Mean Mommy

Spring is...

2009-04-07T09:29:00.011-04:00

Chasing shadows

Making the playoffs:

Diving in ball pits:

Turning five

Finding Easter eggs:

Blowing bubbles:

And resting in the shade

Happy April!

Mitch, you are my favorite because

2009-03-24T21:14:00.006-04:00

Another installment in the "you are my favorite because..." birthday series.

Mitch, you are my favorite because...

You are currently my biggest fan, filling my days with "I love you's," creating art in my honor, bringing me my rice pillow, helping me cook and clean, and laying your head on my shoulder while we watch TV.

You remind my of my father and my brother.

You tolerate your position in our household with such patience and understanding. You defer to Owen when that is what you need to do, and you help Paige along when that is what you need to do.

Tonight you sobbed and sobbed because you scared Paige with your new remote control tarantula, and you felt terrible about it.

You come up with the most creative reasons for staying home from school and for coming into bed with us at night.

You have mad style, particularly when you wear your Pink Floyd tee.

You say things like, "Mommy, sometimes you are so conservative," and "I'm even psyched-er about my field trip tomorrow!"

You recognize good music and you're not afraid to sing with the headphones on.

You can charm adults without coming off phony.

You beg to wind the bobbin on my sewing machine, and you love my sewing lessons.

You cherish the things I make for you and understand that their value comes from the love put into the making.

You taught yourself to ride a two-wheeler, persisting even after tearing up one side of your face in a bad spill.

You kiss me goodbye every morning, and you're the first to greet me when I come home from work.

When you were a tiny baby, you gave me some of the most peaceful, emotional, and spiritual moments of my life as I rocked you in the dark.

I love you Snitcheroo! Happy birthday, my school-aged boy.

Snow Day: A Haiku

2009-03-02T14:25:00.002-05:00

March, a fierce lion,
Bends flowers to icy death.
Me? I serve cocoa.

Holiday wishes for you and you and you

2008-12-22T09:27:00.005-05:00

The 8 phases of the holiday photo

2008-12-10T23:04:00.006-05:00

Oh, the blessed ritual of the holidays. The festivity, the preparing of home and heart to welcome miracles. The feasting, the sharing, the ushering in of a new hope, a new year. All this richness is what every mother hopes to capture in her children's holiday photo.

Phase One: Robot Children
You're just beginning. Everyone is hopeful, cooperative. They're trying. But it's just too stiff. Not warm enough.

Phase Two: Grandma tries to help
Grandma steps in and attempts to make everyone smile. From the other end of the room.

Phase Three: New Location
You decide an outside shot might be better. Everyone settles in, tries to find a comfortable pose. Especially the two-year old, whose most comfortable pose is less than modest. Also, your sister pulls into the driveway and yells, "Hi guys!" just as you're hitting the button.

Phase Four: Smile!
Everyone gets comfortable. You say, "Smile!" The two-year old really, really tries.

Phase Five: Impatience decends
Everyone is getting just a little bit anxious. "This is going to be it!" you reassure them. "Just one more!" And yes, it's a great shot! Cute! Natural! Semi-focused! Except the four-year-old forgot to sit still.

Phase Six: Hilarity
They've begun to mock your dream of a nice Christmas photo.

Phase seven:

Phase Eight: Tears
Now you've done it. You've made the baby cry.

Phase Nine: Wine
Mutter, "F it." Go inside. Pour a glass of wine. Pick a mediocre shot and live with it.

And no, you can't see it because you might be getting a Christmas card.

Holidays officially underway.

You are my favorite because...

2008-11-25T17:15:00.007-05:00

Another birthday (erm, only a couple of weeks ago...or so...), another favorite post (which I've been working on for a week!)

Owen, you are my favorite because...

You can't stop giving Mitch your birthday money. Every time you spend a little of it, you hand some over to him because you can't stand to see him disappointed.

Your enthusiasm for maps and geography facts has made me an expert on capital cities, both in the U.S. and abroad.

You share my love of Beverly Cleary, Spencer on iCarly (he totally makes that show watchable), drawing, chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, and sleeping for five more minutes.

When you asked me, "Are you the tooth fairy?" and I responded, "Are you kidding? I don't have time to fly around the world gathering teeth every night!" that was a good enough answer for you.

I said it last year, and I'll say it again: you laugh at my jokes, and you make jokes that make me laugh.

You have good taste in shoes.

Your performance and behavior in school are absolutely the best a parent could hope for, and you do so well because you love it, like I do.

You are proud of who you are and completely unselfconscious.

You are my first born, and there is something special about a mother's love for her first born. You introduced me to the meaning of life, and every day you are that enlightenment made manifest.

Snowball, I can't believe it's already been 7 years. In the same amount of time from now you'll be 14, and that makes me dizzy. Please don't ever leave behind the smart, funny, quirky boy I love.

November 4, 2008

2008-11-04T23:26:00.003-05:00

You are my favorite because...

2008-10-29T22:26:00.004-04:00

(For more about my "You are my favorite because" series, go here and here)

Paige, you are my favorite because...

You bobble out to the family room every night around midnight simply because you can't go an entire night without seeing your momma.
When you bobble out to the family room at midnight, half asleep, your hair looks ridiculous, and the sight of you grinning from behind those mangy locks turns my heart into butter.
You share some of my dearest loves: crackling fires, popcorn, dressing and undressing dolls, Diet Coke, sleeping with your head under the blankets, and the marshmallows in Lucky Charms cereal.
You are resourceful. If someone puts a basket of candy on top of the refrigerator, you do not hang your head woefully and think, "Oh dear, now I can't have candy." No. You find a stool, put it on top of a book, take off your socks, use the fridge handle as leverage, and you scale that damn refrigerator (or bookshelf, or dresser) and you GET that damn candy (or cellphone, or lip gloss, or remote control).
You grab my hand and say "show'mon" (a combination of "show me" and "come on") when you need something. And you sound like Michael Jackson when you say it.
You have no problem putting your brothers in their place and have been known even to make them cry.
As the smallest one in a family of six, you tolerate and forgive my tardiness in, say, writing your birthday blog entry, or teaching you colors and letters, or remembering to give you lunch.
Every night, after we've read books and said goodnight, you slobber kisses all over me until I have to physically remove your lips from my face.
You feel glamorous in a diaper and plastic princess shoes.
You understand the hilarity of walking around with a bucket on your head.
Every time I come home from work, you race through the house howling "Mommy home!!!" and fling yourself at my legs as if I've been gone for months.
Despite your limited vocabulary, you sing all the "words" in your favorite songs.
You are admired and doted upon everywhere you go because you have a light and a happiness in your soul that radiates outward, lifting the hearts of those lucky enough to cross your path.

Happy birthday, Bobble. I'm so glad you're two. But please don't turn three.

Dear Tech Services Guy

2008-09-29T21:18:00.006-04:00

I'm very sorry to report that my computer is malfunctioning, and I think it may be because I spilled about 8 oz. of coffee on the keyboard. However, before you charge me for a replacement, please allow me to explain how the coffee-spilling incident wasn't my fault.

It wasn't my fault because it was Nickelodeon's fault.

See, Nickelodeon accepts advertising for thousands...and thousands...of children's products, cereals, vacation spots, and toys. From these thousands of ads, they choose, oh, three a week to play over and over and over, effectively brainwashing children into believing there is no better toy in the whole wide universe.

Take, for example, the Rocket Powered Fishing Rod. Last year, my children, who had never before expressed one iota of interest in water sports, swore that there lives would be empty and meaningless until they owned this fishing rod, which casts--"at the simple push of a button"--FIFTY FEET into the water (which is, of course, really not that far, but FIFTY is an enormous number to anyone under 8 years old).

A few months ago, the coveted toy d'jour was the Phlatball, a "ball" that one can squish into a disk and then throw to someone who, expecting to catch a Frisbee, will be totally wowed to see it pop open to become a ball in midair. I say, if you want to play Frisbee, throw a Frisbee. If you want to play ball, throw a ball. No one needs a Fris-ball. But whatever.

One afternoon, my children spotted the Phlatball in Target, and because they had seen it on TV, they nearly peed their pants with excitement to see it live and up close in the store. It was on sale for $10, and Mitch had some birthday money. I tried to persuade them it that it was a useless toy; I tried to steer them toward other, more entertaining toys. I even suggested saving the money (the horror!) to buy something bigger and better. But no. It would be the Phlatball and nothing else.

The Phlatball now lives in the bottom of the toy box, abandoned by the boys because, yes, it is pointless after all.

However. One rainy day I undertook a cleaning project wherein I gathered all of our toys to weed out the pointless, forgotten ones. Once in the "toss" pile, the Phlatball was discovered by Paige, who both loved and was scared to death by its "popping back into a ball" feature. She became a bit attached to it in that kind of sick "I love what appalls me" way and refused to leave it in the giveaway pile. So it's back in circulation now.

On Saturday morning, I was checking my email and drinking coffee very carefully, ever mindful of my responsibility to care for the property of the good college that employs me and shares with me its electronic bounty. While I worked, Paige played with the Phlatball at my feet. After growing frustrated with her attempts for flatten the ball on her own, she decided that perhaps she could use my chest as leverage. So she stood up and pushed the Phlatball against my left boob, successfully, if only momentarily, flattening it.

I shifted a bit to avoid her pushing, and when I did, the Phlatball popped back into a sphere. Unfortunately, as the ball opened, its flexible sides snapped back into shape, and in doing so, clamped down on my left nipple.

Dear tech guy, it hurt. It really, really hurt. And so I jumped, thereby sloshing half of my coffee on my laptop, which let out this long, rather screechy and primal beeeeeeep. And then all went black.

I dried the keyboard with a hairdryer; I let it sit overnight; I even prayed a little because I haven't backed up any of my data in awhile. And much to my delight, the computer started up the next day. But now things are strange, as if the coffee perhaps caused a few of the computer's synapses to misfire. Now there are all these quirks, and strange error messages, and difficulties.

So I think I might need a new one, and I know you don't, as a rule, replace computers that have been damaged by the neglect of the employee, but see...it wasn't my fault.

It was Nickelodeon's fault. And my sister's fault for sending Mitch birthday money. And Target's fault for putting the Phlatball on sale.

So can I have a new computer? Please check yes or no.

O YES O NO

Love,
Ashley

Having fun with no money

2008-09-20T16:02:00.011-04:00

August and September are tight in our household, since I get paid on a 10 month schedule. Things get much better by the end of September, but until then, we have to make our own fun. No movies, restaurants, or trips to the zoo for us.

The upside is that, in our quest to find inexpensive entertainment, we often wind up having more fun than we'd have on a costly outing. We're more creative, and free activities usually center around simple togetherness.

Today we got a late start to our Saturday and didn't really feel like packing everyone up to go out, even though it was a gorgeous, cool day. So we had a picnic lunch in our yard. The result was lovely, one of those moments when nothing particularly special happens, but everyone feels completely content, congenial, and close.

We ate ham and cantaloupe:

We swiped each other's cantaloupe when supplies ran low:

We waved to the mailman:

We talked with our mouths full:

We even had a guest:

Who fell asleep after gorging on cantaloupe:

All in all a perfect afternoon, nothing that a movie or a shopping spree at Target could beat. Tonight: DVD, air mattress, popcorn, and late bedtimes. Good times.

Dethroned

2008-09-08T11:45:00.003-04:00

I can't remember where I read or heard that the terrible two's are a product of a child's dismay at discovering that she is not (as she'd previously assumed) queen of the world.

Until a child is about two years old, we're more willing to cater to every whim, to respond to every request. Then we raise our expectations. And the child's requests become more... complicated, to put it nicely. To put it not nicely, the child's requests become freakin' ridiculous.

At two, a child suddenly wants to participate in activities like

Tearing up rolls of toilet paper and trying to flush all of the pieces
Sitting on the back of the couch instead of on the seat of the couch
Calling the (poor, unsuspecting) first person on your cell phone's speed dial over and over and over
Watching the same Backyardigans sixty-eleven times in a row
Eating money
Climbing into your lap when you have a full cup of coffee
Painting the kitchen floor with ketchup (or soggy cereal...or syrup)
Drinking sixty-eleven juice boxes
Pounding on the computer keyboard (when she needs a break from turning the computer off and on)
Opening the fridge, then figuring out how to work the fridge lock and opening the fridge again. And again, and again.
Wearing nothing but a diaper and an old cheerleading costume that's 10 sizes too big
Eating hair clips
Climbing dressers and bookshelves
Protesting the car seat with back arching and flailing
Tattooing herself with magic marker
Taking off her own diaper at, let us say, "inopportune moments"
Turning the TV volume all the way up
Riding the cat

You see, it's impossible to say "yes" to such activities. And the toddler starts to learn that "no" will often be the response to her requests. The world is no longer simply eating, pooping, and sleeping. There is so much to be done, and so many people standing in the way of her doing it.

It's hard to accept, so the child melts down.

Paige will be two in October. Let the dethroning begin.

Hey people!!!!

2008-08-25T15:19:00.006-04:00

It's been one of those weeks. You know the kind: those weeks when both your house air conditioning AND your car air conditioning break on the same day. And then, even though you tell your husband, "Don't let the HVAC guy bamboozle you into some maintenance contract (cause you wouldn't dream of paying to prevent problems, you'd rather just cough up 5 times more after things break), you get home and your husband tells you he had to sign the maintenance contract because blah blah blah de blah blah.

And the Olympics are over, and your DVR keeps stopping recordings just before the actual end of programs, so you don't get to see one gold medal handed out or find out what happens "Next week on The Hills." And you discover that your work pants from Spring semester are, um, snug (to put it mildly). And the fun fabric shopping trip you have planned with one of your closest friends whom you haven't spent time with in way too long gets canceled cause the damn shop is closed on Mondays.

That kind of week.

But. In the midst of all my whining this week, I did find a few moments of unexpected joy. Turns out that riding around town with the windows down, something I haven't done in a really long time, has a kind of euphoric effect on passengers. Apart from the blistering, smothering heat at stoplights, rolling along with the wind in our hair this week has been kind of fun.

I think it's because driving with the windows down makes you turn the music up, which causes you to sing along more loudly than you otherwise might, which, it seems, releases endorphins, even in toddlers. There's been much giggling and smiling in the car of late, a good bit of waving out the window, and lots and lots of singing. I'd even be as melodramatic as to say that driving with the windows down makes me feel more connected to the world.

Apparently it makes Mitch feel that way too.

Why else would he release himself from his booster seat, lean across the front seat to stick his head out the window, and holler, "Hey people!!!!!"

See? Not all bad is bad. Sometimes bad can be good.

But air conditioning is better.

Mean Mommy Wordle

2008-08-22T10:05:00.002-04:00

Make your own

I won't grow up

2008-08-15T10:15:00.005-04:00

Here's a secret about me (not a secret if you know me in real life): I have a tendency to get more carried away by my children's games, toys, and crafts than they do. It's not uncommon for John to find me in the playroom coloring long after my kids have moved on to the next activity ('cause it's just wrong to leave a coloring book with a half-colored picture).

I have also been known to overtake the decoration of doll houses, the dressing of baby dolls, and the construction of block cities. And God forbid a child try to collaborate on MY paintings. Also, please don't forget to wash your brushes between colors because I hate when the paints get muddy.

So lately, I've been sewing doll clothes for Paige's dolls, nevermind that she'd be just as happy, if not happier, playing with naked babies. And, true to form, I've gotten just a wee bit obsessed with the task, often to the neglect of my actual parenting duties, like playing with the children and, er, feeding them.

But there are 4 "major" (i.e. well-played-with) dolls in the household and only one pair of doll pajamas. And only one party dress! How is one to have a proper dolly tea party if only one doll has appropriate attire? To remedy this situation, I've been working hard to expand the doll wardrobe with some vintage sewing patterns I bought on Etsy and Ebay (because who needs groceries?).

So even if my children are running around naked because I can't be bothered to dress them, by gum their dolls will be dandy.

See?

A poem, by Mean Mommy

2008-08-03T20:00:00.004-04:00

I just took a look at Google Analytics (which I never do, cause I totally don't care how many readers I have) and decided to check out which keyword searches have lead internetters to Mean Mommy. And reading through these keywords, I realized they tell the story of my life, in a vaguely poetic, essential kind of way.

So today, I thought I'd share my life...in a poem:

My Life in Keywords*

do you know the mommy game?

accidentally put baby's head in ceiling fan
baby fell and hit cheek
3 month old baby falls on tile floor
feeling guilty toddler bruise

nasty mean mommy

how well you know the mommy
20 and have gray hairs
crazy requests at McDonalds
italian bon bons

wild, mean and squeaky clean

outgrowing a mullet
waking to a bat in my room
losing teeth in my dreams

why are mothers so mean?
my children are driving me crazy

(*yes, these are actual keyword searches that have lead readers here. Blush.)

August is the cruelest month

2008-08-02T21:46:00.005-04:00

Some say it's April. But no.

August means temperatures in the 90s every day; insufferable humidity; a tighter budget (I get paid on a 10 month schedule); the start of the fall semester; astronomical electric bills; swarms of mosquitoes in our yard; and no vacations or holidays.

The older kids are 3 weeks into school and just starting to complain about homework and waking up early. Mitch is stir crazy, particularly with his partner in crime away at school all day, and is getting into all kinds of mischief. He's totally sick of me and asks every single day when school starts (not til September for him, helpmeJesus).

It's too hot to play outside, too boring to stay inside, and we're running out of ideas. And patience. Especially me...my patience is all but depleted, and I've become a sweaty, frizzy-haired, ponytail wearing, tank top sporting superbitch of a mother.

I can stand nothing but silence. If the children are doing anything but sitting quietly, my nerves get jangled. The noise, noise, noise is more than I can take on top of the cabin fever and the suffocating heat. And Owen and Mitch are the kings of silly lately, with all of these inside jokes that make sense to no one else but send them into convulsions of laughter, laughter which escalates into hilarity, which leads to Mitch leaping gleefully onto Owen and knocking him to the ground, which turns into someone getting hurt, which becomes a fight, which ends in tattling and tears and yelling, and people getting sent to their rooms. And when they come out of their rooms, it starts all over again.

And it's only August 2nd.

If you insist

2008-07-30T21:09:00.003-04:00

I've had several (2) complaints over the past week about the lack of new posts here at MM. Well, our lives have been exceedingly boring, and I haven't been thinking about anything interesting at all, so what...do you want me to be one of those blow-by-blow bloggers who write about the minutia of their daily lives? Who discuss what was had for breakfast, lunch, and dinner?

Actually, If I am going to update, it will have to be minutia, for truly nothing more has happened.
A few minutii (the singular of minutia?):

Owen started first grade. This may not seem mundane to you, but the move to first grade has been taken very much in stride by my first born. His favorite things about 1st grade so far: no naptime, real desks, and his new pal James.

We still have overdue library books. The librarian actually gasped when she tallied our fines. Luckily they can't charge more than $10 to clear your tarnished name.

We freakin' love Blue Bunny Cookie Dough ice cream. So much that we ate (as a 6 person family, mind you) an entire half gallon container in one day. Well...maybe the babysitter had some.

We saw The Dark Knight. And you know how when there's lots of hype about something it never ends up being as good as you hoped it would be? Well Heath Ledger lives up to the hype. I was shocked actually.

Paige strung three words together for the first time, and the phrase she uttered is one of my least favorites: "One more time!"

John perfected his butter/wine/lemon sauce. And we've been eating it on everything.

I'm getting fatter. See entries 3 and 6.

I cleaned the van. Because if you're in carpool line and trash falls out of the car when you open the door, it's way embarrassing.

I've been sewing my ass off. Which is hard because you totally need an ass if you're going to sit at a sewing machine.

Mitch has been prattling on and on all the live long day. Talking without ceasing and actually demanding my full attention as he does so. It's hard. So hard.

So there you have it, a slice of our boring lives and my flatlined mind. I think it's the heat that's made us sluggish. Perhaps I'll have more insightful things to say next time. But I do, after all, have to save some insight for Momformation since they, like, pay me. So if you truly need a fix o' the Mean Mommy, you can always check out what I have to say over there.

Best vacation photo 2008

2008-07-15T22:42:00.002-04:00

'Nuff said.

Top ten best beach experiences 2008

2008-07-14T17:07:00.004-04:00

In no particular order:

1. Playing "doodle guess" (like Pictionary but simpler and rowdier) with all 4 kids and my mom, who was a very bad sport. Mitch's strategy: scribble on the paper and say "YES!" to the first guess.

2. The tidal pool on the last day (aka the "baby ocean"). Paige was in splish splash heaven.

3. Watching Owen and Mitch driving kiddie go-karts. Owen = old man driver (complete with side swipes of parked cars) Mitch = bad ass teenager (complete with turns on two-wheels). The attendant feared for his life.

4. The filet mignon. Who cares if they were bought on the "sell by" date and lived a long life in my parents' deep freezer. Against all odds, they were freakin' delicious.

5. Owen asking my dad for his change at Dairy Queen after being told he could pick something under $4. He did pick a $2 item after all. The kid just wanted what was coming to him!

6. Owen loosing his first tooth. He was mighty brave about it, so the tooth fairy was generous.

7. My 5-year-old niece's submission to a round of Apples to Apples (such a fun game). The adjective was "haunting." Her card said "kittens."

8. Mitch's refusing to call my brother-in-law anything but "Dave." Not Uncle David, not even just plain David. Just "Dave."

9. The Orange Blossom Bakery vs. Gingerbread House Bakery taste test. Apple fritters went to Orange Blossom. Butterscotch cookies went to Gingerbread House.

10. My mom wearing the kids' hooded fish towel. While having a serious conversation during which no one was able to take her seriously. (She was trying to keep sand out of her ears on a windy day.) I so wish I had a picture.

Totally vaca

2008-07-05T08:20:00.004-04:00

If you speak Spanish, you might think my title means, "totally cow."

But no, it's VAY CAY, as in VAY-CAY-tion, as in, I'm so 80's cool I call it "vay cay."

All this to say, I'm away for a week enjoying a week of unpluggedness. Don't miss me too much!

Crushes

2008-06-29T23:03:00.004-04:00

What I love right now:

1. Once. I have a big time crush on this movie and the soundtrack. This song is gorgeous, gorgeous. ETA: Watch out! Spoiler alert in Comment #4! (Kelcey!)

2. The Toy Society. I want to do this. And I will, I will!

3. These mosiacs on Flickr. I just love them so much.

4. The Matilda Top. This could be the best 4th of July fabric ever.

5. Kiddie Records Weekly. Click and weep with nostalgia.

6. Park Slope by Erin McMorris. I want nearly every print in every colorway.

7. The Mama Bird Diaries. Kelcey left a comment here the other day, so I clicked over to her blog and read the archives for over an hour. She's hilarious and insightful and real and way hipper than I could ever hope to be but not in an annoying way at all.

Can you tell I had way too much time on the computer last week? Back to reality this week. Yay! (For real. I'm happy to be back at home with the hooligans. Believe it or not.)

From baby to toddler in 3 snips

2008-06-26T09:50:00.008-04:00

Remember when Paige was a baby?

She had goofy hair and a wobbly walk.

Now that walk is called "toddling," and her hair has been tamed.

Her mullet is gone. And along with it, the delicate, wispy curls at her shoulders.

Now she is, officially, a toddler. A big girl. An almost (gulp) 2 year old.

One who gets rather ornery about having her picture taken one too many times.

(Yes, she told the stylist she wanted the Kit Kittredge look. She's just trendy like that.)

Loose teeth and other mysteries

2008-06-23T14:35:00.007-04:00

It's that week again. The secret week of bliss. But don't tell. I'm working...remember? If anyone asks, I'm working, and it's hard work.

But truly, the work leading up to the opening day of the workshop is hard, and the first day is, if not hard, then stressful. I have to give a speech to a roomful of strangers and field myriad requests and complaints from the participants and faculty. I'm very good at faking poise and aplomb. Underneath, I'm all sweaty palms and knocking knees.

Last night, my nervousness about opening day bubbled up in a seemingly unrelated anxiety dream. This dream revolved around a current household drama, the drama called "when will Owen's first loose tooth fall out?"

Ever since I told Owen that the tooth fairy makes a very big deal over one's first lost tooth, he has been obsessed with its potential date of loss. He begs me for details, "Will it fall out in one day? Two days? Three days and 4 hours?" He has always required precise answers to his questions; unfortunately, I am not well-versed in the typical behavior of loose baby teeth. So I give vague answers, and he is crazy with anticipation.

In short, the loose tooth is a Very Big Deal.

So in my dream, Owen's tooth came out, and he gave it to me for safe keeping until bedtime. And I lost it. On a beach covered in tiny tooth-sized shells. For hours (in dream time) I crawled on my knees in the sand, frantically sifting and sifting and fretting and fretting. But I failed. I woke up before I found it.

It was one of those dreams that exposes very tender vulnerabilities: not only my fear of forgetting some detail for the workshop, or of failing to do my job in some way, but also the deeper, more penetrating and painful fears of a parent, the fear that I'm going to let my child down, scar him in some way, and, ultimately, lose him.

All of this incoherent rambling is an attempt to purge the uneasiness the dream left in me. I can't stop replaying it, feeling that panic and worry. And I realize that my worst fear, in my professional and my personal life, is letting people down, exposing myself as an impostor, as someone who never should have been given the job.

Keep up the good work

2008-06-17T14:13:00.006-04:00

It's good to get a pat on the back every now and then, for your employer to tell you, "Right on. You're doing great. Thanks for your contribution to the company."

Even if that employer is 6 and a half (and don't you dare forget the half).

My quarterly bonus:

Some more things about Owen that have me grinning these days:

He's writing books (I can die a happy woman), and they're pretty good books.

He's spent hours this summer pouring over his children's dictionary. This means he loves words = jubilant English teacher mother.

He won the Character Award for his kindergarten class this year. And if there is anything I want my children to be, above being smart or attractive or popular or funny, it's nice. I'm so glad he's nice.

He cracks up at the "Mahna Mahna" skit on the Muppets

He will do anything to make Paige happy. Except share his dry erase markers (thankfully).

He's grown so much this year and overcome nearly all of his insecurities about loud noises. This is huge for him. Huge.

He takes showers alone. This just blows my mind.

He's counting down the days until we go to the beach. He loves our beach as much as I do, and this makes my heart feel warm.

I'm so proud to be the mommy of this little boy. I hope I'm worthy.

We have a winnah!

2008-06-11T23:47:00.002-04:00

And I'm excited because, so very appropriately, this reader was the very first person to add me to her blogroll. I was way too excited when I realized that someone I didn't know liked my blog enough to link to it. In fact, it changed my perspective on Mean Mommy entirely. I suddenly had an audience (albeit a small one), and it made me a bit giddy (and for awhile, self-conscious).

So...the winner is the very smart, funny, insightful, hip, and just damn nice Gray Matter Matter s. Really, if she's not on your feed reader yet, she will be once you click over. (In fact, I just realized that the link to her blog disappeared from my sidebar. Sorry! I put it back.)

I'm also relieved that the winner is someone I "know" well enough to admit that the actual prize package I promised will probably not be mailed (or, erm, created) until the end of June because...dress show. I'm falling off pace a bit, so I'm about to turn the playroom/sewing room into a sweat shop where I will work long non-union approved hours for very little pay, but much gratification.

Congrats, Gray! Send me your mailing address when you get a chance: meanmommyblog {at} gmail.

Bless me, readers, for I have sinned

2008-06-10T21:25:00.005-04:00

It's been 3.5 years since my last major screw up.

I'm beginning to think every child is destined to live through some moment of physical peril that will make a good "look how badly I was treated" story for him to tell through the years. At least each of MY children have one.

Owen's: We were at the beach house, where the ceilings are low, much lower than the ceilings at home. He was a wee babe, about 8 months old, and I had just changed him on the bed in the master bedroom. In a moment of playfulness, I swooped him up to tickle his tummy with the top of my head. As soon as I extended my arms, I heard a sickening, "Thunk, thunk, thunk," and with suddenly realized I'd placed his tiny baby head in the way of the ceiling fan, which was ON. I nearly swooned. I pulled him back down, praying I wouldn't find a headless child, and was relieved to find him intact, but wailing. Luckily the fan was on the lowest setting, so it hadn't done much damage. Ultimately I was wounded far more deeply than he was.

Mitch's: If you've known me long, you've heard this story. I tell it again and again in an attempt to purge myself of the horrible memory. (It never works.) When Mitch was a newborn, he loved the sling. Anytime I went shopping, I'd put him in the sling because it kept him happy and kept my hands free to hold on to Owen, who was 2. As Mitch's neck got a bit sturdier, I started facing him forward in the sling with his feet curled up under him, certainly not a "recommended position," but I always kept one arm crossed in front of him to keep him from toppling out.

Except once.

We were getting out of the car at Target, and as Owen stepped out, he tripped and fell forward, heading face first for the pavement. Out of pure instinct, I lunged forward to grab him, and when I did, little Mitch (only 3 months old) toppled out of the sling and flipped onto the pavement himself. The moment I realized what had happened and looked down to see him lying there, howling, is forever imprinted in my brain. I feel almost nauseous when I relive it.

I took him straight to the pediatrician's office, and he fell asleep on the way, causing me to nearly hyperventilate with fear that he had a concussion. He was fine, of course. Me? Not so much.

And today. Today Paige received her story.

As I may have mentioned, Paige hates strollers, shopping carts and highchairs. Lately, despite the warnings imprinted on all grocery carts, I've been letting her sit in the basket instead of the seat, which she tolerates much more readily. Otherwise, I face sobbing and fit throwing and general misery for the entirety of the errand. So I succumb to her demands. Mistake #1. Mistake #2 was, of course, ignoring the warning on the cart. You see where this is going...

Today, again at Target (shut up, Anna), Paige kept standing up in the basket. I must've told her 103 times to SIT DOWN, but alas, 19 month olds have not yet been issued their listening ears, so it was an ongoing and mostly futile battle. My mom was with us today, and as I stopped to look at something, turning my back to the cart, Paige decided she'd rather be with Grandmommy. So she stood up and dove headfirst out of the basket. She didn't fall. She actually dove. On purpose.

Luckily one of us was paying attention (Grandmommy) and leapt forward to catch her. Sadly, the catching didn't exactly work out, and Paige hit the floor face first, but my mom's nearly catching her broke her fall and slowed her down enough that the result of her cart diving wasn't tragic.

Paige was hurt, of course, but not badly, and was probably more frightened than she was wounded. I, on the other hand, am considering leaping from the roof and landing on my face in an act of self-flagellation. I know better than to allow kids in the cart basket. I know better than to turn my back on Paige when she's riding in the basket. I know better... but I did it anyway. I gambled her safety to win a more peaceful outing.

Despite these horrible mistakes for which I am due some major penance, my children live on, relatively unharmed but equipped with darn fine childhood stories. And excuses for being a bit on the slow side. You're welcome, kids. Once again, you couldn't have done it without me.

*Tomorrow's the drawing for the blogiversary giveaway!*

Good morning, mommy. Here's vermin in your eye.

2008-06-06T09:15:00.006-04:00

It's 7:30 in the morning. Your oldest child, on his first day off of school for the summer, wakes up earlier than he ever does on a school day and makes a beeline for your room, where everyone in the household is now sleeping, including his brother and sister, who crept into your bed in the wee hours and are now sleeping with knees and elbows knifed into your ribs.

The oldest child "whispers" that you need to "get UP now" and wakes up the other children. You shoo them out of bed, and they all trot to the family room to watch TV. You reason that you need only 5 more minutes, and surely the 19 month old will be fine for a few minutes until you...zzzzzzz.

You wake to the middle child's voice in your ear, saying, "Mommy. I have a rat from the beach house." This statement doesn't make sense to you because you haven't been to the beach in 10 months, and...rat? You decide he's speaking some 4-year-old nonsense, give him a "mmmhmm" and try to drift back off to snoozeville.

"Mommy. It's a RAT. From the BEACH HOUSE."

This time you open one eye and turn to look at him, ready to chase off the boy and his nutty jibber jabber. And dangling one inch from your eyeball, swinging by a tail now held in the fingers of your young child, is a dead mouse.

For a moment, you close your eyes again. The situation is much too odd to be real. You must be asleep, still dreaming. The four year old disagrees. "Mommy!" he hisses. "It's a RAT!"

You open your eyes again and the thing is still there, it's wretched little claws all balled up, eyes shut tightly, body swinging like a pendulum in front of your nose.

"Is that a real mouse?" you ask the child, who nods earnestly. "Where did you find it?"

"In the family room," he tells you. "Paige found it."

"Wait. Paige touched it?"

"Mmmhmmm."

"Okay, go put that thing down. Now."

He trots away. You lie there for a moment, trying to remember if you'd seen any mice at the beach house last summer, then realize that your children are in the other room playing with a dead rodent, and it occurs to you that you really need to get the hell up.

They've left it for you in the middle of the family room floor and are watching TV again, unfazed by their gruesome discovery. You march them all into the bathroom and scrub their hands, then sweep the mouse into a dustpan and inspect it more carefully. It's a little bloody with a sort of terrified expression frozen on it's little whiskered face. The cats. What a night they must have had.

No match for your morning, though, and the joy of waking up to find a dead mouse swinging in your face. Bodes well for the rest of the day, don't you think?

P.S. Don't forget to comment on this post to enter my blogiversary giveaway!

Party! Whoo hoo!

2008-06-03T21:48:00.008-04:00

Welcome to the Mean Mommy 1st blogiversary dance party! My blogiversary (what an irritating word that is) was actually May 28, but I'm still going to celebrate, even if belatedly, because (at the risk of sounding melodramatic) blogging has changed my life.

Let me count the ways:

1. I no longer feel guilty for not keeping up my kids' baby books. THIS is my baby book, and it's a richer account of our lives than any fill-in-the blank keepsake could be.

2. I'm writing frequently again (maybe not in May, like I was supposed to, but still). It's not fiction, but it's words and sentences, and that's better than no words and sentences.

3. I've found (and in some cases, befriended) some very cool, smart, funny, interesting mothers in this community. In fact, there are more moms who share my sensibilities in blogville than in any other place in my life.

4. Blogging here lead me to write for Momformation, where I've met another very cool set of mothers, and which has become a rewarding and fun part time gig for me.

5. I've found a place to reflect on things that worry, delight, and interest me, and have been given invaluable advice, commiseration, understanding, and sympathy from my commenters.

6. Blog-surfing lead me to the world of craft blogs, which have not only inspired me, but also pushed open the door to a brand new side of me, one that has become a huge part of my life and my happiness.

So. I'm hosting a blogiversary giveaway. No contest, just a random drawing, and the winner will receive a yet-to-be determined package of handmade goodies from me. Just leave a comment, any comment, on this post and you're entered.

I want to hear from everyone! Who's reading? Show yourselves! I know some of you (hi Anna's friend Emily!) read but have never commented. Say hi!!! You just might when the prize o' the century.

Insert standard blogger excuse for scarceness here

2008-06-03T09:55:00.001-04:00

I know I've been scarce this month, despite the "Post a Day in May" thing (which I totally flubbed) but I've decided to go ahead with the dress sale that my friend Jane has been encouraging me to put together. Jane has been my friend for almost 10 years, and she has always been a great motivator for me, even back in the day, when she was my boss. Not only does she encourage those she cares about, she always helps, in big ways, to get things moving. For example, she is hosting the dress sale at her beautiful home and is fattening up the guest list with her contacts. She's good people. I'm lucky to have her in my life.

All of this to say, I've been sewing like a mad woman. It's been fun, something I feared sewing on a deadline would not be, but pretty much all-consuming of my free time. So I'm here, just not as much until the end of June.

Memorial Day Sonnet

2008-05-26T11:22:00.004-04:00

I heard this yesterday on A Prairie Home Companion, read by Garrison Keillor, who also wrote the poem. I don't listen to PHC much, but as a kid I loved the Tales from Lake Wobegone tapes my father had. My dad has been a big fan of PHC for years, and somehow Garrison Keillor's voice and mannerisms have gotten all tangled up with my emotions about my dad. So hearing this sonnet read in Keillor's voice gave me a big old lump in my throat. It's simply beautiful. One of the richest, truest poems I've found about war and death. You can listen to Keillor read the poem here.

Memorial Day Sonnet
by Garrison Keillor

We’re here to honor those who went to war
Who did not wish to die, but did die, grievously,
In eighteen sixty-one and in two-thousand four
Though they were peaceable as you or me.
Young and innocent, they knew nothing of horror—
Singers and athletes, and all in all well-bred.
Their sergeants, mercifully, made them into warriors,
And at the end, they were moving straight ahead.
As we look at these headstones, row on row on row,
Let us see them as they were, laughing and joking,
On that bright irreverent morning long ago.
And once more, let our hearts be broken.
God have mercy on them for their heroic gift.
May we live the good lives they would have lived.

Coveting

2008-05-18T00:34:00.010-04:00

I've been doing way too much online browsing lately. So that browsing doesn't turn to spending, I will now blog about my finds.

Mostly, I want this bento box. But I'm having a hard time justifying the purchase (for Paige's lunches when she's in preschool in 2 years? for my school dinners which I never actually pack, instead eating "dinner" out of a vending machine?)

These linen fabrics from Cicada Studio. So, so pretty.

Who's Hiding by Saturo Onishi. My kids love interactive books, and by "interactive" I don't mean electronic and annoying. Plus Japanese imports are the new black.

These apple shoes for Paige from Livie and Luca. Can't you just picture these on her big, fat feet?

A vintage swimsuit. This one or any number of others. But I wouldn't act so dramatic about it.

Excuses, excuses

2008-05-15T10:30:00.004-04:00

I know, I know. I've missed a day or two of "post a day in May." I wish it were "a post ALMOST every day in May." I've had a busy week: a big birthday bash for a good friend's little boy, a visit from my BFWUTBAWFF (best friend who used to be a work friend forever), Anna. These events plus dealing with inordinately obnoxious behavior from both boys has kept me from my leisure activities this week.

That and the myriad season finales on my DVR list: The Hills, The Riches, The Bachelor, Survivor, the finals of American Idol. It's important to keep up with TV too! One must do her pop culture duty, you know. I can't have the rest of the world knowing if Matt chose Chelsea or Shane and not know myself. (Shhh! Don't say! I haven't watched it yet!) It's damn irresponsible not to keep on top of current events.

So there you have it. I posted. Now I'm only 2 days behind instead of 3. More clever posts to come. Probably.

Lift your sk*rt to kirtsy

2008-05-12T18:42:00.004-04:00

I have a late mother's day post I'm working on, but until I get a chance to finish it (after grades are turned in tomorrow), I thought I'd take a minute to broadcast some news from the blog formerly known as sk*rt, a favorite site of mine.

Sk*rt now has a new name and a new URL. Everything else about it is the same: still great links, still woman-centric content, still the hang out for all the cool girls. But now sk*rt is kirtsy. If you haven't checked it out before, click over now. But be careful, you may get sidetracked over there. Possibly for hours. And hours.

And the winner is...

2008-05-10T20:16:00.002-04:00

After careful consideration and much waffling, I narrowed the list of names submitted to the name my new old sewing machine contest to three favorites: 1. Hazel (from Victoria), 2. Agatha (from Janet), and 3. Mrs. Penelope Turtleback (from Anna).

I wanted there to be some randomness in choosing the winner to save me from feeling too guilty, so I used a random number generator (Owen) to pick a number from 1 to 3. And the random number generator chose...
s
#1: Hazel!

It's the perfect name for my new old sewing machine: strong but pretty, old fashioned but not fussy. Thanks, Victoria! Email me your address at meanmommyblog {at} gmail {dot} com and I'll put your prize in the mail this week!

Wild girl

2008-05-09T15:02:00.006-04:00

Here's a little story about Paige that says a lot about who she is these days.

Today my mom, the kids, and I were at Michael's (the craft store) looking for new ways to spend money on stuff I didn't know I needed, and Paige was being rather...er...horrible. Lately she becomes outraged at the idea of riding in a shopping cart or a stroller, and she's very vocal about her displeasure. Once wrestled into the cart, she squirms out of the seat buckle and tries over and over to stand up, giving her poor mother visions of bloody chins and cracked teeth. Also, it's really annoying.

Lately my solution is to force her to stay in the cart until I'm 75% finished shopping; then I let her "walk," which usually ends up as running with me chasing behind her, frantically reshelving the items she's pulled down and smiling apologetically at other shoppers.

When my mom is with me, she and I can work like sheepdogs and maintain some semblance of control over Paige as she tears through the store. Sometimes my mom is even willing to do all of the chasing (though I think she secretly disapproves of my letting Paige out of the cart at all) and let me finish my browsing. Today was that kind of day.

At lunch, she gave me this report of her tour of duty: While chasing Paige up and down the aisles, my mom came upon a woman looking at some lovely Martha Stewart craft paper, a toddler perched demurely on her hip. The little girl had sweet blond curls, pinned back neatly with a be-bowed barrette, her hair falling in perfect ringlets on her neck. She was dressed in a crisp smocked sundress and little white sandals and was looking innocently, patiently around the store, giving little waves to passersby while her mother shopped.

Just as my mother noticed this woman and her darling daughter and had registered the scene, she looked up to see Paige at the other end of the aisle, bangs hanging in her eyes, barrette torn from her head and tossed on the floor of the knitting aisle, mouth green and sticky from my attempt at a lollipop bribe, one shoe on her foot, one in her hand, running toward my mother and hollering gleefully. "Like a wild girl come from the jungle" my mother said. She looked from the well-coiffed mother and child to her vagabond granddaughter, now hanging on her knees, wiping lollipop goo on her linen pants.

"Honey," she told me at the end of her story, "I wouldn't want it any other way."

Me neither.

Two reasons to love being a mother

2008-05-08T20:49:00.004-04:00

Made at preschool by Mitch (the flowerpot, not the sign) :

Made by Owen after he got in trouble for being rude to me today:

Translation:
To Mom, Love Owen
I am 100% sorry about what happened. It will not happen again!

Heart in a puddle on the floor.

p.s. Don't forget to enter the contest!

Name that machine

2008-05-07T13:32:00.006-04:00

I know I already posted about my new old sewing machine, but I just can't help saying, again, how much I LOVE this thing. Everything about it. The way it looks, how heavy it is, the sound it makes when it's stitching, its cover. It has a soul, this machine. And so it needs a name.

I keep trying to give it grandma names like Rosie and Martha (also talk show hosts' names, I now realize), since it's at least 40 years old, but so far nothing has stuck. So I turn to you, my loyal readers (all 12 of you). I'm having a "name my new old sewing machine" contest and the winner will receive a custom-made zipper pouch much like the one pictured below (in different yet equally charming fabric):

Submit your names in the comments, and I'll pick one by Saturday, May 10. And please, at least one or two of you have to play. How embarrassing would it be to have a giveaway that no one entered...

But oh, those su-hum-mer niiiii-hites

2008-05-05T21:27:00.005-04:00

One of my favorite things about summer is playing outside with the kids after dinner. The hours between dinner and bedtime are my favorite of the day anyway because our chores are done, daddy is finished working, and everyone is well fed and happy. We often play a game with the kids or do some drawing and coloring until bedtime.

But in the summer, we go outside. Sometimes we take a walk, sometimes we just play in the yard. I love the light of summer evenings and the feel of the air. I still get excited when the fireflies come out. I love being barefoot on the driveway, feeling the heat of the day radiate under my toes.

Tonight was one of our first nights outside after dinner. John lit some firework snakes we had left over from last 4th of July, and even though it started to rain, and the snakes made it look like the driveway was pooping, it was a gorgeous evening, a harbinger of a summer full of warm nights. The first one of the season.

Strawberry pickin' on a Sunday in May

2008-05-04T21:20:00.008-04:00

Today we had a "best laid plan" that actually went off as I'd imagined it. Usually when I arrange a charming family outing, imagining the sweetness of an afternoon together, doing something that the children will love and be grateful for, the outing goes awry and ends with me exclaiming, "Why can't we just enjoy a fun day together without (insert obnoxious behavior here)," then feeling ridiculous and old because I sound so like a mom.

But today was charming. It really was. The sun was warm, the strawberries were gorgeous, the children were enchanted by the idea of picking their own food (Paige just like carrying the bucket), and we got 8 pounds of beautiful berries for half what they cost in the supermarket.

Now we have a lovely vanilla cake with strawberries and cream cheese icing. And a pile of stained clothing on the washing machine.

And we have strawberries to eat for a week and some to give away in yummy treats for teacher appreciation week, and some to put in homemade milkshakes. Strawberries are Owen's most favorite food, so we also have a very happy boy.

Summer resolutions

2008-05-03T13:19:00.002-04:00

I gave my last exam today. I'll grade like a mad woman for 2 or 3 days, turn my grades in, and then face a long summer of freedom--freedom from folders stuffed with ungraded papers, freedom from fussing with unfinished lesson plans, freedom from students handing me excuse after excuse for late essays and missed classes. If only teaching literature meant just teaching and none of that other business. Oh the joy that would be.

I have ambitions for the summer, of course, and I thought perhaps thinking them through here, committing them to binary code would help solidify my commitment to these ambitions. So. This summer, I hope to:

Clean out the house. Really, really clean out the house. In fact, I'm hoping to reduce our belongings by half.

Sew a lot and toy with the idea of sewing more seriously.

Be more creative with the kids. Less TV and computer, more play.

Teach Owen to swim (it's high time, I know, but the boy's a fraidy mouse).

Teach Owen to ride a two-wheeler (see excuse above).

Revive Mommy Blog Round Up

Increase my contributions to Momformation

Set up an office space for John

I should stop there before the list gets so long I run screaming away from it. I tend to overwhelm myself with ideas of how to use my free time until I'm at a loss about where to begin and end up doing nuttin'.

Happy summer (to me)!

A post a day in May

2008-05-02T15:49:00.004-04:00

Though I am a day late, I decided to participate in Jenny's (of the lovely allsorts) Post a Day in May mainly because the button she has for participants is so pretty, I just wanted to display it on my blog.

And also because THE SPRING SEMESTER IS OVER!!! And now (well, in a few days, after the mountain o' papers is graded) I can give more attention to my beloved pasttimes. Like last summer when Mean Mommy was born and sometimes I posted twice a day and also kept up the now languishing Mommy Blog Roundup, whose abandonment causes me daily guilt and sadness. I love MBRU. I just haven't have time to maintain this blog, write for Momformation, keep up with work, laundry, diaper changing, general child rearing, and get my daily sewing fix.

Speaking of sewing, I have some gorgeous pictures to share. Both are amazing recent thrift stores finds: a vintage Singer 328K from the 1960s that works like a dream (for $10 dollars!) and an unbelievable quilt top, whose every hexagon is a beautiful piece of vintage fabric. (For more pictures of the quilt fabric, click here.)

I'm in love with both of these things. The sewing machine especially. It's such a good, sturdy machine, obviously lovingly cared for by someone for years, and I was very lucky to find it. When I sew on it, I feel giddy.

Ok, I promise, more coherent posts to come throughout the month.

Sisters

2008-04-25T22:21:00.005-04:00

The bond between Paige and Bailey is too sweet for words. Bailey's arrival is always met by squeals, bouncing, and full-speed, charging hugs. And Bailey's patience and tenderness have reached new levels with Paige. They are 12 years apart, but sisters are sisters...no matter the age difference.

Up, up and away

2008-04-23T22:04:00.004-04:00

adsfsadfads
I have a "from the heart" entry about Owen up at Momformation today. I wish I could cross post! But I can't, so click over to read it. Sniff sniff.

New games

2008-04-18T11:43:00.003-04:00

I know! Let's play "What's new on my sidebar?"

Then, after you figure out the new sidebar element, we can play "Watch how Ashley asks you to admire her sewing without directly asking you to admire it."

Then we can play the ever-popular "Find all the imperfections in these amateurish handmade dresses" and "Persuade Ashley not to quit her day job."

Yes, I'm still sewing busily and with as much zeal as I had right after I got my machine. It's been a long time since I got so much satisfaction and joy from a hobby, probably not since I was 13, writing dozens of treacly folk songs using the same 6 guitar chords. And maybe not even then.

If you're good, I'll post a picture of the three pounds of vintage buttons I just won on Ebay. Opening that package was bliss, a dazzling combination of my love for sewing and my long-time adoration for objects formerly owned by old women.

Look for amateurish dresses sporting Bakelite buttons on my Flickr page soon!

How well do you know Owen?

2008-04-15T21:25:00.004-04:00

Here's a sampling of the quiz about himself that Owen gave me today on the way to school (answers below):

1. What is my favorite dinner?

2. What is my favorite movie?

3. What is my favorite TV show?

4. Where do I like to go after school?

5. Do I know the answer to 12 plus 13?

6. Do I know the answer to 23 plus 39?

7. Once, at Kroger, I saw a hockey game for sale. How much was it?

I got 6 out of 7. Guess which one I missed.

(answers: 1. Spaghetti; 2. The Incredibles; 3. Deal or no Deal; 4. The playground; 5. Yes; 6. No; 7. $15.99)

Stuck in the middle

2008-04-08T18:41:00.008-04:00

Poor Mitch. He's struggling right now. Again. I don't mean to push off his misbehavior on being a middle child, but lately I do see why he might be gunning for attention. Any attention. Good or bad.

Here's Owen: firstborn, smart, bringing home Looking Like a Learner and Terrific Tracker awards every other day (which are not so very hard to earn, incidentally), first to do every interesting thing.

Here's Paige: darling baby, only girl, doted upon not only by family but by perfect strangers, many of whom will ooh and aah at her cuteness while looking right over the head of a perfectly adorable blond haired boy.

Here's Mitch: 4 years old, having accidents at school almost every day, talking back then claiming "you broke my heart" or "it's like you don't even love me" when reprimanded, going ape wild in every public place in which we dare to step foot, falling to the ground in the middle of the road because he doesn't want to hold my hand, slapping at me when refused a request, snapping at me to get my attention, knocking both baby sister and big brother in the head for no (conscious) reason at all, screaming at me from the back seat of the car because he doesn't like the song on the radio, making gigantic messes in the playroom and refusing to tidy up...etc. etc. etc.

I know I've written about my hellfiend before. I probably even listed the some of the same out of bounds behaviors. And trust me, I am reacting to and handing down consequences for each and every incident, but lordy-me it gets exhausting. Currently the middle child is grounded from going on errands with me (that means no Target for a week. I must be really, truly mean), banned from computer games, and on the cusp of losing tv/video privileges. I have even gone so far as to consider taking away his beloved Dee Dee. And if you've met Dee Dee, you understand the extremity of such a punishment.

On the other side of things, he's also in an intense mommy-love phase, where every 5 minutes he coos "I love you sooo much," or "You're very pretty, mommy." He insists on hourly hugs, kisses, and nose rubbing and fishes for my compliments all day long: "Does my shirt look nice, mommy?" "Do you like my hair?"

The irony is--and this is true of my other children too--the qualities that drive me the craziest are also those that are most endearing to me. I'm not looking to extinguish Mitch's spunkiness or tame his stubborness. I admire his righteous indignation and his his refusal to back down without a fight. But I do require sane outings, basic respect, and a nix on the snapping at me like I'm a dog.

Truth is, I've missed him on my errands this week. Without someone to chase after, refuse to buy Icees for, and shush 4003 times in an hour, a trip to Target is almost, well...boring.

Parenting math

2008-03-30T14:32:00.002-04:00

Inspired by Owen's incessant math-related questions ("Mommy, what's 21,432,394 plus 78? What's 4,934,987 plus 436,346? What's 234 plus 43?) I've decided to work out my own equation based on recent household events:

Number of time Paige pooped yesterday (4)

PLUS The number of years I have left to enjoy comments like the following from Mitch: "Thank you so much for washing my socks, Mommy. You are sooo pretty" (2)

MINUS The number of months my new laptop cord lasted before it got wrecked by children tripping over it (2)

PLUS The number of nights a week I feel like cooking dinner (0)

PLUS The time Owen woke me up this morning (7)

MINUS The amount of money I spend at Target every month (200)

PLUS The number of romantic dates John and I have been on in the past 3 months (0)

PLUS The number of months I have left before Paige can talk, thereby adding to the never ending chatter and driving me utterly around the bend (6)

PLUS The amount of the PowerBall jackpot that John is convinced we will win thereby relieving all of our financial hardships (46 million)

MINUS The number of times this weekend that Bailey has thought she knew better than her loving parents (15)

EQUALS On a scale of one to ten, the number representative of how badly I need a vacation (45,999,802)

Well ain't that the bees knees

2008-03-29T21:36:00.004-04:00

I just sat down to update the ol' blog and couldn't think of a damn thing to write about. Then I saw I'd been tagged by the hilarious and insightful Gray Matter Matters for "Meme Friday: The lazy person's post," which I totally win, since I'm soooo lazy I didn't even know I'd been tagged until Saturday night. So now I have something to blog about. Yay.

5 Things

First, the rules:
1. Each player answers the questions about themselves.
2. At the end of the post, the player then tags five people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves a comment letting them know they've been tagged and to ask them to play along and to read your blog.

What I was doing 10 years ago - 1998
1. Working as a tutor, a waitress, and an editorial assistant
2. Fighting with John
3. Applying for grad school
4. Playing Word Ox online far too often
5. Sleeping in almost every day

Five things on my to-do list today
1. Shop for a new washer and dryer
2. Vacuum the house
3. Sew my sister's placemat purse
4. Pick up a refill at the pharmacy
5. Grocery shopping

Snacks I enjoy
1. Popcorn (#1 all time favorite snack ever)
2. Cheezits or almost any other type of cracker
3. Ice cream
4. Oranges
5. Chips

Things I would do if I were a billionaire
1. Buy a new house with a "sewing annex," a cozy study and a library with a fireplace
2. Hire a housekeeper
3. Hook up my parents and my brother and sisters
4. Invest money for my kids
5. Travel

Five of my bad habits
1. Procrastination
2. Poor money management
3. Poor time management (aka putting off chores to do fun stuff)
4. Snacking at night
5. Staying up way too late

Five places I have lived
1. Richmond, VA
2. Raleigh, NC
3. Boone, NC
4. Atlanta, GA (just for a summer)
5. Durham, NC

Five jobs I've had
1. Counter girl at the Barbecue Hut
2. Cashier at the university food court
3. Sales person at an antique store
4. Editorial assistant, then Assistant Editor at a literary mag
5. Teacher

Five bloggers I tag
I'm skipping this since it's already Saturday and it might be lame to tag someone for a Friday meme on Saturday

You are my favorite because

2008-03-24T15:16:00.008-04:00

Today is Mitch's birthday, so I'm continuing my "You are my favorite because" series.

Mitch, you are my favorite because...

In our family, you are your own species. Everything about you is different, not in a black sheep way, but in very charming, unique and sometime hilarious ways. Even your physical features are singular; everyone else has dark hair and eyes (except Paige, whose eyes are smoky gray), but you are bright blond, your eyes a crisp, clear blue with a depth that exposes every emotion.

You contain not an ounce of shyness and have a way of drawing strangers to you in your friendly sincerity. You succeeded today in soliciting "Happy Birthdays" from everyone whose path we crossed, including the man working the McDonald's drive-thru. You have thoroughly charmed every adult you're close to: your teachers (and Owen's teachers), your aunts and uncles, your grandparents, my friends (especially your secret real mom, Anna).

You are affectionate and kind, but unwilling to stand by and let someone hurt you. You have faced me, hands balled into fists, eyes brimming with tears, and scolded, "I don't like the way you're treating me, Mommy." From only 6 months old, you'd beat the floor in rage when I took an object of interest away from you. In your relationship with Owen, you are the dominate one, regardless of your "little" brother status. You came home from preschool one day with a story about an older boy who'd said something mean to you. You told him, "Do not talk rudely to me." You are self-assured and forceful, but not without tenderness toward those you love, especially Paige, the apple of your eye.

And oh my lord, you say the funniest things. Some recent examples:

To dad and me when we made fun of a TV show: "You guys have a really bad attitude."

To Aunt Blair about her (actually very nice) boyfriend (said with your hand on Blair's arm): "You don't have to marry a guy like that."

To me after I asked you if you liked the bunny I sewed you for Easter: "Well, I did want that bunny, but I'm sorry. I changed my mind."

About your birthday: "Everyone in this family feels my birthday in their heart."

But my very favorite thing about you these days (as you move through an intense mommy-love phase) is the way you lean your head against me, wrap your arms around my waist, and tell me, "Mommy, I love you so, so, so, so, so, so much."

Mitch, I love you so, so, so, so, so, so much, too. Happy 4th birthday!

On your birth day:

My all time favorite picture of you (4 months old):

First birthday:

One of your last days as a three year old:

Happy Easter, happy spring

2008-03-22T22:18:00.006-04:00

This is why I wanted a sewing machine

2008-03-17T17:29:00.004-04:00

To make old fashioned, simple dresses for Paige. She'll wear this (probably with a sweater, sadly) for Easter.

It's the third dress I've made for her, and the most successful by far! The pattern was about as simple as it gets.

I'll post a picture of her wearing it soon.

The changling

2008-03-15T21:22:00.007-04:00

I fear a malicious fairy crept in Paige's bedroom window some time last month and snatched away my dear sweet girl-child, leaving an imp of a fairy baby in her place.

She seems to have developed a trouble-seeking radar, which activates the moment her fat little feet hit the floor. She wakes up, pitter-pats down the hallway, and the radar flips on. I can see it working. She looks left and right across the room, up and down from floor to ceiling until she find her first target: a glass of water left on a low shelf, a spool of thread within reach on the sewing table, an open box of crackers. By the time I've wrestled her away from the first target and dealt with the aftermath, her work on target #2 is well underway.

Her standbys are the desktop computer and my sewing box. If the desk chair is left untucked, her radar flashes wildly, and she bee lines for it. All I have to do is look away for 20 seconds and she's there, standing in the chair, the computer already starting up, and her pudgy fingers clacking away on the keyboard. If I dare forget to close and fasten my sewing box overnight, I'm in for a painful cleanup within first 10 minutes of the morning: tangles of thread, far flung (and dangerous) piles of spilled needles, a colorful scribble of fabric marker on the rug or wall.

This morning she found Owen's box o' writing implements, top wide open. Bad enough it's full of crayons and markers, Owen keeps an ink pad in there, as well. Markers and crayons Paige has plenty of experience with. But an ink pad? Here was something new, something to be pried open, something wet and squishy. I was in the kitchen fixing coffee and John was sitting at the kitchen table with is back to Paige. She was well within eye shot, it's just that she was very, very quiet. (The radar also has a "parent sensor" which warns her to go about her troublemaking silently.)

John spotted her first, and I swear, he sounded a little bit afraid when he called me: "Ashley! Oh crap. Ashley! She's a mess. Oh man. She looks like an animal!"

Her face was blue from forehead to chin, her nose a particularly deep, purplish shade, as if she'd rubbed it in the ink, planning to make nose prints (on the wall, I'd bet). Her hands were covered, too, of course, and her pajamas. And when we laid her on the bathroom floor to strip and wash her, she howled. "Don't cry, wolfgirl," John said. "It's just a bath."

She's forever plotting her next move. She finds days-old food on the floor no matter how well I vacuum. She pulls the cereal boxes down from the cabinet and dumps their contents on the kitchen floor. She eats the cats' dry food, plays in the toilet, sticks other people's toothbrushes in her mouth. And all this even though I am, I swear, a watchful, engaged parent.

My little changling, mouth always sticky from eating some garbage or other, clothes perpetually stained, pants ever droopy, and her twinkling radar-eyes buzzing all over the room.

She's a right mess, an imp with a mullet, a refuser of barrettes, but I dare not take her for a haircut. Lord knows what they'll find under that mop: the mark of the beast, maybe...or a tangled, matted mess of week-old oatmeal.

Is there really a Calgon?

2008-03-08T23:40:00.003-05:00

And can it take me away?

This has been a tragic weekend, beginning at 6 am Friday morning with the littlest one throwing up what seemed like 3 days worth of meals on my bed. Her first tummy bug...funny, there's no page for that one in the baby book. This comes, of course, on the heels of virtually 3 months of sickness in our household. I don't know what we did, but the universe seems really pissed at my family.

Then there was some other unhappy stuff, too complicated to relate here, and some financial stuff that I won't bore you with, and then, a few hours ago, there was Mitch, wandering around the back of the house in a half-asleep daze, leaving a trail of puke behind him as he stumbled from room to room (the worst of it landing--where else?--on my bed). And now I'm sitting beside him as he sleeps fitfully, raising up every 10 minutes to dry heave.

You never imagine this stuff when you picture motherhood. No little girl ever plays "stomach virus" with her doll babies. No one ever muses, "One day, I'll be a mother, cleaning puke off the tiny strip of floor between the bathroom sink and the wall and from inside the crack at the top of the floor molding."

I'm feeling drained and sorry for myself. It's a been a long damn winter.

If...

2008-03-05T13:25:00.010-05:00

I were more dedicated, more willing to act on my ideals and my aesthetics (I don't know how to explain that, but...maybe you know what I mean), I would move somewhere and build a house like this and live there with my family, where my kids would grow up exactly the way I want them to grow up. We seem so far from that most days.

In other words, I wish I were a hobbit.

But really, look at this house. Isn't it just like a dream? And the family who built it (who are probably sick of the hobbit jokes) is 100% inspiring.

Here's the inside:

Squeaky clean

2008-03-01T21:42:00.011-05:00

A nice long bath does everyone good, yes?

I, myself, used to enjoy baths until I lived with 3 children whose filth creates the need for weekly scrubbings of a tub that still never looks completely clean.

What I'm talking about is the nice long baths my children take. There's almost nothing they love more. In fact, bathtime is such a gigantic treat, that if one child is in the tub, the others appear from all corners of the house, begging to join him. That is why bathtime now means a tiny tub crammed with 3 children, one of whom is growing quite gangly and one of whom is nearly drowned by the rising of the water level when the aforementioned gangly child enters the tub. Still, they manage to make enough room to play, a task which could delight them for hours if their teeth didn't start chattering at the 30 minute mark. (There's a drought in these parts people--a person can't just add hot water to the tub willy nilly.)

But. As much as they love it, bathtime is, for me, a logistical nightmare. A grand pain in the ass. In fact, just the other day, my son and I had the following conversation in Target:

Son: Mommy, can I take a bath tonight?
Me: No. You took one yesterday.
Son: Pleeeeease?!?!?
Me: No!
Son: But, mommy, I'm so dirty! Look! Look, I stink!
Me: Not! tonight!

Afterward I realized that the shoppers around us must have been full-on judging me for refusing my child's pleas for good hygiene. Well, people of Target, I know that, in our house, bathtime has very little to do with bathing and everything to do with breaking out the Spongebob foaming shaving cream/body soap and the squirty Spiderman toys that came in the Cap'n Crunch box.

Still, though child-washing breaks my back and inspires grumbling at the gallons of water sloshed on the floor, their baths do me good, too. I'll admit it: I love my children more when they're clean. Some people get that feeling from watching their children sleep. But for me, there's nothing more adorable, more satisfying and huggable than a squeaky clean kid in fresh pajamas. It's even better when they're babies, when they climb up in your lap post-bath and you get to bury your nose in their soft, lavender-scented hair (which was, only an hour prior, crusted over with syrup and yogurt).

My freshly scrubbed children are sleeping next to me right now. And yes, their slack-jawed slumbering faces look angelic. But it's the scent of tear-free shampoo and Spongebob body soap that makes me misty.

Sigh. I can't wait until next week, when I finally let them bathe again.

Why I grew 20 more gray hairs today

2008-02-26T22:49:00.003-05:00

Well, we're all sick. Again. Now it's some nameless virus that isn't the flu but feels only one degree less horrible than the flu. It's Owen and me this time. Sore, sore throat, stuffiness, fever of the body and fever of the...cabin.

We have not done one fun thing all winter, I swear. Not one. The closest we've come to fun was driving by the mall one day. We waved at the play area in the mall, waved at the train table in the bookstore, waved at storytime. "Hello, fun things!" we called. "See you in April." (Maybe I'm exaggerating a wee bit but it surely does not FEEL like it.)

The illness gave me 10 gray hairs. The other 10 came from the IT department at the venerable institution where I work. Remember when I mentioned the inventory program that they wanted to run on my laptop? Well that must have been some powerful program, cause it crashed my hard drive. And oh, by the way, we lost all your data oops.

Let's do a run down of the data I lost:

2 semesters worth of handouts, lectures, essay assignments, and exams? Check.
All family pictures taken since last summer? Check.
Every single one of my bookmarks? Check.
Current emails and e-address book? Check.
All the patterns, tutorials, and craft ideas I've collected for 6 months? Check.
The nearly finished, put hours of time into it digital scrapbook I'd been working on for Paige? Check.

I'm usually pretty good about backing up data, and I do have a backup for my less recent teaching materials, but I haven't backed up in awhile (obviously), and I've been really lazy about backing up my personal stuff.

At least I still have my health.

Oh....wait. No I don't.
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Because I don't have anything to say...

2008-02-21T23:52:00.002-05:00

{Dave Walker cartoon via How About Orange}

Hoot, hoot

2008-02-17T23:43:00.005-05:00

Staying up late is my grandest indulgence, an indulgence paid for by purple undereyes, lethargic mornings, and, occasionally, a shorter fuse. Sometimes I feel guilty about the short fuse. My children deserve a chipper, well-rested mother. But quiet, uninterrupted time is in short supply in my life, and I crave it more than I crave sleep. In fact, I think I'd be less chipper with more sleep and no time to myself (if I could ever really describe myself as "chipper" at all.)

Secretly, I like it best I'm the only one awake, when every other soul is asleep, and I can turn off the always chattering television, putter around on the computer or the sewing machine, and eat more ice cream (or cookies or potato chips) than I should.

I longingly remember a time before Paige, when Owen was 3 and Mitch was 1, and they napped at the same time. We'd go out in the morning to shop or play, come home for lunch, read a few books, and then they'd sleep for 2 hours. Back then, I went to bed at a more reasonable hour, but I had those 2 hours after lunch to indulge myself. I never get time like that during the day now. Mitch doesn't nap anymore, and when he's in school, Paige is awake and at my heels. Everlastingly.

So I have to wait until after they're all in bed, which usually means, at the earliest, 9:30, since our bedtime routine starts at 8:30 and can take longer than an hour to complete, depending on the children's level of cooperation. That means if I stay up later than midnight, I have 2 or 3 blissful hours to do whatever I want, more enriching to my psyche than extra sleep, I promise.

Sometimes, I'm oddly happy when I can't fall asleep. Legitimate insomnia absolves me of any responsibility for and guilt about night owling. The quiet between 2 and 4 am is a deep quiet, very restful to my spirit. Being awake in that quiet gives me the purest feeling of aloneness I can hope to attain now that I'm married and breeding.

Maybe it's irresponsible. Maybe sleep deprivation is the source of all my flaws: my scatterbrain, my impatience, my clumsiness. But sleep is a cheap substitute for mental rest, the kind I need to keep my core intact.

Plus, I'm here to tell you, ice cream after midnight tastes twice as good.

{image from Night Owl Paper Goods}

My funny valentines

2008-02-13T17:16:00.007-05:00

I made these for the young 'uns. They'll appreciate them for a much shorter time than it took me to make them, but I'm used to their rejection. I undertake these projects anyway, imagining a time shortly after my death, when they're all together, packing up the house. At the bottom of a box, they'll unearth these lovingly embroidered hearts and sob with adoration and gratitude...so...

Happy Valentine's Day!

Family headlines: Weekend edition

2008-02-10T21:27:00.000-05:00

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Tonight's top story: John (aka Mean Daddy) Suffers with Coxsackie

Nearly 2 months after Mean Mommy's bout with the same illness, John has contracted the debilitating virus that once caused him to ask his wife, "So how long do you plan on being sick?"

After 3 days of listening to his groans and whimpering, Mean Mommy has had to place duct tape over her mouth to keep herself from asking John the same question, only in a bitchier tone.

Paige Breaks Owen's Glasses

On Friday afternoon, Paige marched forward in her never ending quest to pull Owen's glasses off of his face. However, in an attempt to thwart the attack, Owen jerked his head sideways. Because Paige--stalwart, persistent Paige--refused to break her grip, the bridge of the glasses snapped in two.

After trying to super glue the bridge back in place, the Mean Family was told by their eye doctor that "the glasses are under warranty" (yay!) but that they should "NOT attempt to glue the glasses" because such attempts will "void the warranty" (boo!)

Right, because if you come into the shop with a pair of broken glasses that have been glued, how will the manufacturer know that it wasn't your trying to glue the bridge of an intact pair of glasses that caused them to break...maybe cause there are hoodlums out there who just slap glue on their glasses for no good reason, breaking them willy nilly and then trying to cheat eye wear manufacturers into replacing them? That's probably it.

Monday will be spent 1. Trying to persuade Owen that he can go to school without his glasses and 2. Trying to scrape all traces of super glue off of the glasses.

In other news:

Owen Wins Zingo Three Times in a Row; Three year old brother left in quivering heap of disappointment.

Mean Mommy Finds 32 NEW Excuses not to do Taxes

Paige Breaks Record of "Poops in one Day" (former record set at 3 months old)

Mitch Breaks Record for Number of Times One Child Can Watch The Incredibles.

The Year of the Rat

2008-02-07T21:45:00.001-05:00

The rat is the first sign in the Chinese zodiac, so this Chinese New Year will ring in a time of renewal, a restarting of old cycles.

There are a few cycles that could use restarting, here, for sure. Like the one where I say "no" to something Owen wants to do, and he melts down like a 3 year old, whining at a siren pitch. In the next part of this cycle, I ignore his whining, and because I'm not responding to his nasally pleas, "Mommy? Please? Pleeeease mommy," he starts going, "Mommeeeeee....Mooommeeee? Mommmeee!!!!! Mooooooommmmmeeeeee?!?!?" until I want to drive off the overpass (because this cycle often takes place in the car on the way home from school when Owen is burnt out, tired, and ready to unleash his demons upon his home sweet home where we will love him despite his obnoxious behavior).

Or the cycle when I tell Mitch to stop doing something like, oh, lying on his back and kicking the wall with all his might while the baby is sleeping and I'm trying to read him a bedtime story. Part 2 of that cycle is Mitch lightly kicking the wall, keeping one eye on me to gauge my reaction. Next I lower the book and glare. Then he barely kicks the wall, softly oh so softly. Then I say, "Next time you kick the wall, I'm closing the book." And he turns over and in the turning over "accidentally" kicks the wall. I close the book and Owen, who is also listening to the story, says, "Noooooooo! Mommmeeee! Nooooo! Momeeeee?! Pleeeeease!"

Or the cycle of Paige at the end of lunch time, holding her hand out and asking, "Mo?" and, when I give her more, tossing it down and declaring, "Ah doh." But she's not really all done, so when I try to take the food away, she bangs on the high chair and squawks, "Mo! Mo!" So I give her more and...I bet you can guess the rest.

Or the cycle when John and I stay up too late every night and then fall asleep the next night while putting the kids to be only to wake up at 10:30 pm and then stay up too late again because we had a cat nap. Or the one where we spend money on frivolous things like take out and movies over the weekend after payday and then have to ration the rest of the money for 2 weeks or else we won't have food or gas or preschool tuition.

Sigh. Happy year of the rat. Here's to moving forward. I can't imagine the joys our new cycles will bring.

Two reasons other mothers should disdain me

2008-02-05T08:43:00.000-05:00

This morning I realized something about the kind of mother I am.

1. I am the only mother left on the planet who has no qualms about starting her kids' day off with a big 'ol bowl of Lucky Charms (a magically delicious part of this nutritious breakfast).

2. I am a mother who, after pouring a bowl of Lucky Charms for her child and one for herself, will select for herself the bowl that has the higher cereal/marshmallow ratio. And perhaps even swipe a couple of the marshmallows from her kid's bowl to up that ratio.

And that's why mommy is so mean. For reals.

I need something...

2008-02-03T21:14:00.000-05:00

...to do while I pretend to watch the Super Bowl. But my brain is very soft this evening, and I have no cleverness. Instead, here are some links. Some of them will be joining my sidebar when I get around to it, but I didn't think you should have to wait for my lazy ass to get around to updating the blog before you got to enjoy them.

How About Orange = Great links, freebie desktop wallpapers and PDFs, neato DIYs, talented design, very little pretension.

Daily Monster = A guy who draw monsters from ink blots...daily. Watch him go. It's way cool.

Want Not = Lovable Mir hunts down all the good deals and shares them with you. Save money the Mean Mommy way: buy things you don't need, but get 'em cheap.

Sarah Jane Studios = Best illustrations of children ever. Warm up your, "Awwwww."

Happy Super Bowl!

Losing my innocence

2008-01-29T18:34:00.000-05:00

Paige had an accident yesterday, a pretty nasty one. She was "helping" me make the beds (you gotta start 'em young), and her feet got tangled in the sheet she was carrying. She toppled forward, hit her head, and cut the top of her cheek on a storage basket that Owen and Mitch had disassembled so the little metal thingies that connect the sides of the baskets were exposed. (What kind of baskets require assembly? Cheapo ones that come with unassembled shelving.)

Paige's cheek turned purple and swelled up immediately, and she was not having the ice pack, so the swelling got pretty bad. Now she's got a shiner that Rocky Balboa would be proud of, and everyone who crosses our path asks, "Omigosh! What happened to her eye?"

Clearly the explanation of what really happened is a little complicated. The "she hit her cheek on a basket" story sounds unlikely unless I include the part about the metal thingies in the basket, and that requires detailing the mechanics of the baskets and possibly even admitting that I got the basket/shelf contraption on clearance at Target for $14.99 (because I'm terribly picky about my kids' bedroom decor). And that's a long explanation to offer, say, the lady who works the carpool line or the checker at the grocery store.

So when people ask, I lie. To make the answer simpler, I say, "She fell and hit her face on a toy." And then, because I'm lying, I worry that I look like I'm lying. And then I worry that, because I look like I'm lying, people will think I my beat baby, because why else would I lie? Of course I didn't punch my infant daughter in the eye, yet I find myself straining to "look innocent" even though I AM innocent.

It's not the first time I've felt this kind of anxiety, either. Owen and Mitch have both shown up at doctor's appointments sporting nasty bruises, and I've found myself plotting what to say and how to act if the doctor commented on them, even though the injuries were from roughhousing or falls on the driveway, and I had nothing to hide.

So why all this work to cover up something I didn't do? Is my discomfort coming from some repressed guilt I have about how I raise my children? Do I secretly loathe myself for having spanked them or yelled at them? In my heart of hearts, do I see myself as an evil mommy?

Or am I just completely neurotic?

When Mitch speaks, people listen

2008-01-24T21:23:00.000-05:00

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Three recent conversations with the tricky blonde one:

#1
Me: Your listening needs to get better, or I'll leave you home while I go shopping.
Mitch: I ain't doing that. I ain't staying home. I ain't gonna like that.
Me: Why are you saying "ain't?"
Mitch: It's just my fancy way of talking.

#2
Me: I need your help to clean up in here.
Mitch: I caaaaaan't.
Me: Yes you can. Let's go.
Mitch: I caaaaaan't.
Me: Why not?
Mitch: My brain is telling me I don't like cleaning up.

#3
Mitch (after watching Owen take cough medicine): Can I have some?
Me: No. You can't take medicine when you're not sick.
Mitch: But I had so many bless yous today. I need the bless you medicine.

I SAID I wanted a snow day

2008-01-17T22:55:00.000-05:00

Here's something I hate: the weatherpeople predict snow; they point to your county, colored purple, sitting squarely in the "winter weather advisory" zone; they flash pictures of areas south where snow is already falling, loop radar images of the storm zooming your way; schools announce delays; snow-fearing southerners flock to the grocery store for milk and bread; you start to imagine your snow day: kids home, fire in the fireplace, noses drippy and red from sledding in the backyard; Paige stomping through her first snow.

You wake up early the next morning. Right away you scurry to the window, sure you'll raise the blinds to find the promised winter wonderland.

And it's raining.

Muddy, cold, wet, unlovely rain. Schools are not closed. Classes at the college where you teach will be held. No sledding nor hot chocolate. All that lies before you is a chilly wet drive to school, a chilly wet drive home. Maybe some laundry.

Well today John and I said no. No to simple rain. No to that chilly, wet drive. No to getting up at the crack of dawn to get Owen ready for school when we'd been up until 2 am the night before, watching bad TV and reading magazines, sure we'd get to sleep in because bad-hair weatherguy all but guaranteed ice and snow.

At 6:00 this morning, John got up, saw the sogginess outside, turned on the TV and heard that it had snowed and iced a little at about 4:00. Bad-hair morning weather guy said there could be a very few icy patches on bridges and overpasses. And that was enough for John. I heard him pad back down the hall, snap off the bathroom light, and get back in bed.

A few minutes later, I got up to see for myself, thinking that John's snoring meant the winter weather fairy had come. But no. I called the inclement weather line at Owen's school, where a flat, unfeeling voice told me the school was open. Then I went and gave John a shake. "You do realize it's only raining." John cracked one eye. "It was icy earlier," he muttered. "It's a 20 miles drive. Too dangerous." Noticing my skepticism, he made the play he knew would ensure his victory: "You can take him if you want to." Out the window behind him, I could see the gray, 33 degree morning. "No no," I said. "I agree. We shouldn't take any chances." And we snuggled back under the quilt, re-claiming out lost snow day, refusing to let the dream die.

There was no snowman, no fire, no snuffly noses, but I did spend the morning playing games and coloring. I took a catnap with Paige and stole an hour for sewing while the boys watched a movie. We had mac and cheese for lunch with Little Debbie valentine cakes for dessert. Yes, the day would have been made cozier by a few snowflakes, but all in all, it was one of those lovely quiet days when you don't go anywhere and everyone is lazy and no one feels bad about it even though it's Thursday and your 6 year old is supposed to be at kindergarten.

Everyone deserves a "no day" now and then, a day to say "no" to losing your snow day because temperatures crept a few degrees above freezing, because the storm lollygagged and swept in too late. In North Carolina, we are frequent victims of the "it will snow if the conditions are exactly right and the forces of nature align perfectly" forecast.

This morning, we were in no mood to be disappointed.

Toddler rules: Paige got the memo

2008-01-14T22:19:00.001-05:00

Earlier tonight, I had a post about Paige's 15 month antics all mapped out. Then I got online and found this list. And I didn't have one more word to say about Paige at 15 months.

Toddler Rules
If it is on, I must turn it off.
If it is off, I must turn it on.
If it is folded, I must unfold it.
If it is a liquid, it must be shaken, then spilled.
If it a solid, it must be crumbled, chewed or smeared.
If it is high, it must be reached.
If it is shelved, it must be removed.
If it is pointed, it must be run with at top speed.
If it has leaves, they must be picked.
If it is plugged, it must be unplugged.
If it is not trash, it must be thrown away.
If it is in the trash, it must be removed, inspected, and thrown on the floor.
If it is closed, it must be opened.
If it does not open, it must be screamed at.
If it has drawers, they must be rifled.
If it is a pencil, it must write on the refrigerator, monitor, or table.
If it is full, it will be more interesting emptied.
If it is empty, it will be more interesting full.
If it is a pile of dirt, it must be laid upon.
If it is stroller, it must under no circumstances be ridden in without protest. It must be pushed by me instead.
If it has a flat surface, it must be banged upon.
If Mommy's hands are full, I must be carried.
If Mommy is in a hurry and wants to carry me, I must walk alone.
If it is paper, it must be torn.
If it has buttons, they must be pressed.
If the volume is low, it must go high.
If it is toilet paper, it must be unrolled on the floor.
If it is a drawer, it must be pulled upon.
If it is a toothbrush, it must be inserted into my mouth.
If it has a faucet, it must be turned on at full force.
If it is a phone, I must talk to it.
If it is a bug, it must be swallowed.
If it doesn't stay on my spoon, it must be dropped on the floor.
If it is not food, it must be tasted.
If it IS food, it must not be tasted.
If it is dry, it must be made wet with drool, milk, or toilet water.
If it is a car seat, it must be protested with arched back.
If it is Mommy, it must be hugged.
asdfasdfsadfasdf

A world without objects is a sensible emptiness

2008-01-12T00:02:00.000-05:00

****************
Open letters to my stuff:

Dear cellphone,

I realize that you are, at times, overworked, and it must be dreadful to have to endure Paige's abuse: the opening, the shutting, the haphazard button mashing.

But please, cellphone, come home. I miss you. Mostly I miss returning phone calls when I'm in the car, particularly during the long drive to and from Owen's school. It's really, really hard to talk on the phone at home, and dammit, I need you. OK? I admit it. I need you.

I'll treat you better. I'll keep you charged. I'll try to leave you in the same place all the time so you're never misplaced again. Just come back.

Yours in social isolation because I haven't returned a call in 3 weeks,

Ashley

****************

Dear upper thread on my sewing machine:

Enough with the slipping and the bunching already. You're ruining all my projects.

Yours in relief that many of the things I make are eventually turned right side out,

Ashley

****************

Dear future dishwasher and microwave,

Lately I have told a few people that hand washing dishes and warming milk on the stove really aren't that much more trouble and that we're getting used to being without two of the most convenient appliances in the kitchen. That is a lie. It's more trouble. I'm not used to it.

Go on sale already so we can buy you.

Yours in withdrawal from my nightly popcorn binge,

Ashley

****************

Dear markers:

When you see Mitch, roll. Roll far away. If he captures you anyway, and you find yourself being pulled down a wall or scribbled upon furniture, run out of ink.

Your willingness to cooperate could mean the difference between selling this house and murdering my husband because he doesn't have an office in which to chat with clients on speaker phone and because he keeps getting annoyed that the 15 month old squawks so frequently. As if anyone could keep a 15 month old from squawking.

Yours in disbelief that my son wrote his name on the toilet seat,

Ashley

****************

Dear kitty litter,

Change yourself. I hate you.

Not yours at all, whatsoever,

Ashley

****************

Dear work-issued laptop which I also use as my personal computer,

I just got an email from someone in IT. He says he needs to borrow you to run what he calls "inventory software." I don't know what that means, but could you please check yourself for anything embarrassing/inappropriate/overly personal before IT guy examines your innards?

And also back up the 5,034 family photos that are stored on you, 'cause I probably shouldn't be using you for that since you're a work computer.

Yours in hoping the IT guys doesn't open the folder marked "miscellaneous,"

Ashley

The 2008 Mean Mommy Family Resolutions

2008-01-02T00:00:00.000-05:00

It's the first day of the new year: time to reevaluate and reshape our lives, time to grow, become better people, and find new ways to justify starting tomorrow (are New Year's resolutions supposed to start on January 1st? Cause if so...whoops.)

This year, the members of my family have committed to the following resolutions:

John: Get in shape (why he spent New Year's Day watching an Australia's Biggest Loser marathon on FoxReality)

Ashley: Manage our money better (why I made sure that 75% of today's order from Gap.com was on clearance.)

Bailey: Eat healthy and exercise (why we used skim milk in the chocolate chip cookies we baked tonight.)

Owen: Eat more vegetables (why he chose potato chips as a side with lunch.)

Mitch: Help clean up (why he doused every room in the house with the contents of an entire can of air freshener.)

Paige: Stop eating food found under the table (why she checked under the cereal cabinet for her after dinner snack.)

Wishing a happy, healthy 2008 to you all!

Twas the day after Christmas

2007-12-26T23:57:00.000-05:00

Twas the day after Christmas, and all through the house,
the children dropped toys. Mama started to grouse.
She's feeling that annual Christmas let down,
The excess, the mess, they inspire her frown.
The children are already looking for more,
And she can't even find her own damn front door.
She just wants a blanket, a coffee, a snooze,
A good book, some quiet (and later, some booze).
She's been buying, and making, and wrapping for days,
Then it's over in hours. Cue the malaise.

But she does have the memory of kids at wee hours,
eyes shining in Christmas lights, awed by the towers
of gifts left by Santa, by stockings stuffed full,
by cookies left eaten: the magical pull
of waking to find the world sparkling and shiny
The enchantment of Christmas reserved for the tiny.

Yes she's wading through pine needles, wrappers, and bows,
small parts to their games, forgotten new clothes.
Yes she's chomped the last treat of this year's holiday
And she's already threatened to throw toys away.
But the new piles of junk, the new pounds of fat
Are worth it, of course, as long as there's that:

All I wanted to say today

2007-12-21T22:22:00.000-05:00

I said already at Babycenter's Momformation.

Happy 4 days till Christmas!

Coxsackievirus is comin' to town...

2007-12-16T14:36:00.000-05:00

Strep throat? Pffft. I wish.

Because there are no words, I shall illustrate how I feel:

If I have one more set back...

2007-12-13T22:03:00.000-05:00

...I'm going into hibernation. The papers lie untouched today. The Christmas coasters I so lovingly finished 75% of the way mock me from the sewing/computer/homework table in the sewing room/playroom/mud room/room for all the crap that doesn't have any other place. I woke up with a lovely sore-as-hell throat and a fever. As if I have time for lying around and whining.

But, regardless of the logistics of the thing, that's what I did all day, and now I feel panic in my bones. I absolutely HATE letting myself get this way in December. I am a big, big fan of the holidays. In me, the Christmas spirit abounds and often manifests itself in (post-exams) spontaneous rounds of baking and crafting. My inner Martha is loosed upon the household. I'm somewhat insufferable.

But if I let myself fall behind in the tasks I must do, all the fun stuff suddenly turns chore-ish, and I feel pressured to bake, pressured to make snowflakes with the kids, and pressured to wrap my gifts in my signature annoyingly cutesy way. And all of my December joy is washed away like so much curdled egg nog.

This weekend, I'm hoping to pare the list of must do's and make room for the want-to-do's, providing I'm not still sick. I'm actually hoping this is strep throat so I can knock it out with some good old fashioned amoxicillin and feel better by Saturday, which is when our babysitter is supposed to come over to watch the miscreants while John and I finish Christmas shopping. I have been looking forward to Saturday all week, anticipating a day devoted to two of my favorite things: spending money and having kidless time with hubs.

I'm off to sigh and whimper my way through the rest of the coasters. (By god, the kindergarten teachers WILL have somewhere to put their coffee cups this Christmas!) But I can't go without sending a happy birthday wish to my big sis (who needs to update her blog!)

Here's a special birthday image, just for you:

What, are we in Australia?

2007-12-11T22:00:00.000-05:00

It reached 80 degrees today. On December 11th. The end days are here.

How is one supposed to enjoy her newly trimmed Christmas tree in BALMY weather? It's a drain on the Christmas spirit, I tell you.

Luckily, this year, Christmas at our house comes with a one year old, so that balances things out in the spirit department. It's impossible not to feel full of love for friends, family, fireplaces, the Three Tenors, and baby Jesus while watching your 13 month old's first Christmas tree lighting. The moment John plugged in the lights for our Christmas tree reveal, Paige stopped in her tracks, her eyes wide, her mouth open. Then she slowly lifted her hand to point at the tree in a gesture that said, "Holy. Crap. Do you guys SEE this?" She stood pointing for a good minute and a half, yawping in glee every few seconds. Then she attacked the ornaments.

Throughout the day today she's been happily carrying around all the holiday tchotches that I've placed around the house. They're all baby safe, but her swiping is putting a damper on my attempts to fancy up the house. Her favorites are the red pillar candles that I put out on the hearth, the kind that come in graduating sizes and fill a room with eau de noel. She enjoys the challenge of carrying things with a bit of heft, living dangerously and all that.

Tonight is just a quickie entry and then it's back to the grindstone, which for now is a folder fat with research papers. When the tide of papers ebbs, I'll be back to warm your hearts with tales of holiday joy and Christmas pickles (when I'm not chained to the sewing machine, trying to stay true to that mother#$%#$% handmade pledge)

p.s. The picture I used with this post captures perfectly Paige's expression when she saw our tree all lit up for the first time. No, no, not the baby...the giraffe.

Renewal

2007-11-27T21:40:00.001-05:00

I've been thinking about my New Year's resolution, even though I don't typically torture myself with those rarely actualized self-promises that ultimately leave me feeling guilty and deflated and rife with self-loathing. But this year, something has to change.

My family is at a crossroads, faced with a difficult truth that comes into focus a bit more sharply every day: It is time to stir some very stagnant waters, specifically financial waters and the waters of bodily health. Our lives simply cannot move forward successfully unless belts tighten in more ways than one. But you know how that is, complacency and denial can place a death grip on the will. That is where we are now, complacently denying the need to DO SOMETHING about what's unhealthy in our lives.

This all boils down to my seemingly very simple New Year's resolution: to return my library books on time in 2008.

See, I've thought about this a good bit lately, and my inability to follow through on the simple task of returning library books represents all the other ways I let things slide in my life. This sloppiness is more than procrastination; there is something psychological behind my refusal to complete certain tasks, some mental block, some imp of the perverse waiting to be defeated.

I have trouble with the concept of "just doing it," which is all any life change requires, really. No need to wring hands and suffer. Just make the changes. Just get in the car and return the library books. There's even book drop parking for heck's sake.

But I need to start small. I need to show myself that I can change a bad habit, even if it's a relatively insignificant one, and prove to myself that change isn't as complicated as I imagine it to be. It's simple, really. Write the due date down. Get the books together on or before that date. Take them to the library. Put them in the slot.

The rest will trickle down, I hope. It really must. We're past due on more than library books, and the fines will only increase the longer we wait.

Happy Thanksgiving

2007-11-22T21:18:00.000-05:00

This Thanksgiving, I've had my brothers and sisters on my mind. I don't spend much time considering my relationships with them, and I think that's because they've always just been there, and I know that, no matter the arguments that (still) crop up between us, no matter the petty disagreements, our relationships will always bounce back. Their lives are linked to mine permanently, and as those who met you in the womb have a tendency to do, they know me all ways, the good, the bad, and the ugly (and things can get mighty ugly between siblings).

Tonight I'm giving thanks for them by recounting a favorite memory about each one, an obscure memory that I might not have shared with them before.

Kelly
It's an early, early Christmas memory. I think I was 3 or 4, but it was definitely pre-Blair. I got a little table and 4 plastic blue chairs, along with a Fisher Price stove and set of pots, pans, and play food. For some reason, we had Christmas in the den, not the living room, and Mom and Dad had set the little table up in the kitchen. You sat and played with me and my new kitchen set for what seemed like hours. I basked in the rare bliss of having your undivided attention, a sister 8 years older who usually had to be begged to play.

Neal
I was in 9th grade, and you were home on leave from the Navy. We went out cruising in the Malibu. We drove down this winding road near the river and talked and laughed and got a Slurpee, and you gave me a cigarette, which, yes, wasn't the healthiest or most responsible thing to to, but to me it was a gift of pure, unadulterated acceptance. Suddenly you enjoyed my company, and it made me feel mighty big.

Blair

I was 10 or 11, you were 4 or 5. We were lying on the bed in your room, and I was drawing Roxie and Ralphie pictures while you watched over my shoulder. I was telling stories about them (they were imaginary dogs, with an owner named Catherine, usually played by Blair) and drawing the action as I narrated. You were riveted, and I had that feeling (one I still love) of being lost in the game while time unraveled around us and the business of the house stayed on the other side of the bedroom door. I wish I could find those drawings. We had a whole collection of them in a green spiral bound notebook.

I am grateful to have had all of you for brothers and sisters, and I love you all, always.

You are my favorite because

2007-11-16T10:32:00.000-05:00

My mom tells a story about my sister Blair once asking her, "Who's your favorite?" The question warmed my mother's heart because she realized that Blair wouldn't have asked unless she thought she was the favorite, and isn't it every mom's wish for each of her children to feel that special?

My favorite part of the story is my mom's answer to the question. She said, "You're my favorite because..." and listed all the reasons Blair was special to her. Then she said, "And Kelly is my favorite because...." and "Neal is my favorite because..." and "Ashley is my favorite because..." And it was an honest answer. She had four favorites, all for different reasons, which was just exactly the right answer and is just exactly how I feel about my own kids.

My very first favorite is turning 6 today, which puts a small lump in my throat. I can still look at him and feel the brand new momma love that filled me to overflowing 6 years ago. The first time I felt that love from head to toe was the morning after Owen was born. I was dozing in my hospital bed, trying to ignore the hot throbbing of my cesarean incision and a bit out of my wits from pain medication. John had spent the night at home and was coming to the hospital early, but he hadn’t arrived yet. I was alone. The room was half-lit with the purple glow of 6:00 AM in November and quiet but for the gasping of some monitor they’d strapped me to. The nurse came in with Owen and told me his body temperature was down. She untied my hospital gown and helped me bear my chest; then she stripped Owen to his diaper and laid him on my breast. “He needs your body heat,” she told me. “I’ll come back in an hour.”

The night before had been long and brutal, a nearly 30 hour labor ending in an unexpected and emotional c-section. I’d been a mess in recovery, shaking and sobbing, and they’d kept me there longer than usual, so I’d had very little time with my baby. The time I did have was bleary and crowded with family who’d come to see. Now the nurse left me alone with this small, warm, breathing boy tucked under my chin. She'd given him to me because I was his mother and it was my body heat he needed. Artificial warming lamps were no match for my blood-warmed body, pulsing with the heat and the love he needed.

I experienced that moment out of time. I’d never felt so exactly in the right place, so content and certain and calm. I think of that hour as my initiation into motherhood. I’d been on the threshold before, but during those minutes alone with Owen for the first time and nurturing him wholly for the first time, I crossed into that realm from which you can never retreat, the realm of mothering and its fulfillment, its love, its fear, its anxiety, its complication, its sadness.

Owen is my favorite because…

He thinks my jokes are funny and he makes jokes that I think are funny.

He loves reading and writing and music.

His dearest birthday wish is a package of dry erase markers.

He hugs his brother and sister goodnight every single day.

He loves school as much as I loved school.

He can’t tell a lie and has the guiltiest conscience of anyone I’ve met.

He taught me to be a mother, and he gave me my first taste of the gorgeous, swooning love of parenthood.

Happy birthday, Snowball!

Letting the riff raff in

2007-11-15T10:36:00.000-05:00

It's a rite a of passage for any serious blogger, and now it is time for my initiation. Today I present to you the best of the Google searches that have led wayward visitors to my blog:

1. "Maturity clothes"
Maturity clothes include business suits, pencil skirts, high heels, and anything in houndstooth.

2. "My son is driving me crazy"
Mine too!

3. "Nurses with stinky feet"
Don't you HATE that? I hate that.

4. "One year old who eats lint"
Oh dear, you must be a first time mom. Don't worry unless the "lint" comes from the litter box.

5. "Smack bottom hard children"
What? How in the world did that search lead HERE? Ludicrous.

6. "What are persons idiosyncrasies mean?"
Well, if a person's idiosyncrasies include the inability to form a marginally coherent sentence, they mean "stay in school."

7. "What do 5 entwined circles mean?"
That means "Olympics."

8. "What should I be teaching my 7 month old?"

Toilets are not fun, fun playtime
Your brothers love you even when they sit on your head
Cheerios found under the refrigerator are not for eating
Sleeping through the night = nice mommy; Waking up every 3 hours = red-eyed-hanging-on-by-a thread mommy
Mommy only takes these little pills when things get really really nutty. And don't mention them to daddy.

9. "What does rock a bye baby mean?"
I can't really explain it, but I can tell you that asking this question probably means you were never loved as a child.

10. "Why is mommy so mean for reals?"
You try budget grocery shopping with 3 kids on 2 hours of sleep while the "Backyardigans" theme song loops endlessly through your head.

Handmade hullabaloo

2007-11-13T21:38:00.000-05:00

So a couple of weeks ago, I sorta took this pledge to buy/make handmade gifts for everyone on my Christmas list this year. I say "sorta" because I still haven't thought up any handmade items to suit my 9 and 12 year old nephews--I can't picture them getting really excited about a tote bag or a quilted belt. And I can't whittle.

Anyway, this new sewing hobby has me a little high right now. I can't tell you how exhilarating it is to finish a project, to feel the pride of having created something beautiful(ish). So to have an excuse to sew has made me a bit of a hermit. I have a gift/project list a mile long, a closet stuffed with vintage fabric that I scored at a yard sale last weekend, and a permanent crick in my neck. John misses me. When he complains, I remind him how much money I'm saving by making our Christmas gifts. Nevermind the twice weekly trips to Jo-Ann's and the notions and needles and interfacing and dish towels and sewing books I've bought. I'm saving money, dammit!

I would love to share my f.o.'s here (it's sewing lingo--you wouldn't understand), but I have family lurking about, and I'd hate to blow any surprises. Maybe I'll set up a flickr group and relatives can be on the no-snoop honor system. I'll just enforce the rule that my parents handed down when we were little: if you snoop and discover your present, you take it then and there, and you'll have nothing under the tree for Christmas. So there. Remember, I can trace your outclicks, people.

I think a great deal about all the other work I should be doing while I sew: blogging here and at BabyCenter...grading papers...taking care of the children...nurturing my marriage...watching my DVR'ed episodes of The Hills. But the Singer calls to me every night (Singer, you know, like a siren). I think (hope?) some of my enthusiasm is bound to wear off, but until then, miss me. I'm busy doing all of this:

(okay, okay, f.o. = finished object. And I just learned that yesterday.)

To wean or not to wean

2007-11-08T11:37:00.000-05:00

Paige is now 1 year and 2 weeks old, and she's still a total boob-a-holic. I've always understood and sympathized with arguments for child-led weaning (to a degree...I admit I can't get on board with women who are still nursing kids old enough to read) and I considered it an admirable achievement for women to nurse for the entire first year or longer.

I revise my position: It's great for everyone ELSE to be able to nurse a baby past a year. But I hate it.

Lately, Paige is a violent eater. She seems torn between snuggling in to nurse and going straight to sleep. She'll latch on for 30 seconds, then claw me, kick me, and push me away. But If I button up the goods, she has a conniption. So I give her the other side, hoping she was simply dissatisfied with the angle of the nipple, and the whole thing starts again. I don't enjoy putting her to bed anymore. John puts her down every night because she won't take a bottle or a pacifier from me, and nursing her for both naps has already worn me down, mentally and physically.

It's time to wean, I know, but I'm not sure how to do it. Owen and Mitch both gave up nursing readily and of their own accord at about 7 months old. I didn't have to coax or deny them. We were both ready and it all ended happily. But Paige isn't likely to take the loss very well. She's still compelled to nurse, still drawn to it passionately, even though something in her is clearly ready to move on. I just have no strategy for weaning a child who isn't ready to wean, and I'm not even sure I should wean her if she's not ready.

Part of me wants to wait it out. Maybe in a few more weeks the part of her that's done with the boob will overtake the part of her that yearns for it, and I won't have to cut her off. But I hate the anger that surges in me when she demands the breast, then writhes and complains and scratches. Every offering of my milk is tinged with resentment and irritation, and it's taking a toll on both of us.

I'm tired of the squirmy, crabby, demanding baby she's become when I put her to bed. I'm anxious to rediscover those peaceful moments of drifting off at bedtime, her drowsy eyes blinking up at me, her breathing deepening, her little body limp and warm.

That's the part of nursing I love, and it's over for us. I suppose she has weaned me in a sense, and now we both just have to come to terms with the falling away of her babyhood. But that's hard. She's the last of my babies, and these months have gone fast.

Maybe I'm torn, too.

A week in review

2007-11-05T21:22:00.000-05:00

Just catching up on recording the little things I'm likely to forget, which was my purpose for starting this blog anyhow...

Wednesday (Halloween):
I always know my children are sick before I know they are sick. I could tell the minute Owen got into the car last Wednesday. His face was droopy and pale, his eyes dull and sagging. His eyes have always shown sickness clearly.

I left work early to go Trick or Treating and called John on the way home. Owen was asleep--at 6:00. I told John, "Go feel him." Yep, a fever. 102. Poor Owen. He cried and cried when Mitch, Paige and I came home with the loot. But Mitch the Witch crawled up on the couch beside Owen the should-have-been ghost and opened his bag o' loot. "Look at all the candy we got!" Yes, he said "we." Those two fight like bandits all day long, but man do they adore each other. Owen dipped his hand right in and helped himself and Mitch beamed.

Thursday:
Owen woke up acutely aware that it was November, his birthday month. After wracking our brains over what to do for a party without spending an obscene amount of money, we've decided to buck the system and have a very small get together with only 3 of Owen's good friends. I was immediately relieved, and Owen was all for it. How much more fun it will be to have good buddies around to play with rather than a crowd of kids and the chaos of a 15-child party. I'm appalled at how much places want parents to pay for a child's party these days. If we had a bigger house, we'd be pinning tails on donkeys and dropping clothespins in jars right here every year. It's gotten to be too much. So I'm refusing to do it. I'm sick of the excess.

Friday:
My niece's birthday. We went over for cake and presents, and it was fun to see my brother and sister. And the cousins, as always, were giddily gleeful to be together. My niece liked her present, and the only bump in that road was Owen's also liking her present--so much that he didn't want to leave because he hadn't played with it yet.

Saturday:
We went to the fall festival at the neighborhood elementary school (not Owen's school). The weather was amazing, 65 and sunny, and it was more fun spending money (on games and rides) knowing it was going to the school. Our jaws dropped at the difference between the donated items in the silent auction and raffle at this school and the school (in a much more affluent area) festival we went two a couple of weeks ago. Not equal. It made me sad. The DJ played "Staying Alive," and Paige found her calling: disco dancing.

Sunday:
Cleaning and resting and sewing. Fabric shopping with my mom for a bit. Perfect day.

Monday:
Paige cracked me up this morning, holding the phone up to her ear and saying, "Hi." But it's more like "Ha"; "hi" with a bit of a drawl, I suppose. She's got a few words now: hi, mama, dada, nana (banana and all other food), ni ni (night, night). I love love love one year olds. Every day is an adventure. Every day she grows in some new way. She loves to climb and explore. And, of course, every day her adventures wear me out a little bit more.

School was easy tonight. I'm off to sew again since I don't have papers to grade. I had a friend commission me to make a bundle baby for her. I'm excited that someone wants my stuff! And I'm thrilled that my friend's 2 year old loves her own bundle baby.

Here are a few stuffies I've made lately that I'm particularly proud of (I'm still a beginner, though, so forgive the crookedness of these toys):

Bundle Babies #2 and #3

Sock Dogs: Argyle and Brady

Driving me crazy

2007-10-29T17:48:00.000-04:00

There is a word for what I do each day on my 25 minute drive home from Owen's school: Endure. I endure it. It is my least favorite part of the day, and it is a wonder I have not left my children somewhere on the side of the road. Yet.

Come, reader, take the ride with me:

2:40 pm: Join the carpool line. Mitch whines that he wants to get out of his car seat and sit up front while we wait.

2:43 pm: Give in and allow Mitch up front. Paige cries at the injustice of being left in her seat.

2:46 pm: Mitch changes the CD for the 4th time, rolls the window up and down, flips on the windshield wipers, turns the heat on full blast, and blares the radio using the stereo remote control's volume button.

2:49 pm: Approach the front of the line and ask Mitch to get buckled into his seat...seven times. Finally hiss, "Get in your seat!"

3:01 pm: Mitch climbs in his seat at the very moment the carpool worker lets Owen into the van. Owen and Mitch get tangled up as Owen tries to push past and get to his own seat. Shoving ensues.

3:03 pm: Reach the main road. Ask Owen how his day was. A mile into the drive, notice that Mitch is in his seat but not buckled.

3:05 pm: Owen asks to stop at McDonald's for a drink. I say no. Owen whines that he's thiiiiiirrrrrsssty! I say no. Owen whines and whine and whines. I turn the radio up a notch.

3:06 pm: Owen says he's car sick.

3:07 pm: Owen says he's "really serious" and needs to get out of his seat to lie in the floor. I say, "Get the bucket."

3:08 pm: Owen argues that he can't throw up in the bucket because we might need it for the beach next summer. He begs to lie on the floor. I tell him, "Get the bucket."

3:09 pm: A groaning, simpering Owen threatens to barf on the seat if he isn't allowed to lie down. I say, "GET. THE. BUCKET."

3:10 pm: Owen says he has to pee sooooo bad. I tell him he has to wait.

3:11 pm: Mitch says he has to pee.

3:12 pm: Paige starts to cry.

3:15 pm: Owen takes his shoes off, props his feet on the back of Mitch's seat and shrieks, "Smell my stiiiiinky feet!" Hilarity ensues.

3:16: Hilarity escalates.

3:17: "Smell my stinky feet" degenerates into "smell my poop." I remain calm. I ask nicely for the boys to tone down the noise.

3:19 pm: Mitch screams at the top of his voice when Owen rubs his stinky feet on Mitch's head. I lay out the first threat: bedroom lock down for half an hour after we get home.

3:21 pm: Mitch screams again to see if I mean it. Punishment imposed. Loud, whiny protests ensue.

3:22 pm: Owen screams when Mitch kicks a shoe backwards into Owen's seat. I turn, glare, and say, "Are you trying to get a time out, too?" The answer, "No," is spoken through a suppressed smile. Seething ensues.

3:24 pm: Mitch screams when Owen throws the shoe back. I lay down second threat: no TV all afternoon.

3:25 pm: Mitch emits a squeal that is just quieter than a scream to annoy me while evading further punishment.

3:27 pm: Ask Owen if he has homework. He answers, "I have one poopy-doopy homework."Mitch cackles. Hilarity reaches epic proportions. Noise level in the car becomes unbearable to anyone over the age of 8.

3:28 pm: At a stoplight, shoot the death-glare over my shoulder and growl, "Guys. I have asked you over and over to calm down. Now DO IT."

3:29 pm: Muffled hilarity ensues.

3:30 pm: Arrive home and ask Owen to carry his book bag inside. Owen whines that his book bag is tooooo heaaaaavy.

3:31 pm: Stand outside the car holding the 25-pound baby while coaxing Mitch out of the driver's seat of the van, where he is flicking the headlights and yanking the seat belts.

3:32 pm: Pee a little when Mitch leans on the horn, scaring the bejeesus out of me.

3:33 pm: Drag Mitch from the car. Notice Owen walking into the house sans book bag.

This is the scenario every single day. In fact, this is a run down of a relatively good day.

So when you happen to look up in the afternoon and notice that it is 2:45 pm (Eastern time), pity me, good readers. Pity me and pray for the lives of my children.

She's a one year old!

2007-10-27T01:23:00.000-04:00

And PROUD of it:

Anxious moms and alpha boys

2007-10-24T18:02:00.001-04:00

I have long believed that nerdy, egg-headed kids make the coolest, most interesting grown-ups. I have long believed that the traditional school curriculum undervalues creative and athletic talent. I have long believed that one method of teaching and one teacher cannot possibly speak to the intellects and the abilities of all the children in the class. I have considered these issues carefully. I can make (and have made) fairly solid arguments in defense of these beliefs.

Yet I find myself anxiously hoping that Owen is popular in school. I worry that he doesn't come home gushing about how much fun he had playing with so and so at recess. I find myself feeling smugly satisfied at his good grades, at his ability to excel at the kindergarten curriculum. And I find myself anxious to train, to improve him when I find areas in that curriculum where Owen's performance is mediocre.

I don't think it's unusual for parents to feel worried or proud for these reasons. Not at all. Of course I want him to have friends and do well. But I do wonder how I can believe so strongly that geeky kids are diamonds in the rough and that traditional school is not best for every kid yet hope so vehemently that my own child fits neatly into the mainstream.

Today I joined Owen on his first kindergarten field trip to a farm and pumpkin patch. He was thrilled that I was coming along and even told me on the drive out there, "Mrs. F says we can hold hands with our moms on the field trip." While I was touched by his wish to stay close to me, his comment caused my worry to bubble up again: is he lonely at school? is he unhappy among these new kids? do they accept him? why does he want me there?

My observation of Owen among his classmates today told me that he's not lonely. He does have friends. One boy even seems smitten with him, showing up out of nowhere at odd intervals to call, "Owen!" then smiling and waving. He trailed us at times without striking up any conversation, content just to be near Owen.

Yes, Owen had some friends, most a little less creepy than Lurking Kid; one adorable little boy even asked his mom if Owen could come over for a playdate. At the same time, Owen definitely wasn't one of the rowdy alpha boys, jostling and shoving and poking each other and giggling during the butter making demonstration--the same antics Owen and Mitch engage in every single day at home. I was surprised that my son wasn't drawn to that melee since silliness reigns in our household. Instead, he listened attentively to the farm guides; he followed field trip rules to the letter; he sat quietly, observantly on the hay ride. I even had one of the "lunch moms" tell me, after I'd complained about the noise level at home, that she had always considered Owen one of the quiet kids.

I found myself weighing all of this on the way home and finally asking myself why I was so obsessed with defining Owen's social status at school. I have never worried about this sort of thing before, but I suppose that his hitting school-age and starting out at a school where he'll attend kindergarten through high school makes the stakes seem high. Whatever name he makes for himself now, in his first year, could follow him (at least to some degree) through 12th grade. I don't want any stigma to descend on him, any shyness this first year to mark him as a wallflower.

All the same, I wish I could relax about it.

In grade school, I was pretty middle-of-the-road. I was certainly not one of the most popular kids, but I had my foot in most social circles, even if I was committed only to my very best friend. She and I tended to isolate ourselves somewhat, fancying ourselves too different, too mature, (too good?) to join up with any group in particular (though in reality, any time an invitation was extended to us from one the more popular groups, we jumped at it).

I don't know if I'm sensitive to Owen's social world because I felt inadequate or if my worry comes from the recognition that Owen is a bit of an oddball. In my heart, it's the oddball in him that I adore the most, that endears him to me. But in that part of my me that yearns for the acceptance that we all, to some degree, yearn for, I find myself hoping that my little oddball can fake it enough to survive in the mainstream, to never feel left out or left behind.

I hope the better part of me (and him) will let go of my shallow hope and remember to value what is truly valuable about Owen. I hope the better part of me will let go of my shallow hope before I teach him to subdue those impulses that make him the ingenious, charismatic, funny kid I adore...and I hope it happens before he stops adoring himself.

(Picture of Owen studying a large outdoor sculpture at the Art Museum, 3 years old)

Oh, you thought the WHOLE meme was done?

2007-10-22T00:38:00.001-04:00

No, no, no. That was just the first question. I'm going to answer the rest, but I'll do it all in one post. Promise.

Here are Bon's other questions, poor neglected questions:

2. If you had to go back and re-do one thing in your entire life history, what thing would it be? Why?

This is a hard question to answer in public. But here goes.

The thing I've chosen does not seem to have had a disastrous effect on anyone's life, but it is the one thing that I continue to feel ashamed about and wish I'd had the maturity to do differently. If I knew then what I know now, I would not have moved in with John when I did. I think it was the wrong decision for Bailey's sake. In hindsight, and as a mother myself now, I can see that living together as boyfriend and girlfriend--not as a married couple or even an engaged couple--did not ensure a solid, secure home for Bailey. As I said, I don't think there were disastrous effects, especially since our relationship lasted and ended in marriage, and Bailey wasn't hurt by a break up between us. But I know now that a young child's emotional life is too delicate to risk and that living together didn't create the best situation for her.

3. There is a big, splashy Hollywood movie being made of your life. Who will play you?

Do I choose based on looks? Personality? Admiration? I'm not sure, so I'll do all three.

Looks kinda like me (or so I've been told): Juliette Lewis (I know...I know...)

Acts kinda like me: Jennifer Aniston. She's pretty goofy, seems fairly real and true to herself, and she has a streak of funny, too.

Admired by me: Meryl Streep is the greatest, but she's a bit seasoned to play me. I'll go with Toni Collette. Love her. And I can see her in the role of Ashley.

4. There is a gritty, indie-style mockumentary being made of your life. Who will play you?

Kate Winslet. She does indie films sometimes, yes? She's got some meat on her bones. She's got a dry wit and an honesty in her performances and her personality. I really admire her, on film and in interviews I've seen. In fact, maybe I'll send her a letter giving her first dibs on playing me in the sure-to-be-written-one-day-probably-a-big-hit indie film about my life as a...college writing instructor and a...mom. Good stuff.

5. I haven't been a reader long enough to know much about the teaching part of your life. Why did you choose teaching as a career, and what primary challenges and changes do you see in education today?

I chose teaching because I love school. I didn't want to leave college, and when I finished my graduate degree, I didn't want to leave grad school. If I could make a career out of being a life-long student, that's what I'd do. But since students spend rather than make money, I decided to be a teacher on the college level, to stay in the academic environment, to be around the books I love, to work in the realm of ideas. The schedule is good for the soul, too. There's enough change to feel periodically refreshed; I have enough control that I feel empowered and inspired; the work hours are not traditional and somewhat flexible. I love having December off to relish the holidays. I love having the summers off to relish my children.

And it has turned out to be the best decision I could have made to prepare myself to be a working mom. The college where I work is small, and my department is close-knit. The current department head (and all the others I've worked under) does everything in her power to make my schedule amenable to mommydom. I teach two classes a semester, two days a week, and they are alway within a couple of hours of each other, so I can be with my children most of the week, but still have a career that I love, one that fits neatly into my life and leaves me completely happy and challenged and inspired.

I could write another post (don't leave! I won't!) about the challenges facing education, but I'll focus only on the one I've been thinking about lately. I'm not sure what elementary and high school teachers see, but I find my students woefully lacking in resourcefulness. When they hit a road block, if the first search statement in their research doesn't pan out, if a printer runs out of ink when a paper is due, they throw their hands up in defeat.

I've never had a student who had computer problems come to me with a hand-written paper; I get only sob stories. In my day...well, really, if I'd lost a paper in college or couldn't get it off of my word processor (yes, those machines that were only word processors, where you'd type on a tiny screen and then the machine would type it up for you), I would have found a way to re-do it, to get it in. I never would have had the nerve to turn up empty handed.

I wonder if the inability to work around difficulties comes from the way we (have to?) shelter our kids now. There is no more running around the neighborhood till all hours, fending for yourself. Adults are all up in kids' business all the time. I think that's changing the way children grow up, possibly weakening their character. At the very least, it's sad. I hate that my kids will miss out on the adventure of childhood. There is very little adventure left for them.

Okay. Done. I know no one will ever send me a meme again, and I can accept that. But thanks, Bon, for the blog fodder. I really was inspired by that first question, and I love that I had the chance to stop and reflect on all four of my beasts.

I've posted a picture of myself, too, since I don't think I've shown my face yet. That's Mitch and Paige in the photo with me.

The last installment

2007-10-19T22:18:00.000-04:00

We call Paige "Boomba," short for "Fatty Boombalatty." She really is a pudge, but in the most adorable way possible, of course. I am particularly fond of her leg rolls.

I don't yet have the perspective on how she's changed my life that I have with the others, since she's only been here a year. And that year felt like days, I swear. Paige's first birthday is next week. Next week, people! I know all parents say it, but it goes so. damn. fast.

Paige was not a planned pregnancy. In fact, John and I had been in negotiations over the big "V." He wasn't thrilled with the idea, but as we all know, a vasectomy is less invasive than a tubal, AND it feels like an eensy bit of compensation for the months we mothers put in as vessels of life and the hours we spend in labor. (Of course we also realize that a tiny snippity snip of the vas deferens doesn't even come close to what we go through to bear children. Our men are, in reality, eternally beholden.)

We'd decided that Bailey and the boys had taken us to the edge of our resources, financial and psychological. Raising two boys who are 2 and a half years apart is, er, taxing. To put it nicely. And our house is small, our savings account even smaller. I was satisfied with this decision, but I have to say, at times I heard a wee little voice warning that we weren't finished yet. It first piped up while I was packing up newborn clothes to donate to the women's shelter. The voice said, "Pssst. Don't do that. Wait a bit. Just in case." So I did. Unfortunately, the voice must have been on a coffee break when I sold all of our big baby equipment and gave all my maternity clothes to a friend.

I think it was giving away the maternity clothes that did it. The universe saw it happen, pointed a bony finger at me, and cackled, "Look at the silly woman! Giving away maternity clothes before the vasectomy. What gall! Pregnancy for you, woman!" It was a little embarrassing to call my friend, after much hoopla was made over my generosity and her life-long gratitude was expressed, to say, "Hey, can you give me my stuff back?" But I made the call because it was a whole wardrobe for heaven's sake. I couldn't start over from scratch. And of course my friend was thrilled for us (at least outwardly) and handed it all back happily.

So the little voice (lazy as it turned out to be) was right. It was also right about Paige's gender, something I'd intuited from the start but was thrilled to have confirmed at my 20 week ultrasound. I've long imagined all the ways I could force my own childhood loves on a girl: model horses, Anne of Green Gables, Little House on the Prairie, dollhouses. I've already imposed my fondness for old school Sesame Street on her. Happy birthday, Paige! Mommy got you a gift I know I'll love!

I have to admit, I do love having a girl, and yes, it's different. Already...it's different. It could be a difference in personalities, but Paige is much more observant, much more willing to sit in my lap and watch what's happening around her, much less likely to jump into the fray and assume that all gatherings of people happen to honor her. (When Owen was a baby, any time he heard applause, he'd grin and beam and puff his chest out, believing the cheering was for him.) Paige is a snuggler; she seeks body heat and will curl up beside me in bed, hold my hand, stroke my arm. She pats my back when we hug. She pats her baby dolls' backs when she hugs them. She plays quietly on her own and can sit in one spot for more than 15 seconds.

All of this to say, I am thrilled to have a daughter. As the daughter in a very close, exceptionally healthy mother/daughter relationship, I was a bit sad when I thought I wouldn't have that with my own little girl. And who knows, maybe I won't. But at least I have the chance now.

And I have an excuse to buy paperdolls.

An aside

2007-10-17T22:00:00.000-04:00

I'm taking a break from writing the longest response ever to a meme to share this Dave Walker cartoon I saw at How about orange today. I laughed my lazy ass off.

If you're reading this, it applies to you, too

Part Three: The Snitch

2007-10-17T00:32:00.000-04:00

I call him the blond sheep of the family. Apart from his tow head, he has many other ways of distinguishing himself from the brunettes in our family. He's the sassiest by far, the most self-assured, the least ingratiating. He doesn't need the attention and validation that Owen yearns for. He mastered self-care abilities (getting dressed, pouring drinks, bathing himself, putting on socks and shoes) at a startlingly young age. Mitch faces the world with bravado, and I have no doubt that he will plant his flag wherever he pleases.

His was my only planned pregnancy (yeah, we're just careless like that), but he wasn't conceived at exactly the ideal time. We'd hoped for a summer birth to avoid the messiness of turning my courses over to a substitute, but gosh damn we're fertile, and Mitch was made on our first try. So he was a March baby. Two months shy of the goal. Troublemaker from the start.

His birth was enormously different from Owen's, whose arrival was somewhat violent and traumatic. My c-section with Mitch was planned, but I went into labor 2 days before the scheduled date (troublemaker--see?). Still, his birth was very calm and controlled. I went to the hospital; they slowed my contractions; the doctor came; they prepped me for surgery; out came Mitch. I felt in charge from start to finish. I knew what to expect. All went smoothly. I even got to hold him in recovery. When I remember Mitch's birth, the salient feeling is peacefulness.

Going from one child to two didn't phase me much. I expected to feel overwhelmed and manic, bleary and helpless, but Mitch (rather misleadingly) was a very agreeable newborn. He fell asleep easily, took long naps, ate well. I joyfully witnessed the brotherhood unfolding between him and Owen, who accepted the role of big brother with aplomb and never fretted much about the sudden appearance of his fuzzy-headed rival.

I experienced the second-child honeymoon, a confidence and calm that I hadn't felt with Owen, an ability to trust myself and my baby, the wisdom to see that the best thing to do is simply the thing that will work best in that moment. The greatest advantage to being a second-time mom is knowing that all the difficult phases will pass. With Owen, I felt mired in every wrong turn. If he went through a spell of waking more frequently or refusing to nurse, I was sure I'd messed him up forever. With Mitch, I knew that there would be bad weeks and good weeks. (Well...good days. I'm not sure I've ever actually experience a whole week of goodness.)

Like many second-time moms, though I wasn't consumed with him, wasn't spilling over with the love and devotion of a new mother, I enjoyed Mitch's infancy more. It ebbed and flowed, a gentle tide instead of a tsunami.

In some ways, being a mother of two felt like my true initiation into parenthood. I don't mean that mothers of one are lesser parents, but as someone from a family of six, raising children meant juggling, mediating, stretching myself and my resources. When I took on the challenge of nurturing more than one and succeeded, I felt like I'd arrived. I loved having two. I relished their interactions; I was moved to the core by their brotherly bond. Our family felt whole and balanced. I proclaimed myself finished with childbearing.

Then, one afternoon in February of 2006, with Mitch one month from 2 years old and weaned for more than a year, I felt the sensation of let down when a book I was carrying brushed against my breast. And I spoke aloud to an empty room. And I said, "Oh shit."

Bon's first question, part two

2007-10-14T21:13:00.001-04:00

Owen's birth changed me to the core. Being his source of life, the woman who carried him for 9 months, nurtured him with her own milk, and met his endless, ever-changing needs flipped a switch in me. Suddenly, I knew mother love, a brand new, intoxicating emotion.

When I think back to those early days with Owen, I really do remember them as drunken. I was high on baby, consumed with his every movement, gesture, sigh, burp, yawn. When he was asleep, I journaled about him and organized his pictures. I shot hours of videotape, meticulously recorded his milestones, read parenting book after parenting book. I was utterly, hopelessly smitten.

Though I consider Bailey a daughter to me, I am not her mother in the same way I am Owen's mother. Bailey has a mother--a wonderful one--who lives only a few miles from me and John. Bailey sees or talks to her mother every day. When she is sad or excited or upset, she will settle for me if she has to, but her mother is the first place she turns, even when she's with us.

I am Owen's first place to turn, and being that kind of mother changed my life. Everything shifted. All that I'd considered important--career, ambition, travel--was instantly downgraded. Being Owen's mother fulfilled me in a way I'd never imagined. A brand new feeling unfolded in me, and I saw right away there was no going back. Once you experience mother love, you are ever more a mother, and you will always see the world through those eyes.

In November of 2001, when I gazed down at that squirmy, squinting newborn, I knew I was face to face with the meaning of life.

The one where Mean Mommy answers Bon's questions

2007-10-12T22:01:00.000-04:00

I'm participating in my first blog meme (I didn't know the word either, mom) -- a list of five questions about you presented by another blogger. One of my very favorites, Bon at cribchronicles, whose blog is (and should be) kinda famous, did me the honor of providing my questions (because I asked her to). Apologies in advance because I think I might be long winded about some of them; they're provocative questions.

The first question: There are four offspring in your family. How has each child changed you or impacted you as s/he came into your life?

I'm going in birth order, so I'll start with Bailey. Bailey Boo, Booper, Bailes, Bailey Wailey.

The first time I met Bailey, she was barking. The summer I met John, he and I both worked at this upscale Italian restaurant, and he had a major crush on me, so he came by the restaurant on his day off on some false pretense (really to see me), and he brought Bailey with him. She was 3 years old, with huge brown eyes, long, dark eyelashes, and these adorable blunt cut bangs. She was pretending to be a dog. Loudly.

I tried chatting with her, but she would only yip. I admired John's manner with her, and I thought she was a darling, funny girl. I didn't see really meet her one on one, as someone in her dad's life, until months later.

After John and I had dated for awhile, including a few months of my living in Mexico, he invited me to come along with him and Bailey to the State Fair. She largely ignored me until it was time to leave, and she was unhappy about going home. I found a little stuffed animal of hers in the front seat and, while she sniffled and pouted in the back seat, I made him peek around the head rest and then dart away when she spotted him. We played peek a boo with the little stuffie until she was wracked with giggles. From then on, she was my buddy.

Bailey did change my life, but more slowly than my others did. Our relationship developed by degrees; I tried hard to be sensitive to her position and to the fear, anger, and resentment she might feel towards me as I got closer to John, and I didn't force myself on her. By the time John and I got engaged, Bailey was as much a part of my life as he was. By then, I not only wanted to spend my life with John, but I couldn't bear the thought of Bailey growing up without me.

Bailey taught me many of the lessons first time parents learn: that even the best laid plans are subject to upheaval; that the magic of childhood is revived in the lives of your children, allowing you to experience it all over again in a much more exciting, fulfilling way; that "sacrificing" for your family is not sacrifice at all since there's nothing you'd rather have; and that her dad was someone I wanted to have more children with.

One rainy Saturday when Bailey was 7 years old, we were home watching a movie, Air Bud, I think. As I lay on the couch, this overwhelming feeling of exhaustion washed over me, a heavy tiredness, weighing down my bones. I slept through the movie. That night, John was planning to make spaghetti for dinner, but when he took out the Italian sausage he planned to put in the sauce, the sight of it made me ill. Later, I drove to the drug store and bought a pregnancy test. It was positive. It was Owen.

Next installment (still on the first question): How Owen changed my life...

A mommy first

2007-10-08T19:42:00.000-04:00

The first time a child of mine will go under anesthesia: tomorrow morning 7:15. Paige is having the tear duct in her left eye surgically opened. It's a very, very simple procedure but...well, you all know what comes after the but...

The hardest part will be the fury we will face tonight at 1 AM when she wakes up and wants to nurse, and I turn her away. She is going to be livid. I'm actually a little afraid of how angry she'll be. When that child wants her mama milk, she will scratch and claw and pinch and lunge for the mammary until she gets her way. Nursing: such a warm and bonding experience. Until they're old enough to draw blood.

The upside is that my own mama is spending the night tonight so she'll be there to take care of the boys tomorrow morning (we leave for the hospital at the crack of dawn). Because my parents live only 15 minutes away, they never stay with us. Our visits are always a couple of hours long, and then we all go back home. I think that's why my mom and I still adore each other's company so much--we never spend enough time together to grow irritated and resentful. Still, it'll be a treat to have her over to watch Heroes with.

This rambling post exposes my nerves, I fear. I'm sure I'll have a post in a day or two detailing the heart wrenchingness of watching your one year old being wheeled away into surgery alone, without you by the bed to give the doctor steely eyed "I dare you to screw up" looks.

She'll be fine. I know. But...

If I were truly mean...

2007-10-04T11:10:00.001-04:00

My two little potty mouths, lately hell bent on slipping the words "pee" "poop" "puke" and "penis" into every conversation, would wake up on Christmas morning to find these, and only these, under the tree, with a note attached:

"I noticed how much you boys love pee and poop. Thought this would be the perfect present. Merry Christmas! Love, Santa"

Leaving Everyone Else at Home

2007-09-29T21:25:00.001-04:00

We got back from the beach today. This was our first family-only vacation ever. We've been on vacation before, yes, but always with extended family, including a whole gaggle of my cousins and their children. But this time, it was just us, just our little 6 person semi-dysfunctional family. And it was heaven.

Here are a few of the reasons it was heaven:

1. The beach in September is gorgeous.

2. We had amazing weather, including one day (one day being the perfect amount) of driving rain, making for a cozy inside day.

3. John didn't work a lick (quite a feat these days).

4. The kids had hella fun playing in the waves, Paige included. She nearly had a baby cow every time she saw the ocean. When I'd take her to the water's edge, she'd kick and squeal and lurch forward like she wanted to dive in and swim to France.

5. The kids were worn out at the end of every day, which made bedtime easy and early and left lots o' grown up time for me and the old man.

6. We ate so. much. junk food. So much.

7. There was an exceptionally rat-like possum who wandered onto the screened in porch every night scavaging for food (oh, shoot, this one actually belongs on the "things that made me gag during vacation" list. Sorry.)

8. We ate out a lot.

9. When I had to drive back home to work on Wednesday night (certainly NOT one of the things that made vacation heaven), we had a disbursement check from an old escrow account waiting in the mailbox. Windfall! Whoo hoo! More eating out....

10. We napped every day.

The last thing on the list deserves its own section, because this one made my vacation. We decided that over the course of the week, we'd spend one-on-one time with each of the children. We very carefully and thoughtfully chose activities that each child would love, according to his or her tastes. Naturally that meant doughnuts for Mitch and mini-golf for Owen. Paige's one-on-one time happened every day in the form of coaxing her to sleep for two naps and bedtime and nursing her on demand all week (and for some reason, she was very demanding).

I had the honor of escorting for the doughnut date and the mini-golf date, and John took Bailey on her date, which was a 2 hour uninterrupted swim in the ocean. She loves the ocean, but it's hard for us to get in the water with her for any length of time because of younger siblings who might get washed out to sea without constant vigilance.

On the morning of his date, a "special breakfast" at a scrumptious village bakery, Mitch woke me at 6:00 am, whispering wetly into my ear, "Mommy! It's time for special breakfast!" I held him off til 7:00, and then we set off, rather giddily. At the bakery, we ordered a sausage and egg croissant, chocolate doughnuts (freshly baked and hand dipped) and chocolate milk. And then Mitch's head exploded. Not really, but yes, that's a whole lot of chocolate.

The best part was, of course, sitting down at a cozy little table together, chatting and munching and answering each of Mitch's incessant questions without interruption. He was thrilled to be singled out, and his behavior was impeccable. On the way to the car, he skipped up beside me, squeezed my hand, and said, "Thank you for my special breakfast." Then we went home, and Mitch spent the rest of the morning tearing around the beach house, wired on sugar and cocoa.

Owen's mini-golf date was Thursday night after dinner. We filled our pockets with quarters and set off to Uncle Andy's mini-golf and ice cream (which sounds a little bit creepy, kind of like "Uncle Andy" is trying to lure small children to him, but actually it's a nice place). The best part is, Uncle Andy only charges 2 dollars for endless mini-golf, and he makes a damn fine mix-in ice cream. One price, any and all of the toppings you want. Oh my yum. Heath Bar, Reeces Cup, and cookie dough, please.

Because it was the off-season, not many people were at Uncle Andy's, so we played speedily, just as Owen likes it. After chatting with another group of mini-golfers for a bit, Owen called after them, "Guess what? It's just me and mommy! We left my dad and my brother and my sisters at home for a special night!" It made me all gooey inside to know he was basking in our aloneness. I was, too.

After 2 and a half games of golf, I had 2 holes in one, Owen had 3. So we went inside and fed all of the quarters to that arcade game that pushes piles of quarters forward, and if you place your quarter just right, a whole bunch might fall into the quarter dispenser, and you'll win mega bucks. We won six quarters, but Owen, little gambling addict that he is, fed them right back in, so in the end we won no quarters and lost 2 dollars. But we had fun losing the 2 dollars, so oh well.

We're home tonight, sun chapped and tired. Everyone is in bed now, happy to have their heads on their own pillows. But when we wake up tomorrow, I expect there will be a brief moment of disorientation until we remember that vacation has ended, and we're back in real life now. Where one cannot eat doughnuts for breakfast, cookies after lunch, and ice cream sundaes every night. At least not after tonight. And possibly tomorrow. But after that, it's broccoli, spinach, and baked fish all the way.

Blogging is Great

2007-09-21T23:10:00.001-04:00

But I'm going to the beach tomorrow! Minimum plugged-in-ness for a week. Can't wait. The beach in September is my favorite thing.

Real Parenting

2007-09-15T22:36:00.001-04:00

This time last year, I was with child. Inflated and bulging with child. I was a balloon with feet, a waddling, aching reminder to all women suffering from baby fever that baby fever culminates in a month long bloat fest spattered with much complaining and cursing and topped with the people you live with wishing you'd just go somewhere and finish gestating already.

One afternoon, at the height of the bloat fest, I arrived at preschool to pick up the boys and waddled over to the 4 year old class, out of which Owen dashed, hollering about being star student for the day and proudly puffing his chest, where he'd been decorated with a sticker that declared, "I'm Special!!"

And so began the afternoon from hell. The boys were excruciatingly LOUD the entire ride home, shrieking and whining and managing to hit each other even though they weren't sitting in the same row for f's sake. I growled and grumbled and threatened, and they pretended not to hear me, but we made it home before I reached the "neck turning 360 degrees, eyes rolling back in my head" phase.

Inside, the shenanigans continued. There was much rolling on the floor and screaming, laughter and tickling that disintegrated into tears and smacking because the play had gotten too rough (it ALWAYS gets too rough). The smacking and tears inspired wailing and whining, and whining plus the bloat, plus the tearing bread of the peanut butter sandwich I was making, plus the post-loud-ride-home stress, plus the longing from deep in my bones to have a nap and the knowing that that would not happen, plus the Braxton Hicks contractions that had been torturing me since week 32 = me losing my shit.

I yelled at them. I mean yelled. Very loudly. I had them backed up against the couch, and I was full on flailing my arms and screaming incoherently that I'd told them to calm down eighty times and they never listen and I'm trying to make YOUR lunch and you're both going to bed RIGHT NOW with nothing to eat and then...Owen laughed.

At first he snickered, then he giggled, and then we was wracked with giggles, and I realized that he found me ridiculous. And that, my friends, sent me over the edge I thought I'd already gone over. But no, there was another, much steeper edge.

I put my hands on my oldest child's face, held his cheeks, and forced him to look at me. I asked him what was funny. Was it was funny to make me so upset, to have me screaming at them because they couldn't listen worth a damn? Was it funny to be screamed at? To be so disrespectful? My face was an inch from his, my hands still squeezing his cheeks, the impulse to turn him over and smack his bottom HARD dancing in my nerve endings, my voice bellowing and unfamiliar. I gave Owen a little shove away from me and stood back to look at him. I was shaking with anger and fear. I felt very close to out of control. No. I was out of control.

Owen's eyes were bright with genuine fear, tears now streaming down his face, no trace of a smile left. Mitch had pulled himself next to Owen, practically under Owen, and sat clinging to his arm. I watched them huddled there, truly afraid of me. I saw them watching me with the panic of not knowing what would happen next. Then I noticed the "I'm Special!!" sticker still decorating Owen's shirt, and the image of him dancing in front of me happily after school, so little, so taken with such a small honor, so full of naivety and happiness, deflated me utterly. I turned and left the room, found my bed, and crumpled. I cried and cried with shame, frustration, sadness, fear. I had never felt so outside of myself, so detached from the woman I'd been 5 minutes before, a screaming, abusive maniac. I feel shame even now remembering, picturing their faces on that couch, blanched with fear. Those boys, 2 and 4 years old, were afraid of me, their mother.

Before long I got myself up and washed my face, blew my nose. I went into the dining room where the boys were silently eating their sandwiches, looking sideways at me as I came in. I sat down across from them, and I apologized. I told them I was very wrong to scream at them, that I was very wrong to grab and shove Owen, that I was very wrong for losing my temper so horribly. I admitted to the boys that I was bone weary, and I said sorry. Many many times. Then my boys left their seats and came to me, washed of their fear and anger at me, eager to make me happy again. They hugged and kissed me and absolved me, and I never felt more unworthy of absolution or more full of pure, pulsing love.

A moment like this has never happened again. I hope it was my lowest moment as a mother. I hope I won't be that wild woman again, hot with anger and too overwhelmed to stop the wave of rage from crashing over my children. But that moment, ugly as it was, is real parenting. Real parents screw up. They lose their footing. They have horrible, nasty temper tantrums. They show their children the very worst side of themselves.

Real parents also teach their children that when a person messes up badly, she must say so. She must ask for forgiveness. The children of real parents learn that people who love each other can sometimes say and do horrible things to one another but go on loving each other.

That moment was terrible and sad and gritty. But it was real. As hard as it is to let go of the myth that parents are slawart beacons of wisdom and grace for their children, real parenting will, some time, somewhere, include unleashing the demons. It will happen. It will happen to you, too.

The cool kids over at Babble's drool.icio.us recently sent out the call for blog entries on this topic, and I felt called to answer since the topic is near and dear to my heart. Plus if I link back to them I could win this rad stroller, and poor Paige in her ghetto stroller would love a pimped out ride like that.

Lopsided Love

2007-09-13T17:48:00.000-04:00

Lately, I've been swamped with work: my school bag bulges with essays to grade; the literature course I'm teaching requires brand new lecture preps every week, and an influx of writing projects has me working on the computer more than usual. I've been feeling a bit like I felt in grad school, those months of slogging through Derrida and Plato, Donne and Lord Byron, all heavy-duty reading assignments that dampened my desire to read for pleasure. For 2 years, the same stack of novels collected dust on my bedside table while night after night I crawled into bed, my eyes dry and heavy from 100 page reading assignments, my mind at capacity, teeming with words and ideas. In other words, I'm doing so much writing and thinking for work, I haven't felt inspired to write for the blog.

I think my soul was longing to unplug because I developed a sudden and urgent desire to craft, to create something that didn't require hitting "publish" or "save." I'm not exactly a crafty gal, but every now and then I get the crafting yen, and woe to the person who stands between me and A.C. Moore. This time, foolishly imagining I could create anything close to as darling and hip as the Hillary Lang dolls at Wee Wonderfuls, without a pattern, a sewing machine, or a lick of spacial reasoning, I undertook a doll project.

I didn't realize I could buy the pattern for Hillary's Make Along Dolls (my favorite of her soft toy creations) right off her website, and I didn't want to wait for a pattern to be shipped to me, so I tried to make my own pattern using a big piece of cardboard and a flickr photo that displayed the cut-out pieces of the doll.

I did okay for an improvised first try, especially a hand-sewn first try. The doll, whom Mitch named Sara, is lopsided. Her stitches are ugly and obvious in a few (okay, many) places. She has embarrassing bald spots and ill-fitting clothes. Her eyes are a bit uneven; her hands are disproportionately small; and I worry that Paige may end up with a mouth full of stuffing if she plays with her too heartily. Sara does, however, have adorable feet. Turns out I'm pretty good at doll feet.

Sara has also captured Paige's heart. After 3 days of sewing, when I finally stuffed her body, and she started to look like an actual doll (sort of), Paige began to pine for her. I couldn't work on the doll when Paige was in the room because she'd sit at my feet, whining to hold the doll and pulling up on my knees to grab at her. When Sara was nearly complete, I gave her to Paige for the first time. She immediately dropped her on the floor, laid down next to her, and nuzzled her head into the doll's cushy tummy.

They lay there together for a few minutes in a bit of a rapture, and I decided that somehow Paige knew that Sara was fashioned from motherlove. The doll is scruffy, yes, but she has a soul:

And a soul sister:

ISO: The Blond Boy I Once Loved

2007-09-06T00:47:00.000-04:00

Mitch starts preschool tomorrow, and, as he puts it, "I'm so exciting." I'm looking forward to some semi-quiet time as long as Paige naps for more than 15 minutes and I don't have too many errands to run or papers to grade and nobody calls me and the dishes and laundry fairy drops by.

Last year, Mitch was the sweetheart of the 2 year old class. Nearly every time I spoke to his teacher, she'd gush about how sweet he was and how polite, and I'd walk away beaming, inwardly smug at what a fantastic job I'd done raising a gentle, well-mannered young man.

Well, if his adorableness was my doing, I must have really screwed things up since then, because lately, my darling Mitch has been usurped by bizarro-Mitch, an evil twin I like to call "Gritch." Here are just a few of the not-at-all-polite phrases Gritch has uttered over the past 2 months:

"If you say that again, I'm going to mess up this whole place" (to the Target employee who warned Gritch he might pinch his fingers in the check-out counter's conveyor belt if he didn't put his hands down)

"I don't really feel like it" (to Mommy when she reminded him to say thank you to a little girl who shared a toy with him)

"I think...nothing" (to the teacher assistant at the preschool open house when she asked him what toys he liked to play with)

"If you do that to me, I'm gonna walk out of this house" (to Mommy and Daddy when they were explaining to Owen what being grounded meant (because he asked, not because he was grounded))

"I don't want it" (to the kind jewelry store lady who tried to give him a small helicopter toy)

"........." (to the kind jewelry store lady when Mommy reminded him to say "thank you anyway")

"No, sir! That's not for you" (to the boy at Owen's soccer practice who tried to use Gritch's dinosaur stompers but had them rudely snatched away)

"If you say that again, I'll spank your bottom" (to Mommy when she told Gritch he had to eat his sandwich before getting any chips)

Bottom line, the boy is the anti-sweet right now. I'm fully expecting this message on the answering machine tomorrow when I get home from my morning meeting at school:

"Hi, this is Gritch's teacher. Can you come get him? He's become completely insufferable kthnx."

But maybe, just maybe, the phenomenon of "good for everyone but mommy" will descend upon Gritch and magically transform him back into the giggly, happy, charming boy he once was, at least during school hours. Cause I have a feeling the seasoned Mrs. J isn't going to fall for Gritch's standard response to getting in trouble, pictured below:

Allow me to Translate

2007-09-01T12:04:00.000-04:00

All mothers laugh at themselves for using those "mom phrases" they swore would never cross their lips. But who ever stops to wonder why we can't stop ourselves from saying them? Who takes time to consider why every mother in the universe (yes, universe; Martian protozoa are parents, too) has muttered "Just wait til your father gets home."

I stop to think about it, that's who. And I have a theory.

It's simple: If we didn't say something trite, we'd say something...else.

If we didn't say, "Because I said so," we'd say, "Enough with your why why why already! Now SHUT IT! ShutItShutItShutItShutItShutItShutItShutIt! SHUT. IT!"

If we didn't say, "I can't have anything nice," we'd say, "You little... Do you think I paid $2000 for this TV so you'd have somewhere to display your handprints? Sit the heck BACK and keep your grimy hands OFF MY STUFF. Allofit!"

If we didn't say, "Well, I'm not Timmy's mom," we'd say, "Well, Timmy's mom is a flippin' idiot."

If we didn't say, "I'm not your maid," we'd say, "I have 2 degrees, 7 years of professional experience, and kick ass references. But I spend my days picking your dirty socks up off the kitchen floor? Keep it up and I'm putting in my notice, kid."

If we didn't say, "I don't care who started it," we'd say, "Keep it up. Just keep beating each other in the head. Maybe you'll knock yourselves unconscious for a couple of hours. "

If we didn't say, "There are starving children in the world," we'd say, "I spend my once disposable income on mac and cheese, chicken nuggets, and Lucky Charms. Eat or I'm using the grocery money for 12 packs and handbags."

If we didn't say, "Turn it off. TV will rot your brain," we'd say, "Please, for the love of goodness, sit there all day and watch Nickelodeon so I can have more than 10 minutes of quiet and maybe a nap."

If we didn't say, "I can't hear myself think," we'd say, "If you don't stop yelling, howling, and whining, I'm going to get in the car and drive far far away to California and start life over on a cooperative farm."

If we didn't say, "Mommy loves you even when she's angry," we'd say, "Even if you grow up to be an armed robber, a polygamist, a Wall Street asshole, I will welcome you home. You have me wrapped not only around your little finger, but your thumbs, pinkies and at least 3 of your toes. I'm a sucker for you, I'm a fool for you. Please miss me when you go to college. Please look at me with the same trust and adoration when you're 35. Please love me always as much as you love me now."

A Not so Broken Home

2007-08-30T23:49:00.000-04:00

This post over at GNMParents has me thinking about my own role as a step mom. Over the 7 years I've been married to John, I've come to realize that the post-divorce family all of us have created around Bailey is something very special. This success is due mainly to the behavior of John and C., who handled their divorce with goodwill, who focused most of their attention on making it as easy as possible on Bailey, and who continue to pay attention to what's best for her.

Since John and C.'s divorce and their re-marriages, all of the adults in Bailey's life have worked hard to function as a unit. Oddly, what we've created is a kind of extended family. C. has brought us meals during times of sickness (so have members of C.'s church--amazing) ; she's celebrated the births of Bailey's half-siblings with joy; and she even took us in when that brutal ice storm in 2002 knocked out our electricity. (Strange, I know, but we had a newborn, and really, things are that okay.) So I know that, though divorce is never ideal for a child, Bailey has landed in a pretty ideal post-divorce situation.

C. has also been very supportive of my relationship with Bailey. I can see how it might be difficult to nurture that relationship, but she understands that it is no good for Bailey to feel torn between her two families. And I reciprocate wholeheartedly. I have never spoken a negative word about C., nor has John (luckily we’ve never really had a reason to), and we are careful to be consistent across households about discipline and rules. The result is that at Bailey’s birthday parties and school functions, when we all show up, she is delighted to have everyone there instead of worried about the tension it might cause. It makes me so sad to think of the thousands of children who cringe at the idea of their parents coming together for a special day. What a shadow to celebrate under.

I've also thought very carefully about my place in Bailey's life. Because she already has a very good mom, that's not the role I attempt to play. I see myself as something between a mom and an older sister, without the full authority of a mother (though I do have some, of course) and with a bit less chumminess than a sister. I give Bailey advice when she asks for it, I chime in on family discussions concerning her well being, but I defer to John and C. when it comes to the big things (we usually agree anyway). Because I haven't tried to stand on equal footing with John and C., I have a unique relationship with Bailey. She needs and loves me for different reasons, and in my view, that is a perfect outcome.

I do feel sad for Bailey sometimes, for the loss of her parents' marriage, but I am proud of the family we have built around her. She is surrounded by love, support, and security. Both of her parents have strong re-marriages that model loving, committed relationships for her, and the friendships between all of the parents in her life have taught her that, even when relationships go wrong, courtesy, compassion, and consideration can make what exists afterward a beautiful thing.

A revised version of this post is cross-posted at Momformation

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2007-08-28T23:08:00.001-04:00