14 posts tagged “motherhood”

Today, the Siblings were at each other's throats, which is a real rarity.  Usually they're loving each other to death, but today... sigh.  When I suggested that they call it a day and watch a movie, they agreed on the new Tinkerbell one.  When Dash tired of the movie, he ejected the DVD, threw it across the room and would've jumped on it had I not stopped him.  These actions precipitated a torrent of whining from Petunia -- and if there is one thing that makes me lose my cool altogether, it is whining.  When order was restored, despite the pounding in my head, Dash decided that if he was going to have to let Petunia finish watching Tinkerbell, he would make her suffer.  He drug the very large Millenium Falcon -- the one that makes a lot of cool Star Wars noises -- up from the basement and ran circles around her, mock firing at her.  This lead to more whining, especially after the Falcon likely met an untimely end as it flew to the basement out of my own hands, and...

...I have been trying hard this year to yell less, but my voice is gone today.

The kids don't know, but I've been planning a trip into San Francisco tomorrow, driving solo into that big city with them for the first time.  I'm planning to take them to Fisherman's Wharf to see the sea lions by daylight, have a little lunch at their favorite Hard Rock Cafe, maybe even make it over to Ghiradelli Square, a place I've never been... Part of me wants to call it off because they're being so awful to each other, but, at the same time, I know that they'll be on Best Behavior tomorrow if they know it'll get them a trip to the HRC. 

Yet at the same time, part of me also fears that when I say "If you don't stop it right now, I will turn this car around!" I will actually have to do it, and then, after preparing for the day in the city, I'll be sitting in my house for another day. 

It could be worse; I could be the Guv and be working on Veteran's Day.  Oh, wait: I will be working on Veteran's Day.  I'll be the one in the striped shirt with the whistle around my neck, trying to call only the most flagrant fouls, and trying to remember that I'm Californian now, therefore I am zen.  I will use the force for good and not for evil...

My husband often brings me Philadelphia Magazine from his road trips.  As far as city magazines go, I think it might be the best; the writing is edgy, and it speaks to my generation.  In the recent issue is the most poignant article I've read in a long time: The Existential Crisis of the Wait-at-Home-Mom by Vicki Glembocki.  While I don't agree with every little thing in the article (because what article could speak to all at-home moms, really, as we're all so different), I'm finding myself nodding my head again and again as I read and re-read the article.  I think this piece should be required reading for moms making the decision about whether or not to stay home and for how long -- as well as for the husbands who, like mine, wants to support the decisions I make about my own career and worries with me over whether or not I've made the right call to "stop out" for a while.

You see, I've stepped out of my career in graduate school administration for five and a half years at this point, and, for a long time, it was clear that taking a break was the only choice for our family's needs.   (I'll spare repeating the story of Dash's high needs and the Guv's never-ending travel for the umpteenth time.)  But now, I'm not so sure I need to still be at home, especially while the economy is bad and our family could use a little extra cushion.  To boot, Dash is more manageable, and I think I actually could work part-time.  I'm also always in tune with the example I'm setting for my kids.  I'm not talking about the example I set for my daughter OR my son; their live paths are their choice, and I will never encourage them to either work or to stay-at-home if and when they have kids.  That's their business.  What I'm saying is that I want my kids to know that they are my highest priority, but I also want them to know that I have other things going on in my life, too.  That's part of the reason for my blogging here and for the Silicon Valley Moms Group.  And while I don't yet have "mommy angst," I struggle with the decision of what's right for me versus what's right for my family; the two aren't always the same thing.  To that end, I wrote a post called "I want a divorce!" for the Silicon Valley Moms Blog, and the reception to that post was mixed -- though the Guv supported it, proudly (so I'll stay married to him, I guess).  It was supposed to be a social commentary on how hard it is to be a mom who wonders, "Where am I in this?"

And then I read the article in Philly magazine and realize that someone else got paid to say a lot of what I said a lot better.  Please,  click here to read it

This was A Day.

The Guv left early this morning to go sailing in Seattle.  For work... yeah...

Anyway, the morning started out innocently enough, meaning that I was able to take a three-minute shower without the children either killing each other or escaping the house.  That huge victory made realize that yes!  I can get this packing done with the children playing nicely together for much of the day.  And it was that thought, crossing my mind, that disturbed some electromagnetic force affecting only Dash, and he became The Child From Hell.

I don't say that lightly.  I LOVE MY SON.  But seriously, he started crying at like 8 am, and he started being violent.  He shook the guinea pigs' cages.  He threw stuff, including a shoe at his dad's brand new pride and joy television.  He bit his sister, he trashed the house, and then he came after me, announcing, for NO reason, "I hate you!" then, as I teared up, proceeded to punch me in the face.  Hard.

I tried everything (well, almost everything, because I don't believe in spanking my kids, though it was quite tempting today).  I held him tight and rocked him.  I took him outside (and amazingly, no one called the cops on the shrieking kid).  I quickly took him inside.  I offered candy, the Wii, the TV, the park, everything.

And then a new friend came by, the founder of the blogging group for which I write, bearing bags of gifts, and my son screamed the whole time she was in the house, except for the three minutes his sister distracted him outside.  I don't know that I have ever been so horrified in my life.  He's not hurt.  He's no longer sick.  He's not in pain.  He's not upset.  He loves it here, and he says so every day, so I can't even blame the move.  So, after my new friend left, I sunk to the floor and asked, "Why, oh why, Dash, are you still crying two hours after you started crying?"

He said, through clenched teeth, "BECAUSE I AM..." and I dodged another punch.

I don't know what the f#%k to do with this kid.

I asked, "What would make you stop crying?"

"NOTHING!" he shouted, and threw a shoe. 

I felt that if I were in the house for one more minute with him, my already-pounding head might actually explode.  So I did what any sane person would do (not!).  I strapped him in the car, with his sister there too, and shuttled stuff back and forth from the house, and then I started driving.  He stopped screaming two minutes into the trip.

"Where are we going?" Dash asked, sniffling.

"To buy your sister a horse shirt," I told him, since Petunia has been freaking out to no end because I wouldn't let her buy this horribly fitting horse shirt from the Gap last week, and I finally found one through Gymboree that would probably fit her... then learned that line was already at the outlet stores.  (BTW, who does the Gap make clothes for, Chinese gymnasts?  Because I can't see how any non-waif child could wear most of their stuff.)

"Can I get a horse shirt?" Dash asked.  "NO!  A digger shirt?"

"If we can find one, sure," I answered. 

And for the remaining twenty minutes, the car was S-I-L-E-N-T.  I could tell that even Petunia, ashen-faced, had a headache from his ranting.  We arrived at The Great Mall and had a scream-free lunch.  We bought school shoes at Stride-Rite and yes, finally, a horse shirt for Petunia, and a rocketship shirt for Dash.  We ate ice cream.  We came home.

The screaming started when we walked through the door.  Fortunately, this time, I quashed it by somehow breaking the laundry machine (kidding -- I'm sure it was improperly installed), requiring all of us to mop up a flood.  Dash discovered the drippage into the basement himself and tried to clean it up.  Then he decided to vacuum the guinea pig cage himself with the guinea pigs in it (great example, Guv!) and made a holy mess.  (Yes, he plugged it in and turned it on himself, God help us all.)

We ate a silent dinner.  The kids silently watched Sponge-Bob and I-Carly, and, at 7:30, marched off to bed.

Sometimes, I wonder if I should blog about stuff like this, because it might make me seem like a poor excuse for a mother, or make Petunia seem over-indulged, or Dash seem out-of-control.  Today, that was all true.  But tomorrow will be better.  It has to be, because I can't imagine how it could get worse.  Oh, wait, I live in earthquake country... Yet somehow, I fear my three year-old worse.

Recently, it seems like our family has been going, going, going at light speed.  While I've always preferred being busy to being bored, it's summer, for goodness sake.  I remember spending hours and hours in swimming pools, outside riding my bike, and at playgrounds all summer.  Aside from Vacation Bible School, I don't think I really did "camp" until I was in junior high marching band.  (Yes, I was that cool playing my flugelhorn!)  But for my kids, especially for Petunia, age 7 going on 14, summer means having to be within sight at least, but preferably within physical contact, of friends at all times.  In lieu of that, we have to be doing something exciting.  One day last week, I thought: sure!  why not?  In one day, we went to Sugarbush Farm to feed the animals and sample cheese (in that order -- gross!) and to pick up picnic supplies... from there, we hit King Arthur Flour's Baker's Store to pick up a loaf of fresh spelt bread... from there, we took our goodies to Dartmouth to have a picnic and games of hide-and-seek and chase until the Very Scary Bell Tower tolled... and then we went to the Montshire Museum of Science... and then we went to the Hanover Farmer's Market... and then we went to our club's pool... and then we went home, where I sauteed fresh broccoli to eat with fresh homemade pasta marinara for dinner.

Man, was I tired. 

The problem with my kids is that after such an exciting day, the next day has to be twice as exciting.  And if it's not, they make me pay.  The problem is that I didn't know this Rule of Childhood until it was too late, and I was yelling, and Petunia was sassing, and Dash was bruising himself trying to fly again...

And it hasn't let up.  While I expect hell-raising out of 3 year-old Dash, I never expected 7 year-old Petunia to join in at a decibel level far exceeding my own, and I can yell pretty loudly.

So I gave in.  We did more stuff.  We've been to the Montshire twice more, to VINS, to the pool, to the lake, to the local free Thursday concert replete with playing in the mud of the nearby river... the Guv took them bowling, to the arcade, to McDonald's... and they're still all wound up.

Then today, as we loaded the minivan to send the Guv and our two dear, sweet guinea pigs to California, it hit me.

We're moving.  Again.  That's why they're out of control. 

There is no harnessing or containing the energy of two children who know that Something Big Is Happening, so the next nine days are going to be sheer hell lots of fun.  We're going to go and go and go, because if we stop I'm going to be hoarse from yelling -- not because I'm that loud, but, rather, because I have to yell things like "don't throw that endtable over the catwalk again!" because that's how wild my children are being right now.

So I'm going to go and pour some Goldschlager over ice cream, or at least over some ice, and kick myself for being so stupid as to think that the Guv's departure and our remaining behind would be a swell idea.  Each day's going to be better than the next, I can just feel it...

In this post, I am participating in a Book Club sponsored by the New Jersey Moms Blog.  Participants read “Writing Motherhood” by Lisa Garrigues and responded to a writing prompt.  Below, I respond in 250 words (exactly!) to the invitation to write about my most outrageous or inexcusable bad mothering moment.  (I took the liberty of changing that to “questionable” mothering moment – I can’t bring myself to write something wholly negative!)  Anyway, here it goes:

My most questionable mothering moment happened when I failed to take care of myself.   When my daughter Petunia was three, I attended graduate school full-time, commuting from NJ to NYC for evening classes after caring for her all day. I felt I was The Poster Mom for Having It All, though it was exhausting; at 29, I didn’t know my limits.  Taking an overload of classes, I’d sacrifice sleep for my homework so that I could be there for Petunia during the daytime.

Then one day, Petunia and I picked up her babysitter, and I needed to run an errand before dropping them off and heading to class.  As I nosed into a parking spot, I hit a parked car.  As I sat there aghast, a box truck hit the front of my car – also my fault. as I was not parked legally.

A lot of realizations unfolded from that accident, including the firing of our babysitter, who gave a fake name (“Maureen Amaureen”) to the police!  Sitting on the curb and calling my husband, I cried because I knew that I shouldn’t have been driving while I was over-tired, especially not with my daughter in the car.  I thanked God that I only hit a parked car and not a person or a pole.  My harsh awakening involved realizing that by not taking care of myself, real danger could result.  Now, when I’m “Maureen Amaureen tired,” I don’t take any chances, and I’m a better mom for it.

To read other responses to our Book Club writing invitation, please click here for the New Jersey Moms Blog.  If you are interested in reading Writing Motherhood, which I do recommend, you can borrow it from me if you’re local, or you can order it here.

... to my own mother, currently vacationing in Singapore.
... to my mother-in-law in Brooklyn.
... to my grandmother in West Virginia.
... to my aunt, currently serving the Department of Justice in Afghanistan.
... to Petunia's godmother in Michigan.
... to Dash's godmother, currently vacationing in Norway.
... to my kids' friends' moms, who mother my children alongside me.
... to my fellow Mommy Bloggers, my virtual sisterhood.
... and to my extended family, friends who are moms, friends who are not yet moms...
... and to me.

My little gifts today:

Dash, at McDonald's with daddy: "Mama looks at this table and says GERMS GERMS GERMS."

Mama, to Dash at naptime: "Dash, do you know how much I love you?"  Dash: "To the moon."  Mama: "That's right."  Dash: "And Mama?  I love you to the closet."

Petunia, playing Wii with me: "Mama, I'm going to stomp you and squash you and defeat you right now.  But tomorrow, it's Mother's Day, so I'll have to let you win."  [And, by the way, she ALWAYS beats me at Wii Play's "Find Mii" -- so she will have to let me win.]

For some reason, I can't get in the mood for Mother's Day this year.

Petunia is very, very excited about it.  Like her father, she can't keep a secret to save her life, and she's been dropping hints like "we'll wake you up with a soy latte but you won't know from where!" all week.  [Note to the Guv: If the kids wake me up on Mother's Day, that will be very uncool.  And Starbucks has the only soy latte around here that's worth drinking.  Thanks.]  I'm glad that Petunia's excited, and bringing me soy lattes, and taking me out for a gluten-free dinner...

But. 

I've hemmed and hawed about why I can't get into Mother's Day this year when I have two amazing, beautiful children, a wildly adventurous mom, an unobtrusive mother-in-law and a grandma who still has pep in her step.  Maybe it's because Dash's ear surgery is on the 15th, and I can't wait to get it over with.  Maybe it's because the school board seat that had my name on it was just vacated, and no fewer than a dozen people have come up to me to say "too bad you're not going to be here" -- plus, maybe it's having to start over and build that kind of credibility someplace else.  Maybe it's because of the stress of selling our home without having a new place waiting on the other coast.  Maybe it's because of an e-mail I just received from a classmate who's baby may not reach his third birthday because of a rare disease.  That's just not right, and not fair, and not okay, and not understandable.  Maybe I feel guilty, because Dash has been sick almost all of his life, but his illnesses like chronic ear infections and possible gluten sensitivity are controllable, endable, endurable, answerable.

So Mother's Day, sure, I'll enjoy my soy latte, and I'll place my phone calls, and I'll pretend to love whatever my family has in store for me.  I'll rally, and I'll smile, and maybe I'll be lucky and it'll even be sunny enough to take another hour-long trike/bike ride with Petunia and Dash.   Sometimes, I am filled with the wonder of this world, usually revealed to me through my children.  Other times, things happen that make me question my abilities as a parent, my faith, my decisions... The good news is that soon, we'll be in a new place, and most of this uncertainty will be cast aside.  It's going to be a long road to get there, but at least we will get there all together and finally have a life that we live all together as a family more days than not.  And that's a good enough mother's day present for me.

When I put Dash down for his nap each afternoon, we take a FiFi (soy milk in a sippy cup) upstairs, change into his pajamas (because his clothes are always dirt-covered) and read a story or two.  This week, we've been reading and re-reading "Percy's Chocolate Crunch" -- a Thomas the Tank Engine story about a water shortage forcing the engines only to get one wash-down each day, and Percy, who hates to get dirty, doesn't like the new "usefuless before cleanliness" policy.  [Insert any number of jokes about the Guv authoring this policy as it reflects his constant attempts to avoid bathing kids more than he deems necessary, which, of course, is 'round 'bout never.] 

In any event, I have started looking forward to this naptime ritual immensely for a few reasons.  It starts with the pajama change, for which Dash sticks his little arms high up in the air -- as in "Stick 'em up!" -- for both the removal of his old shirt and the putting on of the new one.  His little arms in the air help a great deal with getting his shirt off, but not so much with putting the new one on -- yet he insists on dressing this way, and he will remain in that "hands high" position for as long as it takes me to get him dressed.  Once, he waited several minutes as I retrieved the forgotten FiFi and found clean PJs.  His arms must've been tired, but he was frozen in position.  My enjoyment of this is twofold: One, it's just funny, as he's so skinny and little, and he looks like he's being robbed -- especially the solemn face with these perfectly-still toothpick arms held straight up.  Two, he is perfectly still as he waits in this position.  This may be the only time in the day when he is perfectly still.  He doesn't sleep still, doesn't eat still, doesn't watch TV still, doesn't try to use the potty still (so potty training is going to be taking a looooong time).

Then, there's the Percy story.  No one warned me that having a boy meant having dirt around everywhere, all of the time.  I don't mean sand falling out of his shoes -- I mean real, actual, dirt that he's dug out of the yard, placed in a dump truck and brought in to add some realism to his train table.  (That's one of many examples.)  So there is no story that this boy likes more than the story of a train who gets covered in coal dust, cinders, and, ultimately chocolate.  As he squeals with delight and asks if Percy has to have a bath, he looks sad when I tell him that yes, Percy finally gets to have a washdown, despite the water shortage.  Of course, Dash would rather not wash off all of that delicious dirt-infused chocolate; he'd rather scrape it off, put it in a dump truck, mix in some rocks, and dump it on my kitchen floor, probably test-licking some until he's caught and the mess is cleaned up. 

Here, I bought the book because I thought "water shortage" education might come in useful for our California move, and it seemed timely with Earth Day and all... and the boy takes away a lesson about good, dirty fun and the sad, bad bath that follows.  And I couldn't be happier, because this is the joy of having a boy -- and when he's entertained, happy, dirty, and especially nap-bound, life is good and peaceful, for an hour or so at least.  Sometimes I even fall asleep too, overwhelmed with the wonder of it all.

The Guv has returned from his annual golf vacation, rested and (finally) victorious, cradling the trophy for the year.  He has many funny stories to tell, and tonight, I will enjoy hearing them.  That's right, I will enjoy -- a word that hasn't been seen in my last few blog posts! 

There is peace in our kingdom, for daddy is home at long last.  Dash, who was beginning to take on a rather sickly appearance, decided to EAT!  in celebration of his father's triumphant return.  He munched on some of his favorite Starbucks vanilla scones, Burger King french toast sticks, cheese pizza, katsu chicken, rice... he ATE!  And, needless to say, he was pretty much instantly a different child -- an enjoyable, happy, fun little boy with whom I wanted to spend time.  We kicked rocks all the way around the cul-de-sac.  We posed dead worms.  We counted three deer, one bunny, one squirrel, one robin, one very angry bluejay and too many dandelions.  We laid on the grass and looked up at the cloudless blue sky.  This is how every day with him should be.  Instead, this is one of very few days we've had like this over the past school year.  I will remember this day next time he's refusing to eat, because I need to believe that he eventually will eat.  I also need to figure out how to convince him that eating makes him happier -- because think about it: if YOU didn't eat for four days straight, wouldn't you be miserable (and make everyone around you miserable) too?  Thank God that soon, after his ear tubes are placed and especially when we hit the Green Mountains for the summer, he will be pleasant like this more days than not.  I'll play with dead worms all he wants to if he never cries at me in anguish all day again.  Too bad he's too young to make that (gross) trade.

So tonight, the Guv put Dash to bed, I read Petunia a very scary section of the fourth Harry Potter book (the Guv should expect a middle-of-the-night visitor over that one), and I held some guinea pigs, who have been sorely neglected as I've struggled to keep my head above water over the last few days.   It's a nice way to end one of the roughest patches of my parenting career.  And end it, we have.  Guv, get the Goldschlager!  Time to celebrate.