body just knows what to do. Usually there’s a jump, a leap, or a trick of some sort involved, too. Something distinctly Pauly-style. 

You even read Pauly-style. When you were in kindergarten, we’d sit on the couch and read those little paper books that were stapled together in the middle, usually stories involving a rat, a mat, and a snake named Sis. I’d turn to the first page. “See Sis sit,” I’d say. Out of the corner of my eye I could see you start to wiggle. By the time we’d reached the middle of the book, you’d be balanced on your head, looking at the book upside down. By the last page, you’d have somersaulted off the seat cushion onto the floor. And before I could say, “The end,” you’d scamper off to other adventures, usually involving a bike or a ball.

But Pauly-style doesn’t only mean you paint modern pictures with spaghetti fingers, or that you style your hair with maple syrup, or that you can hold your own with the big kids at the skate park. It also means that you know how to show kindness with small acts of service. Whenever it snows, I can count on you to be out before the rest of us, shovel in hand, clearing our driveway and the neighbor’s as well. I will always remember the winter we were hit with such a big snowstorm that school was canceled for the morning. Do you know how you spent your mini-vacation? As I recall, you cleared four driveways and some sidewalks too, whistling a happy tune as you did so.

There’s something else about you, too. You’re smart. Often when I haven’t seen you for a long time, I’ll find you in your room, reading a thick book, the cat sleeping on your lap. You’ve also consistently brought home good grades, excelling in math as well as recess. And, to top it all off, you’re a hard worker. When you were CEO of a pretend company for a school project and the computers went down, you covered all the crises that popped up with your characteristic aplomb—which is to say, Pauly-style.

You have the makings of a great leader: charisma, intelligence and good looks. I won’t be surprised if you end up running for president someday. And I’ll tell you this: you’ve got my vote for sure.

Love,

Mom 

 

The Birds and the Bees

Last week, we were gathered in the front room, talking about the creation of the earth. When we got to the part where God created people, my youngest lay down on the floor, did this spread-eagle thing with his arms and legs, and groaned like he was going to throw up or something. 

"What are you doing?" I asked him. 

Jake screamed, then contorted his face into a grimace and bore down. "Hunnnngh," he said. Now, instead of throwing up, it looked like he was having a difficult bowel movement. That reminded me of how one of our kids (who shall remain nameless because he is at that age when this might embarrass him), would climb up to the toilet when he was little, grunt for a few moments, then pronounce, "Nuffin," with an air of great dissatisfaction. He would say this aloud, whether or not someone accompanied him to the bathroom. Then you'd hear the scuffle of a little wooden stool as he descended his throne. It made it quite easy to keep track of his bowel movements. Plus, it always made us laugh. 

But Jake never said, "Nuffin." He just kept on grunting, crossing his eyes for greater effect. I repeated my question.

"I'm having a baby," Jake answered. 

I looked at Rick, who looked back at me and shrugged. Where had this kid seen a woman having a baby? Rick thought for a moment and said, "Star Trek?" We've seen the movie twice, and it does indeed begin with a woman in labor being wheeled through a crashing space ship by a one-eyed nurse. The woman screamed a lot, and I must say she did look authentically sweaty as she winced in mock pain. It was not like some of those shows that make the pregnant woman look like she'd swallowed a wad of lumpy cotton and was shrieking like a sissy to get it out. In those shows, the doctor might as well clip some threads with embroidery scissors at the end of the ordeal rather than snip an umbilical cord. "Congratulations," he could say, "You've just given birth to a throw pillow." 

The whole family stared at Jake. "You're a boy," his brother said. "You can't have babies." Jake paused, as if contemplating the details of baby making. And that's when I realized we haven't had "The Talk" with this child. I'm not looking forward to that one. It was bad enough with the first two. When we told them about sex a couple years ago, they looked at each other, with an expression on their faces that could only be interpreted as "gross." I couldn't even make eye contact through the whole discussion, choosing to sit silently examining the fabric on the chair while my husband briefly revealed, in scientific terms, how babies are conceived. When my husband cracked open an anatomy book he had borrowed from the library, our boys looked at the illustrations with the same polite interest you'd look at a friend's vacation photos. I was worried that the kids would eventually ask, "You and Mom don't do this, do you?" But when Rick was done talking, the boys had no questions. 

But I think at least one kid is on to us. The other night when it seemed the children were asleep, I tapped Rick on the shoulder and announced that the planets were in alignment. Shortly thereafter, I went out to the hallway to check on the children. That's when I found our oldest sitting in his bed, completely awake, watching a show on his brother's ipod, head phones plugged into his ears. Although we'd done our best to keep quiet, our bed is rather squeaky, and our oldest, always a light sleeper, had just switched bedrooms to the one adjacent to ours. I wondered if the head phones meant that he either didn't want to make a sound or didn't want to hear a sound--or sounds, in this case. I feared the worst. 

My son looked up as I approached the doorway. I gestured for him to take his headphones off. "Did we wake you up?" I asked. He looked away. 

"Well?" I said, smiling nervously. 

"Um…no," he said slowly. "I was just…scared." 

Scared of what? I wanted to ask. But I already knew the answer. Just imagining your parents having sex is bad enough. But hearing it? That's the stuff of nightmares. 

The next night as our kids watched television in the basement, my husband conducted an experiment. He stepped into the boys' bedroom and told me to bounce on our bed a little to make it squeak. I obeyed. After just a few moments of this he hollered, "Stop, just stop." He came back to our room, his face red with embarrassment. 

"You can hear it, all right," he said. "Loud and clear."

I wondered if spraying WD-40 on our bed would solve the problem. Or perhaps KY Jelly? I thought of suggesting abstinence, but for some reason didn't think Rick would go for this idea. And that's when I came up with the perfect solution. Our oldest should live with his grandparents. Because, you know, there wouldn't be anything for him to hear in the wee hours of the night. I can't imagine that our parents do that sort of thing anymore. 

Or do they? Oh dear. I think I'm going to have nightmares tonight.

The Comedian

Every family has a smart aleck, and ours is the youngest. Because the oldest has taken the role of the brain and the middle is the uber X-Game athlete, the youngest has chosen to be the funny one. 

Take yesterday. J's hair was looking a bit like he'd been through a battle with the pillow and the thirty six stuffed animals he sleeps with. Actually, it always looks like he's had a rough night. Come to think of it, I did finally give up on the idea of a top sheet because every morning I found it on the floor next to his bed in a little heap. Sometimes I find his comforter on the floor too, while J. lays huddled in a ball like a roly poly in the middle of the mattress. One of these days I'm going to record what he does every night. I imagine it involves a lot of thrashing, flipping, and hair pulling--possibly even dialogue and weapons. 

So his hair is always a mess. But as this child usually wakes up growling and sulky, I have chosen to be happy that he will put on clothes and shoes, and if I'm lucky, a clean pair of underwear. As the mother of boys, I figure I don't have to "do" hair in pig tails or cute curls or what have you. Not only is their hair not long enough for such things, quite frankly, my boys don't care. And by default, neither do I. 

But the other day, we were out in public and I happened to look down at J's head. The hair on the back of his head was matted and dusty looking, while a few bits at the top sprang up like milkweeds. When I examined the rest of his head, I found swirls and waves of blond and brown tresses colliding in a frizzy fury, and a fringe of electrified cowlicks bordering his forehead. It looked as if he had literally fallen out of bed, crammed on a pair of shoes, and staggered to the car with nary a thought to personal hygiene. But I guess that's where I was supposed to come in. Oops. 

Slightly embarrassed, I tousled J's hair and said, "You've got bed head, big time dude."

J. pulled back from my touch. "Watch it," he said. "I worked all night on this."

I could not pull out a brush and tame his hair hurricane because I don't carry that stuff in my purse. So I could only laugh and put my arm around his little shoulders. And I knew enough to not ask my next question. Because a kid with bed head that bad surely forgot all about clean underwear. And a mom like me surely forgot to ask.

Tough Love

"You're the best mom in the world," my son J. said as he tackled me from the side. I was standing at the stove, stirring macaroni and cheese from the box--the cheap brand, not Kraft. (Before you call me a tightwad, which I am, so I wouldn't mind, I should tell you that my kids actually prefer the cheap stuff. Once when our kids were toddlers, my husband made them the fancy Kraft stuff, totally ignoring the directions on the box. He eyeballed the proportion of butter and milk, all the while assuring me that he ate Kraft Dinner quite often as a child and knew exactly what he was doing. When he mixed the packet of orange "cheeze" he ended up with a soupy sauce, to which he added--now get this--pepper. Yes, you heard me right. Pepper. Normally, my husband is a genius with spices. He can throw together a lovely spaghetti sauce with nary a recipe, and as for barbecue, I've never met anyone who can cook up a dead animal like he can. But pepper on mac-n-cheese? For our kids? It was not a surprise when all three took one bite and said, "Yuck. What'd you put on this?")

 

So, I was standing there cooking for my youngest, when he rammed into me and said this very nice thing, to which I should have replied, "I love you too." But my youngest is not a small kid. He's what you'd call husky. That's why, when he threw his body into this love tackle, I instinctively said, "Ouch!" and rubbed my ribs. 

"Sploosh," my kid said in response. In embarrassment he had lapsed into this cartoon language of his, sound effects you'd hear after Wiley Coyote just got hosed by the Road Runner. Only, I'm never the Road Runner in these scenarios. 

Take climbing the stairs, for example. Our house is a split level, so we go up and down the stairs roughly a million times a day. About a year ago, I noticed that if we all happened to head upstairs at the same moment, the kids literally shoved me aside and ran past. There was no Ladies First, just "Beat ya to the top!" I realized then that if I were to survive in this house, I would have to learn to see everything as a sport. We have fourteen stairs in all. That translates to fourteen yards. And with or without a ball, if you make it to the top first you've made a touchdown. Unfortunately, I was the kid in junior high physical education class who hardly ever got the ball, even if I was wide open. My so-called team mates knew that if they did pass it to me, I'd just run the wrong way. Somehow, my kids know this about me too.  

But it's all good. I know that, aside from the stairs, these little football moves are done out of affection, much like the dead mice and birds my cat brings me as gifts. All I can do is take the love I'm offered in whatever form it comes. I've come to accept that I'll never make the winning shot. But I'm willing to take one for the team.  

Taking a Sick Day

Wednesday was a big day for me. Or at least it was supposed to be. It was supposed to be the first day of solitude since December 23, the day my kids started Christmas vacation. I had a whole list of things planned, and first would be some time alone reading in bed with a very large mug of hot chocolate. Then some serious writing time at the computer, followed by a few magazines, perhaps a trip to the library, and to top things off, a big nap.

But it was not to be. 

Everything started out normally. The alarm went off—which is to say my cat jumped onto the bed and rammed her wet nose against my cheek, then started palpitating my chest with freshly sharpened nails. Then my husband’s alarm clock clicked on to talk radio. (For some reason, he enjoys waking up to the sound of people arguing about sports.) My husband moaned and swung his arm towards the noise. Without opening his eyes, he found the snooze button and pressed it. 

While my husband dozed, I tiptoed to the basement to read and exercise. Eventually, I heard the sounds of doors opening, running water, and one kid yelling, “Wrap it up, would’ya?” to another who apparently was hogging the hot water again. Immediately after that, the water stopped and there was the hiss of aerosol deodorant being sprayed, then the scrape of a stool along the kitchen floor as another someone sat down to eat breakfast. From where I was hiding, it sounded like the morning was moving right along, and soon I would have six hours all to myself. 

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about parenthood it’s this: the minute you plan something and look forward to it, one or more kids will either barf or get a sore throat. That’s why, when my husband told me that our youngest said he had a tummy ache and was at that moment crying in his bed, I wasn’t surprised. Disappointed, yes. But not surprised. In that instant, my plans vanished. Instead of spending hours at the library, I would be forced to stay home and do something heinous, like clean up vomit. Or do laundry. 

However, after everyone left, my dear sweet little boy hopped downstairs carrying a Beverly Cleary Ramona book. Smiling in his most endearing way, he asked, “Will you read this to me?”  There was no evidence of tears, no clutching of the stomach, no groaning, no labored breathing to manage the nausea. The kid looked healthier than I had felt in years. 

“Are you really sick?” I said. My youngest bent at his waist and turned his lips down.

“A little,” he said, his voice now suspiciously shaky and small. He stumbled over to the couch and lay down, wrapped himself in a blanket, and said, “Ohhh, my stomach.” I knew he was well enough to go to school. Yet rather than force him to go, I decided this was the perfect opportunity to teach this child a lesson about honesty. Plus, I needed to make sure this wouldn’t become a habit, thereby ruining my secret life without the children.

“Well, if you stay home, don’t expect to watch movies or play video games,” I said in my sternest voice. “You’ll have to stay in bed and read or sleep all day, and I mean all day.” He trudged up the stairs and obeyed my orders. Of course, I couldn’t resist making two mugs of hot chocolate and reading a chapter of Ramona to him. But when the cups sat empty and the chapter ended, I closed the book. “Well, it’s naptime for you,” I said.

“Awww,” my youngest grumbled as I left the room. 

“But you must rest to get better,” I hollered over my shoulder, resisting the urge to cackle. My evil plan was working. The child was so bored, going to school would seem entertaining in comparison.   

But the best teaching moment of all happened later that afternoon, when my other kids came home from school and asked if I would take them to play basketball at the church gymnasium. “Ooooh,” my youngest cried, “can I go too?” 

“Heavens no,” I told him. “You’re sick. If you’re too sick to go to school, you’re too sick to go play basketball.”

That did it. He snapped. Without thinking, he said, “But I’m not sick.” Then he caught himself.  “What I mean was, I was sick this morning, but I’m not now.” He tried to smile, the kind of cheesy smile he saves for school pictures and bribery.

It was too late, though. I had already decided that he had to take the full dose of medicine in order to recover fully. So while his brothers went to the gym, he stayed home and thought things over. By bedtime he was miraculously healed. “Mom,” he said as I tucked him in, “wake me up at seven o’clock tomorrow.”

“Why so early?” I asked.

“I want to be sure I make it to school on time,” he said.

Sure enough, when I tapped him on the shoulder the next morning, he didn’t even fuss. Instead, he jumped out of bed and got himself ready in less than ten minutes.  

While I wasn’t alone on Wednesday, as it turned out I did get to read in bed and drink hot chocolate. It just wasn’t my bed or my book. But that’s all right. I taught my child an important lesson: Don't mess with Mom's secret life without children.

En Vacances

I don't know if I spelled that right, but it's supposed to say I'm on vacation. The kids and the husband are home this week, so we are spending some quality time together. That is to say, we are wasting brain cells by playing the Wii, watching TV, going to the movies and shopping. But we haven't become complete zombies yet. Only partially. My kids still know how to read. I'm just not sure I do.   

As for the gingerbread cookies, the one and only batch I was going to make this year turned out awful, kind of like what I imagine the desert must taste like, with the texture of sand or maybe baby powder. As you can probably guess, this was quite a disappointment both to me and my family. I'm still trying to figure out two things: 

1. What went wrong? I could have forgotten the white sugar, or the shortening, which I think must be a year old, went rancid. Or, according to my mom, the weather adversely affected my baking (I'm going with this one.) This is the only time these cookies have not turned out. Could it be that I'm jinxed, and should never set foot in the kitchen again? (I can only hope.)

2. Why did I eat four cookies, just to make sure they really did taste as bad as I thought? (Two without frosting, then two more with frosting to verify that nothing could save them.)

Fortunately, my neighbor Janet brought over a plate of goodies just when one of my kids bit into a gingerbread cookie. "What's wrong with these things?" my son asked, grimacing. My husband walked by, cookie in hand. "They taste weird, don't they?" Another kid, standing next to the trash can, licked the frosting off and tossed the cookie into the bin when he thought I wasn't looking. I snatched the cooling rack full of nasty cookies, hurled them into the trash, and noshed on the gift from my Janet instead. (I had to get the taste of sandy gingerbread cookies out of my mouth and that seemed the best way to do it.) Somehow, eating Janet's pecan bars made everything better--at least for a few minutes. 

So you see, it's a good thing I didn't try to bake this Christmas season. Okay, so I baked yesterday, but it was a birthday cake for my oldest. It turned out only slightly better than the gingerbread. When I tried to turn the cake out onto the cooling rack, nothing happened. So I shook the pan. That's when half of the cake reluctantly plopped down to the counter. The other half remained stuck to the pan. So I scraped the batter out with a spatula and attempted to smash the remains back onto their other half. Then I assembled the cake as best I could, hoping that the ganache and frosting would kind of glue it all back together. And it did. Sort of. The cake looked like I made it during an earthquake or while under the influence of drugs. Had you been passing through the kitchen, you might have mistaken it for a science project about plate tectonics. But my boys are not finicky about aesthetics when it comes to birthday cake. Everyone ate a piece without complaint or unwanted critiques. And no one licked the frosting off the top and threw it in the trash when I wasn't looking. Plus, the kitchen smelled divine, all chocolatey and rasberry-ish and positively decadent, just like it should in December. And so, I will return to baking. Next year. But only to make a birthday cake, and only under the influence of Janet's pecan bars.  

Between Mother and Child

This is a photograph of a statue in the Church of Jesus Christ Latter Day Saints' art competition. Unfortunately, I did not photograph the artist's name, only the sculpture itself. This morning, while perusing files in Photoshop, I came upon this piece and remembered how it made me feel. It perfectly captures the love between mother and child. Don't you sometimes want to clutch your kids to your heart and never let them go (as opposed to the times when you want to give them a swat on the fanny and kick them out of the house)? 

Recently we've been going through a challenging situation with our oldest, who will still lets me hug him. And hug him I did. My heart felt squeezed to the point of suffocation for days as I worried over him. Everything's right now, or as right as it can be--at least with that child. Now another child has a cold and waits for me upstairs. He asked for a snack as I made my way to the office. This child can be impatient, so I'll make this short. Yesterday, just when I was going to sit down with a good book, I heard, "Room service!" from my son's bedroom. Turns out he wanted a snack. Gatorade, fruit punch flavored. Chilled, no ice. On a tray. In bed. 

Though he is genuinely sick, I can't help but think he's milking this for all it's worth. Unfortunately for him, I'm lactose intolerant.

   

The Dark Death of Doom

Over the weekend my youngest constructed this tunnel of doom using our ugly couch we affectionately refer to as "The Beast." 

Not only did he title his fort on the outside, he posted various warning signs inside, too.

This was one of my personal favorites, a robot man with patched clothes who couldn't think of anything to say but "BIG BLACK SQUARE." 

When I woke up Monday morning with a million things to do and no desire to do them, I found the tunnel. I liked the look of it, how a person could crawl in there and be completely alone, hidden, but only temporarily. I liked it so much that I pulled out my camera and scooted around inside the labyrinth of pillows and books. It reminded me of how, as a kid, I would sit in my closet with the door closed, a lamp and a book to keep me company. 

One day my mom found me in my closet, happily reading a Trixie Belden mystery. (She must have followed the lamp cord). The door opened with a loud creak and my mother poked her head in. She looked at me with a worried expression. "Are you trying to hide from the world?" she asked. I took her tone of voice to mean that this was a bad thing. Now that I'm a mother too, I wonder if she might have been more envious than worried. There have been many times when I wanted to hunker down in the closet with a good book and a small reading light. But my kids would have sniffed me out. They always do. 

I looked up at my mom, my book open on my lap, sitting cross-legged in a nest made out of clean and dirty clothes. "What's wrong with that?" I said. I don't recall if my mother closed the door or if she made me come out. But I do remember the soft circle of light from the lamp. I remember the smell of clean and dirty clothes mingled with the scent of a book printed on cheap paper. And I remember how it felt to escape, both physically and mentally. I was safe in that little closet, snug and warm among my fictional friends in my closet cave. It was like being in the womb.

 

So, Monday. Doing the soldier crawl through my kid's tunnel. Wondering how to make it through a day of laundry and cleaning--again. This is when I came upon warning sign two, a man without fingers jumping, his teeth in need of a serious cleaning. He reminds me that I still need to brush my teeth. And get dressed. And do the laundry. I decide to call him the Laundry Monster. 

And then, at the end of the tunnel, a spidery looking thing with long legs and many arms. I imagine my son's thought process on this one. Perhaps he was thinking of how many times I say, "I only have two arms, you know," when he asks me to simultaneously cook dinner and find his lost (yet again) soccer ball. I call this one Multi-Tasking Momma. When I look closer, I notice that this monster doesn't have a mouth, just saggy arms and a long snout. Is this a picture of me? Does my son wish that I couldn't speak, so he gave me two little specks for eyes, long legs, and multiple arms? 

I worry about this. It feels like I've opened the closet door to find him drawing weird pictures of monsters that may or may not represent people in his real life. And this tunnel--does it mean something? And then I hear myself thinking, "Is he trying to hide from the world?" 

That's when I crawl out, my head rubbing against the blanket roof as I do so. My hair crackles from static electricity when I stand and I can feel strands stretching out from my face as if reaching towards the light coming from the window. Of course he's trying to hide from the world. Come to think of it, I am too. And what's wrong with that? Nothing, really. Unless you're Multi-Tasking Momma and you've got the Laundry Monster on your tail.    

Grandma Knows Best

This lady is my Grandma. She is exactly fifty years older than me and a hundred times wiser. When I was a kid, my mother told me that my grandmother only did one extra thing each day. So if it was laundry day, she didn't try to, say, paint a bathroom and remodel the kitchen at the same time, something that I myself attempted last week. 

I thought I could handle everything by scheduling my priorities. I took a pass on the laundry and cooking, and focused my attention on the bathroom, stopping every so often to obsess about the repairs and remodeling I wanted to do to the rest of my house. But, as happens whenever I feel sort of on top of things, everything fell apart. It reminds me of a Rubric's cube I bought as a kid. Every time I thought I had solved the puzzle on one side, I turned it to discover that all the other sides were a mess. I resorted to trying to pry off the colored stickers. When that didn't work, I tried to dismantle the whole thing. That's what my life and my house feels like right now. A dismantled disaster.

Things looked great until Friday. While making an extravagant birthday cake for my husband, I nibbled a Lindt dark chocolate bar all morning, then threw down a couple handfuls of bittersweet chocolate chips. By the afternoon, the cake was in the fridge for its requisite overnight chill and I was in bed, incapacitated by nausea. I guess that herbalist I went to a couple years ago was right when she got a vibe that I was allergic to chocolate. "Whatever," I said to myself. "Seems like a bunch of hooey to me." But she should have qualified that large amounts of chocolate would send me reeling. Now I believe her. What's worse, I can't even look at the chocolate cake that I spent two days making. 

So this is my long explanation of why my bathroom is not completely done. Yes, the walls are all one color now (and the ceiling too!). But the tub is full of painting supplies and the floor is still spattered with paint drops. The contents of my kitchen cabinets sit on my counters, waiting for me to decide where to put them. I've got one kid home sick with a cold. There's a weird smell in my house--I'm hoping it's just paint--and the laundry just growled at me. Grandma was right. One thing at a time is more than enough for one person to handle. 

Wild Boys

A few people have expressed concern about my post detailing my son doing a bike trick over his little brother's body. I get the feeling that to some, it was an irresponsible act as a mother. I've fielded phone calls and heard rumors of neighborhood friends getting in trouble for hanging out over here. These things have not bothered me. Much. 

I'm not a complete idiot--I could see the danger factor as well as the cool factor of playing Evil Knievel. Just to put your mind at ease, I should let you know that after taking the pictures I told him that that was the last time he should do such a thing, however cool it was. "But nothing happened," my son said. 

"Yeah, this time," I pointed out. "The more you do it, the more careless both of you will get, and the more likely something bad will happen." My son thought about this for awhile, then nodded in agreement. His little brother, his trusty assistant, merely hung his head and said, "Rats."  

So those of you who are getting ready to call Social Services, relax. And those of you who want to see it again, you're out of luck. But don't give up hope. Wait a couple of days and they're sure to come up with another, equally dangerous shenanigan. 

 
 

My Baby

I can’t believe my youngest is already eight. It seems like just last week that I was laying on a hospital bed, waiting for him to leave my body already. We had come to the hospital early that day, absolutely sure that the baby was going to come—and excited to get the whole thing over with. But then, after a dozen hard contractions, everything stopped. It was like the baby got distracted and decided to stay put after all. When my midwife asked if I wanted some drugs to get the labor going again, I said “Sure, why not?” I had never had pitocin. It seemed like a good idea at the time. When that first dose didn’t take, she asked me if I wanted more. “What the heck,” I replied nonchalantly. I was too cocky, you see, from having given birth without drugs the second time around. Little did I know that a double shot of petocin can send you reeling through a black hole of pain and confusion so deep and dark, that you think you’ll never make it out the other end alive. I would have asked for an epidural when the drugs kicked in, but I couldn’t even speak, only scream. I was pretty sure that I was dying. And there came a point that I wished I would, just so the pain would stop.

“You can do this, Susan,” my midwife encouraged me as she crouched at the end of the table, watching my progress. I stared at her as my body writhed and the baby rammed its head against me. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!” I screamed back. And I meant it. The kids' head felt huge—much bigger than I could manage. But the baby wouldn’t listen to that nonsense, and at last he came out. He was beautiful, long and lithe. And his head was ginormous.

As I held him in my arms, he looked up at me with wonderment and confusion, like someone had just turned on the lights while he was in a deep sleep. I smiled at him. Then I looked at my husband and said, “I’m never doing that again.”

And I haven't. Not for eight years, now. But sometimes I miss holding a baby. Sometimes I miss the feel of a tiny hand in mine, the whispy hair against my cheek, and the fuzzy little footsy jammies. Maybe that's why I was willing to crawl into bed with my youngest last night when he suffered from a headache. I held him in my arms, remembering all those nights when he was an infant and it was just me and him, sitting and rocking in a dark room. He is so much bigger now. His hand is no longer tiny, his hair is getting thicker, and he tells me he doesn't like footsy pajamas any more. I guess what my mother said is true. They do grow up fast--so fast that sometimes I want to give them a speeding ticket. I've waited so many years for them to not need me so much. But as it turns out, I want them to slow down, now. I want them to hop in my car and drive in the slow lane for many more years to come. 

My son turned his body to face mine. I stroked his hair as he whimpered quietly. Light from the street lamp outside his window fell on the bed in a pattern of lines, illuminating the cartoon animals on his bedspread. From across the street I could hear a scraping sound, our neighbor removing frost from the windshield of her car. I heard the careful closing of a car door, then the low hum of the engine as she pulled out of her driveway. "Do you want me to leave?" I asked my youngest son. His eyes flickered open, looked at me, then closed. 

"No, stay," he said through a yawn. I smiled to myself. Then I pulled him closer and rocked him to sleep. 

On Lost Marbles

I've been meaning to address this topic for some time now. Only, I also wanted to shoot some pictures of marbles to go with it and had no time to do so. Yesterday I finally had a few hours to kill before dinner (note that I didn't say I had to kill something for dinner. I had spent the entire day on Photoshop and called my husband to say, "I am not making dinner tonight. Let's eat out." And just like that, I was off the hook. I highly recommend this practice for those days when you just can't face the kitchen. Which is almost every day for me.). So I gathered up my kids' collection of marbles and spent the afternoon laying on the cement driveway, shooting pictures.

Now, about marbles, and how we tend to lose them. (Note how I said we, meaning you and me. I'm assuming you're losing it as much as I am.) Last week a post about the creative habit prompted Michelle to write her thoughts on the subject:

I am developing creativity right now by randomly folding clothes in unique patterns rather than my traditional folds. I try different shots at throwing the diaper into the pail to keep up my athletic skills and you just don't know how I might configure that marble run for my three year old to test his 47 marbles on today. Watch out creative world! I am a Mother today! My painting may come back to me tomorrow as I draw images on the calendar to help my toddler who cannot yet read or to create a responsibility chart to hold my children accountable. : ) I am creative in how I find time for myself while singing one to sleep and nursing another - all while praying in my heart for a little less swelling in my ankles.

When I read this, I wasn't sure if Michelle was serious or not. Although it made me laugh, it also made me stop and think. Michelle has just given birth for the fourth time. In her former life, she was an event planner, but currently she is a stay-at-home mom full time. Michelle is intensely creative, talented in a myriad of ways, and a genuinely gifted people person. Now, you might think she'd have to give all that up--at least for a time. In the usual sense, you'd be right. Michelle no longer plans big conventions or receives a regular paycheck. But she has managed to find ways to keep her non-mother personna limber. Folding clothes in unique patterns is something I might try, though I've made it a personal policy not to fold much of anything. Practicing basketball skills by shooting diapers into a basket is a clever way of approaching a poopy task. And the marble run does use a lot of grey matter--and I'm not talking about the kind of grey matter that's been stuck to the carpet for the last year. As a mother who could never design a train track as well as my husband, I can tell you that designing these structures takes a ton of brain power. Maybe parenting does not involve wearing power suits, commuting to work, or displaying your work in a gallery (not much demand for sculptures made of meatloaf). But it is all about creativity, when you think about it. Why, nearly every day I have to fabricate responses to questions about math and science when my kids ask me for help with their homework. Turns out, I've been honing my skills in fiction without even realizing it. And talk about multi-tasking! Singing one kid to sleep while nursing another, all the while thinking of something else entirely? The average man cannot fathom it. If you can do this, surely you have developed a bionic brain, all without the help of scientists or your six-million dollar boyfriend. 

One of the problems with feeling uncreative is not realizing what creativity really means. As Amy Dacyczyn, author of The Tightwad Gazette says, creativity is the process of creating, not the product. "Creativity is nothing more and nothing less than solving a problem in an original way," Dacyzyn writes. As there is no shortage of problems, you  will have hundreds of opportunities to practice
 your creativity in the next year, if not in the next week. And if you are an artist/mother  without any time to practice your art because you have chosen sleep over painting, know  that all is not lost. Quite the contrary. You are working your brain in different ways that will  inform your art when the season is right to return to the studio. In Escaping into the Open:  The Art of Writing True, Elizabeth Berg reminds us that “in order not to cheat yourself, you  have to make writing [or whatever your pursuit] a high priority…but you have to live the rest  of your life, too; you have to allow room for all that makes you you, for all that feeds you. In my mind being more than a writer means you're more of a writer.”

So the next time you get depressed thinking about how much more you’d rather paint a mural than do the dishes, remember Michelle running lay-ups to the diaper pail. Then dip your hands in the water with the grace of a synchronized swimmer and shout, “Watch out creative world! I am a mother today!”  

Enjoy the Ride

The other day, my middle child Paul ran up the stairs and called to me. "Mom," he yelled through the house, "you've gotta come see this!" Even though I was right in the middle of something (a good book, actually), I went out to have a look. 

There lay Jake, my youngest, his body wedged between two plastic bike jumps. Paul hopped on his bike and pedaled down the street. I could see what was coming. Sure enough, Paul made a u-turn, then sped toward the jumps--and his younger brother, who was now covering his eyes. Two neighbor kids watched from across the street as Paul and his trusty bike flew through the air, sailing over Jake's little body like Evil Knievel incarnate. There was a pause, and then Paul landed with a heavy thump. He yelped in victory as the neighbor kids cheered. I stood speechless, my mouth hanging open, my hand shading my eyes from the sun. 

"Did you see that?" Paul asked me. Now this is where I wonder something about myself. Curiously, instead of being terrified of the whole thing, I thought it was actually kind of cool. Plus, my youngest seemed to enjoy it, and there were no broken bones. But as a mother, wasn't I supposed to say something like, "Stop riding your bike over your brother"? Probably. Instead, I said, "Let me get my camera," and dashed into the house to record the event.

As I unzipped my camera bag, the thought occurred to me--with a twinge of guilt--that I was more concerned with taking pictures than my kids' safety. And then I thought of a book I love, written by Dodie Smith called I Capture the Castle. Smith creates a charming narrator who is trying to learn to write by recording everything that goes on around her. When her sister begins to cry because she can't find a boyfriend, let alone a husband, the narrator fails to comfort her. She's too busy getting the whole scene on paper to put down her pen. "I begin to see that writers are liable to become callous," she writes. You could possibly make that claim about photographers, too. 

At any rate, I did have the presence of mind to suggest Jake wear a helmet the second go-round. (Or maybe it was his older brother who thought of that.) After shooting a few practice shots, I got myself in position. Paul rode down the street and waited for me to give him the signal. 

Just at that moment, a woman with a trail of four children came walking down the opposite side of the street. She stopped when she saw what was going on. "Oh my," she said, blocking her entourage with her arm. "Is that boy really going to ride his bike over that child laying on the sidewalk?" she asked. I wasn't sure who she was talking to. I hoped it wasn't me. I couldn't exactly pretend that I didn't know what was going on. After all, I was standing in the street holding a camera focused on "that child laying on the sidewalk." 

I turned and smiled weakly. "Um, yes," I said. Then I turned around and hollered, "Go for it!" 

Paul sped down the sidewalk, his shirt whipping in the wind, his face deep in concentration. When his front tire reached the edge of the first jump, Paul yanked the handlebars and stood on the pedals. His bike lifted, clearing his brother's head in a miracle of physics, which I never did understand, but in that moment greatly appreciated. There was silence as Paul and his bike hung in the air. When he came down on the second ramp, his audience yelled a collective "wow", including myself and the woman across the street. However, I noticed she was shaking her head as she said it. I imagined she was shaking her head at me, calling me an irresponsible parent under her breath. Maybe she was right. But then again, maybe not.

There are times when I don't want to watch my children explore the world. It's too dangerous, you see. Sometimes, I stay up all night worrying about the many different ways they could get hurt. They could fall and break something, like a bone, their heart, or their spirit. They could sprain their ankle playing soccer. Or break their arm climbing a tree. Or they might get hit by a car as they ride home from school. And it's entirely possible that some kid on the playground will humiliate them in some way that will require years of therapy to fix. Often I wonder how my kids will ever survive childhood, let alone adulthood. I fret about how I will ever stitch them up each time they come home for a bit of healing. And I fear that there are some things--lots of things, really--that I won't be able to fix.  

My mother probably worried about the same things. And yet, she still sent me out into the world. I won't lie to you. I did get hurt, and often. But Mom taught me to get up again, no matter how much the odds were against me (although a few self-defense lessons would have come in handy on the playground). I'm glad she did. Because if I had gone into hiding after sustaining my first wound, I never would have met some incredible people and never would have seen some amazing things. All of those fractures of the spirit stitched up beautifully with time, gifting me with empathy, understanding, and strength. Had I never been hurt, I never would have known the peace and gratitude that comes with healing. If doors had never closed on me, windows would never have opened to better things that I didn't know even existed. And if I had never experienced the ending of things, I never would have experienced the beginning of things.

So if there's one thing I've learned about being a mother, it's that you have to enjoy the ride--even if that ride involves two bike jumps, your youngest child, and the daredevil of the family concocting an act worthy of Las Vegas. Just close your eyes, hop on, and always wear a helmet. Oh yeah, and don't forget your camera.  

A Good Mother

Yesterday, my friend Hillary made a comment that prompted some deep thoughts. She said that motherhood completed her.  I wish I could say the same. I have wanted to find wholeness in motherhood for, oh, thirteen years now. Alas, this wholeness eludes me. And always has.

When I think about the happiest mothers I know, there is one common thread that just might explain everything: the women who dreamed of becoming mothers and then became such have found fulfillment. I, on the other hand, didn’t even like babysitting. And when I played Barbies, the scenarios never involved Barbie making dinner for Ken while simultaneously nursing a baby. (Isn’t it about time for Barbie to get a realistic update? I personally would buy a Sagging Susan doll, complete with drooping breasts and a bulging tummy scarred with stretch marks.) My Barbie never actually married Ken. She just went on dates with him and sped through the basement in her pink convertible.

Even though it wasn’t my childhood dream, at a certain point in my married life, I longed for children. I thought that yearning also meant I would love being a stay-at-home mom. This would not be the case. Yet for so many years I tried to be one of those lucky girls who sang to their real babies with the same bliss with which they once sang to their dolls. I tried to wake up every morning and pray that I would want to be home all day with my brood. (I thought that by saying “brood” it somehow would feel more cosmopolitan. It didn’t.) But by the time I had changed ten newborn diapers in the space of two hours, cleaned up a tinkle spill from a toddler, and eaten my way through loads of licorice and even guzzled a few Gatorades, I realized that this couldn’t be all that God had planned for me. Or at least it wasn’t all that I had planned for me.

Admittedly, there were times when I could go for months feeling completely satisfied with baking five loaves of bread every week or filling our freezer with ten boxes of apricot freezer jam to last through the winter. But then I’d wake up and realize I hadn’t read a good book that wasn’t about parenting or bunny rabbits for months. Mornings of quiet contemplation and thoughtful writing were hazy memories of a girl long gone. I also discovered that all the bread and jam were making me fat (the licorice and Gatorade might have had something to do with it as well). But I tried to ignore these things, telling myself that I was deliriously happy being a mother.  I also tried to tell myself that my increasingly frequent impulse to jump in the car and drive to the edge of the continent and possibly into the ocean was just a character flaw that could be corrected with desserts. And possibly sleep.

After years of feeling guilty that I’m not a textbook kind of stay-at-home mom, I’ve come to understand that no one is. There are different kinds of mothers. And I don’t mean the good kind and the bad kind. There’s room for individuality here. If you love staying home and love being a mom, that’s wonderful. I applaud you. (And I envy you!) If you need to work outside of the home for whatever reason, be it financial or mental, that’s great too. Motherhood is mostly about survival. And I’m not talking about shooting up with licorice and Gatorade to make it through the day. I’m talking about doing what you need to do to be the best mom YOU can be. Just like every kid is different, every mom is different too. Write your own instruction manual. And then follow your own directions.     

Where Have You Been? Where Are You Going?

I've been getting this question a lot lately. My sister asked me just the other day. "I look on your blog all the time," she said, "and the same thing has been up for weeks now." Yes, well. Life has been getting in the way. Or rather, the way has been life. You know the routine: juggling work with getting dinner on the table (something other than Little Caesar's pizza), birthdays, school starting, emergency room visits, family visiting, sick kids, anniversaries, chiropractor visits galore, and broken-down appliances. There were days when I told myself I would sit down and write something. And I did. One day I wrote out a number of checks to pay the bills. Another day I wrote some letters. Then one day I realized that I had forgotten about my blog altogether. So here I am, early in the morning, writing to you. Finally. 

Here's what's on my mind for today: Oprah Winfrey. I haven't watched her show in years, ever since I realized that more often than not her topics did not apply to me and would not in the least improve my life. But this weekend my sister gave me a copy of one of her "What I Know For Sure" essays that struck a note. "If you don't know what your passion is, realize that one reason for your existence on earth is to find it," Oprah writes. It was an a-ha! moment for me. If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that I have no idea what my passion is. 

I have a theory that everyone has a theme that runs throughout their life. Call it a continual struggle if you will. Some people struggle with health issues. Others with finances, some with forgiveness and still others with self-love. I don't care who you are, how much money or fame you have, everybody has a recurring problem/challenge/issue to deal with. 

My theme is a great search for a Meaningful and Successful Career that has now spanned decades. I have this idea that God gives everyone a gift and if you can figure out what it is, you will be wildly successful doing it. I have been trying to decipher my gift for the last twenty or so years, spelunking through my brain looking for clues and artifacts to guide me on my journey.  

This great search of mine has led me through two college degrees, both of them bachelors. My first degree is in photography. As I approached graduation, it became painfully clear that finding a full-time, high paying job in photography was not a possibility for me. Tons of companies were recruiting from the business school on campus, but no one approached the photography department with jobs in hand. Strike one. So I went back to school and got another degree to teach English lit and composition. That seemed safe enough. I could find a full-time job for sure. Never mind about the good pay, though. I figured I'd love the kids and the work enough to make up for it. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case. (Try spending your weekends reading essays about girls cat fighting and Pee Wee football games while your spouse and kids go to the park to play on the swings without you, all for less than what a manager at McDonald's makes and you'll know what I mean.) Strike two. 

Oprah quotes Martin Luther King in her piece with words that have been very helpful to me these last two days as I've chewed on this topic (again). "Everyone has the power for greatness--not for fame but greatness," King once said. "Because greatness is determined by service." What's this about service? I have always wanted a meaningful career, but perhaps looking at a career in terms of the service you render might be helpful. Oprah quotes Wintley Phipps as well: ". . .the key is not to worry about being successful but to instead work toward being significant--and the success will naturally follow." Maybe all of these years, I've been looking for the wrong thing. Significance seems more attainable than success. What I want is to make a difference in someone's life, to improve it somehow. And if it's not to much to ask, I also want to enjoy doing it (and maybe get a paycheck at the same time?). The question is, how?

So I'm going to ask God. Oprah's prayer goes like this: "Use me, God. Show me how to take who I am, who I want to be, and what I can do, and use it for a purpose greater than myself." I like that. In fact, I was going to offer up the same prayer when my son came in the room asking me to take him to the skate park after school. Hum. . . was this a cosmic note from God? 

Notes From The Road

 

Okay, so I'm not on the road right now, at this very moment. But I was a few weeks ago. I meant to tell you all about it (only the good parts, not the stuff that would make your eyes glaze over with boredom. Although now I want a glazed donut, which is a bad thing since I've decided to not eat so much sugar anymore. Never mind that as I write this, I am chewing on some candy to calm my nerves. Speaking of calming my nerves, if I use sugar to do that, does it mean I'm addicted? Is this an addiction?), but every time I sit down at the computer, someone little appears at the door and says something like, "Hey Mom, will you take me to the library? or "Is it bad that a loaf of bread is on fire in the microwave?" or "Will you take us swimming?" or my favorite, "I am so booorrredd. Let's do something!" I am sure I didn't do this to my own mother when I was younger. I'm sure that when my mother looked over the vast expanse of summer on the first day of vacation she saw only blue skies ahead. I don't recall ever being naughty or demanding. (Except for that one time when someone wrote my name and address and "hot" on the wall all the way up the stairs. I still think I was framed on that one, having no recollection of committing the crime myself.)

I've decided to stop waiting for a large chunk of time to update the blog and just take what I can get when I can get it.  I've finally accepted that there will never be a large chunk, only microscopic morsels. After all, I believe that motherhood is all about survival--doing what works for you so you can get some sleep and maybe a little peace every so often. Though I've consumed about three hundred popsicles so far this summer, sleep and peace have been hard to come by. I find myself skimming decorating magazines and rearranging furniture, some of the few things the kids will allow me to do that do not directly involve or benefit them. I suddenly want to rip up the carpet and knock down some walls. I find paint brushes in the closet and stroke them as I inhale the musty scent of old paint, smiling wickedly as I consider what project to tackle next.  These are sure signs that I'm starting to lose it. 

Recently, I dug up a David Sedaris essay called "Let It Snow" that sums up how I'm starting to unravel. When an unexpected snow storm hits North Carolina, Sedaris and his siblings get a five day vacation from school. The kids, of course, are ecstatic. But Sedaris' mom resents the intrusion. "Our presence had disrupted the secret life she led while we were at school," Sedaris writes, "and when she could no longer take it she threw us out. It wasn't a gentle request, but something closer to an eviction. 'Get the heck [my word] out of my house,' she said."

I think I know how she feels. Three and a half more weeks my friends, and then the house is mine, all mine.  

 

To Be Continued

In case you've wondered, I'm not dead or on vacation. I've been working on some photography jobs and entertaining my kiddoes. As this was the first week of summer, they have wanted to hang out with me more than usual. Before the novelty wears off, I decided to focus on them more than the blog for the next little while. I do love my boys. Especially when they leave me messages like this:

Though I thrive on compliments, this is the best one I've ever received. It makes my heart melt. 

I will write more frequently. I promise. Really. No, seriously, I will.  

The End of My Secret Life

Last night I counted up the days until the kids get out of school and discovered I have less than a week until my sanctuary becomes a bustling metropolis of summer vacation mayhem. “My secret life without the children will be over soon,” I said to my husband. “And I don’t know what I’m going to do with the kids for three whole months.” My husband lay on the bed playing his hand-held electronic Yahtzee game.  “Uh-huh,” he said.

As I untied my shoes I repeated myself. “You know, I won’t have six hours a day without the kids all summer long.” Still no real response from the bed, only the faint blip and trill of the game. I once joked to my sister that if a woman prefaced everything with the word “sex” she’d always get a man’s attention. I considered using this tactic with my husband. But then, I’d run the risk of that being the only word he heard, and possibly the only thing he wanted. And I just wasn’t in the mood.

So I settled for talking to myself, which is often pleasant enough, but can sometimes feel too one-sided when you need advice. If you ask yourself, What do you think? you usually already know the answer and wind up where you started. It’s like an awkward first date. What do you want to do? I don’t know. What do you want to do? This was one of those times.  When it became apparent that my husband found Yahtzee more interesting than my whining, I gave up and went to sleep. After all, I hadn’t expected him to come up with any real solutions to my summer problem. I just wanted him to commiserate. But I had forgotten that to him, working full time as he does, summer is just a change of temperature, not a change of pace. But to me, summer means the end of one part of my life and the return of another. For the last eight months I’ve spent my time living like a teenager during summer break, doing—or not doing--exactly (for the most part) what I wanted to do: baking, photographing, writing, avoiding housework, thrift shopping, and spending countless hours in the library and bookstores. In four more days that will all come to an end. When the kids come home for summer it’s back to work for me.

But is that such a bad thing? Maybe a little more time with kids would enhance my creativity, not deplete it. Kids see, hear and taste things that we adults do not. Though I didn’t realize it at the time, when my kids and I spent all day together, they showed me how magical and delightfully simple childhood can be. Take, for example, a short piece I wrote when the kids were preschoolers and I eavesdropped on their conversation with a little friend from the neighborhood. 

Here’s an excerpt:

“We walked home from school today, Calvin, Paul, Laurel, and I. Calvin and Laurel took the lead while Paul and I followed.

“Sometimes we ride our bike here,” Laurel said. She gestured to a large parking lot surrounding our church building.

“Sometimes we ride our bikes here,” Paul repeated, tugging on my hand.

“My legs hurt,” Calvin threw in.

“My bum hurts,” Laurel said.

“Your bum?” Calvin looked at her in concern. “Is it from doing somersaults?” 

“Yes, it’s summer,” Laurel replied. 

“Do you want me to do a somersault?” Paul hollered to them from our place behind.

Such is child communication. I don’t know how they ever understand each other. Yet I wonder if it’s the sound of their voice, the amazing ability to make audible their thoughts that delights them more so than mutual comprehension. 

Laurel opened her mouth wide and sucked in the wind with a loud gasp. “Look! I’m breathing in air!” she said. Of course Calvin and Paul had to try it, too. I hung behind, watching. The moment was better from the outside anyway. The children laughed, big gales of belly laughter that caught the wind and shimmered in the spring breeze. 

Paul wiggled his hand out of mine and squeezed himself onto the sidewalk with Calvin and Laurel. I was alone then, living in a different planet, one inhabited with silly worries like clean houses and tidy yards. Is there some way to widen the pathways so I can be in on the fun? That would require too much letting go on my part, and right now I can’t see beyond the bills and the chores. But there are times when it would be wonderful to journey back to the little girl I once was, the girl who climbed trees, reading book after book while a highway of ants traveled up and down the limbs next to her. The girl who caught grasshoppers in a jar and watched them hop against the glass. There are times when I like that little girl more than the woman I’ve become.”

The essay ended there. I read it over twice, then typed it here. As I did so, my summer plans came into view. What would happen if I climbed trees again? What’s the harm in catching a grasshopper or two, just to see if they ever blinked? What’s wrong with reading books? I do like popsicles. And I think Slurpees are twice as much fun, what with how they can turn an ordinary pink tongue into something garish and almost frightening. Also, playing in the sandbox sounds infinitely more enjoyable than scrubbing the kitchen floor. Could it be that giving myself over to summer with children would be good for me, and maybe even good for my kids, too?

Instantly, I begin to make a to-do list. After all, I’ve only got a few days left of my secret life and I’ve got to make the most of it. Before the kids come home I have dozens of ideas to record in my notebook, stories to write, restaurants to try, pictures to shoot, and plans to put on the shelf.  Then when my kids burst through the door after their last day of school, I’ll be ready. “Welcome to summer,” I’ll say, handing each kid a popsicle, “Let’s go have some fun.”          

Blahg

Journal 

Monday, May 25, 2009

11:30 pm

Sudden burst of energy after brushing teeth and washing face. Decide to blog about being a night owl and how much I can get done when everyone else finally falls asleep.

11:35 

I lay down to mentally sketch out a post and fall asleep. Foiled again. 

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

6:00 am 

Read scriptures. Today's topic: warring tribes that never seem to get along for more than two pages. Reminds me of Israel and Palestine, among others. Two thousand soldiers--young and inexperienced--fight an army much larger and more experienced. But they're not afraid, because their mothers taught them to believe in God's protection. Makes me wonder what I'm teaching my children. Mind goes blank. I keep on thinking. Still nothing. I remember what my mother taught me: If you pick it, it won't heal. That's what she said when I was a teenager and performed self-surgery on my zits, emerging from the bathroom with bits of toilet paper stuck to the wounds. I have to say she was right. Again. Darnit. 

8:30 am

Huff and puff to an exercise video that's supposed to get me "ripped." I consider the meaning of this word and decide that this is what will happen to my muscles if I do this video one more time. My muscles will rip into shreds and reduce me to a gelatinous mass of bones, subcutaneous fat, and sweat. My cat will try to rub against me and I'll collapse and crawl through the house like the Blob. My children will shriek and run and my cat will try to lick me to see if I taste like jell-o, strangely addicted to sugar as she is. Somehow these thoughts get me through two more sets of push-ups, which I'm secretly hoping will improve the chest region. "Feel these," I'll tell my husband, flexing my chest muscles. "You can bounce a quarter off these puppies."  As I lift my arms to stretch I notice that my pits smell like a room full of sweaty little kids--kind of stale and meaty, like kitchen trash. I know this smell well, having whiffed it when I dropped off some papers to one of my kids at the elementary just the week before. I opened the classroom door and the stench nearly knocked me over. If I had had a handkerchief, I would have instinctively covered my nose with it. As I did not, I pretended to scratch my nose to protect myself. My eyes watered as I hastily made the hand-off and speed-walked out the door to fresh air. It is very dismaying to me that I smell like this. Also a little pathetic. I wonder if I have a sweating disease. 

This is when the tiny-but-buff instructor Jari Love tells me to "turn my scars into stars." I want to call my mother and tell her this, that my acne scars will turn into beautiful facial constellations one day. Perhaps when I die? Everybody in heaven will be jealous and want some too. "See Mom?" I'll say, flashing my sparkly chin, "all those hours in the bathroom squeezing pimples was really worth it, in the end." But maybe this thought disqualifies me for heaven and I'm going to H-E-Double-Toothpicks for being so vain. (Maybe by not saying it, I won't go to Hell. Oops. Just said it. Darnit.)

Decide to blog later in the day. Somehow, 3:00 comes and the opportunity is lost. Remember that my favorite song is "Where does the time Go?" by Judy something, that folk singer in the '60's. This is my anthem, my motto. This is my life.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

11:30 am

Attend fourth grade recorder recital. When I can't figure out how to work the video camera, I make my way through rows of Chatty Kathies and Talkative Toms to my son. "How do I turn this thing on?" I ask him. He looks away and, without making eye contact says, "I dunno." Yeah, right. Like he didn't just spend the weekend messing around taping his brother's soccer game. This is the kids who knows more about my cell phone than I do. 

I stare at him and assume the I'm-not-leaving pose. He sighs and takes the camera, finds the switch and hands it back to me. I look through the lens and see…nothing. "Battery must be dead," P. says, a conniving grin on his face. I reply, "Humph," and go back to my corner of the room, where I proceed to excavate power cords from the camera bag. I plug everything into the wall outlet and voila! we are in business. Only, when it comes time to sing, P. just stands there frowning while the girls around him sing with vigor, leaning into the lyrics and smiling like they're high on this moment in the spotlight. I get this on film, too, panning the room so I can show P. how he looks when he's in the Stinky Pete mode. After a while, I realize he won't care and turn the camera off. When he gets home later on, P. unzips a slim blue vinyl case and pulls out his recorder. He plays "Yankee Doodle" and "Camptown Races" at an excrutiating forte until I suggest he go outside to play. I wonder why he wasn't taught some nice mellow New Age song that we could all meditate to and that wouldn't cause the cat make a run for the door. I consider the possibility of "losing" the recorder until the last kid needs it in three years, at which point I'll "find" it in an unmarked box in the garage. "Lookey here," I'll say, "I thought we lost this thing. What luck!" 

Saturday, May 30, 2009

11:50 am

Consider blogging about the rest of the stuff I did last week that prevented me from writing. Decide to lay down and sketch out the rest of the blog. Fall asleep immediately. Foiled again.

Random Acts of Mother Mind

Happy Mother's Day to my beautiful mother. 

When I was a teenager, my mother took me and my sister out for burgers after she got home from work one day. Mom pulled up to the drive-thru to place her order on the intercom. Leaning out the window she said politely,"I'd like three Big Macs, please." The little speaker crackled, sounding distant and ancient, like we were calling Siberia instead of talking to a tiny box located five feet from the source of our conversation. "Excuse me?" the pubescent voice on the other end said through the static. 

    

"I'D LIKE THREE BIG MACS PLEASE," my mother shouted, leaning closer to the intercom. The car idled noisily, but we could still hear snickering from the speaker. 

   

"Um, this is Burger King," the kid said through his laughter. "We don't sell Big Macs. Did you mean Whoppers?" 

    

"Just give me three burgers," Mom told him, her voice heavy with fatigue. As she fumbled through her purse for her wallet, I slithered down in my seat trying to hide. It was another moment to add to my mental list of Things I Will Not Do When I Am a Mother. 

    

But the older I get, the more I find myself committing similar acts of what I like to call Mother Mind, those moments of forgetfulness usually caused by thinking of about three million things at once.

Take, for example, the time when I was convinced our relatively new microwave had somehow blown a fuse. Whenever I pushed the start button nothing happened. "Stupid machine," I muttered to myself. I pressed harder and harder until I heard my husband snickering like that teenager at Burger King. "It might work better if you close the door," he said. Sure enough, I had neglected that final step in the microwaving process. I slammed the door shut and smashed my finger against the start button as if squashing a bug. And lo, the microwave worked beautifully.

    

This brings to mind a story my friend told me about a similar experience involving a microwave. "I figured that I had been shopping too much when it happened," she told me on the phone. "It was Christmas time and I came home to microwave something to eat. Instead of entering the time to cook on the keypad I entered my PIN number." If I were a teenager this story would have made me groan in embarrassment for her. But as a harried mother, it sounded like a perfectly reasonable thing to do after a day of holiday shopping. It was one of many times when I said in all honesty, "That sounds like something I would do, too." You would have never heard me admit this when I was, say, fifteen, and cowering in the passenger seat of my mother's car as she committed various random acts of Mother Mind.

   

I could handle my own case of Mother Mind a little better if it didn't pop up in public so frequently. Take last week's mishap at the grocery store. I swiped my card through the mini computer at the counter, punched in a few numbers and did some other stuff, all the while trying to figure out where all of my kids had scampered off to and reviewing a long to-do list. When the cashier handed me my receipt, I asked, "Don't I don't have to sign for it?" 

She gave me what can only be described as a sympathetic look. "You already signed," she said, her head cocked to one side, her voice gentle like she was talking to a kindergartner on the first day of school. She tapped the mini-computer. "Remember? You signed right here?" 

"Oh my gosh, I'm turning into my mother," I said.  

  

As I walked to my car, I recalled trips to the grocery store with Mom years before. I remembered how she often paused after the checker told her the total. "How much did you say it was again?" Mom would ask, pen poised above the check, her eyes glazed over as if in a trance. I always wondered how she could have possibly forgotten a few numbers in the three seconds between hearing them and uncapping her pen. ( This was item number three on Things I Will Not Do When I Am a Mother.)  But now that I think of it, she did have a lot to keep track of. Like me, for instance. And quite often my sister, too. And for years before that, she had three other kids to count before she wrote the check and heaved the grocery cart to the car. Add to that a never-ending internal dialog that involved what needed to be done that day, who needed to be where, what to make for dinner, and how to make ends meet that seemed miles apart, and you can understand a little confusion at the check-out stand. 

But you know what? For all the silly things she's misplaced in her memory bank, my mother has managed to remember the most important things, like how to make her children feel loved. I think that's because Mom has always remembered who she is in the grand scheme of things. She is what *Emma Lou Thayne calls a "milk and honey mother," a mother "with a sense of self."  Just what is a "milk and honey mother"? Thayne writes, "Milk is food at the table, clothes for the back, shelter for sleep and growth, but honey is the marveling at spring, a bird, a snowflake, being ready to laugh as well as cry, being a respondent to the miracles of being alive." Looking back through my growing-up years, I see that my mother fits this description perfectly. She not only worked hard to provide us with the physical necessities, she labored to infuse our lives with a little sugar as well. When we lived in Colorado, she drove us to the mountains to watch the deer and see how the seasons changed the landscape. She spent countless hours at music and dance lessons, church programs and choir concerts. She was a room mother and a den mother. On our birthdays, she took us out to lunch and shopping--on a school day. Mom was always there to give us a hug and a treat when we came home from school. And she has always listened when we needed to talk. Or to cry. 

Even though we're all grown and most of us live far away, Mom still takes care of us. She continues to end every conversation with an authentic "I love you." She never forgets a birthday, spouses included. Plus, she sends hand-made cards to thirty-plus grandchildren on every major holiday, writes sweet notes of gratitude for almost everything, and calls frequently "just to see how things are going." And when she comes to visit, she always wants to go for walks in the mountains just to breathe the clean air and, if we're lucky, site a few deer, just like old times. For all the silly insignificant items she's misplaced in her memory bank, my mother has managed to remember the most important things: the people.

And so, as I embark on a house-wide search for my keys that have been missing since yesterday, I salute the Mother Mind, acknowledging from whom it came. I really do hope that I am becoming my mother, following the trail she established long ago. Even if I don't have any sense of direction and regularly commit Random Acts of Mother Mind, I hope that I will always travel as Mom did, with a bottle of milk to feed the body and and a jar of honey to sweeten the journey. 

*Quoted from All God's Critters Got a Place in the Choir by Laurel Thatcher Ulrich and Emma Lou Thayne. 

Parenting with Purpose

Me and my boys in Northern California 

When I was a young photography student, I dreamed of traveling the world, snapping photographs along the way, and writing articles for the New York Times. I envisioned myself living in a loft in London, reading good literature, and having tea with Princess Diana every Thursday.  And thus I would become Someone Important.

Then I got married and had kids. And suddenly, everything I had dreamed of becoming seemed impossible. I don't work for a fashion magazine, and I don't travel the world. I've become a stay-at-home mom who drives a mini-van, wears t-shirts and overalls, and who considers Super Wal-Mart a vacation destination.

  Not exactly what I imagined.

  Up until recently, I've been depressed about all of this, disappointed in myself for succumbing to Suburbia. Through the years, my mother often tried to cheer me up by telling me that "Motherhood is the most important job you'll ever have." But I didn't believe her. People don't get famous--or rich-- by nursing babies and changing diapers. So I began to hoard my energy and attention as if I could save happiness in a bank account marked: My Glorious Future Without Small Children When My Life Will Really Mean Something.

  Sensing my dissatisfaction, my kids asked, “Why are you always so grumpy and mean?" Because I'm wasting away in this house when I could be doing so much more, I wanted to answer. The more I thought about it, the angrier I felt. When will it be my turn? I constantly asked. And the answer was always, Not now.

There were times when I tried to find fulfillment. I went to church. I read self-help books. I read feel-good-about-being-a-mother books. I prayed. I watched Oprah. I meditated. Yet, I still feared losing myself in the anonymity of raising children.

  Then I read Deepak Chopra's Seven Spiritual Laws for Parents. I corralled the kids and tried to interest them in a ritual of gratitude, as per Chopra's instructions. "What are you thankful for today?" I asked my oldest, secretly hoping he'd say something like ''I'm thankful that you sacrificed your life for us, Mommy."

  But, no. He glowered at me and muttered, "Can I just go play Nintendo?" Seems my bad mood had rubbed off on my children with permanent ink. Not only did I not want to spend my life on them, they didn't want to waste time on me either. At that moment, I realized that if I were to save what was left of our relationship, I'd have to do something quick. It was time to go to inside, to the source of the problem, which I had to admit was me.

  As luck (or God?) would have it, I came upon an article about social action written by Kimberley Rome. Rome defined social action as "Bring[ing] our spiritual practice into mindful action." I asked myself what my spiritual beliefs were. I believe in a Heavenly Father. I believe in compassion, authenticity, and joy. And I believe our spirits are the manifestation of these qualities, if only we will permit them to guide our actions. So how does this apply to parenting? As a mother, I'm creating the next generation. If I want to contribute to the community, I can teach my children to be responsible spiritual beings led by spiritual truths. Thus,-parenting can be a socially responsible action. For the first time in years, I felt important: I'm not "just a mother!" I wanted to shout at all of those who have sneered and called me a breeder. I'm a social activist.

  Florence Wiedemann once said that "The most important gift you can give to the world is to produce quality humans who are richly endowed with feelings and ideas and compassion." When I had planned on living the so-called good life, there wasn't room for anyone else but me, and the idea that I could or should give back to the world was never part of my thought process. As a mother, I thought my job was to cook, clean, and chauffeur. But Kimberly Rome reminded me that my purpose is "not only [to transcend the world, but to come back and transform it." Have I transcended the world? Not exactly. But in defining my role as a parent from the perspective of social activism, I see the potential for "creating roots of social development and change." In other words, if I teach my children tolerance and love, they will teach it to their children, who will teach it to their children, and so on. "If a critical mass of our children are raised to practice spiritual laws," Chopra says, "our whole civilization will be transformed." It's an ideal worth contemplating and then doing something about.

Different people had told me how to "be" a parent. But no one had connected being with doing like Rome did. She writes that "It is by changing ourselves that the world is changed." Hopefully, I am a different mother now, one who acts with a sense of purpose and gratitude for the role I have chosen to play--and for whom I have chosen to play it. This perspective has, as Rome promised, given my life meaning. True, I am not rich or famous. However, I have the opportunity to influence how the next generation turns out in the most intimate way possible. I am Someone Important. I am a parent.

 

Home, Sick II

Before my husband Rick left for work, I bought Sprite and saltines for the days ahead. The night had been busy with Jake throwing up, most of which my husband took care of. As for the day, that was my territory. So I set aside my own plans to blog and photograph and decided to nurse my child back to health.

Jake spent most of the morning wrapped in his Sponge Bob blanket, laying on the couch and telling me stories. He told me how the night before he had spent hours on the bathroom floor, his body folded in an attitude of prayer. “I kept on thinking that if I had one wish,” he said, “it wouldn’t be for a million dollars or anything.” Jake pulled his blanket up to his chin as he talked, then cocked his head to one side. “I’d ask, ‘Make this end.’” He sat up straight, karate chopping his right hand against his left to emphasize his words. “Make this end,” he repeated, then lay back down. If I were a genie, I would have gladly made it stop for him. As it were, I could only sit by his side and watch him talk, his face pale like moonlight, his voice small. I pulled up a chair and read him a story about a mouse named Lily and her purple plastic purse that played music when she opened it. When we finished that, we read about a rather bad weekend with Wendell, a mischievous mouse that created havoc in the life of his timid classmate until she finally turned the tables on him. Jake and I noshed on some saltines, which always seem to taste good at first, then disintegrate into tasteless crunchy things that you can’t stop eating for some reason, even though it feels like your insides are turning into school paste, the ingredients of which are surprisingly similar to saltines. Finally, when we had filled ourselves on crackers, we fell asleep.

Two days later, while drinking a mixture of freshly squeezed orange juice and Perrier, which should have been a refreshing snack, a tsunami of nausea hit. I poured most of my drink down the sink, muttered something like, “Oh, dang, now I’ve got it too,” and headed to bed.

From my room I could hear the steady beat of someone dribbling a basketball, the occasional thwack as it hit the garage door. From a neighbor’s back yard a dog barked its high, panicked inquiry of “Who’s there?”, a familiar soundtrack to our days and nights. From the front room someone typed messages on an old Royal typewriter with firm clackity clacks. The chimes on the deck sang a delicate tuneless song and birds twittered nervously from the tree outside my window. These sounds would have been comforting, had it not been for the open rebellion taking place in my gut. I could feel the two sides lining up for battle. In one corner the Let-It-Hurl team eyed the opposition, the Keep-It-Down-At-All-Costs wimps who cowered on the sidelines. I wondered who would win.

I wanted to read, but unfortunately most of my reading material involves food. I checked out Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love, the cover of which nauseated me to even look at, although I considered skipping the Eat part and heading straight for the Pray. But I was not in the mood for philosophy. As for my magazine supply, Gourmet and Martha Stewart, both feature way too much food for the flu afflicted. The very article titles made my stomach swirl and grind.

Thankfully, my husband took the kids out for dinner so I didn’t have to smell his cooking. Perhaps he learned his lesson from my first pregnancy. I was in the first trimester and discovering that morning sickness referred not to a specific time of day for feeling nauseous, but a perpetual physical state. My husband craved meat, so he cooked up some ground beef, which he burned. The stench permeated our tiny apartment and reduced me to a lumpy heap on the bed, too weak to call out, “Could you crack a window?” It’s just as well that he didn’t know I was in the bedroom dying. Giant mutant spiders lived outside those windows, and had he opened one, surely they would have moved in without ever asking, bitten me on the toe, and caused some horrible defect in our unborn son. But then again, these could have been the worries of a hysterical pregnant woman.

But now I was in a different house when the flu hit, definitely not pregnant, but just as sick. I rolled over, trying to figure out which side felt less like a turbulent oceanic voyage on a very small boat. Paul peeked in the room and told me they were going to pick up some food at one of my favorite burger joints. I briefly considered asking them to order me a cheeseburger and fries. At that moment my stomach gurgled loudly in protest. That’s when Paul beat a hasty retreat and I started Lamaze breathing, which wasn’t very handy during delivery but has proved quite useful for nausea. I inhaled through my nose and exhaled through the mouth ten times. Then I waited for my body to settle down. There was a day a couple years before when I breathed like this for hours to avoid throwing up. I never did barf. But, near the end of my malaise, it occurred to me that there was something in my stomach that had desperately wanted out, and I wouldn’t let it. Where did it go? I wondered. Did my body just take it back in, or was it still sloshing around somewhere inside of me? This thought made me run for the bathroom where I crumpled before the toilet. Pressing my head to the cool linoleum I remembered what my son told me two days before. “Make it stop,” I said over and over, calling on the genie to rescue me. My stomach writhed as I lay prostrate before the porcelain goddess. But soon it became apparent that there was no genie granting wishes that day. And as for the porcelain goddess, she is a false god, angry and unforgiving.

Hours later, the storm subsided. Or at least my storm. That night, two more kids succumbed, and then finally my husband got it, too.

It wasn’t all bad, though. It got me out of making dinner for nearly a week. When everyone finally stopped throwing up and could stand the thought of more exotic fare than saltines and soda, we voted on what to eat. “Cereal sounds good,” Rick said.  So we dined on Frosted Flakes and Raisin Bran. And to our bruised and tired bellies, it was better than a gourmet meal.  

Home, Sick

You may have been wondering where I've been. Or maybe not. At any rate, I have some good excuses. My sister came for a visit and I got to spend the weekend with her and my other sister. We had a slumber party, taking the name of the event literally. Instead of painting our nails and watching chick flicks all night long we all zonked out around ten. That was followed by a good couple of days spent lunching together, eating pastries at Gourmandise in downtown Salt Lake, and a long, contemplative visit to an art exhibit (which means we left the kids at home). 

When my sister flew back home I thought I'd have some time to write and maybe take a few pictures. But my kids went on spring break and my husband took some time off, too. Any thoughts of solitary creativity were tossed in favor of a game of frisbee golf in the park and a movie at the dollar theatre, followed by dinner out and an easter egg hunt at Grandma and Grandpa's. 

Tuesday came and I went to bed early, planning on a full schedule of creativity the following day. At two am I heard some talking in the bathroom and went to investigate. I found my youngest throwing up in the toilet, my husband stroking his back. This is a good thing about my husband. He is not one to direct the kids to my side of the bed when they tip toe to our room and stand beside us, staring until we wake up, or until they puke on the floor. He is a compassionate nurse, always patient and understanding even in the wee hours of the morning. I, on the other hand, get nauseous myself when in the presence of a puker, and am highly unreliable when it comes to nursing the sick. Many times I've told a sick child, "I'll be right back," as they clutch the sides of the toilet, groaning in misery. I leave the room, open a window,and take a few big gulps of fresh air while I try to convince myself that I don't mind the smell of sickness. This can take considerably longer than a few minutes. 

In my defense, my husband has had more experience throwing up than I have. Due to a kidney malfunction, he threw up what seemed like every day when he was a kid. He knows all the little nuances and various techniques of regurgitation, some of which he has tried to teach me, but which I ignore. I am so opposed to vomiting that I will lay motionless for hours, my body curled in the shape of a question mark, my breathing deep and deliberate. Frequently, I will plead with God to make the sickness pass, with the caveat that it not pass through me or out of me, just by me.

Yet while my husband took care of our son while he was in the act of vomiting, there was the barf laundry to consider. And that, my friends, is where I catch most illnesses floating around in the Haywardsphere. I could sit next to a sneazing, buggary kid all day long and come away unscathed. But the minute I do his laundry, I'm doomed. 

So it was no surprise when my stomach lurched the day after I washed our first patient's linens. That's when I retreated to bed and commenced to suffering. For awhile I managed to write a few pages in my notebook, but soon, the nausea took over completely. It's my own fault, though. One day I actually thought it might be nice to be sick so I could take a couple days off from the routine, maybe laze around in bed and read a few books. But I had a little stuffy nose or even light cramps in mind, not the stomach flu. Definitely not the stomach flu. But the thought escaped my mind and I got just what I asked for--two days of bed rest and quiet. And misery. I survived, but just.     

And that is why things have been quiet around this blog.  

PS

That scary picture of me was taken the morning after the first night of the flu. I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, "I look awful. I should really document this." So I did, though I don't know why exactly. The photo has not been retouched at all. Though maybe it should be!