Who Needs Friends When You Have Kids?

I've written before about how difficult it can be to make new friends once you become an adult, and how it's even harder for stay-at-home moms.

It's now two years after that initial friendship post and unfortunately, not much has changed on the friend front. In fact, things are even worse. While I've made exactly ZERO new real friends in the past two years, at least two of my mommy friends have moved away...to a different school district, maybe, or a different county, a different state.

Luckily, my kids are now two years older and therefore much better conversationalists. They are my new(ish) friends! And if I want adult conversation, I have my DH to turn to. Pathetic? (Well, honestly, they are way more fun than most of the people around here anyway.)

My husband encourages me to be friendlier and more outgoing. He does this because he knows I wouldn't mind having more friends. He wants me to be happy.

But it's not as if I can change my whole personality. Right? I mean, people don't actually manage to toss off their introverted tendencies and become outgoing types with suddenly packed social calendars, do they?

And it's not like I'm horribly lonely or wallowing in self-pity: I love my life, I'm happy. I don't think about my lack of friends on a daily basis.

Probably because I actually do have lots and lots of friends. Tons! They just aren't local. They are pals from childhood, high school, college, my 20's. They live in Chicago, Seattle, England, Israel, Australia, and so on and so forth. They are scattered around the world--pretty much everywhere except within 30 miles of my house.

I rarely (never?) see my far-flung friends. We don't speak on the phone. Hell, we don't even email anymore. It's come down to the occasional Facebook comment or message.

With some of my "friends," if you break down our communication over the past few decades years, it boils down to the equivalent of "LOL" or " :-) ."

My friendships have been reduced to emoticons and acronyms.

These are the people I used to spend HOURS talking to--either on the phone when we were teens, in our dorm during college, or over coffee (or beers) in the city during our single days.

Yeah, it's sorta sad. But it's also life. I'm pretty much okay with it.

People move on. Priorities change. It's not just about us anymore. No one has time for hours-long conversations anymore.

And discussing ad nauseum the strengths and weaknesses of your and your friends' children will JUST NEVER EVER be as exciting as dissecting what it could have possibly meant when Johnny looked at you in 10th-grade social studies class. Sigh.

What to do?

For now I'll just bitch about it in my blog.

Mama's Gonna Help Build the Wall

You hear a lot about attachment parenting these days. I'm all for it: I carried my babies on my body more than I pushed them in a stroller, I breastfed both kids until they were old enough to ask for it using four-word sentences and perfect grammar, I co-slept with my youngest until she was one, I never let my babies "cry it out," etc., etc. I'm no Mayim Bialik but I truly believe a parent cannot "spoil" a baby.

With my babies in 2008--
safe and sound

The problem with attachment parenting, however, is that you can spoil a toddler. And that's when things get difficult. At some point, you have to begin detaching.

Some kids will separate on their own. They'll strut into the classroom without looking back (and break your heart in the process). But most kids need a little push.

A push to go off and explore on their own, without mommy or daddy holding their hand. A push to make their own discoveries, accomplish their own feats, and, yes, make their own mistakes. They need to get hurt, because unless they learn and understand on their own where the dangers lie, they won't be able to protect themselves as they get older. They also need alone time to learn how to amuse themselves, and soothe themselves, too,

It's a fine line. Too much coddling and they might end up clingy and insecure. Too little coddling--too much detachment and "tough love"--and they might end up, well, clingy and insecure. 

I think I've established a good balance. My kids are reasonably confident and independent, yet they also have a healthy awareness of potential dangers. They are happy to go off and play or explore by themselves but they know not to venture too far, do anything too risky, or talk to strangers. 

Non-helicopter parenting can be scary. In addition to worrying about the Big Horrible Things that could happen, there are the everyday smaller-but-still-scary moments to deal with. For example, at this moment my kids are playing outside. They've been out there for hours while I've been doing some much-needed spring cleaning. I think they're in the back yard--at least that's where they were 20 minutes ago when I last checked--but I don't see or hear them. Am I worried? No. Well, a tiny part of me thinks they could've gone off and gotten themselves lost, run over, or abducted. While my rational side knows that's ridiculous, it doesn't mean I don't worry.

I imagine it's only going to get harder as my kids get older and the dangers become increasingly likely to actually occur. After all, the chances of a toddler sustaining serious injury while on the playground, or running off and getting himself kidnapped are slim. But it sure seems like the odds of an older child getting into real, serious trouble are much more likely. When I think about all the potential dangers that lurk down the road, I break out into a cold sweat.

I'd do anything to protect them.

And then Pink Floyd pops into my head:

Hush now baby, baby don't you cry
Mama's gonna make all of your
Nightmares come true
Mama's gonna put all of her fears into you
Mama's gonna keep you right here
Under her wing
She won't let you fly but she might let you sing
Mama will keep baby cosy and warm
Ooooh Babe Ooooh Babe Ooooh Babe
Of course Mama's gonna help build the wall

What sounded atrocious to me when I first listened to "The Wall" back in high school doesn't sound quite so awful now. I get it. It almost sounds appealing.

And that's the scariest part of all.

Who Knew Smacking My Kids Would Actually Work?

Before you trip all over yourselves rushing to the phone to call Child Services, of course I don't actually hit hit my children. I've never even spanked them--not really, anyway.

See, I'm very physical with my kids: I am always hugging, grabbing, squeezing, tickling, and generally smooshing them. They are still young enough to allow me to maul them, and you'd better believe I'm taking advantage of this. Because I know that the day is coming--very soon--when they won't want me touching them with a ten-foot pole, let alone my actual arms. Sigh.

Along with the hugging and kissing comes rough-housing--wrestling, butt pats and grabs, pretend torture, etc. One of my son's favorite games (which he's loved since he was two) is called Red Ants and involves me giving him tiny pinches all over his body while yelling "RED ANTS! RED ANTS! RED ANTS!" (Hey, I never claimed it was a good game.)

Well, a few weeks ago, I'd had it up to here with my son's lack of pleases and thank yous. This kid is the sweetest, most considerate boy you'll ever meet, so his rudeness was confounding, especially since he used to be very polite as a toddler.

I was always saying, "'Can I have some cereal'........what?" or, after handing him something on a silver platter, "What do you say?" (in that horrible lilting voice us moms use when we are this close to strangling our adorable spawn). I got so sick and tired of hearing myself, I felt like bashing my head against the wall until I could no longer speak.

It was sort of like the older he got, the more demanding he decided to be. Oh, hell no.

So I made an announcement: "From now on, if you don't say please or thank you, I'm going to slap you across the face. Like this." And I gave him a tap on the cheek. Nothing that would hurt him, of course--just a little something to get his attention. Before the slap, I would give him a glare--a last chance kind of thing.

It was all done in a tongue-in-cheek way. I treated it sort of like a joke (except that it wasn't)--never angry, always slyly smiling. My son would nervously laugh every time he got a slap.

But my point was clear.

And I'll be damned if it didn't work! Like a charm.

After no time, all he needed was the glare and he'd be pleasing and thank you-ing up a storm.

And now he just does it! A regular little gentleman he is.

Hey, it worked for me.

I Will Not Allow My Kids to Drown Me in Paper

I feel kinda bad throwing out my kids' artwork, I really do. But it's not as if I can keep EVERYTHING. Especially with this bout of cold of weather we've been having (yeah, it's called winter). All that indoor recess at my son's school equals dozens of flip books, paper monsters, and paper airplanes being brought home. Mountains of paper! And it's not even the good kind of paper, it's that thin, highly-rippable manilla crap public schools can afford love.

And then there's the junk masterpieces my little princess brings home from preschool. All I can say is, thank goodness she only goes three days per week.

I try to be sneaky about throwing their stuff out. I shove it way in the back of the recycling bag we've always got going. But inevitably, my son, who's an epic trash collector (he's about one bad-parenting episode away from growing up to be "Hoarders" material), will notice the corner of bright red paper peeking out from behind the truck-load of newspaper.

"HEY! WHY ARE YOU THROWING AWAY THE PAPER AIRPLANE/MONSTER/GIANT SQUID/GERM I MADE?"

Sigh.

So out it comes to live another day, adding to the general squalor of our family room, and getting increasingly wrinkled and ripped until it's sufficiently forgotten about (or, as is more likely the case, replaced by 10,000 newer pieces of junk) that I can shove it back into the recycling bag. But this time I make sure to push it way, way down to the bottom so no telltale red is visible to my son's eagle eyes.

Seriously, how is it that he can't find his socks lying in the middle of the family room when I'm screaming at him to get dressed in the morning so he doesn't miss the bus, but he can detect a millimeter of red paper poking out over the newspapers in a bag all the way across the room?

I've heard of selective hearing, but now apparently there's selective seeing, too.

Hey, I'm not a monster. I keep some stuff. But unlike some moms who are all, "OH, THIS IS THE MOST PRECIOUS THING EVER BECAUSE MY GIFTED, PERFECT CHILD CREATED IT!" I'm able to see things as they really are.

And fruit of my loins or not, my kids can make some crap.

So while this gorgeous piece of art my son created (which I love so much I went so far as to frame it--see? I'm not horrible) that helps me recall the beauty of spring when it's 10 degrees outside is a keeper:

This one is not:

Sure, it's purty, but if your kid cranked out masterpieces the way mine does, you'd be choosy, too. So, goodbye, colorful leaf!

And this drawing by my daughter that might just look like a bunch of scribbles to you, but which is actually an adorable rendition of the My Little Pony pegasi Rainbow Dash and Fluttershy (notice the wings?) is a keeper:

(I especially love the way she runs out of room for her name and is just like "screw it" and puts the "TTE" at the beginning. Note to any pregnant ladies out there: think long and hard before you give your child a name that's longer than five letters, because it's just cruel.)

This one, however, is destined for the circular file:

Yeah, it's cute and all. But what does it tell about my daughter, really? That she can use a glue stick and make a couple of scribbles, that's what. Adios, Elmer Elephant!

I just hope I'm not scarring them for life.

Mommy the Heathen

My son just started first grade. This means CCD has officially begun.

And I gotta admit--I'm a little worried about it. Here's the problem: I'm not religious. Like at all. I'm not Catholic and I don't believe in many of the church's stances or teachings. Don't get me wrong. I like the idea of providing our kids with religious education. I got very little of that when I was young, and though I don't exactly regret it, there were definitely times in my life when I wondered if maybe I'd missed out on something. I like the idea of introducing our kids to religion and allowing them to make their own decisions about what to believe.

If it was up to me, my kids probably wouldn't attend church. But it's important to my Catholic husband, so every Sunday, he packs up the crayons, coloring books, and emergency snacks and walks them over. And I go for a run or hit the gym. It's a pretty good deal, and I'm not complaining.

I admire my husband's dedication. He's been taking the kids to church ever since they were babies. Because of him, our kids view going as a given--it's just something they do every Sunday, no arguments.

But now that CCD has begun, I'm starting to fear the dogma a little. After the first day, my son showed me the worksheets he completed in his shiny, new, full-color workbooks. One of the sheets asked kids to circle the things they could do to help take care of God's world. "I can turn off the water," I can plant trees and flowers," stuff like that. Sweet.

But then there was the worksheet about The Creation:

Which of these are you most thankful that God created? Circle your choices: 

People               Plants              Animals  

Um...none of the above? My son, of course, circled all three.

Uh-oh. See, I don't believe in that. At all. I mean, the case for evolution is pretty slam dunk.

So what do I do if/when my son starts asking questions? He's a smart kid with an inquisitive mind, who happens to love science. It might not happen in first grade, but it will happen. And then what? I can only tell him what I believe to be true...which just happens to not be what the Catholic church teaches. Or do I say, "Ask your father when he gets home"? Not my style.

People I've spoken to about this have told me that they had no problem believing both things--evolution and the creation story--when they were little. Okay, fine. But if my son starts talking about how God created the bunny rabbits, the birds, and the stars in the sky, there's no way I'm gonna just sit there and listen.

When my son mentions the sun going down, I make sure to remind him that the sun doesn't actually go down, but rather it's the earth spinning that makes it look that way. If necessary, I draw pictures to illustrate. I am a rationalist. That's just how I roll, people.

So I'm not going to react differently just because the situation involves religion. But nor do I want to completely contradict what he's being taught in CCD. It's going to be a really difficult balancing act, and I'm not looking forward to it.

Has anyone had a similar experience? If so, how have you handled it?

One Terrible Night (At Least I Hope It's Just One)

I had one of the scariest nights of my life last night.

Granted, I've had it easy so far. I've been lucky enough not to have experienced anything too traumatic in my life: My kids' births went pretty smoothly, we haven't had to rush them to the emergency room for any reason, we haven't had any house fires or break-ins. I know people with sick kids for whom every night is a potential nightmare.

Last night was nothing close to what some parents go through. But nonetheless, it scared me senseless.

At bedtime, our six-year-old had a mild fever, which was no big deal except that he doesn't run a fever very often. When it does, it usually means he's sick for real (unlike our daughter who often gets fevers for no apparent reason and with no other symptoms). But I wasn't too concerned.

An hour later, my husband and I were watching the excellent new Bob Marley documentary on VH1 when we heard screaming.

At first I thought it was coming from the TV (Jamaica in the 70's was a dangerous place, after all), and then I thought some of the neighborhood's teenaged girls were getting rowdy outside. But then I heard loud stomping and wailing (again, not coming from Bob Marley's Wailers). The commotion was coming from upstairs...and then barreling down down the staircase and through the house.

Our son ran into the family room absolutely shrieking in terror, his eyes wild with fear. My husband and I ran to him and tried to comfort him, figuring it was just a nightmare. But it soon became clear we were dealing with something much more serious.

A good approximation of
what my son looked like

Sitting in a chair in my husband's arms, my son suddenly pointed at the TV (which was paused) and screamed, "AHHHH! LOOK AT IT! MAKE IT STOP! IT'S MOVING SO FAST!"

I met my husband's eyes. Whoa, what was going on?

My son's gaze became fixed on a picture on the wall. "BUT LOOK!! IT'S GOING SO FAST! STOP IT!" he screamed, tears streaming down his stricken face.

By now he'd been awake for five minutes, yet the nightmare still gripped him. Or was it the fever? I took his temperature. It was higher. I gave him some children's Tylenol, figuring his overheated brain was causing the hallucinations.

This had never happened before. I wondered if I should be really worried.

We brought my son back up to his bedroom, confident that the fever-reducer would do the trick.

Half an hour later, we were in bed reading when we heard something. Mumbling. Talking. Then yelling.

As I ran down the hall, I distinctly heard my son shout something about dinosaurs (which was weird because his dino phase ended over a year ago). When I got to his room he was standing on the bed looking around and shrieking in horror at something only he could see. He didn't seem to recognize me. I tried calming him down with a hug and soothing, reassuring words, but he struggled against me. He desperately wanted to escape from his room and whatever monstrous thing he saw there. He kept looking over his shoulder and clasping his hands over his mouth as he screamed and cried out.

When my husband entered the room, my son looked at him and yelled, "GET AWAY!" Who or what was he seeing in place of his Daddy? My son broke away from me and ran howling down the hall toward our bedroom.

But before he escaped my arms, I'd been able to process the fact that he was no longer burning up. The fever had gone down. So why was he still hallucinating?

In our bedroom, things weren't any better. When my husband tried to hug him, my son recoiled in horror. He let me hug him but would occasionally pull away and look at me, his mouth gaping in a rictus of fear. He'd scream and his hands would fly up to cover his mouth.

Was he possessed like Regan?

In that moment, my racing mind landed on The Exorcist, which I'd stumbled upon a week ago while channel-surfing. It was like my son was possessed.

Nothing we did or said was working to erase his fear. I felt so helpless, and the tears came.

By then all the commotion had woken up our daughter, who stood mutely by while her brother battled invisible demons. She looked almost as frightened as he did.

"Should we take him to the emergency room?" I asked, my voice breaking. The scene in The Exorcist where Regan is in the hospital getting a spinal tap popped into my head: She's strapped down and struggling while the doctor inserts a giant needle into her neck. Oh, no-no-no.

My husband, who seemed to be keeping his head better than me, said no to the hospital and suggested putting our son in the shower to clear his head. By then my son was no longer recoiling from my husband's touch, and he was able to explain a little what was scaring him.

"Does anything hurt?" I asked when he'd clapped his hands over his mouth for the tenth time.

"No," he moaned. "But when I open my mouth it feels like the monsters are going in and up to my brain and making me see crazy things."

Okaaaay.

But the shower helped, his lucidity returned, and we let him sleep with us in the hope it would keep the demons at bay.

It worked; there was a lot of kicking and thrashing but no more screams.

Today, he seems none the worse for wear; I'm not sure how much he remembers. But he feels terrible, is nauseous, and still has a fever.

And that's what scares me. What if tonight's a repeat of last night?

Compare and Contrast...Or Maybe Not

I'm not one of those moms who baby their youngest. I've often wondered how that's even possible, since the younger child always wants to try whatever his or her sibling is doing. If anything, they tend to grow up too fast and do more at an earlier age than their siblings. Right?

Lately, I've begun to wonder.

Because it seems that I might have been guilty of underestimating what my daughter is capable of. The problem is, my son was always so darned advanced that Little Miss suffered in comparison. I know you aren't supposed to compare your kids, but it's impossible not to. It's not like I judge them based on the comparisons--that would be mean--but I can't help but set a benchmark based on what my son has been capable of at various ages.

And, unfortunately for my daughter, the kid's fine-motor skills have always been off the charts. Which I didn't realize for a long time because I had nothing to compare it to. Eventually I began suspecting he was more artistically capable than the average kid. I have seen other mothers blanch as they looked at my son's drawings on our refrigerator and then mentally compared them to their own child's scribblings.

My son's drawing of a dinosaur (a Therizinosaurus, no
less--look it up, it's pretty spot-on), done when he
was almost four.

My daughter's drawing of Minnie Mouse, also done
when she was almost four. 

My daughter's fine-motor skills weren't nearly as impressive. Because she wasn't great at drawing, she didn't seem to enjoy it all that much. She didn't show any interest in coloring until she was three-and-a-half; then it would be just five minutes of haphazard scribbling and she'd move on to something else. As a result, I've never really encouraged her to develop her fine-motor skills.

It also doesn't help that, while my son had brand-new markers, 64-pack of crayons, colored pencils, (the works), poor Little Lady has had to make do with half-dried out markers and broken crayon nubs. Not exactly inspiring.

Over the past few months, however, my daughter has gone to some birthday parties with craft themes. I was concerned that the parties might bore her because her preferred party entertainment is usually more of the physical, gymnastics/tumbling nature.

But I've been pleasantly surprised how into it she's been. And actually not all that bad at it, either. Lately, she's been drawing and coloring up a storm and she can't get enough of craft kits. I've been surprised by her coordination and attention to detail, and she's starting to take real pride in her work.

No thanks to Mom.

Oh, sure, I'm trying to make up for lost time: new crayons, setting aside time to color together and do crafts every morning. But I still feel terrible because I've totally been selling my daughter short. I've been treating her like she couldn't do something of which she's more than capable. I've been babying her, I guess.

I hope just I haven't soured her to artistic pursuits or hurt her self-esteem in any way.

I'm sorry, my darling! Let's blame your brother, okay?

I Couldn't Possibly Have Been This Annoying as a Child, Could I Have?

My son's elementary school is only K through Grade 2. I love that the school is specially geared to meet the needs of this young and impressionable age group, and also that he doesn't have to sit on the bus with rambunctious, huge (to him) fifth graders.

When the kids enter school they are five, and by the time they leave most have turned eight. Three years--no big deal, right? I didn't think so, but then the other day it was brought to my attention just how much older kids are at eight than they are at five.

Last Thursday the Kindergarteners didn't have school because it was orientation for next year's batch of K-ers, but it was a normal day for first- and second-graders. It was finally decent out after a few days of rain and gloom so we headed to the elementary school playground just as school was letting out.

We had the playground to ourselves for a few minutes, but before long the after-school club (kids whose parents work) joined us.

"Where are the Kindergarteners?" one girl asked.

"They didn't have school today. Isn't it soooo much better without them here?" answered a wise-ass boy (to whom I immediately gave the stink eye).

The boys broke off to play football with one of the apathetic high school kids who only do the job because their parents force them to supervisors, while a group of second-grade girls came over to the fire-engine structure where my kids were playing.

The girls climbed to the top, leaned against the bars in a tightly packed group, and began to sing as loudly as possible:

Baby, you light up my world like nobody else,

                            The way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed,

But when you smile at the ground it ain't hard to tell,

You don't know, 

Oh oh,

You don't know you're beautiful,

If only you saw what I can see,

You'll understand why I want you so desperately,

Right now I'm looking at you and I can't believe,

You don't know,

Oh oh,

You don't know you're beautiful,

Oh oh,

That's what makes you beautiful

I was unfamiliar with the song, though I figured it might be a new tune by Katy Perry or Kelly Clarkson (though it didn't sound slutty enough to be Katy or angry enough to be Kelly). It was vapid and frothy and catchy...one of those new British boy bands, perhaps? So, yeah, I Googled it when I got home. It's "What Makes You Beautiful" by One Direction, for those of you who don't happen to live with a female between the ages of 8 and 18 and therefore have remained blissfully ignorant.

The adorable faces and Bieber-esque
hair of One Direction

Over and over and over and over they screamed sang those words. Never any other part of the song--just those lines. It was super annoying.

The supervisor stopped the football game. He came over and hollered, "Girls! Enough! Sing something else...anything else! PLEASE!" (Ha, not so apathetic now, are you dude?)

Did it work? Of course not. The howling-passing-for-singing continued.

The girls reminded me of myself when I was young, except in those days we sang "Da-Do-Ron-Ron" or tunes from Grease. And that wasn't until fourth or fifth grade. I didn't have any mad crushes on pop stars until I was at least ten.

But nowadays the girls start earlier. Call me crazy but eight just seems way too young to be singing love songs and giggling about boys. 

Now I know what to look forward to when my own Little Lady turns eight. Someone please help me. 

What to Do When Dr. Jekyll Jr. Becomes a Mini Mr. Hyde?

My son used to be the sweetest little boy you could ever meet. Oh, sure, lots of mothers say that, but it wasn't just me who thought so. Over the years, many people have complimented me on how compassionate, kind, even-tempered, and intelligent my son is. "Such a sweet boy!" is something I've heard often.

And then he started Kindergarten. Or maybe it's that he turned six. Not sure what the cause of his behavior change is, but it happened right around then. He has become demanding, short-tempered, and petulant. Oh, not all the time--no, of course not. Our sweet little boy is still in there but unfortunately, we don't see him quite as much as we used to.

Our son, during one of his
less-than-stellar moments

The transition to full-day Kindergarten has been tiring for him. The school bus gobbles my son up at 7:50 a.m. and spits him back out at 3:15 p.m. That is a long day for a six-year-old. But every other Kindergartener is dealing with this same schedule and I doubt all of them have undergone such personality changes. I'm sure the long days have something to do with the behavior changes, though. Our son absolutely adored preschool--he went three days a week and was usually bummed when it wasn't a school day. He loved the activities, teachers, and other kids. He was friends with everyone.

Well, he still loves his teachers and friends, and he enjoys school activities. But now every single morning goes something like this:

"It is a school day today?"

"Yes."

"Awwwwwww!!!! How many more days until the weekend?" (Imagine this uttered in the whiniest voice possible.)

Thankfully, all his bad behavior has (for now, at least) been restricted to when he's home. His school record is still blemish free; in fact, he's one of the only boys in his class whose status has never gone from Green ("Good") to Yellow ("Warning"). During parent/teacher conferences, his teacher raves about him--she literally has never said a less-than-glowing thing about him.

Which is why, when he gets home and rants and raves and orders me around, I'm dumbfounded. What the hell happened to the sweetest boy there ever was?

If this is a temporary thing, then fine, we can ride it out. I understand that kids go through phases and that each kid has his/her own way of dealing with change and stress.

But what if it's not temporary? If it continues, do we punish him for his outbursts? Right now, I'm reluctant to do so because he's in so much pain as it is in those moments, I hate to add to it. But on the other hand, we don't want him thinking he has free reign to be tyrannical whenever he feels like it.

If any of my faithful readers have experience with this, I'd love her hear how the situation panned out for you.

Because we are at a loss.

Drive Me Crazy

Most of the time I'm a pretty good mother, I think (if I do say so myself). I'm a stay-at-home mom and completely and totally dedicated to motherhood. I'm 100% engaged with my kids (okay, 99%). Just by touching a hand I can tell if one of them has a fever. I know what kind of mood they're in with one glance at their faces, and if something is on their mind, they can't hide it. All this is wonderful and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Except when it all drives me MAAAAAAD. Like now. It's 4 p.m. on a chilly, gray Saturday afternoon and I'm home alone with my two kids. My husband had to go out for a couple of hours for work. I haven't left the house yet today, and I just managed to get dressed an hour ago. Shower? Ha.

THEY. ARE. DRIVING. ME. CRAZY.

I sent them to our gross, unfinished basement to play because I needed them out of my hair for a few minutes. For some reason, they love it down there (probably because it is, in fact, so gross). Five minutes later I heard the dreaded words: "Uh-oh, Mommy's going to be so mad."

Turns out our cat (who has Irritable Bowel Syndrome) pooped in the playhouse. So instead of relaxing and having a little "me" time, there I was scrubbing dried diarrhea out of the rug instead. Calgon!

There's rarely one event that ends up pushing me over the edge. My kids are great kids and rarely do anything that makes me want to get in the car and keep driving. Usually, it's just a slow buildup of tiny frustrating moments. Then one or two more little things happen (today it was my daughter not napping combined with my husband having to work) and suddenly I find myself falling off the cliff.

I've noticed I lose it more often on weekends. During the week, I manage to keep it together better--I think because I have no choice. With my husband at work until evening, I'm the one in charge. But I don't stress it at all during the week--I'm happy doing all the mom things I love.

But then the weekend comes around and for some crazy reason I expect it to be a little relaxing. I expect to get a break from being the one "on" all the time. Except it hardly ever works out that way. My husband is a great dad and spends as much time with the kids as he can. But it's not like I can easily and breezily take a day off from being mom and recharge. The kids whine and pout about me leaving, which makes me feel guilty--which then makes me not enjoy my time away as much. Instead of recharging, I worry and end up rushing to get home.

But tomorrow is a new day. I will go to the gym and sweat this stress out while my husband takes the kids to church. Hopefully the sun will be shining and we can all get outside to enjoy the fresh air and beautiful spring flowers.

If not, at least I have "Mad Men" to look forward to tomorrow night. And the new season of "Game of Thrones." Yes, things are looking up.

Baby, Don't Go

I've touched on this topic before and I'm sure I will again. How could I not?

There is this thing lurking...I try to push it out of my mind before it takes hold but I can't always. And when I do think about it, it's so painful and sad: My kids are growing up. Duh, I know. It sounds lame and cheesy. Please don't laugh at me.

My kids are only six and three (actually she's almost four, gulp) so, sure, I have time before I need to face their loss of innocence, but everyone knows how quickly it goes by. So, yeah, I'm holding on for dear life (don't judge me).

Whenever a sweet old lady says to me at the grocery store, "Enjoy them while they're this age--it goes by so fast!" I want to punch her in the face. Way to rub salt in the wound, Grandma.

Every weekday afternoon I cannot wait for 3:20 p.m. because that's when the bus drops off my Kindergartener. I miss him so much when he's at school. We hold hands and talk about his day as we walk the block back to our house. And every single day I cherish the feel of his soft, warm, still-little (but not for long) hand in mine. Because how many more years of hand-holding can I look forward to? Three? Two? And how much longer will his chatter be about sweet stuff like the cool colored pencils they used in art class or which instruments they played in music? When he sings me bits of the songs they sung that day, his adorable falsetto melts my heart and I have to hold back the tears. 

These moments slay me. And they continually surprise me. Before having kids, you can never imagine stuff like this affecting you. But it does.

Or maybe it's my daughter crying in her bed after I've finished singing the lullabies we always sing and left her room. If she doesn't quickly settle down, I go up there and lie with her in bed for a little while. It's like magic how quickly her tears dry up. And it feels wonderful to have that effect on someone.

But how much longer will my mere presence stop the tears? How long before my very existence makes her want to scream instead (or at least roll her eyes). Oh, my little lady is going to be an expert eye-roller, I can tell already.

All this is why I find myself occasionally wanting a third baby. There, I said it. But even if I wasn't too old to easily and safely go about it, I doubt I'd actually begin pleading my case to my husband for baby #3. I've always wanted two kids. One boy, one girl; two kids, two parents: nice symmetry. But still, the urge is there.

That's because, as I stand by and watch my two babies grow and learn and begin to need me less and less, my heart aches. I miss the feeling of having a tiny helpless person rely on me for everything.

There's this song that comes on Pandora's toddler station sometimes: Frances England's "You and Me." It makes me cry. I love it. Google it and listen. Beautiful. The lyrics go:

You and me, reading books in bed,

Your head on my shoulder,

Your eyes on the pages ahead.

How did you grow so big overnight?

How did you get so smart and bright?

Yesterday you were asleep in my arms,

Today you're growing off the charts.

I'm so proud of you."

What the hell am I going to do with myself when my kids are grown?

Damn, someone needs to get a job. 

Deck the Halls (and Front Lawns, Steps, Porches, Shrubbery...)

The holiday season brings out the kid in all of us. That or the Grinch secretly residing in our soul. Luckily for me, it's the former.

I get really excited about Christmas--maybe even more so than my kids. After all, I'm the one who suggests we go get our Christmas tree pretty much before we've even digested the Thanksgiving turkey. It's me who blasts the Christmas tunes in the car and sings along at the top of my voice (while my three year old screams "STOP SINGING!" from the back seat). I'm the one who, on or around December 18th, can no longer stand the suspense and sheepishly asks my husband if the kids and I can open just one present.

And oh, how I love the houses all decorated with lights! I even get a kick out of the cheesy blow-ups. Though I refuse to put one of those monstrosities on our own lawn, that doesn't stop me from admiring them on our neighbors' properties.

One of the over-the-top houses in our neighborhood.

We--as in the members of our generation--seem so much more willing to embrace our inner-children than our parents were. I wonder why that is?

When we were little, my brothers and I would beg our parents to drive us around the town next to ours because the people who lived there really went crazy with the decorations. (Here's the formula: Middle-class town=excessive, tacky, wonderful decorations; upper-middle-class town: wreaths and candles in the windows.)

Nothing has really changed--it's still me begging to check out Christmas decorations...except now I end up begging my kids instead of my parents.

The other day, I was driving the kids home after a pediatrician's appointment. It was around 5 p.m. and pitch black already.

"Hey, kids! How about we drive around the neighborhood and look at some decorations?"

"Nah," my son chimes in from the back. "I just want to go home."

"Oh, c'mon, pleeeeeeeease?" I beg.

But guess what? I'm the one in the driver's seat now (literally and figuratively). So there. These days, when I say we're going to drive around and look at the pretty Christmas decorations then WE ARE DRIVING AROUND AND LOOKING AT PRETTY CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS, DAMN IT! Whether my kids like it or not. Ha!

Happy holidays, everyone!

Drowning in the Past

I've been spending too much time in the past lately. Facebook can do that to a person. Daily cyber-stalking-spying on your high school crush (Is he gross now, or pretty cute for an old guy?) or the mean girl who made your middle-school years a living hell (Please, PLEASE let her be fat now.) can take one's focus away from the here and now (Crap, my kid's bus will be here any second!). Facebook makes it really easy to lose yourself in the minutia of someone-you-haven't-seen-in-25-years-and-never-really-liked-to-begin-with's life.

But even before Facebook (the horrors!), my brain spent too much time dwelling on the past. I'm one of those people who like to pore through old photo albums--other people's as well as my own. Over and over again. I'm strange like that. I've always dwelled on the past, even when I was too young to have a past of my own. Then I would just obsess over previous eras and the people who glamorized them (Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, Charles Manson, etc.).

Would 15-year-old me
say I made the best
choices in life so far?

But Facebook makes it much easier to regress.

I'm not sure why I do this. My life these days is pretty ideal, if I do say so myself. It's just as I'd hoped and imagined it would be...well, pretty much. No one gets everything they've ever wanted in life. I'm a little less rich than I'd hoped. But I have a lovely husband who makes me laugh, two super-adorable, smart, healthy kids, and a pretty house in a nice neighborhood. The American dream, baby.

I'm happier now than when I was a teenager or young adult, so why do I find myself reliving the past so often? Am I trying to reassure myself that I chose the correct path? Am I testing the waters? Dipping my toes in Lake What-Could-Have-Been in the hopes of finding the water horribly cold and brackish? That sounds about right.

I just hope I don't fall in and drown.

My Daughter, the Diva

Fancy shoes, tights over the
swimsuit, Halloween hair tie

My three-year-old daughter thinks it's perfectly okay to go outside wearing a swimsuit with tights pulled up over it, plus fancy, white, flower girl shoes. I insist on a jacket because, well, it's October and 55 degrees out there.

Getting my daughter dressed every morning is a tiring negotiation. Her go-to look is psychotic fairy princess, so it's my job to tone it down as much as possible. No parent should ever fight with their child over the clothes they want to wear (unless said child is a 15-year-old female decked out in a micro-mini and belly shirt), but there's no way I'm standing back without at least attempting to coordinate her outfit. But often my pleadings suggestions fall on deaf ears, and my sweet pea leaves the house looking like a hot mess.

Minnie Mouse

Some days I can convince her that a sundress isn't the best choice for a chilly winter morning, but other times, I just have to insist on tights underneath, and hope her winter coat is thick enough to counteract the spaghetti straps and bare arms.

This morning she decided on a Halloween theme: black pumpkin shirt, jack-o-lantern hair tie, turquoise leggings with gold polka dots, and black socks to match. The fact that the socks had snowmen all over them did not deter her. After all, they were black and therefore matched.

I do realize this is normal behavior, but after being spoiled by my first-born--my son happily wears whatever I lay out for him--my diva-esque daughter is a bit of a shock.

Bathing beauty/princess

At least it's never boring. On a daily basis, I never know if I'm going to be hanging out with Snow White, Minnie Mouse, a prima ballerina, beach beauty, fairy, some wacky combination thereof, or some brand new character I've never met before. Every once in a while, I even get to hang out with a regular, three-year-old kid.

Those are the most surprising days of all.

The Sad Tale of Swing Boy

My husband and I took the kids to a nearby playground tonight. It's not the closest one, but I like going there for a number of reasons--one being the diversity of the kids who play there.

Our town is not diverse. In fact, it's my second least favorite thing about our Westchester hamlet (my #1 being that you can't walk anywhere good). I grew up in a very white town, and once I was old enough to realize it, it sort of bummed me out. I didn't have the chance to meet people from various backgrounds, and when I went off to college I was unprepared for the diversity I found there. I was naive.

Economically, the New England town I grew up in ranged from well-to-do electricians and contractors to ivy league professors and renowned neurosurgeons. Ethnic diversity meant Greeks and Armenians. A handful of Asians lived in town--mostly affiliated with Boston's many universities and hospitals--but basically no black or hispanic families. There were some black kids in the school system--bussed in through the much-maligned METCO (Metropolitan Council for Educational Opportunity) program--but they didn't live in town and tended to stick together.

I was hoping to raise my kids in a more diverse environment, but because our town isn't great in that regard, I have to leave town so my kids can learn that not everyone looks the same.

The playground was packed tonight. After pushing my daughter in one of the baby swings, my husband informed me there was a little boy, around three-years-old, in the other swing who seemed to be parent-less. He pushed the kid a few times because he felt sorry for the boy, who was just hanging there. He wasn't complaining, not crying, not acting out...just hanging, legs dangling.

My husband asked him if his parents were around. He pointed behind him, to a picnic table with three adults. Because the grown-ups at that table never even glanced over at the boy, my husband was not convinced they were actually the parents.

The boy was stuck in the swing for over an hour! He didn't look unhappy, but neither could he get out on his own. Whenever the other baby swing opened up, a new parent would put his or her kid in, start pushing, and then notice the sad little boy hanging adjacent. The other parent would awkwardly push both swings for a little while, glancing around for the boy's caretaker all the while. In between, the boy would just hang there.

What the heck was going on? Were his parents really not there? If they were, in fact, around, did they not care that dozens of random adults were pushing their kid on the swing? How lazy could they be? Apparently, this particular playground is diverse even in terms of parenting skills.

Finally my husband went over and asked the boy if he wanted to get out. He did, so my husband lifted him out. The boy ran off to the play structure. We still weren't sure his parents existed, but after a few minutes he ran over to the picnic table with the three adults sitting around it.

I couldn't believe it! For an hour, the boy's parents (or guardians, at least) completely ignored it while random other adults uncomfortably pushed their boy on the swing. I was looking around the whole time, and the adults at that table didn't look at Swing Boy even once. And they appeared normal enough. Sure, the dad/male had a tattoo sleeve on one arm but that's hardly unusual these days. The two women were...eh...texting on their phones most of the time. Not great, but they weren't strung-out junkies, either.

They didn't care that he was just hanging there! For an hour! While other adults pushed him! While my husband talked to him and helped him out of the swing!

What the hell? In this era of helicopter parenting, this kind of disregard is downright shocking.

My husband: "Well, he'll probably end up being really independent, at least."

Me: "Or a drug addict."

But isn't that the great parenting dilemma?

Tattoo You

I think it's pretty awesome that Gen X turned getting tattooed from a weird and fringe activity into something mainstream. Back in the 90s, millions of post-collegiate 20-somethings got themselves inked. The girls either got something cute (dolphin, butterfly) on their ankle or something abstract on their lower back. (This is often referred to as a "tramp stamp"--a name I hate for something I still think is cool and sexy.)  The guys often chose tribal-looking bands around their biceps or calves.

I myself went with a small sun on my shoulder blade. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision... and no, I wasn't drunk. I went to my friend Jen's apartment one Friday night and we got talking about tattoos. Turns out both of us had wanted one for ages. So the next day, we met up at a tattoo place on Ludlow Street and did the deed. It was a summer Saturday afternoon--I got the sun, she got a butterfly--and afterward we went to The Hat (El Sombrero) for margaritas to celebrate. It was one of those perfect It's-the-summer-and-I'm-young-and-living-in-Manhattan-and-life-is-great days. Ah, bliss.

Fast-forward 15 years...and lots of these got-tattooed-in-their-twenties folks are now parents. Every summer, it cracks me up to see the moms sitting around the edge of the town's baby pool, their wild tattoos on display as they supervise their frolicking babies. I realize not everyone agrees with me here, but I think the moms look cute with their slightly stretched-out roses, fleur-de-lis, and dragonflies. (WARNING: If you plan on ever having kids in the future, please carefully choose the location of your tattoo, e.g. abdomen=bad.)

Occasionally, I come across a person who did more than just dabble in the tattoo arts back in the day. I've seen a couple of dads at the pool with multiple tattoos scattered over their arms, backs, and chests; one guy even has the tattooed sleeve thing going on.

A heavily tattooed mom, however, is a much rarer thing (at least it is in Westchester).

Picture this on her neck.

But today I saw her: Late thirties or early forties, three sons, dirty blonde hair, thin, tired-looking, no makeup...and numerous tats, including an intricate spider web that covers THE ENTIRE FRONT OF HER NECK. She also has three star tats scattered behind each ear, a HUGE filled-in heart covering the nape of her neck, and the requisite lower-back abstract. Who knows what additional ink she's hiding under her clothes.

Whenever I see her--usually at the kids' indoor gym we frequent--I have to stifle a gasp, so shocking is her appearance in our relatively traditional suburban town.

OMG, WHAT IS HER STORY? I wonder every time I see her. Because you know there's a good yarn behind her tats. How'd she end up a stay-at-home mom living in Westchester? Maybe she's a Dominatrix on the side? There's  gotta be something juicy there, and I really want to know.

I wish she seemed more approachable because then I'd try to chat her up. Then after the appropriate interval of time, I'd express admiration for her tattoos and maybe get the inside story. But--surprise!--the chick with the neck tats does not seem approachable at all.

So for now I guess I'll just eyeball her when she's not looking and hope I get to know her one day so I can find out the story behind all her ink. Or better yet, get to know someone who already knows her and her tat tale.

Hmmm...but now that I think about it, one of her sons is named Logan, and when she's ready to leave the play-gym she calls out "LOGEY! Time to go, Logey!" How badass can she be, right?

So very disappointing.