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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 …

Thoughts

243 minutes

August 7, 2015

On my run last night, which took 47:51, I got to thinking about time; Specifically, where I spend it and who I spend it with. Dissecting an average work day, I see my chicks from 5pm – 9pm. If you count the glimpse I steal of them sleeping in the morning on my way downstairs and the brief encounter I sometimes get with Spike, you can add three extra minutes to that. So, that’s it. A lousy 4 hours and 3 minutes in a 24-hour day. But it gets worse.

More often than not, that’s a high estimate. If it’s a jogging night, we’re talking at least 45 minutes deducted from the already slim pot. A class at the gym? That’s 60 minutes. Girls night out? I’m lucky to get 40 minutes of face time with them. Then I start tallying the cooking, cleaning and shopping, and my soul shatters. How freaking sad is that to think about? And, if I want to further butcher those sweet seconds, I could go crazy analyzing which minutes are actually considered quality time. Time where I am doing my job as a mom rather than assuming the role of the moron multitasking bystander as their childhood playfully roars by without me.

An unfortunate series of events has granted Hank a little extra time at home during the past 7 months. As much as we joke about his temporary turn as a “househusband,” the time has truly been a gift to me. Sharing the daily chores and tasks it takes to keep this place running has given me so many more opportunities to get down and wrestle with our girls. I can chew on Sloppy Joan’s neck and listen to giggles hiss out of her four-toothed mouth, because the laundry was already started. I can do airplane until my legs give out with JoJo, because dinner’s in the works. And I can sit in awe and listen to another imaginative Spike story, because the floors got swept this morning. I’m not saying it’s fun being on the other end of the broomstick, but it has been a huge blessing for the lady of the house.

But it’s ending. In a blink we’ll be back to two full-time working parents, with a child in kindergarten and, again, the hourglass is going to drain like a bottle of Moscato at a Mary Kay party.

I don’t know that there’s an answer or a solve for fleeting time. I’ve long yearned for the chance to go back in history, find the fool who implemented the 5-day work week, and beat him until he cries crocodile tears of regret and begs for my forgiveness, but alas, the gentleman (you know it was a man) eludes me. I’m also quite certain that the grass is greener concept is at play here. If I stayed home with my girls, truth be told, I’d probably end up hunkered down in my closet with an iPad full of Sex and the City seasons, a tapped Bota Box and a can of Reddi-wip, crying while the children beat each other into submission and the basic laws of human decency toppled one by one outside by bunker. I once asked my mother what she liked most about staying home with us kids and she said, “You know, I didn’t. Some people are meant to stay home and some people aren’t. And I wasn’t.” I respect her honesty and, while I think my kids are the most awesome specimens ever grown, I think I might not be one of those people either. Sometimes, you just can’t win.

I always try to make it matter. I want their memories with me to be full of belly laughs, muddy knees and wild adventures. I want to listen and I want to lift them up. I want them to know my eyes, rather than the top of my head or my back. I want more time, but since I can’t have that, I want more of the times you take with you; in your heart, in your dreams, in the stories you tell. Every moment spent is a moment you can’t get back and they’re fleeting at an obnoxious pace. All I can do is breathe it all in, let it fill me up with joy and let my soul’s compass point back to that feeling, that purpose, often and always.

So Says Sloppy Joan

The art of playing it off

July 4, 2015

Turn up your volume, and check out this video.

Now watch it inserting the following voice-over. (Yes, I realize this would be on another level if I had some sweet video editing skills, but it’s good for you to use your imagination. Keeps ya young.) Here we go:

[After standing up on her own for the first time.]
I did it!
[toot]
Gasp! I just tooted. Ugh! Man, I’m always doing that! OK … play it off nobody saw. Do, do do … Uh oh … I think they’re looking at me. Quick, turn around like someone fired the shot from behind.

Kids

Mother’s Day (It’s a girl thing)

May 11, 2015

As I take my melatonin and tuck myself in at sunset on this, my sixth Mother’s Day, my heart is full, fat and happy. In what feels like the heartbeat of a hummingbird, we have filled this house with 3 gorgeous girls. Three girls … I still can’t believe it … three girls!

People often offer a “poor you” expression when I share that I have all girls. I get it. I mean, let’s face it, being the mom of all girls is like being on an endless group date on The Bachelor. Not one of the week 2 dates, where the crazies are still running rampant, but like one of the last ones, where all of the remaining contestants are cute as can be with somewhat charming characteristics. The comparison cuts the mustard in many regards. You constantly find yourself trying to get a word in, the ease of the experience elevates in relation to the amount of wine consumed, and it’s extremely difficult to get one-on-one time with the only guy in the room.
It’s fun to trade war tales with women on the other side of the spectrum.Working from home one day, an instant message popped up from a coworker, who has all boys, that simply read, “I had to put the Hulk in timeout last night for smashing Sammy’s wiener.” And right there, in that moment, I realized I would never have that experience. Much like I imagine she will never receive the response, “You make me feel like a piece of trash in a trash can that no one wants!” when she tells her toddler to stop arguing and go to sleep. Drama breeds like barn cats in summer around our house. The more estrogen in a square foot, the greater the magnitude of emotion you get.

Those same people who give “the look” also love to point out that we should “try for a boy” and make the assumption that we feel something is lacking in our lives. Sure, they always have to go potty when the food arrives, all of the body questions get fielded to me and I’ll never get a special dance at one of their weddings. But for every gut punch, there is a wonderful gift given in exchange. Knowing my husband watched YouTube videos with “simple braids for dads” or hearing him read them his favorite book, Daddy’s Girl, at night always makes my ticker swell. Having JoJo tell me she wants to be a writer just like me, or Spikey say she’s going to be a mommy, or watching them snuggle and chat and carry on. Nothing is missing in this house. Absolutely nothing.

I thank God every day for letting me live with these magical little people. I thank Him even on the days when my patience is spent and my nerves are shot. And as much as today makes me reflect on my own joy, it also reminds me of the sisterhood we all share. Every single woman who tries to be everything – the cook, the housekeeper, the professional, the coach, the disciplinarian, the therapist, the nurturer, the teacher. Every woman who tries to be Superwoman. It reminds me of the respect I have for all of you and the energy it takes to try and be the best version of yourself to make a great version of someone else. I hope your Sunday was filled with sweet moments and crayon drawings, and you maybe found a little time for
yourself.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Wanderlust

The popup and the plague

May 6, 2015

Months ago I asked JoJo how she wanted to celebrate her sixth birthday. Her response crushed every piece of my maternal heart. “Mama,” she said. “I don’t think I want to turn 6. I just want to stay 5 forever … and live here forever … and keep my same clothes and my same blankets and live here forever.” It became very clear very quickly that we would have to bring out the birthday big guns. Not clowns … everyone knows clowns are psychotic. Not the trampoline place … I’d surely piss myself. A camping trip? The sparkle came back to her eyes with an enthusiastic “Yeah!”

In tandem with this conversation at our dinner table, my parents were coming into a sweet little popup camper that needed a new home. Coincidence?

Every week that passed brought more excitement and anticipation. We talked about snacks. We talked about our camper. We put the camper up and sat in it in the rain. We talked about snacks. And finally, the week was upon us.This is where our heartwarming tale takes a super shitty turn. Wednesday night, I heard Sloppy Joan coughing. When Hank went to grab her for a breathing treatment, he discovered an unpleasant, deconstructed version of her dinner spattered all over the crib. This was the first act in what would be a very long night of splats and squishes for Daddy, God love him. She’ll be better tomorrow, we thought. She wasn’t.

Friday was JoJo’s actual birthday, and the long-awaited departure day. I packed all morning, Hank left to load and pick up the popup (Emma we’re thinking of naming her). I took Sloppy Joan and went to pick up JoJo and Spikey for the annual birthday lunch at Old McDonald’s. Something deep in my soul told me to pick up the food and take it home rather than linger for the usual scamper through the urine-doused dome of fun. I knew something was off when Spike just stared at her nuggets. Girl loves her nuggets. Two gulps of apple juice – denied. We had a second puker. Maybe she just drank too fast, we thought. We were wrong. Curly tossed more cookies than a clumsy Girl Scout. With my whole family and a caravan of campers en route, I jumped on the grenade and stayed home with the younger two, while JoJo and Hank went north to nature.

Spike passed out and slept for, literally, 13 hours straight. It was incredible. She woke up like Will Ferrell in the debate scene of Old School, renewed and ready to camp. So, we went camping. It was gorgeous. A sunny 78 and a stone’s throw from the playground. We hiked and we ate … oh, how we ate. I mention the eating now as a cautionary tale to any woman who sits with flu-stricken children just 24 hours before said eating. As the children were nestled all snug in their sleeping bags and the adults gathered to gossip and drink grownup juice, I felt my stomach starting to think over my recent decisions. Best to go to sleep, I thought.

At 2 am, I was jolted awake by a very unpleasant, bitchslap of a truth that I can share with you now: Hell is the flu in a popup camper. The angels were with me in only one regard, and that was my parent’s apartment-on-wheels camper, which was just 15 strides away from our swinging door. I know this because I spent the hours between 2 am and 7 am pacing between their trailer and the soup pot that awaited me in the popup. Just after sunrise, my husband was serenaded by dry heaving and snotty snobs.

I was waving the white flag. It was time for me to go home, I thought.

Hank comes out as the saint in this story. This man – this sweet, sweet dad and selfless man – had to pack that whole trailer, unpack it, and then pack it all up again, with three little chicks in tow. Not to mention handle his hysterical other half.

But I suppose every party needs a pooper and that’s why we invited … well, the majority of our family of five. It turns out we gave treats to our party guests as well. As of publishing this post, my mom, brother-in-law and niece were down with the BGs (bubbly guts). Happy 6th birthday JoJo!

All crap aside, you are one of the most amazing people I know. You keep me sharp and challenge me to teach and to listen. This year, more than anything, you surprised me with your courage and determination. I saw fire in those eyes, kid, and there’s nothing wrong with that. You were my first timid step into motherhood – and now to see what has come of that adventure … to see this bold soul finding her voice and her place is so overwhelming. But remember, no matter how old you are, you will always be my baby. You promised!p.s.

This video is the only proof I have that this weekend actually happened. Sloppy Joan chillin with the iPad hanging from the roof of the popup. Good times …

Spike Speak

Spike’s World

April 13, 2015

Today I invite you to leave commonsense behind and join my family for a beautiful, absurd adventure.

For months, Spike has been talking about her “world”. This alternate universe comes up at least twice a day and holds Grandfathers who teach her how to do things and her very own computer and iPad (Apple, of course), a friend named Desi who gets beat up by her brothers and is sometimes mean to Spike and, the most recurring character, her flying horse, Kiyango. Kiyango is referenced so frequently and convincingly that my mom actually got Spikey a Kiyango ornament for Christmas this year. She can tell you everything about her world. She’ll even draw you a map, complete with landmarks and detailed step-by-step instruction on how to get there.

With this background, our journey can begin. It started last night, when she demanded we go to her world, so she could retrieve her computer. (Truth be told, I was pretty sympathetic. I hate when you’re up against a deadline and forget your dang computer.)

This went on forever until finally a promise to go first thing after breakfast the next day brought the expedition to a halt.

And so, Sunday morning, 12 hours after the initial proposed departure time, me, Hank, Sloppy Joan, JoJo and Mya geared up to fall in line behind our fearless leader Spike, and head for her world.

Because there is a giant pond in Spike’s World, she first came down dressed in this little number …

But settled on some polka dot pants and a more-sensible shoe. Off we went: Two parents, one strapped up with a hairy baby, a dog and an older sister. All following a 3 year old who seemed to know exactly where she was going and was in a huge hurry to get there.

But being the middle child can be tough. And being the middle child getting a lot of attention can be especially tough on the oldest child. And as our adventure advanced, JoJo started poking. First she said she’d “already been there and knew how to get there herself.” Ouch. Then she started racing her. Then she started throwing full-on shade about the endeavor in general.

Daddy dropped the hammer and took big sis home for a little timeout and talking to. Spike couldn’t care less. She pressed on, veering off the path and through the common area, chatting the whole way. At one point, we were looking for a rainbow to jump on. A few minutes later, we would be holding hands and dropping from a cliff onto a cloud (How everyone wishes Thelma and Louise would have ended). And then we found a patch of tall, prickly brush and homegirl decided to really go off the grid.

I was hesitant …

She crunched around until a big bird flew by and she decided it was heading for her world and we should track it. We walked by a tree full of Specks and her mind was blown for a solid 3 minutes. “We are here! We are here! We are here!” we chanted.

About 15 minutes into the trek now and “so close” to her world, she came upon a small ditch or stream or trickle of runoff (not sure what one calls this particular body of water).

What followed was a handful of minutes where I watched Spike pump herself up to walk through, essentially, a giant puddle, and then geek out and abort the crossing. We had come to the biggest obstacle on our route to Spike World. A river ran through it, and it was rocking sister’s world, until …

As I went to high five my trailmate, I noticed some dead weight. I looked down and …

Time for Mom to tap out. As if on cue, Hank, JoJo and the dog came strolling through the grass. Spike was ready to lead them straight through someone’s backyard and onto the final destination. Needless to say, I don’t think they made it past the cattails.

I am an educated, reasonable, incredibly realistic woman, but I would be lying if I didn’t say a small part of me wished a rainbow had dropped down from the sky with Kiyango all saddled up and ready to go. I mean, her imagination is so intricate and contagious, and I think all of us wanted to take a bath in the big pond and shoot the shit with Desi. Alas, it was only a walk. But a fun walk. And as soon as she got home, Spikey came upstairs, put her hand to her mouth and said in my ear, “Mama, tomorrow, I’m going to take you to my world.”

Kids

Easter at our house

April 8, 2015

Sadly, another first holiday as a family of five has too-quickly come and gone. Eggs were hunted. Hair was unruly. And then more eggs were hunted. And then candy was had by all. (Real quick, doesn’t it kind of look like Sloppy Joan has bunny ears in this top picture?)

While we would all live to regret our poor, sweet, sugary choices that day, as well as those made in the days following, the buzz did drive us outside, where we enjoyed one of the most beautiful days we’ve had so far. We walked, and chased bubbles in the wind and dialed in our bikes. JoJo even took her training wheels off for a hot minute. It was a great day. Three little chicks, a bunny and some sunshine … what more could a woman want? Maybe this picture …

Kids

Gopher Day goes awry

April 2, 2015

April 1, 2015 was Gopher Day in my little suburban slice of the world. It’s the day when neighbors, whom you haven’t seen in months, pop out to give a smile and subtle wave to signal the official close of hibernation. Masculine machines are firing up … trimming, whacking, pruning. I feel that familiar face sweat beading into formation in the sunlight through my car window. Hello, old friend! The songs sound catchier. Traffic flows like a good piece of gossip among girlfriends. It’s my favorite day of the whole year.

I pulled in my driveway to find the chicks, in various states of sweet spring activity – JoJo pushing Sloppy Joan around in an umbrella stroller. Spikey stepping up to her big girl bike with tottering training wheels. This is some serious utopian stuff, I thought … like a moron.

Any mom worth her salt knows that picturing perfection and your kids in the same space for more than a handful of minutes is a rookie assumption, sure to implode before you, leaving in its wake stinging shrapnel made of pinches, pokes and hysterics.

But this was Gopher Day! So I put history and intuition aside, and embarked on a sure-to-be-blissful jaunt around the park. And then, like the shittiest April Fools joke ever, all hell began to break loose. First, JoJo decided to abandon the bike she was on to push Sloppy Joan, which, it would turn out, meant big sis sprinting while a wide-eyed baby sat, white-knuckled with her prominent whale-spout pony flapping violently atop her head.

But this juvenile joyride was nothing compared to Spike, or as she will henceforth be called, “The Girl Who Killed Gopher Day”. Our 3 year old is notorious for bailing. Every hike, walk or bike ride to date has ended with her in a puddle of pout on a sidewalk. It’s embarrassing and it really brings my Supermom mojo down. To assume today would be different just because the sun was shining was naïve, I admit it, but I let her hop on her new Hello Kitty bike and get after it. I’d say about .2 of a mile in, we were in good shape. By .3, we were having steering issues. And by .4 we were standing next to the steed, contemplating the next move.

Sensing a general frustration and seeing smoke off JoJo’s heels, I simply suggested Spike leave the bike, walk with us and then practice when we came back around. If my future self could have intercepted the words from the mouth of my present self, everyone would have come through just fine. But there was no going back.

Me: Babe, let’s just go enjoy the walk and we’ll try again when we come back this way.

Spike: But Mama …

Me: Spikey, it’s such a beautiful day, let’s go try to catch JoJo!

Spike: No, I want to ride my big girl bike!

Me: Then hop on and steer it, like you were before.

Spike: It’s not working, Mama!

Me: OK, then let’s just walk for now.

Spike: No!

Me: Honey, Mommy’s gotta go catch up with your sisters. You coming?

Spike: No! I want to ride my bike!

Me: OK, well then you need to head home, hon.

Spike: Noooooo! I wanna ride my bike! [cue tears]

Me: Spikey, I’m not doing this here.

Spike: [cue screams]

Me: I have to go now. [Walks away nervously splitting my eyes to keep one on each set of children.]

Spike: [Screaming, blubbering dialogue I can’t decipher]

Me: [Runs back, picks Spike up and puts her in our fence. Neighbors at a standstill.]

Hank: [Chases Spikey around the backyard like a farmer after
a greasy pig until he catches and carries her, sack-of-potatoes style, into the house, where screams can still be heard because the windows are open because, you know, it’s freaking Gopher Day.]

JoJo, Sloppy Joan and I continued on our loop, which was, all things considered, nice.

I was naïve. I see that now. I thought I would be taking a mental snapshot of my three little ladies riding and strolling and smiling on the first sunny day of spring, and I would want to write about it and store it away in my heart forever. But I’m writing about this. And you know, sometimes that’s just the way walks go.

Kids

Sometimes you gotta …

March 29, 2015

Life can be tense from time to time. It can be a downright kick in the pants. When a case of the Mondays descends, or tempers run high, I think you just gotta dance it out. A good old fashioned dance party is the antidote for what ails and annoys. Bring the funk to ban it.

If your motions are a merger of your mama’s sweet moves and dad’s stiff hips, it might look like this:

It’s cool. Own it.

But there is one caution I feel compelled to share with those considering an all-family dance party – something that must be anticipated and addressed as a household before a situation arises and you find yourself ill prepared. I’m talking about Taylor Swift. Now, I am not anti-Swift, as a general rule. I am also far from a Swiftie. But sure as a death in a Disney movie, your kids are going to flipping love her. Be ready.

I feel that my organic reaction has been genetically transferred to Sloppy Joan. Watch as, at just 10 months old, she has the I-can’t-freaking-believe-I’m-actually-dancing-to-this-shit-and-I-love-it response to America’s revered pop anthem:

The amazing thing is, this was the first time Sloppy Joan clapped. This night, dancing. Taylor Swift is so good, her sick beats elicit human reactions beyond existing motor skills. I can think what I want about her gaping, girl power expressions, but the B is good. Damn good.

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