the loom

September 22, 2011 By

I feel like a decent mother. After all, my daughter eats her spinach, draws excellent giraffes, makes up songs that rhyme, and announces randomly at dinner that, sadly, Pluto is no longer a planet.  We mothers pat ourselves on the back for being that rock in our children’s changing world.  The straight arrow in their quiver.  We, after all, are good mothers.  Smart mothers.  We know best.

A few years ago, at my daughter’s pre-school, I noticed that a little girl was munching on pizza rolls and trying desperately to pry apart a fruit rollup apart with her teeth.  My eyes darted to my own child’s lunch, which luckily contained cottage cheese and fruit. I grinned.  My child might thumb her nose up at olives, but at least she’s not eating that.  Forget the fact that pizza-roll kid will end up at a Virginia private school on a soccer scholarship, or become a world famous scientist, or perhaps save a species of fish from extinction.  My kid won’t fall asleep with orange Cheeto dust in her hair, and that’s really what matters.

Then there was the time the preschool teacher announced that my daughter was able to spell her own name before all the other children.  I made a quirky little face like “What?  We just sit around drinking sodas and drawing on the walls.  I just have no idea where she gets it from.” In reality, I was patting myself on the back for putting up a word tree in her bedroom and for reading her so many stories despite the fact I was so tired I wouldn’t have cared if Curious George got hit by a truck and died.

But when your kids are little, your barometer for success or failure as a parent reflects back at you.  You control their diet, their wardrobe, and their bedtime routine.  You can set firm rules and make sure they show respect for others.  You drag them to church and make them wash their hands and eat their carrots. And when you feel like a failure, you call up your really good friends– those who occasionally put their kids to bed without baths or pull out dirty clothes from the laundry pile on picture day – for moral support.  One such friend called me in horror of what she had done, like the Mother Gestapo would hunt her down and take away her Mother-of-the-Year pin.  Crippled by the stomach flu and a husband out of town on business, she locked all the doors, set out a platter of lunch meat, crackers, cheese, and cookies, and just let her children watch Dora the Explorer all day while she lay in bed clutching her abdomen.  Don’t sweat it, I told her on the phone. That will probably make their “best childhood memory” list. 

But then someday, something changes.  It’s not about you anymore. It actually never was. I recently got a note home from Kindergarten saying my daughter wasn’t following the rules, and she could stand to listen more, and that perhaps she needed some practice on the daily sound tests. My heart sank.  As my husband was brushing his teeth that night, I said surely this teacher didn’t really see our daughter’s true talents.  That she’s creative and curious and brilliant.  I wished there was something I could do to show her teacher just how fabulous she is.

“No one will ever see her like you do,” he said. “To you, she’s perfect. You’re her mother.”

I suppose that’s true.  Mothers only see the good things.  The bright, shiny mornings.  The giggles and thank-you’s and made-up stories about dancing monkeys. We snuggle and love and pray and give, assuming that all the work we put into our children will pay off. Like a bonus that’s supposed to arrive at the end of the year. But we forget that these are independent little people, separate and apart from us.  They are not vessels we just fill up and push out the door; they are unique creations from God.  They must learn to fail, and must face struggles of their own – some we might not always be able to fix.  That’s hard for us mothers.  The thought of our daughter getting a broken heart, or our son not making the team, is too difficult to bear.  We can’t always make it all better by holding them close and reading them stories.  Homemade macaroni-and-cheese with crunchy breadcrumb topping only goes so far.

So I suppose we must simply love.  When times get tough, or they don’t fit in, we just love some more.  After all, we’ve already got our bonus.  We get to be the loom upon which their lives are woven, and watch them grow into beautiful people.  They will overcome, and change, and beam with pride when discovering their true selves.  We’ll stand in the background, us mothers, and realize that it’s not about us after all.

Filed Under: Motherhood Tagged With: , , ,

little house, big tears

September 11, 2011 By


(my daughter, looking very old fashioned)

When my daughter was sick last year, my mom came into town to stay with her so I could go to work.  The old-fashioned, no-cable, non-Disney people that we are, we thought it might be a good idea to start a lifetime of Little House on the Prairie episodes.  After all, there’s lots of “we’ll totally make it through the winter on one sack of wheat” and “golly pops – a peppermint stick in my stocking is what I’ve always wanted” and finally, “let’s pray.”  I thought it might be a good lesson in family values.  Perhaps force the message that home is really where the heart is.

Between a budget meeting and a conference call, my phone rings.  It’s my mother.

“I have something to tell you,” she said.  My heart sank.  My daughter probably spiked another fever.  Maybe the dog unearthed a dead bird or my china was shattered into a million pieces. She continued, but in a low whisper.    

“It’s about Little House on the Prairie,” she said, her voice barely audible.  I sighed with relief.  What about it?  Maybe Pa and Ma had to stay up late tending to the fields.  Quite possibly, poor little Laura got her chalkboard thrown on the ground and a valuable lesson was learned. I had a call in a few minutes.  What was so urgent already?

“Some man died,” my mother continued.  “On the show, I mean. He was working in the mines.  There was an explosion.  His body was blown to bits.  Pa had to go find the dead man’s child to let him know that his father died in a horrific accident.  He took his wife the man’s belongings.”

Anyone that knows my daughter knows how incredibly sensitive she is.  That she cries for humanity and for lost dogs and for fictional characters in cartoons.  “How bad is she?” I asked my mother.

“She’s sobbing.  We are trying to focus on puzzles.  Maybe she can have some ice cream?”

I’m pissed off.  What’s next?  Is Laura’s mother going to abandon her and leave her at home eating nothing but roasted field mice and corn? Will she have her arm severed?  Get smallpox? Will Ma and Pa get a divorce due to some illicit affair with the blacksmith?  When I got home later that night, I was prepared.  I was expecting to have to answer questions about dying or abandonment or other topics four-year-olds shouldn’t know anything about.

Instead, life was surprisingly normal.  My daughter was wearing stickers on her ears like earrings.  And playing with her new doll house.  She made a book tied together with ribbons.  She danced during her bath and pranced her way into the bedroom for stories.

I suppose there’s a reason why we don’t remember all the negative stuff buried in TV shows.  We only take the good – straining through all the junk to find what’s worth keeping.  In time, she’ll forget about the time this father died in the mine.  She’ll remember Laura’s braids.  And long winters. And gumballs in large glass jars at the general store.

Children see the world in its finest light – hopeful and happy, sparking and new.  They believe and trust.  The Gospels speak of it in this way: “I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.” (Luke 18:17).

We can’t shelter our children from this world forever, no matter how hard we try.  We can only encourage them to look backward with joy, remembering the braids. The little window in the top room. Cast-iron kettles and cornbread.

Someday, my daughter will have to battle the same issues with her own offspring. “Back then,” she’ll tell me, “we didn’t have all this stuff to worry about.  Everything was good and honest and pure.”

That’s when I’ll remind her that fathers were blown to shreds in Little House on the Prairie.  That she got to eat cereal for dinner not because I was a cool mother but because I worked and sometimes didn’t have the energy to fry an egg.  And that one time we spent the night at a Motel Six?  Where she got to stay up late and mommy and daddy were having a bit of a loud discussion with strange four-letter words about lost reservations?

You’re right, my love.  Those were the days indeed.

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

Amanda (from Texas)

September 9, 2011 By

Dear Martha Stewart,

Today, my son projectile vomited all over my shirt.  I had to change into a gown at the pediatrician’s office, walking out with a pile of my son’s throw-up still remaining on the little table.  Try getting that out with a stain stick.

Years ago, in your post-prison haze, I took a leave of absence from my job.  I said goodbye to my husband for the summer and jetted off to New York in a vainglorious attempt to work for you.  To impress you.  Befriend you.  After all – it’s ME!  Funny, confident, dancing-in-the-hallways me!  If I could just have a chance to meet you face-to-face, you’d totally agree with my three best friends that I’m fabulous.  We’d toast to our newfound friendship, sewing monograms onto calico pillows while sipping on chai tea.  I’d finally admit that I’m a wretched gardener and we’d have a grand afternoon plotting total world domination.

Okay, so it was reality television.  Not exactly the classiest venue.  But the fifteen folks who joined me in New York were not pond scum, but really successful people, chosen over a million folks to be talking with you about summer bulbs and apricot preserves, vying for a job where we could work with you on a daily basis.  This was my chance.

On day, in the middle of making a wedding cake to be sold at a bridal expo on 5th Avenue, your daughter paid us a visit.  I asked her a question I’d always wondered about.

“What was it like to have a mother like Martha?”

I envisioned parties of grandeur, with sugar cookies piled high with edible flowers and friends dancing around maypoles drinking cucumber water and reciting old nursery rhymes.  Alexis just gave me a flat look and said with hardly a breath that it was hard.  “Once,” she said, “when I was young, I tried to bake her a cake.”  I saw little Alexis running around in my mind in a petticoat, flinging sprinkles around with glee.  “She yelled at me for making the kitchen all sticky.”

Everyone chuckled with nervous laughter, because the reality was too sad to imagine.  We were on television.  5th Avenue, no less!  Let’s not focus on what the woman did years ago.  She’s changed!   So what if her daughter is dressed in black and seems to have a sour attitude, living with the memory that she never could live up to her mother’s standards.  We’re living in New York City.  Street vendors and expensive four-inch heels. Who-hoo!

Now, Martha, let’s be honest.  I didn’t have to meet you personally to realize you’re a big fan of order.  Rationalized numbering.  Labels.  You like steel and grey and windows and white, all clear of clutter and chaos.  You could literally eat on the floor of your office.  Somehow in this imperfect world we live in, you’ve found a way to have perfect rows of cabbage.  I respect that.  The ability to yell at the gardener and demand he remove the one wilted head on the end of the row?  Genius.

But I slowly allowed myself to question the long-standing truth that (1) you would surely think I’m special (2) we would be swapping sweet potato recipes long into the future.   Perhaps you weren’t the person I imagined.  A crack was starting to form in the armor of my Martha-ness.

The thoughts naturally arose – does anything gross happen in your world?  Have you ever accidentally peed in your pants or had to comb lice out of your daughter’s hair or invented a recipe that tasted like goat manure?  Surely once in your life you thought “I’m going to hurl.  I’m totally throwing this out and ordering pizza.”

Weren’t there ever a few moments in life, brief as they might be, that you cupped your hands over your mouth with delight at the beauty of seeing your child try to bake you a cake or make you a valentine or knit you a crooked potholder?  Is there ever a wilted cabbage you just don’t have the heart to pluck?

One morning, we got to have brunch with you in Bedford.  I was so confident you’d finally love me that I casually strolled over to the cappuccino machine in your gigantic kitchen and made small talk about the flower arrangement.

“Want one?” you asked me as the coffee machine hummed and hissed.  I tucked my hair away from my face and nodded.  Just me and a few pals, hanging out at Martha’s.  No biggie.  I was prattling on about how we can’t grow peonies down south, due to the hot weather and all, when I realized by the look in your eyes that you weren’t even listening.

“Are you Amy, from California?” you suddenly asked.

“No,” I stuttered.  “I’m Amanda.  From Texas.”  You briskly walked back in front of the camera to give a lesson on making waffles.  I was hurt and ashamed.  All the while talking of peonies, for goodness sakes.

The moment we left your place, after taking a tour of the greenhouses, hearing about elephant ferns, and watching your brilliant black horses pad around the back 40, we climbed in the car back to our quarters and, suddenly, it was if we didn’t exist.  Just another day in the office.  Just Amy from California.

I suppose the folks we idolize don’t always turn out to be as amazing as we had hoped. There is no pleasing you.  You will always be yelling at the gardener, the sticky child, the producer.  No cabbage or bath towel or applicant will ever be good enough.  I suppose if I get my book published, I won’t be back on your show to promote it, eating those yummy scones and sipping coffee backstage, waiting for hair and makeup.  Which is unfortunate.  Those were really good scones.

I don’t have to be walking along Broadway to feel my lungs fill with fresh air.  I can do that in my own backyard, watching my daughter scoop piles of pebbles into bowls and call it popcorn.  She will come running over to me with messy hands and a popsicle-stained face, showing me a stick that reminds her of a telephone.  My son will someday break a lamp or get motor grease all over my travertine floor and eat so much fried chicken in one setting that he’ll groan with delight, wiping grease on his jeans as he stretches back in his chair.  This is the texture and fabric of life.  It’s not monogrammed.  It’s not in perfect order.  It’s vomit-down-your blouse crazy.

So screw peonies.  I’ll take fields of bluebonnets, swaying in the breeze, my kids on the side of the highway buried in them, squashing the flower heads in their Sunday best.  It’s then, and only then, I realize they have buggers in their noses.

Yours most truly,

Amanda (from Texas)

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

martha stewart clean

August 31, 2011 By

I never thought I’d say this, but thank you, Martha Stewart.

 

Today, after we returned home from the grocery store with items sitting randomly about the kitchen table, my son grabbed a bottle of bathroom cleaner and waddled off.  I was at the stove cooking asparagus and wondered why my son was so quiet. I went to investigate. As it turned out, he unscrewed the lid and poured the entire bottle of bathroom cleaner on the carpet.  And I had no idea if he drank some.  I immediately called my doctor, who referred me to poison control, and the conversation went something like this:

 

“Hello?” I asked in a panic. “Poison control? I think my son might have ingested some bathroom cleaner. “

 

“Oh no,” a woman said.  I could hear the seriousness in her voice.  “What brand of cleaner was it?”  She was typing something into her computer.  Probably something along the lines of Yet another negligent mother who let her kid drink poison.  Call CPS immediately to have her parental rights revoked.

 

“Martha Stewart Clean,” I said.

 

“Uh huh,” the lady said.  There was a pause.  “I think you’ll be fine.”

 

“But don’t you want to know the active ingredients?” I asked.  I really was hoping I didn’t have to get his stomach pumped, or worry about him being unconscious, or burning a hole though his intestines.  He didn’t seem sick.  He was laughing and pointing to my nose and trying to moo like a cow, but still. 

 

“Yeah sure,” she said as she bit into a sandwich, stuck in some cubical in Dallas.  “If you want.”  What’s wrong with these people?  Aren’t they experts in poison? Don’t they have some advice?

 

“Water, Citric Acid, and plant-based detergent.”

 

“Yeaaah,” the lady said, her mouth full of ham.  “I really wouldn’t worry about it.  That’s harmless.”

 

I wasn’t sure whether the judgment in her voice related to the fact that I am a negligent parent, not noticing that my son walked right past me holding a bottle of detergent, or whether I spent five dollars on a bottle of distilled water with a few drops of citric acid.

 

In any event, this stuff won’t kill your kid if they accidentally drink it, and it managed to create suds when I tried to soak it up from the carpet, so I’m never buying anything else.  I’m a loyal Martha Stewart Clean consumer (when it’s on sale). Or, conversely, maybe I should just pay more attention to my child when they walk by.   The next time, it might be a butcher knife.

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

one liners, part two

August 29, 2011 By

Five year olds are officially hilarious.  At least I think so.  Here’s some recent statements said around our house that made me laugh.  I laugh a lot.

(1) “You see that?” she asked as she pointed to my son’s privates.  “I’m going to call that a hankerdoodle.  So if I ever say the word hankerdoodle, you’ll know what I’m talking about.”

(2)  (a few weeks later, during a bath) “Mom, don’t forget to wash the hankerdoodle.”

(3) “Did you meet some new friends at school?” I ask.  She shrugs. “We didn’t have formal introductions.”

(4) “I scratched my arm and it feels like I’m being scraped by a giant cheese shredder. A GIANT CHEESE SHREDDER!”

(5) “I’m going to call grandma and tell her I got crunched” (after her brother bit her in the face)

(6) “I love you infinity times infinity plus one and then times a hundred.  Plus two.”

(7) “Why can’t we ever go to Chunky Cheese-its? I think they have pizza.”

(8)  “You can just call it recess, mom” (rather than the more inferior “playground”)

(9) “One hole in my nose is all plugged up and I just don’t know what to do about it.”

(10)               “Why are all the states united?  What does united mean anyway?”

(11)               (Sobbing). . . “I just think it’s so sad that Angelina Ballerina lost her doll and that she didn’t get it back and I tried to look at another book that was happy to get over it but it just didn’t work.”

(12)               “I don’t want you to put bows in my hair.  I never want to wear bows.  Ribbons are okay.  Just no bows.”

(13)               “When I grow up, I want to be a cheerleader, a mommy, and a nurse,” she says.  (“Can’t you elevate that to doctor?” I ask.  “Maybe a dermatologist even?”) “No.  I want to be a nurse. Nurses get to leave the room first.”

(14)               “I don’t need a nap.  I’m not tired.  And I’m not being mean.”

(15)               “I’m so glad I have you for a mommy.”

(16)               “If I wasn’t born and another kid was born instead and you named her the same name as me, would you love her just the same?”

(17)               “You can always get more money.  Stores will give you change.”

(18)               “If he can’t say the word “passy,” (referring to her brother’s pacifier), it’s okay if he just says “assy.”

(19)               (Crying). . . “I miss my old teachers. I want to write them a card first thing tomorrow when I wake up.”

(20)               (The next morning). . . “Card? What card?”

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

Devotional for the screw-ups

August 19, 2011 By

Let’s just be honest.  I would NOT be perfectly happy living in a double-wide trailer, trying to decipher smudged expiration dates on ground beef packages in a Wal-mart somewhere in Oklahoma. Not in the land of opportunity.  Not in a country filled with air conditioning and sugar soda and live musicals.  I don’t need much.  I can take or leave Neiman’s.  But I’d work two jobs and struggle and save and find a way to move into an apartment with fake granite countertops and at least wear fancy dresses from Target.  This might mean I’m a horrible example to humanity.  Perhaps I treasure material goods over all else.  Well at 6 am, people, the only thing on my mind is a grande pike roast coffee with two raw sugars.  It’s just human nature, for goodness sakes.

 

Someone asked me recently how I professed to be a follower of Christ’s teachings when I am so ambitious and competitive.  “Those are goals of the world,” this person said, “as opposed to the teachings of Christ, which is to serve others over self.”  I was caught off guard.  I never really thought of the two as mutually exclusive, like to follow Christ you should just chill on the bottom rung of the ladder, eating peanut brittle and snickering, watching those other poor saps climb to the top.  If I had only known, I’d have never graduated college or gone to law school, clawing and scratching my way to wonderful, fulfilling jobs.  I could have gone to work at Wendy’s and saved me all that trouble.

 

I think there is a fine line between living the life God called you to live – using the talents and strengths you were born with to their fullest potential – and crossing the line toward an unyielding race for power and wealth.  As painful as it can be, I think it’s good for folks to question your faith and call you out in public once in a while.  It makes you actually wonder if you are living out the life God wants you to live.  And maybe, you’re not.

 

I like to be reminded of what’s most important in a way that’s real and honest.  A devotional for the screw-ups.  I want a mirror to constantly reflect my own life back in my face to make sure I’m using my talents for God’s glory and not my own.  But for goodness sakes people, don’t reflect life directly into your eyes.  You’ll see a long history of acid-washed jeans and huge bangs and pants that were intentionally baggy at the hips and tight at the ankles.  This might cause permanent blindness and defeat the whole point of the exercise.   Aim it at your cheek or something.  

 

I walked into a Christian bookstore to find such a book. Daily devotions for “real women.” I thought I’d just know it when I saw it, like there would be a woman on the cover with a red wine stain on her shirt and her hair pulled back in a greasy pony tail, attempting to make Chicken-with-40-Cloves-of-Garlic while her kids are in the background drawing on each other with markers. But as I would unfold the stories, day by day, I would unearth a person who was genuinely happy with her life.  Who had found her true calling. I’d be drawn to her and feel we were kindred spirits, reading with interest how she found time to worship when she needed to make peanut butter sandwiches. She would remind me in daily increments that I’ll totally make it, even if I did slip up and say a creative slew of curse words to my boss in a fit of anger about a budget report.  She would gently remind me that such behavior is not becoming to the person God calls me to be, and I’d agree, realizing that such words defame God and are icky and crass like the shoes that I refuse to give up to Goodwill. Do it! she’d say. Put them in a paper sack in your garage and haul them off!

 

Most of all, she would tell me that it will be okay.  That I didn’t have a choice to be ambitious.  After all, we all must answer to the call God gives us the best way we know how.  And just maybe, she’ll tell me about her own momma, sweet thing, who scrapped and saved in their double wide outside Tulsa to buy everyone Taco Bell.  Just to make sure I’m really getting the point.  Jesus spoke in parables too, but he used classy stuff like wine and wheat stalks instead of double cheese burritos.

 

So I looked for this book to tell me I was okay, most of the time. But all I saw staring back at me on the shelves were pictures of teacups, fake steam gently rising to the top, all calm and pink and reflective, sitting in pretty little displays. Women with great teeth and well-combed hair reflected in great detail how busy they are vacuuming and praying at soccer games.  They are probably kind and lovely women, I’m absolutely and/or possibly sure of it, but where were the milk stains and reading glasses?  Where were the unmade beds and dirty dishes?  What about the burritos? They didn’t chastise me for not praying every morning and tell me there is no valid excuse (none!) unless I’m in the hospital undergoing surgery for an abdominal infection.  Then, maybe I get a pass.  They just kept being nice and respectful.  They keep flashing that unrelenting, pasty smile. I need honestly, people. I need that gut-wrenching kick in the pants.

 

So I sighed and kept walking through the store.  Past the school supplies with “I Heart Jesus” scrolled in bubbly letters.  I strolled past the scripture mints and the bible covers and the ceramic plates that proclaimed the goodness of all things biblical.  They had complimentary coffee, but the house blend was empty.  Figures. I pondered for a moment whether my life would be exponentially better if I just owned a tea kettle emblazed with a quote from Psalms.

 

As it turns out, there isn’t a book geared for overworked moms who are intimidated by all those perfect teeth.  Maybe I’ll write it.  I’ll encourage these women to keep going, despite the fact that they drank one glass of wine too many and let their kids watch cartoons the following morning for three solid hours.  Despite the sippy cup that used to contain milk but somehow got stuck in-between the minivan seats and turned into curds and whey.  Despite missed life lessons and botched biblical opportunities and tangled tongues.  We can remind each other that tomorrow’s a new day.  There are more battles to overcome and morals to teach.  Keep praying!  Keep trying!  Refrain from insulting Oklahoma!

 

There goes that ambition again, wild and out of control. Maybe one day I’ll be lucky enough to sit through a tornado on the high plains, scared and shaking, wearing a cheap Wal-mart dress and hugging my knees.  I’ll hear God’s voice as clear as an arrow and realize that this world is but a wind that will pass.  That his love is forever.

 

It’s possible I might hear God where I am, through the limestone rock that encases my house, amidst the hum of the air conditioner, beneath the sound of my surround-sound stereo, over the laughter of my children, and despite the jangling of my Tiffany bracelet.  But I really have to listen. That’s what a devotional should really be about, anyway.  To drown out the nonsense and keep your ear to the ground.

 

Keep listening.  It’s easy in Oklahoma.  Not so much everywhere else.

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

the hammer

August 18, 2011 By

My son has no interest in toys actually meant for one-year-olds.  Just today, I set out a brand new lego table in our home office, all colorful and shiny with balls that roll and legos that fit together.  There were lights and music and a place for square blocks to rush through a tunnel into a holding area below. I whisked him up after nap and set him down into his wonderland of new shiny toddlerness, hoping for five minutes to myself.  I should have know better.

The reaction was the same as my husband’s facial expression when we visit Fredericksburg or worse, the mall.  The way he sits on the bench outside every store and would rather drive a stake through his heart than look at more dish towels or bracelets bearing the children’s initials or bread mixes at Williams-Sonoma.

“Do you think your folks could use this fish marinade?” I say as I poke my head out the front door.

“I Don’t.  Freaking.  Care.”  He looks like he might be coming down with some sort of migraine.  What’s up with his eyes all squinty like that?  Is he gritting his teeth?

“You might be right,” I say as I pop back inside.  “I’ll get the barbeque sauce instead.”

This is how my son looks at the lego table. It’s not like I handed him a can of peas.  It’s a bright shiny table with buttons made for children, for goodness sakes.  So far, his interests seem to be focused on tractors, hammers, balls, and electronic devices connected to power sources.  The other day, to my surprise, he went directly to an outlet and, with an air of confidence, began peeling off the childproof outlet protectors one by one while looking at me.  And then, just to show me he could, he slowly pushed them each back in.  He sort-of shrugged and walked away looking for a wooden spoon and something to hit.

My son walks past the lego table like it’s not even there and heads directly for my computer, and with the speed of a special agent begins yanking the cord out of the wall and flipping the switch to the off position on my surge protector.  I jumped up to chase him, but he begins sprinting at lightening speed to the printer whereby he starts mashing all the buttons with intense curiosity.  What about the legos, for crying out loud?  What about the buttons and lights and blocks?  He notices me hot on his trail and heads for the shredder, undeterred.

Finally, I sat him down in front of the toy (you’ll darn well like it, boy) while I went back to the computer to check my emails.  He pops back up and heads to the desk where he yanked down the pencil holder, found a small blue bead, and stuck it in his mouth.  I finally had enough.  I set the new table in the middle of what we shall refer to as his “toddler play yard” (it’s really more of a torture device since he just sits in it and screams).  “I just want five minutes, buddy,” I said as I lifted him into the play yard, complete with a wall of more buttons and toys and the new table now within easy reach.   As if trained in such things, he immediately pushed over his new table, climbed on top of it, balanced himself, and tried to use it as leverage to crawl over the top in sweet escape.   Finally, he used brut force to simply push over a precarious seam in the yard’s construction whereby he climbed free and headed directly for a pair of scissors.  If I can at least prevent this child from dying as a result of an early-childhood flesh wound, I will consider the sum of our childrearing efforts a success.

So far, my son has a limited vocabulary.  He can say “mee-yee-um” for his sister and “ball” and “nana” and “hat” and “up.”  But mostly, he just likes to hit things and dive bomb off furniture, perplexed that the laws of physics apply. The other day at a play date, he tackled a perfectly innocent three-year-old who happened to want the same ball.  He went for the legs.  Really put his weight into it.  I’m a little worried that if he has a crush on a girl someday, he might just run into her with his car.

He and my daughter are so very different.  She’s a thinker.  She is a five-year-old trapped inside a grown-up’s body.  Just today, she asked me for the name of a vegetable filled with sugar.  “You mean a beet?” I asked, remembering saying something about beets in passing at the grocery store.  She nodded.  “That’s it.  I have little places in my brain where I keep these things.  I just forgot to remember this one.  I’ll put it in one of those little places.”  I almost drove into the curb.  Who says such things?  My son just grunted and kicked my seat.

But it’s so lovely to have children who are different.  They get excited at different things.  My daughter sings and dances and colors and reads.  She uses words like “version” and “dapper” and “violet.” My son likes to run and explore and sweat and feel.  I can see the intensity in his little tiny eyes.  I can see the independent spirit.  He abhors constraint.  Don’t make me use those toddler play yards, I’m telling you.  I need room.  Freedom. It doesn’t matter if he has on shoes or pants or hits his head or starts to bleed.  He’ll just keep going.  I think he’ll be our outdoor one.  The one who likes to stand in the middle of a mountain stream and hike in the Rockies and feel his shoulders breaking wind like a knife when he runs through the storms.  Maybe he’ll be good at fixing cars, knowing when it’s the carburetor or when it’s just the battery. He shall someday be a good protector.  Strong.  Focused.  Intense.   He resembles my husband that way.

Someday, the whole family will again head to Fredericksburg.  I’ll leave my son sitting outside with his father, both of them making air guns motions to their temples while my daughter and I giggle about candle fragrances and tea bags.   I’m not intentionally raising my children to be different.  I don’t force my daughter to play with dolls or drag my son outside.  But God gave them very diverse hearts.  They are filled with opposite instincts.  I think it’s my job to just encourage what God has intended, to support them however they feel most free, and not try and manufacture their happiness with preconceived ideals I’ve created.

In this vein, I’m giving the lego table to goodwill.  It looks like I’ll be buying a lot more hammers.

Filed Under: Motherhood Tagged With: ,

one liners

August 8, 2011 By

Twenty things my 5-year-old said that made me laugh:

(1) Unicorns are real

(2) Today was the best day in my whole entire life because I got to chew gum.  I mean the best day ever.

(3) My throat hurts.  It feels like a hundred hammers are slamming on my neck.

(4) My stomach hurts.  It feels like a thousand tiny hammers are pounding upon my stomach.

(5) My head hurts.  It feels like — (“Yeah, yeah.  A million tiny hammers,” I say.)

(6) For snack today, I’ll have crepes. (“What?” I ask.  “Why in the world would you think we have crepes lying around?”)

(7) I mean currants.  I get crepes and currants mixed up sometimes.  For snack today, I’ll have currants.

(8) Mary Poppins is so sad.  She just wanted to help those people.  Please don’t make me watch it again.  Will my nanny leave me too? (“Uh, you don’t have a nanny. You can stop crying and clutching your pillow.”)

(9) (the next week): Why can’t we watch Mary Poppins again? You never let me watch any good stuff.  I love that movie.

(10)               I called John Denver.  Up in the Rocky Mountains. He said hello.

(11)               I’ll watch This Old House.  (“But don’t you want to watch cartoons?” I ask.  “No.  Today on This Old House they are putting in tile.”)

(12)               Maybe, to help me stop sucking my thumb, you can just put a nipple on it.

(13)               I like air.  But I loooooove pockets.  If I had to choose between the two, I’d choose pockets.

(14)               Don’t you ever throw away my fruit roll-ups again!

(15)               When you turn a hundred, you die.  Papa turned ninety, so he’s getting very close.

(16)               When my panties get too small, I’ll just save them for my brother.

(17)               Can God walk on the roof?

(18)               I’m going to play Jesus and break bread.  Except mine has peanut butter.

(19)               I have started a new restaurant.  It’s called Jalapeno Delight.  Everything contains jalapenos.  Except the milk.

(20)                Sometimes, I really don’t like it that you throw away my fruit roll-ups.  But I’ll always love you.

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

double shot

July 28, 2011 By

You know those moms who speak loudly and wear wrinkled clothes and are seemingly oblivious to how annoying they are?  Today, I was totally that mom.

My five-year-old daughter had a gift card to Barnes & Noble, so after work, I hauled both kids to the bookstore, stopping first at Starbucks (the one located inside the store that never has good pastries).  I began to question the lady at the register.

“So, in your estimation, how much caffeine is actually in this?”

“Uh, not much,” she said.

“What?  Not much caffeine in a freaking frappuccino?”  I stared at it like it was dead to me.  Like without caffeine, it was just a worthless, swirling mass of nothingness.  “How much compared to an espresso shot?  Do you know the milligrams?  Can you look it up in one of your handy little binders?”

“I really couldn’t say,” she said.  She rolled her eyes and tapped her little fingers on the register.  The lady behind me just gave me dirty looks.

So I gave up and headed for the children’s book section, heaving my one-year-old son forward in the stroller as my daughter went on ahead.  “Look, honey,” I said to my son, absentmindedly. “This one’s a pop up!”  I noticed an employee glaring at my son with disgust, so I rounded the stroller to check out the frontal view.

My daughter had apparently taken the opportunity during my caffeine rant to feed him old expired cookies found in the diaper bag, and now my son was chilling out, his shirt a bit too small and exposing his belly, covered in crumbs, with a book in his mouth.  He looked like a drunk guy eating a bag of chips.  Except creepier because he was eating a book.  With an incomplete set of teeth.

I wiped off the crumbs and re-shelved the books, and I heard my daughter.  “Hey mom!” she yelled.  “I have something to shoooow you!”  Another mom was sitting there reading quietly to her son and looked up – annoyed – to see if I could get this loud kid of mine under control.  When I finally eased the stroller down the aisle, cookie crumbs littering the carpet as I went bumbling by, my daughter showed me a pink box of crayons covered in princesses.

“What about books?” I cried. But it was her gift after all, and she could use it as she saw fit.  So I directed our little party to checkout.

There, some bored kid declared the price and grabbed the card from my daughter’s hand, swiping it before she had the chance.

“Wait!” I said.  “She wanted to do that!”

“Sorry,” he muttered.  “Too late.”

We were short, so at least my daughter was able to hand him an extra dollar.  I made a big deal out of it, handing her the money, instructing her to give it to the nice gentleman, to say thank you, and to ask for a receipt.  I glared at this punk with my alternate evil eye.

They probably all got together after work, the Starbucks lady and the children’s book shelver and the punk kid with braces.

“Did you hear that mom berating me about caffeine?”

“You mean the one who let her kid chew on a book like a rat and let her daughter scream across the store?”

“Yeah,” the punk says.  “She totally needs a life.  And an ironing board.”

The next time I head into Barnes & Noble, I’m not ordering a frappuccino.  I’m getting a double shot.  I’ll pay for it with pennies, dug out of my wrinkled pockets.

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

Fun times at the pool

July 25, 2011 By

The other day, I was sitting on the side of the pool, trying to wrangle a toddler in my arms while my four-year old was scooping mythical ice cream cones and flutter kicking in the water.  Mostly, she just looked bored.  Every once in a while she would offer me a half-smile, which is code for “uh, later maybe we can split a smoothie? Watch PBS? Mulch the backyard?”  Buck up, sweetie, I teleport back directly to her brain.  She sighs and keeps scooping.

Between my son’s cracker-eating and shrieking and my daughter’s bored looks, I made friends with a new mommy who was smart enough to put her little one in the YMCA day care.  She was calmly watching her twins swim next to my daughter. I’m all friendly and “oh your kids are so adorable” and “where did you get that swimsuit cover-up” and such, when the following conversation occurs:

“Your son is so precious!” I say.  “I just love how he looks like a little man.  He’s got these cute little arms and legs and he just seems to strut around like a grown-up.”

“Thanks so much,” she says.  She looks lovingly at her precious August, flopping around in the water, trying to hold his nose and paddle at the same time.

“I’m serious.  He is just about the most adorable kid ever.  The way he sort-of struts around with his arms out like that?  And his little bowl-legs?  Get out!”

“Yes, he does have a long torso,” she says.

“I’d say.  And just look at those legs!  Just want to eat them up!”  She sits for a moment without saying anything.

“He’s got dwarfism.”  She turns and aims her Ray-Bans back toward the water.  “He’ll probably make it to four feet if we’re lucky. I guess it’s starting to be more obvious. His legs won’t grow that much.”

No.  Please Lord, no.  Did I honestly just flat-out make fun of some smallish person with dwarfism?  I just thought he was a way-cute four-year old for goodness sakes!  I didn’t know!  I smiled in that way you smile when you accidentally spill coffee on your crotch or when your kid blurts out a curse word in public.  That horrified, pasty smile.  That smile that literally says “holy sh#t” without actually saying holy sh#t.

Only me.  Seriously, people.  Only me.

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

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