Laundry is a Love Language

My manager recently said to me, in a gesture of reassurance, that she understood I might think my job is thankless. "No," I said suddenly, "Laundry is thankless." I have a tedious job, one that can be isolating, and sometimes the recommendations I make are stetted, the editorial term for disregarding a suggested change, but I never feel unappreciated or unimportant. I see projects roll from copies of text and art into final, polished digital displays or printed work. I see the means to an end, every day. Laundry, however...

As mothers know, laundry is ceaseless. Washed and folded today, soiled and crumpled tomorrow. The young people sheath themselves with sanitized, dried, and pressed cotton in the morning, and by evening, the clothes are dingy, crusty, stained, reek of body odor, smack of yard dirt, and need rewashing, which we do-- again and again. I thought about this and my manager's conversation with me about the importance of my work as I packed my children's clothes the other night for summer with their father. I had grouched at my daughter for folding recklessly and inconsistently, and I came after her with scolding, instructions on re-folding, and  assistance. When the children went to the porch to look for July 4th fireworks, I stayed behind, folding, stacking, and smoothing, suddenly graced with the realization that this is the one time my laundering is not an act to be taken for granted.

When my children unpack their clothes at their father's, they will see my handiwork in the neat stacks of t-shirts and shorts, undies and jammies. The clothes I blessed one last time with purposeful, nurturing hands-- hands that cradled Tiny and Chicken Little as newborns, cleaned drains and changed dressings post-surgeries, sewed Halloween costumes, and stirred pots of gumbo, polenta, and sauce. They will see how tidy and tucked into their luggage are all the essentials they themselves might have forgotten. I will be there in clothes that smell like the detergent I use and folded in the manner in which they are familiar. The children won't think about it as keenly as I might, but I can rest in the assurance that I have provided one last gesture that goes noticed at their father's house long after my good-bye hugs and kisses have evaporated from their skin.

Thankless? Not this time.

Well-Trained?

My son was devastated to have lost another critical Lego piece to our nine-month-old border collie.
"That's what happens when you leave your stuff lying around," I said. Tiny objected.
"But I thought he was well-trained," he cried.
"You're well-trained, and you do crazy stuff all the time."

We have pondered the curious sight of my son's smurf-blue poop (a certain someone sucked down a blue sharpie, no kidding), his bizarre tendency to flush household items down the toilet as a protest against visiting his father (couldn't he just draw a picture full of angst like other kids?), and his occasional exhibitionist behavior (for no reason whatsoever). In fact, my son isn't at all a far stretch from the aforementioned puppy, whom we have taught to respond appropriately to a myriad of commands, including "Toby, don't lick your wiener." He needed only a little time to figure out the ban on wiener-licking in my presence. My son needed a greater deal of training, however, for his wiener-issue last year, but he now responds well to "Tiny, quit flashing your wiener." Licking and flashing aside, both critters, despite receiving plenty of affection, structure, and nurturing to coach them into being socially acceptable, occasionally indulge in random miscreant behavior. Because it's fun. Because they can. Wieners aside, they share a common bond.

They are both brilliant thieves. The pup gleefully steals Legos, socks, underwear, Kleenex, and blankies. This year, my son's booty included a Kindle, a watch, miscellaneous Lego guys, and ten dollars. Each time, we stepped up Tiny's training.  And just when I thought he was untrainable, the cycle broke, and Tiny restored himself with a sense of respect for other people's things... most of the time. Toby recently skulked into the living room with a stolen peanut butter and jelly sandwich, flashed it before me, and then lay down in complete shame and resignation. Of the two beasts, he is by far the easier one to train.

Despite the struggle to thwart thievery, Tiny is a leader in the manner in which he returns items (most of the time). We hope his approach inspires his four-legged friend to do the same. Normally, stolen items are returned pretty much in the manner in which they were snatched-- whole, unbroken, unsoiled. Right now, our fuzzy fella gladly returns the Legos he steals, but 24 hours later processed in a pile of poop in the backyard.

We take our training one day at a time chez Catiche. Wish us luck.

At least he's quiet...

Bill Cosby once spoke of a dinner out with his wife and very young son. At one point, the child was lying on the floor between tables of diners. Bill and his wife deliberated over whether or not to tell the child to get up, and then suddenly Bill's wife said, "At least he's quiet."

There is much to be said for quiet. At the office the other day, as I spoke to one of my colleagues, her child, whom I hadn't known was there, darted out from her cube into the open and proceeded to practice karate moves in the common area. My friend heaved a sigh. "At least he's quiet," I said.

My mom used to say over and over again that children should be seen and not heard. I used to despise that line of old school thought,  but much can be said about not having to listen to whining, banging, or any of the other chaotic noises that accompany children. Seeing the squirt bounce about and having to listen to him tearing apart the house are two different concepts.

I never quote my mother's adage, but my children have still picked up my craving for peace and project it onto their own situations. This morning, our floppy-eared puppy bounded into bed between my son and me. He rolled around for a snuggle and waltzed about the bed squishing us in the process.

"Ugh!" I cried, shoving the dog off the bed.
"At least he's quiet," said Tiny.

Conversation, Nudity, and a Mini-Tyrant: The Relative Social Life of the Working Mother

One evening, my children and I visited an orchid specialist, which is really a blog post in itself, but anyway, the conversation between the shopkeeper and me went the way it often does when I make a new acquaintance: food and family.

"Where's your favorite restaurant?" he asked.
"Depends on what I like to order," I said, and then elaborated.
"So what restaurant do you go to... to be social?"
"Social? I don't have a social life."
"You don't have a social life?"
I pointed to my children who were sucking on mints, swinging their legs on a settee in the shop, and toying with orchid blossoms they had been given. "That's my social life."

I think it was Barbara Walters who once said that there exists family, career, and a social life, but you cannot have all three; you must choose two. I once resented the truth of this and wondered what I was missing socially, but as my children have grown older, I have become better at embracing time with them for the gift it really is. Time is fleeting. We are creating memories. We still have our frustrations though.

Last week, after comical drills about the tennis court, we admired the lightening bugs flitting about, and then dawdled home hand-in-hand. Houses slipped into silhouettes against a dimming sky and the air held the magic of almost-summer... but then the kids' joking and chatter morphed into crabbing and arguing, an obvious signal for bedtime. I sent them in to start baths, planning to take a few minutes of solace before the usual routine of monitoring and tucking in. The youngest suddenly appeared naked on the front porch to hotly voice a bitter complaint about his sister. He made no sense whatsoever. I scratched my head a minute and thought how nice it would be to have a glass of wine at the restaurant around the corner... with someone who wasn't six years old, irrational, naked, and non-compliant.

I often say that my social life is at the office, and I think for many of us, that's true. I have a group of good women friends there-- mostly mothers like myself, some of whom have raised children under extraordinary circumstances and pressures. The peace and wisdom they give me is priceless, and I find that work provides a sense of relief rather than duress because of that. It's been a wonderful cure for the isolation I felt in a new state four years ago, and besides-- no one has ever shown up at my cube naked and irrational. :)

He might be Tiny, but he's got it going on...

It's been a weird week. I sat down tonight with my son, who is often in trouble, the source of trouble, or party to someone else's trouble, and asked him how he handles stress. I just wondered what he would say.

"Go to Starbucks and have coffee," he said.
"What else?" I asked.
"Go have coffee with people."
"No, seriously."
"Coffee."

My son isn't seven yet. He seems to have a good handle on things for a kid who is in constant hot water. But instead of the coffee cure, I opted for a small glass of wine.

"I'd like some wine, cheese, and olives, please," he said, "and then we can sit on the deck together."
"You can't have wine. And I am not up to fixing a cheese plate."
"It's okay," he said. Tiny proceeded to pull out olives, mustard, and crackers, and arrange a rather pleasing looking tapas. "Would you like the recipe?" he asked as he wrote it for me.

I'm not sure when my first grader turned 40, but there he was admiring his plate, which I decided would be his dinner with the addition of some leftover salad. I made egg sandwiches for my daughter and I, and invited Tiny to join us in the dining room.

"You go on ahead. I'm good," he said, motioning us away with the back of a hand. Where does he get this stuff?

An Open Letter to Teachers: Thank You

This week, instead of packing a Christmas gift to send to my children's teachers, I sat down and wrote a letter of gratitude. I wanted all the teachers in our life to be aware of how much they are valued, especially in light of the traumatic shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary. Each teacher received a copy of this today. Here, for a broader thank you to all who serve children, is the letter. I removed the full names of my children and their pictures here, but those were included in the original text.

Dear Teacher,

Thank you for teaching my child. Thank you for showing up every day ready for class and for whatever insanity my child and his or her classmates throw at you. Having been in your shoes, I can say with certainty that there are likely many days where you have said, after dealing with some miscreant’s antics, that you could not teach another day. But yet you rose the next morning, returned to school, and re-committed yourself to educating young people. Thank you for that.

I place my trust in you and the school system where my children learn. I trust when you tell me that my son was a hothead and my daughter was an airhead that, in those moments, they were. We deal at home accordingly, backing up your every word. I know that when my child enters the school halls, that you are taking over for me for the next several hours. You will see my children in their best and weakest moments. You will strive to raise them up, to give them long term goals, to help them mature into people with vision. Your work extends far beyond ABCs and scientific theories, tests and art projects; you are creating a thinking person who will make the world better than it is now.

Thank you for coming back to school this week to send the message to my children that their schools are safe, while the rest of the world fights to make that a more believable truth. I trembled Monday morning as I put my little son on the bus and cast reminders to my daughter as she departed. I said to myself that it would all be okay. With you at our side, fighting to protect our children, working to restore our faith in humanity, how could it not be? This weekend, I told my son and daughter that teachers are heroes, that not one of you would ever hesitate to protect them. I believe that. I was a teacher once too. We are the guardians of souls and so much more.

It is okay to grieve now, to be afraid. To deny that part of yourself would be to deny your own humanity. To continue to commit to my children and others in your work despite your grief and fear is an act of bravery. You will always be a hero to us.

Merry Christmas, dearest Teacher! You are in my prayers.

Troll Patrol

I just this week told my husband that I feel like I am living with a troll. I was referencing my twelve-year-old daughter. “You’re not going to tell her that, are you?” he asked. “Of course not,” I said, feigning mortification. Truthfully, I have implied this before, however, when telling her how she stomps around the house.

Not only is our Chicken Little heavy footed, but she leaves a trail of crumbs that betray her efforts to hide her snacking out-of-zone. I can trace her steps through the kitchen, to the living room, and up the stairs on any given day. I may come home to find explosions in the microwave and shredded cheese across the counter, her dishes piled at the side of the sink. At this point, I nudge our troll into action and watch her scuttle about vacuuming and wiping the detritus left behind.

She often acts half-wittedly, such as with her approach to laundry. Recently, I had a load of whites in the dryer ready to be folded. She removed her wet jeans from the washer and put them in with the dry whites and ran the dryer again. Of course, this resulted in an unsuccessful attempt to dry anything. Having found this late at night when she was already in bed, I had to take care of the matter myself, sort and re-dry items, and when I told her about it, received her standard, a wide-eyed dreamy “Whaaatttt?”

The other week, I pulled out the laundry she had folded, which contained a vast amount of items that couldn’t be put away because  when I picked them up, they had been crumpled into random layers, not a corner to corner in sight, not a neat line or crease anywhere. Meanwhile, her little brother jet-folded into perfect quarters stacks of washcloths and napkins. I pointed this out to my Chicken Little, at which she said, “Whaaatttt?” and then with a goofy smile redid the folding. 

Yesterday, I had asked for her help sorting placemats and napkins from potholders and kitchen towels in the large bins I keep in our dining room on the rolling rack. When I went in to check her progress, she had done what the trolls among us do—a sort of assemblage of semi-related items in random ways, with non-matching items tucked between them. Everything had to be removed from the bins, refolded, regrouped with similar items, and then put away one more time. It’s exhausting making sure she doesn’t slack on the job.

This morning, she was, at my husband’s suggested tactic, picking out the rabbit food from his bedding due to her having recklessly poured so much food in the feeder that it spilt everywhere. Later, she may have to put away her laundry, which she will likely shove in random drawers, therefore complicating how she chooses her outfits in the morning, and resulting in crumply mismatched pairings. Rejected outfits will become piled at the foot of her bed, which is another matter in itself; for in her bed (IN her bed), she hordes notebooks, pens, pencils, markers, scissors, novels, and toys. I don’t know how she sleeps between my forced evacuations of such accumulating odds and ends. Only a troll would know.

Toilet paper-replacing is another challenge with our pre-teen, who having not yet mastered the art of hygiene, might skip replacing an empty cardboard roll and opt for some kind of shake and dodge maneuver instead, leaving whoever comes after her in a serious lurch. And don’t ask about hand washing. On more than one occasion, I have bent over to kiss her good night, detected a foul odor and sent her back to the bathroom for a sound application of hot water and soap.  Despite the shower she took before church today, I noted rings of grey in the creases of her neck, and was appalled. Like I said, we live with a troll.

My husband offers advice for troll-coaching. “Find a way not to be angry when you talk to her about this.” But it is hard not be angry or frustrated when you have spent days, months, and years repeating yourself. Like how she chews with her mouth open or talks to me with sour cream pasted across her upper lip and cheek, and I have to say, for the millionth time, how not to eat like a troll. Kids wonder what’s wrong with their parents—why can’t they smile more, why can’t they be fun? Because we live with trolls.

I asked a friend the other day how long this phase lasts—he sighed, pursed his lips, thought a minute, and then said, “Yeah. Yep. It goes to about age seventeen.” He clapped me on the back. “Settle in. It’s a long road.” Yes, it is a long road— with a bridge on it that the troll lives under.

ADHD: The Best Boy in the World

My son was officially diagnosed with ADHD this year. This comes as no surprise to anyone who really knows him. I find myself in an interesting place, however. There are the parents who tell me they do not advocate use of medication (and for good reasons) and then there are those who, like me, put up a long battle and finally say to the doctor, "My child needs more than what I can do for him." Medication is a tricky deal. Side effects, risks from long-term usage, a journey that requires time and patience to adjust meds. My theory behind the medication is that it clears up his brain fog just enough so we can work on teaching new behaviors (making good choices, speech therapy, and how to organize). While I hope medication is not a long-term need, I do, however, know quite a few people with other disorders who will be on their meds for life. I see his need for meds but worry about it at the same time.

We did what so many others have done when a child seems recklessly driven by an internal motor like Tiny's: vitamins, changing diet, participation in physical activities such as sports and yoga, running the track before class or in-between classes, meditation and visualization exercises (yes, really), behavior modification, reward and consequences, stimulation gadgets he could fool with to burn off the fidgets and wiggles (he would ultimately break those), and adjusting sleep schedules. While elements of these things have relieved some of Tiny's tendencies to be on a constant search-and-destroy mission, they were no real redirection. One of the things that pushed me to look into medication was the acknowledgment that his behavior, documented in child study meetings, psychological evaluations, and countless emails with teachers, was making him feel like he was a failure, and nothing we were doing to naturally relieve his symptoms would help. One day, I said to my ex-husband as we discussed ways to help Tiny, "Imagine what it must be like to be him." Silence followed as we both digested the fact that our boy had become the stand-out in his school for a history of erratic, destructive, loud, paranoid, angry, and occasionally defiant, behavior. His academic performance was mediocre, but I have always known that within Tiny's body is a sharp, bright mind. How could we help him be who he needed to be?

Tiny is on a low dose of Adderall XR. He takes a multivitamin, which I have begun to give 30 minutes before his ADHD meds instead of at the same time, and two doses of fish oil a day. He sees two specialists who work with children who have ADHD, anxiety, and other emotional disorders. Something interesting is happening. While he is still the busy boy I would expect a boy to be--climbing, running, playing, building forts out of blocks or boxes and knocking them over with a triumphant hurrah--he is communicating far more clearly and causing less and less conflict at school and home. While he has always been Mommy's Tiny, as I call him, he is increasingly pleasurable to do things with. He takes his time to explain in detail why he needs his space/toys not encroached upon instead of yelling and throwing things. He follows directions quickly. His attention span has increased and he spends an hour if not longer on his legos or his elaborate drawings. He is working better toward long-term goals.

The hardship lies in sensitivity, which the addition of fish oil to his routine seems to abate lately. There have been many afternoons where he cries easily or is irritated easily by others. There was a meltdown at school one day last week--but it was only the second one in a month of the new treatment, whereas before, I was being emailed or called nearly daily with reports. Tiny is improving. He is also learning how to listen to his body when he needs to relax or change environments. He charts his own behavior on a calendar beside his activity table at home.

Moments ago, my son came to see me to ask permission to play outside. I told him to change out the t-shirt he was wearing for a long-sleeved shirt and to put socks on. He did as asked and came again to show me he had followed directions. He stood sweetly, his sandy hair framing his precious little face. I pulled him into my lap to tell him what a good boy he was, to say that he was the best boy in the world, and that I believed he was a gift. He tucked his head under my chin and cuddled. Then we talked about how his body was feeling and if he needed help with his occasional headaches (a side-effect). Tiny scooted out the door to play and returned moments later with a calm remark that the neighbor's kids weren't awake to play yet and that he was going upstairs to play legos. And on he went. I can hear him constructing a world and creating a narrative to go along with it--chatting and happy play noises becoming music against the clicking of my keyboard as a write. This scene would have played out in battle only a month or two ago.

I remember crying to my father a few years ago that Tiny was a special needs child and I was so frustrated with his lack of processing and understanding. He was this wild thing that wouldn't learn safety from painful accidents and for whom punishments meant nothing. He always was, though, what I told him this morning: the best boy in the world. And he always will be. We simply see more of the wondrous capacity he has to live happily than we have before. While medication is of great concern, great blessings have abounded because of it. I don't call it a cure-all, nor have I advocated it to other parents yet. Instead, I operate on a wait-and-see basis. Each child's mind and biology are unique. What I have found though is beautiful support from other parents with special children. For this, I thank each of you--keep the support and the ideas coming.

Mother of a Boy

You ever read those italicized notes at the end of an article that describe the writer? There will be some brief mention about what that person does for a living (along with the writing because so few of us can actually live off that) and a little tidbit about her family life: Judy is the mother of an active boy. Every time I read "active boy" I wonder why not just say what it really is: Judy is the mother of a boy. It's superfluous to add "active" really. There is no such thing, therefore no clarifier is needed. Just saying a woman rears a boy should instantly draw feelings of empathy from the reader.

When I learn that an expecting mother is having a boy, I reach out to her in mercy and compassion. "Hold on to your hat," I say. Forget any nice-looking furniture you have, any freshly painted wall, any nice-smelling bathroom. Get ready for all the science projects he'll bring home, like the pet worm my son and his friend tried to sneak in the house last week. Get ready for the fact that while you are trying to cook dinner, he is flushing three toothbrushes down your toilet (yes), hosing his sister against her will outside, or, having found a blue ink pad in your art supplies, he is using it to stamp geometric patterns on your flagstone path in the yard, your minivan, and the neighbors’ brick edging that trims the path to their home. And by the way, it took me days to figure out that it was permanent ink— I had my son scrub it off with a toothbrush and detergent. I should have made him use one of the toothbrushes I had snaked out of the toilet from the first incident I mentioned.

Yes, to say that one is the mother of a boy is description enough. One day at church, there was a woman sobbing outside the doors to the building. She was being comforted by a friend. Concerned, I walked over and asked if they needed help. “It’s ok,” said one woman as she held an arm around the crying one, “She is just raising boys.” No kidding.

We have countless stories about the wild boys among our family and friends. My grandmother tied her second-born to a tree so she could complete chores in peace. An Indiana friend of mine once came home to her son swinging on a rope like Tarzan from the second floor interior balcony of her home. The other stories I have, especially a host of them about my son’s birth father, aren’t even fit for print. While some of these boys I knew grew up okay, others didn’t. My grandmother on her deathbed still obsessively worried about at least one of her sons. I supposed that happens. The people I worry the most about though are the mothers. We are exhausted from cleaning up the damage.

A friend of mine, whose little boy has similar difficulties to my Tiny Man's, described his recent suspension from school. She asked me how she was supposed to keep going—how much could she really take. The next day I walked up to her office and told her Tiny had just been suspended from after-school care. We laughed. It’s the best we can do. Mothers take all our children’s faults and eccentricities to heart. We grew these creatures. They came from us. They are extensions of ourselves. When we see them do things we wouldn’t do (because we were girls), we become unglued. And we need other mothers to sympathize with us because they understand. When I tell men what my son does, most of them say something like, “I did the same stuff.” My husband appears to be an anomaly in this department, the worst story about him being that he jumped off the top of the refrigerator once in a while, usually with his Dad waiting to catch him and encouraging it. At least Tiny is incredibly sweet and affectionate; it’s what has kept him alive this long. By the way, among the things I did to ground my son for his having misbehaved enough to be suspended, I put him in time-out in his room from after school let out until supper time. He could play alone with his own toys—no friends, no TV, no Wii, no dog, no free-ranging it outside. He made do. I caught him emptying buckets of water out his bedroom window to amuse himself. There is no rest for the weary mother of the boy.

While all mothers deserve medals for the hell their boys put them through, there are those of us who deserve special awards for raising a hyperactive boy.  In a recent ADHD article I read, the doctor described raising a child with this disorder as raising a child times five. So, if you are going to call a spade a spade, here it is. This is what my byline should read: The author is an editor, a blogger, and an artist. In addition to bringing home the bacon and trying to maintain snippets of a creative life, she is married to a handsome, brilliant academic and skydiver who she fears could die any day, leaving her solely responsible for her son with ADHD and his sister, who is often grossly disappointed with her brother’s misconduct.

Dining with Children: The Qdoba Experience

Once a week, I treat my kids to a meal out with just mommy. Their favorite restaurant is Qdoba, one of those fast-fresh Mexican joints. Ideally, we stand in line and tell a server what to pile on our tortilla bowl as we watch over the counter and scoot sideways to the cash register. While the food there is always decent, and I can feed the three of us for about 20 dollars, it's not convenient to eat there with kids. I am sure that the kind managers of Qdoba would argue with me that it is a kid-friendly place, and they certainly mean it to be. But this whole style of ordering, which is found at other places, such as Subway, Moe's, and Chipotle, is not conducive to peaceful and easy meal-engaging for anyone who totes in line a tyke or two. To clarify exactly why, here is what often takes place when my kids and I visit Qdoba:

Me: Allright, kids. While we wait, take a look at the menu and decide what you'd like. And no, you may not have Coke.
Tiny: Chips and wocamowee!
Chicken Little: Ummmmmmmm. Ummmmmmmmm.
Tiny: Chips and wocamowee! Mom? Mom. Mom! Chips and wocamowee, please.
Me (turning to CL): You need to decide. (turning to server when it's our time to order) I'll have the Mexican gumbo with black beans and salsa please.
CL: Ummmmm. Ummmmmm. I'll have the... ummmm.

Tiny Man starts walking back and forth behind the line of people being served, running his hand along the tile of the wall that divides the line from the dining room. He then quickly progresses to running back and forth.

Me: (ignoring daughter who has had ten minutes to make a decision): The little man over here will have the chips and woca...I mean guacamole. (to Tiny) Cut it out. Either stay beside me or go choose a table and wait.
CL: I'll have the regular nachos and a bowl of Mexican gumbo and a side of...
Me: No. We talked about this before we came in. That's too much food for you. Stick with the kid's nachos.
CL: But I am always hungry afterward!
Me: Then just pick one thing and one side.

Tiny has scampered off to find a table and I hear him calling (Mom? Mom. Mom!). Meanwhile, the server is doing her best to be patient. People are piling up behind me. At this point, Tiny may have come back from the table and is asking for a brownie, as there is always a bowl of saran-wrapped ones on the counter. Whoever puts those there should be shot.

Tiny: Mom? Mom! Can I have a brownie? Mom? Mom!
Me: No. Go sit down. (turning to CL) This year, sweetheart.

CL: Ok, then I'll have the regular nachos with a side of...
Me: Oh, no. What did I just say? That's too much food. (server heaves a sigh)
CL: Ooookkkaay. I'll have the kids' nachos with a side of Mexican gumbo.
Me: Tiny? Tiny. Come back here. (watching server pile way too much on the kid nachos as CL asks for every condiment there is.) Wait, no, stop. That's too much food. We have just had this conversation. No. No more. Grown ups shouldn't even eat that much.
CL: (to server) I'll have a coke, please.
ME: No, no she won't. We are all having unsweet tea. Holy God, that's a huge plate of nachos for kids. Chicken Little!

At this point, there is the gathering of food, paying for everything, getting the empty cups that the kids and I will have to fill ourselves, and then trying to figure out how to get it all to the table. If the restaurant isn't slammed, the very nice and patient server earns a wealth of gratitude prayers from me by offering to help. And then there's the pouring of tea and making sure that my daughter doesn't fill her cup with Sprite on the sly. When I arrive at the table, I have to tell the kids to quit arguing over who has more tea in whose cup while I wander back to get forks, spoons, and napkins.

By the time I sit down to eat, I am exhausted, my son's face is happily spattered with guac, my daughter is hunched over her food, and I begin the second set of parental badgerings, the ones that appear whether we eat at home or out.

"Sweetheart, sit up. Thank you. Chew with your mouth closed. Baby doll, look at your mother. Sit up straight. Like this. Honey, bring your food to you, not you to your food. Elbows off the table, Tiny.Wipe your face, Little Man. Elbows. Hey! Elbows! Don't grab your sister's food. No, you may not have his chips-- you have plenty. Oh, no thank you, Bunnykins. Mommy doesn't want to share and get your cold. Focus on your meal. Cut that out. Leave that alone. Chew with your mouth closed. Seriously, sweetheart, at twelve you should know how to chew with your mouth closed, and it's wearing me out to tell you this at least two meals a day every day each year. Holy God. Tiny. Dude. Eat. Cut that out..."

I know you read this and think to yourself that surely there are ways to prep the kids for this experience... or maybe, as I sometimes do, that birth control is a beautiful thing. We do prepare before going to Qdoba, but sometimes, even that fails to prevent mayheim, especially because my son feeds off activity, and if the place is crowded and loud, he becomes incredibly... all over the place.

I honestly prefer to pay extra for a true sit-down meal, but I tend to save those for really special days. So, one Sunday not so long ago, the kids and I had brunch at a delightful place where college girls took our order from us at the table and charmed the kids with Shirley Temples, coloring pages, and toys. I sipped a Mimosa and sent the kids to play with paper airplanes between the restaurant's patio and a neighboring garden. I had a perfect view of them from the open windows of the enclosed patio where I sat. When our meal was delivered, complete with more waitresses fawning over the children, the kids sat up and ate with good manners. We told silly stories and relaxed as plates came and went, drinks were adjusted, and so forth. There was one brief episode where my son complained because he wanted his sister's toy. I nipped this quickly in the bud, distracted him with the crafting of a paper plane, and life went smoothly forward.

The bill? About 48 dollars for three of us. Worth every cent. I strolled away from there as mellow as a mom can be on a Sunday afternoon with two short-stacks in hand. I wish we could do that every week.

New Year's Revolutions and Other Teeny Holiday Glimpses

With the holidays at a close, there is so much I would like to write about, but can just sum up events in a series of snippets. I'll let your imagination fill in the rest. See below:

• Recently, my eleven-year-old told me she had a New Year's revolution. I corrected her, but frankly I like her version of the word better. Keeping promises can be revolutionary. Let's roll with that.

• It took me five minutes to decode my son's complaint to me this Christmas. It began with "aweeweewish." I asked him, "WHAT?" And he repeated, "Aweeweewish you wouldn't use my airpwane to wite a note to schoow." Translation: I really wish. Got it. Note to self: Ask teacher about speech therapist.

• Christmas letters that capitalize on a family's success and perfection can be annoying. The one I sent out this year was short and sweet, but what I really wanted to say was this: Child A lost her cell phone privileges due to downloading $160 worth of games and Child B lost his bus riding privileges. Here's to another year of towing the line. (There was more I wanted to say there, but my husband said I couldn't post it.) If someone sent me a card like that, I'd frame it.

• I became a reluctant vegetarian this year and then was given a Christmas turkey by my company's president. It was delicious. Oh, and this week I had bacon. Is 6 meat-free days out of 7 ok? It's going to have to be. 

• I gave my mom a Kindle for Christmas, which is a little like giving her a crack addiction. We call each other: What did you read this week? It is so wonderfully fun, but I have a hunch nothing else is getting done at her house and her Amazon bill for books might end up looking like what my daughter did to a certain cellphone bill. At least, we are bettering ourselves with our Kindles though, as this week my mom and I read Henry James' Washington Square. I need to reread Wuthering Heights soon. It's like a nineteenth-century Jerry Springer show. Umm, bettering ourselves is a relative concept in light of that last comment.

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and may this year be one that is full of goodness. I can say, as hardship has transitioned to simply overwhelming busyness, that I am about as content as I have ever been, and am looking forward to this year-- my husband's hand in mine, our children in our hearts, the idea of home as warm and comforting as ever.

Love to you--

Catiche

Little Reflections of Parenting

Periodically, a mother's words can come back in the funniest ways. One evening over dinner, my son piped up with a complaint about how I had used one of his paper airplanes to write a note. In desperation that morning, I had unfolded his hand-crafted jet, smoothed out the creases, and wrote a note of permission for my daughter to give her teacher. He had objected to my doing this at the time, and hours later, still was a little peeved.

"I'm sorry," I said. "Next time, I will go into my office for paper and use that instead."
"It's okay, Mommy. I still love you," he answered.

I'm glad he does. I am also glad that of all the things I tell my children, this was the one thing I clearly heard reflected before my children left for holidays with their father. And they will come back saying or doing all manner of things they have learned from time with their other family. Of course not everything they learn is so charming.

A few weeks ago, my son came home with a note from school. "Had a good morning," it began, "but kicked, hit, punched, and gave Ryan a wedgie at snack time." My ex-husband was appalled and sent a text asking me who Tiny had learned the wedgie from. I texted back an answer, "You."

Heh.

Baby-Daddy

My daughter is a minority at her school, which is about two-thirds African American. I think this is a good experience for her, as she learns to get along with kids whose backgrounds differ a little from hers. Occasionally, she will come home using an expression that is specific to that culture. Last night, for example, she asked if I could buy her some lotion. "My skin is so ashy," she said. As she adopts vocabulary and tries on expressions, she will sometimes come home with something I wasn't quite ready to hear:

"Mom, Coach told us not to be those girls that have four or five different baby-daddies. What's a baby-daddy?"

We had been walking out of my son's school, another mother some steps ahead of us. I was stunned into silence, but when the mom turned to say, "Good luck with that. We just had that conversation last week," I burst into laughter. Yes, I explained it. I explained the coach's trying to set a standard for the girls. "There are young ladies at your school who fall into this category," I said, "because their moms had one relationship, had a baby out of it, moved onto the next boyfriend, and did it again. Sometimes, you'll see entire families where there is no committed relationship and a string of children from different men. It makes for great instability and uncertainty in a family. It's not good for society. She was just trying to tell you all to make good choices."

I thought I had done very well here until my daughter asked if her step-mother could claim such a label. After clarifying the difference in the relationship and reminding my daughter that her step-mom cares greatly for her, I searched for the right words to stop my daughter from repeating "baby-daddy" and getting herself (or me) into a pickle. My little boy had the right idea. "It's not nice!" he stated emphatically. No, it's not nice at all, but it sure was worth a good chuckle.

Parenting Two-Step: Work and Children

Tomorrow, my son will go to the office with me. I hope the good Lord smiles upon us as I bring Tiny into the building and try to pass him off as my newly hired assistant. As a working mom, I do the best I can.

Trying to keep the flow of family while working has been a challenge despite the pleasant benefits of being fully employed. Kids get sick, they have ballgames, they have projects, their schools have meetings, schools close for professional development days. Working those needs around the full-time schedule has been a dance of meeting kids' needs and losing pay for doing so, and making up that lost income with a second job that I can squeeze in during slow shifts at work, before weekday dinners, and on the weekends.

While my initial pattern was to come home after work and walk the dog, chase the kids around the block when they ride their bikes, or throw the ball outside, I haven't quite been able to work that back into the schedule. Instead, that time has become filled with other needs: stops to refuel the tank of my car, errands at FedEx Kinko's, emergency trips to the urgent care clinic, tweaking edits on a paper, meetings with a realtor over the fate of this house we rent, and last minute school supply shopping. It's a little crazy.

This week, when my children's step-mother politely complained about what she perceived as my inadequate packing for recent visitation, I reflected on why the packing had been so haphazardly done. I had worked all day each day and had plans every evening that week. The last evening before we left town, my son had fallen asleep in my lap at a school rezoning meeting (exhausted from his earlier soccer game) and was put to bed early, therefore making it impossible to check the length of the pants I had packed for him (oops--I sent high-waters for him to wear). I was up until midnight cleaning, readying the house for a house sitter, readying the house sitter for the dog. I had sworn off working through that weekend when I got a last minute assignment from my second job, which meant additional preparations to pack my work. My husband, who had been travelling out of state for the second time this month, arrived home shortly after midnight with only a few hours of sleep to grab before he got up to work. I put the bags in the car before I went to sleep that night. After work, I picked up kids, waited briefly for my husband to finish his packing, and hit the road exhausted. Sometimes, we just do the best we can, and this was one of those times. At least, when the kids arrived at their final destination, they were clean (the packed clothes were clean, even if a shirt had stains), fed, entertained with activity bags and movies for the drive, hugged, kissed, and sent off knowing that they were cared for. I could have spent extra time digging for perfect outfits and multiple pairs of coordinating shoes, but instead, I rocked my son in my lap the night before and managed a cup of tea with my daughter before bed.

Those moments are the ones that matter, and make me so eager to come home each day despite the frantic pace we run from dawn till dusk and all over again each night. I think the "best I can" is working for my little family and I, and lucky for me, I work for a company that, so far, has been awfully supportive of this. It's all hard though, and by Friday, we are all exhausted, which makes weekends with the kids even sweeter than ever.

Words from the Little People

Where we live, school begins the day after Labor Day. With the children only recently returned from summer with their dad and my being unable to find consistent childcare for the week, I chose to stay home with them, a decision that turned out to be the best one. We have spent the last couple of days talking as we cleaned up hurricane debris outside, knocked the house back into order inside, organized school supplies, and played in the yard. The conversation has been priceless.

"This is uncomfortable," my son said about something that was agitating him. "It's like having a wedgie."

And later from my daughter: "You know, I feel sorry for homeless people because the only friends they have are imaginary ones."

And last night, the sitter documented this particular conversation between my kids:
"Tiny, talk to Daddy."
"No, I no want to talk to Daddy. He's always angry with me. He spanks me."
"That's because you do stupid things and he gets mad at you," replied my daughter.
"I knoooowww," sobbed Tiny, "and I do them anyways!"

The youngest still fits neatly on my lap and I can, for a little while longer, carry him a good ways. Being five, his baby-ness is fading fast. His sister, who starts middle school as a sixth grader next week, has long left those tender days behind. They still both, though, say the sweet things that remind me they will always be their mother's babies, such as these words from Tiny.

"Mom? Mom. Mommy. I wuv 'ou. I weally, weally wuv you."

A Price Above Rubies

My daughter said to me recently that her father had a nice, pretty, new (new to him) BMW and she wanted to know why I couldn't buy one. "We live differently," I said. Well, she added with a bit of resentment, it seemed that her dad and step-mom had everything they wanted.

"Why, no! No, they don't!" I told her.
"What do you mean?"
"They don't have you and your brother. You two live with me. Daddy gets to see you for visits, but you live here. I really have everything I really need, and you and your brother are my riches."

This is not the first time that I have had this conversation with her. She is young, and therefore unwisely measures wealth in tangible items such as fancy gadgets and luxury automobiles. We live far more simply than her father--this house has one television set. No one here owns an iPad. Our cars are each as old as our youngest children (about 5 and 11). I complain that I would like a new truck with one of those fancy DVD players that come mounted to the ceiling, but really, the truck runs well, so why not keep it going. While this isn't to say that I wouldn't mind a giftcard to a clothes store or bookstore or greater financial freedom, I am pretty happy knowing that we live within our means. Our long term goal, which can only be attained by continual financial caution, is homeownership. But aggravations of renting aside, this home or any home is only that because of one thing: the family that lives in it.

One day, my daughter will come to understand that, like the wonderful proverb from the Bible states about a good wife, she and her brother have a price above rubies. They are my greatest wealth, everything I have has been vested in them. I feel that reward every time my son bounds down the front sidewalk and leaps into my arms singing my name. And I feel it again when I bend over the sleeping form of my pre-teen daughter and remember how she has changed since her precious, pudgy infancy. I know it for sure when I see my step-children embrace my birth-children.

Richness, yes. For all the needs and wants in the world, these days, I am a wealthy woman.

Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

By the time many of you read this, my children will be either en route to see their father or there already. At the end of weekend, I will return to a sorrowfully quiet house. I have spent the last two weeks taking advantage of a very slow work schedule in order to indulge my children with the classic pastimes of summer--sleeping late, playing outside under the shade, visiting the ice cream shop, swimming, running through the sprinkler, enjoying friends, and touring both my original hometown and the children's current one. So far, despite fatigue, a little  irritation from noisy play, and a little chaos, the summer has been a wondrous one.

This week, we read a favorite tale, The Story of Ferdinand by Munro Leaf. You know this one--the story of the bull in Spain who does not want to fight, but instead, is content to sit under a cork tree and smell the flowers. We laughed over my trying to pronounce the word banderilleros and cozied tightly together on the couch, for once no child fighting or complaining. And then last night, we enjoyed the movies. My kids watched Cars on the big screen as they ate popcorn and wiggled in their seats. I tuned out the plot line completely and instead listened to the kids' giggling. We walked the neighborhood with our big fluffy husky and played with our rabbit. In the afternoons, my daughter, no kidding, would heat up a cup of coffee for me as I painted the kids' toes (Tiny likes his clear and sparkly) or ironed clothes. In a big step toward teaching responsibility and independence, I allowed my daughter greater freedom to visit her favorite sections of the stores where we shop, my presence no longer right around the corner or aisle, but further away. I taught her how to scramble an egg this week. And my son, between the careful guidance of his sister and I, learned how to swim underwater at a big pool on the local army base. Yes, this week wasn't just wondrous. It was, as Jujubee once said, an epic summer.

And all good things must come... to change. I started working in a large corporate office this week as a temp proofreader. While I hope this becomes a regular full-time assignment, I am so thankful for the opportunity to learn and work with a new team in a new environment (and get paid in a timely manner, thank you). So, perhaps I will dwell less on the absence of my children and allow myself to sink into the world of work with less distraction. Jujubee comes home soon, and she will pepper our evenings with art projects and experimental vegan cooking. I foresee some trips to the beach and to see her sister. Last year, the big girls were my saving grace--I would have gone crazy without them because I had never experienced my own children being far from home that long. This summer, I am a bit more prepared, but still apprehensive. At least this time, when I get those last hugs and kisses, when the warmth of little bodies leaves my skin in that one awful moment, I will be able to be so thankful for the memory-eternal sweetness of these last few weeks.

A Tale of Two Poops

Several years ago, I was a teacher's aide in a Montessori classroom. Children cleaned up their messes by themselves regardless of the kind of disasters they might have made. There were occasions that I did not appreciate this. Apparently, however, those lessons--the lesson of cleaning up after yourself literally and metaphorically--were critical.

One afternoon, Daniel, a language-delayed three-year-old, was being particularly difficult. I cannot remember what he did specifically, but before I could really discipline him, he began to run away from me in the play yard. I have a rule. I don't chase children. I catch those buggers the next time they come around, which they always do. The boy was furious with me for not chasing him, and, due to his slow use of speech, resorted to a non-verbal method of showing his rage. He stood in front of me when I caught him after that first bratty pass, pulled the crotch of his shorts to the side, and took a dump right there on the play ground. I was about twenty-four years old, fairly new to this concept of belligerent shitting, and came unglued. I called my supervisor to come over and collect the kid. She announced that Daniel would have to clean up his mess and that my job was to guard the pile so that no other kid would come mess with it. I was outside guarding the poo when I noticed the boy had made two sizable dollops--not just the one exclusively for me, but a random dump on the way into the building. I straddled myself between the two piles, my arms stretched out to close the distance, while small children whirled around me.

"Stay away from that!" I would say repeatedly. A cluster of teachers on the playground thought this was uproarious, but I was less than impressed. And I couldn't figure out how a small child would neatly clean up his own feces--especially due to the rather loose hershey-kiss shaped bombs left behind. Precious time was being lost and my job protecting the poo was getting harder and harder.

"What is that?" asked Emmanuel, the sweetest boy in my class.
"Don't touch it!" I ordered. "This is very dirty dirt." Emmanuel squatted down before I could intervene further and took up a handful of poo. At this point, I think I began shrieking. Another teacher took over poo-patrol while I marched Emmanuel into the building and supervised his handwashing. Complete hysteria overswept the teachers on the playground. I still was not laughing.

Finally, little Daniel came outside with plastic bags over his hands and cleaned up as much poop as he could. Later, my supervisor told me that this had been nothing. Once, she said, she had a student take a dump by the front door of the school. She said the pile was so large she had thought a horse had done it. She had asked the child why. The answer: I had to go.

I still remember the first and last name of this kid that pooped on my watch those years ago. So today, I decided to conduct a Google search for him. He popped right up on a Myspace page--about 18 years old now and still living in that same town. He is now a skateboarding self-professed Christian rocker. Even at his stunning height of 6'1", he still looks much like the little kid I remember. No, I did not message the boy, some things left better decomposing in the dirt so to speak. He is a child I am thankful for having taught because I can always say about my son that at least Tiny has never done "that". Frankly, having had the trouble we did with Daniel when he was a challenging squirt in the classroom, I found his Myspace page reassuring: not only did he survive childhood, but he had friends, interests, and what appeared to be a pleasant life. More hope for the future, no matter what poop my kids throw at me.

Summer Farewell for the Wee Folk

I can't write much lately because my children have been home from school, but in a few days, they will be gone for the summer. I am quite sad about this today, because while their distracting noise makes task completion of any sort difficult around here, once they are gone, so will be the giggles, the cuddles, the story-telling, the comfort of their presence, and the simple silliness that is a part of childrearing.

This past week, I nursed my son's feet to health after they had been sliced up on rocks at the beach. Three times a day, I checked for infection in the cuts between his tiny toes, cleaned them, medicated them, and applied fresh bandages. His toes are one of my favorite things about him because of they are bumply. On both feet, the second toe's joint to the foot sits higher than it should, making the foot from the bottom sometimes appear as though he has four little toes, not five. My doctor called it a birth defect; I think it's the cutest birth defect I have ever seen. With my son sitting in front of me this week, his legs straight between us as I doctored his feet, I would playfully poke his wayward second toe back into line. Tiny would laugh as he wiggled his toes so that the second one would pop back up into its original place. And then we would do it again. I love how things with children can be so sweet.

And so this summer, even though I need the break and plan to work on various projects, I will miss Tiny and his toes, his sister and her stories about the pictures she draws, and their hugs and kisses. Twice this summer, I will travel down to their father's to visit with them. They will return as a kindergartener and a middle schooler, with Tiny's toes being less tiny by then.

Wish them a safe summer and a safe return. Wish me peace of mind in the meantime.

Simple Procedures? Not with Children!

When rearing children, everything is a project. I'll never know why, but following simple procedures is beyond the still-developing minds of the very young. Take, for example, trying to leave the house with children.

The other day, I told my eleven year old what time it was, what she needed to do to be ready for riding lessons, and what time we were leaving. (Sounds organized--doesn't it?) My son should have been less complicated; all he needed was his shoes. Instead, this is what happened:

"Tiny? Tiny. What are you doing? Put that down. Clean that up. Where are your shoes? Are those your shoes? Behind you, where you have been playing. Those? All mixed up with your toys? Put your shoes on. No, put that down. Get your shoes. No, son, other foot. No, that shoe. Okay, finish putting on your shoes. Come downstairs when you have cleaned up your mess."

Meanwhile, his sister walked the house in riding breeches and stockinged feet, saying, "I can't find my helmet. It's not in the silver tub."
"I know it's not in the silver tub, sweetheart. It doesn't belong there. Go check your room."
"But it was in the silver tub!"
"It was not in the silver tub and doesn't belong there. Go check your room."
"I checked my room. It's not there!"
"So go check the car, then." Chicken Little headed to the SUV and explored the trunk and recesses under the back seat bench. Meanwhile, this was now taking place:

"Tiny, choose one toy to take with you. No. One. One toy. I see you have two. Fork over the one in your shirt. Hand it to Mommy." Tiny held his ground, one Transformer toy clutched in his hand and the other clumsily concealed in his shirt. (Mind you sometimes he shoves things in his pants and I have to frisk him before we leave a store.) With no cooperative movement from my son, I began the count. "One." Still he stood feet planted and fingers clenched about the two toys. "Two." He stared back unblinking.
"Three. Time out. Go to your room." Crying, tears, and the usual, "Whhhhhyyyyyyyy?" As he headed upstairs, my daughter came back into the house and said she couldn't find her helmet.

"Oh, dude. You lost your helmet. Geez. Ok, maybe it's at the ranch." The price of a new helmet ran through my head briefly. "Just go check your room one more time. That is where your helmet belongs."
"But--"
"Just do it. Go on. Check again to be sure."

Eventually, my daughter came downstairs with her helmet that had been hanging on her bedroom wall the entire time. She showed it to me sheepishly. You can't miss the helmet; it sports a lime-green and polka-dotted cover. So, helmet in hand, daughter's boots pulled on, we called down the little guy, and he showed me he was ready with his one toy (and nothing shoved up his shirt or down his pants). As the kids headed to the car to climb in, I turned to Juju who had been calmly observing the circus from her safe position on the couch and I said, "Do you see why I am exhausted before I even get out the door? Why does everything have to be a project?"

My days of simple exits and entrances are over for still another few years. There's fooling with the booster seats and the untwisting seat belts; reminders of retrieving book bags, lunch boxes, permission slips, and sports equipment; making sure the little guy doesn't get his fingers or toes slammed in the car door by his sister; making sure neither vacuous child gets hit by a car while entering or exiting my vehicle; stopping the arguing over who touched whose toy in the back seat. What kills me is when I am told I will miss these days. I was told that when my kids were babies, too. No, with those days done, I do not miss them. And as much as I adore my children, I won't miss trying to get them out of the house on time either.