A Flickering Warm, Light

Motivation. It alludes me these days.

When I was a teacher, I stayed late, tweaked lesson plans, and served on committees. I endeavored to be professional, knowledgeable, and vibrant.

Then, for awhile, I was that mother. Extended breast feeding and homemade baby food. No TV. Daily enrichment activities and age-appropriate sensory experiences.

This then morphed into writing. I was going to become a freelance writer, a la David Sedaris, Malcolm Gladwell, or Erma Bombeck. I would work from home, crafting words and emotions while my children napped.

And now? It all exhausts me. I've given up on writing being anything more than a hobby, because those that want it work really, really hard. And I don't.  (Also, my kids don't nap anymore).

I am a loving, considerate, caring mother. But I cannot get excited about making fun snacks for preschool or planning parties for my older son's classroom.

When I drop off my kids at camps or school, I don't linger. I don't make small talk with the other mothers, exchanging chit-chat about sleep habits or the best deals on chicken breasts. I keep my sunglasses on. Or I text.

That fire within--to be the best, to be noticed, to be liked and have lots of gold stars--has become a flickering warm light.

I take pride in smaller things. A solid four-mile run. The paint roller gliding across the wall. Knobby knees. A soft hand clutching my thumb.

I don't know if my motivation is hibernating or forever dormant. Perhaps, in light of all the other things going in my life right now, this is the best I can do.

Or maybe, this is what I've always meant to do.

Maybe life is teaching me to care less, so I don't become careless when it really matters.

Does this ring true to anybody? Please share your insights.

Batshit Shopping

I've never been much of an emotional shopper. I tend to focus on eating when I'm having a rough patch (Although after seeing Cheryl's post about deep fried butter, I may never eat again.)

However, this behavior has recently changed. It started with my purchase of a Nook, otherwise known as The Evil Money Suck of Doom.

I've prided myself on using libraries. They are free, they foster life-long learning for my children, and they are conveniently located next to Panera Bread. But recently, my children have seen the library as their own personal climbing gym, and I'm tired to being shushed by the homeless people on the computers.

I learned that our local library will begin checking out titles on Nooks and Kindles. I told myself that an e-reader is a more ecologically sound choice--less paper, less processing, less clutter in my home. And the kicker was that with Nook, you can swap titles with other users (message me your info if you want to do that).

I didn't realize how easy it was to buy titles. It's connected to my wi-fi, and I can be reading a downloaded book in seconds. The first book I read was The Hunger Games.

And now I'm supposed to wait to check out the other two books in the trilogy? Or Jennifer Weiner's newest one? Nuh-uh. Not gonna happen. Click. Click.

I'm book broke.

Like I said, dangerous.

But that's only the start of the madness. My oldest needs school supplies for starting kindergarten this fall. So, we bought him an LL Bean backpack. In theory, this thing will last him until he goes to college. At least that's what Bean would have you believe.

So far, not bad. But wait.




I needed to buy a lunch box. I heard that Bento Boxes were cool, so I did some hunting. After much speculating about plastics vs. stainless steel, simple vs. fancy, I bought him a PlanetBox.

A $70 lunch box. Environmentally sound and designed for optional nutrition, if I follow the guidelines. I may need to enclose a spreadsheet for his teacher in case he needs assistance.

This? Is kinda batshit. I ate out of a paper sack my entire life. But like I said, this is all about my baby starting Kindergarten, me working through some stuff, and the power of the shiny, pretty Interwebs.

So tell me...any ridiculous emotional purchases on your end? Share so I feel less....well, broke.

LGS

I was talking to my mother not long ago about her job as a preschool teacher. She said, "It was another great year, because there was almost no Little Girl Shit."

I nodded my head. I know Little Girl Shit. We all do. Forming teams. Whispering. Cliques.

As a former middle school teacher, girls paraded or slumped into my room. Smug or teary.  Belonging or abandoned. Queen Bees and all that.

I used to think the meanness started around fourth or fifth grade, hitting its peak around eighth grade.

Hardly. Little Girl Shit starts around four. I see it every day.

I recently attended a birthday party for one of Joel's friends. There were a lot of big sisters at this party, and one of them ran up to me. She was in tears, and said, "Mikaela told me that Justin Beiber thinks I'm ugly!" She shook with the injustice of it all.

I considered getting down on my knees and thanking God that I only have boys.

"Boys have their social issues too," Mom reminded me on that phone call. She had one of each.

"I know," I said. "But I want it to be easier for those girls."

"Sometimes you step in, sometimes you help her work it out. But those experiences are part of you, for better or worse." My mom's wise like that.

Shortly after our conversation, Kelly K, asked me to submit a piece to her amazing new site, I Survived the Mean Girls. Kelly is doing something powerful here. She's asking people to share their stories---of being the mean girl, or one's experiences with mean girls. It's similar to the It Gets Better project for LBGT teens, except that this addresses bullying amongst women.

And yes, it does get better.

I talked about one of my first experiences with Little Girl Shit (although my case actually talks about a Mean Girl that grew up to be a Mean Adult). I wish it was my only story, but alas, I had many to choose from.

Please stop by and read my story. And if you're so inclined, consider submitting a piece of your own. Knowledge is power, and you never know who might be reading your words. You never know who might need them. 

Promise and Sparkle

I was in a world-class funk last week. It happens, periodically. Everything feels heavier, and life loses its promise and sparkle for me.

On Friday, I went to Target, killing time before picking Owen up from a field trip. To combat the sparkle issue, I purchased four dollar earrings---three of them actually. Fake diamonds, fake pearls, and fake studs.

I also picked up The Happiness Project, by Gretchen Rubin.  If you're not familiar, it's a woman's attempt to uncover some of the secrets of happiness by field-testing theories by philosophers and experts. I'm not done yet, but I'm finding a lot of practical advice.

One thing she mentioned was energizing your space by reducing clutter. And so I organized a drawer.

And another. And another. I mercilessly tossed the clutter, and learned that nobody, not even a Marylander, needs four cans of Old Bay.

I bought file boxes, and made a hanging file for each year of my sons' lives. I finally have a place for the certificates and assorted crafts that their wives will appreciate some day.

There is a joy knowing, with absolute certainty, that an item is home. That it belongs. That amidst the highs and lows of hormones and serotonin---those chemicals that can humble a person---at least the markers all have caps. The colors will still sing on the page.

When I sat down to write this, I spent a few moments looking for the camera cord to download the pictures I took of my new clean spaces, so full of promise and light.

I couldn't find it anywhere. It was lost.

And instead of crying or stewing or just giving up, I took blurry photos with my phone, and laughed. What are ya gonna do?

I guess there's something to the whole de-cluttering thing.. Empty spaces, surprisingly enough, can fill a person right up.

Selfish Blogging

On Monday night, I wrote on Twitter: "That's it. I'm officially quitting blogging."

In my mind, this was a big deal. I've had this little site since October 2008, and I've crafted a large part of my identity out of being a "writer." I like it when friends mention things I write, or when they share thoughtful comments. These words of support are like little Christmas presents under my virtual tree.

And yet, the main response to my announcement was, "Do whatever makes you happy."

So what makes me happy? It makes me happy to come to this space and write about my life. To record the things that matter to me. To make my words dance like a stone skipping the surface of a lake.

What doesn't make me happy? The hustle. Returning comments. The I'll-read-you-if-you-read-me game.

I don't like the games I play with myself, either. Why doesn't [insert blogger I admire] like me? How come more people don't read me? 

I have my father's engineering mind, so I applied some logic and determined that people are busy and when they don't read what I write, it's nothing personal. And yes, there's a chance--a very real chance---that when I write about things that matter to me, it may not matter to anybody else.

I might be okay with that..

I'm not quite going to quit blogging. I'm just going to be selfish about it. Meaning, I will write about what I want to write about. My kids. My life.

I'll probably stop writing fiction unless I feel like it.

I will read other blogs when I am inspired and fully attentive. And I will probably do it in a very haphazard fashion. But I am not going to spend one minute worrying about the status of my reader.

I started writing because I wanted a creative outlet. So that's what I'm doing. Writing for the pure joy of it. Writing because it's what makes me happy.

And if that's being selfish, I am okay with it.

A Love Letter to Tucson

I drove up Skyline Drive each morning, straight into the mouth of the foothills. The sky was washed purple-pink, like bold swipes of watercolor. These mountains listened to me. 

I was a young teacher, full of fears. The mountains heard it all---the student who refused to write, the girl who lost her father,  and the boy who hid under his desk when it all became too much.  The mountains let me talk. I nestled in her dusty-beautiful arms. She held me close, and then set me free to do my work.

September 11, 2001. On the East Coast, children were already in school---teachers willed back tears and churning panic, as parents raced home to their children. But in Tucson, we woke up to the aftermath---there was nothing to do but drive to work.

The mountains heard me cry softly, as I shifted gears and stopped at lights. The sky was obscenely blue, inappropriate, like a peacock at a funeral. The cacti forest, each saguaro in a perpetual sun salutation, witnessed our coming and going with ancient wisdom.

As I watched the sun tip out behind the mountains, flooding the valley with light,  I said to myself, "We are so safe here."

A girl was born that beautiful Tucson morning. Lots of new lives were born under that desert sun, in a valley which smells of creosote and fresh starts.

I lived there, in a flat-roofed bungalow with wood paneling and a swamp cooler. I rode my bike to the University, where I learned that I could write. I became a runner in that valley, pounding out miles along the empty banks of the Rillito.

I married my love there, and danced with him under twinkly lights and a scarlet explosion of bougainvillea.

And through it all, the mountains bore witness. As they will, long after the camera crews pack up, and those dear families attempt to pick up the pieces.

Bear down, Arizona. Those mountains, and the world, hold you in their arms.

The Smog

Right before Christmas, we got some really challenging news. Life-altering news. Like smog, it darkened the skies, made our eyes sting and caused our chests to periodically ache. This smog made it really hard to see the lights and the tinsel. It made us, for the first time, "get through" Christmas.

This news has nothing to do with our children, our marriage, or our health. Thank God for that.

However, this news cuts deep and hurts like hell. I will not be writing about the details of it here, because the person involved values his/her privacy almost above all else. This will probably be the most I will ever share.

But understand---it's always there, like a balloon filled with lead pellets, sitting right on my chest. This new reality has altered me, and made me rawer and kinder. A partial list of things that made me cry over the last week include:

1. Joel was eating vanilla ice cream. He turned to his father and cooed, "Daddy, I'm so, so happy!!" OH ,if it could always be that easy.

2. Any commercial made by Folger's ever.

3. Owen and Joel stood on either side of my fifteen-month old niece. The patted her dandelion-fluff hair, and cooed, "Love you, love you." She darted her eyes back and forth and laughed out loud. The tenderness of this nearly tore me in half.

The smog caused the uglification of my landscape, but it also illuminated the things in my life that contribute to the pollution.  I have been carrying around pettiness and jealousies in a battered old backpack for years. Each hurt feeling and inability to forgive pinched my shoulders and rubbed my back raw.

When I heard the news, I finally, finally put the fucking backpack down. I'm not suggesting that this terrible thing happened so I could get over myself. But I'll take it.

People, there's just no time for that.

I have discovered, already, that free of my backpack, I can use my strength instead to feed, putter, listen, and prepare. I can hold my babies as long as they let me, and recognize that there is nothing mundane about a child in your arms.

I now recognize that while there are days that I want to retort, "Fuck you," when the perfectly nice waitress at Olive Garden wishes us a Happy New Year, I still believe. I still hope. I still am convinced that there is nothing on Earth that will keep me from basking in God's love.

Do I want things to go back to how they were? Yes. Desperately. I don't like the fog. It hurts my eyes, my lungs, and my very spirit.

But the clarity I've gained---it is perhaps the greatest Christmas gift of all.

So tell me your stories, friends. Are you in the smog? Were you in the smog? What helped you see the light?

The Dog Isn't Howling, So We're Doing Just Fine

In my classic four-years-behind-the-curve way of functioning, I have just discovered Pandora radio. 

It is perhaps the most brilliant thing ever. With a click, I can listen to pre-made radio stations, featuring artists I like and artists like them. Basically, it's like getting a mix tape from a music-savvy friend, instantly.

In addition to learning that Michael Buble is sexy and that the soundtrack to Rent still makes me misty, I've been prompted to ruminate on my life as a wannabe musician.

I was in choir in high school. I was neither mocked and slushied a la Glee, nor was I revered and worshiped like, um, Michael Buble. I was average.

I can carry a tune, meaning that I rarely make dogs howl when I sing. However, I cannot sight-read to save my life. When people note (heh-get it?)  that something is sharp or flat, I nod my head, clueless.

I am the Paula Abdul of my personal American Idol, waxing on about "energy" and the "intensity of your soulfire" to cover up the fact that I have no idea what's going on. 

I didn't make the select choir back in my high school days. I never had the lead in a school play. I wasn't even especially popular with the other choir kids.  But yet, I would do it all again.

Why? Because it taught me humility. It taught me that things that look easy rarely are. I didn't know what was involved in making a song until I actually tried. Which is why, when I look at performances like this, I am suitably awed.



Choir taught me strange little things, such as the knowledge of  Latin phrases like dona nobis pacem. I  know the alto AND tenor parts of the Hallelujah Chorus.

Yes, I can sing tenor. Isn't that hot?

Thanks to high school choir, I understand that there is beauty in the collective, that the support of others can create a cathedral of sound. I have felt goosebumps in that magic pause between the final note and the return to earth.

 Perhaps, for a type-A perfectionist like myself, the most important thing high school choir taught me that it really is okay to act like a jackass sometimes. It's okay to let go. It's okay to stop being right, and it's okay to sing. And dance. And celebrate the fact that I can.

If I'm singing Neil Diamond while doing it, all the better. 

Creating a World of Joyful Hearts

On Sunday night, a friend and I sat by the banks of the Patuxent River, drinking red wine and watching the sky bloom into rosy, amber perfection before settling into darkness.

We had one of those conversations that you wish you could put in your pocket--witty, thoughtful, and reflective.

She was discussing the world she wanted for her daughters, and it made me think about the world I want my sons to give her daughters, and in turn, her daughters to give my sons.

In other words, it made me think: How do I raise men who treasure, value, and respect women?

Redefine Strength
Masculine strength is traditionally viewed through the prism of power and physicality. Don't get me wrong---there is nothing wrong with being physically strong. Yet, I try to teach my boys to recognize and admire strength in all its forms.

There is strength in speaking the truth, in proclaiming that it is not okay to use "fag" or "retard" as a pejorative.

There is strength in listening. Instead of thinking of what you're going to say next, be fully present and engaged in conversation.

There is strength in humility. Don't be afraid to admit that you need help, or you do not understand, or if you are afraid. Nothing builds a connection more quickly than simply acknowledging that we are all souls, and we are all on this journey together.

Recognize Our Light
Because we are all souls, we must live lives worthy of that light.

This means love should never hurt. We do not hurt our loved ones with words, our hands, or our bodies. We must never allow contempt to enter a relationship. Yes, people disagree. Yes, there may be anger. But never, ever allow those dark moments to extinguish another light.

This means that we are not better than anybody else. Talk to the waitress, the custodian, and the substitute teacher like you would talk to your grandmother. Say "please" and "thank you." Hold the door open for people, and pick up litter on the side of the road. Give blood. Buy a stranger a cup of coffee.

After all, that's somebody's baby.

Put Your Feet in the Moment
You only get one life. Embrace the miracle of life, fatherhood, friendship, and love.

Embrace the grace which comes from life's stumbles.

Seek the joy in a full moon, a cherry blossom, or a perfect line drive.

And, please. in the midst of all this...call your mother.

This post was written in support of a non-profit called The Joyful Heart Foundation, which was founded in 2004 by Mariska Hargitay, who plays Detective Olivia Benson on “Law & Order: SVU.”  Mariska started getting fan mail from rape survivors and was moved to create a foundation to help heal the victims of crimes dramatized on her show.  Joyful Heart’s initial and primary mission is to help victims of sexual assault mend their minds, bodies and spirits and reclaim their lives.

Today, the foundation is also at the forefront of an effort to end a disheartening backlog of tens of thousands of rape kits in labs across the country, a backlog that contributes to a rapist’s 80 percent chance of getting away with his crime.  The backlog and its detrimental effects will be the topic of an SVU episode on Wednesday, September 29th.

Please click here to read other writers' vision for their children's futures in support of this cause.

I Only Get to Do this Once

My oldest is going to be five in February, and hasn't napped with any frequency for almost a year.

I chose to ignore this fact and call two to three hours a day "quiet time." I banished him to his room with some books and toys, and told him that he couldn't come out until his little brother woke up from his nap.

This worked out marvelously for about a year. Baby slept. Oldest learned self-regulation. I got to write.

Alas, though, times have changed. For a variety of reasons too tedious to explain, Owen is now downstairs with me during Joel's nap-time. It was time.

I tired to write while he was downstairs for a couple of days. I couldn't concentrate.This may explain the preponderance of posts involving the Pope.

I found myself pecking at a screen while my son played by himself in the backyard. It was a breathtaking fall day---just a hint of chill in the air, sunshine, glorious light.

And here I was, answering emails and checking my Facebook account.

Such a waste. I will never have that afternoon again.

So, things are going to change. The computer will remain off during the day. After they go to bed, I will have a conversation with my husband before I log in. I will write at the end of the day, and I will probably post far less frequently.

I only get to do this once. If I'm going to write my life, I had better start living it.

***

That being said...I am the featured writer for the Red Dress Club. This is a wonderful group of women writers.

Their weekly red writing hood challenges have really kick-started my fiction. Please consider joining them on Friday. Also, go ahead and click over to read my profile. I won't mind that one bit.

Delighted and Complete

I heard the door crack, followed by the soft-puttering of my oldest's feet. It's our daily ritual...I pull the covers over my head, while he straddles my torso and bounces.

It's a bit unorthodox, but it works for us.

He looked to the empty side of the bed, and amped it up to eleven: "Where's Daddy! I want Daddy!"

I grumbled, "Owen, you know where Daddy is. He's at work." I could tell by his tightly clenched fists and the particular timbre of his whine that he wasn't letting go of this one easily.

Sure enough, he barreled on,  "Why does he have to work?  He's my favorite guy. Let's get in the car right now and go get him."

"Yes Owen," I replied, "Let's load up you and your brother,  and drive to downtown DC at seven fifteen. We can then buy a security clearance from a local vendor and sneak into his office. Maybe we can download some files or call Yemen.*"

"Great!" he yelled. Sarcasm is lost on a four year old.

Trying a different approach, I said, "We can't see Daddy until later. But we can do fun things together. Maybe go to the park? Play with play-dough?"

He crossed his hands and said, "I don't want to do that. Mommy is boring. I want Daddy."

Dagger. In my heart. His twisting technique was quite advanced for his age.

"Well, Owen, " I said, "You're just stuck with me."

***
Intellectually, I know that familiarity breeds contempt. Because Paul is gone for much of the day, he is special. Besides, I get it. Paul is that kind of dad.

When it's raining, Paul  takes Owen out to splash in the puddles. Every evening, Paul and Owen play catch in the backyard. In between throws, when Owen declares he needs a "little rest," my boy will sit in his father's lap, and they click together like two Legos.

Yesterday, Paul and Owen were talking about college. I heard him say, "You can go anywhere you like, as long as you work hard and try your very best."

I would have added "Except Arizona State," because I like to amuse myself.

Paul, however, wasn't about getting the self-serving laugh. He listened to his son, as he bounced ideas around, catching and releasing the words with a practiced ease.

Owen glowed.

***
I know that Owen loves me very much. I know he enjoys my company.

I also know that when Paul's side of the bed is empty, Owen feels a loss. A loss that I cannot fill, because I am not Daddy.

On good days, I understand that this is the way of things, and that Owen blows smoke with increasing, attention-seeking frequency.

On less secure days, I worry that my lack of essential Dudeness will cause my boys to pull away. Or, worse yet, I fear that they will prefer Paul, not because I lack the proverbial "package," but because I lack the parenting package.

Yet, even if I am boring, I still did something right. I chose their Daddy. I chose the man who allows the boys to tell their stories, as he listens, delighted and complete.

I thought this was a good fit for Shell's Pour Your Heart Out meme. Go check out other heartfelt entries.

*As far as I know, Paul has no business with Yemen. I think his most exotic business dealings are in  Ft. Worth.

Armed and Happy

What do I like about myself? How much time you got?

I like a lot of things about myself, including the fact  that I can say that statement out loud, without tempering it with a "just kidding" or an "except for..." or any of that self-defeating nonsense.

There's just not enough time in this life for that. There really isn't.

I like my arms. For years, I hid my arms under cardigans or wraps, afraid that they were too doughy, too pasty, too Margaret Thatcher, and  not enough Michelle Obama.

People---I lived in Tucson, AZ and didn't wear sleeveless tops. How messed up is that?

It took until I was thirty-three years old to let my arms out of their fibrous prison. I was pregnant with Joel in July. The humidity was terrible, and I was chasing a two and a half year old around. I was HOT.

"I'm done," I said to myself, and I rolled up my sleeves. 

On that miserable summer day, I stopped playing the perfect arm game, and I  never looked back.

I've learned to love my arms. 

I love the curve of my shoulders and the ping of my elbow.

 I love that my back is strong, from my swim team years. It propelled me out of the water when I did the butterfly. It supports me when I extend into bridge pose. If I had to plow a field, it would work, in a pinch.

I love my teeny-tiny wrists, because I just do.

I love my shoulder blades, because they are strong from yoga and child-wrangling. They support me as I hold my head high.

I love these arms, my source of strength and balance. And I'm so very grateful that I can say that out loud, unashamed and grateful.

What do you love about your body? Link up with The Mommyologist for "Embrace Your Body Week."





Also, check out Think Tank Mommas "Own it, Work it, Love it" Series, which is all about loving yourself!

Banishing the Shadows

When I was in second grade, my friend Erica abruptly declared that she didn't want to be my friend. She turned her seat away from mine during art class. She hissed, "Ewwwwwwww" when I walked by. She wouldn't answer when I said, "Hi."

Just as abruptly as it started, it ended. One day, during band practice, she turned to me and said, "Do you want to come over to my house after school?" Just like that, we were friends again.

I know this is classic mean-girl behavior, a part of growing up female. Everyone has a story like this, or has done it to someone else. Possibly both.

But still, it haunts me. Not so much the Erica thing---I'm over that---but the idea that things can shift so quickly, so irreversibly. People wield terrible power, when you let them.

Sometimes I question if I let people in enough. I have a lot of friends, but I don't allow many to know my fears. I don't ever want them to see the little girl who sat alone in the school bus, biting her lip, willing the tears not to fall. I certainly don't want them to cause those tears.

I hide behind my own fences, so the arrows can't reach me.

I communicate electronically, and avoid phone calls. I say things like, "We have to get together," but I don't follow through.  I twist my ring anxiously around strangers, and spend a lot of time examining the spinach dip at parties.

I don't think others perceive me like this. I think I come across as happy and together. But, like my shadow, my insecurity follows me. It steals my light. It prevents growth. It keeps me grounded, when I should be soaring. And, like my shadow, my insecurities often seem bigger than they really are.

It is an act of bravery for me to tear down the fences and banish the shadows. If somebody does not like me, my writing, my shoes, or my taste in music, so be it.

I need to take a breath, trust the wisdom of my thirty-five years, and move onward, and upward.

All This Before Ten AM

I had originally wanted to show you some pictures from my garden, but life nudged me in a different direction. Don't get me wrong---I'll still show you the pictures---but I'll attach meaning to it. I'll force out the metaphor like a washerwoman pounding worn dungarees with a rock.

I can't promise that it will be a successful metaphor, but I hope you'll stay with me.

This morning, I drove to the local middle school. I've been doing some editing work for one of the administrators, and planned to pop in and pop out to get a paycheck. I felt good on the drive down--sunny, hopeful. Paul and I had talked last night after a difficult conversation the evening prior, and I felt like we had made headway.

Marriage with young children is tough. It's easy to give everything away, and leave nothing for each other. We came up with all sorts of solutions, but we're trying this strategy: I will stop doing non-essential chores if they make me resentful. For example, if I don't feel like doing the dishes or picking up Paul's dirty clothes, then I won't. He will either do it himself, or I will do it at a time that it no longer makes me resentful.

It's not passive-aggressive, because we agreed on this strategy together. I've just started it, but I already feel a bit empowered.

But, oh, the fighting and the discussing is challenging. I spent yesterday emotionally spent, writing and deleting blog posts that were full of the drama and the darkness. It is work to figure out how you're feeling. It is work to push up from the darkness and bring issues to light. It is so much easier to stay underground. And yet, Paul and I made the decision to push, and to seek the sunshine.

This was on my mind as I drove to that middle school. I unloaded the boys and stepped into the office. While we were waiting to get the envelope, Joel bumped his head on something and started crying.

I rushed him out of the office, but not in time. There was another boy in the room, probably an eighth grader. Big kid. He was getting visibly agitated by the noise, started screaming,  and the next thing I know, he had shoved me, twice, and hit Joel in the face before an incredibly quick and compassionate secretary restrained the boy.

Joel was wailing. Owen was terrified. I was shaking. I was quickly whisked into another room, where we all settled down. The principal was apologizing, as she explained that the boy, who had severe Autism, was triggered by noise.

I understood. This was no thug. This was a terrified young man, already in the office for whatever reason, now faced with too much noise, too much overload, just too much. They were not excusing him-as they were attending to the boys and I, the young man was talking with the vice principal---nor were they dismissing the fact that my boys and I were physically attacked.

Somebody hit this face? 

I'll admit that the thought passed through my mind--Why was that kid unsupervised? Who allowed him there? 

The mama-bear inside me wanted to rip his face off. 

Of course, I don't know this kid. I don't know his history, or what makes him happy. 

I don't know anything except that somebody loves him.

Somebody rocked that baby to sleep.

Somebody is going to get a phone call today saying that her son attacked a crying baby, and that mother is going to despair, and hope, and pray for answers. She will cry for her son. 

And while I am sad for my sons, and scared, and furious, I am also crying for her son. Hoping for him. Sending love his way. Praying that he gets the support he needs so he can flourish, and grow. 

I Have No Idea About The Color of My Parachute.

Joel fell out of bed last night. His bed is a mattress on the floor, so there was no damage done that a kiss and a re-tuck couldn't remedy. He was back to sleep in less than a minute. 

I wish I could say the same. I was awake in bed, listening to my mind sing its evil little song  from 2:30 to 5:30 AM. It's like getting a super-annoying song in your head, like "Who Let the Dogs Out?" or "Smooth Criminal."

By the way, I know I just did that to you. You're welcome.

When I can't sleep, I hear a nonstop, extended slow-jam of the timeless ditty, "Someday you're going to have to go back to work."Usually, this song is sung by the Chipmunks, because that adds to the madness. Just once, I wish my bedtime neurosis would be sung by John Lennon. 

The plan has always been that we will get by--somehow---until both boys are in school. Then, I'll go back to full-time employment. The most logical way to go would be to return to teaching. I would make decent money, be on the same schedules as the boys, and I'm good at it.

Yet, the thought of it, at least at the wee hours of the morning, fills me with dread. I'm tired of it. I don't want to grade stacks of essays in the evenings. I don't want to ever teach anybody about a thesis statement EVER, EVER, EVER again. I don't want to listen to a principal drone on about meeting Annual Yearly Progress in all targeted sub-groups. I just don't.

I ran through some ideas in those early hours:

1) Have another child, to prolong the inevitable. This is a terrible idea on so many levels. We have no room. I don't like babies. Paul doesn't want another baby, either.

2) Homeschool. It's fine for many. However, to steal my own comment from Tracie's blog: "Some people create learning communities with their children. If I was to homeschool, it would be something out of Apocalypse Now." The horror. The horror.

3) Try to get a job as a technical writer for the federal government. Could I? Could I seriously sit in an office all day writing memos for the Department of Agriculture?

4) Write the Great American Novel. Ah, yes, but that would involve not being lazy. 

5) Sell Mary Kay/Tupperware/Pampered Chef/Creative Memories/Sex Toys/Jewelery.... I can't. I don't have that saleswoman instinct. Bless your heart if you can, because those woman are  business moguls. Seriously.

As you can see, I found no magical answers despite my fretting. Yet, things look less dire in the morning light. After all, it is four years away. Things will be different. The boys will be different. These things always work themselves out.

Besides, in a world where beautiful things like this grow from simple brown seeds....

 ...I simply choose to believe that there is a plan for my life, and it will bloom in a surprising, delightful way.

Such a Good Friday.

It is so glorious outside right now that I have to contain myself from singing, as if I'm one of the Van Trapp Family singers, or perhaps Neil Patrick Harris.

This is the first Easter since I've moved to Maryland that I've been able to feel warmth on my arms, and it is a resurrection of sorts. A return to warmth, a return to boundless energy and mud pies in the backyard. New life! The grass is risen! It is risen indeed!

I don't care that for the third day in a row, I am posting a picture of my children playing in the sun. If that isn't a holy thing to show during this Holy Week, I don't know what is:

I am going to finish writing this, and then I am going to make the glaze for my Easter Ham, using a can of Dr. Pepper and some brown sugar. I'm pretty sure that Giada or The Barefoot Contessa would not approve. Paula Deen surely would, so I am comfortable with this decision.

My glaze will cool in the pan and my husband will be home from a meeting in DC. I cannot yet share what the meeting is about, but I know that the results were good, and Paul is happy.

I will be glad to see him, and I'm especially happy that I will see him smiling, his shoulders no longer stiff with tension. I don't give him enough credit for all he carries to keep our family aloft. We float effortlessly on his iron wings.

When the boys wake up, we will walk to The Bay, and I will soak up the remaining sun. I will look to the heavens, and on this Good Friday, I will mean it all the more: "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

Changing My Script

It's an ugly thing to admit, but if I am going to be a bold and truthful writer, it must be said:

I am a snob.

I wish I could say that this is the endearing kind of snobbery involving organic goat cheese or free-trade coffee. It's not. (Although I am that kind of snob as well).

No, my snobbery is the ugly kind, the kind I would prefer not to write about or even admit to myself. It's a personal failing kind of snobbery.

Allow me to back up. Owen had his first T-ball practice last Thursday. He had a great time and is eager to return. I, meanwhile, spent most of the practice silently judging. One parent brought a one-hundred pound barking dog to practice. He tied it to the dugout and went off to smoke a cigarette. The dog was some kind of nasty breed, but, in the man's defense, he finished his cigarette and took the dog on a long walk away from the children for most of the practice.

I didn't have a chance to talk to some of the other parents, but I did notice the smoking, the diction, and  other signs that I dismissed as low-class.

I'm ashamed of myself.

I don't even know these people, and I judged. If I believe that there is a divine light in all of us, and we are wonderfully and fearfully made, then I need to change the scripts in my head.

I would like to believe I'm a person that doesn't value money and appearances, but I know that I care more than I admit. Paul and I have been talking about vacations. It started with Ireland, which we deemed impractical. Next, we discussed renting a beach house for a week in the Outer Banks, which is more reasonable.

Yet, all this discussion of vacations and money stirred up waves of dissatisfaction. I started thinking of all the things I wanted---a weekend getaway to Savannah, new floors, new window blinds. I wanted to travel overseas and feel the coolness of white crisp sheets in a soft feather bed. I wanted to take the boys on sailboats, helicopters, or any thrill their hearts desired. I wanted to have the funds for unlimited possibility.

For them, of course. Right. For them. 

Today, though, I took the boys in the backyard to play. It's been a rainy Monday, and yet, out we went. I watched the boys make muddy soup out of twigs and rainwater, run down the hill, wave around sticks, and examine old stumps. They were content. They didn't need freshly-ironed sheets or poolside drink service.

They wanted to get dirty, feel the sun on their faces, and maybe the splash of cool water.

In that backyard, I was humbled all over again. Those boys are powerful teachers. They showed me that the beauty comes from noticing, from appreciating, and from seeking the warm glow of God inside each of us.

And so, I called Paul and suggested that we use our vacation funds to do a weekend getaway to the beach, and then we should take the remaining funds and buy a nice tent.

We need to camp. We need to go into the woods, have long conversations with each other, take naps in the afternoon sun, and go wading in the lakes. Hot dogs and marshmallows over a fire will last longer in our minds than chicken nuggets from the kids' meal in some crowded chain restaurant.

More importantly, though, I need to change my script. My children will not be happy by hanging out with a certain "type" of person or going on the "right" vacations. They will be happy if I teach them that they are not better than other people, and that there is beauty everywhere. That they need to notice more, judge less.

And maybe, just maybe, they will see that in loving other people, they will see the face of God. (with apologies to Hugo).

What makes a vacation memorable for children? What do you remember from travels?

Another Post About the Kick-Assitude of Women

As I've alluded to in previous posts, I've been going solo this week while Paul takes a business trip to Hawaii. That is, aside from my juiced bodyguard, in the event you are a creep and you are reading this.

Here we are after I dropped Owen off at preschool. 

I don't love it when Paul is gone. He's my best friend, and the boys love their daddy.

Yet, these periods when Paul travels remind me of my inner capability and strength. I can do bedtime and middle of the night and meal prep and discipline and hugs and kisses, and I can do it pretty damn well. My boys are content and joyful and just remarkable little people. 

It feels good to know that if I had to--God forbid--I could raise remarkable men on my own. 

I really don't want to, but I could. These roots are strong. 

I have that feminine strength that I honor when I think of my mother, who is celebrating her birthday today. I think of my girlfriends who face infertility, illness, change, heartbreak and life in general with dignity and perseverance. I think of those mothers, some as young as eighteen, who took my English classes when I taught at the community college, and spent their evenings working towards a future, for themselves, for their children. 

Also, because clearly this has been my kick this week, I think of Mary.

I also am humbled by my friends, and the way they care for me so tenderly. My friend who invited us over for dinner one night, because she knows that evenings are hard. My friends who took their cranky tribes to my house on Wednesday, so I could feed them Shepherd's Pie and again, break up the evening haul. My friend, who took Owen over to her neighborhood and entrusted him with the important task of making the lemonade. 

He's still talking about that lemonade. 

The universe is so abundant. People are so good.

And, oh these boys. There are no words to explain how I love them. My eyes well up as I sit here, eating my spinach dip and drinking my Pinot Grigio, just humbled that I am allowed to live and breathe and exist with these miracles. 

And finally, there's you.  I posted every day this week, which is possibly more than necessary. But you listened. You commented. Your virtual arms are strong, and I am grateful. So very, very grateful.

The universe is abundant indeed.

Mantras

I decided to stop yelling at my children for Lent.

Of course, Lent is almost over and I started two days ago.

I make my own rules.

Many people give up soda or chocolate or something else that gives them pleasure. Good for them. I need as many legal pleasures in my life as possible.

Other people add something to their life, like additional spiritual practices  or service. Good for them.

Me? I'm giving up yelling at my children.

I'm doing this because that old phrase "anger is depression turned outward"  is true.

When I raise my voice, I am frustrated with circumstances or hungry or lonely or scared. It's like scratching a mosquito bite---it's so very satisfying to scratch until it bleeds. Then, however, you're itchy and bleeding. When I yell, I'm still hungry or lonely or frustrated or scared. But then I'm also wracked with guilt.

My child, doing his bedtime prayers, said, "Please help Mommy to stop yelling at me." Then, to really twist the knife, he told me that he's going to start saying "bad prayers" like, "Please help me NOT listen to Mommy."

In case you were wondering, I HAVE ruined him.

After I looked in his eyes and saw the brutal truth in his words: "Stop yelling," I went downstairs and cried and prayed and lit my Mary candle. I said these words as a mantra: "I am not going to be a yelling mom."

I said the words, and willed them into life. These words are real now, and I must tend them like a newborn babe.

This morning, Owen was a pill. Didn't want to get dressed. Didn't want to eat breakfast. I asked him if wanted toast, a waffle, or cereal for breakfast. He said, after much dithering, "scrambled eggs."

I repeated, "You can have toast, a waffle, or cereal."

He said, "Scrambled eggs."

I said, "I love you too much to argue."

He continued to be obstinate and truth be told, a bit of an asshole.

I said to him, "You are making me angry, and I am going to go into my room for awhile so I don't yell at you."

And then, I did. I rested on my bed, while Joel played nearby, repeated my mantra, said a little prayer, and came back out when I didn't feel like yelling anymore.

I then asked Owen if he wanted a waffle, toast, or cereal.

He said he wanted scrambled eggs.

I took a deep breath. I told him he was getting a waffle. We moved on.

And I didn't yell.

I'm sure I will yell again. You can count on it.

Easter morning is going to be an effing nightmare. After all, Lent will be over.

I kid.

I'm hoping this habit sticks. After all,  I'm not going to be a yelling mom.

Permanently Gray

I wish that I was more of a black and white person. It would be great to be one of those people who know--just know---that their actions and choices are correct.

I talked to a mother yesterday who potty trained her first child at eighteen months. She was matter-of-fact about it and got the job done. I, meanwhile, consulted numerous books and discussed the topic at length. Everybody, and I mean everybody, knew the status of Owen's excrement.  And still, I hoped I was doing it right.

I just got off the phone with my sister-in-law, and she has strong opinions about schooling, the role of technology, and discipline. She just seems so sure that she's doing the right thing.

I envy her.

I never feel confident that I am doing the right thing. When I'm disciplining my kids, I wonder if I am too lenient or unrealistic in my expectations. I wonder if I could have been more proactive or more thoughtful or less rushed or less distracted.

I never, ever, think, "I'm doing this the right way, and everybody else should parent like me." I always wonder if there is a better way.

How comforting it would be to see less gray! To believe in a political system or a faith system as right or as wrong, for me or not for me. It would be nice to take a side once in awhile. 

I don't. I have my political leanings for sure, but I understand where the other side is coming from much of the time. I have my faith, but I understand why others do not share my beliefs.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm so gray that I dillute any meaning at all.

But then, I also recognize that doubt is like yeast. Without doubts, without questions, nothing happens. I need to let my conflicting feelings rise up in order to become something real, something I can sink my teeth into.

But, the process is hard. I'm pounded down and put under the fire. It would be a lot easier to be a simple little quick bread---stagnant, easily digestible, and predictable.

How does it feel to be a Nancy Pelosi or a Sarah Palin--so sure, so confident in a worldview?

How does it feel to know that you are parenting your children better than anybody else possibly could?

I would like to know. I imagine it's very comforting.

Yet, I never will. You can't return black and white to pure forms. I'm permanently gray, and in perpetual doubt. 

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Thanks for the thoughtful comments on yesterday's post. I have the best readers in the world.