A Day Too Complicated to Title Succinctly

I was in my sweatpants, ready to close the curtains on this miserable excuse of a day by noon. I figured that while the day was miserable, it would make a slightly amusing, if overly drama-Queenish blog entry for your fleeting amusement.

I had a whole list of things to complain about:

*Joel starting his day at five AM

*Owen banging things too loudly and gulping his juice like an inbreed guppy.

*Owen taking a GINORMOUS dump and then running around the house, without wiping or putting his pants back on. Or, naturally, washing his hands.

*Forcing Owen to wash his hands, and having him splash water in my face.

*Losing the phone number of a new friend, due to an earlier email deleting frenzy. Consequently, standing her up for a play date. I really like this person, and I'm sure she thinks I'm a flake.

*Going to the gym to do a Pilates class with Click and Clack (see earlier entry), only to realize that doing Pilates in super-short running shorts is a bad idea. There's lots of leg spreading, and I was starting to feel like Madonna about halfway through.

*Picking up the boys at the gym daycare to hear Joel wailing. "What happened?" I asked.
The worker explained to me that Owen knocked Joel down, "again." When I tried to get Owen to apologize to his brother, he said, "No apologies, and I want you to take me to Panera." Well, then. I've apparently raised an asshole.

*Finding out that they are charging parents five extra dollars a month to use the gym's daycare, on top of existing gym fees. Discussing this with the owner, I used the phrase, "shitty," and "whatever," and then burst into tears.

I got home, changed into my sweatpants, and prepared to ride the rest of the day out, playing Cars on endless loop, if necessary.

Then, the phone rang.

Joanne's voice was clipped and strained. "I need you to come to Calvert [the hospital] right now and pick up Zachary. We'll figure out cars when you get here."

Shit. I loaded up the boys, giving Owen a box of Kix to eat for lunch. As I pulled into the parking lot, the helicopter was landing to whisk Joanne's-six-month-old-baby, Austin, off to Children's National Medical Center. He had been sitting in a Bumpo seat on a table, and fell off, fracturing his skull.

I took her older son, Zachary, as well as my two boys home. I got to drive her minivan, since my Outback lacks the seating for three. And, damn. That was a sweet ride.I understand my friend Nikki, who calls her blog "Confessions of Minivan Lover." It was such a nice ride that I almost want to trade in my Subaru. Almost.

I got the three boys home, put Joel down for his nap, and proceeded to watch Owen be a complete and utter asshole. It's not like Zachary, who is a year younger, missed his nap, and has suddenly been whisked away from his family, needs Owen to rip toys from his hands and explain to him that he's not entitled to juice, because, "it's mine, mine, MINE!"

I was, plain and simple, ashamed of my son. Surely he could rise to the occasion. His lack of empathy can be breathtaking.

When Zachary's grandparents picked him up, I was grateful that he had the opportunity to return to the comfort of his own home. I don't think that his stay at our house was misery, but I'm pretty sure that he was ready for his own space, his own toys, and his own bed.

I was ready for a phone call from Joanne. I'm grateful to report that Austin has no bleeding, and
will likely be released from the hospital tomorrow.

This was not my best day. It was certainly not Joanne, Zachary, Owen, or Baby Austin's best day, either. Yet, a rough day is still a day of unquestionable blessings.

We're all still here. People are good. And, God is in control.

If Owen Wrote the Blog...

Hello, my minions. You probably cannot wait to hear the latest musings of your leader.

Today, my mom took Baby Joel to the doctor, and left me with Miss Melissa and her son Bruce. This was all right in my book because Miss Melissa has a washer and dryer. The hypnotic tossing of the clothing, the smell of Tide, the churn of the motor...now that's good times.

Since Mom and Dad don't have a front-loader, I'm forced to entertain myself in other ways. For example: last night, I found the duct tape.
I asked Mom to tape ice packs to the sliding glass window. Perfectly reasonable, right? Then I decided that the tape would also be a fantastic way to keep a blanket on a chair, because I was making a garage out of a kitchen chair and a baby blanket.

Are you still with me?

Then, I decided that the tape also made fantastic roads and train tracks. So, I decided to make the entire house my own personal Beltway. See?

This kept me busy until bedtime.

This morning, when my mom dropped me off at Miss Melissa's house, she told me that if I was good, she would buy me more duct tape.

When Mom and Joel came to pick me up, Miss Melissa told my mom that I might be an engineer because I kept asking questions about motors.

I wasn't quite sure what that all meant. All I know is that every minute they spent talking was another precious minute away from the washer.

Miss Melissa is great, except that she thinks this guy is really interesting, too.
Even people with amazing washers and dryers have their blind spots.

The Gift that Keeps Giving

They say mimicry is the sincerest form of flattery. When my son points his finger in my face and sternly tells me, "That's enough. And don't do that again," I should be flattered, yes? Likewise, when Owen tells Joel to "Stop squealing like a little girl," Paul should feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

I don't think there's anything wrong with squealing like a little girl. I've done it once or twice. Paul, however, does not like it when Owen's shrieks send dogs a 'howling. Hence, the slightly misogynistic admonishment to avoid shrieking like the aforementioned "little girl." And now, the torch has been passed, and Owen has passed on the message to Joel that being a little girl is a bad thing.

Way to go, Paul.

There is, I suppose, a reason that feminists have earned a reputation as humorless. I should just blow this off, instead of taking the time to think and write about the topic. But, as the only woman in this family ship, I feel the need to stay vigilant, heading off any misconceptions about gender roles before they become cemented into fact.

I know the real work comes not in words, but in actions. If I want the boys to see women as equal partners in a relationship, Paul and I need to show that partnership. I think we do a good job in that respect---Paul watches the boys when I go to work, and when we're both home, we're both changing diapers, preparing meals, wiping floors, and playing with the kids.

More importantly, though, we speak kindly to each other. We try to see the other perspective. We remember that words and body language matter.

The bottom line is, the boys don't give a rip about either of our careers, our dreams, or our aspirations. They just want us to be around and present for them. Yet, if we model the way that men and women should treat each other, we're giving them more than our time---we're giving a gift to them, our future daughter-in-laws, and our future grandchildren.

It doesn't hurt to make Owen do some traditional "woman's work," either:

Those walls can get filthy. Good thing Owen is able to vacuum them. Do I get bonus points for the toy kitchen? Laundry: The Gift That Keeps Giving...And, he does windows, too!

The Right Stuff

Paul is traveling to Virginia Beach today to hob-knob with Marines. It'll be a quick trip, but long enough that he'll be gone for two days, when you add in travel.

I don't relish the opportunity to be a single parent. When 4:30 rears its ugly head, I'm usually by the door, pacing like Marmaduke (you know...the cartoon dog), ready to tackle Paul with kisses, and more importantly, needy children.

I'm human, and I'm ready to punch my time card, slide down my dinosaur, and yabba-dabba-do myself away from the kids for a bit.

Alas, that will not be the case today or tomorrow. Surprisingly, I am okay with this. When Paul's around a lot, like on an extended weekend, I sometimes find myself being lazy. I'll let him do the heavy lifting with the kids---flossing Owen's teeth, waking up with Joel in the wee hours of the morning, time outs, diaper changes. While it is nice to take a break, it also makes me feel strangely dependent on him. I find myself wondering how I can possibly deal with the boys when they are at their worst---do I have the proverbial "right stuff"?

Of course I do. When I am alone with the boys, my glass of self-efficacy runneth over. I can do the hard stuff, and I do it. There's no time to complain or pass the buck. I just competently and effectively parent my children, doing the job of father and mother, because that's just what needs to be done.

I don't love doing it all, but it gives me the confidence that if---God forbid--I was in a situation where I was alone with the kids more often than I am presently, I would rise to the challenge. My friend Janet, who is the single mother of a beautiful preteen daughter, explains that "it's just putting one foot in front of the other."

That may be true, but it is nevertheless inspiring to walk in those feet, even if only for two days.

Heavy Lifting

I did the children's sermon at church today, and had a good time. I talked about pets, which is, I'm convinced, one of the quickest ways to make a connection, regardless of the age of your audience.

In this case, I compared Jesus the Good Shepherd to Kids the Good Pet Owners. I hope the kids walked away with the idea that Jesus loves them as much as they love their pets. I fear they may have walked away with the idea that Jesus considers us His pets.

That's the trouble with talking metaphorically.

Nevertheless, the experience caused me to think about my career options. I've never considered being a pastor because I grew up in a religious institution that only had male clergy. So, it truly never occurred to me that I could to be a pastor.

I've also never considered being a rodeo clown, professional poker player, or a Rockette, despite the fact that these are also options available to women. They are simply not options for this woman. So, let's call a spade a spade: it's possible that I've not considered ministry for reasons beyond my chromosomes.

I know that I could not be a pastor because I would be frustrated with the glacial pace of reform, I would cringe at the endless meetings, I would not be able to thoughtfully address questions of faith, and black makes me look all washed out and ghoulish.

But, it would be fun to be a pastor if my sole job was to do baptisms and children's sermons. That I could handle.

I'm grateful that I had the chance today to try something new, and I'm even more grateful that there are people, like my pastors, who do the heavy and tedious lifting so that I can do the fun stuff.

Mommylush

One glass of wine: delightful.

Two glasses of wine: indulgent

Three glasses of wine: You should know better by now, you stupid cow.

I'm nursing a headache and was unable to eat anything more substantial than a banana until two hours ago.

I am thirty four and the mother of two. When will I learn?

***
Owen is spending another weekend with his grandparents, so it's been just us and Joel. In the course of the afternoon, the baby has managed to:

*Grab fistfuls of potting soil and fling it onto the floor.
*Open up the cabinet with the bleach, detergent, and ant poison. This is the one cabinet that still has a "child-proof" latch on it.
*Destroy two of Owen's books.
*Make quick work of any room he enters. A sample:

This is what I don't understand: What, exactly, has prevented me from, I don't know, stopping him? Owen wasn't there. I have no excuse except that any intervention would have involved leaving my couch nest.

***
I took Joel to the library yesterday and heard the following comments/questions:

*Does your baby actually need glasses? (No, I just like to dress him up in costumes).
*Mommy, look at that silly baby with glasses!
*You must have a smart baby! (Yes, yes I do. Now that he has the glasses. Before, he was a moron).
*Hey, it's Ralphie! (From A Christmas Story)
*Hey, Where's Waldo? (This is the second time I've heard this.)
*Hey, it's a Poindexter baby! (Also the second time I've heard this. The first person to say this was Joel's Ear-Nose-Throat doctor, right before his surgery).

***
Joel has this penguin toy that he really really likes. It is his Personal Penguin, and "Wherever it goes, he'll go there too/here and there and everywhere/And always with you" (apologies to Sandra Boynton and her children's book, Your Personal Penguin).

Please enjoy the baby Poindexter/Personal Penguin cuteness...while I go take another Advil.

Headstands

My mother left a message yesterday, giddy because she had done her first headstand in her yoga class. She said, "I just kept creeping forward and forward, and before I knew it I was upside down!"

Gotta love Mom. She was diagnosed with diabetes about a month ago, and decided, in effect, to say, "Screw you, diabetes!" She has dropped seventeen pounds and has upped her weight-loss goal from twenty-five pounds to forty. She has to wear a belt now. When she goes to cook-outs, she happily eats the meat (no bun), carrot sticks and just a dollop of potato salad.

And, out of nowhere, she has become a yogi.

My mother is not a ditherer. When she decides to do something, it happens. Whether it be a new initiative for her church, a last-minute trip to California, a house project, or a body overhaul, she moves forward without a backward glance.

She's a goal-oriented person. She wants quick action, and quick results. I can relate. I'll decide that I want something---a new job, a new haircut, a change in the house---and I'll make it happen immediately. My brother is the same way---when he decided that he really wanted to quit smoking, he took his final drag, and quit cold turkey.

When I don't get immediate results, I get twitchy. The president said "The ship of state moves slowly," (except that he probably said it more elegantly), but, in essence, he was saying that the things the government does now may not pay dividends for a decade or more. This glacial pace infuriates me.

When I moved from AZ, I briefly worked in school reform. Coming from the immediate rewards of a highly motivated classroom experience, I could not handle the idea that change comes in months, weeks, years. When talking about changing perceptions and actions in a school setting, I felt like taking off the kid gloves and just shaking my fellow teachers. "Just do something! Good God!"

I left that job, and I've never felt an ounce of regret.

I know that I am a short-term, immediate rewards kind of gal. Like my mom, I'm willing to do a bit of creeping, but, by God, I had better get to do that headstand soon.