The NBO Chronicles

What it Means

2014-11-20T12:19:00.004-08:00

Since L was born two months ago (guess it's time to change the blog name!), a lot of people seem interested in what it means to have four kids.

Does it mean this was an, um, surprise? (Does anyone really care about this? I mean, apparently they do. But I will never understand why. Get a hobby).

Does it mean you're going to be like that crazy Duggar lady and keep going until your uterus falls out? (To my knowledge, this has not actually happened. However, the possibility that it could happen is a frequently mentioned reason why random internet strangers think she should stop having kids. Also, we have four kids. I was never good at math, but to my knowledge, four does not equal nineteen. Or twenty-two, in case her uterus has still not fallen out and she's had more and I've missed it).

Does it mean you lost your mind? (Not yet. But soon.)

Some people think it means your life--or some part of it--is over. I guess that's true. The part of it that had briefly moved on from chronic sleep deprivation, and diapers, and crying--that part is over for now. But I know from experience that that part doesn't last that long. Not really. Not when you look back from the vantage point of a first birthday, or a preschool graduation, or a first day of kindergarten. That part doesn't last long at all. None of it does.

What does it mean?

It means our house got smaller. There is no baby's room, or nursery, no quiet place to put this baby that's all his own.

It means our house got messier. I don't know how, given that this baby can't really make his own mess yet. But somehow it did. God help me in a year or two.

It means things got louder. If you've been to our house, you may not have thought that was possible. I didn't either. Trust me, it was quiet here before.

It means our bank account got smaller, our car got more crowded, and my briefly clean clothes are now covered in spit up again.

It means that people look at you funny in the grocery store...sometimes with compassion, often with skepticism, occasionally with fear. I can't say that I blame them.

They say things like "You have your hands full", and "Bet you don't get much sleep", and "Wow! Four!", as if four really does equal nineteen or twenty-two. Maybe it's the new math.

They also say things like "Whose baby is that?" (Oh, I just borrowed my friend's brand new infant, because I thought it would be fun to carry a crying newborn through the grocery store while chasing a four year old and trying to remember what the hell I need here in the paper goods aisle).

They ask if we know how this happens (Ha. You're hilarious. As if I haven't heard that one four thousand times in the past six months. Also, did you learn the new math?) They also ask me if I need help out to my car more often. Help to my car? No. Help once I get home? Yes. Please.

Having four kids means all of these things. But in addition to all of the things that got harder, and louder, and smaller, it means that a lot of things have also gotten bigger.

My fears, my worries, and the bags under my eyes.

My need for coffee, my dreams of a nanny, and my butt.

My purse that doubles as a diaper bag as I stuff it full of diapers, and wipes, and pacifiers that he won't take. My diaper bag that doubles as a purse as I try to remember to bring my wallet, and my keys, and a hairbrush since I can't remember if I brushed my hair ~~this week~~ today.

But the thing that's grown most of all is our hearts.

So yeah, we've probably lost our minds a little, and we have some adjusting to do. But when someone looks at me, does a double take, and says "Whose baby is that?", I just smile and say "He's ours. Aren't we lucky?"

Depending on where they are in life, they may not now how to answer that, and that's ok.

Sometimes the only answer that matters is your own. And mine is quite simple.

"What does it mean to have four kids?"

It means another person to love, it means a new little brother, and it means our hearts are fuller than we knew they could be.

What does it mean?

Quite simply, it means everything.

What We Shouldn't Have to Expect When We're Expecting...

2014-05-26T18:51:00.001-07:00

It's amazing how a few years and a few children can change things.

Like the reactions you get when people learn that you're expecting.

When you're pregnant with your first child in your thirties, people are generally eager to share in your happiness, your excitement, and your joy.

Second child, pretty much the same thing. If maybe to a slightly lesser degree.

At the third child, a few people start to question your sanity. Some feel a need to clarify that you are, in fact, over thirty-five, right? But most people still seem to manage a heartfelt "Congratulations!" Or, you know, at least it seems heartfelt.

When you're over forty and expecting your fourth child, some people are still generally happy for you, and truly excited on your behalf. They offer appropriate congratulations, and ask when you're due, and comment that the kids must be excited.

And sometimes, behind their kind words, you can see the look in their eyes that says "I am so, so, so, so incredibly happy that this is happening for you.....instead of happening to me".

And that's OK. Because we get it. We know that this isn't for everyone, and that some people feel strongly about having a certain number of children, or about being done by a certain age, or about not having more children than bedrooms. It's fine, because that's their choice. And it's also fine because, in spite of their own feelings, they don't actually say them out loud.

But then there are the others. And trust me when I tell you--they are a lot of the others. In fact,
the others seem to come out of the woodwork when you're over forty and expecting your fourth child. The others lose all concern for normal social graces, and completely forgo silly things like tact, and privacy, and boundaries.

Sometimes we know the others quite well. At other times, we barely know them at all. It's hard to say which type surprises us more. It's safe to say, however, that nothing that people say is surprising us very much at all at this point.

Here are just a few things that we really shouldn't have to expect when we're expecting:

Was it planned/a surprise/an accident?

I can assure you that none of our children--or anyone else's--are accidents. As for the other versions of this question, on what planet would this be any of your business?

Did you talk about it?

What does this even mean, and why would you ever think to actually ask it out loud? Please see the above response.

Do you know how old you are?

Yes. We do. But thanks for checking. Also, it's 2014, and Barack Obama is president. Oh, and apparently stupid people still exist. Did we pass the test?

What were you thinking?

Oh, this could be fun. Are we going to talk about all of your life choices next? Cause there are a few things from 1997 I've been dying to ask you about. I mean, what were you thinking?

Have you lost your mind?

Nope. Not yet. Maybe I will when I have a fourth child. Or the next time someone asks me a rude, obnoxious question. Guess we'll find out.

Are you going to have more after this? Because people will definitely think you're the grandparents then.

Thanks for this. It's so helpful. Are you going to continue talking after this? Because people will definitely think you're an idiot then.

In addition to the above, we shouldn't have to expect that you're going to give us condolences, tell us you really have no idea how we're going to do it, or tell us repeatedly that you just can't believe it. If you can't manage to keep your (baseless and unwelcome) opinions on other people's family size to yourself, feel free to walk away without saying anything at all.

Unless you are being asked to care for or financially support someone's child, other people's family planning is, quite simply, none of your business. Once someone is pregnant, you are also not talking about a hypothetical pregnancy that may occur at some future date. You are talking about an actual baby who already exists. Most of us maternal types tend to get a little offended when people insinuate that one of our children shouldn't be in existence.

On the other hand, here's what we should be able to expect to hear when we're expecting:

Congratulations!

I'm so happy for you.

You're so blessed.

Because we are.

The end.

(OK, so that wasn't really the end. The above recommendations--also known as "How to Mind Your Own Damn Business"-- also apply to conversations with people who have no children, only children, children ten months apart, children ten years apart, or ten children. Unless said child is a)yours, b) left on your doorstep, or c) the recipient of your physical, emotional, and/or financial support, you don't get an opinion).

The end. For real this time.

How Facebook Made Us Crappy Parents

2014-01-08T13:34:00.002-08:00

I'm not sure when it happened, exactly. I didn't used to obsess over my parenting all that much. I'm far from a perfect mother--I'm disorganized, and sometimes impatient, and often over extended. I crave peace and quiet much more than I could ever hope to actually get it, I often have to run to the dryer to find my children's clothes for that day, and I happen to think that if I make home cooked meals involving vegetables five nights a week, that's pretty good.

And I'm OK with that. Pretty much all of it. At least most of the time.

Because these children--the ones who drive me crazy--know that they are loved, and cared for, and cherished. They know that we will get them to school (even when they would prefer that we didn't), and help them with their homework (but not as much as they would like), and that we make sure they have a warm house, and food to eat, and clothes to wear (even if they're rarely folded neatly in their dresser drawers). They also know that their family is not picture perfect, and that it is often loud, and chaotic, and yes, at times, insane. But in spite of that--or maybe because of it--they know how to laugh, and how to let things go, and how to improvise. And for that, I am grateful. Even if the laughter involves milk coming out of their nose at the dinner table. Even when the thing they're letting go of is their underwear, as they drop it out of their bedroom window, because they wanted "to fly it like a kite". Even when the improvisation involves making a "picture frame" with magic marker on their bedroom wall. I'm grateful for all of that because, in spite of the aspects of these adventures that drive me crazy, they are proof that we have children who are happy, secure, and joyful.

And some part of me--a rather significant part, fortunately--knows that, at the end of the day, that is what matters.

But then it started happening. I started reading. I love to read. In fact, I love nothing more than to get in bed early and reading for a couple hours before failing asleep. Unfortunately, that doesn't happen very often, for obvious reasons (and if they're not obvious, re-read the above paragraph). So I read here and there. I scroll through facebook, or click on a link, or browse through a blog. It's always interesting to see what my friends are reading, and what inspires them, and what entertains them. And since many of my friends are parents, they're often sharing things related to parenting.

Uplifting things.
Informative things.
Encouraging things.

And also, things that are making us completely and totally neurotic.

Things that talk about the dangers of non organic produce, GMO foods, aspartame, sugar, sodium, MSG, plastics, too much screen time, not enough down time, inconsistent parenting, global warming, spoiling our kids, neglecting our kids, coddling our kids too much, not coddling our kids enough, too much texting, too much yelling, not enough discipline, and not paying close enough attention to what our kids are learning at school.

All of which is totally valid, of course. To varying degrees. To varying people. In varying circumstances.

But, as everyone knows, those articles aren't addressing the varying degrees, or the varying people, or the varying circumstances. They are addressing you.

And me.

And at least for me, that information stays in my head, tucked away in some atrophied corner of my brain until something triggers it to come to the forefront of my mind. I might be in the grocery store, at nine o'clock at night, in jeans that are damp from someone splashing me during a bath, when it occurs to me that I can't buy that case of bottled water, because those bottles contain BPA, or BAP, or LSD. So I will stand there, searching the aisle--in vain-- for water bottles that don't contain BPA or any of those other things, because the article I read the day before told me we're all going to die if we drink water from bottles made from BPA.

And then I go home, disheartened that I have to give my kids water with chemicals in it, and I find two children-who I had put to bed half an hour before I went to the store--standing in the kitchen eating non organic granola bars.

Off of the floor.

I yell at them to get in bed right now. Yes, yell. Not scream. Not freak completely out. But yell. And then I glare at my husband who is watching football while his children eat non organic granola bars off the kitchen floor. And I thank him for helping. Of course, I'm not really saying thank you. I'm saying something kind of close to thank you. But he knows what I mean. And really, that is all that matters. And yet, the children have probably picked up on this communication pattern, and will take it into their own future relationships, which will no doubt end in divorce as a result of the fact that their mother said thank you to their father when that wasn't exactly what she meant.

Eventually, several threats later, the kids are in bed. (Everyone knows you shouldn't make threats unless you're going to follow through. So, if you feel that you have to tell your kids they're never watching TV again in order to get them to go to bed, make sure you never let them watch TV again. Ever. But get yourself some xanax. You'll need it since you won't have another moment of down time until they're eighteen). I'm putting our non organic, BPA containing groceries away, and thinking about how I just yelled at the kids. I mean, I yelled at them. To go to bed. An hour after I put them to bed in the first place. What is wrong with me? And at the same time I yelled at them, I was bringing non organic, BPA containing groceries into the house and watching them eat granola bars off the floor that could have bleach on it. Except that it doesn't, because I know how long it's been since I've cleaned that floor. Which means it has dirt on it. So, either way, two of my children just ate something really, really bad. And that's not even counting the non organic granola bar that probably has LSD in the wrapper.

And it dawns on me.

I totally suck.

And facebook, I blame you. It's bad enough that we have to be exposed to other peoples perfectly presented lives which some people seem to actually believe represent real life, or that we have to see the 17 layer cake that's an actual replica of Disney World that someone made for their child's six month birthday, but we also have a ridiculous amount of parenting advice shoved down our throats on a daily or weekly basis (yes, I know we all have the option of not reading. Some day I'll write a post about my impulse control issues).

It occurred to me recently that, pre internet, we had to actually go to a book store or library to find information about a particular parenting issue. Pre facebook, we had to google the specific information we were looking for. In other words, most of us had to have an actual problem before we chose to read about how to fix it.

Not anymore.

Now we can read all about the problems we have before we even know we have them.

There is, of course, a lot of good information to be stumbled upon, and as it happens, I do try to avoid BPA and LSD when it comes to my kids. I buy some things organic, I monitor screen time, I try not to let them lick the floor, and I try not to yell. Too much. In one day.

But there is also such a thing as information overload, and--for me at least--all of this parenting "advice" stays dormant in every underused crevice of my brain, until one over stimulated moment when it comes to life, shouting "You! The one feeding your kids non organic produce, and BPA, and dirt, while you yell at them to go to bed, and make threats to that you'll never carry through with, and speak sarcastically to their father, and text your friends before the kids are in bed. You, quite simply, suck".

Fortunately, in calmer moments, I know better.

I know that the truth goes more like this:

Parenting is hard.

Being completely and totally responsible for three little-ish people is exhausting.

Life is hard.

No one is perfect.

Kids are wonderfully, incredibly resilient.

Love is not all that matters. But it matters above all else.

No day is perfect. Some days are better than others. Some days are so far from perfect it's almost funny.

When things are almost funny, we laugh a lot. And pretty soon, we've convince ourselves that they really are funny.

At the end of the day, if everyone is warm, and fed, and at some point during the day was mostly dressed, I know that it was a good day.

And that is all that matters.

The Ongoing Dilemma...

2013-11-15T10:59:00.001-08:00

I have been a little disheartened this week.

A boy at school was mean to N. Not for the first time. N is fine--in fact, she really wasn't that bothered by the incident that occurred, as she is quite used to this particular child's problematic behavior. I, on the other hand, kind of went ape sh--um, a little nuts. In the end, the school addressed it, the boy apologized (and is being watched more closely, and is not sitting near my daughter, or working with her in groups, and hopefully not speaking to or looking in her general direction ever again), and we're moving on.

And yet, it makes me mad that it happened, and that I had to spend several hours talking to my daughter, and to her teacher, and to her guidance counselor, and to her principal, about stuff that didn't need to happen. And it makes me madder that this boy has not been taught--by nine years old--which behaviors are just not okay. And, call me cynical, but it makes me sad for him that he is already heading down a road that likely does not have a very happy ending.

To add to that, this has brought up my recurring struggle of how much we should teach our kids to be kind--knowing that kids like N's tormentor probably need that more than anything--versus how much we should tell our kids to just stay away from the mean kids, or the difficult kids, or the bratty kids--knowing that none of us need to go looking to have our feelings hurt by choosing to be around people who don't value or respect us (I thought that sounded better than referring to nine year olds as jerks. Nice of me, right?)

But this morning, I tried to put that behind me and focus on the fact that I got to volunteer in B's classroom today. I did this when N was in kindergarten, and I was excited to once again spend the morning helping my child and their kindergarten classmates write their letters, and their names, and seeing the adorable pictures they draw to accompany their adorable sentences that come so incredibly close to almost making some kind of sense that I can hardly stand it.

As it happened, I walked in and one of B's teachers said "Hi! Do you know how to use the laminator?"

At that moment, the thoughts in my head went something like this:

No! No! No! Please...No! Didn't they tell you? I don't do technology or gadgety thingies. I mean, I would do them, but they don't do me. Or we don't do each other. At least not well. Last year, I spent many, many Friday mornings--at least 6 Fridays mornings each month--in the copier room. With a copier. That's large. And fancy. And very, very confusing. It didn't go well. In fact, you probably heard me crying. So...laminator? Uh, No. I most definitely do NOT know how to use the laminator. Nor do I want to. Show me where the crayons are, please.

But what came out of my mouth was actually this:

"I don't, but I'm sure I can figure it out!"

I even smiled when I said it.

I am such a liar.

This was, as it turns out, a ridiculously ridiculous thing for me to say, since I do not, when it comes to technology or gadgety thingies "figure it out". Ever.

B's nice teacher showed me how it worked, though she rudely made some assumptions about me in the process. Mainly, that I had half a clue. And then, she left me all alone. With the laminator.

Me and the laminator. In a closet. That I soon found out was very, very warm. I took my coat off as I eyed the laminator.

You don't scare me. Just because you're big, and noisy, and you have those....those....buttons.

I did what the teacher had told me. I pushed papers through. I pushed those buttons. It was actually working. I wasn't just laminating. I was a laminating queen.

I was so good at laminating, that I even laminated things together that weren't supposed to be laminated together.

So then I had to unlaminate them, because it turns out that Emily's parents probably don't want Emily's turkey place mat and Sarah's turkey place mat. So yeah, there was that.

There was also the fact that it was getting very, very hot in that closet. So I wasn't just laminating. I was laminating and sweating my ass off. I briefly wondered if there was a lock on the door, in case I needed to strip down to my underwear while laminating, but decided that probably wasn't a good idea anyway and resigned myself to sweating profusely.

Once I had laminated and unlaminated, as necessary, there was the fact that twenty five laminated turkey place mats needed somewhere to go. And when they're all still connected as you try to remove them from the machine in a very small closet, it can get a little....messy. I'm not sure how to describe this, so you should probably just picture Lucy and Ethel in the candy factory. Except it was me, and twenty five laminated turkey place mats.

Yeah.

The good news is, I eventually got to go into the classroom, and help B and the boys at his table with their writing. I love kindergartners. They are so good. At telling you everything you're doing wrong. "You need to do that with a pen, not a pencil." "That's not the way she corrects our work". "You spelled temper wrong". Whatever, kid. Some day you, too, will have spellcheck and not know how to spell anything for yourself. But I was still incredibly happy to be there, and even happier that they didn't witness me in the closet with the turkey place mats.

I went to lunch with B and his class after that, and was a little concerned to notice that all three boys that had been at B's table in the classroom had gone to sit with one of the boys and his mom at a separate table. B was happy sitting at a table with me and most of the rest of his class--mostly girls--but I couldn't help but wonder if this happened on a regular basis. Was he being excluded?

As I obsessed over my five-year-olds social status, B leaned over and whispered to me about M, who was sitting across from us and who was the only other boy at our table. B had described M as "mean" earlier in the year, but after visiting B at school, it was obvious to me that M likely had some developmental issues impacting his behavior. "Mom, he's having a really great day. He hasn't been getting in trouble at all today". I told him not to whisper, at which point he said to the the boy "I'm glad you don't get in trouble anymore".

"Is that your class too?" asked, realizing that a few girls and one boy were sitting at an adjacent table.

"Yeah", B nodded, and then looked at them for a minute before adding, "Mom, we need to move seats. G is sitting all by himself over there."

I told him that if we moved, then M would be sitting all by himself, since there was no one else sitting near him, and that maybe we could ask G to come sit with us.

And so we did.

And he did.

And as the four of us sat there, I realized that I wasn't worried about my kindergartner's social status anymore.

He knew exactly where he belonged.

Time...

2013-10-13T19:18:00.000-07:00

First let me say, I don't know how this happened.

I haven't blogged in forever, in part because life has somehow gotten even busier, and in part because, well, things have been... different.

Somehow, we have reached the point where all three of our children are in school.

I'm pretty sure that I just put N on the bus for kindergarten and had two boys at home all day, both still in diapers. Diapers that I spent my days changing, in between making breakfast, and snacks, and lunch, and snacks, and dinner...and snacks. In between nursing a baby, and pouring formula into bottles, and milk into sippy cups, and juice into plastic cups once they could finally sit at the table.

I was just spending my days turning on--and tuning out-- Elmo, and doling out cut up bananas, and Puffs, and Cheerios to a baby sitting in a high chair and a toddler sitting--well, sitting was never his strong point.

I was just thinking how nice it would be when someone was finally in school--even if just for a little while--so that I might get a chance to catch my breath.

And then, it happened.

All of the sudden, one was finally out of diapers, and in school. And, as often happens, the other was all too eager to follow.

Now, most days everyone is in school for at least part of the day. No one is wearing diapers. Not even at night. I think this was supposed to make me jump for joy. But instead, it made me hold the remnants of the last pack of diapers in my hand, and stare at them as I wondered what I was supposed to do with them now. I couldn't just throw them away. And giving someone the last ten diapers from the last pack of diapers seemed a little...odd. I was sure this would also lead to me giving an unsolicited explanation about how I didn't want to just throw them away, even though that would have been a perfectly reasonably thing to do.

Ultimately, I decided that it wouldn't hurt to keep them around for a while--kids do regress sometimes you know--and I put them back on the floor next to the changing table.

Which I guess is technically now just a "dresser", since no one actually gets changed on it anymore.

It turns out, those times we think will never end--the sleepless night, the diaper changes, the crying babies, the constant feeding--well, they end. And when they finally do end, we realize that it was much, much sooner than we thought they would.

We thought they lasted forever. But in reality, it wasn't that long at all.

All of those things that have ended have now been replaced by other things. Kindergarten, and rainbow words. Viola practice and two hour long dance classes. Making lunches, and helping with homework, and trying to find time to volunteer equally in every child's classroom. Or at least discreetly enough that they don't notice the inequality.

Gently removing a crying three year old from my leg and holding back my own tears until I get far enough down the hall. Explaining to a kindergartner that we don't have to decide who we will marry when we're five--in spite of what that girl in his class tells him. Listening to an eight year old talk about the mean kid, and thinking of all of the thing I'm supposed to say, before ultimately telling her that some people are just jerks. Giving myself credit for saying the word "jerks", instead of the word I really wanted to say.

Searching in the back seat, and the front seat, and under the seat for something that begins with the letter 'G' that can be brought to Show n Tell. Wondering if a 'Gross' three week old lollipop counts, and deciding that it doesn't. Deciding on a toy Giraffe, and hoping the dirt passes as part of his coloring.

Wondering if I forgot anything. Realizing, always, that I did. Filling out field trip permission slips in the school drop off line. With a purple crayon.

Trying not to lose my mind.

At least some things don't change.

There are other things, of course, that have stayed the same. The other night, I found O asleep in our bed. I thought of moving him, but I didn't. At least not right away. For a few minutes, I got to smell his hair which--somewhere beneath the three-year-old boy scents of sweat, and chocolate, and Spiderman shampoo--smelled vaguely as it did when he was a baby. Eventually, I carried him to his own room, and put him back in his brother's bed, which is where he has taken to sleeping.

As I did, Jimmy came up and told me there was a deer in the neighbors yard. I went downstairs and watched through the front window, as she stood there in a heavy rain, appearing to wonder how she had ended up here in our suburban neighborhood instead of the safety of the woods she was used to.

Right there with you, sister.

And then something caught my eye.

A fox made his way across our front yard, across the street, and into the neighbors yard.

Do fox eat deer? It seemed unlikely, but this deer was clearly out of her comfort zone.

I briefly wondered if I should open the front door and yell. (I never could watch those nature shows.)But she sensed the fox--or read my mind--and with a few leaps she was gone.

Leaving the fox to stand in her place.

I thought of staying to watch him, and to see what other wild things might stumble into our neighborhood. Did these things happen all the time, and we just didn't notice?

Like children growing in their sleep.

But then I remembered my own wild things, and that they would be up in a few hours, and I went to bed.

At sunrise, I woke to one crying about a lost Lego, and one yelling "Stop crying! You're getting my bed wet!" The third, not-quite-as-wild thing, stayed under her covers until the last possible moment. Truly, her mother's daughter.

And yet, in spite of mostly early risers, we managed to miss the bus. Everyone was finally dressed and under orders to Get in the CAR, as I was making sure they had lunches, and book bags, and violas, and homework. As I grabbed the car keys, eyeing the clock, I heard B outside yelling "O! Come look! A MUD PUDDLE!".

I tried to get the words out of my mouth. But the word that wanted to come out wasn't the one I was supposed to say. I tried to say it properly, "Stay away from the mud puddle!", but that other word--the one in my head, and on the tip of my tongue, and seemingly in every part of my being at that moment--that one wanted to come out, too.

Must.not.say.the.F.word.to.the.children.

Breathe. Repeat.

No, I didn't say it. But in my determination not to say it, I couldn't seem to say anything. At least not quickly enough. In fact, I wasn't the one who spoke at all.

It was B, as he said "Mom...I kind of fell and got a little muddy..."

So he went inside and changed, and the other child--the one who I then discovered had neglected to put on socks in the rainy fifty something degree weather-- was sent inside to put.on.some.socks.

And I still managed not to say the F word.

I know some moms make oatmeal from scratch, and have organic, gluten free cookies waiting after school, and have a craft planned for every free weekend. They have play dates on a moments notice, because somehow their house is always clean. They occasionally, shamefully confess in a whisper that recently, they had a rough morning where they actually raised their voice.

But I tend to think that most of us aren't those moms. I think that most of us are moms who sometimes struggle not to say the F word, as we think alot about the time. The important kind of time--the time of sleepless infants, and curious toddlers, and adventurous preschoolers--and the kind of time that we sometimes start to think is important-- the watching-the-clock kind of time, the I-have so-much-to-do-kind-of-time, the kind of time that prevents us from playing in mud puddles before school.

I dropped everyone off at school that morning on time and in dry clothes. Also, without having heard their mother utter a single expletive. And then I drove home, and did the dishes without anyone "helping" me. I folded clothes without having to stop to turn on Thomas the Train. I talked on the phone.

At one point, I even sat down and drank coffee and flipped through actual grown up shows. Like The View, or The Talk, or Talking About the View. Oh, I don't know what it was called, OK? And to be honest, as much as I have longed for the days when I might once again be able to watch something on TV that wasn't rated G, I found myself distracted by the thought that these people actually get paid to talk about absolutely nothing.

So I turned it off, and listened instead to the sound of silence.

And I liked it.

But only for a little while.

In fact, it wasn't that long at all.

Measures of Success....

2013-07-08T11:04:00.001-07:00

Sometimes it's so hard to know how we're doing at this motherhood thing.

Oh sure, we all have days when we think we're doing a pretty good job. Days when everyone is dressed and fed and well behaved and the house isn't a completely embarrassing mess.

Or maybe days when everyone is dressed, or fed, or well behaved, or the house isn't a completely embarrassing mess. Because, honestly, I don't think I've had a day when all of those things happened on the same day since...well, since before I had kids.

So now, most days, I have to pick which of those things I'm going to have. And most days, the one I pick doesn't happen. So then I pick another one, and that one might happen. Or it might not.

So then I just settle for any one of those things to happen in a day.

Or, sometimes, over the course of a week.

Let's just all get our priorities straight and stop this ridiculous, over achieving nonsense, shall we?

I was talking to some friends from church a whole ago, and they talked about how the best thing is the world is seeing a friend unexpectedly show up at your back door. Everyone seemed to agree that this really is just the best thing. So I smiled. I nodded. I put on my face that said "Yes! That really is just the best thing".

But then I thought about it and realized, what if they think that I really do think that this is the best thing and then someday, they actually do it? They actually show up at my door, because here I am, agreeing that the face of an unexpected friend at the door really is the best thing?

And I would have to decide whether I was going to hide in the corner of the kitchen until they stopped knocking and left, or answer the door and tell them that out entire family was in the midst of a typhoid epidemic, so it probably wouldn't be such a good idea if they came in.

Because if they showed up unexpectedly at my door on most days, they would not be coming in.

(As an aside, if you ever do hide in the corner of your kitchen, make sure you're not across from the cabinet with the reflective glass, which can be seen through the door, because otherwise your unannounced friend (or maybe, in some cases, the guy you're trying to break up with) is going to see you, and ask you why you were hiding in the corner, when they could clearly see your reflection in the glass. I mean, that's what I've heard can happen)

So, anyway, I outed myself to my friends at church. Everyone was still talking about how great it is to have a friend show up unexpectedly, and then I said "Well, no, it's really not great. I mean, not for all of us. In fact, I need a week's notice"

OK, a day.

OK honestly, I need two.

And these are the kind of things that go through my head as I think about how I'm doing. Because I know there are many people with young kids who manage to keep their house "company ready" at least most of the time, and I am most certainly not one of them.

I just don't know they do that.

I tried to get tips. I even signed up to get daily emails from Fly Lady. She told me to shine my sink, and wait for the next days emails. So I did it. I shined my sink. OK, so it may not have been the very first day I got that first email from her. But within a few days of getting that email for the fourth or fifth time, I did shine my sink.

But then I wondered if I was doing it right. I mean, what some people consider a shiny sink is quite different from what others consider a shiny sink. So I looked up how to shine a sink. And that's what I did.

And then I waited for more instructions.

I read the next email. It told me to do....something. Who can remember. And I was really going to do it, too. But then, well, I got busy. And those daily emails started piling up. And one day, I noticed that my sink wasn't shiny anymore, which totally pissed me off since I had just shined it that month. So I thought about going back and reading some of those Fly Lady emails.

So I opened one. And I found that little "unsubscribe" link.

And I clicked on it.

It's probably not accurate to say that I don't have time to do things like that. It's probably more accurate to say that I really don't have time to care.

Not because I have zero time. That's obviously not true. Right now, for example, at 12:04 am, I could be shining my sink. Or I could be sleeping, so that I could get up at 6 am, before the kids, and shine my sink. Or, tomorrow I could change "facebook time" to "sink shining time".

Some days I even think that today will be the day that I start shining my sink, or scrubbing my toilets more often, or setting time aside to put all that laundry away as soon as it come out of the dryer.

But then I stand in the kitchen, and look at those sweet faces, as they ask me for more milk, or for syrup for their waffles, or to tell me that they just pooped on the stairs, and I think,

"There are only a few opportunities to preserve my sanity on any given day. I'll be damned if I'm going to waste them shining a sink".

Sorry Fly Lady.

I used to think I needed to keep my house more together. But I've tried that, and for a myriad of reasons, it just doesn't work. And recently it hit me. I don't need to keep my house more together.

What I really need is to get over the fact that I don't keep my house more together. And really, when did good housekeeper ever become synonymous with good mother anyway?

Maybe it was June Cleaver. Her house was always spotless. But did you ever notice, we only ever saw one room at a time? Oh sure, the living room was spotless, but I bet Wally and the Beaver just dumped all their crap in the dining room. (And really, you can't tell me there weren't a few dozen empty Valium bottles hiding under June's bed).

So I'm trying to change my definition of a good day.

It's a good day when everyone is mostly happy, and mostly dressed, and mostly not driving each other too crazy.

It's also a good day is when I decide to stop at Starbucks instead of the liquor store.

At least, before noon. After noon, it just might be the liquor store stop that makes it a good day.

I took the kids to the pediatrician a few weeks ago for O's well child visit. We waited in the exam room for forty minutes. Then the pediatrician--who I happen to love--came in and fixated on B's out of control behavior. Which, I couldn't help but note, probably wouldn't have been quite so out of control if he hadn't been waiting in an 8 x10 exam room for forty minutes.

Without being asked, and based on his ten minute observation of a child who had been locked in a small room for forty minutes, Dr Knowitall told me that B needed consequences, and that he should know it wasn't OK to behave that way, and that he needed to be held accountable, and that change "wouldn't just happen"--I actually had to do something about it.

Then he told me that I certainly wasn't the only one with "this problem". Even though "this problem" wasn't at all what he seemed to think it was.

I think in his own way he was trying to make me feel better, and yet I left feeling...defeated.

Clearly, I was doing this motherhood thing wrong.

I tried to be more consistent over the next few days, but I soon realized that I was already being about as consistent as I could be.

Unless, of course, we just stayed home all day to address everyone's bad behavior, which will of course become worse if we stay home all day.

I found myself wanting to talk to Dr Knowitall again.

I wanted to tell him about moms like me. About how most days, as we drag our children to swim classes, and play dates, and doctors appointments where we are forced to wait for forty minutes in small exam rooms with three restless children, we are often over due for our own check ups, and dental visits, and hair cuts. That although we fantasize about laying on a beach as someone brings us colorful drinks in between massages and pedicures, ultimately we settle for a latte--and occasionally, if we're very, very, lucky--a nap.

I wanted to tell him that I know my children aren't perfect, and that I realize the importance of consistency, but that if I discipline them every.single.time they do something wrong, I will never leave my home

Which would drive all of us that much closer to the edge.

Vicious cycle, no?

I also wanted to tell him that my kids need clean clothes, and clean dishes, and food on the table at least three times a day. And that my laundry room is often a complete disaster, in part because I stopped receiving Fly Lady's emails, and in part because I never would have done what those emails said anyway. And that after I recently spent an hour in the laundry room, ensuring that my children had clean, folded, well organized clothes, I came upstairs to find one naked thee year old standing on the kitchen table, a five year old decorating the house with miniature marshmallows, and an eight year old making lemonade, which happens to entail spilling lemonade mix all over the kitchen floor.

Walk a mile in my shoes, pal.

I wanted to tell him that while I may not always be the perfect disciplinarian, on many days, I can be found cleaning poop off the floor, wiping a bottom, helping with a school project, making sure dinner's not burning, kissing a boo boo, giving a dirty look that says "Be nice to your brother" while using sign language that says "Clean up those toys", and taking a phone call for work.

Simultaneously.

Cause I'm a mom, and that's what we do.

How do we know if we're doing a good enough job?

Is it enough that they are happy? Fed? Clothed? Loved?

Mostly kinda sorta well behaved?

Or will we have to wait, until they are grown and through college, and not using drugs, or spending time in jail, or getting involved in unhealthy relationships?

I don't fully know the answer.

But I know this:

No one else fully knows the answer either.

But I also know that at the end of each day, something magical happens.

After wrestling wet, soapy kids out of the bath and into pajamas, after picking up clothes and blankets off the floor, after trying not to trip over toys that I just picked up this morning, I kiss three sweet faces, and we say our prayers, and I tell them good night.

Sometimes, I think that it was a pretty good day.

Other times, I hope tomorrow will be better.

But for them, it was just a day.

A day with some good, and some not so good. A day when they were mostly happy and fully loved.
A day of freedom, and creativity, and laughter, and hopefully not too many tears.

A day filled with the special kind of crazy that can only be found at home.

A day of childhood.

I'm not doing it perfectly.

But it's close enough for them.

And that's success enough for me.

What's Not to Love?

2013-06-28T06:22:00.000-07:00

N started a gymnastics class the other day. As I sat in the waiting room without the boys and watched her through the glass, I couldn't help but overhear the two moms talking behind me. OK, fine, I probably could have helped it, if I had tried. But I didn't try. So, as I was eavesdropping, I overheard them talk about being teachers in the same school, and now being home with their kids for the summer.

"Are you enjoying your summer?"

"Enjoying it? It's GREAT. I mean, whats not to love?"

I almost laughed out loud at her obvious sarcasm. What's not to love? How about the whining? The fighting? The screaming? The never ending adjustment issues we all face as we get used to spending every waking moment together?

I briefly turned around to show my appreciation for her sentiments, and that's when I saw it.

The look of complete and utter sincerity on her face.

She actually meant it.

I do love summer at home with my kids. I love the free time, and the fact that we can spend our days however we want to, and not having to get up early and rush out the door every morning. And soon I will love other parts of summer. But right now, not quite two weeks into it, we are most certainly not in What's not to love? mode. In fact, we are still rather firmly entrenched in How will we survive without killing each other? mode.

This phase will pass. I know it will. And soon, there will be a lot of things we love about summer.

But even then, I tend to think that I won't go quite so far as to say Whats not to love?, because in spite of all that I do love, the first two weeks of summer have reminded me that there are also a few things not to love.

Like swim lessons, as your eight year old freaks out when she's told to jump off the diving board, and your five year old refuses to do what he's told, and your three year old, who hasn't taken lessons at all, decides to jump into the pool. Simultaneously.

And like the locker room after swim lessons, with the two screaming boys who ultimately require us, once again, to do the walk of shame to the parking lot, barefoot and in wet clothes.

Like deciding that summer is the perfect time to potty train O, and then thinking that he can now go to the frozen yogurt place without a diaper on.

So that he can pee all over their floor.

Like the fact that someone is always talking to me.

Yes, I realize I'm their mother. But the thing is, I'm also an introvert. At times, the two are mutually exclusive. No one tells you that, but it's true.

Yeah, I'd say there are just a few things not to love about summer.

But here I was, apparently alone in this.

I went back to watching N. She was pulled aside from the group of girls she had started the class with, and was now getting her own private gymnastics lesson. I realize it must be remedial gymnastics, for daughters of women who could never do a cartwheel. Although she can do a cartwheel--quite well in fact. But I decide that she somehow must have not have been up to the skill level of the other girls in her group, and that's why she's getting private attention. I am perplexed since one girl is about four, but she must be the daughter of a woman who could do a cartwheel, and has probably been taking gymnastics since birth.

My heart hurts for N. I wonder if she's about to cry. She doesn't look like it, but I know that if I had been pulled into remedial gymnastics at her age, I would have cried. She goes through the drill that the teacher asks her to do. I watch the other group, and the four year old gymnast-since-birth. They don't look that far ahead of N. I decide it's definitely because she's the daughter of a mother who could never do a cartwheel.

I give her a big smile and thumbs up as she passes by the window to get a drink, and I hope she can read my mind.

Don't cry, sweet girl. It's OK to be a remedial gymnast. Unless, of course, you really WANT to cry. Then screw it, we'll just leave and go eat ice cream.

I listen to the women behind me as they talk some more about how much they loooooove summer.

I decide they're pathological liars. Pathological liars who can do cartwheels.

Eventually, N is done. I plaster a big smile on my face, in case she is about to cry.

"Mom!" she tells me excitedly. "I was the only one who showed up for my class today! All those other girls are in the cheer leading class! I got my OWN PRIVATE lesson!"

I tell her how great that is.

I don't tell her what an idiot her mother is. She'll figure it out for herself soon enough.

"I LOVE gymnastics. Did you see me do those cartwheels? And I made friends with one of the cheer leading girls. It's so weird. I don't know how, but I seem to make friends every where I go."

On the way home, we pass a sign for a financial planner, and N asks me what that is. I give her a brief explanation, and she says "Oooooh, I get it. Kind of like, should I buy an i pad.....or a unicorn."

"Yeah, just like that," I tell her.

"I would totally buy the unicorn," she tells me.

"Me too", I tell her. "Definitely the unicorn".

And for a brief moment, at least, I think What's not to love?

Summer...

2013-06-18T10:36:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was our first official day of summer vacation.

Ten unstructured weeks that belong to no one but us.

Long, free days of endless time.

It's not really endless. I know this. But compared to the school year craziness of school drops offs, and pick ups, and end of year parties, and field days, and school lunches, and dance, and Brownies, and swim classes, and birthday parties, and homework, and trying to find time to wash, dry, and maybe even actually fold laundry, well, in comparison to all of that it seems endless.

For now.

We could go the pool, or have a picnic outside, or run a few errands and stop for ice cream on the way home.

Because this is Summer

But as I looked around, I realized that our house is a disaster and that first I must instill some kind of order.

I also did this because we had already been on summer vacation for two whole hours, and I had already broken up three fights and put two people in their room repeatedly, and then I heard this incredibly shrill voice practically scream that we do not eat birthday cake in the living room.

And I realized that the voice was mine.

So I thought I should probably take a little break

And that's when I remembered this is Summer, too.

I tried to start with laundry, because our house is about to be swallowed up by dirty towels. And maybe also just a little bit because doing laundry briefly allowed me to lock myself in the family room with the mostly crazy but still entertaining Real Housewives of New Jersey. I also find them therapeutic, because as much as I dislike laundry, I realize that, given the choice, I would much rather spend every precious moment of my life folding laundry than having to interact with some of those women in real life.

But they found me. The kids, not the housewives. And then they thought that we were all going to hang out with the housewives, which for obvious reasons wouldn't have been the best plan.

So I decided to catch up with the housewives another time, and went upstairs to go through school bags, and binders, and folders.

I was trying to throw away most of it, and only keep a few things, but how to decide?

I noticed how much their work had changed between September and June.

B can write his name perfectly now.

N is writing stories like she's been doing it her whole life.

I think back to when she was just learning to write her name, and when B swore that he was never going to pre-school. Didn't those things happen just last week?

I go through folders of artwork made by small clumsy hands, and short answers written by an almost overly conscientious hand. Pages of the letter D printed over, and over, and over again. A packet of the alphabet written in cursive. A picture of a stick figure holding a hose, with "I want to be a fire fighter" in a pre-school teacher's handwriting. A drawing from a friend, because that's what second grade girls do.

I think of where they will be a year from now, and realize that I don't even know. I have some idea, of course, of what they will be learning, and how they may change and grow. But I also know that when we get there, it will still surprise me somehow. As if they grew up without me knowing it. As if I somehow haven't been here every step of the way.

Except that I have been.

I know that I've been here, because I remember taking a three year old to her first day of preschool, as I carried her infant brother in a carrier. I remember going to her preschool graduation with him as a not quite two year old, and a brand new brother just home from the hospital. I remember her first day of kindergarten, and being home with two wild boys all day every day for two years, before one of them finally went to preschool.

It felt like finally. But now I know that it wasn't. Not really.

In B's binder, I find a butterfly made out of foot prints that I realize will no longer fit his feet next year. In N's, a handwritten answer contrasting caterpillars and people.

Caterpillars get to be butterflies after being in a cocoon. But people have to be teenagers first.

I have no idea what this means. It makes no sense.

And I know exactly what it means.

It makes perfect sense.

And so I keep it.

In fact, I keep almost all of it.

Some day I may get rid of it.

But not yet.

I think about O possibly going to pre-school this Fall. B's teachers have told me how ready he is, and I have no doubt he will do just fine.

And yet, he just turned three. He has time.

We have time.

At least, a little.

I look at the butterfly footprints in front of me, and the handwritten answer contrasting caterpillars and people.

I don't understand everything about caterpillars, and cocoons, and teenagers, and butterflies.

But, looking at these things, I know the truth.

Time is not endless

Not at all.

Two Men....

2013-06-16T12:47:00.001-07:00

I always knew that I had a great Dad. Although I only had him for eighteen years, we squeezed a lot into those years. And yet, it's only since I've become a parent that I've realized that he wasn't really great.

He was amazing.

He was widowed at forty-five, with seven children between the ages of six months and eighteen--six of them still at home. He continued to work at the fire department for the next eight years, while raising us on his own. When he retired, he worked as a limo driver, and a restaurant manager, while raising the few of us still at home, and being an involved presence to those who had already flown the nest.

I won't bother telling you what his schedule was like, or what our house was like. You can probably imagine. Or you probably can't. In which case, me telling you isn't going to change that. But that's not what really matters anyway. What I will tell you is that he successfully raised us, and while he had the helping hands at times of friends and family, he also did it very much alone. Our clothes weren't fancy, though since he somehow managed to send all of us to Catholic School at some point, there wasn't much of a need for that anyway. I didn't go to school with my hair in cute pigtails--in fact, I was probably lucky that most days I went to school with my hair brushed. No one got a new car for their sixteenth birthday--or--in most cases, a used one, either. There were no college funds, or wedding funds, or down payments for houses.

And yet, we had laughter, and we had love, and we had vacations every year, because when you grow up as one of seven children during the Depression, and never get to go to the Jersey Shore like a few of the neighbors with smaller families did, you learn that family vacations are important. Even if that means that you have to drive for two days with most of your seven children in the back of the station wagon.

Did I mention that this was before xanax?

My six siblings and I are all different to some degree, but we are all alike in the important ways.

We all had the same teacher.

We know how to laugh, and how to work hard, and that, ultimately, there's not much that's more important than family.

I suspect that we also know that when things sometimes seem hard, we really have no idea what hard truly is.

We also know that life is short.

My father gave many gifts to all of us, and I don't know that there is one greater than the rest.

But today, on Father's Day, there is one that stands out more than the rest.

He showed me what a good man is, and what a good father is, and what things in life are important.

And as a result of that, when the time came, I knew what a good man looked like.

Though it's not always easy to be married to the daughter of a man like my father, my children also have a pretty incredible teacher.

I won't be at all surprised if some day they write about their own great dad on Father's Day.

And I know that by then, they will come to understand that he, too, is amazing.

Children...Sometimes They Shouldn't be Seen OR Heard...

2013-06-15T20:31:00.000-07:00

As we were stopped at a light on the way to school one morning a few weeks ago, it struck me that, at that moment, our car was absolutely silent. While I should have just enjoyed the moment, it felt...odd. Surreal. Maybe even a little....unsettling.

Had I left a child at home? Had someone lapsed into unconsciousness? Had I forgotten to remove the duct tape?

Then O's newly three-year-old voice spoke up from the back seat, "Mom, is this for real?"

I love it when they read my mind like that.

"I think it is", I tell him.

"Oh", he says.

"What are you talking about?" B asks.

"It's OK, O. It's always good to check", N tells him.

Now everyone is talking at once. Talking over one another. Interrupting each other.

So glad everything is back to normal.

I ask B if he has his back pack.

"It's not a back pack, Mom." he tells me, clearly disgusted by my ignorance.

"It's a toke bag".

And if I had any doubt about things going back to normal, I was further reassured at home that afternoon, as I was in the kitchen making dinner and heard N yell "Eeew! Get my book out of your butt crack!"

Yet another phrase I didn't think I would ever hear in my home.

I agree with N that a butt crack is no place for a book, and get back to making dinner. The boys are loud. Not listening. Defiant.

Yup, definitely back to normal.

We eventually sit down to dinner--without Jimmy, who is working late-- and half way through I realize that O is sitting at the dinner table completely naked.

But he's eating his vegetables, and you know, you can't have everything.

B asks to be excused from the table and tells me he has to go the bathroom.

He starts up the stairs, and then comes back. "But don't worry Mom. I wont need your help. I'm just peeing. Not pooping. So I don't need to wipe".

He disappears again and then sticks his head around the corner.

"You do have to shake your mickey, though. Oh sorry. I didn't meant to talk about that when you were eating."

He leaves again, and then his head appears around the corner again.

"The poop talk, I mean, and the pee. And the part about shaking my mickey".

So glad he cleared that up.

I get up to get N a drink, and turn around to see O standing on the table. Still naked.

"Mom, can you get me down?"

"Why are you on the table?" I ask

"Cause I can't get down".

Well, of course.

A few days later, we are in the women's locker room at the pool. This is a no no. Well, a kind of sort of no no. Apparently you aren't allowed to bring boys over three into the women's locker room, so I had been attempting to change them in the family "changing room". But one day, when I, soaking wet, and disheveled, and OK, fine, maybe about to cry, mentioned to the manager that it would be really nice to have a family changing room that was an actual room and not a bathroom, where my three year old plays in the toilet while I'm sitting on the floor helping my four year old get dressed, the nice manager decided that she didn't want my apparently imminent nervous breakdown to be on her watch and told me we could use the women's room, as long as we stayed in the separate stall.

Yeah.

Good luck with that

But we do try to stay in the separate stall. Which is where we were this particular day, as B danced naked on the bench, while loudly singing "We're the naked family".

Over, and over, and over again,

We are finally dressed and ready to leave. I open the door to make sure the coast is clear, and start to usher the boys out toward the exit. We're almost home free.

Except that at that moment, a completely naked woman decides to walk from the shower to the stall on the other side of ours. She sees us and stops. We go back into our stall. She backs up around the corner. Thinking this is our chance, I bring the boys out again. But she also thinks this is her chance, and we are back to standing in front of each other. And there we are. All of us. Some naked, others not.

All equally humiliated.

I cover the boys eyes and turn them toward the exit.

"Mom!" B yells, "I can't SEE anything when you do that!".

We make a run for it--quite literally, and I stop at Sam's Club on the way home. I am meandering through the store, wondering if anyone had every gotten PTSD from a trip to a pool locker room, and forgetting what I am even in this store for.

A man waves me over from a sample stand. I almost ignore him. I'm not in the mood for frozen pizza bites or fat free, sugar free, mango-pineapple-coconut flavored Greek yogurt.

But he's not giving away samples of those things. Instead, he holds out a small cup and says "Would you like to try a sample of a our margaritas?"

Did he just offer me a margarita? I am giddy. I briefly forget about my locker room induced PTSD.

But then I realize that there must be a catch.

I eye him suspiciously as I sip it.

"Does it have booze in it?"

"Uh, no".

"Why not?" I ask him

"Ummmm, well, because we're Sam's Club. We don't have a liquor license".

"When are you going to get one?" I ask him

He looks at me as if I'm not well in some way. Well, I'm not. I have PTSD. But I decide not to tell him that.

"You're welcome to add your own alcohol. You just add it to the bag. And we have five different flavors".

I decide to take one of each.

The man tells me they'll be great at parties, or for a girls' night, or just to relax with on warm summer nights.

But me?

I'm thinking they'll fit nicely in my toke bag the next time I have to go into the PTSD inducing locker room with my children.

The Rules for Summer

2013-06-09T16:08:00.001-07:00

Dear Family,

Very soon, we will all be spending a lot more time together, and while I cherish this time with you, I also think we should set some ground rules so that we all keep our sanity.

Or so that at least I keep mine.

Showers. Since some days, this is my only time to myself, it is important that it really is time to myself. This morning, for example, I was interrupted seven times in ten minutes by someone needing me. Or, more precisely, thinking that they needed me. Let's talk about need. If any of the following are happening, you have a NEED:

Blood (copious amounts)

Choking (involving airway obstruction)

Unconsciousness

I think that about covers it.

Changing the channel on the TV? Not a need.

Telling your brother/sister/father/dog to be nicer to you? Not a need.

Finding your socks? Not a need.

Getting you a drink? Nope.

Buttoning your pants? Uh, no.

Deciding that this moment is the perfect time to tell me about something that someone said to you at school three weeks ago--something that, come to think of it, you can't really remember all that well anyway, is not a need.

Asking me where the butter is, in case you were wondering, is also not a need. Especially when you are the only other grown up in the house. And because there is only one place the butter could be. Unless, of course, you ask me again where the butter is when I'm in the shower.

Then there will be another place that the butter could be.

Naps. If I say take one, then you take one. I may tell you it's because you look tired, or because I want you to have lots of energy to do something fun the next day. In truth, if I tell you to take a nap, it's because I am about to loose my mind and I need you to take a nap. I don't care if you're not tired, haven't taken naps in five years, or just woke up. Just.take.a.nap. Or pretend. That's fine with me, too. Just keep in mind that truly pretending means that your eyes remain closed at all times and you do not speak. Or move.

Conflict. If I have to spend my entire summer breaking up fights, working out compromises, and telling you to be kind to one another, I will have no energy left to take you to the pool, the playground, or for ice cream. Just work.it.out. Or ignore each other for the next ten weeks. That works for me, too.

Sleep. For the past nine months I have gotten up early almost every morning to get you to school, church, or religious ed classes. For the next ten weeks, I would prefer not to have to get up early every morning. But some of you seem to be under the false impression that when you get up, I must get up. This is, in fact, not the case. When you get up, you are free to turn on the television (keeping the volume low) or help yourselves to something to eat. I know that you are capable of doing this since I have, on more than one occasion, found an empty box of granola bars, which had been previously kept on the highest shelf in the cabinet. Alternately, if you would like to come snuggle in my bed, that is fine. However, snuggle does not mean talk, cry, yell, tattle, sing, play with toys, or steal my blankets. It means snuggle. Please note that snuggling, in our house, is a silent, motionless activity.

Me Time. I would do anything for any of you at any time. In theory. In reality, we will be spending almost every waking moment together for the next ten weeks, which means that in order for me to continue to function as a mostly kind, mostly sane mommy, I will occasionally have times when the shower wasn't enough and I need a few minutes of down time. You may see me go into my room. Or maybe get on the computer. Or maybe go outside. DO NOT FOLLOW ME. I will be back, I promise. But please do not choose this moment to ask me for a drink, a snack, a new shirt, or to read to you. Mostly nice, mostly sane mommy will be mostly happy to do those things for you in a few minutes, but if you follow me and hound me until I do them for you RIGHT NOW, mostly unkind, mostly insane mommy will be throwing your juice, granola bar, t-shirt, and book at you from across the room. And really, you just don't want that.

Noise Levels: There are three of you. There's only one of me. I know you get loud when you're excited or happy, and even louder when you're unhappy. Like when someone takes a toy away. Or looks at you funny. Or when they get the last ~~cupcake~~ carrot stick. But the thing is, the louder you get, the more over stimulated I get. And when I get over stimulated, mostly nice, mostly sane mommy leaves, and mostly unkind, mostly insane mommy comes out. So, please, since you know I'm going to tell you to do it anyway, just lower your voices. Or, better yet, take them outside. It's summer. Go outside and enjoy yourself. I know it's 100 degrees/thundering/mosquito infested out there, but trust me, come September, you'll miss these days.

Questions: You each get to ask me five questions a day. Questions are non transferable and cannot be saved up to be cashed in later. Choose wisely.

Bedtime. Nine pm. I don't care that it's summer. That IS a later bedtime. Take it or leave it. But if you leave it, you'll be in bed at eight instead.

Good night sweet cherubs.

And when you say your prayers tonight, please don't forget to pray for me.

God knows I'll need it.

Love,

Your Mother

P.S. Happy Summer!!!

Are We Done Yet?

2013-06-06T18:57:00.005-07:00

It's June. Do you know what that means?

It means I'm done. I'm done waking small people up in the morning, while I make sure that I have a smile on my face, because after all, smiles are contagious and if I'm smiling and pretending to be happy to be out of bed, maybe they will smile and be happy about going to school.

I'm done with that.

I'm done with lunches, or more precisely, I'm done standing in front of the refrigerator as I stare into it and wait for something to jump out at me and tell me I should put it on a sandwich and call it lunch. I've been making lunch almost every day since...well, forever...but I've been making school lunches for the better part of nine months. Peanut butter. Turkey. Tuna fish. Egg salad. I'm sick of all of you. So are they. What's left?

Who the hell cares.

Here, have some crackers and cheez whiz. No, I didn't write a note on your napkin today. I stopped doing that three weeks ago. Just know that I love you, and think of me when you wipe the cheez whiz off your pretty face.

I'm done with finding clean clothes for everyone every day. I don't know why this part has gotten hard, but it has. Just wear...something. I don't care what. That shirt that I said was inappropriate last Fall because of the big open part on the back? Wear it. No, it's not inappropriate anymore. Why not?

Because it's June. And I no longer care.

About anything.

I'm done with homework. Just do it. Or don't. I don't care. I don't know why they started teaching you division when there are exactly six days left in the school year anyway. In fact, I don't know why they teach you division at all. Get a calculator and call it a day. And I'm sorry that I can't help you, though that's not because it's June.

It's because I suck at math.

Show and tell? Yes, you have something for show and tell. You have...YOU! And let me tell you, there is a lot to show and tell about you. Just don't show too much.

Come to think of it, you probably shouldn't tell too much either.

You need a picture for the letter web? What letter are we doing this week? Are we still doing letters? Is it Z yet? It must be Z.

Or, come to think of it, maybe it's F.

Cause I'm pretty sure it's F'in June.

And I'm done.

Fifteen...

2013-05-31T08:17:00.003-07:00

Our wedding picture hangs in our living room, in a semi prominent spot where people can see the picture, but not the dust.

People that have known us forever no longer notice it--the picture or the dust. They are used to both. Our children have been known to look at it and become upset that they're not in it, leading me to explain that first you get married, and then the babies come. Except that pretty soon, they will probably encounter someone who is, in fact, in their own parents' wedding photos, and they will call me out on that one. And ask me what I was talking about. And call me a liar.

But until then, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

When people who didn't know us then see the picture, they often say something like "Awww...is that you guys?"

Well, duh.

Who else would it be?

Besides, while I realize that Jimmy may look slightly different than he did then, I'm quite sure that I look exactly the same.

Exactly.

I don't think about that picture much, though I look at it at some point during every day. When I do take the time to really look at it, I remember how hot it was that day. How my cousin Gary set the mulch on fire outside the church--or maybe he was just the one who put it out. Who can remember these details after fifteen years? I remember how, the morning of our wedding, Jimmy witnessed someone back into the flagpole at our reception hall, and how the police wanted him to go make a report, in spite of the fact that he was getting married in an hour. I remember how the air conditioning in the church was broken, and how the church sent us a fundraising letter three months later, to help with a new air conditioning unit. We didn't have any money to give them, since we had spent it all on our wedding at their incredibly hot church.

I also think of walking down the aisle, and saying those vows, and being so happy to have so many of the people we loved there in one place, and yet sad that so many others couldn't be there.

And knowing, without a doubt, that this was exactly where I was supposed to be.

I think of our reception, and fifteen years later, I'm still glad that we chose the cheaper hall that let us stay as late as we wanted, as opposed to the fancier one with the better view that would have made us leave after four hours.

And when I looked at that picture yesterday, I thought, Wow, I can't believe it's been fifteen years. Fifteen years, two houses, six jobs, one business, a bunch of dead goldfish, two beloved dogs, and three amazing children later. And I know, with all certainty, that we are blessed beyond all comprehension.

And yet, no one tells you how hard its going to be sometimes.

No one tells you that, on your way to all of that, and in the midst of all of that, and even after all of that, there will be the other. Heartbreak and miscarriages, stress and lost jobs, fear and no money, trauma and car accidents, pain and bad backs, anxiety and new businesses, uncertainty and a bad economy, grief and lost loved ones, sleep deprivation and babies who never stop crying.

Except that they do. The babies really do stop crying. And the money comes in eventually, and the bad backs get mostly better, and the economy picks up, and someday, you realize, things are somehow good again. And you will hold onto that knowledge, because there will no doubt be other times when you will need to remember that sometimes, it's all incredibly, unimaginable hard--much harder than anyone ever told you it would be--but that it won't always be that way. And you will remind yourself of that again and again, until one day, you'll realize that it was true.

I used to think that people focused way too much on the wedding, and not nearly enough on the marriage. I still tend to think that's true at times. And yet, I think they should have their wedding. They should celebrate. They should dance. They should have as many of the people they love in one room as possible. There should be toasts, and cake, and laughter, and a groom drinking champagne out of his new bride's shoe. Or maybe that doesn't actually happen at every wedding.

There should be all of these things, so that, when the first horrific argument occurs sometime during your first year of marriage, you will remember that you and/or your parents just spent a huge amount of money to help the two of you be joined together forever, and that someone is going to be really pissed if one of you demands a divorce and walks out before your first anniversary.

And so you'll stay.

Which you will be glad you did, because the next day, or the next week, or the next month, you won't remember what that stupid fight was about anyway.

I now realize that you should definitely have no shortage of flowers at your wedding, because flowers are beautiful and a reminder that this wedding--this marriage--is truly something to celebrate. But you should also have them so that, after the wedding, you can dry one and keep it in your china closet, so that you can see it as you sit up on the couch late one night a few years later, stewing that he said or did something so insensitive.

Something that, this time, you will definitely remember the next day, and the next week, and the next month. But that, eventually, you will make a choice to let go of, in part because you saw that dried flower and remembered that you made a promise.

You should have--and keep--all kinds of mementos of that special day, especially the ones that remind you of sunshine and roses-- things you were sure that your marriage would be full of. Because the marriage itself, at times, will most certainly not be sunshine and roses, and you will at some point need those pictures and mementos to remind you of the power of hope.

You won't always need reminders, of course. There will be good times. Days filled with happiness. Joyful weeks. Months of peaceful contentment. There will be good years, and really good years, and great years.

But there will also be the other times--the times people tend not to talk about as much. The sad times, the stressful times, the disconnected times, the angry times. And there will also be all of the outside stuff that tries to find its way in. Job stress. Time constraints. Other people and their expectations. Eventually, you will decide which things can be allowed in, and which ones just need to be kept out, because your marriage, with all of its imperfections, is more important than any of those things.

And yet, in the midst of the difficult times, there will still be a million things to celebrate.

Births. Baptisms. Birthdays. Friendships. First Communions. Laughter. Private jokes. A shared history. Communication. Forgiveness. Commitment. Perseverance. Sleeping in. Again. Finally. Faith. Paying the bills without holding your breath. Hope. Family. Acceptance. Love.

Date nights once a year.

Anniversaries.

When I worked at a hospital years ago, I had a patient who would come in every month for chemo. We spent a lot of time together, and she told me about some of the trials in her marriage. It was hard. It was not perfect. In fact, it was quite far from perfect. There had been separations, and tears, and anger. And yet, there was never a divorce. Many in her shoes may have made that choice--and understandably so--but she didn't choose that path. She didn't choose it because, amidst their incredibly difficult, stressful times, there were also times of happiness, and laughter, and joy. There was a family they raised together.

They had made a promise.

Frequently, this woman told me how hard her marriage was. And then, as their 50th wedding anniversary approached, she told me about the huge party they had planned.

I was initially somewhat confused as to why anyone would have a huge celebration for a marriage that had been so far from perfect.

And then I got married.

And I realized that most marriages, at one time or another, are quite far from perfect. And yet, they should all be celebrated. In fact, maybe the ones that are the farthest from perfect are the ones that should be celebrated the most.

I'm not talking about the marriages where there is abuse, or adultery, or addiction--that's another kind of hard entirely. I'm talking about the other ones--the other kind of hard--the marriages where the day to day kind of hard surpasses "why don't you ever pick up your socks" and ventures into " I don't think I want to talk to you today. And maybe not tomorrow either. And probably not the day after that".

But that ultimately finds its way to "Good night. Let's just talk about it in the morning".

Maybe those are the ones to be celebrated the most. Not because they're perfect. But because they're not.

And yet, they still exist.

Because two people made a choice. And every day, they make it again. Even when it's hard.

To love even when they don't feel like it.

To laugh as often as possible.

To live with gratitude, and faith, and hope.

To keep a promise.

And to know that a little dust on the picture doesn't diminish its beauty, or its value, or its truth.

The Truth, As I Know It....

2013-05-30T10:40:00.000-07:00

I don't believe there are many hard and fast truths when it comes to parenting. In fact, I think we probably all have our own truths. Other people may share them, or they may not. They may understand them, or they may not. And really, who cares. You know what works in your house. I know what works in mine. And yes, even "works" may be a relative term. Is it all working as long as everyone is wearing clothes--anyone's clothes--and has eaten--something---three times today? Or is that just surviving, hanging in there, or muddling through? I guess it depends on who you ask.

But sometimes, it seems like the bar has been raised so high that our truths--whatever they are-- somehow aren't good enough compared to the truths we see all around us. The truths of other moms. The truths on magazine covers. On Christmas cards. On facebook posts.

I could venture to say that some of those truths may, in fact, not even be actual truths, but well, who am I to say what's real in someone else's world?

I can only tell you what's real in mine. And so, if for no other reason than to lower the bar a little for the rest of us, I will.

My truth, as I know it:

1) I hide from my children. Several times a day. Sometimes in the laundry room (hey at least I'm doing something while I'm hiding), but also in the bathroom, and the bedroom, and most recently, in the cool, quiet darkness of my family room, which just happens to be off of the laundry room, which is where they think I am. Washing, drying, folding, sorting. In reality, I am in the family room, on the couch, under a comforter. When I'm in the bathroom, they find me, and as I hear their footsteps coming closer, I also start to hear the music from Psycho in my head. At least I think it's just in my head. But since they have yet to find out about my family room hideaway, I'm a little safer there. I do answer when they call me, but I figure it's only fair that they have to call me as many times as I have to tell them to put their shoes on in the morning. So, you know, I try to answer by "Mommmmmmmy!" number seventeen.

2) Whenever possible, I drink during play dates. No, not if I am caring for someone else's children. But if their mother is here to care for them and is willing to drink with me, it's on. No, I'm not talking about getting sloshed and giggling on the kitchen floor while the kids play dress up in the play room. I try to save that for occasional Friday nights.

3) I firmly believe that appearances matter. Therefore, if you can't see it, it doesn't matter. Sometimes my kids don't have fitted sheets on their beds. Or socks under their shoes. Or clean underwear on under their shorts. Call it what you want. I call it "I don't have time to give a shit".

4) I believe in age appropriate time outs. So my four-year-old should spend no more than four minutes in his room, and my two year old shouldn't be there for more than two minutes. And yet, sometimes I need their time outs as much as they do. And I'm forty. You do the math.

5) The pizza delivery guy knows my first name. I expected this to be the norm when my youngest child was an infant. Not when he was almost three. And yet, I have no intention of our relationship changing anytime soon.

6) The lady at the McDonald's drive through should know my first name.

7) My house is a mess. Always. I once heard a mom of one child mention that a mom of five she knew "didn't really keep the house picked up". Really? A mom of five? Ya think? Obviously I only have three, but I can't manage to keep it picked up, so some days--weeks, months--I give up. If you want to come over, please call first. Give me a week's notice. And then when you do come over, wear a blindfold. See number 2 above.

8) My car is a mess, too. Always.

I am frequently reminded of the fact that I am often a complete mess. I was reminded of this just this morning when I took N to school fifteen minutes late, and had to walk her out to find her class at field day, and tell her that it was OK, and that she would figure out who she would be partners with, and apologize to her teacher for bringing her late. And I was reminded of it again later, when I went to her classroom pizza picnic and noticed, for example, that no one else's sibling was wearing a shirt with last night's ketchup on it, and that they were all, in fact, wearing socks.

And yet, I got to see N at school today. I got to play outside with her brothers. They all have (mostly) clean clothes. They have friends over, even when the house is a mess, and I don't even make them wear blindfolds. We have pizza for dinner too often, and McDonald's too often for lunch. I try to make up for it by serving lots of green stuff when I do cook. Even if none of us know exactly what it is.

If these things keep us all a little saner, I tend to think that's OK. Maybe some families can have a clean house, homemade meals every night, matching socks, clean underwear, fitted sheets, and a sane mommy. But not my family.

They get one or the other.

That's the truth.

And I'm OK with that.

Finding Your Quiet Place...

2013-05-23T20:43:00.004-07:00

It happened yesterday afternoon as I was driving the kids home after picking up N at school. They were all talking at once--OK so maybe they weren't all talking. Some were screaming instead. We were sitting in traffic for what seemed like forever. I thought my head might explode from all the noise around me. I was trying to think of what we needed at the grocery store. And wondering how my car gets so trashed so quickly. And when I might have a chance to get the oil changed. And trying to remember to nod every few seconds so that whoever was talking would ~~think~~ know I was listening. And then their voices all started to meld together, and started to take on a different sound. Like the teacher in Charlie Brown.

Waa waa...waa waa waaa...waa waa waa waaa...waa waa waa....

Suddenly, I wasn't in the car anymore. I was somewhere else. I'd like to tell you that I imagined myself in a beach chair on a tropical island, sipping a very large, very strong drink with an umbrella in it, but that would be a lie. The truth is, I saw myself sitting in a corner, my knees tucked up to my chest, rocking back and forth as I banged my head against the wall.

Rocking and banging. Banging and rocking. As the noise continued around me.

Waa waa...waa waa waaa...waa waa waa waaa...waa waa waa

Eventually the car in front of us moved, and I was forced to leave my moment in the corner. But it made me realize something, that moment.

I liked it there.

Once we got home and snacks were doled out, I retreated to the laundry room. I hate doing laundry. And yet, I love doing laundry. The laundry room is often the only place in my house where no one follows me, and that's only because there's still a baby gate at the top of the stairs which lead to the laundry room. Jimmy keeps asking why we still have that gate. He threatens to get rid of it. A few times, he has even gotten it as far as the back door. But then I see him, and I tell him that I'm worried that O will fall down the stairs. He looks at me funny, and tells me that O is almost three.

And then I give him the look. The look that says I let you get rid of the high chair, and the pack and play, and even the adorable teddy bear mobile that I had a ridiculous emotional attachment to, but get rid of that baby gate, and one of us will be sleeping on the couch until our children are in college.

So, you know, he puts the gate back.

Even though it's broken, and if you look closely, you will see that it's usually hanging on by just one, increasingly loose eight-year-old drywall bolt. But the kids don't know this. They just know that it's a gate, and that it's hard to open. So they don't try. And the one who can open it knows that if she finds me when I'm in the laundry room, I will give her laundry to fold.

So she stays away.

Smart girl.

There is, of course, always laundry to be done, so while I may occasionally use the laundry room as an escape from something, I am really just escaping into piles of clothes, and baskets of socks, and stacks of towels. Sometimes, with all those piles, and baskets, and stacks, it seems that the laundry room isn't much of an escape at all.

Rather, it's an exercise in futility. Wash laundry. Dry laundry. Fold laundry. Wash more laundry. Dry more laundry. Fold more laundry. Wash some of the clothes that I just washed yesterday. Dry the same clothes. Fold the same clothes.

Let's not even talk about putting them away, because frequently, that just doesn't happen.

It's my retreat. And yet, it most certainly is not a retreat.

Except that it is.

Because, yesterday, as I piled more towels on top of the already ridiculously high pile of towels, it dawned on me.

Finally, after fifteen years of marriage, and eight years of motherhood, and three children, I have discovered the secret to maternal fulfillment.

If the piles are big enough, no one can find you.

Time...

2013-05-21T06:53:00.000-07:00

The kids birthdays are approaching. I wasn't sure I was going to write about their birthdays. I'm not really sure how to put it into words. At least, I'm not sure how to put it into words that I haven't already written. But then, last night, we went to kindergarten orientation for B.

Kindergarten.

How did that happen?

The kids and parents first meet with the principal and teachers in the gym, before the kids go off with the teachers and the parents stick around to listen to very important information, like drop off/pick up lane etiquette.

(Someday, I hope they will ask me to speak at this orientation, because in spite of the fact that they discuss it for an hour at kindergarten orientation, and send it home in newsletters, and send periodic emails throughout the year, there is always someone who does not know the drop off/pick up line etiquette. Namely, STAY IN YOUR CAR. What is so hard about this? If you stay in your car, it all runs rather smoothly. Kids get out, they close the door, they walk into the building, and you drive away, allowing those of us who have been sitting behind you to move up so that our kids can get out of the car, close the door, and walk into the building. But once you get out of your car, because your sweet child needs a kiss, or you need to walk him to the door, or you see his gym teacher and want to ask her a question, well then you have thrown the whole thing off. This doesn't work so well for those of us who thought we had a full four minutes to get our children to school on time, and now only have three. K?)

OK, so anyway.

I wasn't sure B would go off with the kindergarten teachers when it was time. But he did. Quite easily, in fact. Maybe a little too easily if you ask me. What, no separation anxiety? No nervousness? No "But I want my Mommy"? Have the last five years meant nothing to you? Thanks a lot, kid.

And in case I wasn't already thinking how rude this was of him, the guidance counselor started talking about how normal separation anxiety is. In fact, its not just normal. It's apparently a sign of a strong parent-child bond.

So clearly, we haven't bonded enough.

When the discussion about parking lot etiquette/sucky parents whose kids kids don't have separation anxiety was over, N and O and I went to the kindergarten classrooms to find B. Well, after O ran outside into the parking lot and I dragged him back inside. (Apparently he wasn't listening, because that is definitely not acceptable parking lot etiquette). Then we went and found B.

All around us, kids were anxiously looking for their parents. Some were already reunited, clinging to the legs of parents who they clearly thought were never coming back for them. And then I saw B. Sitting in the square in the middle of the floor, seemingly unaware of the chaos all around him. I waved. I smiled. I thought he must have been wondering where we were.

He waved. Half smiled. And went back to looking at the picture he had colored while I was listening the parking lot talk.

"Um, B? You ready to go now?"

"Oh. OK"

He got up, and followed us into the hallway.

I excitedly asked him how it went. Did he have fun? Did he like the classroom? What did he think?

He stared at me for a moment. "Mom. We colored a picture and read a book."

Oh.

OK then.

As we made our way out of the school, I wondered how we got here so fast. Kindergarten? Wasn't I just starting at his sweet newborn face, marveling that he was actually here? Wasn't I just waiting for his first tooth? First words? First steps?

Wasn't I just cleaning peanut butter and syrup off the floor, and wondering if he was ever going to get out of diapers, and lamenting the fact that he was refusing to go to preschool?

And now...kindergarten?

I look at N, ahead of us, confidently leading the way. This is her school, her place more than any of ours. I wonder when she got so tall. It hits me that she is halfway through elementary school.

"Hey mom!" she turns around to show me something, as she points. "Look! A fly! Oh, two flies! They're mating!"

Mating?

When did she learn about mating?

I smile and nod, and then I point, too.

"Wow. Look at the all the artwork on the walls. Just beautiful".

O runs ahead and I tell him to slow down.

And I mean it.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And then I came home and watched the news. And I thought of Oklahoma. And of children who went to school and didn't come home. And I prayed about miracles.

Thank you for ours.

Please work more.

We need them.

Blessing My Family...One Mess at a Time

2013-05-17T09:54:00.004-07:00

I can't remember when I was first reminded that, as moms, everything we do for our families is a blessing to them. Everything. The mundane-ordinary-boring-monotonous-disgusting-all-of- it. It's all for them. And it all blesses them.

Wherever it was that I first heard it, it struck a chord. Of course it is! Those dishes need to be washed in order of my family to eat. Those clothes need to be cleaned so they have something to wear. Those teeny, tiny little pieces of ground in crayon need to be individually plucked out of the carpet so that I can lose whats left of my mind.

OK, so maybe it doesn't always feel like I'm blessing my family.

Like when I was standing in K-Mart a few days ago, getting thrown up on, while simultaneously scrubbing vomit off of my shirt, and O's shirt, and Kmart's shopping cart with a red bandana. (Thank you Taylor Swift, for your Red tour, which Aunt Cathy and I took N to the night before for her birthday. But to be honest, a Yellowish Brown tour would have been better for me).

Like the dishes that I do six times a day. The paint I've been trying to scrub off the kitchen table for three days. The toothpaste that somehow found its way to the bathroom ceiling. Sorry, but dealing with these things doesn't always feel like I'm blessing anyone.

Least of all, me.

And yet, I am. Of course I am. And I'm trying really, really hard to keep that in the forefront of my mind when, for example, I'm trying to get black magic marker off of a mattress. Or get the drinking straw out of the heating vent. Or clean up the milk that I just watched my two year old intentionally pour onto the playroom floor.

Those diapers I thought I'd certainly be done changing by now? I'm not just up to my elbows in poop. I'm blessing my family. Going through the basket of one hundred socks that never seem to have the right match? Blessing my family. The green paint that I'm scrubbing off of the toilet seat, and the tub, and the bathroom walls? Just blessing my family.

Again. And again. And again.

I suspect it will be a while before I really convince myself of any of this.

Like maybe never.

And yet, I keep trying. Because if I have to spend half of my morning folding clothes in the laundry room, and the other half pulling Barbie dolls, and scribbled on papers, and socks without matches out from under beds, it does help if I can remind myself that there is a deeper purpose to all of this.

Or at least a slightly more palatable way of thinking about it

After all, the greatest gift is being able to help someone else, isn't it?

Which causes me to wonder what my children are thinking as they make these messes.

"Better get some more paint on the walls. We want Mom to have a chance to bless us today."

"Better take off this gross diaper and throw it behind the couch. Mom really deserves to bless us today...or the day after tomorrow, when she finally finds it".

"Better pour this bowl of fresh fruit into the toilet. Mom sure does like it when she gets to bless us".

OK, so maybe they don't think any of those things. Maybe they're just being kids, doing what kids do.

Dirtying. Cluttering. Destroying.

The truth is, some days I'm not really good at blessing people in these ways.

In fact, most days I pretty much suck at it.

I would rather be blessing my children by reading to them, or taking them to the park, or by giving them the give of my sanity, which may sometimes require that I spend a few quiet ~~hours~~ moments locked in the bathroom.

Alone.

Some days It's hard to see how any of these things are a blessing.

Any of them, that is, except the sweet, crazy, wild bunch who can trash this house like nobody's business.

They bless me a hundred times over, each and every day.

The least I can do is make sure they have clean underwear.

Just don't look too closely at their socks.

Pennies from Heaven

2013-05-14T10:58:00.002-07:00

It's the day before N's First Communion, and I'm standing in the laundry room, washing, drying, folding, sorting, dropping, picking up, folding, sorting,.

Lamenting that so much of my life is spent in this room.

I think of my aunts--the nuns-- and my Aunt Catharine in particular. She would come visit and spend hours--days--in our laundry room. And it was way worse than this one to begin with, since in between her visits, no one folded or sorted anything in that room.

I remember hearing someone describe tasks like these as monk's work. I guess it was nun's work too. And mother's work.

I'm trying to get into monk mode. What is it monks think about when they do laundry?

Do they wonder how a brand new pair of pants could get so dirty so quickly?

How a shirt that fit perfectly last month is somehow already too small?

How it's probably a bad idea to keep trying to squeeze a two yr old into a shirt that no longer fits him, just because I can't accept that he's outgrown that size?

They probably don't think about these kinds of things.

But I do.

And then I think about First Communions. And about aunts who aren't here to celebrate. And grandparents who aren't either.

Evntually, I decide to think instead about all those who are here to celebrate, and make myself focus on laundry again. I start bringing it into the family room. It's easier to put it piles there. At one point, I drop a wash cloth, and go back to pick it up.

I fold it, and carry it--that single washcloth--into the family room.

A penny falls onto the floor from the bar nearby.

I stare at it, puzzled, wondering what made it fall.

Pennies from Heaven?

I think how ridiculous this thought is, and almost ignore the penny.

But then I think Well, maybe....

Maybe, if it's from the year I was born, maybe then, I'll know it's a penny from Heaven.

I start to pick it up, and then think maybe I should just not even look at the year. After all, it is certainly not going to be from the year I was born.

But then I think of other ridiculous things.

Things that couldn't be, and yet, they were.

Things that we think are impossible.

Until we see them with our very own eyes.

So I turned the penny over. Preparing to be disappointed, and laughing at myself, just a little.

Until I saw the year.

1972.

The year I was born.

We had a fabulous day.

It's Everywhere...

2013-05-08T12:12:00.001-07:00

So.

A few weeks ago, it came to my attention that we--as in, my family-- were surrounded by dysfunction.

This is funny in a way, since quite often, we ARE the dysfunction. But lately, we have been fairly functional, which of course may be why I was suddenly aware of all of the dysfunction around us.

Everywhere I went, there seemed to be examples of people not caring for their kids. And I don't mean people giving their kids chicken nuggets for dinner four nights out of seven, or letting their four year old stay up until nine o'clock on school nights.

I definitely don't mean those people, because sometimes we are those people.

I also don't mean those people because, in general, I am a pretty firm believer that, within reason, people get to raise their kids the way they want to raise them, and that as long as everyone is loved, and fed, and safe, and usually, mostly clothed, it's all good, and its not really any of my (or anyone else's) business how they raise them.

As long as they are, in fact, raising them.

And there is the problem, because some of the dysfunction that seemed to be surrounding us was a direct result of people who were not, in fact, raising their children.

Oh, they were probably kinda sorta raising them, but not really fulfilling the whole fed-safe-usually mostly clothed aspect.

This is, of course, nothing new. We have all probably had some interaction with someone like this at some point. But I wasn't having one interaction. It was everywhere.

The lady at the mall who left her two year --two year old--...alone in the play area while she shopped. I kept seeing her peek into the crowded play area before taking off again, but my mind couldn't really wrap itself around the fact that she was peeking in because her two year old was playing there by himself, while she shopped. That's what I thought was happening, but then my mind said things like "But people don't do that. Especially well dressed, forty something year old women with Nordstrom bags. They just don't".

Except that they do. This was confirmed for me as the two year old left the play area and started toddling through the center of the mall, toward the exit. I watched him, thinking that surely he was trying to catch up with someone ahead of him--someone who hadn't yet realized he was so far behind.

Only, instead of turning to see if he was coming, the people in front of him just kept walking. And he kept walking. Further and further. Until it was clear that he wasn't with any of those people. So I stopped him, and asked where his mommy was, and he looked at me, as if to say "I have absolutely no idea".

Which was true. He had no idea where his mother was.

Until she came out of a nearby store, looked around, and saw him standing there, in the middle of the mall, talking to a strange woman, and smiled and said "Thanks!" as if this is just something moms at the mall do for one another.

Unfortunately, she is not the only one.

Recently, we have encountered other examples of this kind of parenting.

People who don't seem to be concerned if their kids spend several hours a day, several days a week, at the home of a neighbor they've never met.

A three year old we know whose language skills are seriously lacking--in his case, at least in part because for much of the time, no one talks to him.

Yes, I realize this is all very judgmental of me. And we're not supposed to do that. Judge one another. It's not very nice. Or kind. Or accepting.

I get that. It's true. We're not supposed to judge one another. And yet, how can I not judge you when I--a complete stranger-am standing in the middle of the mall with your two year old, who you left in the play area while you shopped?

In truth, since all of these situations seemed to be happening at around the same time, I started to feel like maybe God was trying to tell me something. Why was I continually finding myself in these situations--stepping in to do the job of other parents--when they themselves weren't doing them?

Why was other people's dysfunction showing up on my doorstep--sometimes quite literally--when I obviously have quite enough of my own dysfunction to deal with, thank you very much?

I started obsessing. I started thinking about what a better place the world would be if we as parents just did our jobs. I started thinking about how kids who haven't been taught the basics...like the importance of being kind to one another, and the need to say please and thank you, and that "fricken" is not an acceptable word for a six year old to use--will grow up to be kids who get drunk at twelve, and smoke pot at thirteen, and try to get my kids to sneak out of the house to get drunk and smoke pot with them at fourteen.

And that part, quite frankly, makes me really, really mad.

Because I have always figured that my kids would be at least sixteen before I would have to put alarm systems on their bedroom windows, and now I'm going to have to plan for that much, much sooner than I thought.

But also because, really, I just don't want to have to think about things like that yet. And because parenting is hard enough without having to contend with the potential problems that arise when other kids haven't really been parented. And because, while kids are always going to be kids and push the limits, it would all be so much easier if we, as parents, just did our jobs.

All of us.

And so I obsessed some more. And judged some more. And wondered some more why the universe seemed to be surrounding me with all of this crazy--none of which, for a change, was mine.

And then, after thinking about it some more, and obsessing some more, and wondering some more, I happened to talk about it with my older, wiser brother Jim.

He made some good points. He reminded me that I can't change other people's parenting. But I can make sure that that the impact we have on their children is a positive one.

I knew this, of course. But there's something to be said for an older, wiser voice of reason that agrees with and elaborates on the dialogue you've been having with your own younger, not-quite-as-wise voice of reason.

So I thought some more. And then it dawned on me.

Of course God was trying to tell me something.

The truth was, I'd been so focused on the dysfunction all around me, and how it could potentially impact my life and my own parenting, that I hadn't stopped to think that maybe the issue wasn't that all of this was surrounding me.

Maybe the issue was that I had been placed in the middle of it.

I've been focusing on the difficulty of the storm around me.

Instead of focusing on being the beacon of light in the midst of the storm.

And so I'll try.

And I'll probably fail.

And then I'll try again.

Happy Mothers Day...

2013-05-07T04:14:00.003-07:00

On Mother's Day, I often find myself thinking back to the days when I first become a mother.

Everyone told me that it would be blissful. And they were right. They told me that it would be incredible. And it was. They told me that I would love this new little person in a way that was unlike any other love in my life. And I did.

But it turned out there was so much more to this journey than that. In addition to all of the wonderful things other women couldn't wait to tell me about motherhood, there were all the things they didn't tell me. Maybe they had forgotten what those early days and weeks were like. Maybe it was different for them.

Maybe they didn't want to scare me.

But in addition to being blissful, and incredible, and awe inspiring in terms of how much love I felt for this new person in my life, the beginning of my experience as a mother was, at times, also incredibly, unbelievably hard.

Hard, and exhausting, and absolutely mind boggling.

Who knew that this baby--this beautiful, chubby baby girl, could sleep so little? And eat so often? And cry for two hours at a time?

Who knew that nursing could be so hard that it would require seven different lactation consultants to come to my aid, before I ultimately deiced to ignore them and go home and wing it?

Winging it was actually what ended up working. When it came to nursing and a few other things, too.

Most things, in fact.

Once we took our daughter home, we were disheartened to discover that, in spite of all the wonderful advice we'd gotten, in spite of the books we'd read, and in spite of the classes we'd taken, we were completely, utterly clueless when it came to caring for an actual baby.

And yet, we did just fine.

Eventually.

We learned that nursing wasn't such a problem for her, as long as we followed her lead. We learned that during her nightly two hours of screaming, time outside did wonders for all of us. Eventually, we even learned that she would sleep much better if we actually laid her down, instead of holding her for six hours at time.

I won't tell you at what point we realized this, because it would be incredibly embarrassing to admit, for example, that it wasn't until she was seven months old.

The point is, we learned, and we relaxed, and eventually, we even slept.

Three years later, we had a second child. Some things were easier this time. The sleep issue, for example, was much better--mainly because this time, we had no expectation that we would actually get any sleep.

That turned out to be a good thing.

Some things, however, were harder. I once left the baby on a mat on the floor, and jumped into the shower, thinking my husband would be home for a few more minutes. I came out to find my three year old kneeling over her wailing, red faced brother, inches from his face, screaming, "Just Stop Crying!"

Eventually, we all dried our tears, and I made a mental note to write my shower times--or days--on the calendar for my husband's future reference.

But again, we survived, and two years later, we had a third child.

And now there are three. Our days are a whirlwind of school, and play dates, and homework, and dishes, and laundry, and diapers. And, of course, the grocery store. Where everyone knows my name. Or, at least my moniker, which I’m pretty sure is “That lady with those screaming kids”.

That chubby baby girl has grown into a long legged seven year old with a slight lisp thanks to two missing bottom teeth. She does her homework without being asked, and writes poetry, and does perfect cartwheels, and dances everywhere she goes.

She even sleeps through the night.

Her four year old brother, whose headstrong ways kept us quite frazzled for a few years, swore that he was never going to use the potty, or go to school, or make friends.

Now he does all three. Amazingly well, in fact. More importantly, he assures me that he will, in fact, love me forever, and will never, ever want to live anywhere else.

I suspect we'll both have different feelings about that at some point in the future.

Our two year old keeps me running, and laughing, and frustrated, as he gets into the dog food, and the peanut butter, and the toothpaste. Fortunately, he also loves to hug his mommy.

When he's not filling the bathroom sink with toilet paper.

And yet, I will cherish these moments. Not every one of them. But enough of them. Because I know they won’t last forever.

Most people seem to agree that motherhood is not for the weak of heart, and it is certainly not for those lacking a sense of humor. But we don’t talk much about who it is for. It’s apparently for those who don’t mind not showering for days at a time, who don’t mind wearing the same sweatpants three days in a row, and who accept that some days, adequate nutrition consists of four cups of coffee, two glasses of wine, cold mashed potatoes eaten while standing over the kitchen sink, and the crust from a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Not necessarily in that order.

It’s for those who know that their body is no longer their own. Who know that it’s possible for seven people to fondle your breasts in a three day period. And not one of them is your husband. Who know that your body will not only nourish a baby through pregnancy and infancy, but that it will become a playground for a three year old who is fascinated with your “jelly belly”.

At least someone likes it.

It’s for those who know that with absolutely no effort on your part, you are forever emotionally connected to this other person. Their tears are your tears, and their triumphs your triumphs. It’s also for those who know that a house you spent three hours cleaning can be trashed in under three minutes. For those who know that the dishes never end, and the laundry never ends, and the homework never ends. But the fleeting moments of childhood? They end all too soon.

It’s for those who know that you will take your first child to the doctor because she has a fever for two days (apparently 99.9 isn’t even really a fever), or because she smells like syrup (they laughed at me), or because you think she has worms (don’t ask), but that your second child will be given Tylenol and watched for three days before the doctor is even called, and your third will be lucky to get to his well-child visits once a year.

It’s for those who know firsthand that motherhood, in all of its frustrating, mind numbing, exhausting glory, is not at all like the diaper commercials would have us believe. After all, they only show the baby after he’s been changed, with a woman who is obviously not his mother, since she has clearly had time to shower, brush her hair, apply make-up, and put on something besides her husband’s old t-shirt. (Which is probably dirty anyway, since no one has had time to do laundry in a week).

Motherhood is for those who know that some days, we still second guess ourselves. And wonder what we have gotten ourselves into. It’s for those who know that we’re not perfect. And that we’re just doing the best that we can. It’s for those who know that in a day, or a week, or a year, life can change in ways we never imagined, and rarely does it turn out exactly as we thought it would. It’s for those who know that “miracle” is not the same as “perfection”. And yet, that doesn’t make it any less of a miracle.

And it doesn’t make perfection any less of a myth.

It’s for those who now accept the peanut butter hand prints on the walls and puddles of syrup on the kitchen floor as part of the decor, in a house cluttered with broken crayons, and toys, and mismatched shoes. It’s for those who would like their house a little cleaner, their kids a little better behaved, and their bank account a little larger, but who know that none of these things will happen anytime soon.

And that they will happen all too soon.

It’s for those who look into their children’s eyes and wonder where the time has gone, as they realize with gratitude that most of their parenting mistakes so far have somehow gone unnoticed, or at least unpunished. And hopefully, undocumented.

Mostly, though, motherhood is for those who know that you don’t always have to know what you’re doing. You just have to keep doing it. You don’t have to do it perfectly. Just the best you know how. You don’t have to love every moment.

You just have to find the moments that you love.

And cling to them.

National Day of Prayer

2013-05-02T06:54:00.000-07:00

Today is the National Day of Prayer.

I don't know if the media is talking about this. I don't usually watch the news, since I have young children, and I've decided that you just can't watch the news if you have young children. I know I haven't seen it on the headlines on my email server. I know that I did see it on the facebook page of the parochial school that I attended until sixth grade.

I know past presidents have made a point to mention the National Day of Prayer. I hope President Obama will, too. I suspect that if he does, though, he will somehow mention it carefully. That is not a statement about politics, though I'm sure some will take it that way.

That's a statement about society.

We don't want to talk about prayer much. We're too afraid we may offend someone. We don't want to be seen as pushing our values unto others. Because, you know, values are just so...passe.

Kind of like prayer.

And that is exactly why we so desperately need this day.

We used to watch the news and think how fortunate we were to live in this country, and not those other countries. The ones that were dealing with hatred, and wars, and atrocities.

And yet, people are killing people every day in this country. Over tennis shoes. Over drugs. Over absolutely nothing at all.

People are hating each other every day. On the internet. On the highways. In their homes.

Atrocities? I'd say we have our share.

Rapists who are practically celebrated by the media. Soldiers sharing their Christian beliefs being threatened by the military. People who seek--and find--shelter and safety in this country, so that they can ultimately build a bomb and murder innocent people.

A National Day of Prayer?

Yeah, I think we could use that.

In fact, we could use it every day.

Why They Can't Win...

2013-04-28T11:33:00.000-07:00

I find my thoughts turning to Boston lately.

So much loss, and sadness, and despair, in one beautiful city.

I don't know how anyone survives losing a child, or a spouse, or a limb. I don't know how anyone can adjust to their "new normal" after something like this. I don't know how those most directly affected can be expected to ever again see the world as a place that is good, and safe, and kind.

It angers me to no end--infuriates me-- that so many are suffering, and that one family alone is dealing with the loss of their young son, and the life changing injuries of their mother and daughter.

I don't know what, if anything, can be comforting to families like theirs right now, and I wouldn't presume to suggest that, for them, anything "good" could possibly come from something so devastating.

So horrendous.

And yet.

And yet, I can't help but notice that, in response to so much darkness, there has come so much light.

An entire nation--and then some-- praying for one beautiful, wounded city.

Strangers helping strangers, without giving it a second thought.

Wounded people searching for--and finding--those who helped them when they needed it most.

Wounded soldiers reaching out to support those who will now travel a path they are all too familiar with.

Irish dance schools from all over the country--and the world--sending t-shirts so that a quilt can be made for the young Irish dancer fighting to keep her leg.

I don't know how anything so sad and heartbreaking can possibly lead to anything good.

But I know that in some small ways, it does.

I know that something intended to cause pain and devastation has unfortunately, absolutely, done that.

Without a doubt.

And yet, I also know that something that was intended to break the human spirit has instead reminded us of
its beauty, and its resilience, and its strength.

I know that something that was intended to strip people of their faith--in God, in one another, and of all that is good in this world--has, for many, restored it.

I know that something that was intended to create an overwhelming darkness has also led to sparks of kindness, glimmers of hope, and shining examples of human love and kindness.

Life is forever changed for so many, and we can never bring back what they have lost.

But we can decide to focus on the bright sparks amidst the darkness.

We can do our part to make them brighter.

And we can have faith that, somehow, from the ashes of devastation, and despair, and destruction, there can arise something beautiful, and shimmering, and bright.

No Talking in Church!

2013-04-24T07:25:00.001-07:00

In church the other day, N and I happened to sit in front of an elderly woman who was hard of hearing.

She was quite friendly, I might add.

I know that she was quite friendly and also hard of hearing because she told one lady that she liked her beautiful sweater.

Then she told another how good it was good to see her, before inviting her to our priest's birthday party, and filling her in on what kind of food they would have.

And she did all of this--quite loudly-- while Mass was going on.

At one point, after she has issued the birthday party invitation, in an otherwise silent church, several heads from the front of the church turned to look at...well, me.

At least, it seemed that way, since the elderly, hard of hearing lady was apparently sitting directly behind me.

I thought of turning around with them, letting them know that it wasn't me who was making all this noise. (And this time, surprisingly, the one making the noise wasn't even with me). But instead, I forced myself to stare straight ahead, thinking that it must be embarrassing enough for this woman to have twenty people staring at her.

She was silent for a moment. Everyone turned back around.

And then the elderly woman again leaned over to the woman next to her and loudly said "And they'll be CAKE!".

Well, of course. I mean, what kind of birthday party would it be without cake?

She was quiet for a while then, until it was time for communion. As the priest prayed, most of the church was silent.

But not her.

This time, she repeated, "Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus. Thank You, Jesus."

Over, and over, and over again.

I know this might be a common occurrence in some churches. But in our church, it's not. In our church, there are specific times to pray out loud, but the rest of the time we're supposed to be listening.

Prayerful.

Silent.

Reverent.

At least, I think that's what we're supposed to be doing.

But in listening to the elderly, hard of hearing, quite friendly lady behind me, I realized that maybe, once in a while, some people are supposed to talk in church.

Maybe they're supposed to talk in church to remind the rest of us that, in addition to being prayerful, and silent, and reverent, we should also remember to tell people that it's nice to see them, and that we like their beautiful sweaters, and that they should come to the priest's birthday party, where there will be cake.

Maybe some people are supposed to talk in church, to remind the rest of us to always say Thank You.

So everyone can hear us.

The Never Ending Mess

2013-04-19T11:54:00.001-07:00

It's the mess again.

It's driving me crazy.

I am picking up toys, and broken crayons, and scraps of paper, when I realize, Wait, I just cleaned this room. This morning. Or maybe it was yesterday morning. Or, well, it could have been last week. But whatever. I just cleaned it. And now I'm cleaning it again.

I want to be the kind of mom who drops everything and runs outside to play hide and seek with her children. I have the second part down. I do play hide and seek with my children. But I'm not good at the dropping everything part. In fact, there are certain things that must get done before I'm playing hide and seek or anything else.

The dishes, for one.

And the laundry. At least some of it.

And the toys must be out of middle of the living room floor.

Yes, sometimes this means moving them to the perimeter of the living room floor.

But the thing is, by the time I do the dishes, and some of the laundry, and move the toys to the perimeter of the living room floor, it's time to feed someone again. So there are more dishes. And someone spills something and needs a new shirt, so there's more laundry. And while I'm doing the dishes and the laundry, they pull out all the toys that I just put away, and move them all back to the middle of the living room floor.

So then I have to decide to just play hide and seek anyway, but there, in the back of my mind, are the dishes, and the laundry, and the toys. Piling up, higher and higher inside my head, until I want to go hide in the kitchen to do the dishes while they are seeking me outside.

Lately, B has been working on cutting and pasting in preschool. These are important skills to have, because you never know when you'll need to cut and/or paste in adulthood. And no, I'm not talking about the little tabs on your computer. This is REAL cutting and pasting. And apparently, if you don't practice cutting and pasting, you'll never be any good at it. So B's teachers suggested that I encourage him to practice cutting and pasting. And I think they may have suggested to him that he practice cutting and pasting, because that's what he's been doing for some part of every day. In spite of the fact that I did not, in fact, encourage cutting and pasting.

Way, way too messy.

So he sits at the kitchen table, and he cuts. And then he colors. And then he pastes. And then he cuts some more. Colors some more. Pastes some more. I think he must be really, really good at it by now. So good, in fact, that maybe we could even stop all this practicing.

But he's not ready to stop. He's into it, this cutting and pasting.

And so each day, he cuts and pastes and cuts and pastes, so that he can become really good at it and not have to practice anymore. And so that, two or three times a day, I can spend three hours picking up pieces of paper off the floor under the kitchen table.

I was recently doing this for 5,427th time when I realized that some of these weren't just scraps of paper, but very small drawings which he had colored and cut out, and for whatever reason decided not to paste. Drawings of people. And boats. And dogs. And trees.

And that's when it hit me.

He's not a cutter and a paster.

He's an artist.

And this, I realized, is just what life is when you live with an artist. Or three.

Those aren't scraps of paper on the floor. They're masterpieces.

Or, you know, at least by-products of masterpieces.

And the other pieces of paper that I find myself picking up frequently throughout the day--the ones with random letters, or words, or occasionally even sentences written on them, well they are masterpieces in their own right.

There are some amazing sentences, too, like I love my sister, and My brother is my bro, and Stop calling me a stupid robot.

And of course, there are the toys. Always so many toys. Is it possible that they, too, could be more than just small, plastic, annoying pieces of crap for me to trip over, step over, and generally lose my mind over?

Maybe our home is more than just the place where we raise our children, and the place that I find myself constantly having to clean.

Maybe it's an artists' colony.

A writer's retreat.

A theater.

An imaginary world of kings, and queens, and dragon slayers. Of explorers, and pirates, and superheros. A world where princesses work as veterinarians, as they wait for a prince to save them. Or maybe Spider man. Or maybe no one, since princess veterinarians can take care of themselves just fine, thank you very much. It's a world where pirates live on mountain tops next to kings of foreign lands, and where their ships are taken over by mermaids.

It's a world where pictures of sea creatures are painted, and pictures of our family are sketched, and pictures of their futures begin to grow somewhere in the back of their minds. It's their canvas, and their blank page, and their stage.

All in one.

So there's a little paint on the walls of their castle, a little paper on the floor of their ship, and a few toys scattered around their secret island.

You can call it a mess if you want.

But me?

I'll be playing hide and seek.

I Don't Pretend to Know Why....

2013-04-16T05:08:00.001-07:00

There, I said it.

The first thing that makes me incredibly sad about tragedies like yesterday's is that there is so much hatred and evil in the world.

And that people were killed.

And hurt.

And traumatized.

And forever changed.

But the next thing that I find hard to stomach is that so many people are so quick to use tragedies like these to support their own political or personal agendas.

See? I told you it's not the guns that kill people.

See? I told you that America's arrogance is causing the whole world to hate us.

See? I told you that our country was moving in the wrong direction. Just look at this.

I told you we should have closed the borders.

I told you we should have been more tolerant of others.

I told you our President would let us down.

There will, of course, be time for analyzing, and attempting to understand this horrific incident. Once we know who it was, and how it happened, and maybe even why they are so filled with hate.

And then we can--and no doubt, will--find people, and policies, and politics to blame.

Maybe even rightly so.

But that our first instinct is to use a tragedy like this to support our own political ideals makes me more than a little sad.

So yesterday, after watching some of the online coverage and reading people's comments (which I'm now convinced is a surefire way to see the worst humanity has to offer, all in one place) I turned off the computer.

And watched my children playing outside instead.

They were calling me to come to the window, and when I did, they excitedly pointed to show me that there, in our yard, was a boy.

An actual boy.

In our very own yard.

Apparently he just moved into the house behind us.

A real live boy.

We already have boys in our neighborhood. Several of them. (In fact, truth be told, we could use some more girls around here). But most of the boys--though we love them-- are a little older, or a little younger, or a little busier.

This boy was just right.

That he is living there behind us because his grandmother died troubled me.

Because somehow, until yesterday, I never knew that she had died.

The woman who lived in the house right behind us.

I wonder how it is that I didn't know this. I think back to the few times I said hello, years ago, and how she didn't seem interested in responding.

So I kind of gave up.

I make a vow to try a little harder this time.

I wonder if I should go introduce myself to his mom.

Then I wonder how I can find out her name so I can look her up on our state's online criminal record database before I introduce myself.

Look, I'm just being honest here.

I watch them play, and wonder if this new boy will be a good influence.

Then I wonder if mine will be.

As I watch the boy climb to the top of our swing set, I wonder if his parents are the type to sue us if he falls.

After all, we don't know anything about them.

It strikes me that these kids--the ones happily kicking a ball around in our back yard--know nothing about each other, either.

Just a first name.

They aren't Democrats or Rebublicans. Christians or Jews. Rich or poor.

They just like soccer.

I'm sure my own mind will turn to who we can blame in the days to come.

I hope I will blame only the monster that did this. But maybe not.

Maybe I will find someone--or something-- else to blame, too.

But in the meantime, I will watch my children play with a boy and let their example be a reminder to me.

A reminder, whenever possible, to choose kindness, and acceptance, and love.

And with it, I will choose prayer, and compassion, and healing, and hope.

I will wish that these things are all that we need, but I will know that they are not.

Because we also need vigilance, and awareness, and justice.

And most of all, change.

How very much we need change.