How many times do I have to repeat myself?

1440.

That’s at least the number of times I have said (yelled, called, screamed, hollered) “wake up” this school year. Not even counting weekends.

It’s the minimum number of times I have answered the question “huh?” with “get down here, eat breakfast – don’t forget your milk, and get out of here for school.”

It is the approximate combined total number of times that I have asked for lunchboxes that were under the bed, on the couch, by the front door, in the car – everywhere but in the kitchen and reminded folks to leave their lunchbox in the kitchen when they get home.

It is the least possible summation of times that I have said “get your stuff ready for tomorrow” and “didn’t you get your stuff ready last night?”

It is pretty close to the number of times I have signed “I gotta turn this in today or I won’t get to…” forms at 7 am, pulled out wrinkled dollars from the bottom of my purse for “I forgot to tell you I don’t have any lunch money” lunches, and scribbled checks for “oh, yeah this is due today” permission slips and registrations.

It is the number of times someone has said “have you seen my…” or “I can’t find my…” at 6, 7, and 8 am.

It is way below the number of times I have said “put up your phones” and “go to bed” repeatedly within a two-hour time span.

It is June. Four kids, 180 days of school (well, almost, but who’s counting). And if you’ve done the math and still don’t get to this number – hit “x 2” on our calculator because it’s not sufficient to say things once to each child.  I feel like a broken record. Except with a broken record, it’s the exact same thing every time. With a repetitive, worn-out mom, there is variability in volume, the gritting of teeth, the caffeination level and the litany of “how many times do I have to say…?”

Apparently that number is somewhere around 1440.

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5 Tips for Moms Breastfeeding in Public

I’m about eight years removed from breastfeeding, so although some things may have changed (those much cuter cover-ups that are now out), the basics have stayed the same.

• Some folks get breastfeeding, some don’t.  There are people who are pro-breastfeeding/it’s the only way, there’s formula is best folks, and there’s others who haven’t given it any thought until they saw your boobs at the store.
• Breastfeeding is natural, but that doesn’t mean everyone wants to see you do it. Insert any other natural function in place of “breastfeeding” for emphasis.
• You do have the right to choose how you want to feed your kid.
• You do not need to be fully exposed for your child to get the full nutritional value of your breastmilk.

So, while you can do whatever you want at home – nurse naked doing a headstand in your living room if you want to - here’s a few tips that hopefully will make your public breastfeeding days a bit easier.

• Dress for the occasion and the task.  When my first daughter was born, nursing-wear was limited to what amounted to super-large t-shirts with a slit cut across the middle. I had two and hated them both.  But nursing-wear has progressively gotten less ugly and more like “normal” clothes.  But if you don’t want to go through the expense of buying clothing specifically for nursing, then wear clothes that make the task easier. Button down shirts, shirts that can comfortably lifted up from the waist, even a spaghetti-strap sundress or a stretchy v-neck t-shirt. It depends on your comfort and to an extent, your body and breast size. Do not, as I made the hurried mistake with my first-born, wear a full dress in which the only way you can nurse your child is to either unzip the dress and disrobe from the shoulders down or pull up the entire length of the skirt to your breasts.

• Be discreet.  See tip #1 and/or get yourself one of those pretty little coverups or baby blankets.  As much as we want to scream that people shouldn’t look at breasts as sexual appendages, exposed nude body parts do make some people nervous, anxious, annoyed, and even feel as if they are invading your privacy.  That quickly turned head isn’t always a “yuck, how dare she nurse in public” sometimes it’s a “oh my goodness, I probably embarrassed that mom by looking at her breast.”  Now, if you want to have both boobs hanging out, then face it – you might get ogled or folks might roll their eyes and make rude comments.  But if you want to avoid all that, be discreet. 

• Find a private place.  My babies weren’t always so great at being discreet or even focusing on nursing when there was a lot going on. They may have been hungry, but they wanted to observe the world while enjoying their meal, like many of us do.  Or they were so terribly cranky hungry that it took a while to settle and soothe them to nurse. I found a (relatively) quiet and private place worked better in both of these situations rather than a chair in the middle of a department store or a busy restaurant.  Dressing rooms, the lounge area of a ladies room (I’m not mentioning any names, but some of those upscale department stores are kinda nice), even a tucked away alcove in your favorite restaurant.  It’s not to hide your nursing, but to make your child more comfortable.

• Say “No, thank you.” When the store clerk comes to offer you a more private place in the bathroom, give her the benefit of the doubt – if she hasn’t breastfed, she may not be thinking “eww, she should go sit on the toilet and feed her baby,” she might be thinking “maybe she wants some privacy and the bathroom is the best option I can offer her.”  Just say “I appreciate your concern, I’m fine right here” and stay seated on your chair in the back of the store.  If the waitress says you and your baby got to go, kindly say, “Thank you, as soon as we are done our meal, we’ll be on our way.” And if they really really insist that you move? Really, I’m always of the mindset that if you don’t want me here, I don’t want to be here either. So your other option is to pack up your stuff, leave behind any items you would’ve purchased and be satisfied with the extra money in your pocket and find a new spot.

• Educate people. This is a big picture task.  Everybody is not pro-breastfeeding. That’s that. Some don’t get it, don’t understand why you would do it, tout the health benefits of formula or soymilk or goat’s milk or whatever. Whether it’s your own mother, your girlfriend, your baby’s daddy, the nosy neighbor, or the lady staring at you at the store - take a minute and let them know why you’ve chosen breastfeeding. 

And one more thing – Make eye contact only with your baby. Don’t look at those people rolling their eyes at you, tsk-tsk-ing your breastfeeding.  Look away from the store manager who is about to break her neck shaking her head at you to make your go away. Lean back in your seat and close your eyes to your mother holding out a bottle.  Just look into the getting-sleepy eyes of your happy baby and ignore everyone else.

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Our #1 Responsibility: Protect our Children

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I’m actually scared to turn on the news or open my Washington Post.

I’m scared that there is going to be a report that the “body” of young Relisha Rudd has been found. Not the “person” or the “child,” but the “body.”

Perhaps if you don’t live in the DC-Metro area, you haven’t heard of this case, I’m not sure how wide-spread it is.  But in late February, the mother let her 8-year old daughter leave the homeless shelter with a janitor that had been giving her child gifts.  She was finally reported missing almost a month later, after the janitor’s wife had been found shot dead in an area hotel.

* Ding * Ding * Ding *

When a grown-man who is not related to you (or even related to you) nor is even really your own friend offers your child, your daughter, gifts – that’s a big red flag and warning bells signaling “danger!”  A little too much, a little too scary-stranger? Maybe. But I don’t think so.  We’ve heard of the mother-bear instinct, we’ve seen it with dogs and their puppies. You get to close and they will bite off your hand. Because that is supposed to be a mother’s natural instinct – protect your child.  Relisha’s mother didn’t do that.  She let this man continue to give her child things and then one day, she handed her baby over to this man to take away with him.  And when he didn’t bring her back the next day or the day after that or the day after that, she didn’t tell anybody.

So, in my CSI/SVU watching mind, that tells me she knew that she was wrong in giving this man her daughter or she didn’t expect him to bring her back because of some deal they struck. My maternal brain cells are trying to block thinking about what a mother would, could, has traded for her child. How do you take the flesh and blood from your own body and hand it over to someone else? What could be worth that trade?

So, yes, without judge nor jury, I am single-mindedly determining the mom GUILTY.  There’s probably some technical, legal terms, but bottom line she is GUILTY of not protecting her child.

How and when did the police get involved?  When the girl didn’t show up to school for an accumulated 30 days, social welfare was notified and some days later the police were called in.  And this is where more finger pointing occurs.  The mom lied to everybody about where her daughter was and why and with whom, but we’ve already determined she’s guilty. Who else dropped the ball?  Hindsight is 20/20 as they say, but reading over the trail of events over this girl’s lifetime in a recent Post article, it seems that her life was basically a game of Hot Potato. It was thrown around, dropped, and kicked to the next person her entire life.

I don’t live in DC and I don’t vote in DC. But if I did, I’d want to know what a new Mayor will do to better protect the children of that city.  Maybe when kids are found abused and in unhealthy living conditions, the city can do more than write a report. Maybe schools can check up on a kid before they’ve missed a month of school. Maybe the folks at the homeless shelter could provide better security for their residents or screen their employees better.  Maybe some more folks could act like they care about a little, defenseless brown girl.

Because our primary responsibility, duty, requirement as mothers, fathers, parents, members of a society - is to protect our children.  They're depending on us for their life.

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We've Been Doing Snowdays All Wrong

On day 5 of our snow day/weekend/holiday stretch of no school, it occurred to me why moms get so tired, but get less done when the kids are home.  It happened as a culmination of watching moms corral hordes of kids through the movie theatre and then sit staring at their broken nails at an indoor laser tag playland.  Moms hate snow days because when the kids are home, we have to become the entertainment provider, chaffeur, and cook for an additional six hours of the day.

I’ve told my kids, “I am not your cruise director.”  Of course, they have no idea what this means, not having grown up watching The Love Boat, but I say it anyway and they give me that “there she goes again, saying things we don’t understand” look.

Nonetheless, we moms often find ourselves being in charge of entertainment, or at least chauffeuring to entertainment, otherwise, they sit on the couch watching endless, not-funny, canned laugh track kids’ TV or home decorating and cooking shows that they just truly can't find interesting.  Of course, the driving takes up time we would be doing whatever it is we usually do when they're in school (laundry, housework, writing, getting a manicure and full-body massage – okay, okay, a girl can dream).  And then we sit there and wait for them to finish being entertained.  Eventually, the kids also want to be fed, so either we pay for a wonderful restaurant meal with kids who have been cooped up in the house or make lunch (which for some reason seems to be a lot more work when they are home than when I pack their lunches in the morning.)

As we left the laser tag place, I said to my two who were too young to be left there alone, “You know, you can play tag at home. You don’t have to go to a certain place and pay $10 to play for half an hour.”  Blank stares flashed at me from the rearview mirror.

“Where would we get lasers from?”  “And how would we make it dark?”  “And how would we know that the other person got hit?”

I carefully explained to them that (1) they could wait ‘til dark and play with flashlights or (2) play in the day time and just tag each other.  Or hey, what’s all this white stuff on the ground? Maybe if they formed it into little balls, they could throw it at each other.  In the summer, they could maybe exchange it for water guns or water balloons.  And they could play for however long they wanted to, not just until the timer went off.  Just thinking, but these alternatives just might work.  They were amazed by my ideas.

Now I’m rethinking snowdays. Next time, I’m not scouring my brain for things I can do with them in the house or places to take them when the roads are clear.  I’m going to let them sleep in a little bit, feed them breakfast, pack their lunches, and then send them outside with instructions not to come back until 3 pm.  I'll be inside, painting my nails.

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Are you raising a Diva?

I was at one of my kids’ schools and in conversation, this little girl says to me, “I’m a diva.”

“I didn’t know you sang opera,” I said.

Of course, the little girl looked at me in confusion.

“Because that’s what divas do,” I further defined. 

“No, I don’t sing opera,” she said, confirming my assumption that she did not.

“Then why do you think you’re a diva?” Well, we know the answer right?

“Because my mom told me I was. She always says I’m such a diva,” she said, with the requisite teeny hand on not-yet existent hip and shake of her braids.

I smiled and nodded, keeping my next thought to myself.  Ahh, so if you aren’t an opera singer, or some other highly accomplished singer, your mother’s proud of you in the urban cultural definition of the word for being a rude, self-indulgent, high maintenance woman?  (You know the one-word synonym that rhymes with “mitch,” but this is a family blog.)

Why? Why, moms, why do we proudly call our little girls “divas,” screenprint it on sweatpants across their little behinds, put them to bed with sleeping masks imprinted with it, and throw them 10-year old diva themed birthday parties? Really? And then we get all mad about our daughters not being taken seriously as students of math, science and technology?  One of my daughter’s friends had a birthday party recently and her theme was “nerdy school girl” and the cake was designed as a stack of books. A little different, but so much better than the diva spa parties that are the new trend.

What are we telling our daughters when we sweetly and proudly call them “diva” when they pitch a fit about eating their dinner or because they didn’t get the pair of jeans they wanted or don’t have the latest iPhone25?  What message are we sending when we, essientally, praise them for such behavior? And then we wonder why when they get to their teen years they are demanding a BMW for their Sweet 16 or continue to throw tantrums when we say “no’?

On large scale, we don’t do this with our boys, right? I don’t even know what you would call a boy who acts in this manner, a “divo” perhaps?  But we do not praise our boys' bad behavior. Unfortunately, our society sometimes labels them for their behavior, but not in a good way, either. (A whole ‘nother discussion.)

We can do better. There is a whole dictionary full of more positive, beautiful images and appellations for our daughters other than high-maintenance, "witchy" women.

Unless, of course, she is channeling Marian Anderson.

Marian Anderson, Lincoln Memorial, Easter Sunday 1939

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When Momma's Not Around, Keep the First-Aid Kit Handy

Hansel and Gretel’s momma wasn’t around and they went off to be baked into cookies by a witch.  Cinderella’s momma was dead, she was forced to do all the chores then try to find her own husband just to get out of that house.  And while Dorothy was left on the farm with Auntie Em, she was an old woman, she didn’t know what to do with that girl.  There’s always trouble when momma’s not around, but at least they don’t have to deal with the mom guilt when their kids get blown away in a tornado or fed poisoned apples.

What happens when Momma's not around (scene from The Wiz)

Here’s a typical scenario in my house.

Kid: Mom, can I ______ [fill in the blank with all kinds of requests – borrow the saw, make creme brulee with a blow torch, see what happens when you mix baking soda and vinegar, use the bleach.]
Me: No. (walks off, crazily assuming that the kid will actually do as I say)

Next scene – possibility of options, in order of non-compliance:

(1)  Kid with a mop, trash bags

(2)  Contents of first-aid kit scattered across the kitchen counter as we realize everything that’s supposed to be in it is either expired, lost, or empty.

(3)  Everyone in the car on the way to the emergency neighborhood clinic

My response to either of the scenarios is the same, although I realize that they should differ, escalating in excitement and volume, along with the severity of the scenario. But it’s always the same and goes something like this: “What were you thinking?! Didn’t I say ‘no’! You could’ve killed yourself, blown up the house, or poked an eye out!”  Always those three possible outcomes.

I know a better mom would have a more sympathetic, lower in volume response. And at these times, looking at my frightened, injured child, I try to think “what would The Nanny say to do?” and then I figure she’d probably put the kid in time out or make a chart about their missteps.  So I try that.  Let’s talk about this rationally, I think.  I start off with a good mom phrase, “Dear, what were you trying to do?”  My kid begins with, “I was tryinta…”  Then The Nanny gets pushed aside and I return to, “that’s why I told you not to do it! You could’ve killed yourself, blown up the house or poked an eye out!”

This is the best I can do because the guilt of not watching them 24/7 hits me in the chest. The unnerving fear that they really could’ve done some serious damage to themselves tears at my heart.  Facing the ultimate mommy-fear that they could be taken out of my life in someway leaves me breathless and with the full knowledge that I would lose my remaining sanity.

And then I start thinking that maybe those evil witches were on to something and look for plans to build an impenetrable tower and hair growth serum.

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Which Wins? Hanging Out vs. Chores

We usually head to the beach for the Labor Day weekend, but this year, we're staying home. And I thought I'd get some housework done. You know, the kind you reserve for long weekends - paint something, clean somewhere, unclutter some stuff. Then it kinda hit me that this was the last weekend we have no plans to do anything for a long while.  We have an event on the calendar for every weekend for at least the next 2 months - and that's before we even have all the sports schedules in hand. So I decided to goof off instead and hang out with the kids.

Yeah, moms - we've got to give ourselves permission sometimes to set aside the got-to-do chores and the projects to spend some free time with the family.  The laundry and cluttered basement will be there next week; the free weekend won't.

Yesterday I flipped through the newspaper - I'm one of the dinosaurs who still subscribes to the real paper newspaper that gets thrown on the driveway in the wee hours of the morning - and found a local art show. That was it - close to home, no admission, pretty pictures. Who's with me?  I only had two takers, but off we went.  And it was nice. We looked at the work by local artists, made our own critiques, the kind people make at museums and art shows which basically fall into three categories: "wow, that's really good," "I think I could do that myself," and "really, they're calling that art?"  It was inspiring though - my kids have been talking about the next painting their going to make and sell for a couple hundred dollars (wouldn't that be nice?)  And then we stopped for cupcakes - it's not a day out without something sweet.

Today's newspaper perusal came up with the Renaissance Festival. I haven't been since high school and figured 20+ years was a good amount of time between visits.  Three folks to go along with me for this one. Off we went to enjoy smoked turkey legs and sword-fighting. My daughter, who has studied Romeo & Juliet I think every year of middle school and deems herself an almost-expert, complained that the women were not dressed in authentic Renaissance attire. The women of that period would've been dressed much more conservatively, not in mini-skirts, bare shoulders, and jingle bell waist scarves - which her sister bought and shook her hips to jingle the rest of the evening; I probably should send a warning to the teacher for Tuesday morning. The women instead were more reminiscent of flirty pirates, gypsies, and folks just looking for an excuse to wear corsets and low cut blouses.  But, really, is the Renaissance Festival really about authenticity or fun, because we also ate ice cream cannollis, frozen lemonade, and Nutella strawberry crepes and I got a henna tattoo. I've never read any of that in Shakespeare.

Sword-fighting demonstration at the Renaissance Festival

Who knew strawberry Nutella crepes were among Shakespeare's culinary options?

Dressed in their Renaissance finest.

Tomorrow? We'll see what the newspaper holds. And if we can get the whole family to like what I find.


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Cutting the Apron Strings

Every parent expects that at some point, the apron strings will be cut and their children will fly away.  Yes, I know this is a mix of metaphors, but stay with me, I’m in a confused state right now.  My apron strings have not been gently cut, but ripped apart, my baby bird grabbed out of the nest.

Despite adamantly and purposely keeping my children at home or in the safekeeping of a relative, i.e. grandparents, aunt and uncle, my oldest is gone for five days and in a couple of weeks, her sister will leave for three days.  They will go off with people I’ve never met, stay somewhere sight unseen, and no-one will check whether they brushed their teeth or ate all their breakfast.  All in the name of “education”.

As part of the curriculum of her magnet program, Elle left this morning on a bus with 100 other kids to New York City to return on Friday.  They’re tasked to learn about American history, make a film, experience the city.  I don’t know.  Stuff I think they could’ve done right here in nearby Washington DC and come home after dinner. Then Breeze will be off to outdoor education – a 3-day exploration in camping lodges to learn about the environment and stars and GPS systems.  I don’t know why they have to stay overnight to do it.  And then Girl Scout camping is coming up; they’ve gone before, but I’ve always went with them.  Now the youngest one wants to go, but I can’t make the trip.

Snip   snip   snip  

My frustration and anxiety is multi-fold on this whole going away issue.  There’s the general concern of whether my child will be okay and what happens if there’s an emergency.  How the heck am I going to get to New York City quick enough if she gets hurt or lost?  I’m a little perturbed by the school system’s assumption that parents are alright with sending their kids off into the woods for days at a time.  Sure, we could say “no”, but then your kid is the weirdo, lone kid who didn’t go on the trip and is left back at school doing worksheets.  GS camping?  Where is she going to go when she gets up in the middle of the night and wants to crawl in bed with her mommy? 

There’s also a whole other aspect of this separation that only hit me as I was packing Elle’s things.  The kids have never been apart from each other for this long, either.  There have been the occasional times that someone ended up at their grandparents and someone stayed home, for random logistical reasons related to wanting or not wanting to go to someone else’s activity.  But gone, like gone gone?  No, they’ve been like peas in pod since day one.

I feel a sense of powerlessness and loss of control over my children.  Their little fingers are slipping out of my hands, and they are wandering off out of my reach.  I don’t know that I actually had a decision to make in sending them on these ventures, it just seemed a given that they would pack their bags and go.

Leaving me here with my raggedy apron with the strings ripped off.

Elle on her first field trip to NYC with me, when the apron strings were securely tied.

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Fast Food for Fast Times

I've been pretty good this summer about feeding the people in my house.  You know - grocery shopping and cooking and stuff like that.  We have still continued the weekly pizza night (my daughter says its a sure sign that I'm tired when I offer "hey, you guys want to get pizza for dinner?") and we've had our share of meals out.  But I've been in the kitchen, too.  I, in fact, like cooking when I have the time.  "When I have the time".  That'll be the key phrase in another week as we head back in to school and all the madness.

Cute lunch bag as a reminder to pack healthy snacks for those busy times.

All of our running around is, of course, after-school, right around dinner time.  On the days I don't have myself together and have dinner ready when they get home, we do end up going through the drive-thru, eating in the car or on the sidelines of somebody's something.  We probably eat more fast food during the school year than in the summer.  At the Mocha Moms Retreat this weekend, McDonald's was providing nutritional information about their menus.  Perfect! since my car has a magnetic pull towards sweet tea and french fries (hence, why I also need to run on a regular basis).  I took a look so that I could get some ideas for the next time I zoom through the drive-thru.

First - figuring out how much my kids should be eating.  I've always thought they really shouldn't be eating a lot.  I mean, they're kids, they're little people.  But, as I read, they are little people with little stomachs and a lot of energy.  And, admittedly, most of our activities are sports related, so my kids are active kids.  According to a couple charts and figures, my little squad should be consuming between 1200 calories (the 7-year old girl) to 1600 calories (the older girls) to 1800 calories (the 9-year old boy)!*  That's as much as I eat.  (Now, I really feel bad for my friends with three boys.)  That puts us at between 400 - 600 calories per meal.  Alright, let's see what the kids can have.

Menu options fit for a kid

Their normal order is a Hamburger (250 calories) and small fries (230 calories) - only 480 calories.  That's not so bad, afterall.  The little one often goes for the Chicken Nugget Happy Meal (410 calories); I like that the apple slices are now a part of the meal, with smaller french fries, rather than the kids having to choose between apples and fries.   I noticed last summer in Europe that the Happy Meals are sold this way.  What kid isn't going to choose the fries if given the choice?  Now, she happily eats both., or sometimes even skips the fries!  For alternatives, I could maybe get the kids to try the Grilled Chicken sandwich (350 calories) or the Southwest Salad with Grilled Chicken (390 calories).  Some good options.

For me?  Its the Fish Sandwich or one of the salads.  I don't eat meat, so those are pretty much my options, as far as entrees, anyway.  But I did notice on one of the info sheets a great tip - I can skip the tartar sauce and get rid of 90 calories.  That's half-way to a vanilla cone (skip the hot fudge) or a small sweet tea.  Another tip, only use half the dressing on the salad - there's the other half of my ice cream cone.

On the list of things that induce mom guilt is feeding the kids fast food.  Reading over this nutritional information is making me feel better.  Do I think we should grab a burger and fries every day?  No, I don't think anybody should eat anything every day (well, except coffee, and maybe rice).  You need a variety in your diet for vitamins and all that good stuff.  But I'm glad to have some options for those days when we are no where near our kitchen.


Check the website for more info on McDonald's menu items or flip over the tray liner next time you order your meal.

*Note - this caloric information is not medical recommendations from me - I'm not a doctor - this is info gleaned from other articles.  Be sure to check with your own kids' doctor if you have questions about their weight, diet, etc.

Mother knows best...

Now that I'm a mother, I find myself repeating some of the same rules I rebelled against as a child. Although her rules didn't make sense to me 20 and 30 years ago, they do now. Sleep-away camp? Dishes and cleaning the bathroom? Household chores? Arguing with my brother? I'm seeing the wisdom in her mothering and without a second thought, I apply the same standards to my own children. When I read Amy Chua's "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother" I had to laugh as everyone else around the country was in an uproar about her strict parenting. My mother was her own breed of tiger mom, and I wish I had the energy level to be one, so Chua's book helped me realize I wasn't the only one mothered or mothering with those "strict" ideals.

There are certain things our mothers did that we can now, as adults, still feel the impact. When I was in the 4th grade, I went to friend's house and saw that she had a piano. It was the most amazing thing to me - that she actually had a piano in her house and she knew how to play it. I went home and told my mother about it and asked her if I could get one, too. (I fell straight into a tiger Mother's trap.) At 10 years old, I didn't know I had just set myself up for years of weekly lessons and daily practice. I wasn't a great piano player, but I did fairly well, playing at recitals and church. It was obvious, however, that this wasn't going to be any type of career for me. My mother told me that when I became a mother, I would appreciate knowing how to play the piano. I could play for my children and play to relax when I'd had a long day. Yeah, sure - wasn't really thinking about that in high school when I quit taking lessons.

I now have a piano in my living room. And I play it whenever I can. I'm still not that great, but it is relaxing and I enjoy it, with my missed keys and wrong notes. When I'm sad or tired, I play. When I'm happy, I play.  When I'm giddy that I have a free spare moments, I play. I have piles of music to fit my moods. Sometimes I play at night, after my children have gone to bed. One morning my son said to me "I like hearing you play the piano before I go to sleep."

Thank you, mommy. For everything.

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Do you enjoy every minute with your family? Honestly.

I was reading another mom-website and the question of the day was something like "what makes your life well lived"and one response was "enjoying every minute together with my family and never taking a moment for granted."  Really?  Every minute?  Never?

even she doesn't love every minute with her family

This isn't the first response like this I've read, I'm sure we've all read them in family and parenting magazines, mom-sites, newsletters and neighborhood listservs - the mom who enjoys her kids every live-long day and loves doing everything with them and wants them around her all the time.  Not me.  And not only that, (shhh - I don't want to hurt their feelings) but I think those moms are lying.

I love my kids.  I mean it, I really really do, like any other mother bear, I'd do anything for them and want the best for them, and love them to the bottom of their stinky feet.  But do I want to spend every waking moment with them?  No.  Do I want them helping me with every meal prep?  No.  Do I want to read every book with them?  Go on bike rides with them every day?  No.  Because we all need our own space sometimes.  I need to be able to fix a meal without worrying if they are reaching over the stove or knocking the chef knife off the counter onto their toes.  I need to be able to go for a walk and breathe and think and not have to pull them out of the poison ivy patch.  They need to learn to entertain themselves without my direction and say to themselves "good job" without my approval of every doodle they draw.

And don't we all take our time together for granted?  Don't we always think there will be another sunny, spring day to go to the playground.  Then the kids are big and they don't want to go to the playground.  I know there's been many a time I thought I should play a game of checkers, but I'd rather finish my coffee instead.   Yes, I should've spent more time doing fun stuff while they were pre-school age, but I didn't realize, and then forgot, how quickly that time passes.  I'm sure over the next few days, there will be occasion when I should've spent a few more minutes doing something with my kids, but I will be on Facebook instead.

And I have regrets, too, for some of those moments I didn't enjoy or took for granted.  I still regret that I didn't take my daughter to see the elephants march thru DC on their way to the circus.  I wish I remembered what my children's voices sounded like when they first started to talk.  I regret taking my daughter out of piano lessons because it was inconvenient.  I wish I hadn't sent my kids to pre-school so early and kept them home another two years as I originally planned.  And I'm sure as I go forward, there will be more added to that list.

Every time I read one of those "I love everything about my kids/family/life" responses, I think, really?  Because I can't say that I do.  Instead, I think that what makes my life well lived is knowing that my children know I love them without end, despite not wanting to be with them all the time and missing precious moments, and having some regrets about it all.  But I wouldn't give it all up for nothing.

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Bad habits are hard to break - even across generations

I know it's probably been a while, but pick up a pen and write something, anything. Look at your hand. Ever wonder how you came to hold your pen that way?

At one point, students were taught how to hold a pencil in their first days of school. Years later, we moved to typing class and students were taught proper finger placement so they could type with their eyes closed. Now it seems, the kids aren't being taught either and are left to figure it out for themselves.

I've known since I was young that I hold a pencil wrong. My father humorously tells the story about being called in by my elementary teacher about the improper way I hold a pencil. Her attempts to correct me didn't work, and to this day, my mother still shakes her head when she notices me writing something (or using chopsticks, or crocheting).

Apparently, this may be a dominant gene, this holding things incorrectly. My daughters' holds are amazingly awkward. My oldest, we can't even emulate her holding a pencil, a knife, a fork. The firstborn, I guess I thought whatever she did was cute and never tried to correct it until it was too late.  I fear my youngest may dislocate her thumb once she starts writing words longer than 5 letters. And as proof that family history repeats itself, yes, this did come up in my first parent-teacher conference this year. I was the one who brought it up, and then was amused to find out that her teacher didn't mention it because she had already talked to an occupational therapist friend and was assured my child was fine.  I was touched that she was that concerned.   (The two kids in the middle? Somehow they learned what not to do and have both good hand structure and nice handwriting.)  I can't even help my girls because I can't model for them how your hand is supposed to look, but I know it's not what they are doing.

It's funny, the things we want our children not to learn from us.  Not only our bad habits (has your child mimicked a curse word?) and broken morals (does your kids try to get away with 'white lies'?), but things that we know are wrong, but we can't help it.  Don't you wish they'd pick up on our good habits, too?

Blame it on the jeans

We finally broke down and got our middle-schooler a phone.  But not for all those reasons people suggest getting a 12-year old an expensive (I didn't even want to ask my husband how much it cost) toy with a monthly fee.  She might need to call me if I'm late picking her up: why, why would she need to call me?  I'm late - wait 'til I get there.  She may need to tell me her bus is running late: I'd figure that out when the bus didn't come.  She forget her homework/lunch: too bad, I don't deliver homework/lunch to school.  She needs to ask me something: she's in school she doesn't need to ask me anything.  I need to remind her I'm picking her up: by the time she gets my phone message, she'll be on the bus, so I call the school office, anyway.  She's finished practice early: wait, surely the adults in charge won't leave her by herself and, I'm sure they have their own phone to call me if needed.  Nope, I wasn't moved for any of those reasons.  So what was it, why did I decide to get her the phone?

When I was in middle and high school, the cool girls had designer jeans.  If they didn't, they had something else - LeSac purses or new sneakers or great neon off-the-shoulder sweatshirts, but mostly, they had the jeans.  I never had any of that stuff.  I know, poor me, right?  Could my parents afford them?  I don't know.  That was never the point - they just said they weren't getting them, I didn't need them.  I was never picked on or anything like that, but I still felt left out of the "look at my Jordache" conversations.  It didn't seem like a big deal, but since its still affecting my decision making almost 30 years later, maybe it was bigger than I thought.

So, because I never had a pair of Jordache jeans, we got our daughter a phone, and her dad being the tech-y, she's got a pretty cool phone.  And for good measure, my other daughter has a everything-but-a-phone device.  They're ever grateful to Santa, but they should be thankful to their grandmother, too.

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To help, or not to help?

If nothing else, late night studying, fueled by Pepsi and potato chips, was a major component of my college career.  Even in high school, I stayed up late on occasion working on some special project.  As everything else, things are moving faster than when we were kids and last night, my middle schooler met the student experience known as the all-nighter - she was up until midnight finishing her 10-page thesis paper.

This paper has been a semester long project.  The class went to the university library to do research in primary sources and actual books (I was pleased that there were going to be more than websites listed as sources, as seems to be the new thing now).  They turned in notecards, outlines, and a rough draft.  And for the past couple of weeks, she's been walking around with the rough draft, working on revisions.  And as her mother, I've been teetering on the line as to how much help do I give her in editing this paper.  

I started off giving her a copy of Strunk & White' "Elements of Style".  And reviewed some general grammar rules, like "s" vs. apostrophe-s vs. s-apostrophe.  Suggested that she read her paper outloud to see if it made sense.  Reading the paper backwards didn't help.  I red-marked her pages and sent her back to the keyboard.  Sometime late into the evening, she had a moment of profound confusion and I had a good laugh when she listed "Iverson" as the mayor of Atlanta, in place of Ivan Allen (apparently her basketball mind took over her history brain).  We went back and forth, over coffee and lemonade, with apologies to the tree that gave its life for her English/World Studies grade.  I was glad to have made it through the night without tears, on her part or mine.

When its time for the solar system model or the science fair project, I send the kids straight to their dad.  When its essay time, he  asks "has your mother seen this?" Right now, we can flip a coin for math.  No matter the subject, its sometimes hard to figure out how much help should you give your child.  How much do you let them figure out on their own?  How big should the safety net be?  What's the lesson learned by letting them makes some mistakes?  How tight do you hold their hand and when do you let them go?

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Lights, Curtains, Action!

It's opening night!

 Well, technically, it's final dress rehearsal, but in front of a live audience that consists of real people, not just caffeine-infused parents and show technical folks. Tonight is the "outreach" performance where people from the community and various organizations have been invited to come enjoy the show at no charge. There's little children who are probably more used to the movie theatre than the high-rent theatre seats they occupy tonight, crying babies, and a group from a neighborhood senior center.

But up on stage, with about 85 other cast members, my daughter is part of the children's chorus for the Washington Revels' production of "Andalusian Treasures". For the past few months, she has been learning folk songs in Spanish, Arabic, and Hebrew, practicing dances, and lighting a menorah (yes, this all makes for a very interesting Christmas season play, but it is really beautiful). She's been fit for a costumre, color matched for make-up, and deliberated on the best look for her hair (I think she's finally embracing her curls). Practices have ranged from 1 1/2 hours after school to 8 hours on Saturdays to finally 5-hour dress rehearsals everyday this past week. And now they're ready for their show - 9 performances.

When I watched rehearsal the other night, I had to tell myself not to cry. There's a moment of pride when you watch your child find herself in something she really enjoys and does well. I've been impressed by my daughter because this is something that I have never done, nor have the talent or desire to do. She hasn't complained about the long hours, she's enjoying her new friends. She has, and is developing, a wonderful sense of confidence and independence. She's beautiful on stage.

I'm wishing her well, break a leg and all that. And at that final curtain call, I'll be the one cheering the loudest for my little curly-haired, red gowned, Jewish village girl daughter.

In the madness, there is love

Wandering on one of my favorite sites, etsy.com, I saw this:

from Fifi du Vie Home Decor on etsy.com

The timing of finding this saying was amazing -- it was after I had just returned home, fed my kids a late dinner ("refrigerator buffet"), and put them to bed. Where had we been? We took my son to his swim meet, watched him swim his first race, then jumped in the car to take my daughter to her basketball game and watched the first half, then rushed back to the swim meet, having missed his next 2 races, in time to watch his final race, then rushed back to the car - with him still dripping wet - to go pick up my daughter from her game, which had ended by then. The "we" who was car hopping all evening was my other 2 daughters and I.

This sounds like a crazy evening schedule, but what may be crazier is that we have done this every week this summer. Every week, we have a simultaneous swim meet and basketball game. The rest of the year, we will go thru the same transportation equations, only the destinations and who gets dropped off or rides along will change. After-school activities, this lesson, that practice. Upcounty, downcounty, the next county.

Makes you wonder "why?" Why this absolute madness of running all over the place?

It comes down to love. Because I'm the mom and mom has to be there. For his 32 second swim or for her perfect jump shot, for her match winning shot or her final bow before the curtain, when he breaks the board or she sings her solo - mom's got to be there. The rest of the day doesn't matter. If I made breakfast or bought a new pair of shoes or took them to the movies, that's all fine, but it doesn't compare to being there for that moment. When they do their thing, they always look out there for mom or dad's smile. So we do what we have to do, to make sure our smile is there.

The madness is constant. And for a few seconds, there's the cheers and the smiles. And through it all, there is always love.