All Things Mom

Thirteen

2011-11-15T20:44:00.001-08:00

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow my baby turns thirteen. A teenager.

The last of my three. The most cuddly. The most outwardly loving.

How did it happen? Where did he go?

Such a soft heart. Today, he and his buddies were told they are on the C squad for basketball.
"It's because I suck," he told me matter-of-factly. Like it doesn't matter. But it does.

Who knew being a mom would be this hard?

Confession of a Marshmallow Mom

2011-08-21T07:38:00.000-07:00

Our daughter got invited to go boating today. It's the last weekend before she starts high school, she's completed her summer reading logs and has already emailed them to the teacher, and it's supposed to hit 100 degrees. There was no reason to say no... except my own jealousy.

So I agreed, with the condition that the clean her room.

Imagine my surprise when I went to wake her.
"It's 7:00," I said rather gruffly. "And I thought you were supposed to have cleaned your room so you could go."

She just blinked at me.

I used to teach parenting classes. I do know about consequences and follow through and how kids need rules and boundaries. I know she needs to know that when Mom says something, she means it.

I'm also aware of the 14 year old tornado that would have been released if I had done what I should have done, and not let her go. I know how disappointed her friend would be, who I'm sure was only allowed to invite one friend and she chose Kennedy. But these are just excuses.

At times, I am a marshmallow mom, and I'm sure that has contributed to fact that our home often looks like a frat house, that our children often argue and fight, and the fact that I do way more chores than anyone else.

And I'm gonna crack down, really. I've already announced that stuff left in the living room will be dumped outside. With school starting this week, new chore responsibilities will go in to effect. Bedtimes will exist once again... at least for the younger two...

I post this not seeking any support or condolences, but more as a reminder to myself that I really do need to get a little tougher. Most of you are probably guilty of the same behavior, at least once in a while (except for you, Lisa Souers), so maybe you need the reminder too.

I'm also hoping that Kennedy will get wind of the post and suffer a little embarrassment at the picture. Feel free to send her a note :-)

#apieformikey

2011-08-12T08:24:00.000-07:00

photo by http://mybakingheart.com/

Are you a person who "feels hard?" In situations where someone else might say, "Oh that's so sad!" you are moved to tears? I have always been one of those, and a couple of my kids are too. We're sensitive...perhaps to a fault, because socially, it's not ok to just burst out crying when you see a dog get hit by a car or hear of someone else's tragic misfortune.

I must say, Prozac has helped me with this. I'm not depressed; I love my life. But I really have to be careful and filter out a lot of the "bad", because it can get almost paralyzing. As I flipped through twitter this morning, I kept seeing #apieformikey on a lot of tweets. so I investigated a bit. Within minutes I had the story.

Jennie, a successful food blogger, married and mother of two adorable girls, suddenly lost her husband Mike to a heart attack this past Sunday. I don't know her, but they look to be late 30s-40-ish. I think the girls are 4 and 8. There was no warning. Looking through her stream, I saw she had tweeted Sunday that she had 13 days to get ready for a family vacation, then the next tweet was how she couldn't believe he was gone.

Until today I had not followed Jennie. Didn't even know about her. But her story set me back this morning. Especially the quick video of dad and daughter that she at some point had taken a moment to record on her phone. Take a look. How treasured has that suddenly become?

To help Jennie and her girl's through their grief hundreds of people are following her wish: “make a peanut butter pie this Friday and share it with someone you love… then hug them like there’s no tomorrow because today is the only guarantee we can count on."

On my surprise day off (thanks, boss), I am deeply saddened, perhaps more than most. But I am also reminded how important today is and how we all need to let those we love know just how much we love them.

Blessings to you, Jennie.

Boy to Man

2011-08-10T15:32:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know I write about my kids a lot. They are pretty much my world, and I am proud of them for not just what they do and accomplish, but for the people that they simply are.

The other day, our oldest, Michael, did something that spoke volumes about who he is, and I nearly drowned in a swell of love for him.

Last Tuesday he took my car to get it serviced at the Honda place by Walmart. Ten minutes after he got there he called me at work .

“You didn’t say it would take an hour,” he complained. “What am I supposed to do for an hour?!”

I told him to go wander around Walmart. Look at videos. Buy something to eat.

Grumbling, he said something about Burger King and hung up, and I went back to what I had been working on.

About an hour and a half later, he showed up in the office. He wasn’t grouchy anymore, and as he gave me the car key he said he was going to a friend’s.

“What did you do while you waited?” I asked.

“Well, I walked to Burger King and I was kinda hungry so I got four hamburgers. But I didn’t eat them because on the way to Walmart I passed four homeless people. There were four between Burger King and Walmart! I gave each of them a burger.”

Then he just kind of shrugged, said he’s text me later, and left the office.

I watched him leave and my heart caught in my throat. My little boy, my baby…

I know he’s almost grown. He kind of has a beard! I know my time left with having him as my child is almost gone.

But that afternoon, I was struck by the young adult he has become, and I realized that, as parents, we must have done somethings right.

Matthew 25:40

‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

I am From

2011-06-24T14:20:00.000-07:00

I haven't done many writing prompts as of late, but I saw this one over at The Wink, and then I followed a couple of the links on that site and soon found myself pondering my childhood and why I am who I am.

If you too want to take a stroll into the past, the template for this thought provoking prompt is right here.

I am from nighties warmed by a heat vent, from Chef Boy’Ardee Ravioli, from huge bowls of Cap’n Crunch slurped up while watching Saturday morning cartoons. I am from Gilligan's Island and "Never dress, until you Caress" from Little House on the Prairie.

I am from cool hardwood floors, sun shining through smoky windows, air always tainted with strong black coffee, the house on 3^rd Street. I am from bikes flying through—and later, beer hidden in—the laurel hedge. I am from chasing flying ants with a broom and playing war and climbing rough-barked trees.

I am from the house of roses, fuscias and rhododendrons, from the giant red cedar, from the acre of little farm nestled in the backyard of downtown. I am from raspberries, bursting with tang, from plums so heavy they drop from the tree, from home-canned green beans, put up in summer and plucked—too hot—from a saucepan in winter.

I am from Friday night eating out, and using good manners, from Daddy—who was not my father but was my Daddy nonetheless—and Mom and stories of the South and poverty and peddling. I am from a mongrel line, with no particular lineage—a mutt. (But mutts do make the best companions).

I am from worry and fear (because babies died before me). I am from be careful.

From stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about and you can be anything you want to be. (For a time, I was going to be a brown cow). I am from do your best and quiet let’s hear this now! I am from I love you.

I am from being dropped off for Sunday school, from loving kneeling at my BFF’s Catholic church, from tears at my First Communion. I am from guilt and fearing the wrath of Godand trusting the Son.

I'm from Alaska then Washington then Arizona then back to Washington (this is what divorce can do). I am from Kraft macaroni ‘n cheese and thinking margarine WAS butter until college. I am from good luck ravioli before basketball games, from ham and cheese sandwiches eaten in the gym, from Cinnamon Kitty.

From the barn my Dad built, telling me it was for goats when really it was for the horse I’d been pining for (and I believed him!), from being born in an igloo, from hiding my vitamins in a house plant—which grew very well. I am from watching my mother take night school, from hopgrassers and muhidity and “accidentally” pushing nasty cough syrup out of a window. I am from standing in the grocery store with my hands on little hips, indignantly telling my mom, "Well you're certainly not a choosy mother," when she insisted on the house brand of peanut butter.

I am from a drawer overflowing with snap shots, fading blue ink scrawled on the backs. From people I don’t know, never met. I am from grade school and buck teeth and orange ribbons and fat braids. I am from a mother who endured too much, a glass half empty. I am from a family of five, a family of three.

I am.

Aging Gracefully... or Not

2011-06-06T19:53:00.000-07:00

Y’all be proud of me. I drug my sorry ass out of bed this a.m. and headed to bootcamp at gym where the judge goes regularly, and I haven’t been to in… well, it’s been a while.

I used to take a lot of classes there—kick boxing being my favorite. Pretending to beat the crap out of an imaginary guy really did something for me. I developed a lovely right jab and left hook. My roundhouse wasn’t great, but I could follow it with an uppercut that would knock the poor guy out cold.

I was a regular then, and had earned my spot in the front row. The instructors knew me and would say hi at the Farmer’s Market and such. I felt like a rock star inside.

I’d see the older, perhaps a bit out-of-shape, ladies come in and head to the back of the class. I would be nice to them. I mean…they were making an effort, you know? They were getting out there and trying to keep the upper hand on the old aging process. They were cute.

Well, as one of my favorite bloggers would say, today I got bitch slapped.

I was that older, slightly out-of-shape woman. I’m still cringing at the recognition of it.

The judge and I were a minute late, which was completely my fault. A 5:15 class is early, WAY too early for a not-morning-person like myself. The judge brought me coffee and everything, but it just took me a while to become completely conscious. I know you other not-morning-people know what I’m talking about.

When we got there, they were just about ready to do a warm up. “Who are the new people?” the perky teacher called out. Um, yeah. So much for melting into the back.

There were four of us newbies. I believe I was (gak!) the oldest.

Warm ups ended and I was winded. And breaking a sweat. Not a good sign when the warm up is a hot up.

Thankfully, there were about 12 stations Perky Girl had to explain, which provided a great breather for me. I got my wind. My brain rallied. This will be great! I said to myself.

40 minutes later, my legs were shaking, my shoulders were in knots, I had a major spasm forming in my lower back, and I was dripping sweat. Mmmmm. I love a good sweat, but the pain, and yes, embarrassment, were putting a damper on the sweaty joy.

The Perky Girl paid a attention to me. She told me to go ahead and “modify” the moves. Oh, and start with the smaller weights.

Really, why didn’t she just announce, “Hey see this one here? She’s past her prime!”

“Modifying” became setting the ten pound weight on my head, instead of holding it above with straight arms. My V-sits became crunches, and then something resembling a turtle flailing about while on its back. When the instructor said we were done, I said a little prayer of thanks.

I had thought we had to do two circuits! I was wondering if anyone would notice if I sat in the bathroom for the second time through, stretching my crampy back and licking my damaged ego. But it was just one grueling 45 minutes, and we were done.

Perky Girl came over to me. “Are you coming back Friday?” she asked.

It’s a bit foggy now, but I think I said yes.

By then I was fully awake. I had the day’s workout in. I knew I had a whole bottle of ibuprofin just waiting for me at home. Come after-work hours, I wouldn’t have to feel guilty for not taking a walk. And Friday was a long ways away.

"Yes. Yes, I think I am,” I told her.

(Uh, no. That's not me.)

The Real Mother's Day Wish List

2011-05-19T14:48:00.000-07:00

“What I Wanted for Mother’s Day”… I came across this title the other day over at the Tales from the Mommy Track web site. It was sweet—deliciously so—and I highly suggest you take a moment to read. Anyone who has ever been called Mom will appreciate it, the rest of you might learn something.

Walking later that afternoon, sans ipod (amazing how much you can think when you turn off the noise) I began to compile my own list of what I had wanted for Mother’s Day.

Wait! Don’t get me wrong. I did have a lovely Mother’s Day! The judge gave me the beautiful Citizen watch I’d been eyeing for the last month or so, and I received two beautiful, detailed bird houses to add to my collection. After presents and brunch (at the restaurant where our oldest was working!), we went to the Cowiche Creek Nursery, loaded up on plants, and came home, where I puttered around the yard for most of the remainder of the day. It was pretty perfect.

Birdhouses and jewelry and plants are often on my wish lists, because I like them and they are possible. But like Risa Green on Tales from the Mommy Track, there are a few other “gifts” I’d love to receive.

My Top 10 Gifts-for-Mom

1. I want everyone in our house to be in a good mood. For a whole day.

2. I want the dog poop in the yard to be picked up. Weekly. And not by me.

3. I want to be able to find the super glue/duct tape/flat head screwdriver when I need it.

4. I want my children (teens) to stop insulting each other with phrases like, “You’re a vagina!”

5. I want everyone to quit saying, “It’s not mine,” when asked to put something away.

6. I want to have all three of my babies (again, teens) lounge with me on the couch.

7. I want everyone to stop coughing and be well.

8. I want to get the kinds of gifts my babies used to make in school, wrapped in wrinkled brown paper bags that have been carefully sponge painted with rabbits.

9. I want all the dark laundry to be brought to me before I do the dark load.

10. When they go to bed at night, for the rest of their lives, I want my babies to always know how much I love them.

Really. Is that asking too much?

Queen for a Day

2011-05-02T17:39:00.000-07:00

It doesn’t seem like very long ago that I celebrated my first Mother’s Day as a mom. My husband, baby and I went to church, where Father made something of a fuss over mothers. There were roses given to the oldest mother, the one with the most children, mothers of multiples, and every other category Father could imagine. I waited, hopeful, that I, with my six-week-old treasure, might be the newest mother, but lost out to a woman with her two-week-old. I was only a titch disappointed.

I had, after all, just joined this wonderful “club” of sorts. I was special. I was a mother, and on this particular day, I was going to be treated like the wonderful, amazing woman that I was.

Well, things didn’t go quite as I envisioned. Brunch at a nice restaurant was interrupted by my wonderful baby urping all over my dress. And he still pooped five or six times that day, and woke up five or six times that night.

I began to wonder what all the “Mother’s Day” hoopla was about.

I think many new moms probably have similar experiences, expecting and hoping to be treated as Queen-for-the-Day. After all, we do deserve it. I mean, there’s the whole birth thing (which is a tremendously amazing task), then we endure the postpartum period, that for many is marked by uncontrollable weeping (over nothing, mind you), sleep deprivation, engorged breasts (it may sound like fun, but it really hurts!), and feelings of love that are so strong they’re truly scary. And for a significant number of women, myself included, many of these “baby blues” symptoms continue and worsen, and we experience what experts now term “post-partum mood disorder”. For some, this condition can last several months, for me it’s been eleven years (except for the breast thing)!

So, after considering all of these wonderful, giving things I’d been doing, I found myself asking: Don’t I deserve to be Queen-for-the-Day? Shouldn’t all of us moms have a wonderful Mother’s Day?

The answer of course is Yes! We do deserve it. But the reality for most mommies is that the odds of getting the Queenie treatment are pretty slim, and letting go of that expectation is the first step to have a really great Mother’s Day.

I heard this news just before my second child was born, and I resigned myself to the idea. To be sure, my husband was extra helpful on those Sundays, and we went out for brunch or dinner, and if I was lucky, I got a good night’s sleep (the ultimate gift) because everyone else slept through the night.

They were nice Sundays, and I wasn’t exactly disappointed, but in all honesty, I think somewhere, mixed in with all those feelings of mother-child love and the fact that I wouldn’t give them up for the world, was just a tiny bit of resentment.

Until the year our third child came, and then I had the best Mother’s Day ever.

It started with having my heavily creamed coffee being brought to me (I’m so not a morning person), and after a few cups, I fixed breakfast. (There comes a stage, sometime after baby number two, when eating out becomes more of a chore than an enjoyment. With three little ones, it’s a long stage). Then, upon Daddy’s suggestion, we packed into the car to go to a nursery – a really nice one –where I was turned loose to look at everything. Being an avid gardener, this was a true gift. Dad watched the two older ones run up and down the rows of plants and baby trees, while I, with Jack tucked contentedly in his sling, browsed and imagined and shared ideas with strangers and asked for opinions. I picked out a couple of inexpensive bird houses and several lavender plants, and the kids chose (for me, of course) a lovely tin praying mantis on a stick. The entire trip was a joy; nothing got broken or spilled, no one fought with anyone else, and I was surrounded by plants and my happy family.

I was in heaven.

But the day wasn’t over. My husband – who will readily admit that little babyhood is not his favorite stage of parenting – then proceeded to watch Baby Jack while the older kids and I puttered around the yard all afternoon, digging and planting and pulling a few weeds here and there.

And when I went to bed that night, I thought, This was a perfect Mother’s Day! I held no resentments, and had no unmet expectations, because sometime in the last five years I truly lost my dream to be Queen-for-the-Day. Somewhere I realized that, at least to me, being Queen-for-the-Day was almost synonymous with being Not-a-Mom-for-a-Day. And that’s just a little too weird, since it Mother’s Day that were talking about.

Never for a minute do I wish I wasn’t a mom. Oh, to be sure, I wish I could use the bathroom for a few minutes alone, and that people might pick up their laundry and actually put it in the hamper before I get mad and yell. But I know, if it weren’t for my kids, I wouldn’t have the right to claim one May Sunday each year, and really, I wouldn’t be who I am today.

Of course, as the kids have grown, the holiday has changed a bit. They no longer seem to be able to go the whole day without bickering over something, but they will stop when I remind them, “Hey! It’s Mother’s Day, remember?” And then there’s the “When is it Kid’s Day?” question. (Isn’t every day?!) But they still shower me with gifts and school creations that I’ll treasure forever, and my husband still plans what has become our traditional trip to the nursery, where we putter around before coming home to plant my new treasures in the afternoon. My family gives me a little time to do something I really love, and, on that day, I feel free to take it without feeling guilty.

I’m already looking forward to next May, when once again the kids will hint at gifts they’re making at school, and I will find scraps from cards they’re creating at home. I anticipate the day, because I really know that to be loved as a mom is not about being put on a pedestal for the day, but being totally surrounded by those who love me. And that’s the Queen-for-the-Day treatment we moms all deserve.

Round Two

2011-04-07T16:18:00.000-07:00

My morning once again started calmly enough, until we left for school.

I wondered if the anti-school levy signs would still be there. Surely other Selah peeps had the same thoughts of removing them as I did, right?

Just past King’s Row, I saw that indeed, the signs were there. And so were three or four people! Dressed in faded jeans and plaid shirts and worn jackets, they waved homemade signs that were even more direct than the ones stuck in the ground. “It’s OK to Vote NO on Kids.”

That’s all it took for my buttons to be pushed. I wanted to honk—rudely. I really wanted to stop and say something—nasty. But of course, being the kind of person who strives to be understanding and nice to everyone, I did nothing.

Looking back now, it’s good that I kept to myself.

They were old people, just as I suspected when I first saw the signs yesterday. I said “Shame on you,” to myself when I realized I had made that assumption. I thought I was basing my theory on nothing, and felt bad that I had such a prejudice inside of me.

But after visiting today with someone way smarter than me (yeah dude, you know who you are), I realized where my older-people hypothesis came from, as well as a few other things.

1. I’m not such a bad person. In my experience, it is senior citizens who are most often living on fixed incomes. These individuals don’t have the options of taking second jobs, or moving up in the work force to make ends meet. If anyone is going to be against raising taxes, it’s going to be people like this; those with limited, fixed incomes. So in saving face (even if just to myself), I discovered that my shame-inducing initial assumption was not perhaps so shameful, and was actually based on knowledge. Whew!

2. Anti-tax is not anti-kid. I am ranting that our kids need quality education. They’re stating that they don’t want more taxes. While the two are intrinsically tied, they really aren’t related. (I think I just bitch-slapped myself!)

3. Wasted effort. My outrage at the anti-tax campaign is doing little—if anything—to help pass the school bond. I would bet that 90% of you who read my rants already vote. I’m not changing any minds… just preaching to the choir. The only way for Selah to succeed is to identify MORE pro-school voters and make sure they vote.

That said, I’m still angry. We still need to look to the future, and PLAN for it, by teaching our kids the best we can, and helping them reach their full potential. That means computers. That means state-of-the-art technology. That means investment.

But to get involved in a pissing match is a waste of time and resources. Plus, it makes certain mom’s really grouchy.

Vote NO on the Future

2011-04-06T19:57:00.000-07:00

While driving two of the kids to school today, I notices new yard signs lining the main street of Selah. I paused long enough to read one:

I don't normally use such terms, but WTF? There were 25 or more of them, placed alongside the Vote Yes for Kids signs.

It was startling, really. I've never seen a group go out and actively campaign against a school levy. Someone or some group spent money to have the signs printed, and then surreptitiously put them out in the middle of the night. They didn't even have the courage to do it when someone might see, stop, and ask them about it.

Our own children don't go to school in Selah. They attend a parochial school in Yakima. I realize that we are fortunate to be able to choose where our kids are educated, and that not everyone is in that position.

But never have the Judge or I voted NO on a public school levy or bond.

Today's youth is our country's future. I thought everyone understood that. Don't we want to prepare tomorrow's leaders as best we can?

My head ranted about this all day. At one point I decided I would go downtown tonight and quietly remove the signs. But that would make me as chickenshit as they group behind all this.

Who ARE these people?

OK. I think I'm done now.

Random

2011-02-08T17:46:00.000-08:00

This will hopefully become a new feature, encouraging me to blog a bit more.

Random will be those, um, yeah—random—topics, that don’t really fit into any of the areas I feel I am supposed to be writing. I say supposed because I’m still struggling with the point of my blog. I’m still reading how I need to find my niche, and have some expertise—or at least some good experience—in it. So far it’s been mommying. And getting old. And playing in the kitchen. No expertise in any of those, but experience.

But today is random. So I’d like to introduce you two my two little friends.

Yes, they are lady bugs. They may very well be man bugs, but I can’t tell—and I really don’t care—so they are my lady bugs.

I discovered these two little friends well after the nights had grown very cold last fall. Before the weather had turned, and the days were still spiking 70 balmy degrees, I had carried numerous neighbors of theirs (perhaps even family members) to the back door, dumping them gently on to potted plants outside.

Somehow, these two evaded my detection, until one day I spotted one moving across the ceiling. Hmmm. I watched it and thought about the fact that if the lady bug were a spider (male or female) I would be running for a broom-like weapon to eradicate all traces of life from the creepy thing. But she wasn’t, and since lady bugs are just so darn cute, I just couldn’t bear the thought of putting her outside, when she would FREEZE TO DEATH within 12 hours. Shortly thereafter, the second one revealed herself.

My daughter thinks I’m a little odd, keeping two bugs in the bathroom over the winter, but she has no desire to kill them either. We wonder how they are still alive, and what they’re eating (once I put a rice crispie near them, but I don’t know if they ate it or not).

Fortunately, one of my houseplants has come down with a few aphids this past week. This morning, while spraying it with insecticidal soap, my little light bulb went off. Lady bugs thrive on aphids. PING!

Now I’ve moved the rather large houseplant to the bathroom. No one uses the bathtub in there, so it’s not in the way.

Dinner is served!

Movie Theatre Cookies

2011-02-03T10:04:00.000-08:00

While waiting for a boring webinar to begin, i found this recipe. can't wait to try!! I think the kids will love :-)
Will you share a favorite find?

Movie Theatre Cookies

A Rolling Stone

2011-01-18T19:37:00.000-08:00

Can someone please tell me

When did this

become this?

And when did this little cutie

Turn into this beautiful creature?

And this one

Become a man?

The journey of mothering is a rolling stone on a hill,
Continually gathering speed.
The clumps of grass, the tree trunks, and hillocks
Only serve to pause the journey for the shortest of moments--
Perhaps just long enough to snap a photo
and freeze the instant in time.
And then the stone races on,
closer and closer...

To what?

The end of mothering,
as the fledglings fly.

Baby Steps

2011-01-12T14:06:00.000-08:00

Since I last posted, all three children have had strep. I’ve doled out dozens of pills, done—oh, I don’t know—maybe 13 loads of wash, gotten take-out pizza for dinner (I know…BAD), cleaned the bunny’s cage, and shaved my legs. Twice, I think.

I have thought about how I can let me be me. I spent the weekend doing something I love—cooking and baking—simply because I felt like it. Sure, the floors needed a mopping, the toilets a scrubbing, and the old body could have spent several hours at the gym. But being in the kitchen, creating, feeds my soul, so I did it.

(On a side note, spending all that time creating good food also fed my body , and now things are feeling a little tight, so this weekend there will be no kitchenpalooza, bake-fest , or other indulgent food activities. Sorry.)

Perhaps my biggest accomplishment came with the posting of that last blog. I read it and reread it. My “be nice” filter was on big time. Will this hurt anyone’s feelings? Have I said anything in a way that might offend? (I know. It makes me sick to type it out, but these are the sounds in my head). Everything appeared okay, so I hit the post button, feeling good that I got something up on the blog.

Until on my way home, I pictured a line that might be taken wrong by a potential reader. Would misunderstanding ensue? Would someone be mad at me? (Again, I know: sick). Cursing myself and my lily-livered personality, I went into the house, logged on and oh-so-subtly tweaked the sentence. Really—it’s almost exactly the same. You probably couldn’t even find it. It was that little. But I felt better (nicer?).

While being a wimp when I did it, a was proud of the fact that I was aware of how piddly-ass I am: I do care too much what people think, and I don’t like to make waves. I’m recognizing that, and will fess up to the fact that I consciously decided to succumb to that inner voice, rather than just have it sneak up on me unawares. So that's progress.

Well, I’m counting it as a bit of progress. I am focusing on the good, the glass being half full and all that. Baby steps. It’s not a resolution, remember? It’s just trying to get to me. Because really, I am a good person just the way I am. Even if sometimes I don't think so.

Do you have any new accomplishments, awareness or other thoughts you might share in the comments?

Blessings.

Happy New Year!....meh... whatever

2011-01-03T20:01:00.000-08:00

This year I did it. I consciously made NO resolutions. Not even the old standby: "To write more."

Because it's really just another day. January 1, December 12, June 7... It's just another day.

And by really thinking about hopes and goals, by telling myself, "This is the year!," I'm setting myself up for failure.

Again.

Because isn't every year The year?

I continue to change and grow (or shrink). I let go and grab on to knew things. And it seems frequently, perhaps always, I am aware of what I did wrong... "I have sinned through my own fault, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do..."

So rather than set major goals... especially the kind that life frequently goes against... rather than setting myself up for a measurement that CAN ALWAYS IMPROVE... I'm going to become more aware, and simply, be more ME.

You may think that's nothing... to be more ME. But as a don't rock-the-boat, smooth-over-every-rough-surface, avoid-the-unpleasant kind of girl I am, this is really kind of huge.

I will continue reading zen-ish blogs and following love-yourself writers. That part won't be hard.

I will make a little time to do nothing and just BE... that will take a little more effort.

And I will, eventually, become better at Being who I am--as opposed to being the person I think the world wants me to be.

So there.

Take That! Stupid Xbox!

2010-08-18T12:21:00.000-07:00

I hate the Xbox. Really, I do. It is the most violent entertainment for kids, and causes numerous arguments between our youngest, Jack, and me.

Before you say, “Well why’d you buy it?” let me explain: I didn’t. The judge and I got the kids a Wii, as it seemed the nicest, most family-friendly system available. Only our oldest never stopped grumbling about the “baby games” and the “crummy graphics” and how “completely lame” it was. Soon he had his little brother agreeing with him. The issue came to a head when the judge and I were out of town and the boys collected the Wii, and its paraphernalia (including my Jillian Michaels fitness stuff) and had their grandmother drive to the local game place to trade it in.

So that’s how an Xbox came to be the center point of our living room. And while 16 year old Michael plays it occasionally, it is 11 year old Jack who is obsessed. He begs and cries for M-rated games. (“NO”). He borrows them from friends (“Give them back”). He points out that the T-rated game I let him play is way bloodier than the M-game he wants, until I start to ask if maybe I should take away that T-one he has, at which point he’ll launch into some other argument. I hate that Xbox.

As I left in the morning yesterday, I told him he had one hour to play. I took my daughter and a friend to a mall 80 miles away, and around lunchtime, sent the judge a text asking him how things were going. He had come home to eat and found Jack “happily killing people.” When the girls and I got home around 3:00, he was on again/still. A little yelling ensued: …I can’t trust you… blah blah, …need a baby sitter…blah, blah. My heart wasn’t really into it.

As I lay down for a few minutes (I was shopping with 13 year old girls, you know), Jack came in and gave me a hug. “I’m sorry for playing so much, Mom.” He was contrite. What a sweet little fella. With that thought, I fell asleep.

Imagine my surprise when I emerged about a half hour later only to find Jack on the Xbox! My heart was into it now.

“Well I was bored… there was nothing to do!” he tried to reason. I didn’t even buy into the argument. Little liar.

Today, when I headed to work, I took the Xbox with me.

Yes! I know! What took me so long? I am a bit thrilled with myself! Apparently, unplugging it has messed up our phones, which would explain why Jack hasn’t called me asking me about the abduction. But who really needs landlines anyway? Take that, Xbox! I’m takin’ back my boy!

Delaying Gratification

2010-08-16T13:22:00.000-07:00

Remember that Veruca girl in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?

“I want an Oompa-Loompa and I WANT IT NOW!”

You can’t help but dislike her conceited, demanding, snotty little self. For me, it’s not so much the wanting that bothers me, it’s the refusal to wait, to delay gratification.

I’ve ranted a bit about this before. In an effort to make sure our kids feel loved and are well-liked and that no one is better than them—it seems that many of us parents buy our children way too much stuff, way before they need/want it.

You know what I mean. You’re shopping with your 12 year old daughter and she spies the cutest scarf and there are only two left and it’s on sale.

“Oh, Mama! Please?” she begs.

Attempting to teach responsibility you reply, “Well, do you have money?”

“Well, no. But I’ll clean my room as soon as we get home. And you can give me some now, then not pay me my allowance. And I will clean the cat box and empty the little garbage cans in everyone’s room too!” (Because those are her chores, and she hasn’t done them).

Oh, and did I mention there are only two left and they’re on sale? Tears ensue…”I promise, promise promise…”

I cave.

I remember—bear with me now—when I was a kid and we had to wait for stuff. We waited a long time for big things…like until Christmas or a birthday. Or, if we really wanted something badly enough, we worked and saved up to buy the coveted item ourselves.

When I was about 12, I wanted an English saddle. It was nearly $200, an unattainable amount for a 12 year old making three or four dollars a week. So my dad, bless him, said he’s go “halfers” with me. He figured if I really wanted something bad enough I’d be willing to work for it, and he would match me.

Well, halfers made the saddle seem attainable, and in about three or four months, we drove to Seattle and got the thing. I was flat out broke afterwards, but I had something I’d really wanted and I’d worked for it.

I think all children have a little bit of the burning pocket syndrome when they’ve got a little cash, but my 10 year old Jack is a prime example. He will get a card from an auntie in the mail with a nice crisp $20 in it. “Can we go to the store?” he’ll ask as it flutters to the floor.

“Why? What do you want to buy? I query.

“Oh, I don’t know. I need to look around and decide.”

This is typical. We’ve had the discussions about saving for a rainy day. His brother, and even his sister have shared about the great things they’ve bought after saving a while.

No go for Jack. “Well there is something I’ve been wanting…” he’ll tell us and then think of something he’s passed in a store at sometime. That money’s not just a burning in his pocket…it’s a real torch!

Anyway, we’ve been trying to address this issue, making Jack pay for things on occasion, which he does cheerfully if he happens to have money. So the other day, when Jack announced that his xbox mic was broken and he needed a ride to the store to get a new one, I asked if he had any money.

Instantly, he was on the verge of tears. “Well no! But I NEED it! I can’t play with my friends without it!”

I suggested he do some yard work with me. I figured two hours would be fair for a $20 reward. I outlined up the tasks needing to be done.

“All that?” he looked incredulous.

It wasn’t that much, and I figured if he really wanted the xbox thing, he could work for it, right?

Well, long story short, it took about 48 hours to get those two hours out of him. I didn’t nag, I just kept pointing at unfinished tasks when he’d come up and ask, “Am I done yet?”

There were tears… and stomping… and milk breaks and rests. Eventually, I figured he’d done his two hours. We had another nice chat about saving for times like these when something breaks.

This weekend, he asked to go to the game store.
“Do you have money?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” he said, emptying his pockets of about $25 cash.
“Where’d you get that?” Dad asked.

“I’ve been saving,” he proudly replied.

This is Eleven

2010-08-02T20:12:00.000-07:00

After just one night, as the second evening approached, the camp called. It was the nurse.

“Jack has a stomach ache. Is this normal?”

“Well, maybe?”

Jack is our baby. He’s 11. He’s a mama’s boy. And he’s at sleep away camp.
My heart is aching.

She has me talk to him.

“What is it, Jacko?” I ask.

He’s crying. “My stomach really, really hurts.”

“Did you poop yesterday… today?” I ask.

“No. It just hurts.”

Then he mumbles something.

“What?” I ask.

“Never mind,” he says. “Nothing.”

My heart is breaking. I want to go get him. That would make me feel better. But it’s probably not what’s good for him.

I put on my big girl/big mama panties. “Well, how ‘bout you lay low tonight, and if you still have a stomach ache in the morning, have the nurse call me back.”

“With a wavering voice, he says, “Okay.”

I talk to the nurse again. He has no fever. No tenderness anywhere. She’ll call if needed, in the morning. Otherwise, no news is good news.

Oh, this hurts.

Ah, Youth

2010-07-28T20:21:00.000-07:00

As I returned from a quick 3 miler this evening, I got caught in a downpour. In an area that averages about 6 inches of rain a year, I found the deluge rather refreshing, and reminiscent of my youth, growing up outside of Seattle.

I did hustle home though, after becoming thoroughly drenched. As I approached my house, from about a half mile off, I could see two bodies moving across the road, presumably to get the mail from the box. I watched, as the figures paused, then twirled and stomped. They shook their wet heads at one another and looked to the sky. I quickly deduced it was the neighbor girl and a friend, dancing in the rain.

How refreshing it was to see a couple of 14 year old high school students acting their age. In a world of “hurry up” everything, in a society where padded bikinis are sold in the children’s section, it was a treasure to see two girls being silly and playing in the rain.

Over the weekend, I headed off to bed while my own daughter, age 13, and her friend, stayed up to watch Disney’s Alice in Wonderland. Not Johnny Depp’s new one, but the old, manually animated version. Amongst the giggling and text messages and digital pictures they took of one another, they followed the movie, and I believe, thoroughly enjoyed themselves.

In this hurry up world, it’s important that kids still get the opportunities to be kids. It’s crucial that we parents allow (and encourage) our big kids to do kid things… To be silly, and laugh, and make forts with chairs and blankets, to make messes in the kitchen as they “invent new recipes,” to stomp in puddles and get wet on an unexpected rainy day.

Thank you, Life, for the unexpected reminders.

Unplug for the Summer

2010-06-10T13:56:00.000-07:00

With all the angst I experience watching my youngest shoot people on his T-rated xbox games (it’s just a game, Mom. Sheesh!), I had this ridiculous idea: what if we went electronic free for the summer?

Not electricity free… we could still watch the four crappy stations that we get sporadically on the television. We could still use the lights and hairdryers and such. But what if we gave up on the xbox and World of Warcraft and posting and Twittering? What if we quit texting inane conversations (“So he’s like, “What did she say he said?” “So he goes, “OMG Really?!” “That’s so like stupid LOL.” “JK :-P”), and saved texting for truly important stuff (“movie is dun. pick me up”).

Imagine the time we would have to do fun stuff together! We could go places like the hands on art shop. We could walk the dogs (all four of them) together. We could play board games and work in the yard, and oh yeah… spend lots of time at the neighbor’s pool.

We could visit the library then come home and pile onto the hammock to read. We could create new recipes. We might even have big, family-style sit down breakfasts featuring pancakes and hash browns and sausage. It would be okay to start the day with such a big meal, because we’d have so much more time to go outside and play and work off those calories!

Unplug for the Summer could go viral! I could post it, and if the right back-to-nature, organic, recycling parents spread the word, we could have a nation of kids and parents playing in their yards and hiking nature trails and sitting on curbs licking ice cream cone drips from their wrists.

But right there lies the rub. I could post it. Clearly, the biggest issue in this great idea of mine is that I too would have to unplug… from facebook, twitter and reading blogs. And really, that’s not gonna happen.

I gave up facebooking and twittering for Lent this past spring. I missed my friends. I got behind on current events (Okay, yeah, I’m usually behind on current events, but I got even behinder). I began stretching the rules—Well, I’ll just read a few updates and won’t comment on anything, I reasoned. My 16 year old son gave up social media and the entire internet (except for homework research) and did a much better job than I did.

We won’t be unplugging for the summer at our house. Instead, I think we’ll try to enforce the actual screen time limits that often get mentioned, but never get followed. Jack will get his daily xbox hour. He’ll have an additional hour somewhere… either on the TV or computer. Michael, who is 16, working a part time job and playing football daily, can set his own limits if they are reasonable, though he cannot bring friends to dinner via texting. If he wants to visit them at dinner time, he can just invite them to come eat with us.

Kennedy, who has her own computer (purchased with her own money), tends to lie in her room watching reruns A LOT. We’ll have to enforce some kind of time limit for that, but as with most 13 year old girls, social time will pretty much override the importance of anything else, so I just need to get her to someone’s house.

So if you drive by the house this summer, and notice The Judge and I working in the yard sans kids, rest assured, they are safe in the house, each plugged in to something. Honk your horn and give me a wave, and I’ll send you a tweet when I’m finished.

My daughter is a beast… and that’s OK

2010-02-04T20:23:00.000-08:00

Alright, really truly, it’s not okay. I mean for right now, anyway. Because I, and her brothers, and Mr. McC, have to live and deal with her every day.

She’s 13 and she THINKS she is the sun, and we all revolve around her. When she’s grouchy (and boy can she be grouchy!) we all steer clear. When I know making a perfectly respectable request will incite a major rage, I often don’t… Sometimes I just don’t have the energy to deal with it!

Yes, of course we love her, but sometimes we have to remind ourselves of that. She’s family, and often times she’s giggly and laughing and oh-so-smart it just knocks my socks off. She’s truly beautiful and can be kind-hearted and compassionate too. She’s wonderful, really.

But she has her moments—and it seems they occur much more frequently than anyone else’s moments. And she’s slow to forgive, and she doesn’t really care if you’re so pissed you can hardly see straight. So sometimes, life in the McC household is a little…hard.

But in the big picture—you know, like, her whole life—it seems to me this selfishness, this doing what she wants when she wants—will turn into a good thing.
Knowing her like I do, I can’t imagine anyone ever taking advantage of her. Boys who want more from a relationship than she does? She IS that Avril Lavigne song: “Don't think that your charm, and the fact that your arm is now around my neck, Will get you in my pants, I'll have to kick your ass, and make you never forget…” That is so her.

Just as she has since she was a baby, she’ll always make sure her needs are met. She will call it like she sees it. If she’s hungry, she’ll eat. If she doesn’t want to go camping, she’ll stay home and her husband will go without her—if he wants—and that will be okay with her. She won’t fret about him or worry if his feelings are hurt, because since they met they will have been honest and open. It meant they had a few (maybe more than a few?) loud arguments, but they say what they feel and its all real.

Yes, really, I’m probably writing about myself. My thirteen year old self-important daughter will be the things I’m not. She’ll be strong and self sufficient. While she’ll love her children, she’ll take pretty good care of herself too. If her needs—perhaps even just her WANTS—conflict with those of her kids’, a good share of the time, it will probably be the kids that miss out.
She will be the antithesis to the supermom that so many of us older moms tried to be (um, yeah, I so failed). What looks so much like selfishness to me now will look like very healthy self care when she’s older. Here children will witness and learn that taking care of oneself is every bit as important as taking care of others. “Woman” doesn’t mean sacrifice or martyr, and there really is nothing wrong with saying “No.”

So in the McC household, we’ll keep on pushing responsibility and compassion, because those are the things that will temper my daughter’s selfishness into a healthy sense of self-ness. And in the long run, I’m confident she’ll be okay.

Tragedy Averted

2010-01-18T18:08:00.000-08:00

Our son, Jack, got two geckos for Christmas. They're cute, one girl and one boy, and I find myself often wandering into his room to say hello or watch them eat (poor crickets).

Tonight, just before a buddy went home, Jack went in to feed Lizzie and Geico. Then the friend's dad came and we visited for a few minutes and they left and I moved back to the computer and Jack went into his room and suddenly let out a howl. My Oggie, one of the best cats who ever lived, was sitting in the tank. The top had been left off!

Amidst crying kids--Jack and his sister Kennedy--I frantically searched the cage. There aren't many hiding places. One hollow rock, a few fake leaves, and a half log. The male, Geico, was missing.

Quickly I cleared the floor of a week of laundry, many, many legos, and several shoes. No gecko. I looked under the RockBand drums, around the Nerf multi-shooter assault weapon. Nothing. Meanwhile, Jack sobbed on the couch.

Oggie ate him. Probably in one wild bite. There was no blood, nothing.

In the mean time, Dad had gone to pick up the pizza and had returned. He thought the cat should have thrown up or something. "Maybe it's in there," he suggests. "Did you check the shoes in the closet?"

So I go back in, with a flashlight, and check, like, 50 pairs of shoes. Nothing. I look FURTHER under Jack's bed, and behind the toy chest again. Big sigh.

I look at Lizzy, hiding in the leaves, and decide to look in the cage again. Nothing. Hmmmm. Without hope, I lift the edge of the green astro turf stuff that cover the floor of the cage and yell as I see a frightened Geico. He's so small he didn't even make a lump.

"Jack! JACK!" He runs in, and sees the little guy in my hand. More tears. More hugs.

Tragedy averted--thank you God.

The "New" Playdate

2010-01-15T14:57:00.000-08:00

I just got home from taking my 13-year-old daughter to have her hair done. It's the second time she's gotten highlights, as the school has just begun allowing haircoloring this year. She's too beautiful.

Anyway, $70 later, we arrive home to find the oldest on a computer, and the youngest (11), sprawled in a chair playing xbox. Then I see he's wearing this nerdy little headset and appears to be talking to himself.

Ah, this is the "live" thing he's been telling me about.

I sit down to watch a few minutes. Yes, it's a horrible game I hate, but since he's killing mutants instead of humans, it has somehow managed to make its way into the game library. "Mom, that's Jacob!" he says, swinging the view of his droid or whatever it is toward a red humanoid thing.

"Hi Jacob," I say. And then it hits me.

This is the playdate of the future.

No need to get in the car and drive to the park to meet up. Ride a bike ride over to a friends house? Forget it!

These are the... what do we call these years? The Tens? The Teens? Well, it's a new decade, and it's in the 21st century. Cell phones and ipods and $200 handheld personal games are the norm, even for 11-year-olds. My own little guy continually reminds me that all his buddies have their own phone, their own email, and I don't know... I think one even has a car a waiting for him.

So as I write this, I'm listening to one side of Jack's conversation. It's almost as disturbing as overhearing people in the grocery store having a loud and animated conversation with the little bluetooth thingy in their ears.

"So yeah, Lisa. I just got out of the hospital." (Silence.) "Yeah, yeah... two days! The infection had moved and my toe was like the size of an elephant! (Silence.) No really! The doctor said he's never seen so much... Hey have you tried that new digestive yogurt?"

Someone help me... please...

Well, Jack's conversation isn't quite as bad. I heard him announce that he had to pee and to wait for him (mad dash down hall, 5 second delay, mad dash back--clearly no handwashing involved). And there seems to be some conversation about who's on the bottom and whose on top... but I don't think it's anything naughty because those comments were followed by, "Watch out! There's a chopper coming down!"

The details are a digression, really. The point is, Jack is having a great time "playing with a friend" but there's no one here. There's nobody asking, "Do you guys have any cookies?" No doors being left wide open so that I can yell, "Hey! Shut the door!" No red-cheeked, cold faces asking for hot cocoa. No wet shoes piled by the door. No legos... nothing.

I couldn't live very well with out my mac and iphone and unlimited access to the internet, so I don't really have much room to talk. But I like my friends best face to face, hugging and laughing and right there IN FRONT OF ME. And for all their messes and hungries and rides that need to be taken care of, I like Jack's friends that way too, messing up the house, raiding the fridge and banging through the back door.

A Real Byline

2010-01-13T09:57:00.000-08:00

There is something gratifying--even more than the paycheck--about seeing one's name on a byline.
Thank you to Yakima Magazine for this opportunity!

http://www.yakimamagazine.com/print/index.php?pid=38

http://www.yakimamagazine.com/print/index.php?pid=42

Feeling like a loser

2010-01-06T19:45:00.000-08:00

I know I said I had turned over that new leaf. That I would begin to write in earnest. Frequently. At least a couple times a week. Then it got really busy at work, and i did write--a lot--but it wasn't writing writing, it was work writing. And so I didn't--write--again.

So perhaps it should be a new year's resolution. It's been one before. Alas...Loser.

It's so personal. So... honest. To really write, you have to not worry about hurting anyone else's feelings. That's an issue for me.

So maybe if I wrote for a purpose, instead of just to write? I've been following Gwen Bell a bit. She seams to write to inspire, though it is her job to help others in their business.

I could write for parents... moms. But I think there are probably already a million doing that. I need to find out what I have to say that might matter to someone else--to a lot of some one elses. Any suggestions?

I appear negligent

2009-11-14T20:49:00.000-08:00

But have actually been writign A LOT this week. It's all for work, but a bit creative. letters for the program, tweaking reviews on shows I've not yet seen to make it appear I have.

My baby will turn 11 in two days. 11 years old. How did that happen so soon?

#amwriting

2009-11-04T12:14:00.000-08:00

I follow this woman on Twitter. Johanna something. I think she might be a real writer, because she does it ALL THE TIME. She has made a group, #amwriting, and though I've not joined it, mostly because #iamnotwriting, it is a little bee in my bonnet, reminding me I should be writing.

So I'm going to try to use this blog as my impetus, going to try to write... I want to say "everyday", but am afraid that is setting me up for failure. "A couple times a week" sounds so lame. "a lot" is even worse. What is my issue?

I have thoughts. I find myself frequently turning off my ipod while I walk, just to let the thoughts wander. So I do have something to say.

An I LIKE to write. I love to hear people chuckle over faux press releases or new stories I put together. I'm thrilled to have a by-line appearing in a new news magazine this Friday.

I think it's time.

I know, we all get the same 24 hours in a day. I'm kind of sick of being told that. Because I have set up my life wrong--the way many women have--so that I'm pretty much in charge of everything. So a half hour of quiet time...time alone, without laundry to fold and dishes to wash, or homework to encourage... doesn't happen all that much. When I do get a little extra time, I've been trying to get out and walk a bit, since I don't exercise anymore. At all.

I think to write, let's say, 5 DAYS a WEEK, will be a New Year's resolution (again). Perhaps, if I think someone might be reading the stuff, maybe leaving an occasional comment, that will serve as a reward. I will bribe myself with that.

I'm agreeing with you if you're now thinking I'm totally pathetic.

But I'll try. No, I will write. At least here, several times a week.(Another non-committal word).
Check back. #amwriting

Halloween Fright

2009-10-31T22:18:00.000-07:00

He's 15. He's a good boy. He is right where he's supposed to be.

He's growing up way too fast for me.

"Are you dressing up for your party?" I asked.

"We're just hanging at her house," he said of the friend. "It's just like five of us. I have my tux tshirt on"

Okay. I know I know nothing about these things.

So an hour later, when i see my husband digging out an older, beautiful suit, i'm wondering why, until Michael comes downstairs in his "mobster" outfit. It's his black dress pants and shirt, and a burgundy tie I'd bought for his father. He slipped on the perry ellis double breasted jacket.

"Fits," Dad says.

It almost takes my breath away.

He's so frickin HANDSOME. I am his mother, and I know I'm biased, but even with his football helmet induced acne, he is a gorgeous young man.

On the way to his little party, I say the regular things... make good choices... call me if you need to... Since he's all in black, and it is Halloween, I ask him to promise to hold the hand of someone with a flashlight if they go out looking for candy.

I know, great excuse..."Uh, my mom says I need to hold you hand, kay?"

He'll be driving in a couple of months. He's looking into early admission to the University of Washington. He's perfect.

And he's growing up.

The Wink: Cents of Peace

2009-07-29T14:08:00.000-07:00

The Wink: Cents of Peace

Victim of the Economy

2009-06-24T16:03:00.000-07:00

I fear I too, may soon become a vicitm of the current economic climate. My job is hanging, simply because there just isn't enough to go around.

I had the chat yesterday with the boss, who, in spite of his reputation, is a just a pussycat. He doesn't want me to go. I'm a good fit here. Everyone here wants me to stay. They were nice things to hear.

But the fact remains, that something has to change.

I told my husband Michael, and he assured me we'll be alright... I'll find something else...I have good skills.

But it's not the lack-of-job money I'm upset over. I am flexible, and fairly confident that I could find other work.

I don't want to leave the PLACE and the people. I've never spent so much time where I had so much fun. Where I belonged. Where much of the time, I was really me.

I will probably try hang on doing contract work there. I'm told my desk will remain mine, even if I'm not a regular employee. My work will become part time though, I'm pretty sure, so eventually, the reduction in income will become and issue of sorts.

Of course I'll survive; I must. But I don't want to go.

Thanks, Amanda

2009-05-05T16:28:00.000-07:00

I read a blog on Tumble Dry today and for a few moments, I was taken back to new motherhood in a way I can only describe as physical.

Amanda wrote about the impending first birthday of her third (and last)baby. She described her thoughts as she nursed her little Finley; the delicious feel of the baby’s skin against her own, the sparkly eyes growing drowsy, the little circles she felt Finley tracing on her skin up under her shirt.

And suddenly I was there, holding my own baby baby and feeling that enormous magnitude of love and connectedness. I felt her warm belly pressed against my own, watched her eyes turn from sparkly to sleepy milk drunk, felt the fat little hand tracing a design on my side.

And then, as I read and remembered, my milk let down.

There is no mistaking the tingly, pins and needles feeling. And while I knew there was no milk to let down, my body tried.

It’s happened a few times in the ten or so years since I last nursed my own youngest child. Usually it was in a store, while some new mom let her newborn cry as she searched for the right hair conditioner or something. Drawn to those wails, those plaintive cries I found myself longing to pick up the stranger baby, to breathe against his tiny head and let him know he wasn’t alone. The milk came then.

But it’s been a while since that happened. And though nursing my children is one of those things I will can never do again, and will forever miss, I haven’t thought about it for quite a while. With working full time and looking for a child’s missing glasses and having an almost teenage daughter and teaching a 15 year old how to drive, those kinds of tender moments seem to come with so much less frequency.

Today's little surprise was a gift and a true blessing. Thanks Amanda, and Happy Birthday.

Potty Time

2009-04-17T15:37:00.001-07:00

This morning, while grabbing my allotted two minutes of toilet time, my daughter yelled through the door.

"Mom! Mumble, mumble..."

"Just a sec," I call back as I begin to pull up my pants.
I open the door a crack.

"What did you say?"

"I need you to sign this permission slip," she says as she hands it to me, while I'm still zipping my pants. "It's due today."

I feel a little annoyed as I take the paper. "Can't Dad sign it?" I ask.

"Well, no," she says. " He's in the bathroom."

15

2009-04-14T17:44:00.000-07:00

Today my baby turned 15, and tonight, all his friends bailed on him. For a while, anyway.

And in those few moments, when it seemed he’s be stuck with us at home… instead of hanging out with friends, I had to go into the bathroom and hang my head to cry. For him. And for me. Because he’s 15. And it’s no longer my job to make sure he and his friends are playing nice. It’s him. Against the world.

I never knew it would be this hard. these little baby steps to independence... only they aren't really baby steps anymore. He's running full bore.

The friends did come around. He went out, and had a good time. I was glad for him.

But it's so sad for me.

Confessions of a Blog Virgin

2009-04-11T07:25:00.000-07:00

I'll admit it. I'm way behind on this blog thing, and for a while, bought into the myth that blogging was for people with way too much time on their hands.

But then I found a few blogspots that impressed me. And I met the author or them, and she impressed me even more. So with a little encouragement from her, I'm jumping in.

I am a writer by trade, but mostly by nature. Always thought about writing a book... have a couple kid stories done but unpublished... but am now a working mom, and don't have nice chunks of time to do stuff like think quietly and write a book.

But I do think, and have stuff to share. So I'm gonna give this a try. Because buried underneath my parenting and wife-ing and keeping everyone happy there's someone else. And she deserves to be let out.