Good Help

I was upstairs, giving Joel his bottle. As he drank, I removed his puffy diaper, reached over to the diaper basket, and grabbed a handful of air.

Of course. All of his diapers were downstairs in the laundry room. I could cart Joel back downstairs as he sucked on his bottle, but I didn't. Oh, no.

This is what older brothers are for.

I bellowed, "Owen," and with a flash of horror, realized that the name of Danny DeVito's character from Throw Momma From the Train was...Owen. I never realized it until that exact moment.

You see, as I yelled Owen's name, I sounded exactly like the spittled, bearded crone that tormented DeVito's character to the point that he (you know) wished to throw her off a train.

Another moment for the baby book.

Owen eventually made his way upstairs and said, "Uhhhh-AHAHHH."

Curse you, I say, CURSE YOU Curious George.

Owen finds it both clever and hilarious to talk like a monkey, with a series of grunts and pointing gestures. It makes me want to drink myself to sleep.

"Owen," I said, "I need you to do me a favor."

"Uh-huh, Uh-huh," Curious Owen responded.

"I need you to go downstairs, and get a diaper for Joel. They're by the washing machines."

"Okay, Mom! That's a plan," replied my son, clearly delighted to be able to help. He then, for no helpful or logical reason whatsoever, turned off the fan, and turned on the lights in the empty bathroom.

I swallowed my annoyance and returned my attention to Joel. He still was sleepily drinking his bottle, and pinching his scrotum in a manner that looked unpleasant.

I waited. And waited. And waited. I heard crashes. Water gurgling. An intense, highly detailed soliloquy coming from the living room about nibbling fish and big sharks wearing shoes. What I was NOT hearing was anything that sounded remotely like diaper retrieval.

My thoughts were murderous. If Joel finished his bottle, and I had to go downstairs, lugging the half naked, milk-drunk baby, it would be ugly. Certainly, if nothing else, my sentence would start something like, "Owen, I SWEAR TO GOD, if you do not have a diaper..."

Luckily, Owen made it upstairs, beaming ear to ear. Yes, the diaper was an expensive, night time diaper. It would do.

And yes, Owen was wearing his pants and underwear backwards, having pulled up his pants, All By Himself.

And yes, when I walked into the bathroom, the entire counter was sticky with soap. As Owen washed his hands, All By Himself, he had managed to dump about half a gallon of soap. All. By. Himself.

I love Owen, and I'm grateful for his efforts. But I'm telling you, you just can't get good help these days.

Where I Want to Be

A comment I encounter frequently, often by well-meaning, older women is, "Someday you'll look back and wish that your kids were still little."

I get the concept. Time flies, childhood is fleeting, this time is precious. I get it. I do.

However, I reject the notion that this is the pinnacle of my life, and that everything is downhill from here. I reject the idea that it is not okay to occasionally feel bored, frustrated, or downright exhausted. I reject the whole notion that I will never be as happy, as content, or as needed as I am right now.

Because the whole idea, dear readers, is bogus.

I look back and literally have to catch my breath when looking at Owen's baby pictures. He was so squishy, so utterly delicious. He would sleep in my arms for hours: a warm, sweet-smelling blanket. Every milestone--first smile, first steps, first laugh, filled my heart with warm, gushy luuuuuuv.

When Joel smiles upon seeing his beloved bottle, or when he rubs his soft face against my shoulder,catlike and methodical, it is a purely physical response. I feel the love flow from my head to my toes, a jolt of electricity, a rush of pure adoration. It's powerful. It's biological.

Yet, I do not wish for my children to remain babies. I love Owen exactly the age he is right now, and I don't look back. I love Joel exactly the age he is now, and I don't look back.

When the boys are in elementary school, and our lives are a blur of homework, Cub Scouts, and soccer practices, that is exactly where I want to be.

When the boys are in middle school, beautiful in their awkward orthodontia and too-big feet, I will love them because they need advocates, and they are mine. That is exactly where I want to be.

When the boys are in high school, and Paul and I are too strict, too out-of-touch, and too hopelessly uncool, that is exactly where I want to be.

And yes, when we're sitting around the table during a break from college, and the boys are speaking to us with the authority and disdain only a nineteen-year-old can muster, I will look them in the eye and pretend that everything they are saying is fresh and original. It is exactly where I want to be.

When they are out of the house for good, I will certainly have moments where I will miss the tender softness of Joel's hand in mine, or Owen's smile of pride when he does something "all by himself." But I will not live in the past, and I will be content.

Because living peacefully, regardless of the season of my motherhood? That is exactly where I want to be.

Dance, Dance Revolution.

Driving home, I was listening to "Prairie Home Companion." Inexplicably, Steve Martin was on there, playing the banjo and singing country songs. I looked back, and there was Joel,in his car seat, twitching and bobbing his head in his own version of dancing.

I've mentioned before that Joel likes to dance, but it bears repeating. Somebody with my DNA dances. To me, this is as surprising as if Joel suddenly starting flying or speaking Japanese.

To me, my lack of dancing is not so much because of lack of skill, but because of inhibition. I'm concerned about doing it wrong, or not having the correct moves; consequently, I'm the one at the party with an inordinate interest in the punch.

I don't really have secret desires for Joel to be the next Billy Elliot or Baryshnikov. In all actuality, the life of the professional male dancer is not the easiest path to tread. It would be great, however, if he could cut the rug, and, like the cliche goes, "dance like nobody is watching."

My cousin's husband, Matt is like that. He's in the Army, and is a hard-working, focused person. He has an Irish complexion and keeps his hair high and tight. This is why it is the most delightful, unexpected thing to see him bust out the dance moves at weddings. He moves with grace, humor, and a complete fearlessness. I'm not saying he could perform at the Apollo, but he can do the Hammer dance, knows all of Michael Jackson's (pre-bizarro) signature moves, and can even do a mean swing dance.

I honor the comfort he has in his own skin, and in the sheer joy in moving. I envy it, too, because I am never able to let go enough to feel that same sense of abandon.

This is why I hope Joel remains a dancer. I want him to be fearless and carefree, and to use his body as an instrument of joy, not repression. I want him to dance just because he can.

Life Lessons

Two girlfriends and I went to see Kathy Griffin last night. Her act is like gossiping with a catty friend, except with lots more f-bombs and references to Bravo TV shows.

In all actuality, we probably would have got more of the jokes had we known the ins and outs of the "Real Housewives," franchise. Judging from the hoots from the audience, by not watching this show, we have deprived ourselves big time. (Disclaimer: I did see the season finale of the New Jersey addition, and it's easy to see why this series would attract those with...flamboyant tastes.)

As is often the case, I enjoyed spending time with my girlfriends more than the actual event. We had a long drive home to talk about all sorts of things, and since we all have children, we talked about them once or twice. OKAY, we talked about them ALL THE TIME. Occupational hazard, I guess.

My friend Kristen and her husband recently attended a wedding in Bermuda, and got all their paperwork together before leaving the boys with her parents for the week. Included in the paperwork was the "God Forbid," letter---a letter to her sons in the event of her death. In the letter, she detailed all the life lessons and guiding principles she hoped to pass on to her boys. Just in case.

She said that the letter wrote itself, and she was glad to have done it. I think it's a fantastic idea.

Like her, I hope that my boys never need to read such a letter until they are much, much, much older. I also hope that the letter would simply confirm all that they witnessed in my words, my choices, my attitude, and my spirit. I hope they will close the letter and say, "Yup, that's Mom."

I'm thus starting a new occasional series to this blog: Life Lessons I hope the boys will read these when they are old enough, and, more importantly, will act on these principles throughout their lives.

Life Lesson: Dignity

You are not better than anybody else. Don't get me wrong. You two are pretty amazing guys. You're funny, smart, handsome, joyful. God created you in His mind long before blessing me with your presence. But, you are not better than anybody else.

God crafted everybody else, too. He loves you as much as he loves your teachers, your friends, your enemies, and people living on the other side of the planet. There is no rank, no caste system, and no ruling class. The sooner you know that, the better.

This plays out when you are at a restaurant. When a server asks for your order, use a complete sentence. Do not grunt out, "Dinner #2," your eyes facing your menu. Rather, look at the server, who works hard on his or her feet, all day, and say, "I would like Dinner #2, please."

You aren't better than anybody else. The people who serve your food, clean your car, cut your hair, or serve you coffee, are God's handiwork. He smiled with delight the day each person was born. Remember that.

Every person you encounter was once a helpless baby. Every person you encounter has joys, fears, hopes, dreams, and struggles. Every person you encounter will someday breathe his or her last breath, and die.

Some people may have more or less education than you. Some people may have more or less money, physical ability, attractiveness, or wisdom than you. It doesn't matter. You are not better than anybody else.

You two are my heart, my soul, my love, my pride. Remember that every person you meet deserves dignity. After all, everybody is God's heart, soul, love, and pride.

Pockets

When Owen was a baby, we signed him up for "Baby and Me" swim lessons. We paid forty dollars so we could bob in the frigid water and listen to Owen cry and howl.

Good times.

The class was taught by a distracted lifeguard-dude who was getting married, and was apparently the first person in the history of mankind to do so, because he never stopped talking about his upcoming nuptials. What he didn't do, however, was teach anything.

We would bob around the water with our babies, and periodically he would come up to my crying son and demand that he blow bubbles or kick his feet. Other than that, he left us to our own devices, and I spent most of the time simpering to Owen, smiling like a deranged clown, explaining that this was FUN and we were having a GREAT TIME.

Owen gazed at me, and if he could speak, he would surely have said, "Get me out of this water, Devil Woman."

Not surprisingly, we didn't do swim lessons last year.

This year, however, we are trying again. Owen is in a preschool class that meets in the evening. Paul and I meet at the pool. One night, he's in the water with Owen while I'm with Joel, and then we switch off the next night.

It's fantastic. The class is taught by an enthusiastic young man who told us three time in five minutes that he attends Virginia Tech. Go Hokie Nation! He sings songs with the kids, and teaches them actual skills like kicking and paddling, and breathing underwater. Owen is in heaven. He's a happy guy, but when we're singing and splashing, he is rapturous.

When it was Paul's night, Joel and I hung out in the baby pool. He cruised along the wall, stopped, smiled, and continued on his way. Periodically, he would splash, and laugh out loud when the water hit his face. He did his little Bobcat Goldthwait yelp, where he squeals, "Ga Ga GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" and bobs his head. He also did his little Joel dance, which thrills me to no end, because, just possibly, through a genetic mutation, I may have sired a child with...rhythm.

Swim lessons are a gift to our family because it's a pocket of time where we are solely focused on playing with the kids. There's no dinner to cook or dishes to unload or plans to make. We're like a school of dolphin, gliding and jumping through the water for no other reason than to feel the cool, perfect splash.

Is Facebook Church?

I just read this article entitled "Is Facebook Church?" and it was like reading my mind, except it was far more concise and far better written.

The author, Jon M. Sweeney, discusses how he feels that he is a more authentic self when he broadcasts his "status updates" to his Facebook friends than when he is chit-chatting with fellow parishioners during the coffee hour at church. He goes on to explain that through Facebook, he has been able to quickly share and receive prayer requests, and consequently knows that there are caring people interceding for him and the people he loves.

Through Facebook, he is able to share his thoughts and start conversations, growing from the insights and experiences of others.

He even throws scripture in the mix with the ol' "For where two or three people are gathered in my name, I am there among them" (Matthew 18:20). The people gather virtually, but they are gathering nevertheless.

Sounds a lot like church to me.

Yet, Mr. Sweeney adds that there is no worship involved with Facebook (which is kinda one of the BIG POINTS of church), and Facebook is exclusive. You get to invite people in, and (possibly) leave others out. Church should be open to all.

Overall, an interesting read.

Here's my two cents:

I am more confident when I am writing something than I will ever be when chit-chatting. I can fake it, but it is not my gift. There are people I've known at my church for over three years, and our conversations remain stilted and surface level.

Yet, I have also established relationships with people through Facebook that have blossomed into true, snort-out-your-nose, unabashed friendships, despite the fact that we rarely meet in person.

So, what is the difference? There are two crucial ingredients: Time and Confidence.

My Facebook friendships have developed over time. Through status updates and pictures, I get a window into another life. A comment here, a comment there, and we're moving past the cobwebs of chit-chat, into the bright light of actual conversation.

All of my other friendships also developed over time. When I became a stay-at-home mom, I tried to nail down as many "friendship appointments" as possible, because I knew that I needed continuity to open up and become my "real self" for a friend. So, I met one friend for a walk every week. I attended story time at the library every week. And, as I had thought, over time I escaped from my cautious cocoon to become the garish butterfly of my true self.

The fact is, it's not my church's fault that I haven't made some connections yet, because I haven't set up regular appointments with my church. I don't attend a weekly Bible study, nor am I member of a small group. I will do any job they ask of me, and I've certainly made connections with the other mothers through VBS and the nursery. But, due to my own inaction, I have not allowed my fellow (non-parent) parishioners know my "status updates."

The second element is confidence. Again, I will happily write about waxing my eyebrows or the fecal matter of my children, because when I'm on Facebook or writing this blog, I address my imaginary audience, which laughs heartily at every quip and nods their heads in agreement at my various insights. I believe that my Facebook friends are in my corner. Thus, I am reasonably fearless in being myself.

How sad that I do not see my family of believers in this same light. Why would I assume that churchgoers would not be in my corner? Okay, I've spent enough time with believers to know that they are just as capable of gossip and nonsense as any other group of people. That doesn't mean that I get to put up my dukes and assume the worst.

It all comes down to risk. I avoid "setting appointments" at church, because I'm afraid that I cannot be me---the me that I love. I hate being misunderstood, so I fear the raised eyebrow or the awkward explanation of a comment. I fear being judged, and I fear not hitting the mark.

These are excuses, perhaps, and they are certainly limiting my joy and my opportunities to connect.

Thoughts?

Quality Parenting.

Don't engage in power struggles with your kids. Riiiiiiiiiiiiight.

Owen was flopped on the floor. It's naptime. He was resting on Green Pillow and clutching Big Teddy. Joel was crying in the other room, the normal bitter, bitter tears of early naptime. (I never fail to betray that boy.)

I said to Owen, "Please get in bed."

"No, I'm just going to---"

Oh, snap.

There will be no explaining. I taught middle school too long to hear yet another explanation for bad behavior. It never failed when I told certain youngsters to spit out their gum or return to their seats. Instead of compliance, I was in for a lengthy discourse about why they were chewing gum or the reason they were out of their seats.

Somewhere along the way, these children were taught that a request from an adult is negotiable, and that a good explanation, always, always begins with, "But I was just---" The magic phrase, apparently, makes all pesky adult requests go away.

Now, I understand that blind obedience is not a good thing, and that some adults and authority figures may not have a child's best interests in mind. This is an unfortunate thing. However, most of the time, adults request things of children for a reason, and do not need the extended remix about why the behavior occurred in the first place. It's just not necessary.

(Good grief, I'm becoming a crank. Yesterday, I railed against hippies, and now I'm writing something worthy of a teacher's lounge gripe session. It must be because my cholesterol is elevated. Soon, I'll be buying a cane, just for shaking at the whippersnappers.)

So, Owen started to explain what he was just doing, and I said. "Uh-uh. Go to bed."

He flailed his arms, "But I was just needing the gate so that I can--"

"Uh-Uh. Go to bed now." I know that Owen wanted to tell me that he could not go to bed until he had the gate (for the stairway) in bed with him so he could play with it instead of napping. This, friends, is the hill he's prepared to die upon.

"But I was just--"

"Get in bed now or no stories!"

Owen looked at me. "But I was--"

"GET IN BED NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWW!" And that, loyal readers, is what I like to call Quality Parenting.

Owen answered, completely unfazed, "No! I'm going downstairs, and I'm going to get some milk, and sit at the table, and you can't make me take naps."

Don't smile, don't smile, don't smile. Shit! I smiled. Owen laughed. I reset my face into a stern expression and said:

"Please get in bed."

Owen got in bed, laid with his feet on the pillow and laughed hysterically at his brilliance.

"Okay, goodnight," I said, walking towards the door.

Owen took this moment to go apeshit. "Mooooooomy! Stories! Stories!" This, apparently, is tired toddler for, "Mother, dear, please read me a short story. I would appreciate it ever-so-much."

I hesitated by the doorknob. Owen was making quite a racket. Enough to wake up Joel, who was across the hallway and easily roused. I made an executive decision to go back in the room.

I stomped to the bed and hissed, "If you wake up your brother you will be in soo much trouble. Goodnight."

If I was a liar, I would say that he then fell asleep without further argument. The reality is that I rewarded his rude behavior and stalling techniques with not one, but yes, two stories.

Again, Quality Parenting.

Sometimes, it's survival. Owen's a good kid, and smart too. This is why he plays me so well. In this case, the needs of the many (Joel's sleep, and my sanity) outweighed the needs of the one (Owen's reality check).

This fight will be fought another day.

But for now, two quick stories is a small price to pay for having two hours of blessed, necessary quiet.