Crazy Love

In honor of Mother’s Day, I was thinking I should write something sweet and sappy about being a Mother to Son and Daughter and how they fill me with joy and wonder and my love for them is endless and how I couldn’t imagine my life without them and seriously, what did I ever DO on a Saturday before I had kids?

And all those things are 100% true.

But then last night, Daughter roamed around the house screaming for, um, you know, like two hours about, um, you know, I HAVE NO IDEA and Son was extremely upset about getting knocked out in Sorry even though we’ve played that game together maayybbee 100 times and each time we start with a disclaimer:  Warning-you WILL be knocked out in this game and it is NOT a reason to cry.  And Husband was out “networking” for the third night in a row and I was trying really really really hard to not have a glass of wine until 5 pm and I’m pretty sure I sent Husband a text that said something like “I hope those f*%&ing people are appreciating your f*$#ing time right now” which, in retrospect was probably kind of mean and unnecessary but at the time seemed perfectly reasonable and totally necessary because HE DOES NOT KNOW WHAT HE IS MISSING OUT ON and I thought maybe he would want to know.  I mean, who wouldn’t want to come home to a Wife that sends you such lovely messages?  And then, of course, there was dinnertime, which is always a joy and sends smiles down my spine when I hear those words “What are we having for dinner?” and I know...I know SOMEONE is going to complain about peas, or chicken or macaroni and cheese. (Yes.  Someone on this planet complains about having to eat macaroni and cheese and that someone is a shortish, youngish male who lives in my house.)  And then, ohmygod, how many more BITES do I have to EAT to get a TREAT?  But...you don’t get a treat tonight because remember when I was just being all Motherly an hour ago and WE MADE COOKIES TOGETHER and we ate all that cookie dough?  And a warm cookie from the oven?  REMEMBER?  But please, continue your emotional breakdown because it FILLS ME WITH JOY.  And then there was that lovely little ditty Daughter was singing in the bathtub at the top of her lungs.  I think it went something like this:  I I I I HATE HATE HATE HATE THE THE THE THE BATH BATH BATH BATH.  Those were the only lyrics and it happened to be a really long song and then I realized that I had no idea where Son was and when I found him, he was hiding in the top bunk playing with legos asking me- Why is She so crazy?  Also, I’m pretty sure he realized that Mommy could only handle so much crazy so he decided to shut up about losing in Sorry and just practice self preservation and very smartly played quietly while I chased Daughter around the house with a hair brush because the PAIN, oh the PAIN of hair brushing is apparently excruciating and oh my God pleasepleasepleaseplease let it be time for bed and how in the hell is it only 6:45 pm right now?

Tomorrow will be better, I told myself as I was finally able to close their bedroom door for the night and make my way to the sofa for terrible television and delicious wine.  Tomorrow will be better.  A mother’s mantra.

And tomorrow came.  And it started, as it so often does, with two pajama clad sleepy heads telling me to scoot over and I want to be next to Mama, no I want to be next to Mama until they are both next to Mama, 4 sets of arms draped over each other for a few precious minutes before the morning hustle begins.  Tomorrow is already better, I thought to myself as I inhaled the sweet morning smells of my Offspring.

So, dear Son and Daughter, on this Mother’s Day, I want to tell you that I love you endlessly, you fill me with joy and wonder, life is unimaginable without you and you keep my Saturdays and my every day full of...adventure.  (Although I wouldn’t mind the opportunity to sleep past 6:30 on Saturdays.)  Being your Mother is an honor for which I am eternally grateful and I am really really really  trying to not screw you up too much.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the Mama’s.  Enjoy that Crazy Love.

Boston

I’m so lucky tiptoe into my Children’s room at night and watch them sleep.  I’m so lucky to feel their breath on my face as I lean in for one more silent kiss.  I’m so lucky to quietly sneak around their room, turning off their bed lamps, leaving them in a quiet whisper of darkness as they tangle themselves in blankets.  I’m so lucky to be awoken each morning by the footsteps of Daughter as she makes her way into our bed to snuggle for a few precious minutes before announcing that, really, Mama...it’s time to wake up.  I’m so lucky to be able to get frustrated with my Children.  To put them in time outs.  To laugh at their jokes.  To listen to their extremely detailed stories.  They are mine.  And I love them more than anything.  The thought of losing them is so extremely painful that one must not think of it.

As I watch the coverage of the Boston bombings, my mind can’t help but wander, wondering if our city, our town, is only a news story away from being the next sensational act of terror.  Why couldn’t it be?  Why shouldn’t it be?  This new reality...this constant threat of lives destroyed by shameless terror attacks...is this the world my Children are inheriting?  As I laid in bed last night, my mind swirled with thoughts; dark thoughts.  I thought of all the places we go as a family where something like this could happen.  I wondered how we would stay together.  How we would survive.  What would we do?  The tears squeezed out from my eyes and I rolled over to ask Husband...what is going to happen?  How does this keep happening?  There is no innocence.  How can my Children live in this world when there is no innocence left?  He held me tight and let me cry.  I’m so lucky.

It seems almost cruel that in such times of tragedy and terror, we are reminded so much of the beauty and inherent goodness of humankind.  Strangers helping strangers.  People concerned more about the welfare of their neighbor than themselves.  How a nation that is too often divided and hateful to each other can still unite and put aside all of those differences to help lift one another up.  Don’t we learn from this?  When will we learn that we can always act in kindness and love?  To be patient and tolerant of those around us?  Can it last longer than a few weeks?  A couple of months?  How long before we argue about guns?  How long before we berate someone for being different from us?  For having different beliefs, different love?  How long?

As I woke up with my Children this morning and hustled them along in their morning routines, Son was enthusiastically explaining to me how some people live in space.  Can you believe that, Mama?  Some people live in SPACE!  Oh yes, they do, Son.  Isn’t that amazing?  And Daughter piped in explaining that of course there must be a mailman in space, too.  How else would those people in space get their mail?  I smiled and laughed and almost suggested that maybe their families on Earth would keep their mail for them until they return from space.  But then I thought better of it.  

Let them keep that innocence.  Just for now.  

Space Mailman.  Totally exists.  

God Bless you, Boston.   

Little Lessons

As a parent, I can feel intimidated with the responsibility of teaching The Offspring the basic lessons of life.   Lessons such as the golden rule of treating others the way you would like to be treated. I often wonder if I will be able to teach compassion and generosity. Will they be able to lose gracefully but also win graciously? I worry that growing up in an affluent community will make it difficult for them to realize that less is more and more is just...more.  But, most importantly, how can I ensure that Son and Daughter grow up to be Kind Human Beings?  I mean...isn’t that what we all really want?  Children who mature into healthy, adjusted Adults who aren’t douchebags? 

But these thoughts are quickly interrupted when I realize that, once again, Daughter has run outside to play with no pants on.

And I remind her, once again, that pants are...necessary.  

And...once again, I am reminded that as a parent, I am not only responsible for teaching Major Life Lessons, I also have to teach The Offspring that People Wear Pants Outside.  And: We Don’t Lick Our Sister.  Also: Please Stop Eating Your Shirt. And let’s not forget: Please Attempt to Appear to Live in a Home That Has a Bathtub and You Actually Use It.  Oh, you think that the desire to wear underwear comes...naturally?  No.  No it does not.  Neither does brushing your teeth.  Or not walking around with a rat’s nest on your head.  Mention the words ‘brush your hair’ to Daughter and she will react as if you just announced it was now time to pour hot lava on her head.  Hey...peeing feels good.  Try to do it more than once a day.  

These lessons...these daily reminders to behave and dress in a somewhat appropriate manner while respecting the laws of basic hygiene, are not the lessons I dreamed I’d be teaching my Beautiful Geniuses while they were growing safely inside my body.  I was dreaming of the big picture; the end result.  How they would be so funny and happy and successful and love to try new things and go on adventures and eat sushi. I didn’t realize that most days, the opportunity to teach Major Life Lessons would be in the tiny, minute to minute victories that sometimes pass by without you even realizing.  Keeping my cool instead of losing my mind.  Accepting 107th daily Go Fish invitation instead of doing the dishes.  Taking the time to give a neighbor or stranger a hand.  Because it’s only when you recognize yourself in your kids do you realize one of two things: Wow...do I really sound like that?  Or: Wow...I created that Little Human and he is awesome.

And let’s face it; being awesome trumps being a douche any day.  (And seriously-stop eating your shirt. It’s gross.)  

Losing My Marbles...

When I was a kid and long summer days loomed ahead of my siblings and me, we would stumble downstairs in the morning, the house emptied of parental figures who were off to work, and find a daily note from my mother with a cheery Good Morning followed by our list of To-Do’s for the day that needed to be completed before she got home.  Clean the bathroom, mow the lawn, vacuum the floors, dust the furniture, ect ect.  This was normal.  Expected. It wasn’t just a summer day of life, it was an every day of life.  Each night after dinner, we did the dishes.  We shoveled the walk of freshly fallen snow at 6 am on more than one occasion.  I spent many a spring and summer day with my tape player attached to my shorts listening to Kris Kross while making neat lines in the lawn with the mower. We raked leaves and took down storm windows.  For God’s sakes, we even painted our own damn house one summer.  There was no monetary reward for this.  There wasn’t an empty jar waiting to be filled with marbles for some sort of fantastical reward. We were a unit; a team.  You know what my reward was for cleaning the bathroom?  A clean bathroom.  (And in my 32 years on this planet, I have been forced to use some pretty awful bathrooms so turns out, this is a very good reward.)  

This whole Chore Chart/Marble Jar/Sticker System/ Reward  ThingaMaJiggy stresses me out. We did the Sticker System and lost the stickers.  We tried the Chore Chart and I would inevitably forget to mark down chores completed.  Then came the Marble Jar and The Offspring spent more time fighting over who got to open and close the jar and how many they each got to put in and why is Mama taking all of our marbles and shoving them into her ears?  I’ve had to admit to myself lately that maybe this whole Reward System isn’t for me.  Maybe it’s because I’m too lazy to keep up the consistency required.  Maybe it’s because I have a deeply innate issue with bribing my kids to do things that I would, yes, I’m sure complain about doing once in a while as a kid, but knew that it didn’t matter what I thought about it...I was expected to make my damn bed every morning.  It’s one of those phenomenon's that you can only experience about your parents after becoming a parent yourself: HOW DID YOU DO THAT?  How did you get us to just...DO stuff without the promise of you know...something?  

It’s just another example of this Parenting Journey that I can’t help but question my daily habits.  Do I coddle my kids too much?  Do I sometimes resist the urge to force them to put their pajamas away because oh my God it’s just easier if I go and do it myself?  Each afternoon when I pick Son up from school he tries to hand me his backpack.  Each afternoon I explain to him that it’s his and he can carry it.  Every other afternoon he finds this to be an unacceptable answer and does his best to embarrass both me and himself with his trademark Irrational Breakdown.  And I can’t help but question, as he is dragging himself behind me trying to hand me his backpack, what the fuck, dude?  It’s a backpack. You have to carry it for two blocks. THIS IS NOT A BIG DEAL.  There will be plenty of big deals in life.  Trust me.  Buck up.

So...I’m going Old School I think.  I mean, of course I’m not going to give up bribing completely...I’m not insane.  But last night, as Son was sitting naked on the living room floor, trying to explain to me that he wasn’t ready for his bath yet...I looked at him and instead of saying ‘5 marbles if you get in now!!’...I said...Dude.  What part of you thinks you have a choice right now?  Get. In. The. Tub.  And He did.

Minor victories keep us parental types motivated.  We don’t even get a sticker for doing something well.  But...I will take a glass of wine.  If anyone’s offering.

Homework Blues

Homework.

The very word sends shivers down my spine. I had heard, oh I had HEARD the tales of torture from friends with Older Children about the endless supply of worksheets, projects and book reports that seemed suspiciously non age-appropriate, but in order to protect my fragile mental state, I chose to block out the very idea of my evenings being spent with a Homework Packet until My Time Came.

My Time...it has a come.  And, yes, the rumors were correct: it’s unpleasant.  And let’s face it, people; I’m only dealing with a six-year old’s KINDERGARTEN homework.  Now, I put that in ALL CAPITAL LETTERS for a few reasons: 

One: The very fact that yes, a child in kindergarten has Homework.
Two: The very fact that yes, kindergarten Homework makes me unhappy.  What happens when I...uh...I mean...the Offspring have algebra Homework?  Three words: Go Ask Daddy. (Or, more likely: Get A Tutor.)
Three: The very fact that Son coming home with Homework is yet another reason in a long line of reasons that have recently inspired me to utter the dreaded tell-tale sign of age: “When I was a kid...”  

Before I proceed, it must be known that I love Son’s teacher.  She is funny.  She is The Boss.  She is able to keep 25 six year olds quiet and in control.  I worship her.  I wish she would hang out with me and tell me all her secrets.  She is exactly the teacher that Son needed and also the one I needed.  And cursing homework is not a reflection of her, her teaching, or my love for her.

It is a reflection of my purely selfish desire to not have to deal with or accept the fact that I have to do homework again.

It is a reflection of my concern and confusion about how these kids will survive and enjoy at least 12 years of schooling when the pressure is already on in kindergarten.  

It is a reflection of my never ending anxiety about the competitive environment in which my Children are being raised.

Yes, I think it’s amazing that Son is starting to read at age six.

But, does he know how to be bored?

Yes, I love that Son has access to learning on iPads and computers at his school.

But, will he soon forget that climbing a tree on a beautiful sunny day is 1000 times better than playing Angry Birds?

I love that my Children have the opportunity to play organized soccer, baseball, football, basketball, every season of the year.

But, will they be able to enjoy a quiet afternoon of shooting hoops by themselves?  Will a simple game of catch in the alley with Mom suffice?

We spend so much time and effort trying to stimulate our kids; trying to give them a leg up; trying to make sure they are set up for success that I fear they won’t know how to fail with grace and composure. 

Because only with age do you realize that the greatest lessons are learned from our natural inclinations to fail at something.  Many things.

I must depart as it’s time for me to go pick up the Offspring from school.  But before we go home today to work on our 10 pages of worksheets....we’re going to go learn how to ride a bike...perhaps the greatest example of failing...and then trying again...and failing...then trying again...and winning.

I HATE UNICORNS!

I had a dream last night that I woke up on Christmas morning and realized that I hadn’t wrapped any presents.  That I didn’t even remember where I hid them.  That we were having company over for breakfast and I didn’t make any food.  (It should be noted, however, that I did think to my dream self...at least we have champagne!)  And then in my panic to keep my kids in their room while I ran around in my pajamas trying to find all the presents and wrap them I remembered that we were going out of town and I hadn’t even packed.

Then I woke up.  Thank God.  I feel inadequate enough while the sun is out, I don’t need to be reminded of this while the moon shines.  Nights should be filled with visions of Ben Affleck, not anxiety ridden dreams that remind me of All That Crap I Still Haven’t Done.

Here I thought, with both Offspring going to school every morning, that I would have so much...time.  Before the school year started, I couldn’t even IMAGINE what I would do with all that TIME!  4 hours a day?! I was going to write a novel!  Become a successful actress!  Bake crap in the shape of a pumpkin or a Christmas tree!  Really get down to business and make homemade meals every night!  Lose 5 pounds! I was, obviously, going to BE AWESOME.  Because who couldn’t be awesome with THAT MUCH TIME FREE OF CHILDREN?  

Turns out...me. I am not, apparently, awesome.  Because I always feel that I am failing at all of those things.  Turns out...damn, there is a lot to do.  Every day.  All day.  I don’t want to sound all whiney because I realize there are many people in this world who have Actual Problems and me not remembering where I hid the bey blades, or the fact that I really don’t even understand what that toy is, is not one of them.  Nor is an Actual Problem the fact that when I hinted, suggested, toyed with the idea of Daughter maaaaybe getting a Unicorn Dream Light verses a Butterfly Dream Light, because what if Santa ran out or really thought Daughter would love a Unicorn one and was immediately shot down with a very passionate I HATE UNICORNS!!  NO UNICORNS!!...but trust me, if we don’t find that Butterfly Dream Light by Christmas morning, Daughter will make it an Actual Problem like no Actual Problem you’ve ever seen before.  She will take your Actual Problem and raise you 27 Actual Problems.  And then flip you off.

But I digress.

I wonder, will I always feel like this?  Like I’m always missing something?  That there’s never enough time?  Will that nagging question of What am I forgetting? ever leave my head?  Will the day come when I go to the store and DON’T come home and immediately start making my list of things I forgot?  Will my house ever be clean again for longer than 15 minutes?  Will anybody else ever clean the bathrooms besides me?  Can I go to bed one night without a mental list of the ways I failed that day?  Why wasn’t I more patient while helping with homework?  Was it really a big deal to read ONE more book?  Why didn’t I just wake up early and get my run in?  Can you really be a Good Mom, a Good Wife, AND feel like your purpose in life is greater than cleaning toilets and packing lunches?

Let me repeat...I realize that none of these things are Actual Problems.  And I know that I will wrap the presents, make a coffee cake and pack everybody for a fun-filled week with the Grandparents.  My kids will wake up to a wonderful Christmas and even though they are too young to really realize how very lucky the are, they will feel happy and loved and maybe a bit spoiled.  Every child should feel all of those things.  Especially on Christmas.  Things will get done.  Maybe not perfectly.  Maybe not on time.  You might get a Happy New Year card instead of a Merry Christmas card...but you’ll get a damn card, okay?  But, I’m going to try to give myself a break.  I’m not Susie Homemaker.  I’m not Career Connie.  I’m just Me.  I think most of us are sitting right there in the middle, trying to figure out where we should land.  I haven’t quite figured it out.  But...I’m working on it.

And hey...when all else fails...at least I have champagne.  

BELIEVE!

One of the very best things about being a parent is experiencing life through your young one’s eyes and reliving all the best moments of being a child. For me, there are no greater examples of this joy than at Christmas time.  Yeah yeah yeah...I know...Christmas is stressful.  It’s expensive.  I never know exactly who I’m supposed to tip and how much I’m supposed to give and, come to think of it, am I supposed to tip my mail carrier because I don’t think I ever have and that lady Does.Not.Like.Me.  But...besides Christmas bringing out even more reasons for me to feel inadequate (I mean...have you ever been to a Michaels?  People, apparently, like make their own wreaths.  And ornaments.  And bake things in the shape of a tree or a Santa or a sled), I do love the holiday season.  I like the red Starbucks cup.  I like the music.  I like the libations.  But what I like the most is believing in Santa again.

Because, in the Gelato House, we BELIEVE in Santa.  With a five and three year old in residence, we are in the throes of the Santa years.  There is no question.  There is no doubt.  There is a man who really likes the color red who lives at the top of the world and makes toys and flies on a magic sled led by reindeer and delivers presents to all the GOOD boys and girls in one single night.  Whatever explanation I care to give as to why Santa can still enter our home even though we do not have a chimney is blindly believed.  Hello...Santa is magic.  (‘Magic’ pretty much covers everything, by the way.)  

But the best part about Santa?  He is Always.Watching.  It’s not me who is the judge of your behavior for the next 6 weeks...it’s The Big Guy and he does not mess around.  You want to ninja kick your sister in the head?  Hmmm...what would Santa think about that?  Oh, we’re going to roll around on the floor and protest the very idea of a bath?  Well, guess what?  Santa likes clean children.  And while Santa loves a good cookie, he would never complain about eating his peas.  He might even say thank you.  Just a thought.  

I realize that one day I will no longer have the option of using Santa as a way to control my children and will instead have to like, parent them, but...I think I have a few good years left and I intend to use them to my advantage.  After all, I waited almost 20 years for the chance to believe in Santa again and you know what?  He’s still worth the wait.