Odd and Curious Thoughts (about the 2013 VMA’s)

August 26, 2013 By

 

(1)         Hey Mr.  Timberlake? Can you bake and fix leaky faucets and design rockets to be sent to the moon? Because you can do pretty much everything else. I, along with all other women on Earth (and some on Saturn), love you.

(2)          Taylor, honey.  You’re getting prettier by the day and I absolutely adore your vintage look but please stop dancing like you’re in your living room with a karaoke machine. Just sway and clap and try looking demure when the camera pans the crowd.

(3)          Selena Gomez’ video totally rocked it and I’m pumped she won an award, but she looks like a 12-year-old with boobs and I am just so confused whether I’m supposed to think she’s sexy or call CPS because her mother allowed her to leave the house in a corset.

(4)          I’m looking at red-carpet pictures. Who are these people? Should I have heard of them?

(5)          My dear daughter: Everyone has a rebellious phase. I get it. But instead of going all Miley Cyrus on me where you feel a need to shave your head, dance around in your skivvies in front of millions and gyrate next to overstuffed life-size creepy teddy bears whilst sticking out your tongue, please just write out your heartbreak into best sellers like Taylor Swift so at least your angst has some purpose instead of generating pity.  Plus, Taylor makes more money, wins awards, has trouble finding dates hence the TMI, and wears 1950’s-esk unflattering swim apparel.  That’s a win/win for mom.

(6)          Robin Thicke, we get it that you like sex.  But can we move on from this one song already? The lines are no longer blurry. They’re just making me yawn.

(7)          Seriously, Miley, was your childhood that bad? Because I wanted to invite you to my home, wrap you up in blankets, tell you that you’re special inside, play Mister Rogers, and we can drink hot tea together.

(8)          You know you’ve made it big when you can wear a grill to a major awards show and people are all “Oh.  There’s Katy Perry with gold sparkling teeth.  Coolio.”

(9)          Remember babysitting and after the kids went down you sat on the couch sipping seven-up out of champagne flutes watching Billy Joel’s We Didn’t Start the Fire on MTV and feeling so freaking cool? Member that? And when the parents got home you were like OMG they are totally going to kill me and think I’m drinking and so I’ll just casually mention it’s just seven-up and that the kids were SO AWESOME and we played ELEVEN games of Barbie wedding and Mackenzie rode on my back like a camel. Well, for some reason I had the same reaction to the 30 Seconds to Mars video.  As in that classic, old-school, rock-and-roll, beds-burning feel.  Not the “oh crap they’re already home from Outback Steakhouse / this was a lame way to make ten bucks / now I have to go home and drink seven-up in a can because my folks don’t own champagne flutes” type of feeling.

(10)          Whatever to the Lady Gaga haters.  I thought her little slow-song hair-change montage was just fine.  Just because she wore some boring wigs and didn’t jump out of a plane wearing a dress made out of skittles doesn’t mean she’s out of touch. She’s sick of all the make-up and wants to listen to music peacefully in her sea-shell bikini. Geez.

(11)          I’m wondering why my youthful rebellion only constituted champagne flutes filled with soda. That is so lame.

(12)          Did Katy Perry honestly just jump rope and then continue singing? I’d be like “hold up there, folkzies.  Momma’s got a side cramp.” I swear –  pop stars are like super humans.  Which is why Justin Timberlake has fans on Saturn. It all makes sense.

Filed Under: Motherhood, Music, Television Tagged With: , , , , ,

Standing Orders

August 5, 2013 By

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I work with doctors, so I’m familiar with the concept of standing orders.  If certain conditions are met, doctors have a pre-authorized order to give a certain medication or initiate a treatment so that nurses or mid-levels don’t always have to run to a physician for permission every single time.  In my house, we also have certain standing orders. For example, consider the following questions:

May I have a peach?                        Yes

May I go to bed early?                    You must be sick.  Dear gracious yes.

May I read another book?            I’m a sucker for this.  Usually yes, even though I’m so freaking tired, because this next book may just determine whether you serve burgers or stitch up hearts and might just unlock the keys to how your brain processes letters and the firing of the neurons is such a sensitive process and if The Big Fish is the book to help aid in your very future, what choice do I have, really?

More cottage cheese?                     Yes.  You’re a weird kid for liking this.

Can I watch a show?                     I’m stirring cornbread mix and I’m on the phone with my best friend debating how much is too much to pay for a birthday cake with a shark bursting out of the top and I’m trying to figure out if the oven is preheated and I think someone from work is calling which must be an emergency at this hour so I just generally nod so you’ll go away.

Can I watch another show?        What? You watched one? When did I say that was okay?

May I have a banana?                   Yes.  Please assume all fruit is okay.

May I have fruit snacks?              That’s not fruit, you sneaky devil.

Can I listen to Adele?                    Always.

May I dance?                                   If you didn’t, I would worry.

May I make up silly songs?         You’re making me stutter with all the yes.

Will you go in time out?                I should, kiddo.  Sometimes I really should.

 

So basically in my house you can always dance, sing, listen to Adele, eat fruit, read, and eat cottage cheese.  It could be worse.  Better with fruit snacks, sure, but maybe you can catch me super busy and squeeze in freebies. And if I’m all alone sitting on the front porch drinking wine, just assume mom’s in a time out and go about your business, eating bananas with wild abandon.

 

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Photo:

Grayson, our granddaughter, eating a Georgia peach and enjoying every bite.

Filed Under: Humor, Motherhood Tagged With: , , , ,

Misfits

July 23, 2013 By

 

Enjoying the nature

I hope that my children turn out to be misfits.  Geeks.  Nerds of the worst sort.  I hope they don’t fit snugly into a world of perfect hair and football uniforms where things come easy.  Because self-esteem comes from knowing you’re worth more than the stereotypes.  Because failing miserably over and over builds up deep reserves of character.  I want my children to fail because I love them so.  And loving them means I want them to develop a strong moral fiber, and a confidence that only comes after the breaking.  And when they hear the words “you are not of this world,” I want them to feel the words seared into their very own scars.

In 6th grade, I had a deep crush on some boy with glasses.  Everyone knew it, and the mean girls would write notes and slide them under my desk as if coming from him.  Letters covered with hearts and cheap men’s cologne that I believed for a solid four days, telling me to wait by his locker for a kiss.  It was a lie, as I soon discovered.  And when the history teacher wasn’t looking, someone threw gum in my hair that stuck and my mom ended up cutting it out and wedging stray strands free with Vaseline.  Let’s be honest: school sucked.  Especially when I fell over backwards and broke both wrists at the same time, waddling around in high tops and matching arm casts. Try and top that, fellow nerds of the world.

One day at recess in the 7th grade, before the days of school shootings and metal detectors, someone lit up and threw a smoke bomb at me, the red ball singing with pent-up explosive authority, causing me to topple off a ledge and break my ankle.  And there was the time I was so desperate to wear Guess jeans that I sewed one of those triangle labels on the back pocket of an old worn-out pair of Levis. And for a blissful few hours, I felt special.  Until the label started to unravel in English class and I stood in front of an entire room of kids pointing and staring, practically curled over in raucous laughter.  The feeling in my gut sunk deep, and I can still feel its weight after all these years.  I was so hungry to fit in.  I ached to belong. I just wanted time to rush by so I could enter the seductive world of adulthood.  But children, you aren’t ready.  These lessons have to simmer slow.

Growing up is hard.  It should be, because this world is hard, and it can at times be filled with pain.  You have to learn these lessons at a time when you can still run home to the loving and accepting arms of family.  Many times we would take weekend trips to the city, because mom could tell my sister or I had quite enough. The defenses were tearing loose at the seams, and we just needed to breathe.  That’s what true family is – it’s a space where you can let out the air and take off the mask and learn who you really are.  Loved regardless of what you do or what you say or what you wear.  A fierce love.  An elegant love.  A love that stands next to you, so that no matter how far you run, you can’t ever overtake it. We’d order pizza and flop around in the hotel pool and just be our glorious, goofy, nerdy selves.

I will die running to tell my children how they can never disappoint me.  How the lives that they see as silly and disjoined are like masterpieces to me, patching their father and their grandparents and their own twisted strands of cells into a pride in me that swells.  Oh my loves.  The flesh of my flesh.  You will never do anything too vast or too dark to create a chasm in my heart.  And if I can wrap my heart around you like this, you can only imagine how much more God can love.

There are times I wish my childhood was different.  I wish I had cooler stories or adventures across the globe or wild weekends of desire. I cringe at my own feelings of inadequacy, feeling stupid for being tall and clumsy instead of whimsical and witty. I didn’t go to fancy camps.  I didn’t join a sorority.  I wasn’t in cheerleading or wear name-brand clothes and I only made All-State Choir as an alternate.

But I was so deeply loved.  And now I’m so grateful now for the trials, because they only get harder, and your strength is tested, and it’s the ability to rise above them that matters.  After all these years, I laugh more.  I judge less.  I have learned that great courage is found in the vulnerable places and to succeed you first have to feel the sting of failure.  I rise up and arch my back against the blazing sun with tears drying on my cheeks.  I throw my hands up to the heavens and say thank you to parents that always believed, and ran along side of me until their sides heaved with hurt, and never let go. Because I know that no matter what happens, I will be okay.  I will rise again.  I will be loved.

That’s what it’s like to be a misfit. And it’s beautiful.

 

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photo:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/greenlightforgirls/5166535531/sizes/m/in/photolist-8SxR1P-akdfhX-bMgu1F-bMgtWe-bMgtQZ-6phQVs-7agAHq-8dy5h6-7dyoo5-5D41Ga-8N68Bk-aYX5zR-a5PVqk-8ym3ak-9ftAoV-bniUuu-5PgEkR-dJz2TD-bDRPuS-6KrCDn-ciN23Q-bzd1GD-qnqgQ-f8deek-9atX92-6qeVfb-4JZYzo-f8sozW-9suffB-8MdBUz-dwCCjH-a7bmkR-brfbii-f8stCs-6vqzMb-f8smkQ-cWwwTW-f8d68t-f8ddu2-ewXdoz-7Ac25r-c7qyRs-9MtrPv-apyTJg-f8ssFA-f8d6Tz-cchaMu-aQNtkH-2kDHYR-f8sqwW-joeUC/

Filed Under: Embarrassing Moments, Love, Motherhood, Religion, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , , ,

Odd and Curious Thoughts (regarding my weekend)

June 30, 2013 By

 

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I’ve been speaking all lofty lately, like “let’s assuage our common sense” and “thou shalt not raise up wimps that cannot debate like Jefferson” and if you didn’t know better you’d think I wore purple robes in my living room and sat around reading fine literature.  So I thought I’d keep it real up in here.

(1) On Friday, I went to dinner with one of my fabulous girlfriends.  Promised myself I’d eat light, cut down on carbs. Started it up with a Fireman’s 4 and ended at Amy’s ice cream, whereby some lady was filming the ice cream guy throwing scoops in the air.  No more needs to be said on this particular topic, either with regard to the carb-load or the ridiculousness of filming an ice cream guy.

(2) I spent an inordinate amount of time staring at my computer screen watching the entire first season of Suits.  I took a break from the season to re-enter humanity and went to the grocery store, but rather than walking, I sort-of strutted into the store with the show’s hip background music playing in my head.  My internal dialogue may or may not have been something along the lines of “I’m too fabulous to be in here buying eggs and milk / isn’t there someone I can pay to do this for me because I have a case to settle.” I felt similar emotions after a Downton Abby bender when I had to make my own bed.  Total bummer, reality.

(3)  I took a video of my garden, panning from one side of it to the other.  I was proud of the way the squash was getting on.  The zinnas, they are really popping.  And my black-eyed peas? Really reacting nicely to organic fertilizer.  I sort-of stepped outside myself and said, “are you taking a video of your plants?  Is that really what’s happening here? What exactly are you going to do with this video? Please step away from nerd-dom and go have drinks with someone or read something that’s published or try to act like a human being with a real life.”  But then I remembered the ice cream video and felt less alone.  But at least there were people in her video.  Mine had only squash, which is weird.

(4) Today I read an article that a woman drank nothing but soda for fifteen years (not one drop of water) and had to go to the ER for low potassium levels and fainting. After one week of no soda things went back to normal. What? That’s it? Not at all dramatic, you reporting idiots. If I take the time to read a story about a women drinking 2 liters of soda a day for her entire adult life, I want to hear that her insides have rotten fish floating around in them and she’s somehow miraculously living despite a soda can lodged in her large bowel, rusting since 1982.

(5) The only thing I can say as a redeeming point to wasting time on pointless articles is that I didn’t watch the Miss USA pageant, so that half-hour that those people brain-wasted I stored up to read articles like what Kim K’s doing these days (Napping! Watching grass grow! Feeding North!) and apparently this lady’s (minor-pointless-boring) trouble with soda consumption.  So we are EVEN, peeps.  Although it’s strange I feel life’s a competition with strangers’ wasted brain space.  I’m Type A.  Whatareyougonnado. 

(6) I cut up some fresh tomatoes from our garden and blended them together with the cheese sauce that comes with the mac-and-cheese pack and thought our children would never, ever notice.  There was no red – it all just blended in with the fake cheesy yellow color, and I felt brilliant.  Until my daughter took one bite and was all “Barf” like I had ground-up elephant tongues in there instead of organic sweet garden tomatoes (I have a video).  My son just shoved it in his mouth and said “well I like it and you don’t get dessert if you don’t eat it then” and sucked it down without incident.  This is why I love boys.

(7) And lastly, I threw away an entire arm-load of unmatched socks because I was just sick of seeing them in the hamper for so long.  But I had to have a little conversation with them first, like “well I’ve not seen your mate in quite some time” and “you’re not really that great of a Nike product anyway “ and “it’s for your own good.  No one likes to be alone.”

So there you have it.  Lofty of not, it’s my version of reality.  If you want to see how the zucchini is doing, be sure to let me know.  I’ve got that on video, wenches.

Filed Under: Embarrassing Moments, Humor, Motherhood Tagged With: , , , , ,

A Manifesto (on building warriors)

June 29, 2013 By

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Anticipate your battles; fight them on your knees before temptation comes, and you will always have victory.

R.A. Torrey

We are responsible for raising warriors.  Those who can rise up and resist the lust of conformity and the whispering embrace of standing invisible behind a man or a crowd or a belief system that wanes.  We are nothing if we cannot propagate a generation of thinkers, insisting that our children use persuasion instead of force, logic instead of emotion, and truth at all times over the callous laziness of a lie.

If you want power in this life you can either earn it or steal it, fear it or abuse it.  And most people can’t even handle it because the allure of one’s ego dislodges the root and all that’s left is withering leaves.  Ayn Rand said that “the argument from intimidation is a confession of intellectual impotence,” so let’s all quit claiming others are evil, heartless, dishonest, or ignorant just to avoid the research, debate, and collegial sparring.  We could bemoan the fact that we live in a fallen world or we could just lace up our damn sneakers.  Our minds and souls are a thin veil between human and ape, so let’s not waste the opportunity to sharpen our own ax.

I grow tired of Jesus portrayed as a long-haired hippie who went around singing lullabies, gathering children, and saying “make love not war.”  Jesus was the definition of power, and had not only the ability to speak truth, but be truth, who faced the devil and the desert.  He never backed down.  Moses didn’t lead an entire people out of Egypt by taking exit polls and Abraham didn’t just sit around wondering what Fox News had to say about a particular subject.

We must raise up our children to be resilient, like the skin of a tomato that withstands heat from the sun until it’s finally plucked from the vine, with tough skins and fruit dripping with sweet.  We must insist upon obedience to the Lord at all costs, for it sharpens the mind and allows us to rely not on our own understanding.

Those that hold power hold influence, and without strong arms and tough skins we cannot withstand the prison of this long-suffering life filled with decay and cells that eat at the fiber of our souls.

Oh my children, pure as honeycomb plucked from the field.  You are so joyful and full of hope, and I pray that you remain always optimistic.  But mark my words in blood that we are at war.  A war of a thousand pricks that sting but do not rip, because our defenses are growing weaker.  We are not building up an army of strength, but of men who capitulate, and sit in air conditioning, and shrug their shoulders at truth.  And how can a woman know the value of a scar if she does not set foot in the ring?

But beware, for true power does not bully or goad.  Our design should not be to win arguments, but hearts.  “[W]hen we observe how ineffective our debates are, it would be far better to listen to Scripture, and lament how ineffective our debaters are. This is a pursuit that must be encouraged, honored, and praised, and we must provide the requisite training for those who are called to it.” – Doug Wilson.

The masses point and shout and tell us we are weak alone, and only through union are we secure. But that is a lie that cannot hold you.  One man can do great things, through Christ alone who strengthens.  So lace up those sneakers, fit the buttonholes with cufflinks, strap on your police badge or white coat or hard hat, and start fighting.  Get in that ring, my sons and daughters, and don’t be afraid to train hard.

It’s hard because it’s worth it, and because God insists upon it, and because the wounds leave behind scars that become the very the armor you wear proudly and graciously, standing before the throne of victory.

 

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photo:

Horses of the "Artillery" Sculpture at U.S. Capitol

Filed Under: Inspirational, Motherhood, Religion Tagged With: , , , , , ,

How to Raise Children of Integrity

June 24, 2013 By

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Live so that when your children think of fairness, caring, and integrity, they think of you.

-H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

Today, my son told me he was going to put me in jail, he ate a brownie behind my back, disobeyed me twice before breakfast, and my daughter likes to yell at him for being in her general vicinity.  I believe twice in the last week I’ve gripped my son’s arms a little too hard, raised my voice too many times, used the the phrases “spoiled brat” and “deal with it,” and drank wine in their presence followed by the phrase “FINE.  Don’t take a nap. Run around like a crazy maniac and see if I care.”

None of us are perfect.  If that was the standard, we’d quit wasting time trying.  But we all want our boys to someday be men of great worth, growing up tall and strong, kind to strangers and old women, perhaps playing a fiddle under the stars.  And we desire our girls to be leaders in the world, not useless bleating goats, always truthful and fiercely passionate about the talents they have been entrusted.  I lie in my son’s bed and cup my hand to his little cheek, the grime scoured off in a hot bath, and wonder how to help shape him into the man he is destined to be.  And I catch myself staring at my daughter while she is curled up reading a book wondering how in the world I’ll help her understand that mean girls are just insecure little souls, starving for attention.

And a single word popped up over and over again in my mind.  Like a smooth stone I turned it over in my mouth, rolling it around on my tongue. Integrity.

It comes from the Latin adjective “integar,” which means whole or complete. It’s a combination of honesty and consistency of character.  To act in a way that is in accordance with the values and principles a person claims to hold.  It’s the opposite of a hypocrite, who says one thing and does another.  So what does it mean to really have it?  To act it out? To model it to our children?

I don’t think you can teach it from afar. You can’t pray your kids open it up for Christmas.  They are smart little devils. They figure it out if you’ve got a forked tongue. You have to live it.  You don’t have an option to compromise if you want to raise children of integrity.  It is you that they look to for an example of how to live in this fallen world.  There are times I want to slack off and think my kids are too young to notice. But they are more valuable to me than diamonds, and I don’t have the luxury of time.  And trust me – they always notice.

Here are 5 ways I’m trying strengthen my own integrity:

(1) Maintaining a tight inner circle.  I’ve learned that while having a large group of friends is great for dinner parties, it’s the very small group of honest friends who make all the difference.  The love they have for you is established and they want you to grow as a person. Is there anything I need to work on that I don’t see?  Can I open up to this circle about my fears and insecurities? These people love me enough to be honest, whether it’s telling me I need to forgive or affirming me that I actually did something right for a change. And in return I do the same for them. Every single time, without fail.

(2) Honoring God, not People. You can’t possibly still be friends with him or hang out with her or do this or eat that after what’s happened, can you?  How can you deal with the gossip? What about your own pride? What would people say?  That’s crap, all that pride and shame talking.  Tune it out.  Ask yourself if you are honoring God, and whether you are respecting yourself, and how whatever “it” is furthers your own journey.  Open up to your inner circle and pray often.  Then follow your heart and let people say what they will

(3) Admitting when I’m wrong, and making amends.  Whether this is apologizing to my three-year-old when I lose it completely or returning that errant pack of gum I didn’t notice slipped into my grocery cart until I’m at my car– these moments matter.  My kids are watching how I handle the small stuff.  If I’ve developed a pattern of bad choices, I can always clear the deck and begin again. As scary as it is to walk into someone’s office and say “Hey – I was wrong.  I snapped at you and it was uncalled for,” it’s worth it.

(4) Refueling my Soul.  It’s not selfish to need time alone to recharge, or to go off alone to pray.  It’s not self-seeking to get away from your family in order to study the Bible, go for a walk, write, see a therapist, or cultivate friendships.  You can give only as much as you have to give, and the more whole you are, the better you can serve and give to others.  The only question is whether these activities are really supporting your family or whether they are a way for you to run from your problems.  If they are the latter, it’s not refueling but depleting.

(5) Not Hardening My Heart: This one’s been the toughest. When tragedy strikes, people disappoint me so vastly, and when life’s so amazingly unfair, it’s easy to try and build a shell around myself and not let the pain in.  One can lose faith, and stop trusting, and begin to be hardened to joy.  Let your prayer be that your heart remains soft and open at all times:  open to forgive, open to love, open to hear, and open to change.  This openness is where real beauty happens.

Living a life of integrity is hard work.  And yet we are responsible for raising up lives.  Are we not the soil and sun and water in which these little people see what a moral fiber looks like?  Do they see us on our knees, in humility and obedience to God?  You can’t change the world – only the way your children live within it.

Let’s be the medium for which our children can flourish.  Worry less about plucking the weeds from their midst and let them bloom in all their radiance right where they are planted, rising above and choking out hate with their consistent approach to love.

 

photo:

Purple Wild Flowers

Filed Under: Inspirational, Motherhood, My life, Religion Tagged With: , , , , , ,

Drunk Love

June 8, 2013 By

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Having kids changes things.  It forces you to think beyond yourself, beyond coffee, beyond 4:00 pm, beyond dinner, beyond bedtime.  You are planning and praying and cooking and cleaning, and then the next day you just hit repeat with different color t-shirts and different vegetables. 

Sometimes it feels like I’m trapped in a blender, all the toys and dirty clothes and wet swimsuits and snacks all whirling around me and it just meshes together into one big smoothie of midlife. And there are times it gets culture poor, and monotonous, and just flat-out hard.  I yell when I  wish I didn’t and give in when I said I wouldn’t and for goodness sakes pick up your shoes and shut the stupid door and I apologize for saying stupid but I can’t keep being your maid and waitress and clothes changer and bottom wiper and still have my own freaking life.  Now go to bed for the last time before I lose it completely. Some days I wish I just had a day to myself to finally get the house clean.  But then I do, and I sit around wondering when they’re coming home again.

But then there are the drunken moments, when I am simply intoxicated by the flesh of our own flesh, and I can only sit on the porch and bask in the high of them, laughing and throwing their hair back and playing and waving at me with their dirty hands.  “You are the best mommy in the world,” my son calls out, covered in mud, his wet shirt clinging to his chubby little tummy.  I smile, because this is his world, and his happiness, and it’s all so perfect I can’t stand it.  My daughter feels she’s missing out on the love so she shows off and it also makes me laugh and she goes into detail about a box of magical rocks and a house thatched out of limbs and the fact that someday she’ll be famous.  The drug is so addictive that I never want it to end, so I nod and don’t say a word and try to catch glimpses of them in my soul, burning them there so that if I lose my mind I’ll have a tattoo of them on the inside.   

The other night after reading book after book, hours past their bedtime, I just looked at their little sun-bleached heads and sobbed big fat momma tears, because I don’t want them to grow up and shed their baby skin and leave me.  And I realize it’s my own insecurities screaming out loud and clutching my children by the necks, saying to me “You need them.  You feed on their love.  You aren’t worthy alone.”  My daughter just hugged me and my son told me he would never grow up, and I told him that was just fine by me.  And I told that voice to shut up, that I deserved this happiness without all its ugly baggage.

Because the truth is that I squeeze my eyes shut during these precious times people are always chiding me to cherish, because I am really trying to live into these days, and lean toward happiness, but it’s all too tragically good.  I fear the worst, and know it will end, and I can’t seem to just be content with the flowers that my kids pluck from the earth, desiring a juice cup full of water to store them.  I want ten more of this same exact afternoon, and I want to curl up in their messy hair and fat cheeks and precious little words.  I tell them while they are sleeping that they are beloved, and could never disappoint me, and I fear what will happen of me when they leave.  I fear the coming down from this high because it will be a bitter pill, but that’s the devil’s tongue and I see it like a rope around my own throat.   

So I breathe in, and think how much I am loved, and tell myself that I am enough.  If I can feel this way toward my children with the sheer immaturity of human emotion, imagine how much more my Father loves, and desires, and protects.  Yes, yes. I might soon be back at work and won’t have lazy summer afternoons, but I do now, and that’s what counts.  So I let it out, the breath and the fear and the anxiety.  And I bask, and watch them sleep, and just utter thank you over and over until my eyelids fall. 

Despite the drunkenness of love, I don’t wake up with a hangover.  There is no hangman’s rope. I open my eyes to see a delighted three-year-old in my face, proclaiming that it’s morning time, and the sun’s up momma, and what are we having for breakfast? And joy again resumes, and I am reminded that this is a beautiful season in a rich life.  And I tell him the first words that escape my mouth –the only words I can muster. How about oatmeal, kiddo?

A perfect answer.  And the day begins again.  

 

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photo:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/27384147@N02/4849189554/sizes/m/in/photostream/

Filed Under: Love, Motherhood, My life Tagged With: , , , , ,

Pacify or Bust

June 4, 2013 By

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Have you ever known an addict who just begged you for another hit of whatever they’re into, and they cry and whine and plead and promise things and you just get really worn out from being a sober companion? Do you seriously consider giving in so you can get one freaking evening to yourself without all the crying and calling and yelling already?

Congratulations.  You know what it’s like to break a three-year-old of his precious pacifier.

I know there are probably those parents out there who have not had to fight this particular battle.  Perhaps they just instruct their mild-mannered kids that the Magical Passy Fairy scooped up all the little suckers and it’s all just a glittery land of nod for all.  Or maybe you sliced the big fat plug of plastic with scissors to ruin all the sucking fun and your child just chucked them by the bedside as they drifted peacefully to sleep dreaming of turtles. Or maybe you just went cold turkey and it wasn’t a big deal.  Well right now I’m hating on all you people because this is WAR I tell you, and I’m so losing.  Well I’m winning, actually, because there’s no passy around, but my emotional health and sanity is gone, so who’s the real winner?

It starts off at 7:30, with a lovely hot bubble bath to calm down the soul.  Then we brush brush and off to bed with jammies and smiles spit spot, chop chop, like Mary Poppins on her very best night. My daughter just dutifully crawls into bed with classic novels and turns off her own light when she’s done and I’m sitting in bed reading to my son.  “One more,” he demands.  I give in, because of course reading is always a winner and I’ll just read as much as he wants because vocabulary’s a win and illiteracy’s a loss and so we read about trucks and trains and pigs and sheep and finally after seven books I’m like Mommy’s tired, kid.  Lay the heck down.

But then comes the “please don’t leave me” bit around 8:15 pm, because apparently in another life I abandoned him along the roadside and he was raised temporarily by a pack of gypsies and ended up in Pensacola, so he is deathly afraid I’ll leave him again when the lights go off, so I have to reassure him that I’m sitting right outside and won’t get in my car for a Starbucks run.  He quiets. It’s 8:30, and I’m golden.

Until at 8:32 when he suddenly remembers.  My beloved and cherished passy! It’s miiiissing! Has he told me lately how much he wants it?  Has he screamed at me thirty-seven times to find it, or to look for it, or that the loss of this plug has caused a deep wound in his heart? Apparently not! Yay for reminders! I pour a glass of wine and breathe deep.

9:00 pm rolls around and my son comes wobbling in, exhausted beyond belief.  He just can’t sleep, he says.  I explain that sleeping’s hard when you’re screaming, or yelling for momma, and perhaps just laying there is a better option.  He looks at me like I’m some sort of alien.  Uh, hello there, you moron.  Did I remind you that my passy’s missing?  Yeah. You mentioned it.

So at 9:45, folks, I’m really worn down.  I’ve patted and tucked and loved and kissed.  I’ve convinced him I’m not putting him up for adoption and that he’s not ending up in a van and yes I’ll open the door or sit right here or scratch your back or sing you lullabies and hells bells I have a life please for the love just close your eyes and go to sleep. 

There really needs to be an AA program for passys.  I’m a terrible sober companion. I think it’s just called “growing up,” but seriously.  It seems like a long way away from here.

 

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Childrens thoughts (6/365)

Filed Under: Humor, Motherhood Tagged With: , , , ,

Are owls really smart?

May 21, 2013 By

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(courtesy of Pottery Barn Kids)

I admit it.  I’ve completely fallen in love with the childhood décor of our generation and current obsession of all hipster children’s magazines on the planet– the cute little owl.   They are pink and green and patchwork with button eyes and cute little feet dangling from their stuffed calico bodies.  They adorn walls and bags and hardware pulls and everything you can think of.  So what’s a mom to do?  Well, you get on etsy this minute, you idiots, and find wall décor that encourages your youngster to be wise and studious and adorably hip.  Plus it was the mascot of one of my bestie’s sorority, so it’s a win/win.

Hoot hoot for all.

But as I was sitting there one day in my daughter’s room folding laundry, my mind wandered to why exactly owls were considered smart to begin with.  Are they?  There’s a wise owl in Winnie the Pooh, and I think Mr. Rogers had a rendition that quoted Shakespere, so I of course had to stop everything and run to my computer to find out.  Could The Owl and the Pussycat have led me astray all these years? This is why laundry never gets put away in my house.  And consequently why we have such rambling conversations at dinner.  Mostly ending with “good question / let’s google that” followed by “but aren’t you going to do the dishes?” and my outcry response of horror because obviously no, dishes can wait but knowing the proper scientific name for a baby dinosaur cannot. Duh.  Drop that breadstick and follow me to the computer immediately.

In Greek mythology, the owl was Athena’s go-to bird and an ancient coin from Athens even bore the owl’s image to symbolize the goddess of wisdom.  And it’s connected with mysticism and all sorts of witchcraft and fantasy, mostly because it flies at night under the cover of darkness with an amazing sense of hearing and very awesome night vision.  And then it appears as a recurring main character in Harry Potter, and it’s got those big smart-looking eyes with a head that moves about like a law professor, and it’s the mascot of Rice University, for heaven’s sakes.  It’s solidified as being way more intellectual than those brothel-loving, swearing, ugly, annoying little grackles that appear in supermarket parking lots.  Done.  You don’t have to convince me.  It’s the new room décor of choice whether you like it or not, sweetheart.  Let’s head down to Pottery Barn Kids post haste.

But the more I read about these (rather scary) creatures, it appears that they are very tunnel visioned when it comes to killing, and they regurgitate up the nastiest owl pellets, and with the exception of their fine-tuned senses they really are a bit dim-witted. So when I tell my daughter to “grow wise, young owl,” I’m really telling her to escape under the veil of black night to go kill young rodents and please don’t stumble dumbly in front of a truck and get whacked by a windshield, because those insurance deductibles are killer.  Just sleep all day and stay up all night and make scary screeching noises because you’ll someday be featured in a young adult fantasy novel.

OMG.  Effective immediately, I’m changing her room mascot to a dolphin.

Filed Under: Humor, Motherhood Tagged With: , , , , ,

It will all end up happy

April 13, 2013 By

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My daughter’s been hurting lately.  But not in a way that needs a band aid.  She’s trying to navigate a world where things don’t make sense and friends can turn and love can end.  People who were steady are instead shifting and purple starts to just look black.  She’s entering into a world where problems loom so much larger than she can handle and there’s all this business of boundaries and obedience.  So I’m rolling up my sleeves and doing my mother’s best at fighting the heavy. As Florence + the Machine blares through my ipod speakers, it is hard to dance with a devil on your back.

So shake him off. 

Today, one of my daughter’s girlfriends came and spent the day.  We made blueberry pancakes with roasted pecans and shook powdered sugar on top from an old half-rusted sifter.  In the afternoon we had a party for no reason where six girls played dress-up and beauty shop and hop scotch.  They ate cupcakes and danced like monkeys and drew roads all up and down our driveway with chalk.  When the mothers came the girls all cried out to stay, with dirty feet and tussled hair and my daughter just beamed with pride.  At night, we watched The Jetsons episodes, with George puttering around in his space mobile.  And after bath, I heard her talking to her dolls and soothing their fears.  Rocking and loving and tucking them inside sleeping bags tight.

It’s time for bed, I said.  She smiled without argument and turned off the lights.

I came and lay beside her, that precious skin and fragile spirit that I bore and held and loved before I even saw her face.  I told her that God gave her a spirit gift of intuition that not everyone has.  I told her she could sense a good friend from a bad, and that she naturally gravitates toward honest and real.  I was proud that she sought out pure, kind hearts.  She nodded at this, because she’s wise enough to know it’s true.  I told her that good friends are lifetime treasures, and that I’ve been on-my-knees thankful for them myself.

Then this precious soul tells me with a shaky voice that sometimes good friends turn bad, and bad friends turn good, and I said that’s just about right.  And yet baby, don’t get jaded because the cream will always rise.   Keep seeking out good with your heart and it will all end up happy.  She hugged me tight and asked for butterfly nose kisses and said that she liked to snuggle in flannel sheets even in the Spring because they’re soft, and I told her that was just fine too.  I rubbed her little girl arm and smelled that baby-fine hair and wished she’d stay this way forever.

Growing up’s the pits and all it means is mortgages and heartbreak but to be young means to flutter and sing and never have to worry about ill-fitting waistbands.  Being young is joy and hope and light that conquers all.  At the end of the day, as the cicadas sing and the oak trees brush against the tin roof and momma’s always gonna be around, light does indeed win over darkness.   Cupcakes and hop scotch and blueberry pancakes soften into dreams, and fresh new mornings, and school shoes once again, and isn’t this what childhood is all about?

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photo:

playing dress up

Filed Under: Love, Motherhood Tagged With: , , , ,

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