Will this chaos ever end? OR Am I just too old for this?

So, as some of you may know, I recently turned 40. Whoohoo!!! I was actually excited about this milestone but recent events made me doubt my sanity (okay, I confess the doubting of my sanity is a regularly occurring process, but you get my point). The week before Thanksgiving we had our annual audit. Let me just say that auditors just LOVE the development department. Aside from the business office, my department (a.k.a just me) is the most popular place for a CPA to materialize out of nowhere – much like a scene from a Harry Potter movie. I swear I really do need that “Marauder’s Map.”

The Tuesday before Thanksgiving is our annual elementary Grandparents’ and Special Friends’ Day. While this is a PTO event, I somehow wind up with every phone call/e-mail there is regarding questions about this event. Not to mention that it is a noon dismissal so I have to cram everything humanly possible into five and a half hours – what fun! This is only exceeded in excitement quotient by shopping for the five additional in-laws that have decided to join us for our traditional Thanksgiving feast on Thursday. A great time was had by all and the event was the precursor to my mother-in-law’s birthday party on Friday and a surprise birthday party for me thrown by my husband on Saturday. Yes, I did gain weight during that stint – a whopping six pounds! Hello? This didn’t use to happen. Or if it did, all I needed to do was run a few miles every day and that would disappear. Apparently, the Birthday Fairy has a sick sense of humor and decided to reverse that trend without the courtesy e-mail. Not the first time I will label her as the Beotch General in this post…

Let me give a tale of foreshadowing to explain this recent predicament. A couple of years ago I tore the ACL and meniscus in each leg within 6 months of each other. Recently, I finally went back to the orthopedist to figure out why my, well, tuchus (butt) and lower back hurt most days that I am awake. It was determined that I had a pinched sciatic nerve and an MRI was ordered to find out the plan of action: steroid injections or surgery. Either way the doc said no more running. It is here that I must pause and pay homage to the Beotch General.

But the saga doesn’t end there. After crying in the doc’s office, on the way back to work, at work, and at home; I decided that I must cross off the running with the bulls in Pamplona from my bucket list. However, after listening to encourage stories from my friends and co-workers, I can see a light at the end of the tunnel that this might actually be able to be fixed.

That was until this weekend. For those of you that don’t know, Shelby and I have an agreement that if one of us leaves the other, then the leaving partner must also take the children. For the record, I will NEVER leave Shelby regardless of the circumstances. Shelby and oldest Christopher left Friday afternoon for a Boy Scout campout that lasted through Sunday. What joy! I could spend some special time with the two youngest children. WHAT WAS I THINKING?!?! Up until this weekend, I was seriously considering trying for another child. NOT NOW. I can’t handle the ones I have! Thanks to the Beotch General’s sister, the mommy fairy a.k.a. the 2nd Beotch in Command. Anyway, enough pointing fingers.

Let me just say that these children of mine have one hell of a time waking up in the morning to go to school, yet on the weekends when we could all sleep they pop up like Whack-a-Moles. Did I mention they also, particularly youngest Alex, feel the need to wake me up to pose as a playmate? Never their father. Just me. I woke up around 5:00 a.m. on Saturday with a stomach bug. I went back to sleep only to encounter the soft pitter-patter of tiny feet and those fingers that pry open my eyelids while announcing “Hi, mommy! You get up now.” Even after getting him everything that he could possibly need, his highness ordained that there would be no sleeping by the surfs.

It is here that I must stop and place a disclaimer. While I would like to say the people in this blog are fictitious, I have to admit that they are not. For those of you that happen to appear on the radar and make it into the blog, you know I love you and mean no disrespect. HOWEVER, it is my blog and I’ll cry if I want to. J

Aside from the usual family issues, there are a few things that make me go “Hhhhmmm.” The first is using a cell phone while in the bathroom. I just don’t get why you would want to go pee while talking to someone. I mean, what do you say? “Wait, say that again – I was pishing.” But it’s not just that, today, I actually heard someone talking while in the bathroom located DOWN THE HALL from my office. Seriously, who in the hell are they talking to? Gone are the days when you have to talk louder for a long distance call (or in this case, down the flipping’ block!).

The next thing I found my self pondering recently was a particular holiday song. If you live in the same Nielson market as I do, Christmas songs are played nonstop on some radio channels from Thanksgiving until New Year’s Day. As if this isn’t a little overkill, one particular song actually gave me pause to ponder. I know, same topic different tune, but not this one. How many of you remember the Band Aid song “Do they know it’s Christmas?” recorded back in 1984 to help with the famine in Ethiopia? While I know that Ethiopia is one of the oldest Christian states with approximately 61% of the population being Christian, what about the other almost 40% made up of Muslim, Jews, Baha’i, and Animism? My point here is this: even if that 40% knew it was Christmas, would they even care? I mean, what about El Id, Chanukah, and whatever else? Just sayin’…

The next thing I’ve been pondering is the biggest lie of all: that the “twos” are terrible. Honestly, and forgive my French, but BULLSHIT! Every one of my children and those that have ever been in my care as a teacher, it isn’t until they turn three that they become “terrible”, and that’s putting it mildly. You might have read my FB post about youngest Alex’s chocolate gelt/bathtub incident. I couldn’t get him into the tub so I bribed him with the precious chocolate. Of course, it started to melt in the warm water when his itchy nose required the picking by a chocolate covered finger. Apparently, chocolate burns the mucus membranes so he started rubbing his face profusely to alleviate the pain all the while spreading chocolate all over his face like a Nutella sandwich. What do I do – run to wash his face or grab the camera? Check out Facebook to figure out which one I choose…

Last but not least is why is it that the moment you start some project/endeavor/go to the bathroom; someone wants attention? For those of you out there who are familiar with the Brady Bunch, you get this. Simon suffers from middle child syndrome. I swear he’s going to bust out with “It’s always ‘Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!’”. We were in the pediatrician’s office today for a multi-child visit – meds update and flu shots on the house. The minute someone other than middle Simon got attention, he started in on his most stellar behaviour. He put his feet in the air, sang songs under his breathe, and, at one point, literally hung upside down in his chair with his little scrawny ass pointing skyward! And I might as well forget about trying to make dinner while I’m helping him with his homework. The child morphs into some resemblance of the Tasmanian devil.

I know this is a long post (it’s been a while and I’ve stock-piled a LOT! J ), but I have recently seen a light at the end of the tunnel. Oldest Christopher has occasionally shown glimpses of the person I think he will become. Don’t get me wrong, he still rolls his eyes at me and frequently uses the phrase “Mom!” with such vehemence that I think he could raise the Titanic with the fluctuation. But more and more, he’s become someone that I actually LIKE. Several times in the past month, he has shown the patience of a saint when he takes over with youngest Alex after I’ve thrown in the towel and called the Greensheet to file a listing for a child for sale. He recently decided he wanted to get a Christmas present for middle Simon. Not only did he really want to keep it a secret, he was genuinely concerned (with tears in his eyes) when he thought it wouldn’t make it in time. He opens doors for ladies and respects his elders (alright, except for me and his father), he volunteers, and performs mitzvot. After Christopher took over during a particularly trying time with Alex, I had a flashback of all the special moments with my “baby” Christopher. I remember labor, delivery, and the first few days at home. I remember his first day of pre-school, his first trip abroad, sending my brother off to war, and the day we buried him with full military honor. I remember his excitement of having a baby brother, moving to New Orleans, and his experience of wonder at living in the Crescent City. During that period, he took his little stuffed bear named “David” everywhere we went. He also learned about disappointment when his pets where stolen, our car was stolen, and we moved back to Houston while leaving his dad in New Orleans for another five months. Fast forward to elementary school, cub scouts, summer sleep-away camp, boy scouts, and elementary graduation – don’t get me started there, I cried at every “last” he experienced in fifth grade!

So what is the take away here? Life is absurd and full of chaos and confusion. But that’s okay. They say that what doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger. Somebody really twisted came up with that line! I think that life hands us a series of “teachable moments.” These are the times that our children see what is going on and look to us for cues on how to react. Honestly, there are a great many times that we say, “Holy crap! Now what? Who on earth or in heaven seriously thought I was equipped for this job of parenting?” or, more frequently, “Really? What in the hell did I do to deserve THIS?” I am here to help (my psychiatrist would probably tell you to ignore the woman behind the curtain, but, hey, you’ve read this far, right?). While I sometimes don’t practice what I preach, I know deep-down that I am so blessed. I am a mom, a wife, a daughter, sibling, friend, co-worker, volunteer, and so much more. There are times that I feel invisible, inferior, and unappreciated; but all I need to do is look at the many avenues I traverse and see how many lives I touch and in which way I make a difference. My advice to you who are reading this is to pat yourself on the back, thumb your nose at everyone that complains or disagrees, find a quiet place, sit back, and enjoy your poison be it booze, chocolate, shopping, or whatever. After all, while this isn’t what we signed up for, it is ours and accounts for so many blessings!

“It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to!” OR Goodbye, youth – hello, adulthood: NOT!

Well here we are – 3 hours and counting until the end of my perceived youth. Yes folks, tomorrow is THE day. The BIG one. WOOHOO! I am turning forty! I have to confess though, my birthday has never been a big deal to me. Let’s just say, I’ve had a few less-than-stellar birthdays in my life so, to me, it’s just another day on the calendar. Don’t get me wrong, the people with whom I’m close hug me a little tighter and longer, my crazy office mates bring me a Little Debbie with a candle while singing “Happy Birthday” slightly off key; and, this year, I’m getting a red velvet cake I bought for myself. They all make me feel special and remind me of how lucky I am to have such great friends. Thank goodness for Christopher’s school fundraiser that just happened to be selling those frozen dessert things and had red velvet as an option. Hey, seriously. Do any of you really think anyone in THIS household would know or remember that red velvet was my favorite cake?

So, what do I have in store for the next forty years? I don’t know but I’m sure it includes laundry, chauffeuring, refereeing, cleaning, working, and being poor. As my new favorite byline goes – I’m just sayin’. I had this thought the other night while at a get-together with some of my BFF’s. Tomorrow, I could go one of two ways: a) I could go all healthy-like and get a regularly scheduled exercise routine, stop drinking, and cut out bad foods OR b) I could go all Bacchanalian and just use-and-abuse myself to my life’s content. While I can totally support both proposals (I’m such the Type-A personality that can justify anything, i.e. a Diet Coke and a candy bar cancels each other out, or the food that you eat at the movies is part of the entertainment package and, thus, has no caloric value since a movie is not an edible thing), I know that I must somehow find a happy medium. And, quite honestly, that sucks! Nobody embraces mediocrity, well, okay, so, maybe I do, but, you know where I’m going with this…

This is a time in life where one assesses where she’s been and where she’s going. Oh my lord – what a ride it’s been! Part of me can’t believe I’m still alive while the other part says, “Holy, sh*t! How long has this been going on?” But, for the most part, I’m excited. Seriously! I am so blessed. I have a husband who, on some days I would classify as my oldest child, but on most days is my best friend, lover, confidant, and partner in all things life. I have three children that I have been trying desperately to sell on e-Bay but, at the end of the day, would be just as happy if there were no buyers and the inventory had to return to the owner. While my parents – biological and in-laws – seem to find new and unique ways to keep me on my toes, I know I am blessed to have them and their support. My siblings and siblings-in-law, those in heaven and those here on earth, are people with whom we can relate, seek solace, rage at, and with whom I can laugh. There is also the extended family with whom we rarely connect but love at all times. Then there is all the rest – for all the rest.

For those of you who were waiting for a witty and satirical blog, I have to apologize. I had this great smart*ss blog entry started about Halloween (which I will finish and post next time), but this occasion just seemed to warrant some melancholy, introspection, and thanksgiving. So, in order to at least leave you with a chuckle, let me recap last night’s “Simpson’s” highlight. For a little background Intel, every Halloween they run what they call “The Treehouse of Terror.” Right now, while between the start of the new season and the Neilson sweeps, everyone saves money by running re-runs. This particular episode had Homer choking on broccoli and dying. Upon arriving at the Pearly Gates, St. Peter informed Homer that he had not done ANY good deeds during his life. After negotiations, Homer was allotted an hour to go back to Earth to fulfill the good dead in order to get into heaven. Homer appears to Marge while she is sleeping and appeals to her to help him. After waking up and assessing the situation, she pulls out her list that she had for him and informs him that he could clean the garage, paint the house, organize the entryway closet, etc. Homer responds to this by saying, “Marge, I just need to do a good deed – I’m not running for Jesus!” Clearly, Homer, too, is confused about what he needs to do!

Alright, so the chuckles from this blog are few. It is now two hours until I turn forty. No, it doesn’t take me that long to write. It DOES take me that long to get everyone in bed and make sure they stay there, make and set the automatic coffee maker, do some homework, and figure out what I’m wearing tomorrow. But wait – that isn’t something that is special to my special day. That is something that we moms/parents do on a daily basis. Everyday we celebrate the birth of our children. Okay, so maybe we don’t have cake and balloons but we get up and realize the amazing feats we have accomplished. WE HAVE CHILDREN AND WE ARE PARENTS! That alone should warrant a cake every morning of the world! And, you know what? This little family of mine couldn’t have come into existence without me. So, you know what? Happy Birthday to ME! After all, this is what I’ve been waiting my whole life for! I can’t wait to share the next year with you all! Thanks for reading!

The Secret Passages Within Our House OR Why can’t anyone finish what they’ve started?

Let me just start by staying that last weekend afforded me an epiphany. It was one of those Blanch DuBois, Streetcar Named Desire, “I can always rely on the kindness of strangers,” type moment. Let’s do a back-fill here: for some G-d-forsaken idea, I thought that we could somehow be able to corral our dear little heathens long enough to take them to the model train show at the George R. Brown Convention Center. Let me just say that this particular facility is rather large and, immediately upon entrance, we got separated. Can I also admit, just for a moment, the fleeting feeling that I should really take this opportunity to RUN? Yes, we ARE having fun NOW!!!

After regrouping and planning, we decided to split up according to age-ranges. Shelby got to take youngest Alex to the “Thomas the Tank Engine” booth and I got to take the two oldest to the Houston Children’s Museum booth. This particular booth had an interactive activity in which the children could make these coffee filter/Dixie cup parachute type things then chunk them into a wind tunnel thingy to see if they could float. After doing this little exercise ad nauseum, I had finally had enough and called, repeatedly, for the guys to get a move on and come with me. This grandmotherly woman was standing nearby observing the situation with a grin. In my usual way of dealing with nervous situations, I made a light-handed comment along the lines of swearing that the doctor says their hearing is good. The woman replied that they had selective hearing like most boys. And then, without missing, a beat, she continued, “And then they just grow up to be husbands.” I don’t know about anyone else, but this epiphany lit up the old proverbial light bulb like the Fourth of July fireworks show over the White House. It totally made sense, and if I thought about it for a moment longer, I could almost see my husband as an adolescent boy interacting with his mother. This is what I believe is defined as an “a-ha!” moment.

Once we got home, everyone was assigned their chores for the afternoon but for some unexplained reason, the male members of my family seemed to quote the Lucky Charms leprechaun as they magically disappeared. Here, again, that selective hearing thing must bear examining as surely my little darlings wouldn’t disappear to evade their precious family time? It isn’t just that they seem to disappear, but I have to wonder where it is they go? I mean, my house isn’t that big – we don’t have some rambling mansion with the north and south wings. In fact, we’re squished in on top of each other like a litter of cats. But in some way that eludes me they just disappear. I’m beginning to think we have some type of Harry Potteresque secret door/hidden tunnel type system in our house that can only be accessed by those that posses the Y chromosome. And when do they reappear? The moment I’ve thrown up my hands, dug into the project myself, and have just completed it. *POOF!* There they are. “Where have you been?” “What do you mean?” “Just what I said, where have you been – I asked you to (fill in the blank with assigned task).” “Mom/Honey, I’ve been in the living room – why didn’t you just ask for help if you needed it?” AAAARGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!

So fast forward to this past weekend, I left Saturday night to attend a conference in Baltimore. My beloved Shelby was in charge of the children until I got back on Tuesday evening. Before you feel too sorry for him, let me remind you we have a regular, full time babysitter on the payroll so that if anything got out of hand, he had backup. And honestly, a few nights with Kids Cuisine isn’t going to harm the kids’ health. I know, I know – the man’s a chef so what’s up with the Kids Cuisine – but hey, as long as the kids are alive and in one piece until I return, I’m good with it. I talked to Shelby on Monday to find out that youngest Alex had come down with croup again and oldest Christopher missed the bus because he got dropped off late. Shelby was also just looking at the information about the school’s Fall Carnival that had been the previous Saturday and was wondering why he didn’t know anything about it (I had to remind him that we had indeed talked about it several times regarding the fact that I was leaving for Baltimore so if he wanted to take them, he would be flying solo). Tuesday morning I woke up to the frantic phone call from home because middle child Simon informed Dad that there was no school that day and Shelby wasn’t quite sure what to do. After solving all the problems at home, and even some at work, from my hotel room in Baltimore, I packed up and headed for the airport.

Now as I approach my destination, I am already beginning to wonder what lies in store for me when I get home. Did Christopher’s report card get signed and returned? Did Simon eat a good breakfast since today he was taking his standardized tests? Is there food at home or should I stop at the grocery store on the way home? While I am quite sure the house is a mess and I will have a pile of laundry when I return, I have to admit I can’t wait to get home. They don’t often do what they are told or finish what they start but I miss the way they crawl in bed with me in the morning and snuggle. DISCLAIMER: Aside from the last statement, I totally loved being in a BIG bed all by myself with all the pillows and the remote while visiting Baltimore! I miss kissing them good-night and getting the big hugs before we all head of to bed. I even like it when Shelby gets home and leaves a trail of work clothes around the bedroom as he changes. Well, maybe not the clothing. If I could just get that to disappear through the secret passages I’d be set. But I do miss them, unfinished projects and all. That’s what being a family is all about. That is what I signed on for.

Eat, Pray, Sleep OR The busy mom’s version of Elizabeth Gilbert’s best seller

I received my copy of Eat, Pray, Love from one of my BFFs, Linda. Not only was this book great, but it was so life changing/affirming that I gifted copies to many of those whom I love. However, I have to admit I was kind of disappointed when I found out it was being made into a movie. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love Julia Roberts – she’s an amazing actress and, if interviews are real, she seems pretty normal. But honestly, this was one of those books I had a mental picture of the character and, at times, she REALLY resembled, well, ME. So this whole motion picture version totally upset the proverbially apple cart. Seriously though, I don’t think I’ve ever been THAT thin except when I was six. Anyway, let me explain…

Eat
Alright, let’s just be honest here – who wouldn’t love to take a year off from real life to gallivant around Italy to learn Italian and eat Italian food. That right there could totally sum up the differences. Not only can I not remember what was on the grocery list I left at home but there is no way I could learn a new language at this juncture in my life. And for what reason? To yell at my children to pick up their socks or ask my hubby why he can’t take out the trash when it smells like a landfill? Or more importantly, let’s visit the whole idea of eating Italian food (a.k.a carb overload) for an entire year. Without a doubt, my a@* would be as big as the wide side of a barn door. And how in the heck would I be able to loose that weight? No amount of running, weightlifting, Pilates, or exercise would be able to achieve that feat. The only thing I could think of would be that stomach stapling thing which I couldn’t afford even if it was something I found remotely appealing.

Pray
So while this may be TMI for some and redundancy for those that know me, I pray in the shower in the morning – out loud. I know, I know – really? But look, with my life – family, work, school, volunteering – by the time I get in bed at night, I’m falling asleep shortly after the words, “Dear G-d,”. So, essentially, since nothing gets said I shifted. Besides, I doubt there are that many people praying at that time of day so I feel I’m getting some really good quality time here. Or at least until one of my off-springs traipse into the bathroom. Here is a small glimpse of the conversation:

“Mom, who are you talking to?”
“I’m praying.”
“To G-d?”
“Yes. Who else would I be praying to?”
“G-d’s in the shower with you?”
“NO! – G-d is all around us.”
“You can really hear G-d over the shower?” (This statement requires a disclaimer – there have been numerous times that a sibling fight broke out when I was taking the 2.5 minute lightening shower. While my darlings are screaming from the living room about whatever travesty they have experienced, my standard response (in an effort for them to work out their problems and, quite honestly, my attempt at having a relatively peaceful shower, was that I couldn’t hear them over the shower.)
“Yes! Loud and clear! Get OUT!”

This lovely conversation resulted in an idea for the next blog: what is it that children understand and get from the idea of “prayer.” It also affirmed the notion that kids never need anything until the most inopportune times. If you still doubt this notion, walk into a room of children then either pick up the phone or try to go to the restroom. See?

The conversation also brought about interactions with my oldest children about praying. I simply asked them if they prayed, when, and why. It may seem a little intrusive but I was curious if not downright nosey. Christopher’s version was, as most pre-pubescent children’s answers tend to be, rather evasive, nonchalant, and flippant all at the same time. He informed me that he did pray, sometimes, when he needed something. Of course, my mind rushes to the failure I am as a parent to think my child is so self-centered to only concern himself with the latest material need. Much to my surprise, when asked what exactly was it that he needed that required prayer, he informed me that some days he needed a little extra help when he was having a bad day – when someone wasn’t nice to him, he needed help understanding something hard in school, or when he got in trouble and wasn’t sure what to do. This was also the same child who wanted to miss school to attend services during Rosh Hashanah because he missed “the praying and stories.” Maybe I am doing something right.

Sleep
This is the sacred cow of the busy mom’s/woman’s/parent’s life. Not only do we covet this notion, we also find it so elusive as to be an illusion when it might appear. I have to admit that there are times when I might actually consider not only giving my firstborn but all of my off-springs to the first person that could provide me with more that 5 consecutive hours of sleep. Have any of you read Ransom of the Red Chief? Disney also made it into a movie. The premise is these kidnappers snatched this set of kids from a wealthy family in the hopes of a windfall ransom. Unfortunately for them, the kids are such hellions that the kidnappers actually offer to pay the parents to take the kids back! We have two things working for us here: we have NO money and my kids are so bad we might actually get ahead with the reverse ransom. I’m thinking this is a win-win? N'est-ce pas?

Anyway, let me give you a glimpse into my past weekend. Youngest Alex decided that he wanted bedfellows around 3:30 a.m. on Sunday. By 5:30 a.m. he had attached himself to my side like a magnet. For someone who is still working with doctors to figure out why she has debilitating back pain, this is not a comfortable position. So I get up and move to living room floor where I strategically place all the requisite pillows and then go to get a blanket. Upon my return, I find middle son Simon entrenched in my “pillow nest.” I finally convince him that it is too early to get up and get him back to bed. As I stretch out amidst my pillows, I hear the cat crying loudly at the back door. Up I go to let him in, back to the pillows, and my blissful slumber. HA! The cat, who is clearly in cahoots with the children, decides that he needs attention. This particular cat doesn’t know he’s a cat – I honestly believe he thinks he’s a dog because of the way in which he licks the people he loves (or at least, feed him). While this is mildly irritating, it isn’t until he licks my closed eyelid that sends me into orbit at 7:00 a.m. Just for kicks and grins, if you want to know what this feels like, take a rough-grit piece of sandpaper and exfoliate your eyelid. All I have to say is DAMN – THAT HURTS! Then my lovely pet decides that he needs to “kneed” his declawed claws on my arm. While this is a sweet gesture of love and trust, it does get old after the initial twenty minutes – especially when I’m trying to sleep. Fine. I resign myself to the fact that, once again, I am not going to get that beloved, elusive weekend sleep. As I start the coffee, Simon comes into the living and plops himself onto the couch while informing me that his stomach hurts which is what he was actually trying to tell me when he got up earlier. Oops, my bad… Anyway, while trying to discern the authenticity of his claim, the poor child throws up. Not just once but in a trail from the living room to my bathroom. Of course, hubby Shelby walks in after the laying of the yellow barf road and asks if everything is okay. Thankfully, he springs into action to clean up the floor before the need to implement bodily harm. After no additional episodes, we decide the coughing from his allergies is to blame and no additional services are needed. However, the damage is done. There will be no sleeping here this morning. Like the mighty Casey, I have struck out.

So here we are – eat, pray, sleep. Of course, the love is there and understood. There has to be love somewhere around here or none of this other stuff would be possible or, at least, tolerable. And realistically, I could certainly do without the “eat” portion even if it is one of my favorite pastimes. I know I should cook more for my kids, but being married to a chef is one of the few luxuries in which I regularly indulge – for some reason, even his frozen chicken nuggets taste better than mine. As for the pray part, I’ll admit that my spiritual well being isn’t as good as it could be but I am trying and also trying to share those values with my children. There are days when, like most average moms, I feel like I desperately need to do more especially when my children call out to the lord for help with a video game. But, the sleep part, I still haven’t figured that one out. If any of you out there figures this one out, you will rise above the moniker of an “average” parent into the Hall of Fame of Superhero Parents. You might even get a book deal and be able to retire. But then again, who signed up for that?

How Do They Know How to Do That?

It’s been a while since I posted but it has been anything but boring. I am constantly amazed how the kids move through the motions of back to school, Scouts, friends, and making me crazy. It seems that there is a sort of rhythmic motion for the days that help us to float along from one event to the other. At times it is almost placid. Then one of my little heathens decides to disrupt the tranquility like nails on a chalkboard. Yes, really, I know, it’s hard to believe my little angels would have that tendency… HA!

So youngest Alexander is about two weeks shy of turning 3. I have always said and continue to stick to my theorem that the 2’s aren’t bad – they’re still cute, especially when they’re sleeping, and they still smell good, like babies. Or at least babies that are smothered in yogurt and bananas but you know what I mean. But the closer they get to 3, something happens.

It is almost like the days leading up to a full moon. It starts slowly, they become a little more erratic. You know the “I do” phase. They suddenly have to do EVERYTHING. I mean seriously, fast forward thirty years to when they have a marriage and a few kids and I’d bet a hundred bucks they’d give anything to have someone make their sandwich. I know I would but that could just be because I’m the mom and the one who does everything. Maybe it’s different for boys? Oh, please, who am I kidding!

Then they begin to morph into these scary little creatures that I swear lurk in the shadows coming up with dastardly plots that rival Stephen King’s. I know most developmental experts say children that young are just starting to understand cause and effect and, unless you are a fundamentalist Christian and believe in original sin, that there is no way these small beings have the capacity for evil. Well my friends, I am here to testify!

Our dear neighbor’s children had two miniature recliners that they had outgrown and been keeping in their garage. Each time the door opened, my two older children stared with envy at these two plush chairs that somehow called to them across the street. Well, our neighbor called to say that the time had come for her to let go and that we could come get them if the boys wanted them. Well, that was all that took.

After convincing oldest Christopher that he was too big for these pint-sized Ethan Allens, claims were staked by the two youngest – the grey one for Alex and the blue one for Simon. With Simon and his middle-child territorial temperament, I was surprised he didn’t lift his leg and mark his territory but verbally made it clear that no one but him would be sitting in this chair. A few days later, Alex hoped out of the bath and ran, pajama clad, to the blue chair, a.k.a. Simon’s chair. He settled deep into the folds and proceeded to yell out at the top of his little lungs, “Siiiiimmmmmoooonn! Cooooommmmme heeeeeerrrreeee!” I asked him what in the world he thought he was doing to which he replied, with sparkles in his eyes and a grin on his face, “I sit in Simon’s chair” and then followed it with this evil laugh that sounded something like it came from the movie “The Evil Dead.” Oh, just wait, it gets even better.

So we go to Herod Elementary for Alex’s speech assessment. As we enter the room with the grandmotherly speech therapist and the young coordinator who clearly has no children, Alex decides he wants none of this. As they all crouch down to his level and talk to him in that cutesy sing-songy voice, he looks at them and tells them “Don’t talk to me.” He later follows this up with a round of “Leave me alone!” While he clearly didn’t want to talk to them, he also didn’t want them to talk to me or, rather, he wanted me to talk to him. While trying to answer questions about his behavior in school, Alex stood there pulling on my arm chanting his mantra of the minute, “Mommy, talk to me!” After this failed to illicit the desired response, he climbed into my lap. I should have known something was coming – he had those sparkling eyes and same little you-know-what-eating grin. Then it happened – “Mommy, you a butthole!” The grandmotherly therapist who had been counting his words and listening to his intonation, etc., asked me if he asked for a “book.” I can’t lie, well sort of, I said I wasn’t sure what he said. Then my little angel did it again, AND AGAIN! By this time, everyone knew what he said much to my mortification. However, after he skipped off to have his evaluation with the therapist she told me how delightful he was and how he listened and even helped her clean up the room. I asked her if she was sure she was working with my child and not someone else’s. I was also fairly sure that I was going to be told Alex no longer needed speech therapy but I, on the other hand, could surely use some parenting classes.

I know some of these less than stellar moments are things that he has picked up from his charming older siblings either directly or from some show they were watching. But I didn’t think he would be able to use them in context! I mean, did he really know that plugging his ears with his fingers when being admonished this morning would not only block out my voice but also send me into orbit?!?!

While I really don’t remember Simon and, especially Christopher, pulling these little stunts with such psychological acumen that the FBI would assign them their own profiler, perhaps it isn’t all them. Granted there are 9 years difference between Christopher and Alex and 5 between Simon and Alex, but maybe, gasp, I’m just getting older and am too tired to figure out the developmentally appropriate way to deal with these little mishaps. There was a time when I would get down on their level and teach them about consequences and use the “right” words. Now? Please, if I had the number to “Nanny 911” I’d have it on speed dial. I’ve even made inquiries into just how young they take children at military boarding school. Of course, my children see that as a treat (We get to shoot guns?!?!? Sweet!!!).

Of course, just when I think I can’t take one more moment of fighting over the Lego creation that Alex has commandeered and is now sprinting around the house while squealing like a banshee, they stop. Of course, a good number of times it is to gang up on me – you know what I’m talking about. The ol’ everyone-wants-mom’s-attention-at-once-and-starts-the-5-minute-diatribe-while-fighting-to-be-“first”-so-they-talk-louder routine. And of course this happens when mom is either paying bills, talking on the phone, or using the restroom. See, we are all alike. The other more elusive activity is that they are actually playing together. I mean really playing together. They disappear into one of their rooms amid a pile of Legos and work t-o-g-e-t-h-e-r. As I tiptoe down the hallway, I stop outside of their door only to hear them offering their services to help each other or a wayward piece someone has been searching for. It is at this moment, I realize this is what I signed up to be a mom for and I sneak down the hallway hoping for a few moments to myself before the melee starts again.

Have a great week and watch out for those 3 year olds!

The Golden Rule OR Really? Why are people so mean?

I love a good quote. Usually those few words are gems of wisdom that are so apropos for many situations we encounter. In fact, I’m sure there are plenty to describe the procrastination that is barring me from starting my homework right this minute, but I digress.

In an attempt to put off said homework, I was surfing the internet and came across the site called “The Quote Garden.” I started thinking about the insane week that I was desperately trying to close out and began to search for quotes on “kindness.” Let me just say that, at the moment, I am quite bitter over the abysmal week I had so these quotes were my cathartic attempt at regrounding and not pack my bags for Tahiti.

It's nice to be important, but it's more important to be nice. ~Author Unknown

Would someone puuuuhhhlleeeeeeaasse explain to me why some people who fill positions of authority, no matter how small, suddenly feel the urge to be utter jackasses? I mean, there is just no reason to be ugly to people no matter who you or they are. We teach our children to be nice. We teach them the golden rule or Hillel’s teaching or whatever the particular higher power we follow. So what happens between the time we learn that lesson as children until the time we grow up?

Treat everyone with politeness, even those who are rude to you - not because they are nice, but because you are. ~Author Unknown

As I eluded to earlier, my week has been peppered by lunatics. In the heat of the moment, I just long to make some smartass remark about their near-Neanderthal thought processes and, if truth be known, my palm itches to slap the bejeebers out of them. However, at the end of it all, I don’t. What do I do? I cry. Seriously, can you believe that? I cry not because someone hurt my feelings or I have some sense of self-pity. I cry because I am PISSED! And that fact makes me even more pissed – trust me, this is something that has even my shrink perplexed. Now here is the even crazier part. Whenever I next encounter them, I am actually nice to said party. I have friends who think I am crazy but you know what – my grandmother taught me that, just because someone was ugly to me, it didn’t mean that I had to stoop to their level. No matter the situation, I am a nice person. Let me also say that this has been a whopper to try to teach to my own children. After all, all is fair in playground law. If you take my bike, I take your Lego creation. You read my book, I can take up play where you stopped in your video game. This has been and continues to be a doozy to explain. I just try to model that behaviour and discuss it when ever I can. Any suggestions here might warrant a cup of coffee or a margarita as compensation, so PLEASE respond…

We have two ears and one mouth so that we can listen twice as much as we speak. ~Epictetus

Kindness is the greatest wisdom. ~Author Unknown

Two of my pet peeves are the person who likes to hear his or her own voice and the person who thinks he or she knows everything. Does being condescending fall into one of those two categories or is that is something separate? I remember back to my single days when I had gotten laid off from my job in marketing at an electronics company. I was waiting tables to make ends meet and was working a lunch shift when I encounter two curmudgeons in suits. Every other word out of their mouths was “honey” or “sweetie” and was accompanied by that look that clearly implied that they thought I was less than stellar in the intelligence department. At one point during the lunch, they actually asked me if I thought about finding a husband and starting a family. So, me being me, lied for self-preservation and revenge. My answer to them was what on earth could I need those things for? I was working on my doctoral thesis that focused on the middle-age crisis of older men and what is was they lacked in their home life and that working at a restaurant afforded me a number of quality case studies. Needless to say, I left the table with each customer speechless. Okay, okay, since I’m preaching niceness; NO it clearly wasn’t nice of me but then again, they weren’t exactly following Miss Manners here either.

Don't be yourself - be someone a little nicer. ~Mignon McLaughlin, The Second Neurotic's Notebook, 1966

Kindness is in our power, even when fondness is not. ~Samuel Johnson

As a parent, I try to teach my children that they should be nice to everyone regardless of their differences, situations, or circumstances. I also try to impart the knowledge that not everyone will be our best friend, but that doesn’t mean that we still can’t be nice. Unfortunately, these attitudes are sometimes not reciprocated. Over the past week, I have learned that, try as I might, not everyone is my friend. And for my liberal, Polly Anna outlook, that really sucks. Seriously, why can’t people just flippin’ get along? So fine, regardless of how anyone else acts, I am determined to be nice. I have to bite my tongue when someone really deserves a tongue-lashings, I smile when I want to glare, I shake hands when I want to knock the ever-living crap out of someone. And why? Because in my world, my beliefs, my traditions in which I was raised, that is what we do. We rise above the occasion to be the better person. This is what we teach our children no matter how hard. Clearly this wasn’t in the Cliff Notes version of Parenting. And quite frankly, with my personality and temperament, even if it was I probably would have skipped that chapter…

There is one word which may serve as a rule of practice for all one's life - reciprocity. ~Confucius

In the end, we are all still human and would like to think that “paybacks are hell.” Unfortunately, and fortunately, we somehow move beyond the impulsive actions of toddlerhood to reserved and conscientious adults. Each time I see a toddler at school who is in the throws of a screaming-meemie fit, I am envious and think how lucky that child is for being able to so clearly express his or herself. Seriously, think about it – how cool would it be if every time you got mad you could throw yourself on the floor, while kicking and screaming at the top of your lungs? I really think the stress level would drop drastically and there would be a number of mental health professionals out of work. But at the end of the day, we teach our children to curb that impulse. We squelch whatever emotion we experience. And why? Because that is what we adults do. I really don’t think this is what I signed on to teach to my children. To back down and take their lashes. I know I need to teach them to get along, but at what cost? Am I teaching them to give in, back down, and give up? Or am I teaching them to rise up and over - to be the better person. Perhaps the last quote can offer some insight:

If you step on people in this life, you're going to come back as a cockroach. ~Willie Davis

Back to School a.k.a. Boohoo/Yahoo for Mommies

BTW – OMG: Whr did the smr go? I’m sure that any pre-pubescent offspring of ours would totally roll their eyes and tell me what was wrong – grammatically, technically, and, well, coolness factor rating within the first sentence. But the sentiment still remains – where DID the summer go?

Don’t get me wrong – I am THRILLED that all of my children returned to their institutes of education recently. They were becoming the bane of my and my nanny’s existences. Summer camps and vacations were over and the only thing left is to break things: limbs, extremities, my house, whatever… Even the thrill of destruction is waning thin here which is pretty scary.

My affirmation came to me the day before school started. We had a play-date with one of my children’s best buds. We made plans to meet at the pool for swimming and dinner. Unfortunately, yet another summer storm dropped in at the last minute that quashed our swimming plans. The mom was gracious enough to extend the invitation to all of my heathens to come over to play. Clearly, she had never seen the full crew in action… Anyway, we headed over. I was delightfully surprised at how well the quintuplet of kiddos played regardless of the age range so we mommies had a few minutes to talk amongst ourselves.

As the dinner hour approached, we debated our options and decided to haul everyone to the local pizza joint where our husbands would join us on their way home. Might I just say, and I speak solely for my family, that said husbands (i.e. mine) took their own sweet time arriving. Not only did I order for my entire bunch, receive said order, and begin eating; before my dearest daned to appear. Isn’t he cute?

Just for those of you who know how wonderful he really is and think I’m ripping him to shreds here, let me jump in with the twist. When all the kids were done with dinner, he and the other dad helped to orchestrate a 4 person head-to-head Nintendo DS/DSi Mario war. Again, here we are at a technological crossroad – what happened to the days where children were seen and not heard?

While most days I would prefer a return to that manner of dealing with children, particularly right after work when I walk in the door and everyone starts talking to me at once, this year I really would like my children, specifically oldest Christopher, to continue to talk. And maybe a little more.

You see, this year Christopher made the move, or rather “leap,” to middle school. He went from a school of about 350 children to one with 1300 pre-pubescent hormone-fluxing maniacs on wheels. All I know is that drop off and pick up is INSANE! No parking lot, no carpool, and bus rides for the very brave totally hamper any hope of normalcy. And here is the rub – Christopher saw the movie “Diary of a Wimpy Kid,” which totally takes the new middle school experience to the lowest level. Thank you VERY much, Hollywood! Hopefully, this stage will expire soon…

However, for me, it was only this morning that the reality set in – Christopher is no longer a baby. He doesn’t “need” me for the mundane, everyday events. So, what am I supposed to do now? I have been dropping him off and picking him up a few blocks from school thanks to the craziness of such a large school. But this morning, it really hit me. What have I done? Am I subjecting my “baby” to the cruel realties of the real world way too soon? Or have I given him a gift of breaking out of the mold and allowing him a chance to recreate himself? Back to the initial paragraph – WTF? I know that what I do and how I respond will model the behavior that I want to foster in my children. So what do I do? I smile and hug him while I drop him off and then, as he leaves the car and I watch him disappear into a see of students, cry profusely as I drive off to work. I encourage him to break out of the comfort zone and find new friends.

As I was tucking him into bed tonight, oldest Christopher expressed his concern that he wasn’t ready for middle school. He decided that he wasn’t mature enough. We talked about what that meant and where he wanted to go. Everyday seems to bring about an improvement in his morale. But as his parent, isn’t it my job to protect him and stand up for his concerns? As I move to the bottom bunk to tuck in middle child Simon, I learn that he is mourning, and I mean really mourning, the fact that Christopher is no longer at the same school. He also misses his old teacher. And instead of talking to anyone about this, he has been a total maniac in and out of school. I feel like MacGyver talking to anyone that comes in contact with my child to ferret out ANY clues that could have explained his behaviour.

All I know, is that this is really hard. I just wish that someone would have given me the manual for child rearing BEFORE we had to put together this data dump of information. Aside from this massive developmental jump, we have to recognize the social growth of our children. More importantly, we have to recognize that as parents, we, too, suffer the growing pains even more exponentially than our children. Every memory of every event we ever experienced comes rushing back as we see our children go through it right in front of us. Their joys are our joys. Their hopes are our hopes. Their pains are our pains.

Tonight we got Alex in bed and Shelby is working the late shift. Both Christopher and Simon are piled in my bed with me watching “Back to the Future.” Regardless of the events of the past week, we laugh and talk and play. The problems melt away and things are the way they should be. For a moment in time, things are frozen, everyone is happy, and no one is growing up. While some may call this a morphed version of the “Peter Pan” syndrome, I say this is EXACTLY what I signed up for.

The battle between the Nintendo DS and Nemo

Earlier this week, the school where I work made the decision to completely overhaul our computer lab. It will be renamed the “Digital Arena” – an area of technological advancement that includes Macs and PCs, video recording, Skyping, cloud computing – you name it. I don’t know about you, but the name “arena” conjures images of Roman gladiators fighting each other and wild animals to the death. Either that or some WWF-type show that has two people locked in cages. I don’t know but it sounds weird. A few days later, I’m getting ready for work while I’m watching one of the early morning talk shows while they are discussing the latest and greatest alert technology for the geriatric set. As the twenty-something expert gives the low-down on this stuff, she starts talking about the “twenty-first century technology” that all these new inventions encompass. Seriously? I don’t intend to be mean here but, is someone who is eighty-five really concerned about “twenty-first century technology” or are they really more concerned about whether someone can help them when they’ve fallen and can’t get up?

Fast forward a few days later. While husband Shelby has been on five-day business trip to Philly, my children and I have been watching all the old Disney movies that we have on VHS format. We started watching “El Dorado” and middle son Simon didn’t get to watch the end because it was past his bed time. While I was driving him home from a broken-finger checkup, he lamented that he didn’t get to see the end of his movie. I suggested he watch it when we got home. His response was this – “Mom, this movie doesn’t have a ‘scene selection,’ how could I find where I was last night?” Really? What the hell happened to, hit the flippin’ rewind or fast-forward button and actually FIND what you are looking for?

Well, let me tell you about this past weekend… My in-laws rented a beach house in Freeport near San Louis Pass and had all the kids and grandkids in to help celebrate the birthday of Shelby’s step-dad, the end of summer, and another opportunity to take a boatload of pictures of the grandkids. On the drive down (mind you it is only about forty minutes or as we explain, a little over 2 “Sponge Bobs.”) the oldest two off-springs have their Nintendo DS and DSi playing Mario Brothers head-to-head. As they bicker about who got that particular “flower power” or “hey, you can’t kill me – it’s not fair!”, all I dream about is a slowing of technology. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE e-mail, Facebook, iTunes, and YouTube. But what about just going outside and PLAYING?!?!

Well, it only took that forty minute drive to solve that little question. As soon as we arrived and force-fed the children lunch amid the cries of “I’m not hungry! When can we play in the water?”; we did, indeed, head to the beach. All of a sudden we were transported back to an earlier and easier period of time. The kids dug in the sand, caught hermit crabs and small jelly fish, and tried to skim board. We came back to the house where they drank root beer while climbing in the rocks, finding blue crabs eating fish in a tidal pool, and went fishing in the surf. After dinner, they settled in to watch a movie while they nodded off from a busy day at the beach.

The next day the older boys and their cousins shot out the door shortly after breakfast to take a dip in the bay and try to boogie board in 3 feet of water. As my sister-in-law and her husband were packing up for the trek back to San Antonio, Shelby sought me out to see if the older boys needed sunscreen. Hhhmmm, let’s see – it’s 11:00 a.m., peak sun exposure time, and, oh, I don’t know, how long have you been doing this parenting thing?!?!?!? YES, THEY NEED SUNSCREEN! In the immortal words of the texting generation, WTF? After rounding up the youth for a quick slathering of what my husband calls “liquid flannel” and Shelby’s sister-in-law and her family set off, we journey down to the bay. We spend a lazy day in and out of the water and checking on all the sea creatures that were caught throughout the weekend. At one point while I was sitting on the deck eating lunch, I noticed two fins poke out of the water. There was a family of dolphins – right outside our house!

After calling everyone outside, Shelby grabs his iPhone to record this amazing experience. Me, being me, deposit baby Alexander with his dad and grab the two older boys to go swim with the dolphins. My smart-ass husband took this moment to pay homage to Jeff Foxworthy and call out to me as I made my way down the stairs with children in tow, “Would this be the moment that you need to yell ‘Here, hold my beer and watch this!’?” Isn’t he cute? While we make it out quite far, we don’t get close enough to actually swim with the dolphins; however, we are all on the lookout from whatever our vantage point for a good hour later. A small fish brushed oldest Christopher’s hand while we were waiting which was really cool! We watched pelicans swoop and fish and then we fed the seagulls. Later, we all helped to rinse down, wash up, collect stuff, and repack for the drive home. Everyone finally dropped into their car-seat, booster-seat, back-seat, or driver’s-seat for the drive home.

Here’s the most amazing thing: aside from the small amount of time the kids fell asleep to a movie on Saturday night, NO ONE ever looked to the television or a video game for entertainment. The children looked around and found the very best Mother Nature has to offer. Jelly fish, hermit crabs, blue crabs, seagulls, pelicans, dolphins, tidal pools and sandbars had become the playthings and play places of my children’s wonderment. For a brief moment, we were all transport back to a better place and time – one where we were responsible for our own entertainment and what could be found around us.

As most of us are getting ready for the back-to-school frenzy, I am planning to take a moment to relish in all the things we’ve done and learned this summer. From growing up to opening up, from stitches to fractures, and from technology to nature, my family has had quite the range of experiences. But at the end of the day, after their dinners and baths, they are calm and start to stretch out on the couches. They yawn and reflect. They remember these times that we give them. I am reminded that these are the days for which we signed up. These are the days for which we are grateful to be a parent.

Who are you and what happened to the man I married?

Well, we all knew it wouldn’t last long. The “Love Fest 2010” I spoke about in my last post would, inevitably, come to an end at some point. I just didn’t think it would be so soon. Don’t get me wrong, we all need moments of affirmation of our love and dedication to our family. You know, what I call the Hallmark moments – those things that are described in a Hallmark card that we, as parents or spouses, ALMOST feel until the next time one of our blessings totally piss us off. If you ask me, I think Hallmark has missed the mark. Could you just imagine a line of cards designed and written by disgruntled parents, primarily mothers? I would soooo buy stock. But I digress…

So, one morning I have to take middle son Simon to the doctor for complications related to his fractured finger. For those of you who haven’t been following the saga, he fractured his right ring finger and later had to go back in to have the swelling under the nail drained. Well fast forward to the present. It looks totally funky and it hurts to the touch. I say it’s infected and the males in my household say it’s fine. I say we need to see the doctor, they say I need to move out of the way so they can see the video. Good thing the world isn’t coming to an end. Unless my children believe in Mario as a higher power, I really think there is no hope for them.

As I was driving to the orthopedist, I was thinking about all of the recent medical interventions that have been needed. Youngest Alexander cut his head and needed the cut to be super-glued, a.k.a. Dermabonded. Middle child Simon fractured his finger and had ensuing complications. I told oldest child Christopher that he would spending the remainder of the summer enveloped in bubble-wrap and placed in the very center of the room away from all potential threats and pointy corners. I simply can’t take another accident and can’t afford another flippin’ hospital co-pay. During this mother-imposed injury hiatus, Christopher had to go to the doctor for his well-child checkup. For Christopher, my hypersensitive child, this sends him into orbit and he becomes fixated on the “what ifs” of the examine – “What if I have to get shots?” “What if I have to do a blood test?” or, on a positive note in his mind, “What if I get to pee in a cup?!?!”

My gripe here isn’t with the children. I know they are active and need the medical attention that the Western world affords. And thank you very much for the inoculations that keep them safe - smallpox sounds like it really sucks! My irritant here is my dear husband. Why is it that I am the one who has to leave work, repeatedly, to attend to the day in and day out needs of our children? Why can’t my darling husband take a regularly scheduled look at Simon’s finger, realize that the bizarre colors might hint at infection, and decide that he is compelled to take his child to the doctor as soon as the doc’s schedule allows? This material oversight extends to all the items dropped in my house that are ignored until such time as I become the main character from the movie, “The Exorcist.” You know the one I’m referring to – the screaming, head-turning 180-degree, split-pea-soup spewing, entity. Regardless of our religious affiliation, perhaps we do need a priest…

So the other afternoon, I take all three kids plus Christopher’s friend, Alex, to the pool. Upon arriving home, Simon’s friend, Drake and his dad appear on the doorstep to invite everyone over. Pretty soon, everyone decides to stay at our house for the weekly Friday-night pizza making dinner. The older kids are in the living room, the middle kids are in the office, and the youngest has become the Tazmanian devil who I can’t contain in any room. As the evening progresses, the older kids go out for ice cream and later crash at our house for a sleep-over. The two youngest crawl in bed with me because we are exhausted and the three older children (Christopher, his friend, and husband Shelby) plop down in the living room to watch the X-Games. After serving them popcorn and making up the futon with fresh sheets and pillow, I go to bed.

Thankfully, Shelby stayed up with the guys until they fell asleep and then got up and went to the store for bagels and other assorted breakfast items. On a side note, the only reason he got bagels was because youngest child Alex keep mumbling about wanting to eat something that sounded an awful lot like bagels. My poor husband didn’t realize that all the fresh bagels in Meyerland are purchased on Friday afternoon for Saturday morning and had a devil of a time trying to find some. After arriving home with his stash of mini-bagels and cream cheese, it turned out that Alex wanted sprinkles for breakfast – you know, the brightly colored bits of frosting that go on ice cream or cupcakes. How we mixed up “bagels” and “sprinkles” I have no idea but anyway…

This morning, Shelby dug up and replanted a small tree that I had been asking him to do. Okay, so I had been asking for at least four weeks but, hey, it finally got done. He also helped to fold the socks on the last load of laundry – I washed and folded five other loads previously. I’ve never read “Men are from Mars Women are from Venus” but I’m pretty sure the author might let the readers in on a few secrets about the differences between men and women. Namely the fact that we don’t see the same things and, clearly, don’t have the same priorities.

I’ve developed the 3-foot theory in my house. Mind you, I’m not a scientist and I don’t play one on television but this seems to ring true with all the females with whom I’ve compared notes. Males can not physically see anything outside of a three foot diameter from their eyeballs – the range changes exponentially with age. So is it really their fault if they can consistently step over the same pair of socks for weeks at a time?

Regardless of how irritated I get with him, Shelby steps up at the most amazingly appropriate times – the sleep-over, Boy Scout and Cub Scout campouts (especially the campouts), and morning breakfast runs. He is leaving in the morning for a week long business trip and I know he will be missed. Not only by the kids but by me as well. Don’t worry, I’ll begin to miss him just in time for him to return home for my next post!

Blessings in every season under the sun

I was just thinking back to how insanely crazy this summer has been. Even friends are inquiring as to whether this is a usual phenomena or have I just temporarily lost sight of my sanity. Clearly, my sanity was no where to be seen when these whirlwind trips were planned and, no, this will NOT become the norm for future summers.

A few moments later, I was ensconced in bed with middle son Simon trying to calm him down enough for sleep. Apparently, my oldest child, a.k.a husband Shelby, decided to pull out the ol’ Sega Saturn and introduce the children to the video game “Earthworm Jim.” Needless to say this wasn’t a calm game played to the strains of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Thanks, honey. Anyway, the light on the fish tank went out so the kids are using a small neon Coca-Cola sign for a nightlight which I swear could be used to land small prop planes. Even in this small amount of light, I have determined that my children and their room could be used for a remake of Sanford and Son. I swear, George and Lamont could walk in at any moment and I just keep waiting for that theme music, “Whacka, whacka, whaa, whaa, whaa, whaa, wha; whaa whaa whaaaa-whaaa…”

As I was lying there in the soft luminescence, I watch the pet gerbil, Jack, run around his cage – up and down the wall, on and off the landing, in and out of the wheel. Wait a minute, I resemble that rodent. It seems that this little rat is the epitome of my life this summer. But why? I’m so busy running around that I can’t see the blessings before me – my kids.

This past weekend, I schlepped my family across Texas, once again, to Fort Hood. I was attending a military survivors’ seminar put on by an amazing group called, T.A.P.S., or Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors. These amazing people support the surviving family members of those brave men and women who died while on active duty in this country’s armed forces. Whether the loved one was killed in action, died in an accident, due to illness, or suicide; this group is there.

Just a short history here. My brother wandered after high school until he went rogue and enlisted in the Army (my entire family, both sides, are Navy). After basic he was stationed in Germany with the 16th Engineering Battalion and was called up for duty in Kosovo. While there he became ill and ignored it until it became debilitating. After a visit to a field hospital and a quick flight back to Landstuhl AFB where he underwent surgery, he found he had stage 4 testicular cancer. He was med-evac’ed to Walter Reed Army Hospital where he underwent extensive chemotherapy, surgery, and radiation. The girl that he had somewhat been dating flew up to take care of him and they wound up getting married. After he went into remission and went active again, he was stationed with the 46th Engineering Battalion out of Ft. Polk, LA so his new wife could be near her family. Marital troubles ensued, his unit was deployed to Iraq and he couldn’t go (active duty personnel must be cancer free for 5 years before their next deployment) and he became depressed. He was placed in a civilian mental health institution under suicide watch where he took his own life.

So fast forward to this past weekend. This seminar was an amazingly cathartic experience. Children have a special track called the “Good Grief Camp” where they are teamed up with an active duty service man or woman as well as work with therapists and counselors. There is entertainment each night and on the closing day there is a balloon release where survivors can attach notes to the departed. Oldest biological child Christopher wrote a note to Uncle Frank and we released them together before the family slideshow. There were tears and laughter, pain and joy, loneliness and comfort. But at the end of each day, all I wanted to do was hug my children and my husband. When I finally saw them, I was so overwhelmed by love that I don’t even have the words to describe – look, you guys know me and I’m NEVER without words so this must have been a biggy!

Sometimes I think, in our role as parents, we can’t see the forest for the trees. Of course, we love our children but sometimes the day-to-day facilitation of life gets in the way of really appreciating what we have. Play dates, carpools, dentist appointments, PTO, homework, camp, you name it – we get so mired in what we have to do, where we have to go, and how we can fit everything in to the day that we forget to stop for a moment and say a prayer of thanks for that with which we are blessed.

Perhaps this summer is just the beginning of what our future holds or maybe it is an anomaly. Maybe this is the beginning of the end for this particular era. It is written in Ecclesiastes, “To everything there is a season, A time for every purpose under heaven.” Maybe this is a preview of my time to let go and let my children grow. What ever it may be, it is a reminder that I have been blessed. Blessed with life, blessed with a love who is my husband, blessed with children. Blessed to be an average mom!

Temperament Traits OR Who are you and what have you done with my children?

I have always been fascinated by birth order, familial temperaments, etc. It is amazing to me how siblings, who come from the same gene pool, can be so amazingly different. Lately, I have also found that these same small people’s personalities can morph from one cute cuddly cherub in one moment into some one-eyed-one-horned-flyin’-purple people-eater the next.

The school where I work is closed for its annual 2 week summer break so I have been with the children around the clock. The baby-sitter, a.k.a the nanny, is also off for her annual 2 week break from my heathens. (Mental note to self: this woman needs a HUGE raise.) This afternoon, while watching the recycle truck with youngest Alex, we saw our neighbor who has a 2 month old. Of course, Alex, being the social being that all 2-almost-3 year olds are, announced, “I greet him.” After visiting with him for a while, my earlier thoughts are totally reinforced. The baby is now sleeping for 4-6 hours at a time in what my friend, Cindy, calls the potted plant stage. You can put them in one place, much like, well, a potted plant, and they stay there. They don’t DO anything. My children have outgrown that phase and currently resemble the life sized Venus Flytrap in “The Little Shop of Horrors.” I swear I just heard the phrase, “Feed me, Seymore!” come from someone’s mouth.

Another thing that I am confounded about is their physical resilience. As many of you may know, Alex had a fun-filled visit to the E.R. to superglue the gash to his forehead he assumed after tripping and hitting a shelf. His bounce-back fortitude (and my well planned seating arrangement next to the nurses’ station) managed to get us out and back in action in under 4 hours. Yesterday, middle child Simon, fractured his finger while playing Wii tennis. I know, no, I’m not kidding. He was following through with a forehand shot, perfect form I might add, when his right ring finger came into contact, rather forcefully, with a point on the entertainment center. The finger, on both sides, turned a heinous purple in a matter of moments regardless of the ice we immediately applied. Of course, I got yelled at for “hurting” his finger while applying the ice and was informed that he was fine and needed to get back to finish the game. Seriously?!?! Who was this person? I told oldest Christopher that he would spend the remainder of the summer enveloped in bubblewrap because I simply couldn’t take any more and he was the only one left who hadn’t expended a co-pay.

Really – I clearly remember the births of each of my children. Okay, so they all cried upon delivery and maybe I should have taken note of this for days to come, but these aren’t the same small beings to whom I gave birth. They were small, wrapped in blankets, and they smelled delicious! They cooed, looked into my eyes with awe and devotion, and slept in my arms. What the hell happened?

After all the drama with Simon’s finger, youngest Alex was running around with a small rubber Hotwheels car tire in his mouth. When I finally cornered him and put my hand to his mouth to spit it out, he looked at me, smiled, and gulped – rather loudly. He swallowed it on purpose! While trying to watch a movie last night, middle child Simon felt compelled to comment on almost every single scene, take polls, and add suggestions. Might I add that the movie was one that every member of our family had seen at least half a dozen times? He totally suffers from middle-child syndrome and I swear he is going to bust out with “Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!” sometime soon.

Sometimes I wonder what I did differently that made them the way they are. Did I spend enough “quality time” with them? By the way, what is “quality time” anyway? I know we all have heard the adage of “It’s the quality of the time and not the quantity of time we spend with our children.” Clearly this statement was made by a mother who was suffering from mommy-guilt at trying to figure out how to bring home the bacon AND fry it up in the pan, along with baking cupcakes at 11:00 p.m. for a child’s class party, wash clothes, and be the sexy vixen her spouse married before he forgot how to participate in household management.

Maybe it wasn’t me. Maybe it was genetics, and G-d’s will. Lord knows, my children’s personalities all resemble some blood relative of either mine or my husband. That alone scares the bejeebers out of me. I also have to say that all my well-founded opinions of child rearing I had before I actually had children have leapt out the window. Every statement that started with, “When I have children, they will/will never…” has come back to bite me in the you-know-what big time. Maybe it was the curse that all mothers’ put on their offspring when they utter those infamous words: “I hope you have a child just like you when you grow up!”

So here I am at the end of the day. Confounded and confused. Exhausted and defeated. Yet, at the same time, I feel so fortunate to witness this utter madness day in and day out. I still don’t have any more answers to the big parenting questions today than I did the day they each were born. I still get a kick out of each new twist. Okay, so initially I’m not so receptive but I eventually get it that they are finding their ways. They are learning who, with my assistance and guidance, they are in this continuum of life. While they might not listen during the first, third, fifth, etc., times I talk; when I see one of them helping a stranger, or greeting a neighbor, I realize the importance of my role. THIS, is what I signed up for…

Role reversals

I was sitting here reading some of the replies to my Facebook entry and pondering parenthood. After a particularly trying afternoon, I asked if anyone knew the Blue Book value on an 11 and 7 year old so I could have a fair “Buy Now” price when I posted them on e-Bay. Of course, most parents responded with an “LOL!” or wanted to see if I could include their children’s ages in the quest for a price. There were a few of my friends who responded to my call with the word “priceless.” I have to say those particular people have not passed this way in a while, and, with all due respect, have clearly forgotten this time in their lives. But it did start me thinking – hold on, clearly the roller coaster is about to take off from the platform…

I remember as a kid playing a certain role in our familial structure. There was my maternal grandmother who played a large role in my upbringing. There was my father who, at the time, was an alcoholic with mercurial temperament when and if he was home. My mother was wrapped up with the day-to-day living within a dysfunctional family and taking care of my brother – the baby – and working as a teacher. I’ve already described my brother and then there was me. We had other relatives scattered around who we saw on the occasional holidays. And as time marched on, we all had our roles.

But something changed once I had children. I don’t mean the fact that over the past eleven years I’ve had more night time visitors than Dolly Parton’s character in “The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas” or the fact that I can no longer sneeze without peeing my pants. I’m talking about a whole, personality altering, place along the time continuum, relocation. Somehow I have become the grown up – that alone should scare the bejeebers out of somebody. Isn’t anyone up there in the heavens watching for this kind of stuff?!?!

I remember back even as little as five years ago, when my mother was here in Oklahoma taking care of her aunt. She still had a spring in her step and, well, I just can’t seem to put it into words, but, something. But in those five years, she suffered and overcame breast cancer, a couple of falls, and life. I have to say, though, that if she would have had to deal my three and their antics over the past few days all by her self, she probably would have committed hari-kari!

So now what? My mother has a hard time hearing me and tells me the same stories over and over, again, ad nauseum. I hear myself saying the same things my mother and grandmother said – “I swear, if you don’t stop touching your brother I’m going to stop this car and leave you here!” (As you all know, I would NEVER really do that. Although my husband was telling me about the comedian who described the three seconds of peace that all parents cling to between the time in which he or she gets everyone buckled in, doors shut, and the dreaded time to come in which the parent must open his or her own door and get into the car with said offsprings.)

This morning, my mother had these frozen breakfast type taco things that she tried to offer to everyone. It soon became the running joke between me and oldest son Christopher. While it was at one time a bonding moment between me and my son (ANY time today that someone irritated us, we asked the other “Do you want a taco?”), it was also a sad vision of things to come. At what point does the wheel of life turn and those in a position of caring become the one who is cared for? Will my children have the same arguments with me that I have with my mother? Will they pray for the same patience with me for which I hope for with my mother? Hopefully, they will love me and put up with me as much as I do with my own mom.

Just so we don’t end things here on a downer, I have to say we ended up having a great day. We spent the afternoon at the local waterpark/pool. This place is great – splash pool for little ones, wade-in pool, two water slides, and lazy river. We all got to swim, get some sun, and enjoy Dippin’ Dots (I hate these people – over-priced balls of ice cream, really? Why couldn’t I have thought of this?). As we were collecting our stuff from the lockers, youngest Alex decided he had had enough. I’m packing our bag as I begin to notice that everyone around us is chuckling. I whirled around in time to see Alex stripping out of his bathing suit. I got him wrapped in a towel and into the car without the police being called for lewd conduct. My hope is that his spirit and sense of adventure continue even as the roles reverse.

Resilience in Life – The Silly Putty Kind

I keep thinking about silly putty. Maybe it is the encounter our cat had with it (see the blog from June to get the gist of our war with this gooey substance) or maybe I just equate it with childhood which we know is full of resilient moments. I mean, think about it. You can break it in half and it rejoins the other half as if nothing happened. You can mash it flat as a pancake and then roll it into a ball that will bounce around the room like a ricocheting bullet in a Wiley Coyote cartoon. You know, on second thought, we were at Natural Bridge Caverns today, and that would have been a hoot. Just think – a ball of Silly Putty put into action somewhere down in the caves. Must put that on my list of things to ponder. Oh seriously, I’ve been there several times and there aren’t any plans to excavate any further so, unless this little charade does damage to the caves, this is worthy of getting banned from the park. I know, this is an “a-ha” moment into why my children are they way they are but, come on, you know you’d love to see this…

Any way, resilience. We started this insane week with oldest son Christopher at Boy Scout camp. Apparently, we missed quite a few communications regarding some of the activities that were going to be happening, particularly some bizarre ritual called the “Death March.” This is part of the Wilderness Survival Merit Badge that Scouts can earn when they learn what to do when lost in the wilderness that culminates when dropped off on the side of a mountain with a compass, some twine, and a pocket knife to show what they have learned. I’m totally exaggerating here but you get the gist. The person in charge was sorely lacking in communication and leadership skills for this event – so much so that we wound up having a rather animated conversation over the phone as to which end of the donkey he could be classified. I have to take a moment here to pay homage to Christopher’s home troop leader, Steve Shapiro. If he was here right now, I would hug him. I never truly appreciated his constant communication until now, when I didn’t have any. Steve is truly a gem among people who work with children. I have to say it is because of his organizational skills and hard work that Christopher made it through this week and still wants to continue with Scouts. Although, with the recent torrential rains and heat, I can’t fathom why anyone would want to sleep outdoors in July. Must be a boy thing.

In the midst of the phone calls of “Please, I want to come home,” I got to take youngest Alexander to the E.R. While sitting down to an impromptu lunch meeting with my boss, I hear my cell phone ringing from down the hall – not once, but twice. I simply KNOW it is from my house and that it doesn’t bode well. Isn’t amazing how your senses become so acutely honed once you become a parent. Anyway, upon calling the house, Cecilia answers with, “It’s Alex. He fell. I’ve stopped the bleeding.” Well, that was all it took. I was out of my office faster than Seattle Slew on his last leg of the Triple Crown. Just for a point of reference, Cecilia was almost finished with her training to become a pediatric nurse when her family moved to the US. If she calls, she means business and I move. No questions asked. Thankfully, she applied an arnica salve and the bleeding stopped. I have to say that anyone who even remotely comes into contact with children needs this stuff. I’m not talking about the gel you can find at GNC. I mean the kind that is in the authentic Mexican products section at Foodarama – this stuff stops bleeding, bruises, and, I would be willing to bet, vampires. Long story short, a $125 ER copay and a three hour wait later, we’ve Dermablended his wound together (he tripped, hit the edge of a shelve, and cut a ¾” slit in his forehead). The next day, Indiana Jones Jr. is back in action.

Now my turn. I know I don’t really count because I’m the parent, but, wah, too bad. I come home from work last night just to pack up the car and get as close as possible to pick up Christopher from camp at the crack-o-dawn this morning. Meanwhile, I have this new class I’m taking – Developing and implementing teams and groups. One would think that I would be rather adept at this in light of my familial standings. Lord knows I deal with group dynamics on a daily basis. “Mom, he has on my Indiana Jones shirt!” “Honey, it doesn’t fit you anymore.” “I don’t care. He can’t wear it.” are common war themes throughout my days. But apparently, grown ups are even worse. They have free will. What is supposed to be a small group session turns into me playing on the web site all alone. What turns into a group assignments, turns into one person not showing up at all, another decides she doesn’t want to play, and one, well, not too sure. I feel like I’m on the playground again!

Fast-forward to tonight. Christopher is home albeit smelly and muddy. A tip to pass along to any parent who might have a Scout up and coming – after a camping trip, don’t bring the trunk inside – unpack it on the porch. Trust me, I’m singing the praises of the person who told me this (love you, Amy!) and you’ll thank me too. There are just some smells you never forget. Alexander is back to jumping off the chair while humming the theme song to Indiana Jones. He did bump his head on the pillow on the floor and looked up at me as if to ask why it hurt. Seriously? What is wrong with this child? Shelby suggested a helmet. And here I am all assignments submitted. Guess what? While at some point during this past week, right up until a few hours ago, there was a time when I wasn’t sure any of us would make it. I was sure our particular endeavors would drive us over the proverbial edge. But we all made it through, none the worse for wear.

I have to think back to a person who crossed my path. She seriously believed that it was her job to ensure that her children never experienced a moment of unhappiness. Phffftttt. Wouldn’t her kids would be miserable in my house! Seriously though, as parents, we need to help our children, and sometimes ourselves, see that disappointment happens. Things are hard; they aren’t always the way we want them. However, at the end of the day, as my grandmothers used to say, the things that don’t kill us, make us stronger. While that may be a little extreme today considering we don’t have small pox or Nazis, the ideal is still the same. Christopher made it through stormy weather, Alexander made it through a split head, and I made it through difficult people. At the end of the day, we all went to Blockbuster and rented “The Tooth Fairy” and had sushi/Kid’s Cuisine/chicken nuggets depending on the age group. We were all okay. We all had become Silly Putty.

Dedicated to my brother, Spc. Frank E. Stokes.

So today was trek 3 across the I-10 corridor to take oldest son Christopher to Boy Scout Camp. Another 3 ½ hour trip was the culmination of a frustrating attempt to actually get all the information needed to get him there. This is not his regular troop but what they call a “maverick” troop of kids who, for whatever reason, couldn’t make their troop’s organized summer camping trip but still wanted to camp this summer. Let me say this type of mentality completely eludes me – why anyone would voluntarily sleep in a TENT without AC in July in Texas is beyond me, but I digress… After sharing notes with other Scouting mothers, this disorganization is nothing new. I asked hubby Shelby if a prerequisite for Scouting was having to be completely unorganized to which he responded, “No, but it helps.”

It must be a Y-chromosome thing. A woman would have had everything planned and executed within 3 days, a bundt cake made and served as you drove in, and cots set up complete with blanket turned down and mint on the pillow. Shelby disagreed – he seems to think it has something to do with my obsessive compulsive tendency to have a place for everything and everything in its place. Pffttt, what does he know – by the way, honey, your shoes go in the closet. He brought up a good point though, this organization, like many others regardless of size, is comprised of volunteers. These volunteers come in all shapes, sizes, degrees of involvement, and degrees of irritation. Regardless of what we think they should be doing, they are there. On the front lines, helping our children grow and learn. They are making a difference.

As we were making the trip, I had the chance to marvel at how handsome Christopher looked in his uniform. Boy Scouts must wear their Class A uniform when traveling to and from official events. Much of this has to do with respect for the organization and the role of Scouting. It also has to do with the idea of being part of something larger than one’s self. This group of young men and their leaders reminded me of another group of volunteers – the men and women of our Armed Forces. I remember the first time my brother came home from basic training in his uniform. I also remember watching him board a train in fatigues in Paris where we met for a vacation before he was deployed to Kosovo – the last time I ever saw him in the vibrant way I remember him to this day. I will also never forget the day we buried him in full dress uniform in an official military ceremony complete with 21 gun salute. My brother wasn’t the first in my family to give his life for his country – we have family members still entombed within the sunken USS Arizona in Pearl Harbor.

Before we left, we had dinner with our neighbors last night. It was an early Independence Day celebration as well as a small, intimate 40th birthday party for the man of the house. The topic of much discussion was the ban of all fireworks within the city of Houston. Where they had come from, fireworks were allowed. Well, we “repeated-parents-of-the-year” award winners, felt compelled to inform them that we broke the law every year and actually had sparklers and a small arsenal of low level sparking, popping, screeching type fireworks. After all, we could easily blame said fireworks on the kids. They would get off with a misdemeanor charge that would disappear off their record at 17. Just kidding!

But seriously, what has happened to the all-American past time of kids with sparklers on the 4th of July? My husband wanted to post something on Facebook to the effect that if we can’t let our kids have sparklers then the terrorists have already won the battle. I suggested that there were too many key words that Homeland Security would pick up with that post so that might not be the best choice of words. Lord knows I need help with the day-to-day raising of our kids and I don’t think that would happen from maximum security prison. I didn’t even want to think of the fact it would probably land him on the “no fly” list at the airports.

Where else can our children safely see the “rockets red glare” and “bombs bursting in air” that make up our national anthem? We are suddenly torn between being law-abiding role models for our children and wanting to share our traditions and values of patriotism. We volunteer to teach our children about loyalty and national pride. But it goes far beyond one day and the few things we teach them on that day. We want them to learn trust, honesty, obedience, faithfulness, and honor. Hhmm, this is starting to sound like something from Scouts. Perhaps, even in the midst of their disorganization, there is a goal. A goal that is sadly missing from many young people and their organizations today. The same goal that is still present in our service men and women across the globe – one of service and dedication.

I know I’m probably rambling from sheer exhaustion, but I think I’ve changed my mind about the Scouts. Yes, dear, I am admitting I was wrong. Why do men find that so amusing? While the Scouts may seem disorganized in the way that only the madwoman from Shiloh could understand, they are teaching our country’s young men something that is slowly diminishing from society. And it closely resembles those hallmarks of the same brave men and women who have gone before us and will go ahead of us to ensure that we have the choice to partake in such insanity as Scouts.

Thank you to all those who teach and lead our young men and women. Thank you to all those who serve our country. May you all sleep well, stay safe, and return home to those that love you best.

Happy 4th of July!

Camp - Between here and yonder and every point in between

There is this great song by The Proclaimers called “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” in which the singer says, “I would walk 500 miles and I would walk 500 more just to be the man who walks a 1000 miles to fall down at your door.” If you haven’t heard it, I strongly suggest adding it to the ol’ iPod especially if you are a runner – it has a great stride beat. Granted, the song is about the person the singer loves but as any parent can attest, there are no lengths to which we wouldn’t go to be with our children or try to make them happy.

I know, I know, at some point these kiddos of ours need to learn that not everything in this world is joyful and happy. HOWEVER… we mothers are a fierce breed. Somehow, we spend as much energy trying to make our off-springs happy as NASA does to make one of those giant tin-cans of a rocket take off – in the case of some people I know, just as much pyrotechnics! Anyway, for some reason that only my shrink can possibly fathom, I have signed up my children for various camps this summer. But herein lies the rub…

We went to San Diego for a few days in June only to arrive home to drive half across Texas the next day to deliver middle child Simon to camp west of Kerrville. He’s there for 7 days before we haul across half of Texas, again, to pick him up. Five days later, we drag ourselves back across the same flippin’ stretch of road to take oldest son Christopher to Boy Scout camp which is north of San Marcus. To add to my driving enjoyment, I return 7 days later to retrieve him. After returning to Houston, I will wash and repack the car to trek to Oklahoma to visit my mother, return home, and go to and from Fort Hood at the end of the month of July. Hhhmmm, I think I might need an oil change…

Not only do I need a new set of tires and a butt transplant to replace my deflated touche, I am seriously beginning to question my motives for this summer of “fun.” What in the hell was I thinking?!?! I wanted everyone to have FUN! As a side note, on a recent trip I really felt sorry for youngest son Alexander for not getting to go to all the “fun” places his brothers attended. As a conciliatory effort, I actually considered buying him the $13 red, Buc-cee pillow at the renowned Buc-cee’s Stop. I mean, after all, he falls asleep in the car ALL the time and he might be able to use it…Poor kid, deserves so much more… but I digress…

I know it has taken a rather long time to get to my point here. The recurrent theme of being tired throughout this blog hasn’t been this prevalent in quite some time. But as I sit back this evening to recount the last few weeks and ponder what is to come, there is one thing that is certain: summer is a time of change. Oldest son Christopher has done his preview week at his new middle school and was actually BORED while middle son Simon was at camp. Christopher changed from being an elementary student to a middle schooler – in other words, he moved from being my first born baby to a young man on his way to discovering himself. We left middle son Simon at camp last week as the baby of the family (he really is the baby regardless of his middle child status – and I will totally deny I said this if he inquires!), and we picked him up today years older. Youngest child Alex is all about the “me do it!” with everything from getting in and out of the car to opening his juice.

I am so thankful that my children have these summer camp experiences. I remember every summer camp I attended and the ways in which I changed and grew. I want my children to have that experience, too! But, for me, it is a double edged sword – I want them to go forth and conquer, experience, and, just be. At the same time, I mourn for the loss of what they were, their childhood and infancy, a time that I can never recapture. I guess the bottom line is that I hope I’ve done enough for them, given them enough love, and helped to prepare them for what lies ahead. I’m thinking I might have done okay, though. Yesterday, I got the lone postcard from camp for the week. It was addressed to “Mom.” This alone sent me into a happiness orbit! Simon said he was having a great time and wanted to stay longer. He also wanted to know when he would be receiving his care package. Clearly we need to work on bringing him out of his shell…