Through Line

A few years ago, I bought a medium pre-lit artificial tree as our sole Christmas tree, with the main purpose of cutting down on marital arguments about light stringing. No longer was there a big fresh tree for sparkly bows, birds and baubles and a kids' tree laden with macaroni ornaments, clothes pin reindeer, and construction paper chains. It became both-- a delightful mish-mash. In fact, many of my "fancier" ornaments remained tucked in plastic tubs because this tree simply isn't big enough for all of it. 

And the ornaments keep coming! 

At an advent event last night, Andrew made 6 new ornaments out of popsicle sticks, paper and felt.

With Margaret home for Thanksgiving, we were all able to decorate together. This meant so much to me, as I was able to remember how the first few years after Jack died, decorating was excruciating. I did it for Margaret, but oh how it hurt. Now, I am able to hold Jack's Baby's First Christmas Ornaments and smile. I am able to remember how I bravely put up Christmas trees during college after my mom's death, even though no one expected it of me.

This year Andrew pulled a ziploc baggie out of one of the tubs and asked me about the ornament inside. I told him that when my brother, sister, and I were kids, we each had a glass ball with our name on it in glitter. Mine shattered one year and I was distraught. My mother quickly selected another ball, wrote my name on it with Elmer's glue, and dipped it in colored sand that we somehow had in our cluttered, happy home. 

That blue ball with red sand followed me the rest of my childhood and far into adulthood. A few years ago it shattered, but instead of tossing it out, I put it in a plastic bag so each year as we decorated, I could remember the loving care of a mom who always provided me a soft place to land.

After we finished the tree this year, 6 year old Andrew called me back down to the family room. He had dug through the tubs of ornaments we weren't using, rigged an ornament hanger into the plastic bag, and hung the remains of my ornament on the tree for me. 

His loving gesture reconnected me to my mother's loving gesture over 45 years ago. 

It's the Little Things

I am a white lights on the Christmas tree kind of girl. The artificial tree I bought 2 years ago has about 7 options, including blinking (ugh!), and cycling through from white to colored and back again.

My buddy Andrew loves the colored lights, and we are in a sneaky battle with each other, changing it back and forth when we walk past to go to the bathroom, multiple times a day. We haven't spoken a word about it, and I love it so much!

It reminds me of when my teen brother used to do something similar to my mom. She was a fantastic florist, and when she would go on deliveries, she had large "Flowers by Margaret" magnetic signs on her car doors. Sometimes she'd drive around all day before realizing her signs were upside down, thanks to her firstborn pranking her.

Sometimes connection and I love you's come in funny forms.

Now when my high school boyfriend did deliveries for her and changed every single one of her radio presets from country and classical to whatever the hell he listened to, that was just plain rude.

Like, read the room, Dude.

Proud

I just spent 45 minutes in the toy section of Target looking at Legos with Andrew. It wasn't what I would have chosen for a gorgeous Sunday afternoon, but he had money burning a hole in his pocket and was excited buy something new. We compared prices, and talked pro's and cons of each Minecraft set. It was no surprise that after reading Minecraft books, hearing Andrew's running commentary about all of the characters, and watching him play for months, I was able to hold my own in the conversation.

After we checked out, I let him try some parkour moves on the giant red concrete balls out front. We've been watching American Ninja-type shows and he's developing an interest in climbing. As I watched, an old friend from the "before times" crossed the lot. We hadn't seen each other in years. We were young parents together in the same mothers' group at church. I remember when she had her third, thinking "Oh boy, Laura just set her ticket to freedom back about three years." I was so tired and so busy with two little ones, that I kept my eyes on what I thought was the prize, getting them launched someday.

As we know, I didn't get to launch Jack in the way I thought I would, my "baby" Margaret is now 21, and  launching Andrew feels like a lifetime away. 

After my friend and I chatted, Andrew and I headed to the car. He was proud of the money he'd earned selling original comic books to our friends and neighbors. He showed no regret about reducing his nest egg down to one 2 dollar bill and a Sacajawea coin. I knew the coffee table would, once again, be taken over by colorful bricks for the next days or weeks.

I gave myself a minute on the way home in the car to be proud of myself. Proud for persevering after devastating loss. Proud for embracing my 50's and 60's and beyond that will look a lot different than I thought they would, even as I acknowledge the twinge I still feel when I see my peers at different stages. Proud for being in the moment with Andrew, and fully invested in what makes him tick.

Can you think of something today that makes you proud? 

Life is not made up of grand accomplishments. Sometimes it's just waking up, showing up, and taking baby-steps, even if the baby is 35, 45, or 60.  

The Von Trapp Family Swimmers?

Menopause slapped me with a 20 lb weight gain, and I had to update my swimming wardrobe. So in April, before a trip to Tim's parents' house in Florida, I bought a Lands End tummy control swim dress. It covered everything I wanted to cover and squeezed in everything I wanted to be squeezed. Getting that thing on and off was like wrestling a walrus, and I had to resort to the pull-over method in order to pee in the pool bathroom, but I was pleased with my purchase.

With whatever breath I could manage to exhale while squeezed in my suit, I breathed a sigh of relief that Andrew is a boy and he likely won't give me as much of a hard time about my wardrobe choices as a little girl would. I've been down that road and it was brutal. So far, he hasn't seemed to notice that I'm older than his friends' parents, that I don't rock a bikini, or that I put my bathrobe on around 5 pm each day (ok, 4 in winter).

Tim, however, may have pushed things a little too far. After wearing thrifted brown and orange swim trunks for over 15 years, he decided this summer was the time to go wild with a new bathing suit before dry rot set in. I told him Lands End was having a sale, and he could likely find something for less than 20 bucks.

Imagine my surprise when, utterly clueless, he pulled out swim trunks that match the suit I've been wearing for 4 straight months. I've often said he would not notice my being injured if I weren't bleeding from the head, but now I wonder about even that. 

And poor Andrew. 

Do we wear these to the pool together? 

Do we see if they come in kids' sizes and just embrace the WEIRD? 

It's one thing when your mom listens to 80's music that makes your friends groan in the camp carpool. Or when she consistently has 2-3 inches of gray roots. But your mom and Dad wearing matching bathing suits? 

What do YOU think? 

(Photo credit to the 6 year old who could use his nails clipped)

P.S. do you think Tim will notice my new pajamas?

A Language of Love

Do you know your love language?

Mine is words of affirmation. Kind, loving words go very far with me, and hurtful words sting more than almost anything else can.

Presents are okay, and I enjoy a good hug, but tell me I'm doing a good job, I'm capable, or I offer something of value to the world, and I will put my chin up and persevere even in the toughest of circumstances. I will stand tall for you or for whoever else needs it.

I've been going through a lot, feeling over-tired and overdrawn. Uncreative, unhealthy, and unproductive in the world. I find myself wondering if I'll ever settle into a groove for 2019, but then I discover it's 2020, so the answer is likely no. Sleep eludes me with a mashup of menopause, preschool parenting, and middle of the night worries about how my daughter is adjusting to college.

I wonder why I never bothered to set any goals, personally or professionally, and just coasted until somehow waking up at 50 feeling like life has been a series of reactions versus actions. I ponder if I only have 30 or 20 or 2 years left, whether I'll be satisfied that most days all I looked forward to was a big bowl of popcorn and a Netflix binge. Is this my offering to the world, during this one life? Morning comes too soon or not soon enough.

Andrew is in a stage where he wants all of me, all the time.

At my age, I never would have imagined being needed in this intense way again, and the adjustment has been steep. He is adamantly opposed to all things Tim right now, through no fault of Tim's. He is just taking the whole Oedipus thing about as far as a 3 year old possibly can. The other night he told me he hoped there were two heavens, so he and I could go to one, and Daddy could go to the other. Harsh. It seems this little guy wants to go to great lengths to let me know I'm his number one. I tell him he can love both Daddy and me. That there is enough love to go around. There's enough of all of us to go around.

Although it doesn't always feel like that way, because we are spent.

As winter darkness sets in early, making it feel much later, it's easy to just gather up some of the parenting pieces that have been Tim's terrain, such as the final tuck-in, or reading the last book, if it means a happy boy not getting all worked up right at bedtime. After all, we know this is a phase to ride out; we've been down these roads before. Just as Tim didn't have to sleep on the floor next to Margaret's bed forever like he did when she was two, this too shall pass. In fact, I know that was time well spent, because even at age 18, home from college, she'll still sometimes climb onto his lap. He's a stiff person, and she's a prickly one, but they still connect in this way.

So instead of Tim doing the tuck-in, I started doing it. Then we moved to having me sit in the big blue recliner after tuck-in just so he'd know I was near. Then it morphed into extended snuggle-time in bed. It helps him fall asleep more quickly, and it yields sweet conversation. But, oh, how I resisted because I knew he'd be back in our bed again in just a few hours, and wasn't this a lot of rigamarole to go through for just about 4 hours of separation? With the clock ticking on my precious hours of alone time?

I decided to try to reframe this when I saw a friend with four kids had put a small sticker on her car that read, "I get to do this." She uses it to remind herself that the hours upon hours in the car being present with her kids is special time-- away from screens and homework. A lot of good connecting happens then, even though it's not easy.

This connecting time been good for Andrew and me too, because it is a sinking into togetherness, rather than my pulling away, hiding in the bathroom with my phone and a piece of chocolate while he clambers to find me.

He feels it and I feel it.

But back to love languages. Tim has rarely been one to lift me up through words. Remember during premarital counseling when we wrote down our needs and I wrote, "I want to be told I'm pretty sometimes"? Even more than 25 years ago, I knew we had a disconnect on this issue. His view was that if we were getting married, I could assume he thought I was kind of neat, so what was the big deal? Even in the eyes of young love, which is blind to so many mismatches, I wanted to articulate a need, which went well beyond my looks and was more about affirming me as a person worthy of notice.

Over the years there have been a few stilted, "You. look. very. nice. in. that dress"  or "good job" comments, but not many. Yes, I knew I could have married someone who grabbed my butt and said, "Hey, Hot Mama!" but that's not the guy I fell in love with. I knew it going in. But to hit 50, with a butt that is far less grab-able or remarkable than ever before, and cosmic questions about your place in the world, it's possible to yearn to know that you take up space and are seen. Perhaps because I am a writer and a speaker, words help do that for me.

Margaret has long been more likely to speak to me with criticism than love or affection, even though I know she loves me. My role as a safe spot to land since Jack's death has meant my putting on protective layers so the harsh stuff can slide off.

Stiff and Prickly, remember?

Jack was the one who would tilt his head to the side say with a wry smile, "Aww... I love you!" It was usually after I'd said something clever, or vulnerable or goofy, and it made me feel close to him. Like he got a kick out of me, and as if there was a whole lot of LIKE wrapped in with the LOVE.

I've missed those words that poured out unbidden. Unstrained. Not trying to check a box on Anna's wants and needs list. I know Jack still loves me as I do him. Our love never had a chance to get to the stage where perhaps it would have been uncool to tell your mom how much you loved her. I know if I quiet myself, I can still hear him whisper "I love you" into my soul. I can see his love in the two bluejays at my feeder right now, and in the sweet but hazy memories that come to me in flashes, every single day.

But what does any of this have to do with Andrew, and sleep, and snuggling? Once I began to reframe this new nighttime routine, realizing that it is a sweet and temporary privilege, I've been able to not only sink into his twin bed giving him something he craves, but also sink into the love he gives me freely. "I love you SO SO much!" he beams, touching my face. "Oh, I just LOVE you!" "I love you and want to keep you forever!" These words affirm and fill me up after a long day at a challenging time of life.

Don't get me wrong. I don't think our kids are here to meet our needs. Nope. That is far too much to put on a child. It isn't healthy and it isn't fair.

But I do think that God knows that my soul has been parched for affirmation. That my world has grown smaller the past few years as career and accomplishments and even maintaining friendships have been overshadowed by the ever-present need of caring for a small child again.

He surely knows that the middle of the night doubts about what I've offered the world, and whether I'll have the stamina to do what's before me, can somehow be soothed by having a child, this child, who tells me, again and again, that I am beloved.

And I'm grateful.

Helping College-Aged Students Deal with Depression

This is a sponsored post.

People sometimes ask me whether having lost one child, I am extra fearful about the safety of my other children. In general, I’d say no. Jack’s sudden death and the confluence of bizarre circumstances that led to it, convinced me that no amount of worrying can completely protect our kids from harm. Sure it’s scary, but there’s a certain freedom in that. 

My experiences with grief and trauma have, however, connected me to many families who have experienced teen depression and suicide, and with Margaret heading to college in the fall, this topic looms large! With suicide now the second-leading cause of death for college students, I know it must also be on the mind of many, many of you with high school and college-aged kids. I want to be informed for my family’s sake, and I want to share information with you.

I recently teamed up with Med-IQ to help generate awareness about depression among teens, and learn more about how I as a parent can identify risk factors and access resources. Med-IQ is an accredited medical education company that provides an exceptional educational experience for physicians, nurses, pharmacists, and other health-care professionals. Look for several posts from me on this topic as I learn more! 

Maybe your family is good at communicating, but mine isn’t. Sure, I may overshare on the internet, but at home it’s a different story. 

It reminds me of when Margaret was 6 years old. Two girls in her class were fighting over her. There was drama. Both of the other moms knew all about it because their daughters talked about it daily, yet I didn’t hear a peep from mine, who was smack-dab in the center of  it all. It was an early example of how much my family struggles when it comes to talking about uncomfortable issues and emotions. Heap grief and trauma on top of that and we struggle even more. 

Not that emotional well-being should be a hard issue to discuss, but it is still stigmatized, most particularly for boys and students of color. It is so much easier to talk about physical illness than mental illness; colleges want to change this. 

In fact, the doctors at Med-IQ stressed the importance of looking at mental health in the same way we look at the physical health of our teens. One of the psychiatrists from the University of Michigan, who has decades of experience helping college kids with depression put it this way: “Every student should have a check-up from the neck up!”

Don’t you love that? But how does one even start the conversation about depression and mental health in order to get this “check-up”? A College Guidefrom the National Alliance on Mental Illness gave me pointers. I am printing it out for Tim and Margaret to read so we can all have the same info. 

There is also a great online screeningtool that students can access at any time to see if they might need mental health services. It even connects directly to resources at specific colleges, including my daughter’s. I took the screening myself to see what it was like, and I think asking your child to take this quiz every 6 months or so might be a good way to open up conversation and “check in.”

Transitioning to college is going to be an adjustment in every way. New friends. Freedom. Academic stress. Readily available alcohol and drugs. I’d be lying if I said I’m not nervous about it. I found the following list to be a good starting point of what to look for now and revisit later when school starts:

Signs that your son/daughter might be depressed:

Feeling very sad or withdrawn for more than two weeks.

Severe out-of-control risk-taking behaviors

Sudden overwhelming fear for no reason

Not eating, throwing up, or using laxatives to lose weight.

Seeing, hearing or believing things that are not real

Repeatedly and excessively using drugs or alcohol

Drastic changes in mood, behavior, personality or sleeping habits

Extreme difficulty concentrating/staying still

Intense worries or fears that get in the way of daily activities.

Trying to harm oneself or planning to do so.

I also found this fact-sheet of statistics and risk-factors about college suicideto be very helpful. 

Some of the info really got me down, but everything I read says it’s better to be more informed, than less. If this is starting to sound discouraging, I’ll say I’ve also learned that certain positive or protective factors common on campuses that can mitigate the risk of suicide such as connectedness to the school community, physical activity and exercise, social support such as RA’s, faculty, and friends, plans for the future, and access to services. 

Collegeswant to support students. Parents want the same thing. When we have more knowledge, we are more equipped to help.

I hope you’ll follow along to learn more.

Important:Med-IQ is conducting an anonymous survey and would appreciate your input. The survey, which includes additional education on this topic, will take less than 15 minutes to complete. Survey responses are shared only in aggregate. Your responses to these survey questions will provide Med-IQ with important information about your experiences with depression and mental health in your college-age child which will help us develop future educational initiatives. Please take the SURVEY HERE.

Once you’ve completed the survey you will have the option of providing your email address to be entered into a drawing administered by SOMA Strategies to win 1 of 10 $100 Visa cards. If you choose to enter, your email address will not be sold, kept, or stored; email addresses are used only to randomly draw the winners and notify them of their prize. 

I was compensated by Med-IQ through an educational grant from Otsuka America Pharmaceutical, Inc and Lundbeck to write about depression in college-aged students. All opinions are my own.

Links to external sites are provided as a convenience and for informational purposes only. They are not intended and should not be construed as legal or medical advice, nor are they endorsements of any organization. Med-IQ bears no responsibility for the accuracy, legality, or content of any external site. Contact the external site for answers to questions regarding its content. 

Current State of Affairs

I'm not going to say this parenting a preschooler and a teenager thing is impossible, but I will say it isn't always super-fun. Check out these voice texts between Tim and me when I was out much longer on Saturday than I'd intended:

I'm glad a sense of humor helps.

Toddler to Teen

I think I need an 8 year old.

Toddlers want to help All. The. Time. Every morning Andrew "unloads" the dishwasher. Of course he goes straight for the knives, buddies up to the pizza cutter, and sneezes on the Tupperware. His help is adorable, slower than cooling magma, and kind of gross. God forbid I forget to run the washer the night before. He does NOT understand why I do not want him to deliver slimy dishes to the cabinets. Of course he will also sit in a poop diaper, so I'm guessing cleanliness is not his #1 priority.

Big Sister considers household drudgery beneath her, certainly not worth leaving the comfort of her bed and Netflix. When forced to assist, she looks around the kitchen as if uninformed as to where we keep the drinking glasses. You would never guess she used to beg to clean the toilets.

Other chores? Sheer joy for a little one. I got Andrew a miniature Swiffer for free at a yard sale. It will be his "big" Christmas present. If I gave Big Sis a Swiffer, I think she'd call CPS. Her Christmas list includes cropped tops, oversized sweaters and expensive makeup sets with names like Sex and Pervy. On this ambitious list, items 1-16 totaled more than the cost of my wedding dress.

I told her how our family used to do the 3 present rule-- after all that's how many gifts Baby Jesus got. She scoffed and pitied her former ignorant, compliant little self.

Truly, an 8 year old would be perfect.

He might not be as eager as a toddler to do chores, but quality control would be less of an issue, and I could get some good work out of him before the teen years.

At least that's what I think. Check back in with me in 6 years and we'll see if Andrew's enthusiasm for helping has waned. I hope not, because Mom and Dad aren't getting any younger.

In the mean-time, I wonder how long it will take Big Sis to clue in that she can train Andrew to deliver a chilled La Croix and Cheez-its right to her bed, a germy smile on his face.

On the Record

Yesterday was a LONG one.

Nothing too unusual in the parenting of an almost one year old. Emptying of drawers and cupboards. Refusal to nap. Foreign objects in the mouth. Long waits for a glimpse of the garbage and mail trucks. A stuffy nose that led to a cough, that started sounding croup-y by about 3 pm.

We had our cute moments, too. Like when Andrew leaned his face over the dog bowl and started lapping up the water with his tongue. Oh my gosh. After that, I started filming some of his antics on my phone: wiggling his hands in the water, dipping his foot in, then dumping the bowl on himself. Then heading over to a drawer in the laundry room and throwing the cleaning rags onto the floor, one by one, like it was his job.

I guess, in a sense, it is.

Exploration is what keeps this little guy active and learning, and I'm along for the ride to try to observe, protect, and sometimes redirect.

I showed Margaret the video when she got home. She noticed another video, with a blank screen.

Turns out, I'd left the camera recording by accident.

"It's like a nanny cam!" she exclaimed with excitement. "Now we can see if you are an abusive mother!" I kind of think she would have clued in on any abusive behaviors in my 15 years of mothering her. Still, I wondered what the audio recording "caught" of my interactions with Andrew. After all, it was hour 9 of a very long day, and the baby has been keeping us up at night for the past several weeks. My body ached from the lifting and wrangling, and I hadn't even managed to get dressed until 2:30 pm.

The audio is of my kissing away Andrew's tears as I change his 6th poopy diaper of the day. In a sing-song voice, I encourage him that I'm almost finished. I sound loving, even though my enthusiasm for yet another poop may come across as a bit forced.

I'm not sharing this to proclaim myself as world's most patient mother. Hardly. The audio could just as easily have captured the exasperation I felt about any number of things: the state of the house, his refusal to nap even though he was exhausted, the fact that I wanted to write so badly but it seemed impossible.

This incident made me wonder what different aspects of my life would sound like if they were recorded.

Yikes.

What about the curt one or two word exchanges between my husband and me when we've made it through the trenches of raising little ones, weathered the death of our son, but now find ourselves, again, sleep-deprived and stretched thin? Would the brittleness and lack of generosity come through in our voices? Probably.

What about the way I shore myself up to warmly (yet NOT TOO enthusiastically) greet my teenager, only to be met (again) with either silence or disapproval? Would the audio pick up my sigh or the immature "Ugh!" I let out as I turn out of her doorway, trying to remind myself, "It's not about me. It's not about me"?

Then there's the audio loop in my head. "You're almost 50 years old. Why didn't you maintain a career? Why don't you exercise? Are you ever going to write another book?"

Exasperation is okay. I'm human. You're human. So are Tim and Margaret. Even little Andrew had a heap of frustrations to deal with yesterday. Sometimes the recordings (on our phones or in our heads) will be more positive than others.

He and I ended hour 12.5 of the day (but who was counting?) with a warm bath, long-john pajamas, and my ruffling his hair, which is looking a little bit like a mullet. He smelled so good. I didn't know when I put him down whether he'd be waking us up at 12, 3, or 5 in the morning, but I was glad we'd made it through another day. Not because I'm trying to wish his childhood away, the way I think I did with the older two, but because that's what life is, a collection of days.

Some are beautiful, some are exasperating, and most are a combination of both.

A Love of Reading

I go up and down the thrift shop aisles, familiar covers catching my eye. I've donated so many books to this store over the years, I wouldn't be surprised to see my name inside a few of them.

My little stack in the cart grows. Out of the whole pile, only one of the the titles is new to me.

Does it feel wasteful re-buying the same titles I've read and donated before?

Not at all, because something extraordinary is happening in my house. My daughter has found her love of reading again! Despite a 24-7 bombardment of social media, and days filled with school and sports, she still makes time to read books. I know too well that it's MUCH easier to scroll on my phone these days than open a book, so I'm even more impressed by her desire to read, especially after a few years of not reading much at all. That she wants to discuss what she's read, using words like symbol, narrator, and setting is almost too much for me to handle.

Love. Love. Love.

I had barely hoped this would happen, because she never showed interest in reading those books that meant a lot to me as a little girl: The Secret Garden, Gone With the Wind, Heidi, etc.

But now we are sharing grown-up books and it's delightful.

How did this happen, when it seems as if so much of schooling actually sucks the joy of learning out of kids?

One teacher.

Her 10th grade English teacher spends the beginning of every class sharing a book with her students. Five minutes is all it takes to give a brief synopsis of the book and share what makes it interesting. Students are free to take a turn doing the same, and Margaret's must-read list has grown.

Today she sent me a link of 3 more books to look out for.

So you bet these books are going home with me today. If out of these, she just reads one or two, I'll be happy. And maybe seeing her read more will get me off of Facebook for a while so I can do the same.

Why I'm a Great Mother

The day before our Christmas trip to Mexico, I hired a sitter so I could do all of the last minute things needed for travel outside the country with a baby.

So naturally, I ended up wandering the aisles of my favorite thrift store, McDonald's ice tea in hand, crossing nothing off my list.

I am a registered germaphobe, so it's more than a little surprising that I'd choose to go to this particular place in the heart of cold season, busy and crowded as it was, and full of used stuff.

More remarkable, still, was that I let my guard down and glanced over into the toy aisle, an aisle that had been off-limits in my 10+ years of thrifting. Jack and Margaret knew not to put a single toe in that aisle, with its plastic items strewn about, likely covered with baby slobber, e-coli, and boogers. Sure, the loudspeaker periodically chastens parents to keep their kids with them at all times, but no one enforces it, and the toy aisle often serves as the perfect place to dump littles off while mom shops a few aisles over.

And on this cold December day, the aisle was hopping and hacking-- full of kids who were likely too sick to go to school the last day before vacation.

But it was in that petri dish of a toy aisle that I spotted IT.

Back in our (germy) church nursery near the turn of the millennium, my kids played with a large plastic "garden" you could sit in.  Not that it made much sense, but the garden consisted of a plastic picket fence, some spinning plastic birds, flowers, and a mailbox. They'd make a bee-line for it, play with the plastic flowers, and put a germy plastic letter in and out of the pretend mail box for hours.

When I spotted it, I wanted my late-in-life miracle baby to have his own plastic garden to play with, once I'd cleaned it up, of course. Except it meant venturing into the germ zone, in December, one day before a major milestone family vacation.

Why didn't I just lick a urinal at Dulles Airport?

Shoring up my resolve, I darted in, then hoisted the behemoth onto my cart. As I tried to wheel it toward check out, something else caught my eye. Bags and bags of ball pit balls. Because if Miracle Baby wasn't enamored enough with the garden and its 15+ years of embedded germs and memories and fun, I could fill it with ball pit balls! Looking back, I see that this was the moment when my senses completed their leave-taking, because there is nothing, nothing, NOTHING more disgusitng than ball pit balls of unknown origin. Haven't we all heard the tales of horrible things found in ball pits? Syringes? Vomit? The wayward turd?

But what (I imagine) Miracle Baby wants, Miracle Baby gets, so I threw the bags of balls on top of the "garden" and made my way out of the store. A fierce winter wind threatened to topple us, but we made it to the car.

Except it wasn't my car.

Shit.

I forgot my husband took my big car that day and left me with his small Toyota

I didn't know how I'd get the garden in the car, but I knew it would involve touching it more than I already had. And my hand sanitizer was running low by that point.

Getting it in the car would likely involve full body contact. I needed a plan. The trunk? No amount of shoving could make it fit. The front seat? Even with the seat fully reclined and pushed back, it wasn't even close. I'd have to somehow get it in the back seat, even though that looked impossible. With all the shoving and maneuvering, I'd already worked up a sweat even though it was bitterly cold outside. I was  making a spectacle of myself.

The back seat was my last chance.

I almost gave up, turned around, and re-donated it to the thrift shop.

Finally, I did what no parent ever wants to do and unhooked the baby's carseat-- so expertly installed by my husband-- and tossed it aside.

That provided enough room to POTENTIALLY get the garden in the car. I turned it on its side and shimmied up against its nasty plastic edge. Nothing short of full body contact and repeated thrusting could get it in the car. The plastic grazed my lips. Ugh. I wrapped my arms around it and humped that garden with determination until I managed to wedge it in enough to shut both car doors.

Victory!

I eventually got it out and cleaned it enough to set it up in the house. After school, Margaret walked in and her face lit up, "I remember that garden! That was my favorite thing to play with in the nursery! Did it come with the piece of plastic mail?"

"No."

"That was the best part."

Sigh.

Caught not Taught: More Lessons from My Mother

One day I was a young college student, thinking that my mother would always be there to pick me up if I fell down; the next I was a motherless daughter.

In the decade between when I lost her and when I began having children of my own, I had plenty of time to consider what her mothering meant to me. In realizing that only 18 years of memories had to last a lifetime, I soon became aware of what stood out as important, and what would most influence me as a mother. 

Rather than any grand gestures, the secure gift of her presence impacted me the most, and I try to give that to my children despite a distraction-filled life. 

You see, she was the mom who would stop what she was doing to play board games with rowdy teenagers, or cut our boyfriends’ hair on a tall stool in the kitchen. That’s also where we’d find her when we wanted to talk. Speaking of kitchens, ours was a messy one, papers piled high the counters, yet there was always room for one more person at the table at dinnertime. 

Remembering her generosity with her time and her heart made me want to parent the way she did, in a loving and relaxed way. When I became a parent, and my own competitiveness and perfectionism threatened to sink me, I’d remember my mother. If I got wrapped around the axel about my daughter not sleeping in her crib, I’d remember the comfort folding myself into my mother’s soft body in bed when I didn’t feel well. When I’d get embarrassed that my son acted silly in class, I’d remember a mother who never made me feel bad for the low marks on my own report card under the heading, “Exhibits Self Control.”

I could remind myself that sleep methods would come and go, and report cards would end up tucked away in a folder somewhere, but being a present mom, not a perfect one, could last a lifetime, even after I was gone.

What she gave me most, in life and in death, I believe, is perspective. The perspective to realize that a child in the bed now and then, does not lead to an adult in the bed. That, like me, my kids would someday learn to exhibit self control. And that while I felt much calmer with clutter-free countertops, clutter wouldn’t detract one bit from my kids’ childhood. 

And, unlike my friends who still had their mothers. I knew that it could all vanish in an instant. 

Sad as that sounds, those who experience loss are often given this unsought gift of knowing what is important. Instead of running myself ragged trying to construct for my children the “perfect childhood,” lest it all be ripped away in an instant, perspective gave me permission to create tiny rituals and play to my strengths, which is what my mother did.

Mom would pull a large jar of Peter Pan peanut butter out of a brown paper grocery bag and place it wordlessly on the counter. It was a silent challenge. Whichever kid noticed first would grab the jar, open it, and scoop a finger full of peanut butter out, earning bragging rights. Skiing in the alps, it wasn’t, but it taught me that the tiny rituals are what knit families together. I may be much less laid back than my mom was, but I can institute Ice Cream for Breakfast Day on the first snow day of the year, make up silly sayings as I drive around town with my kids, tell the same old stories as I unpack the Christmas ornaments each year, and stay up later than I want to if my teenager finally feels like talking.

Mom was a lackluster costume maker and a mediocre gift giver. But she could decorate the heck out of a house and patiently read the same chapter books over and over. She practiced hospitality in our home and wherever she went with her big smile and ready laugh.  Most importantly, she saw her three kids as distinct individuals, not just extensions of herself. 

I can't bake cookies worth a darn, and the family is much happier on nights when Daddy cooks dinner. I get grumpy when the house is a mess, and you wouldn't want to talk to me in the morning before I've had my 3rd cup of tea. My hair braiding skills are just as bad as my math ones. But I can find  humor in most circumstances, I apologize often, and I'm pretty good at seeing someone else's point of view. I am extremely loyal, will keep confidences, and am a generous ice cream scooper and snuggler. 

The way I remember my mom-- she was a flesh and blood person who loved hard and didn't try to do or be all things to all people. She was enough. 

The gift of her presence, and the impact of tiny rituals, not grand gestures, whether they were based on her religious faith or even a silly jar of peanut butter are what I remember most, and what helped me formulate my own To Do/To Be list as a mom.

1) Be present

2) Have Perspective

3) Play to your strengths

4) LOVE

Of course, some days are easier than others.

What would your To Do/To Be list look like?

Redeemable

Found this little coupon recently that I guess Jack gave me at some point for a birthday or other holiday. "One date of your choice with Jack. Expires: never."

I sure wish I'd redeemed it so we'd have another memory together.

But what a "date" it will be when we are together again!

p.s. If you have coupons like this sitting around, I suggest redeeming them before the teen years. I tried to get Margaret to pay up for "70 minutes of snuggle time" last week but she was not interested! :)

p.p.s. Look at her grumpy little face in her two year old portrait! Ha!

The Wall

We've hit the wall.

I wasn't sure when or if it would happen-- that feeling that if you don't get a good night's sleep you might lose your mind. When you stagger through the house like a zombie, communicating only in grunts and groans. When, in the darkness, hope is hard to conjure.

I thought I was pretty close to the wall this summer in Connecticut as I paced up and down a country road in my pj's at 5:30 am, a screaming Andrew in my arms. If I dared slow down, the screaming got worse, so I speed-walked, bouncing him back and forth in my arms, eventually watching a gorgeous sunrise I would have rather missed.

But that was nothing compared to where Tim and I find ourselves now. If you look at recent photos of Tim, he looks tired and gaunt. I look tired and whatever the opposite of gaunt is. Being tired makes me hungry.

For months 2-5 Andrew slept well at night. I didn't dare mention it here, for fear of the jinx. Even our pediatrician just had us nod at the 2 and 4 months appointments when asked about night-time sleep. He held up his hand to keep us from uttering the words, "He's sleeping well" aloud. Andrew got up once a night during that period, and that worked for us.

Then, at 5 1/2 months we started daycare, Andrew got his first cold, and it turned into croup. Naturally, the night-time routine would be disrupted. But now we are on week 3 of that, and we can't get our mojo back. His 6 month appointment is today, so the doc will tell us it's time to get rid of everything that used to work for us anyway: the tight velcro swaddles, and the miracle worker  Rock and Play that sits next to our bed and allows us to tend to him right away before he goes full-on ape-shit. Its womb-like, angled surface was awesome for a baby with reflux, and the proximity was perfect for quick feedings.

There's a perfectly good crib in his room down the hall. We will be introducing him to it now. So he'll be un-swaddled, un-angled, and without his mom there to pop in a pacifier whenever it pops out. We wish we could find a way to help him acclimate him to his new surroundings that did not involve screaming and waking up the whole house. Poor Margaret, who as a busy high schooler puts in 18 hour days with school, sports, and then homework, doesn't need to be kept up by crying all night long.

Most nights Tim and I take turns hiding in the basement with Andrew when he won't go back to sleep. I whisper-beg him to be content to snuggle up with me the way Margaret and Jack did, collapsing into my warm body in bed and falling asleep. I want to say, "What could be better than to sleep with mom? Win-Win." Nope. I wish he would let me rock him in the roomy recliner, so I could doze off, too. But he insists on more deliberate movement. The circular path around and around the couch. The bobbing this way and that, and walking up and down, up and down the stairs. Occasionally I slow down and try to get horizontal on whatever surface is nearby: bed, couch, floor. I eschew a blanket because I don't want him to think I'm actually going to sleep. Last night I spent some time with my right leg partially covered by a baby washcloth in an attempt to stay warm.

Sometimes, I give up and turn on the lights, place toys in front of him, and let him play. He sits up straight as a school master, and quickly finds his grin. The cries turn to coos within seconds as he gets down to the business of play. I smile at the cuteness, then wonder how much more of this we can take.

The thing is, I have PERSPECTIVE that I didn't have with the first two kids. I KNOW this stage won't last forever. We will get through it. I also know this isn't the end of the world, because we've been there, too. But I also have the perspective that sleep issues, while HUGE, are only the beginning of the parenting issues we will face with Andrew. Can I get an AMEN, middle school parents? That's something that first-time parents don't always grasp when they are knee-deep in diapers and onesies.

And that makes me feel more tired. And old as shit.

I've never been a morning person, but staying up all night with a baby makes me grateful for sunrise when it comes, and for the warm cup (or three) of tea that awaits, because that means the night is finally over.

"Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning." Psalm 30:5

Happy 6 month birthday, Miracle Baby!

Homecoming!

My sweet girl went to Homecoming this weekend. Andrew tried to dress up for the occasion in a Polo outfit, but he was popping out of his pants. I know the feeling, wee one.

Contain This

We are deep into the receptacle stage of parenting right now.

Throughout the house, there are places to park the baby when we need to put him down. Bouncy seat in the family room. Exersaucer and high chair in the kitchen. Johnny Jumper in the bathroom doorway. Bumbo in the living room.

I remember when Jack was little, I strictly limited his time in the exersaucer, not wanting it to inhibit his development. Now I'm just hoping to get Andrew though the next stage of childhood without being licked to his limit by Charlie the dog during floor time, rolling somewhere unsafe, and, well, these Hello Fresh dinners won't cook themselves.

Sometimes we just need a safe place to put him.

At five months, he's now big enough for this fun seat my (much younger) cousin told me about, that hangs on our kitchen counter:

 (affiliate link)

Remember this stage? He can't quite sit up unassisted, but he really wants to. He starts out okay, then does a forward bend to make any yogi proud, tilts off to one side, and ends with a surprise (to him) landing, looking up at the ceiling.

When Jack and Margaret eventually sat up on their own, I was blown away by how straight they kept their backs. To a baby, posture is serious business and could teach this mama a thing or two about not slouching over the computer.

It will be nice when Andrew can sit up and all of these plastic receptacles can be passed down to the next child (in a DIFFERENT family,  mind you), but for now, they keep the little guy happy.

However, carpet time will always be the best time, because it comes with built-in fun--- FEET.

In the Trenches in the Dog Days of Summer

When the kids were little, it seemed as if all hell would break lose when Tim would leave town, but when I was away, Tim would say things like, "We made a quick trip downtown so I could show the kids what a real Picasso looks like. There was a parking space right in front, and the stroller made everything so easy!" Then he would leave town again, and I'd be like, "Well, we all have diarrhea. And croup. Bright spot? We had a productive discussion as to whether diarrhea should be called #1 1/2 or #3."

The best/worst example of this phenomenon was when he got an extended assignment for his firm in Paris.  I was pregnant, with a sick toddler and a my own case of walking pneumonia. Oh, and my rib was cracked from coughing.

I'm sure Tim dreaded calling home.

But for some reason that didn't stop him from telling me about the great wine selection and how at one restaurant the staff rolled a cart to the table upon which sat, "The biggest cheese wheel I've ever seen!" I didn't even know what that meant, but in my diminished and desperate state, upon hearing that my husband was enjoying wine, freedom, the City of Light, and an enormous quantity of CHEESE, I was fraught with jealousy.

I share this because on Saturday, while I was away at a fantastic blog conference, almost 14 years after the cheese wheel incident, I think we are more than even.

I received this email from Tim while I was sitting in the warm sunshine, connecting with old friends and new:

BTW, I came home after dropping Margaret off and Shadow had got into
the trash and eaten several boxes of raisins.  I made her throw up with
hydrogen peroxide (there were raisins in the vomit).  But within seconds
Charlie was chowing down on the peroxide-laced vomit.  So I put him inside
while Shadow barfed outside, only to find when I returned to the kitchen
that Charlie had barfed and was promptly snacking on the twice recycled
vomit (is that like double baked potatoes?).  Definitely could have used an
extra set of hands!

Things have since calmed down.

Hope you're having fun.  Look forward to having you home tomorrow.

Of course my first concern was for the puppies, because raisins can be lethal for dogs. Little Charlie only weighs 7 lbs, so the prospect of his ingesting even a single raisin was terrifying. Fortunately they are both fine!

Once we were able to determine that they would be okay, I was able to laugh at Tim's email.

I mean, I think the phrase "peroxide-laced vomit" earns him his stripes when it comes to being in the trenches solo, for sure. His story has several moving parts including peril and bodily fluids, so let's just give him props right here.

I was glad he was on duty, that the situation turned out well, AND that I was over an hour away from home.

p.s. The two happy pups are cuddled at my feet right now.

p.p.s. What do you think about the diarrhea question?

Brief Encounter

Sunday night after Margaret's soccer game, we were looking for a place to pick up dinner. We ended up going to Jack's favorite restaurant, a Greek place, where we hadn't gone in a few years because Margaret doesn't like it (we picked up dinner for her at the Taco Bell drive-thru).

Tim went into the small restaurant to order. While he was waiting, an adorable 4 year old boy, eating dinner with his mom, ran up to him and hugged him around his legs saying, "Daddy! Daddy!" This caught Tim off guard, but it was still so sweet. The mother smiled and said, "I guess you really look like a Dad."

We have many memories in that restaurant, centering around our own sweet boy and his love of a good gyro. This is a new memory to enjoy.

I'd have to agree, Tim does look like a dad, and fatherhood has always looked good on him!

What Have We Done?

It's day 2 with the new puppy.

Tim, Margaret, Shadow and I are in the "What the heck have we done?"stage. Let's hope it passes quickly!

We do NOT like change, so it takes us a while to warm up to new situations.  Good thing Charlie is the CUTEST PUPPY EVER. He is playful, cuddly, and charming.

But...

The poo!

The pee!

The sleeping in our bed because we are too tired to crate train him, even though we want to/intend to.

The chewing on my shoe while my foot is in it.

For me the hardest part is waking up so early. Shadow and I had the whole "Let's go back to sleep thing" mastered. Getting up two hours earlier than usual means I'm extra crabby and extra hungry.

I've set up shop in the kitchen all day so Charlie can feel safe and contained. Funny how I am such a homebody, but when I can't go anywhere, I want to go somewhere.

Shadow has quickly gotten tired of Charlie sitting on her head, peeing on her bed, and my favorite: chewing on her toenails. Here's a pic of the toenail situation in action:

Do you like Shadow's, "I am not amused" face?

Shadow just wants to be left alone, and at this point has chosen to hide in the foyer on the other side of a baby gate. I think she just needs to give Charlie one big growl to let him know how she feels, but she's too sweet for that.

When Margaret and I were talking about our adjustment yesterday, it made me realize this is much like bringing a second child home from the hospital.

Remember this?

Your first child suddenly looks like a GIANT in comparison, and you wonder how he/she grew up overnight.

You are tired and you don't know the new baby well enough to know what makes him/her tick, which stresses you out.

Family routines are disrupted, and you sometimes wonder 1) If you have made a huge mistake 2) If you will possibly be able to love and care for the second one as much as the first 3) If the age gap is just too great for them to ever bond and play together 4) If you will ever leave the house again.

So that's where we are today, and my experience with mothering Jack and Margaret tells me that it will ALL work out.

Many, many more cute puppy pics to come!

A Retail Tale

I tried not to write about it, knowing that most people tweeted and Facebooked their reactions bright and early on Sunday morning. Even I dusted off my twitter account with this tweet, which found its way onto Mashable:

But you know me-- I've never been current with anything, as evidenced by my stirrup pants in the mid-90's.

I want to share with you the bizarre experience (non-experience) of hitting the Lilly Pulitzer sale at Target Sunday morning.

I am not a Lilly girl.

I've never had a stitch of Lilly Pulitzer clothing, although I must admit I've admired the cute and colorful little girls' shifts for a long time, and I like preppy clothes. When Margaret began plotting and planning for the Target sale several months ago, I learned that Lilly is reaching a new generation.

Margaret made a wish list, counted the money she had saved up, and even negotiated with me an advance on the 3 remaining baby teeth she has left to lose.

She read blogs for sale day strategies: "Hang out near the dressing rooms to find what others have discarded," and found the store phone number so we could call ahead to check the store hours.

As a parent, I enjoy getting into what interests my kids. With Jack that meant listening to the ins in outs of Legos and the Harry Potter series. For Margaret, lately, it has been learning new makeup techniques, finding out that full brows are back in, as long as they are "on point" and yes, getting up extra early on a Sunday for a special sale at Target. And, if a cute and colorful Lilly Pulitzer home accessory or bangle came my way, I certainly wouldn't spurn it.

Well, you probably know how this tale goes. We got to the store before it opened, joined a surprisingly long line in the parking garage, and waited our turn to enter. The doors opened at 8:00 and our feet crossed the threshold at 8:03. Though the glass doors at 8:02 I could see patrons mouthing something to us. Were they really saying, "It's all gone?" What?

It was kind of like when a nice old man stands on the side of the road waving wildly and saying something to you, but you don't understand what he means until 100 yards further up the road when your path is blocked by a fallen tree. He has tried to warn you, but you don't put two and two together until you see it for yourself.

What Margaret and I saw was one small, empty rack in the women's department and one in the girls' department. We saw maybe 8-10 people checking out, floral items piled high on the conveyor belts.

"We might as well try the dressing room thing," said my defeated girl, but when we made our way there, no one was trying anything on. It had gone straight from the racks, to the lines, and was making its way out the door, before 8:05 a.m.

I had been thinking of how smart Lilly Pulitzer was to court teens with low priced items (the shorts Margaret wanted were only $12) and establish a relationship with them while they were young. It would have been a great move on their part, especially for young, label-conscious teens whose moms never introduced them to the brand and are not willing to pay boutique prices for clothes. Perhaps when those same teens grew up, they would already be loyal customers.

Margaret was most peeved at the ladies dressed head-to-toe in Lilly, who heaped the clothes on the belts, "They can afford them already; why do they need to buy the stuff I can afford?" she asked.

But as I stood there, a different thought came to me: that there was never any intention of having supply meet demand. To do so would dilute the designer brand. I'm not sure what the intention was, but the experience left me annoyed and Margaret mad and feeling foolish. I wanted to refuse to ever let her buy anything Lilly Pulitzer.

First world problems, for sure.

After a cup of tea, we headed to church for a little attitude adjustment. Later that evening we found out that a friend had a Lilly shift dress that her daughter had outgrown, so now Margaret is rocking the pink and she didn't have to spend a dime.