Monday, September 10, 2012

Learning Curve

I started blogging because I was afraid to do it. And I hate being afraid. I've also been told once or twice that I should write a book. But I don't have the patience for book-writing. I barely have time these days for book-reading...at least one without lots and lots of pictures. My blog allows me to vent, share, process, write and reach a very, very small audience...which is quite satisfying, and not all that scary.
 
Since I'm such a newbie, I learn a little bit about blogging every time I post an entry. More importantly, I learn a little bit about blogging every time I read someone else's fantastic blog (and believe me, there are some out there that can make me forget to feed my kids breakfast, lunch and dinner!)
 
After reading one such blog recently, I realized that maybe I shouldn't have used my kids real names when blogging about them. It never occurred to me to rename them in my posts. At this point, after living with them for all these years, I'm thinking it would be cruel of me to call them what I really think they should be named some days (those days being summer, winter and spring vacation days, half days, weekends and Monday holidays).
 
I can't decide which is more harmful, referring to them using their given names, or renaming them mid-blog when I'm bitching about them. Besides, would anyone really read a blog about kids named Infuriating, Annoying, or Downright Childish and Immature?

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Seeking Gainful Employment

For the most part I love this time of year; where the excitement of back to school, new sneakers, schedules, routines and footie pajamas permeate my life. But this time of year also makes me kinda feel like I want to get a job. A real job. A paying job. A job that involves other adults who like their job. A job with vacation time, a 401K, and perks like company picnics, stock options and maybe even a company car. A company car that doesn't smell like feet and flatulence. A car that only seats two, and is not infested with fruit flies. 
 
I dream of a place of employment where, if someone comes to me with a complaint or hurt feelings; if they are in tears, frustrated, or upset, I simply direct them to HR. If they peel the paint off the walls or pick at a snag in the rug, I call maintenance and deduct the cost of repairs from their paycheck. A place where if someone pointed a Nerf gun or light saber at me I could get them fired. A place where group bathroom breaks are frowned upon. In fact, a place where I could take my bathroom break without having to explain to someone what I'm doing and why. That kind of place would be fantastic.
 
Then I think about all of the things I was born to do; the jobs that I would both enjoy and be good at: something that involved teaching, bus driving, event planning, disciplining naughty people, nursing (not the kind that involves a mammary gland or two), bartending, investigation, travel and tourism, or stand up comedy.
 
But I am those things already. And yeah, sometimes being everything for free is great...the best of all the jobs in the world. But a good amount of time it also completely and totally sucks the fun out of me.
 
A few days ago I sent my two older children off to school. There were no tears. In fact, this time of year also makes me feel like a cold, heartless, mother. I don't get upset or weepy when it's time for back to school. They get a quick kiss and a swift kick in the ass as they board the bus. I tell them #1 that I love them, #2 be kind to everyone, and #3 do a good job wiping so they don't smell all day. I don't really miss them when they're gone, and I kinda totally dread when the bus chugs around the corner to return them to my care.
See ya in 7 hours kiddos

I also sent my three year old off to preschool for a couple hours this week. Then I sat and enjoyed a 90 minute uninterrupted coffee break with an amazing friend. Undoubtedly there are perks to working from home and being my own boss (depending on who's version of "the boss" you buy into). And I'm sure many people think that as a stay at home mom, particularly one whose kids are all back to school in some way, I have it made. I should keep my mouth shut and enjoy my fantastic life.
 
But still...I have that longing. The longing to be out in the workplace with other adults. People who won't fight me for the toilet, use the company pet as a hand towel, or complain about absolutely every word that comes out of my mouth. People who will not chew on my car keys, pass me their boogers, or touch my stuff just to get my attention. People who understand that when I'm sitting in front of my computer, I am in fact doing something. People who will not care what we are having for dinner. People who will not, upon catching a peek at someone elses privates, start singing "I see your wiener, I see your butt." People who will not need to be reminded that their briefcase, purse or laptop bag does not ever belong on their head.
 So if anyone knows of any fantastic companies looking to hire, please just let me know. I just might throw my hat into the proverbial ring. I'm a fast learner, except for when it comes to financial transactions. I multi-task, and clearly work for cheap, but I would still prefer a check to direct deposit. I can give answers without understanding the question. I'm kinda funny, and can diffuse a tense or uncomfortable situation with my sharp wit. I'd also be the first to volunteer to run out for some Dunkin Donuts coffee should we all decide we want some. I have spent many an hour volunteering in my kids' school, so to say I can un-jam a copier or trace shapes onto construction paper in record time is an understatement.
 
Of course, I have only a few minor demands of my own. I'll need to be able to check personal emails, get on Facebook, balance my checkbook, make list after list after list of things I need to do, call my mom every morning at 8:30, text my husband, peruse Instagram, read my favorite blogs, reorganize the office furniture a lot, wear my pajamas and flip flops most days, only shower on M/W/F, and once every six weeks I'll need a half day so I can get my hair done. Cocktail hour often starts at 3:30 for me, so we'll need to figure out a flexible work schedule. Luckily my kids don't get sick a lot, so I doubt I'll need time off to care for them, but honestly...I have a headache most days of the week.



Sunday, August 19, 2012

Tid-Bits

Usually I sit down to write only when I have a long story to tell. But my mind has been so jumbled with little things lately, that no matter how many hours I lay awake in bed at night, I can't generate a lengthy or cohesive train of thought. Here's hoping that if I expel these little tid-bits, these small snippets of stories from my brain, I can move on. 

On Cleaning:
Firstly, I'm not much of a cleaner. My mother...she can clean. But me, not so much. This is not to say that I don't strive to be a cleaner or that I am not disgusted by myself sometimes; horrified to find my son drawing in the dust that has accumulated on our TV stand. Yes I sweep daily. I scrub counter tops a multitude of times a day and change bed linens weekly. I can't leave the house with dirty dishes in the sink. Yet a deep clean is hard to come by in my house.
Getting Gillian to do the work for me
The other day I decided to try to keep on top of my cleaning, while not actually cleaning. I bought one of those tablets you drop in the toilet tank, a blue do-dad that keeps your bowl fresh no matter how many times your kids forget to flush it. But it's not a perfect system. Unfortunately the dog has now, after 14 years, decided to start drinking out of the toilet. And drinking blue toilet water surely can't be good for her health. There have also been sporadic incidents of back splash, which now leaves the offending fanny speckled with blue.  And a blue speckled fanny can't be good for anyone's health.

However, had I known how much the blue toilet water would freak my kids out, I would have gotten one a lot sooner! It has been so much fun watching, as one after the other they have run screaming from the bathroom to alert me to the holy-crap-there's-something-wrong-with-the-toilet-water blue toilet water. Sadly the panic, coupled with excitement and shock, was short lived for the older two. Eventually they got it. The real joy has come every single time my three year old flushes the toilet and announces with great pride that she's flushed the blue water down. Every. Single. Time. For the past week and a half. Some things never get old...blue toilet water is one of them.

On Potty Training an already Potty Trained Child:
Gillian was fully potty trained by 22 months old. She went at potty training with astonishing determination. And she did it. Honestly I feel as though I had nothing to do with her success. She donned her big girl panties and has been off and running ever since. She just turned three, and therefore has been off and running with this thing for a good long while now. Yet, I find myself currently locked in an increasingly frustrating battle of wills with her. 

Today she ran downstairs after trying to get her own bathing suit on and announced that she'd peed on her hand. I asked how and she said she was trying to pee on the rug and got her hand instead. I was completely baffled. I asked her to show me where she had peed on the rug, and she dutifully took my hand and brought me to her room, promptly announcing that she was just kidding. She hadn't, in fact, peed on the rug. I have no idea how she managed to pee on her hand. Just her hand.

Several times in the past couple of weeks she has had accidents. In the bathroom. While arguing with me about who is going to put her on the potty. Usually she decides that she needs to go when I have my head in the dryer, or am applying sunscreen, or mixing a drink. Usually I am just annoyed that she needs me to do something for her that I know she is more than capable of doing herself. So I argue. I yell from the bottom of the stairs to lift the seat, drop her drawers and hop on. She wants me to turn on the light. Yet she would stand in the bathroom and play with the light switch for hours if I let her. She wants me to lift her onto the potty when she's got the climbing skills of a mountain goat.
                 If only she were more like her brother... 
This is one phase that I just need to wait out, I know it will pass. That doesn't make it any less frustrating or any more endearing. I keep telling her that she can't go to preschool (in 16 days) if she won't just get on the potty. But she knows I'm bluffing...there's no way in hell my baby isn't getting out of my hair for six hours a week!

On Politics:
For several and various reasons I hardly ever insert myself into politics. However, if I ever had to drive cross-country, I know with all certainty that the most logical place to stick my miserable dog would be in his crate. On the roof of the car. In fact my children, if we ever have to drive cross-country, (or anywhere for that matter,) should consider themselves lucky if I don't entertain the idea of putting them in a crate. On the roof of the car.
The dog in question, when he was cute!

So all of this amounts to probably just a tid. Or a bit.

Monday, August 6, 2012

What's For Dinner?

Last week was one of those early August weeks. The kind that creeps around at this time of year. A week full of back to school anticipation and agitation, as well as deep remorse that the summer is indeed drawing to a close...rapidly. Yes, we've got a couple of good weeks left, but in mere days we will start football practice, back-to-school shopping, and dry-running some sort of morning and bedtime routine so my kids will not go into shock come August 30th.

It's also the time of year when I start dreaming of applying chap stick to lips rather than sunscreen to faces; of strapping ski helmets to heads instead of boogie boards to ankles or wrists; fastening boots and binders instead of bathing suit hooks. I'm just about ready to hang up my beach chair for the season. Every year at this time I begin to look forward to more crisp, less humid days... days that are slope and not sand filled.

So while last week I could have gone the beach route during the day with kids...I just didn't have it in me. I simply wasn't in the mood for another trip to the ocean. Yet I also felt as though I were robbing the kids of another beach experience during summer vacation.

Then it dawned on me to shake it up a bit. To think outside of the box. Keep everyone happy...relatively; have dinner on the beach, picnic style. Clearly this isn't a novel idea on my part. I've been reading lots of blogs, lots of Facebook, and lots of summer mini-bucket lists that others have so dutifully created. And the beach at dusk, (with or without food) seems to be high on a bunch of other people's must-do lists. (Unfortunately for my children, I'm more the kind of mother who will sit down in September, pen in hand, and list all of the things I meant to do, but forgot!)

Regardless, with this sunset trip to the beach I had my kids in mind. But I also had myself in mind. If I planned an evening picnic at the beach I could accomplish so many things at once. #1 I wouldn't have to cook dinner, because for me, dinner at the beach = take-out. #2 I would provide my kids with a great beach memory, yet avoid the hassle of another trek to the beach in the heat without my husband.  #3 The kids could splash happily, ankle deep, while my husband and I sat in our chairs, toes in the water, sipping wine, holding hands...talking about the future. #4 I would finally remember the camera, and we were going to make such good memories they would be photograph worthy! #5 The drive home would lull the littlest to sleep (yes, I brought their jammies!) and we'd have one less monster to deal with at bedtime.

With the best intentions carefully laid in place, we hit the road, and then we hit a few snags.

#1. Take out...delish, unless you are Gillian and picky as all get-out. And yes, I didn't have to cook...but keeping four out of five of us happy, and full, cost nearly $50.00. And I still had to wipe grease from faces, and pick up trash...and worry about being bombarded by seagulls.

Someone wasn't thrilled about their pasta...

but someone really loved the pizza...

#2. While my husband was there to co-pack mule with me, it was kinda still a hassle. First, my great idea seemed to be shared by hoards of others, who had all found the best parking, and the prime spots on the beach! And shame on me, I just can't make a trip to the ocean without mounds of gear. Although, man was it nice. I mean really nice...a gorgeous night! No heat. No sunscreen. Warm water. Low tide. Beautiful sunset.





And the best part...



Three someones thought it was another "best day evah!"



#3. My husband and my post dinner relaxation plan, the one that had us sitting in our chairs, holding hands and chatting quietly, instantly became a frantically-trying-to-collect-the-blowing-trash-while-standing-up-and-waving-our-arms-while-screaming-at-the-kids-to-come-back kind of thing. We hadn't even uttered the words "stay close" and they were off. Running. Like. The. Wind. It didn't help that the tide was excruciatingly low, leaving sand bars, tide pools and islands begging to be explored.


Also, the kids weren't having any of the "ankle-deep" idea and they refused to even entertain the "knee-deep" idea. I'd tried to outsmart them by leaving the tops to the girls bathing suits at home and forcing Quinn to keep his t-shirt on, thereby tricking them into thinking they were actually mostly dressed. In clothes. That weren't waterproof. But eventually Quinn fell in the water. Then Sophie begged me to get wet. I told her I didn't want her getting her whole body wet, but if she fell...well than what could I do really? Seconds later she fell into the water too. Head first. And Gillian...she didn't even bother asking. Or pretending to fall.

#4. You know that one great shot...that one picture that we all want of our kid? The one where her back is to the camera and she seems so deep in thought? Where she portrays wonder and hope, contemplation and deep understanding? Where she gives us a sense that she is looking deep within herself, deep into her little girl soul? I thought I had that shot too...

Turns out she was just peeing.


#5. The drive home. Boy were a couple of us exhausted. But then again, three of us weren't. In fact, one of us...wow. One of us was full of energy. All. The. Way. Home.















Sunday, July 29, 2012

There's a Frog in The House

I don't know that I'd call myself outdoorsy. I suppose I started out that way, growing up surrounded by chicken coops, vast vegetable gardens, fishing poles and dirt roads. But if I were asked to describe myself in any number of words...outdoorsy wouldn't even make the list.

For me being outdoors now involves scooping dog poop off our lawn and watering overpriced flowers that I lose interest in, long about July 4th.


These days I consider myself outdoors if I stand with my face pressed against the screen in the kitchen window, watching the kids swim in the pool. I enjoy the beach. I enjoy the lake. I enjoy the river, I even enjoy camping. I like to ski, and will climb a mountain or two. And when given the option of sitting inside or outside at a restaurant...hands down I'll choose outside. I spend time outside watching my kids play softball or baseball, and I'll find a nice bench to sit on when we are at the playground. But that's kinda it. I no longer go outside just because. I don't wander. I don't explore. I don't get lost in the wonder of just being outside. Instead I now experience the wonder of the outdoors from inside, and through my kids.

One of my favorite mom things to do is send my children outside to play, throw open the windows and listen to what unfolds. Maybe that makes me neglectful...admittedly I don't even watch, other than an occasional peek when it gets too quiet.  But I believe I am still there with them. I listen. I am still, focused, and present. I hear their laughter. Their ideas and imagination. Their plans. They apologize to each other outside. And they apologize to the critters they find and hold dear ("oh, I'm so sorry moth/caterpillar/grasshopper/butterfly/slug!"). 

From our backyard the kids pull me close; they include me, even if they are out and I am in. And the best part: I get to share in their excitement and look over and approve of what they've found. On a good day, like today, I'm repeatedly called to, excitedly and exuberantly:
"Mom, you have to see this...it's amazing!"


(Imagine here, an amazing photo of one of the most unique looking moths I've ever seen.
But someone was too lazy to go get her camera when the kids discovered it this morning.
Then it flew into a tree.)

Today Sophie told her brother that this was one of the best days of her life. At nine, she's had A LOT of best days of her life. But today was great, and even she knew it. The three of them huddled together found an incredibly strange looking moth. They found Mr. Hoppy the frog. They picked blueberries, raspberries and blackberries. And it's raining. And they were outside. Together. They didn't fight or argue outside. They were patient with each other. They love being outside, and I love listening to them be outside.

At one point, and in true Quinn form, I heard him express his concern that Mr. Hoppy missed his mom. Then I heard him comfort himself and the girls by affirming that the frog will find his mom, or she will find him.


Then the door to the house swung open at the same time I was yelled too...excited screeches coupled with running feet. And then a spilled frog. And shrieks. Perhaps they couldn't wait for their own Mom to stand guard over this Mom-less frog.


Today the kids brought the outdoors in to me. Today I ended up with a frog inside my house.  And I'm okay with that. As long as it doesn't happen again. Ever.




Thursday, July 26, 2012

Never Again...Until Next Time

Sometimes parenting-type things go so wrong that you recognize that the responsible thing to do is distance yourself from the experience; to give it a day or two, or eight in this case, before rehashing the details. 
Oftentimes I find myself approaching outings with the kids in a risk vs. reward kind of way. So much so that when I pack the van full of children and sunscreen, lunches and sand pails, I've thought it through...thoroughly. On top of it all, when we go to our beach I know where to park; that at our beach at 10:00AM I will be guaranteed a second row spot that will quell complaints of hot pavement and heavy loads. I know how many quarters I need to avoid another parking ticket. I know that four frozen bottles of water will keep us hydrated and maximize cooler space. I know who will complain that their eyes sting or their butt is itchy. I've estimated water temperatures and know who will get cold first as well as who will refuse to stop boogie boarding. I know who will whine and who will be my trooper. I know when and where I will get my iced coffee for the ride home.
The problem last week was that I completely miscalculated. I figured a trip to the ocean is a trip to the ocean; what could possibly go wrong if we didn't go to our beach? I assumed that since this wasn't our first trip to the beach this year, it'd be no problem. I assumed that since the kids are that much older this year, they'd be champion helpers and phenomenal listeners; all around great sports. I assumed that trying a new-ish beach wouldn't impact our beach-going routine at all. 
(House Island, Portland Harbor, Casco Bay, Maine)

Short Sands Beach, the beach we think of as ours, has a gazebo and a covered picnic area for eating lunch. There are fantastic rocks for searching for crabs and starfish. We also enjoy convenient parking and the amazing playground steps from the ocean that my children adore. And if you time it right, running through the lawn sprinklers that border the beach can be a fantastic way to rinse off at the end of the day...a gift that is a guaranteed comfortable, chafe-free ride home.  But last week I decided it was time for a change.
(Looking for crabs...Plum Island, Massachusetts)
When we arrived at this other beach I was greeted by a lovely older gentleman who gave me the rundown on parking payment. Admittedly I wasn't paying much attention because I had started to panic. I couldn't see beach anywhere. I saw rocks, a marina, jetties and causeways. I dreaded the sight to my right...that of a long, long, long winding path leading to the beach.
(Long winding path, Plum Island, Massachusetts)
Putting on my best "what have I done" smile I parked the van and began unloading. Coincidentally that was when I realized my first mistake. Too much stuff for one pack mule and three kids to carry. But, since it was all shoved into the back of the van, there was no getting out of bringing the skim board, two boogie boards, the Puddle Jumper, the cooler, the ginormous bag full of chips, towels, hats and sunscreen. The beach chair. The beach pails and shovels. My phone. My keys. My wallet. A watch.

 (About one-fourth of our beach gear)

It was a task just crossing the lot to pay for parking. For a second I contemplated leaving.  But the eye rolls and snorts I got when I suggested we pack up and go find a new parking lot sent a distinct message. There was no going back.
I inserted my card, paid my fee and the kiosk spat out a ticket I needed to place IN THE VAN, which was of course all the way across the parking lot. I almost cried, big self-pitying tears that would reflect my frustration and the gut feeling I had that this day was going to go all wrong. I knew there would be no reward. 
I dropped all of our stuff, and told the kids "wait here, DO NOT move." I made it half way back to the van before I needed to modify my original instructions. "Please move out of that man's way so he can use the machine. But don't go ANYWHERE else." I yelled across the parking lot. My son was being literal. Minutes before he had stood in my way, practically under my armpit, watching the process of paying for parking.  He was still standing directly in front of the kiosk, exactly where I had left him. The baffled man was trying to insert his credit card above Quinn's head. From an arm's reach. Trying to process his transaction without losing his receipt in the rat's nest perched on top of my son's head. The man's lips were moving and I wondered what he was saying. By the time I got back to the kids, I didn't care.
The walk to the beach was nothing short of excruciating. There were whiners on the way IN. There were no champion helpers. And the only phenomenal listener was the woman reading her magazine next to me.
Maintaining the theme of something new, I suggested a walk down the jetty. It was traumatic. Sophie who has the gracefulness and dexterity of a water buffalo started and stopped, stumbling the entire way. How that child didn't snap both of her ankles is beyond me. But the little bugger kept up with her brother. Who happens to be part mountain goat.
I lagged behind with a death grip on Gillian's hand. Unfortunately with all of the sunscreen I had applied to her, she was beyond slippery. It was like trying to hold onto a bunch of greased breakfast sausages. I couldn't keep my grasp. To make matters worse I couldn't keep my eyes on the older two, so far ahead, because I couldn't take my eyes of where my own feet were going.
I've climbed mountains all my life. I've carried sleeping babies up mountains, I've lugged injured dogs down mountains. I began climbing mountains at five years old; I've climbed mountains pregnant. But there was a moment where I thought there was no way I would ever get off that pile of rocks at the beach.

(Pile of rocks...House Island, Portland Harbor, Casco Bay, Maine)
For the rest of the afternoon Sophie wanted to boogie board. Quinn wanted to skim board, but kept falling face first into the sand.  Gillian wanted to swim as far out into the Atlantic as she could. I should have pumped them full of shark attack stories. I held my breath while trying to keep track of the three of them.  Eventually Gillian got cold. Sophie found a friend. Quinn found a skim board assistant. And I sat at the water's edge snuggling the littlest, keeping my left eye on Sophie, and my right on Quinn.
There were moments when it was good. But they were fleeting. Lunch was good until a seagull dragged our bag of trash down the beach. Building sand castles was good, until Quinn stomped on them all...and had to rebuild 25 more just so Sophie could stomp on his. 
And yet, isn't there a saying about leaving being the hardest part?
Reading ourselves to go, I rinsed feet. I poured water over bodies who were suddenly petrified to rinse off in the ocean because the seaweed had shifted our way. I rinsed more feet, and then I rinsed them over again, because those feet kept stepping off of the clean, sand free blanket. I wrapped bodies, both hot and shivering at the same time, in towels. I rinsed toys, and then knocked them over into the sand. I loaded kids up with items to carry. I separated wet things from dry things. Trash from food not yet eaten. We were good to go.
And we made it three steps before the wheels fell off. Gillian had an ever loving fit. Quinn worked himself into a frenzy. I was so stinking hot sweat was running into the crack of my arse.  My sunglasses were so full of steam that I couldn't see in front of me. And it became Mommy-Rotten.
I dropped everything I was carrying right there on the beach and stormed off...a little bit. I left Gillian crying in the sand with Quinn trying to console her in his Quinn way. I got the look from other parents. I got blank stares from the lifeguards, and honest to God giggles from the singles. I caught up to Sophie who had made good headway, but who was also in trouble just because. I hollered back to the other two, who hadn't managed to take a step in the right direction yet. I stormed back down the path to the beach, shoved my seagull slobbered trash in with my clean clothes and half eaten bag of potato chips. I tied boogie board string to the bottom of my bathing suit and hoped like hell I didn't end up pantsing myself.  I hoarded sand toys in my arm pits and shoved a shovel down my shirt. I over loaded my only competent child and implored her to "just FRICKING move!" I was so angry that when the police officer pedaling by did a double take, instead of looking down in shame, I gave him my best stink-eyed sneer and marched on. I was getting OFF that damn beach.
As we reached the van I began my speech. I saw my kid's eyes glaze over, but I kept on ranting anyway. I sat Gillian on the cooler and told them never again. Never again would we try something new. Never again would I take them to the beach. Never again would we leave the house. And just to prove how angry I was, I told them they had to ride home in their wet bathing suits...oh the horror!
As I was entering Phase Four of my lunacy I picked up my beach chair, swung it up and over Gillian's head and lost my grip. I dropped my beach chair on her sweet little head. I picked her up and put her in the van instinctively knowing she was fine, and secretly praying that no one was on the phone with Child Protection Services. I took a minute to pack up the rest of the van, took a deep, DEEP breath, and returned to my children.
I hugged and parted hair to look for cuts. I soothed and help change in the car. I dusted bodies with baby powder, and quietly giggled when Gillian yelled to Quinn "I can see your wiener!" I turned the tunes on and the A/C up. I apologized. I gave the thumbs up and got two out of three thumbs up in return. We regrouped. We loved. We moved on.
I wasn't even onto the main road and Gillian was asleep. I knew a nap would really screw with bedtime. But I needed it. I nearly ran out of gas on the Turnpike, but took the task of filling up as an opportunity to take the incredibly scenic route home, pointing out where I used to live, and what beach we would try next time. I savored every moment in the cool quietness of the van. I found my iced coffee. I got my beach going groove back. I had spent a beautiful summer day on a beach in Maine. With my kids.
Perhaps Gillian had done some reflecting on her own. She summed it up best when as I was putting her to bed that night she whispered to me "you're my best Momma in the whole world...but sometimes you're mean."
There is reward after all.

As a side note, none of the pictures included in this post are from our recent trip to the beach.
I had forgotten my camera in the car.
Happy Beaching!



Thursday, July 19, 2012

The Mighty Quinn...Gets an Earring

Quinn is a brother stuck between two sisters. And he is such a good sport about it that it sometimes breaks my heart. He endures Barbies and ponies, rainbows and flowers and only recently has he begun to balk at watching "girlie movies." He loves playing Princess and Puppy, the game his sister made up...and I swear sometimes his favorite color is pink. He knows every Disney Princess, her Prince and back story. He has been dressed up, made up, but also left out; he can build and decorate a fairy house both with the precision of an engineer and the eye of an interior decorator. He lives his life by what those around him do and think. And that is what drives me crazy.
As the middle child, and the only little boy in the family, perhaps this is more normal than I realize? Or perhaps it has nothing to do with his sisters, or his birth order. But my son's continued dependence on others for decision making and approval has me marching towards the edge. The fact that Quinn is a follower makes me nervous. I have played out all sorts of scenarios in my mind that involve him doing exactly what other's tell him...and none of them turn out good.
Needless to say, I have been harping on Quinn for several months now to do what HE thinks is right. I want him to make choices for himself. I want him to do what he wants to do. I don't want him to stop eating because everyone else is done their meal. I don't want him to taunt or ignore other kids because a group of misfits at the playground tells him to. I want him to decide. For. Him. Self. I want him to have self confidence. I want him to separate himself from his sisters. I want him to look up to and admire his friends and family, but still allow himself to be...Quinn. I do not want a simple choice of ice cream flavors to become debilitating, or dependent on what others think he should choose.
I am rejoicing a tiny little bit, because finally we have a glimmer of Quinn asserting his independence. Finally he has made a choice for himself. Finally he is going against the norm, against the grain, and paving his own way. He made his choice. And I could say nothing other than "go for it...if it's what YOU want."

Today Quinn got his ear pierced.
I'm proud of Quinn. He made the decision on his own and that is something I have been waiting a long time for him to do.

What the HTML?

My blog is going through an identity crisis even though it's still a baby. Although maybe it has more to do with the fact that I have no idea what I'm doing, as I am an Internet idiot. Perhaps someone who can barely navigate her own blog settings, (and keeps changing them!) has no business having a blog. I don't think I'll give up on myself or my blog just yet though. I started this itty bitty blog for myself...so I could write on more than just Post-It notes, backs of receipts, and coloring book pages...but there is a little bit of a rush when other people read it too!
I love to write. I love to record the funny things that my kids say or do, and I've been told on more than one occasion (by one or two people!) that I should write a book. The problem is that I'm more of an instant gratification kind of girl; I like to write, preview and publish all in the same day.
I also have an English degree that I have never put to use...and this kinda qualifies right? Maybe? Of course I also have a Geography minor (sort of)...and could never find my way out of my apartment complex in Michigan, even after living there for a year. And before English I studied Art, and have a hard time with stick figures. Either way, I figured in all my spare time I should be doing something other than...well nothing. Now that I've committed to my blog, I try hard-ish not to neglect it, and I try hard to make it easy to find. In case anyone besides me is looking for it.
Regardless, this little blog has gone through three name changes in just about as many months and I still can't figure out how to get it out there and recognized by search engines other than Google or Blogger. Wait, are Google and Blogger even search engines?
My point? Instead of just This Side of Normal, I'm gonna call it Gonna Be This Side of Normal (with all the https and // and blog spots it needs of course)! There's a really long back story behind "Gonna Be," but for now adding Gonna Be separates me from some dude named Norman that the old title linked me too...My apologies for changing things...again.



Monday, June 4, 2012

Rain Walk

It's been raining a lot around here lately. A friend commented that it had rained 6 or 7 inches in the past three days. Friends, family and neighbors are sump-pumping basements with fervor, and in a state riddled with potholes, puddles are everywhere. Rivers and streams are flooding, and I swear earthworms and slugs are preparing to take over the world.

Generally this time of year is one of anticipation and excitement as things are happening at a frantic pace. My older daughter and son have only a few days left of school. And while their after school activities are ramping up with end of year ceremonies, playoffs and make-up games due to rain-outs, the dreaded homework, spelling tests and reading logs have ceased.

This year lends an extra level of giddiness as we've applied to host a Fresh Air Fund child and over the weekend we had our family interview. A couple days of rain and some seriously couped up children didn't help our cause as we pleaded with the kids to just behave during the interview.

Overall the interview went well, but it was not without it's cringeable moments. Once the Fresh Air Fund representative had spoken with the children, I shooed them upstairs to play, hoping to be able to finish the interview in complete sentences. Yet just as the woman asked if we had firearms in our home, Sophie appeared by my side. I asked her what was wrong. She said "I've been shot." Perhaps we should have ended the interview there.

But much like all Mainers do, we will forge ahead regardless of the lingering rain. A rain, that when coupled with early June temperatures, can dampen spirits, chill to the bone, turn children into Nerf gun wielding fiends, and make even the simplest days a challenge to get through.

So today Gillian and I exclaimed "rain be damned" and ventured out for a walk. Of course her proclamation sounded more like "rain de bammed" but I certainly knew what she meant.
We had fun on our rain walk.
Our trek did become a bit tedious when Gillian stopped to say hello to every single slug and worm she saw. Even the really, really tiny ones; ones not seen by the unimaginative, untrained eye of an adult.
She had full conversations with the particularly "cute" ones she discovered. She stomped in puddles. She picked flowers. She listened to birds. She got to carry her kitty cat "vumvella."

Then she didn't want to carry her umbrella anymore. So I did.
Then she didn't want to carry her flowers anymore. So I did.
Then she didn't want to walk anymore. So I carried her too.
 Then she decided worms and slugs were not at all cute and needed to be avoided at all costs. So I hot-footed it up our street with the seriousness and dedication of someone walking through a minefield. The last thing I needed were the squeals of a hysterical two-year-old piercing my ear drum.

We had fun on our rain walk, yes we did. At the very least, it was better more responsible than opening a bottle of wine at 1:30 in the afternoon. Particularly on a day when I needed to be able to navigate my way to the bus stop. In the van.

We had fun on our rain walk, but boy I can't wait for the sun to be back!
P.S. I decided a beer would better suit my mood! Although I forgot to peel the sticker off my orange and I think I just swallowed it. Damn rain!

Friday, June 1, 2012

Be Kind

As the mother of three kids, none of whom have a natural gracefulness, I am used to scrapes, cuts, and bruises. I have staunched bloodied noses, lips, knees and elbows. I've seen falls off bikes, skateboards, scooters, skis, chairlifts and swings. I've watched every single one of my children walk into glass doors, parked cars, signposts and trees.

I have stood stoic over x-rays, barium swallows, and cast removals. I have watched my child endure morphine drips, general anesthesia and ridiculous amounts of blood draws. I have witnessed, much to my horror, repeated attempts to put IV lines into my dehydrated infant. I have washed dirt out of road rash, and pulled my share of teeth. I've wrapped ankles and iced knees and heads.

But none of these injuries, which so rightfully bring my children to tears, have rocked me to the core the way their hurt feelings do. It is the other wounds, the ones that you can't see, that make my heart hurt.

Mean kids. They're out there, they know who they are, and they know what they're doing. Mean kids can make parenting nice kids difficult. There are so many things I'd like to tell my children about mean kids when their feelings are hurt.  Instead I find myself quietly drying tears and whispering apologies for what they are going through, with a steadfast promise that it will get better. I will make it better. A child's heartbreak is so unnerving when it comes at the hand of a friend, classmate, teammate.

Tonight I think of a young lady. A beautiful, kind girl. A girl who loves with all of her heart, who truly cares about people. Tonight was a special night for her, and she deserved nothing but the best. Kids were mean to this kind girl. And it made her sad. And her mom was sad. And I am sad. But I know that this amazing girl went on with her special night; she did not let those mean kids define her. She was kind. She was kind to those who were mean. It is at her core, this kindness.

I hope this young lady knows how important she is. I hope she knows how beautiful she is. How smart and funny and talented. She is a gifted student and athlete. Not many teens her age have accomplished all that she has. And the best part is that she has done it all with kindness in her heart, the most beautiful smile on her face.

If my daughters grow up to be "just like" anyone, I hope it is you K.H.
I will be blessed if my daughters are anything like you!
                                                                                                                                                  
 As mothers we share our stories, wince and shake our heads. We know firsthand how badly a mother hurts when her child, no matter what their age, falls victim to a mean kid. As mom's we attempt to be a source of comfort and strength for each other, and we make it better for our kids. There are so many amazing, wonderful, compassionate and inspiring parents out there. And you are raising phenomenal children. It is so important this work that you are doing. Be kind in front of your children, in the face of mean kids, and it will make a difference.

Watching a pair of Robins the other day, Gillian made a remarkably simple, yet powerful observation. "The baby one always follows the Mommy," she said. 
This is something we should never forget.





Monday, May 21, 2012

Daddy-Daughter Dance

This weekend was the annual Daddy-Daughter Dance in our town. A lovely event that my oldest daughter and husband look forward to each year. It is the one special night that she has; the one big event that is just hers. The one that really doesn't involve me at all.
My participation surrounds her dress, her shoes, the jewelry and corsage. I help with hairstyles, and putting on just the right amount of lipstick; enough so that she feels glamorous, and looks eight at the same time! But once she is showered, blown dry, straight-ironed, polished, lip-sticked, blinged, zippered, tied and has done a practice twirl, I hand her over to her Dad. He bends down on one knee and puts on her shoes, Cinderella style. He gently puts on her corsage and gives her a kiss...they are so happy together. Quietly I watch as my involvement in the night ends. 
The night becomes one for a little girl and her Dad. Despite my many texts, I hear very little throughout the course of the night. My husband, quite suspiciously, doesn't receive cell service inside the school gym where the dance is held. He gets fantastic cell service in Japan, but for some reason, on this night, in this gym, with his little girl all to himself...he doesn't get my texts...at least not all of them.
They dance; she still wants to dance with her Dad. He watches her twirl, and hold dear her friends. He experiences her pure happiness on that special night, a night they share. At home I anticipate their return, their stories and giggles, their secret looks. If I am lucky they show me a new move they discovered together under twinkling lights. As I listen to them recount their night together I am reminded;
she is just as much her Dads as she is mine.
And we both love her so very much.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

Rock-A-Bye Chair

The "rock-a-bye chair." That's what she's called. Silly, right? To name a chair, a piece of furniture. To know that she's a she. But she has a name. My old, worn, ugly recliner, smelling like a special place. A mix of shampoo, washed blankets, fresh air, faded material and nine years of life. She has stood guard in many rooms, enjoyed two different homes, completed two stints in storage, and rocked and soothed and calmed and made all better on more nights than I could ever count. 

 And I love her. I love what she represents. I love where she's taken my children and I. I look at her faded gray material, her worn wooden handle, her stains, and she means love. I have loved my babies in that chair. I patted bottoms and rubbed backs and sang lullabies as eyelids became heavy. I listened to stories and I read stories. I solved mysteries and disputes. I have cried tears and dried tears. I have raised three children in that chair.
She is the chair I tried so very hard to nurse my first born in. The chair my tiny, hungry baby and I cried in when it just wasn't working, but stubbornly I wouldn't give up. She was also the chair that felt the sweet relief of abandoning what I thought I had to do for my baby, for doing was what was right for my baby. She felt us relax and find nourishment the best way we could.

She is the chair that I spent middle of the night hours in, holding and crying over my five day old boy as I watched the horror of Hurricane Katrina unfold on the television before me. And months after that disaster, she is the chair I went to in attempts to get my little boy back to sleep night after night. After night.

She is the chair I went to so I could hold on tightly to my youngest who needed to sleep upright for so many weeks, just shy of five months old and so ill. Syringing liquids into her tiny mouth, tracking intake and output and knowing that we would be admitted to the hospital once again.
 And all the while we rocked, and soothed and knew it was alright.
It wasn't but a few weeks ago, when I could make up a bedtime story for my youngest, and sing one or two songs as she drifted off to sleep. I could bury my nose in her wild but beautifully brown hair and smell lavender. Or apples. Or vanilla.  I could kiss her forehead a million times simply because the top of her head was just below my mouth. She would snuggle beside me, legs across my middle, her sleepy head on my shoulder. Her breathing would steady and she would ask one more question about our day. We would watch the stars. She would ask me to pull back the curtain so she could see the moon. And I had the privilege of watching it all happen as we rocked together in the chair.

But now. Now she is quickly approaching three. She's a pistol. She's fighting sleep. And she no longer needs the chair, even if I do. Now she wants to fall asleep in bed. Stretched out, not touching, not snuggled conspiratorially under the covers. There, but not really together. She can no longer get comfortable in the chair, in my arms. It is as if she is leaving me for something bigger. Something less soothing. Something less...us.
 On occasion I will rock my children in our chair again. We will stuff ourselves into the chair to talk about bad days at school, or hurt feelings, or the unfairness of life, of disappointment. Our legs will become entwined to read a story or just sit and be together. 
The "rock-a-bye" chair is entering retirement. She's still a comfortable beast. She's a friend, she is a constant, a part of us. And she knows. She's got wear and tear, and squeaks and grinds. But even her noise is rhythmic and repetitive and part of the music of my night. I will miss every part of rocking my children in our "rock-a-bye" chair.



Monday, May 14, 2012

Forty-two Minutes & Six Dollars

In my naïve days, I envisioned my family traveling as a pack; a small little herd off to face our next adventure together. But with an eight year old, a six year old, and a two year old, I now realize that more often than not, we need to divide and conquer, particularly when it comes to schedules.

Tonight my oldest daughter took her grandmother to a Mother/Grandmother-Daughter/Granddaughter tea. My son was not thrilled to be left out, and jumped at the chance to head to the ball field to hit some balls with his Dad. He even got to run the bases twice!

That left me with our little one, who also felt left out. My little one, the one who is not so little anymore. The one whose birth calmed my spirit and soothed my heart as the chaos of three children spread throughout my life. I spend every day with my baby. As a stay-at-home mom I am rarely without her by my side.

But tonight, we did something just special enough. Something we've never done before...a rare treat when her life is so often dictated by, and wrapped up tightly in, the lives of her older siblings. I took her to get an ice cream. After dinner. And it was our secret. And she was so excited about our secret that she told everyone. She announced it to Grammy, to Daddy, to her brother and sister. And she loved every second of it. The anticipation!

After a husband and three children, I have finally found my live-in ice cream buddy. I love to go get ice cream. Any time of day, any day of the week (May through September that is)! And now I have a buddy. And I love it.
Of course, getting ice cream, just the two of us, after dinner, was pretty cool. But even cooler than the whole ice cream with rainbow sprinkles bit, was the fact that she got to eat it in the front seat of the van. Unbuckled. My little spitfire thought that was the cat's meow. She was floored when I told her she could crawl up to the front with me. Still unsure of what she'd heard, she asked in her heart-melting voice "my come up with you and be not buckled?" two or three times before she gingerly crossed the threshold to the front. She sat carefully, hunched over her dish of ice cream, methodically picking spilled sprinkles off of the seat.
And then, after the first few bites, she lifted her head and looked around. She relaxed. She noticed that I had rolled the window down all the way and then the fun really began. Her head went out the window. Her little face pressed as close to the mirror as possible. She spotted customers with take-out bags. She spotted flowers. And traffic. And a pigeon.

Now, of course, this isn't her first time out of the house. She runs errands with me on a daily basis...and does so with astute observation. She's a champion side-kick. A compliant school volunteer, an enthusiastic baseball and softball cheerleader, an efficient errand runner. And if we miss our daily run to Dunkin' Donuts, or our bi-weekly trek to Target, she becomes concerned. She feels her world slightly off balance. She's also accustomed to sitting in the front seat of the van. We do so four out of the five days in a school week. Waiting for the bus. Waiting for the bus to pick up, and more importantly waiting for the bus to drop off.

But clearly this time was different. For her and for me. She had my full attention. I wasn't checking the time, or email, or text messaging. I wasn't worried that we'd missed the bus. I wasn't worried about post school day moods. I wasn't preoccupied with amounts of homework and reading logs and spelling words. We weren't sitting at the end of our mundane street. 

We sat facing each other, cross legged. I let my ice cream melt as I focused all of my attention on her adorable little body enjoying every morsel of her ice cream, enjoying every moment of our special date. Forty-two minutes and just under six dollars is all it took. And I hope she doesn't soon forget how much I was there with her.

I need to do this with her more often. She basked in the sunshine of my full attention. And yet she was so happy to crash her brother's base running and ball hitting extravaganza instead of going straight home. She was content to be back with the rest of the pack.

Even a two and a half year old needs to experience a fun hiccup in the routine every once in a while.