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Kids

The fear I see in my future

March 8, 2016

My new goddess crush Glennon says we have to face our pain. That’s tough talk for a gal who likes to push that ish all the way down under a box of Samoas and Bota box of moscato. We have to take that pain, she says, drink it in and let it transform us into wiser, stronger, better human beings. In that spirit, I’ll share my – not so surprising – fear here. I live in constant, paralyzing, gut-twisting horror of the year 2032. Why, you ask.

In the year 2032, my house will be empty. My chicks will be grownups starting to make their mark. The world will be bigger for them. They will be hitting their stride and scared out of their minds and settling into big loves that spark the biggest change in their lives.

In the year 2032 I’ll live with a deafening silence. The tiny heels I hear coming through the ceiling now, as they sail like superheroes off their bed will stop. There will be no more tip toes taking their 10 tiny steps down the hallway after a scary dream. The quarrels, the cries, the laughter, the make believe, will all be placed on a shelf, only to be brought down on holidays and Sunday dinners.

In the year 2032, each mess will be my own. New carpet will erase the purple nail polish stains. No one will steal my tape to decorate for their baby doll’s birthday party or spend hours cutting paper into tiny pieces, just because it’s pretty. My measuring cups and tupperware will stay compliantly in the drawers. The Nutella fingerprints along the countertop will just be yesterday’s sticky nuisance. No more smears from Sloppy Joan blowing raspberries on the chilled window pane, or splash marks around the garden tub.

In the year 2032, my sinks will be clean. The globs and streaks of blue sparkly toothpaste will be wiped away. I’ll have plenty of hot water. I’ll fill my bathtub to the top with steaming suds and soak to my heart’s content with no little visitors.

In the year 2032, my schedule will clear. I will long for someone to corral or cuddle or correct. I’ll miss the rushed braids and ponytails on the way out the door and tricky double knots. I’ll think fondly of tiny whispering pleas for donuts in my sleepy face on a Sunday morning and imagine the feel of their soft tiny hands folded in mine as I lead them down the trail.

But while my fears and psychosomatic aches fill these walls and crowd me in my bed, a dear friend brought a sobering bright spot. My friend Jackie, being the coolest mom on the block like she is, got her oldest daughter tickets to Hoodie Allen for Christmas. This is the only woman I know who could both sacrifice and magnify her street cred in the same evening. Dubbed “Mama Bear” by some of the young concertgoers, Jackie found herself an active participant and voyeur as her teenager came alive under a constellation of stage lights in a sea of her peers. Crawling out of her best-parent-ever high, she sent this text and I felt a tiny light flicker inside me …

Kids

Pass the bottles

February 10, 2016

[sniff]
“What are we going to do with this extra cabinet space?”
[sniff] “I don’t know.”
“Dude, seriously … that’s like a whole shelf!”
[sniff] “Yeah”

I pulled them down, one after another; Dr. Brown’s, Born Frees, Playtex Drop Ins. I placed them in a bag and told myself it was just for safekeeping. I was just passing them over to another mommy for a few months. But the truth is, they aren’t coming back. I am bottle-free and that’s hard to swallow.

The semi-sane side of me realizes that I’m experiencing a dark hole of emotion based on a cylinder of plastic with a fake nipple on top. I think of the 12 gazillion pieces I had to take apart, put in dishwasher cages, wash and then air dry, and how much I detested those freaking things at 3 in the morning. But then I think about 3 in the morning. I think about those dark, quiet moments when the only sound was a tiny little face, slurping down a few ounces in the still of our family room. The little piggy noises and the curl of those precious little fingers around mine. The post-bottle burping snuggles. Hearing those sleepy, drunken slobbers in your ear and feeling cold chunky cheeks against my shoulder.

When you feel pretty confident that you’re family is complete, everything has the potential to feel like an ending. The baby looks like a mama orangutan in her swing. Ending. She bellies up to the family table in a booster and the high chair has to go away. Ending. She starts wearing clothes with a “T” on the tag. Ending. She demands condiments for her chicky and hot dogs. Ending. Her outfits stop coming with bloomers. Ending. It’s depressing. I’m human. It stings.

But the bottles got me deep. Deeper than the bloomers. Maybe it’s the fact that it feels like, yet another, string cut from their dependency on me. I’m pretty sure Sloppy Joan could muster up a GoGoSqueez or granola bar if I were incapacitated for any reason. She doesn’t need me to snuggle her in the crook of my arm and look down lovingly as she sucks down her supper. She much prefers stuffing her face until she’s had her fill and then throwing the plate onto the floor.

I recognize the crazy in my tears. I realize where I see the end of a journey, many moms would argue there’s cause for joy. “We’re so close to being out of diapers,” Hank says. “It’s just about to get easy.” But easy is so overrated, right?

Kids

Sisters say what? (Vol. 2)

February 3, 2016

“Only dads and people who play basketball can ride motorcycles.” – Spike

“We went through a plant that tickles and bickles you. And then we came back to nothing but monkeys.” – Spike

“I’m gonna have to make underwear out of toilet paper like they did in ’99.” – JoJo

“You can’t run cuz you’re wearing wedding shoes or .. I guess they call them boots.” – Spike

“I try to think about happy things like looking in mirrors when I’m all pretty with makeup. Or good things. But it always turns out into bad dreams, like Cookie Monster is eating me.” …[5 minutes and still going]…“OK, this is how it works, I’m awake and playing, then I throw my toy on the floor, then I fall asleep to a dream about Grover or Cookie Monster and then it’s scary and then I wake up and I still know I had that scary dream.” … [10 minutes and still going] … “So I hold my bottom and come into your room fast like this [demonstrates tiptoeing while holding bottom]. Then I’m fully charged. Then I set up my bed, lay down, go to sleep, close my eyes.” – Spike

“What the hell?!” –JoJo

“And then she said, ‘What the hell are you doing?’” – Spike

“Is that the board JoJo bizzeled all over?” – Spike

[doing my hair]
“OK … it’s all nice and hairy for you. Do you want it like just hairy or like blob hairy? It’s kind of already blob hairy.” – Spike

“Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy … Do you hear what I hear?”– JoJo
“It’s a Jesus, when he died on the car.” – Spike

“Dad, do you know Jesus Cross?” – Spike

“Mom, you know I call Aunt Diana, Indiana.” –Spike

“I like Christmas for the joyful love.” – Spike
“And our freedom!” – JoJo

“I just went poop and pee. But I don’t wanna talk about it.” – Spike

“She wouldn’t stop crying. So we decided to torture each other.” – JoJo

“I wear these underwears on Tuesday because they’re as warm as your covers.” – Spike

“When I blew my snuffy nose, I had splatters all over my face.” – Spike

“Sometimes when I sit down too long my underwear gets tricky on my butt. I don’t want to say butt.” –Spike

“What’s so sugary is the charms in the … in the luck.” – Spike

“I’m just doin’ my thing.” – Spike

Spike: You know what the man on the moon is?
Me: No.
Spike: Critters.
JoJo: You mean craters!

“I like it so much I’m never gonna untry it.” – Spike

“Thusie Adam” [= enthusiasm] – JoJo

“You know why it smells like a fart in here? It’s because I put vaseline on my lips.” – Spike

“We need a mini van. The doors open automagically.” – JoJo

[Gasp] I swallowed my gum. [Sobs] I don’t wanna fart bubbles!!” –– Spike

“You know who sings this? Barack Obama.” – Spike

“The pond is really sold in ice.” – Spike

“Have you felt sick all day? I felt sick for tons of years.” – Spike

“Dad!!! I need you to get in here and push on my belly so the poop will come out!” – Spike

Kids

Dance, too much BOO-tay in da pants

October 29, 2015

We waited until the Wednesday before Halloween, so our pumpkins aren’t perky, but they’re perfect for us. Try not to pee your pants from these scary faces. Looks like Spike might have done something perplexing in hers.

Oh, and there’s this. You’re welcome.

Kids

Who are these jerks?

October 28, 2015

Oh man! I feel like the Genie when he comes out of the lamp after 6 million years. I don’t know what’s had us so busy … a little bit of camping … a little bit of work … a lotta bit of laundry … the Fit2Feast workout challenge and then, right when I think I’m going to sit down to write, my Stitch Fix comes. Life is just full of distractions.

So, the thing about this post is that I’ve been thinking about sharing it for months, but it’s not the most popular topic. See, with all the happy highlights and filtered Instagrams, it’s hard to imagine that anything is ever less than ideal in this place. I mean, Spike is so funny, and JoJo so wise beyond her years and Sloppy Joan is just the cutest, but there are moments … many, many moments, where my kids are … well, they’re freaking punks.

It’s always been there. The whining, the petty fighting, the outlandish demands. But this past year, particularly since JoJo started kindergarten, it’s been beyond any normal human’s threshold for whining, fighting and demanding. There are days when my directions are merely suggestions in a world dominated by their whims and wants. My requests are considered and immediately dismissed to make time for something like cutting construction paper into 30 million tiny pieces. They fight over items as priceless as the cardboard center of a toilet paper roll and go straight to hand to hand combat when direct commands fall on deliberately deaf ears.

I know that I’m not alone. I do. But it feels lonely in those moments. Like these are failures specifically tailored to showcase my shortcomings as their example. Being a parent and observing your kids is like the lab that accompanied a chemistry course in college. You try to follow the directions. You use the ingredients and strategies the teacher recommends. But sometimes, your formula fizzes (and boils over in a completely irrational fashion) while your neighbor’s simply combines and falls to a peaceful, obedient state. Despite your best intentions, things explode and react in a spastic, uncontrollable, combative roar simply because you added, say, one unforeseen ingredient (like a mandatory family nap on a Sunday afternoon).

Do I love my girls? No. I adore them beyond measure. I am obsessed with them. I worship every little piggy on their petite, perfect feet. But there are times, worship or not, when I sit back as a bystander, a helpless observer, watching one of them on a downward emotional spiral sparked by a microscopic annoyance and I think … who the hell are these jerks?

Typically, Hank and I trade off bearing the brunt of their tantrums. Sometimes Daddy’s having a bad day, and sometimes Mama jumps on the hormone grenade. It just depends. It helps team morale when one of the coaches can come out to the mound and tap in for their flustered, frustrated co-captain. We laugh about it a lot. But the truth is, it bothers the crap out of me. I want to know what sassy switch was flipped in my 6 year old the day I sent her into grade school. More than that, I want to know how to flip it the frick back off. It’s hard to feel like you’re failing. It’s sad when the day ends with an argument.

Because that’s the thing about your kids acting out; you end up acting like a huge asshole. You go through the stages of the last parenting book or article you read. You try to put yourself in their shoes, come down to their level, but inevitably, you snap like Elle Woods in a hair salon. Your eyes get big, and nostrils flare, and threats are thrown about, and yelling takes place. And this psychotic break never brings about any change for the better. They fight back or recoil and you’re left feeling like a splat of bird poop on a park bench. Nobody wins.

Until the next morning when all is forgotten and the stage is set for a few great moments and the unspoken, optimistic hope that maybe everyone will get along today. The girls won’t fight. I won’t have to ask 5 million times for someone to feed the dog. The sun is going to shine and happy, twittering birds are going to fly in and make my bed for me, just like in a Disney movie. And just to humor you, God does give you some of this.

The other night, Spike told JoJo that she loved her with her whole entire heart like Jesus. She patted her older sister’s head warmly and placed her treasured monkey blanket over her feet. And I thought, ya know, that’s what it’s all about. Just when you feel like you’ve been run over too many times to get back up, something beautiful happens and it puts you right back on your feet. I was swelling with pride. I felt renewed in my parental purpose and like the good man up above was providing a much-needed pat on the back.

Then Spike accidentally kicked her and JoJo pushed her off the bed.

Kids

Finally saying farewell to summer

October 6, 2015

It’s times like this, when I feel like the only person on the face of the planet who isn’t lining up for a pumpkin spice latte, that I truly struggle with letting go of the humid hugs of summer. But alas, fall has found her way back and I didn’t want to miss the chance to share a few final snapshots from the fleeting days of the past season.

Kids

Plant the seed

August 29, 2015

It’s overcast and breezy in the Midwest; autumn is certainly snarking at us from around the corner. Not to mention the ripple of sickness has spread from JoJo, onto Spikey, and then to Sloppy Joan. The coughing and raspy whispers and low-grade fevers have me missing the sterilizing steam of summer already.

So, there couldn’t have been a better day for me to come across this group of shots from the late spring evening we planted our garden. We’ve never had a smaller yield, thanks to a minor flood in our backyard a few short weeks after the last seeds went in. But it’s a good exercise nonetheless.

I’m a firm believer that our food-of-convenience lifestyles are killing us. I love a greasy butterburger and bag of powdered cheese Cheetos even more than the next guy, but as I age, the chemical-laden buns and 50-letter-long, science-lab ingredients make each bite just a little less enticing. I don’t think I can completely change the way my babies see food, but I can sure as kale try.

The garden is a great way to get them interested. They love picking the plants, digging into the dirt and plucking the vibrant fruits from the vine. By the time the season’s a wrap, I’d estimate they consume an extra cucumber here and a bite of bell pepper there, but the real win is the knowledge that things don’t just show up wrapped in cellophane and bundled with rubber bands. Real food is imperfect, tastes a little like earth and contains superwoman properties. Real food is real good and really worth the effort.

Kids, Tune in Today

Kindergarten kickoff and my nervous breakdown

August 14, 2015

Tune in today to see if she can … be that together mom on the first day of kindergarten.

The thing about children that nobody tells you, is that more often than anyone would like, we discover that these little people are petite vessels sent to open, detonate and unintentionally impose utter and complete emotional devastation upon those who love them most. One look, and they can level you. The right phrase, and you’re shattered into 8 trillion tiny pieces. Almost every happy occasion comes gift wrapped in nostalgia and topped with a bittersweet bow. It’s incredibly humbling and unnerving all at the same time.

JoJo started kindergarten on Wednesday and, as she lifted that construction paper sign announcing her foray into elementary school for the world (or just Instagram and Facebook) to see, something terrible happened. I started sobbing. Big, dreadful, embarrassing, ugly tears. It was like they were all holding hands. Once they started falling, there was no reprieve from the infinity pool of self pity.

But when we got to the sitter’s to drop off the younger two, I said I was fine. I was fine with her looking like a 12 year old who picked out the most mature outfit in her closet. I was fine with her telling her sissies goodbye. “Wait until she goes to college,” the sitter said. And again, I cried.

But when I got back into the car to drive her to school, I said I was fine. I was fine with her sitting, crossed-legged, mouthing all the words to an Ed Sheeran song while looking longingly out the window. You know … like teenagers do. “Are you coming in with me?” JoJo asked. And again, I cried.

But as we walked hand in hand, side by side, into the school, I said I was fine. I was fine with how, as I looked down at the pavement, I noticed her shadow was catching up to mine. I was fine with how her tiny hand felt not-as-tiny nestled in mine, and how I could feel her anxious excitement on the other end. “Here we go,” I said. And I tried so hard not to cry.

As I watched her sit up so straight in her little chair, only looking back to meet eyes with me a few times, when she thought no one was looking. As I watched her walk to her cubby. As I watched her line up and march with a tentative confidence down a hallway alongside the big kids. As I watched her eyes light up at talk of reading and adventures and friends, I told myself I was fine. Everything was fine.

But as we set her on the little round seat in the lunchroom, situated with her compartmentalized tray and carton of apple juice, I didn’t feel fine. “Are you guys leaving now?” JoJo asked. I leaned down, kissed her little baby-skinned cheek, pulled down my sunglasses and didn’t try not to cry. In fact, I let it rain. I let those tears fall for the milestone and for my mourning of the past and the fact that it will always be the past, and in the past, she was tiny and snuggly and so close to me always.

“Find joy in the journey.” my friend Lindsay posted.

“This is what we do. We raise them to give them wings and let them go.” Kel offered.

“It’s a testament to you as a mom that she felt OK to go in there with confidence. It’s OK to be upset. Part of being a mom is loving them so much and worrying and crying.” a sweet coworker said (as I snotted and sobbed over her desk).

But when I got home from work, and I listened to her describe their bear hunt, and the playground, and her new friends … I knew, deep down, everything was just fine. But I still cried today, just a little.

Until next time …

Kids

In memoriam: Orange, Swimmer, Flower and Crawly the Ant

July 16, 2015

During my decade-long career as a journalist/marketing copywriter/social media manager, I have found myself on the creative end of some pretty interesting projects. Editorial content often requires interviews and photo shoots and behind-the-scenes tours, to really get to the guts of the story. As a result of these endeavors, I have accumulated an impressive array of trinkets and trophies: A bottle of water from a natural spring, green tea-flavored liqueur, leggings with faux leather patches on the insides of the legs, and, the gift that brings us to this post, a quartet of goldfish.

About a year ago, I was in the photo studio interviewing a coworker for a blog feature. Vases of goldfish looked on as I asked her to disclose what she carried in her handbag and what her spirit animal might be. Finally, in spite of my best efforts to avoid eye contact, someone suggested I take a fish home. “The girls will love it!” they urged. You see, these goldfish were orphans; leftover props from a fashion photo shoot, and if no one gave them a tank to call home, their future looked pretty bleak. Against all my better judgement, and just as my mother the animal rescuer taught me, I rolled up my cardigan sleeve and fished two little guys out of a flower vase. I later went back for two more.

Thrilled with their new friends, the chicks settled on the names Orange, [Fish] Swimmer, Flower and Crawly the Ant, respectively. They fed them a pinch of flavorful flakes when asked, and checked in on them from time to time. Everyone was thriving … until Monday night. It was the commentary every parent dreads from the day they transfer that $.25 pet from the bag to the tank. “Mom, that fishy isn’t swimming. I think he’s caught in that plant, Mama! He is! He’s caught and there’s blood on him!” Spike screamed with great concern. I looked over at Hank and he made the universal thumb-across-the-jugular gesture to confirm that we had, in fact, lost a fish. Now, before I go on to this next part, it must be said that my reaction was for my children, more than the free goldfish that had taken up residence in my dining room.

We said it was Orange (because heaven forbid it was Crawly the Ant you guys, seriously. Any fish but Crawly the Ant), and assembled around the potty for a proper burial. Henry played a funeral hymn on his harmonica, as the ladybugs gathered around the petite corpse of their former friend. He leaned down and grabbed the handle of the net, like a solemn pallbearer, and placed Orange in his final resting place. (Well, until he flushed him and then he really went to his final resting place.) The second the handle triggered the whirlpool, the girls lost it. Tears and screams of mourning. And I’ll be damned if I didn’t shed a tear. I really did.

Hank explained it was time for Orange to go back and swim with the big fish in the river. A few minutes later, after this concept had a chance to marinate in her mind, Spike spoke: “Mom, he came from the water, and we shared our home. He came from your work, but, Mom, this is how God made the world. He has to go back to his home so he can be alive again. But, Mom … how is there a river in our potty?” Really, truly, a valid question.

Before bed, she told Hank, “Actually, I think that was my friend Crawly the Ant. My sad face won’t go away.” And the next morning, that she “woke up in the middle of the night and there was a fish tank on the floor and Crawly the Ant came back alive and lived forever.” Grief is a process. This morning, we lost the rest of our school of swimmers. That pesky pH balance can really deliver a blow.

In honor of happier times, let’s look back on our first morning with our dear pets: Orange, Swimmer, Flower and, of course, Crawly the Ant. Thank you, dear finned friends, for swimming on the sidelines of our lives for approximately 375 days. You will be missed.

Kids

Oh daddy dear: Surviving and thriving with all daughters

July 12, 2015

Due to our need to get the hell outta dodge, I missed addressing this on Father’s Day. But with the 34th anniversary of his birth upon us, I feel compelled to share why my husband was just the man to raise three little women, and what other men in his situation can gain from his approach.

the look.
I have known this gentleman for 14 years. I know what he’s thinking. I know what he’s going to say before he parts his lips. But I never knew what immeasurable, drunken joy looked like on him until I saw him lock eyes on JoJo the day she was born. I remember lying there, watching him dance between me and her … all pink and screaming and deliciously ours. A light came on in him that only fatherhood could spark. I saw it again when we had Spikey. And again with Sloppy Joan. Every time they do something endearing, I immediately turn to catch that organic moment on his face; that glimmer he gets only for his girls. It’s a certain smile and a sparkle, like his love for them is reflected back and captured in his eyes. As much as I relish these sweet glances, I know the chicks do just as much. They feel adored and accepted and encouraged to keep being themselves. When someone genuinely rejoices in your unbridled spirit, it puts wind in your wings. It makes them feel like they can soar.
Look adoringly upon your daughters.

owning it.
Given the choice of a baby blue toothbrush or powder pink, my husband will opt for the blushing brush. Why? Because he has embraced the company he keeps. He often jokes about how he’s taken to calling things, “cute,” the designated adjective in our dwelling. It’s not his fault, really. I used to work with this sweet young thing who said, “Gosh,” at the beginning of every sentence. “Gosh, Kate Middleton is the cutest.” “Gosh, I really want a juice cleanse.” “Gosh, Spike is seriously so funny.” And before you knew it, bing! bang! boom! “Gosh,” was part of my vernacular. It’s subliminal advertising more than a sign of meager manhood. But I appreciate that he’s all-in. He’s unapologetic. He is a grown-ass man who can paint some tiny nails and do a french braid like a boss and who says, “cute” … a lot. And, gosh, it’s so dang endearing.

a pile of patience.
God love this man and the patient soul he was given. I run at a very different pace and, unfortunately, there are times when I get caught up in the bullet points of my to-do list at the expense of the beautiful little faces behind the bullet points (a post for another time). But Henry takes the extra time. His watch stops for the small things and it’s a blessing to our babies.

high marks in the all-around.
It’s important to Hank that the girls be confident, well-rounded and adventurous. He thinks about what he wants to show them, and he always has their character at the heart of his plans. People have said, “He needs his boy.” But that’s kind of crap. He doesn’t need a boy to have someone to share interests or pass on the lessons his father taught him. JoJo, we’ve learned, likes to garden, fish and hike. Spike, likes mowing the yard and olives (their things right now). He curates theses special experiences based on the knowledge he has to share, the little people he sees in them and the women he hopes they’ll be someday. He respects their individuality, never limits them based on gender and makes them feel like he can teach them anything. It’s empowering and, while they will probably never be avid hunters or throw the winning pass at a Friday night football game, the book is never totally closed on a path they want to explore.

doctor dada.
Every home becomes a machine, with different people maintaining the function and feelings of the people and things that reside within the walls through different roles and reactions. As the sole man of the house, Hank’s roles cover a vast territory. He is the protector and the powerhouse. The mover of all heavy things. But, because his wife is, well, me, he is also by default the cleaner of all vomit and assessor of all wounds. Every crash, every splinter, every [gag] tick, is directly elevated to daddy’s attention. He always picks the right bandage, has the words to calm their hysteria and bears the blood and snot stains to prove his medical savvy. Every house needs a tough guy when the bike brakes fail and skulls collide, and he is certainly ours.

I know quite a few daddies who have been blessed with little women, exclusively. They all have these traits and more, and savor the gift they’ve been given. It takes a special guy to man up to the challenge of raising, not just girls, but strong, confident, capable girls. I tip my hat to my babies’ daddy and to all the fellas doing their part to make the next generation of gals fierce and freaking awesome.

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