Light Refreshments Served

How’s your Summer going? Awesome?
Great.
Have you been doing some activities on your Summer Wall?
Great. Me, too.
Added a few more to your list now and again?
Cool. . .
Oh, what have I added to mine?
Well, (since you asked) the other morning, over Cheerios, Hugh (still 4) said to me, “Mom, I’m going to go easy on you today.” Which unnerved me, but also confirmed some suspicions, and Phoebe (6, so she should know better) said to the home teachers “Well, thanks for coming, now leave!” And Margaret (18 months) thinks it’s funny to scratch me and slap me in the face.
So we’re going to add “teach manners” to our summer list.
And you?

The boy and I, we have been struggling lately. 

EXHIBIT A:

The boy:  “Mom, can I have a granola bar?”

Me:  “No, dinner is going to be ready in five minutes.  Just wait.”

The boy:  “FIVE MINUTES?  BUT I’M STAAARVING!  YOU NEVER LET ME EAT ANYTHING!  YOU DON’T EVEN CARE IF I DIE FROM STARVATION!”

EXHIBIT B:

Me:  “Drew, time for dinner.”

The boy:  “What’s for dinner?”

Me:  “Baked chicken with mango salsa.”

The boy:  “Can I have Cinnamon Toast Crunch instead?”

Me:  “No.  I didn’t make dinner so you could eat cold cereal.”

The boy:  “BUT I DON’T LIKE CHICKEN!  AND YOU KNOW I DON’T LIKE MANGOES OR SUNSHINE OR BICYCLES OR DISNEYLAND.  DON’T YOU KNOW ME AT ALL?”

EXHIBIT C:

The boy:  “Mom, can I play with Anthony?”

Me:  “You can play with him as soon as your homework is done.”

The boy:  “BUT WHAT IF HE HAS TO GO INSIDE AFTER THAT?  HE’S OUTSIDE RIGHT NOW, AND I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG HE’S GOING TO BE THERE!”

Me:  “Well then, I guess you’d better hurry up and get your homework done.”

The boy:  “YOU NEVER LISTEN TO ME!”

EXHIBIT D:

Me:  “Drew, time to get up.”

The boy:  “What time is it?”

Me:  “Seven o’clock.”

Ten minutes later, there is still no Drew.

Me:  “Drew, it’s 7:10…”

The boy:  “WHAT?!  WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?!  NOW I’M GOING TO BE LATE FOR SCHOOL AND YOU DON’T EVEN CARE!  DON’T YOU KNOW I HAVE TO BE AT THE BUS IN TEN MINUTES????!”

Is this making you tired?  Ditto.  It seems as if 80% of our existence lately has been this kind of interaction, and I’m not gonna lie, there was a day last week when Cory came home from work to find me sitting on the steps inside the garage with red, blotchy eyes and a sign around my neck that said, “I CAME, I TRIED, I FAILED, I’M LEAVING”.  Okay, so there was no sign.  Still, it was a day that left me wonting for the 2-year-old who used to worship the ground I walked on.  Add to that his allergic reaction to any kind of demonstrative affection and making up becomes hard to do.

Then, the other night after he had been asleep for a couple of hours and I was up late watching Shawn and Gus solve crime in Santa Barbara, he wandered down the stairs into the family room.  “What’s the matter, buddy?” I asked.  He muttered something indecipherable, still asleep, and staggered over to me on the couch. 

Sleepwalking. 

He wasn’t prone to it, but he was immersed in it at that moment.

As soon as I realized what was happening, I settled him down on the couch to lie on my lap.  As his eyes settled back closed and he snuggled up against my side, I saw for a brief moment the little boy that hides behind all the Harry Potter movies, the Lord of The Rings fighting scenes, and the abundant, famous Jedi duels.  “He’s still in there,” I thought, pleased with the few seconds I was being given to be reminded.  Next, in a maneuver that could only be explained by unconsciousness, Drew took my arm, draped it around his chest, and secured it tightly with his hand. 

And just like that, we made up. 

Amazing.  All he had to do was shut up and close his eyes.  [Note to husband:  this approach will not work the same for you.]  He doesn’t remember a thing; I asked.  I know he’s not done testing me, but in the meantime it’s helpful for me to remember that it’s not all bad.  The other day when I was sick he waited on me all day.  It was his first day of summer break and he was stuck with a sick mom at home by himself, and while he spent a good portion of the time playing outside with friends, he checked on me regularly.  “Mom, can I get you anything?”  He fetched me ice water (asking specifically how many cubes I would like), cold washcloths, and Sprite.  At one point he came in from playing with friends and said, “They had to go in for lunch, but I wanted to come home and support you for a little while.”  Maybe we’ll survive each other after all.

I’ve been feeling a little smothered lately by little people who follow me from room to room all day (cute, but exhausting), and realized that waking up to the screaming demands of three year-old after he’s slammed open my door wasn’t the best way to start my day. Being the proactive gal that I am, I’ve been waking up an hour before my kids wake up everyday to exercise, shower, and gather my thoughts. Considering how important sleep is to me and my mental and physical well-being (100 on a scale from 1 to 10), this is a pretty big deal for me. But it paid off. I’ve totally noticed a difference in my ability to deal with whatever the day will bring. But now they have been slowly waking up earlier and earlier until a couple of days ago, they woke up 10 minutes before I did. So basically we’re just waking up an hour earlier. Which means an extra hour of me mothering, instead of an hour of alone time for me. Oh, the irony!

I did an experiment today and stayed in bed until they normally woke up, and they all stayed in bed until I got up. Literally, my food hit the floor and they sensed it, like a lion stalking her prey, and they got up. At the regular time. Because I did. It took me 2 hours to get in 30 minutes of exercise, and an hour to take a 10 minute shower, but, whatever.

Also today, I caught Hugh amid a mountain of empty lollipop wrappers. He had found Phoebe’s class Valentines, the ones she had lovingly assembled the night before, ripped off the suckers, ate them and left the evidence out in the open (as if to mock me) of the living room floor. As with a morally wrong, but technically extensive jewelry heist, I was slightly impressed. Those Valentine’s were in a closed ziplock bag on top of the refrigerator. It took some skill to get them. I used my knowledge and experience with toddlers to calmly explain to him why stealing is wrong, how it makes us feel, why we don’t do it, and why there are consequences. I used 3 year-old language and kept it short. And, it worked. He said he was really sorry and that he would tell Phoebe that he was sorry, and wouldn’t do it again. When I led him up to his room, to lay down for a much needed (for me) nap, he didn’t protest at all. He accepted his punishment. I had the first chapter in my parenting book all drafted out in my mind by the time I came downstairs. In fact, when Phoebe came home from school he confessed his guilt and expressed his remorse.

Hours later, while I was cleaning out my closet with little helpers in and out (and yes Kacy, it did change my life! More on that later.) I noticed it was getting quiet. I swept the house and I thought it was just me being paranoid. Until a few minutes ago, when I discovered Hugh had gotten into Miles’ Valentines and eaten several lollipops. This time the evidence was hidden, behind the couch. I only noticed because I went to turn on a lights, and it wouldn’t turn on because Hugh had accidentally unplugged it. I yelled his name and he smiled and ran away. So, what did he learn from our little talk? To hide the evidence more carefully.

So many things go without saying, but here are a few that we never tire of saying to each other, parent to parent:

*Every child is different.

*Kids don’t come with an instruction booklet!

*Don’t squash their spirit (or dim their light).

*Let kids be kids.

*Don’t worry about the cobwebs and the dirty dishes–kids grow up fast–while you’re busy doing these things!

*Kids are their own people.  They come with their own personalities.

It’s funny how often we tell each other these things, however true.  What always interests me the most, however, is how these messages found on cross-stiched wall  hangings are implemented by different parents.  It’s conflicting advice, but we don’t really acknowledge it.  It’s just something I’m thinking about.  

For example, in order for me to successfully raise my children, my children must learn a certain set of skills.  Important ones.  Like being able to work at a job to get money, wash their bedding, be kind to other people, and cook a meal to name a few.  I realize that some people function in the world without being able to do some of these things, but, for argument’s sake, lets say I’m onto something.  Because, really, do you fully trust someone who doesn’t know how clean a toliet?  

So what happens if teaching a child to pick up their socks is “squashing their spirit?”  Are you letting your “kid be a kid” by cleaning their room, with or without making it a game or singing a song to help sweeten the deal?  What if who your child is is someone who just wants to sit around and play video games all day?  I’m only slightly kidding.

Of course a lot of the responses to that line of thinking is talk about balance and intent and a time and a place and all of that, and, although I agree, I think it’s important to acknowledge that we do the same kind of thing to ourselves.  We say:

*Love yourself for who you are.

*Accept your body the way it is.

*Free to be you and me!

*Embrace diversity!

*You are good enough (and, gosh darnit, people like you!)

*It is our flaws that make us human

. . . and yet we make resolutions to be better and do better maybe with the intent that it will enhance who we really are, but what it really means is that we want to change us.  Into something different.  Like, not so fat.  Or more patient.  You know, different.  And we’re suspicious of people who are different from us, especially when it comes to parenting.  If someone parents different than us, we are quick to justify our own parenting techniques.  (Don’t believe me?  Well, do you have an opinion on public school, computer time, dating, or sleepovers?) And, as parents, what we really want is to love our kids just how they are, but with some changes.  Sometimes we wait to see how things will turn out, but most of the time we’re correcting and teaching and hoping that they won’t always talk back with that disrespectful tone, chew with their mouths open, or jump on us when we’re trying to take a nap .  Even if that’s who they are.  

I’ve seen families where the parents never correct or teach their kids and the kids run the schedule, the house, the mood of the home.  It isn’t pretty.  Oh sure, it sounds like rainbow and Fruity Pebbles and unicorns, but it’s usually more like dog hair, chaos, and rotten ranch dressing (don’t ask).  Of course we love our children unconditionally.  Of course, but can we be more realistic with the advice?  We all want to be better, but none of us is perfect.  As we’re striving to become better, little by little, when do we teach “good enough!” and when do we say “try harder!”  You won’t read that on an embroidered pillow.

I just got back from Parent-Teacher Conferences, which is always a treat.  I know they call them SEP’s or SEOP’s, but I’m old school and can’t help calling them Parent-Teacher Conferences because that’s what they are.  If you call them anything else, it confuses the old people.  

“S-E-WHAT?”  

Student. . .Evalu. . . You know, where the parents meet with the teacher?  

You mean Parent-Teacher Conferences?  

Yeah.  Uh hum.  Pretty much.

Oh, the complication of our modern age! When I went to Owen’s conference today, he showed us his report on wolves on the teacher’s laptop in powerpoint presentation–swirly words magically appearing and scanned art and it almost made me want to read more about wolves.  Just kidding!  It’s still the same old information about types of wolves, how much they weigh, etc.  Nothing about “wolves of the future,” or anything to rival the technology it was presented on.  Whatever.  He also wrote a persuasion essay (on boring, regular wide-ruled archaic paper) about how I won’t buy him the book he wants at the book fair.  (If you’re Santa, it’s the overpriced one that reveals video game secrets.)  Nothing spices up a Parent-Teacher Conference like avoiding the awkward essay criticizing your parenting skills!

Phoebe showed me her writing journal and I was so excited that there was something about ME in it!  After years of reading they boys’ journal entries about Pokemon, Mario Brothers, Kirby, holidays, birthday parties, and candy, it was refreshing to finally make the cut into the grade school publication world.  She actually drew three different pictures of “Phoebe and Mom” and in each entry, I have a different color of hair.  Dark, yellow and brown, and yellow, which is funny because I have actually had all three of those hair colors in the past few months.  I’m glad she noticed and, more importantly, that I’m influencing her education in a meaningful way.

Miles has been working on remembering to hand things in and it’s paying off, thank goodness, or I might have to start pinning his assignments to his shirt.  Or continue doing that.  I admit nothing.  We’ve made some new goals that involve cleaning out his desk.  He may have been caught reading Popular Science once or twice when he was supposed to be listening.  I was just relieved to know that it’s not just me!

Hugh didn’t have a Parent Teacher conference, but I think it’s time he had a formal evaluation, you know, now that I’m all caught up in it.  I asked Hugh what comes after Halloween and he said “seven.”  I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up and he said “a monster.”  Interpret that how you will.

I want to remind everyone to get out and vote (aside:  why does it bother me so much when a celebrity tells me to vote, but not when anyone else does?  Leonardo DiCaprio, stop telling me to vote by trying to be ironic by telling me not to vote.  It bugs me.)  I think it’s vital to be an informed voter from NPR to Rush to local to national, Fox to CNN.  Give ‘em all a chance.  That’s all I’m going to say about that.  For now.

I try to be informed on a lot of issues, but it’s hard because I’m always trying to read for intent.  Also, some people just naturally offer up more information than other people, and some are more convincing than others.  For example, when I ask my Miles and Owen  ”How was school?”  I get a cliche “fine,” or “good” and nothing else.  Maybe they forget or they don’t care, but I’m more likely to believe that they don’t want to expend the energy it takes to tell me.  Phoebe, however, gives me the most detailed description of conversations she’s had, what her friends are like, what they’re wearing, who plays with who at recess and what they did in class, in the correct sequence of events, and ends with a preview of the next day’s events.  It’s delightful.  With her, I feel that I’m an informed parent.  With the boys, I feel like I’m a detective trying to piece together their day, like how they can complete homework, but just not hand it in.  Boys are mysterious.

Phoebe, in her quest to give us a feel for her emotional output throughout the day, has shared a little about a boy in her class:  a naughty boy.  It seems that “Dustin” (name has been changed, of course) from the get-go has not followed the rules and this has both perplexed and delighted Phoebe, though she would never admit it.  On the first day of school, Phoebe reported that Dustin had said a bad word.  She was flabbergasted!  When pressed to reveal the word, she whispered, “He said. . . I. . . hate. . . school!” and “School . . . sucks!”  She protested that she could not believe that he would say that, but I saw her try to hold back a smile.  She was intrigued.  So every few days we get a “Dustin Report.”  He’s been sent to the principal’s office twice, he’s had to come in from recess, he’s hit, he’s fought, and he’s had his good days, too (and when Phoebe reports, her voice is a little crestfallen like, well, nothing important happened today), and each and every report comes from an informative, passionate, rule-abiding little girl who is obviously fascinated by the “bad boy,” and, yes, I see the writing on the wall.

So, no matter how this election turns out I know two things:  I’m going to hear and read all about it, good and bad, and sometimes it will perplex me, and sometimes it will secretly delight me.

Moms, because we’re so tired, have slacked off in specifically naming what’s so great about being a mom.  Because we’ve been sleep deprived for years at a time, like an experimental lab rat, we can be unpredictable.  Our lack of deep, uninterrupted, consistent REM hosting sleep changes our DNA.  I don’t have any specific scientific research or “studies” to back this up or “prove” this, just my gut instinct.  My gut also told me to eat pineapple and root beer when I was pregnant and suggested I might like blue eyeshadow and making a Christmas candy window for the local arts council (both turned out to be very, very bad ideas and slightly, if not completely, embarrassing), so there’s. . . that. 

My point is that maybe we don’t express the joy in motherhood in specific enough ways.  We give blanket expressions of love like this:

1.  My kids are so cute and peaceful when they’re sleeping– they look like angels!

2.  It’s the toughest job in the world, but it’s so worth it! (or is that the Marines?  The toughest job you’ll ever love?  I can’t remember because I don’t get enough sleep.)

3.  I may not get paid, but I’m rewarded with hugs and kisses!

4.  I wouldn’t trade being a mother for the world!

5.  My job is never dull!  I’m a cook, a chauffeur, a cleaning lady, a math tutor, a cheerleader, a counselor, an entertainer, a (fill in blank), etc etc etc.

These are nice, wonderful sentiments, but we’ve all said them too often that they’ve lost their impact.  What I like about being a mother may be ordinary, but it might not.  I can’t judge (because I’m so tired).  If we are more specific, maybe we can stop being called “Soccer Moms” and -gasp- “Hockey Moms,” and get new, more original, individual labels. Isn’t that a fun dream? (Can I just have a nap?)  

These are specific, often overlooked reasons why being a mom is great :

1.  Kids get excited about events, holidays, and parties and it’s contagious.  My son Owen celebrated Red Ribbon Week (”Stay Smart, Don’t Start”) by dressing “tip to toe” in red.  He insisted I wash his red long and short-sleeved shirts so he could wear red every single day this week.  I forgot to throw them into the dryer the night before the “Wear all red” day, and instead of a meltdown he was determined to find other red clothing which, miraculously, he did.  He wore a red stocking cap, red shirt, red shorts (and reminded me that he’ll need some red pants for next year.   I don’t think a good mom would buy her son red pants, but that may just be me.), and they were all different shades of red, but he didn’t care.  When Miles reminded him that hats are not allowed in school, Owen insisted “They said ‘tip to toe!’ TIP TO TOE!”  It was really cute.  He’s so earnest.  It’s fun to see kids dressed tip to toe in red being earnest.  Who knew?

2.  Being a mom is a great excuse.  You can buy treats, make treats, have treats on hand “for the kids.”  No one will question your pantry stocked with Cocoa-Puffs.  You can get out of engagements with one phrase:  I can’t find a babysitter. (This phrase, however, is usually true.  I’m just trying to fill that glass up half full, people.) You can also get out of boring meetings.

3.  Being a mom is great because they’re your kids.  Even if you didn’t like kids or babysitting before, your kids are different.  Your kids are the smartest/funniest/most original/cutest/kindest in the universe and you look good by association.  Even if they’re rotten, you know, deep down, they’re the best kids ever and you convince yourself you had something to do with it.

4.  Kids are a great ice breaker.  Uncomfortable meeting someone new?  Don’t know what to say during a lull in a conversation?  Not sure how to reply when someone asks you “How are things?  What’s new?”  Talking about your kids is the answer in all these cases.  It’s also a great way to steer away the conversation when you’re with someone with whom you disagree with on topics such as politics, religion, or multi-level marketing “opportunities,” and you don’t know how to disarm them or just get them to stop talking.  

5.  Kids are a good hobby because they strip you of pride and make you seem more patient than you really are.  You aren’t cool, and your kids remind you of that. You might get a big head if you weren’t constantly told “you talk to me too much” or “your bum’s too big to sit on that chair!”  (hypothetically speaking, of course) The more kids you have, the more patient you seem to strangers, when the exact opposite is probably true.  It’s just a funny assumption we all make, and I’m okay with it.

Now I’m going to go make dinner, clean it up,  and then finish some laundry!  I’ll take a “break” later by going to the grocery store with 3, instead of 5 kids!  Just kidding.  I’m totally staying home to finish the laundry.

Moms complain about the same things over and over that they become white noise falling on deaf ears (deaf ears eating fruit snacks and asking for more juice).  For example, we always complain about (and with good reason–these are big things, just common):

1.  Being tired.  Not getting enough sleep.  Getting up a million times in the night.  Tired.  Tired.  Tired.

2.  Being busy.  Driving everyone here and there and staying up late (there’s that tired thing again) to get things done.  Laundry’s never done.  Food is always being made, eaten, cleaned up after, planned, shopped for, etc.

3.  Being under appreciated.  I cook a great meal, no one eats it.  I clean the house, no one says thank you, etc.

4.  Our jeans.  I wear mom jeans because they hide my baby pouch and hold everything in.  So, go ahead, make fun of me.  Make a sketch about it on Saturday Night Live, sing a song about it.  Whatever.  I paid a price for each of my beautiful children (stretched, marbled skin, for starters, just so we’re clear) and you can go ahead and make fun of me (insert righteous indignation).

5.  Not being heard.  I talk and talk and my son doesn’t remember a thing I say.  I must have told him a thousand times. . . 

There are other, worthy complaints we don’t mention as often that need some attention.  I think we need a little public relations assistance so that, while we’re mixing things up, we’ll get a little more focused attention.  Every business or product wants to know how to reach the “Soccer Mom,” right?  No more generic “Thanks for all you do, Mom!” cards on Mother’s Day.  I think we should begin by complaining about specifics like this:

1.  Going to the grocery store or the bank without children, however freeing, is not “a break.”  A break is going on a vacation, having someone bring us food we did not prepare, or staring at the wall without interruption.  Calling it a break is like calling a tv commercial a “story.”

2. Tying little shoes and stuffing chubby toddler feet into little shoes is maddening.  It requires great skill, determination, and patience all coming together in the same precise moment.

3. Determining which tv shows, books, and music you will or will not introduce your children to is an art form extending way beyond what is age appropriate and moral.  SO MANY OTHER factors are involved.

4.  When you’re restraining your small child on your lap and they do that thing where they arch back, stiffen their body, and crack the back of their head into your face really, really hurts.  

5.  Going from baby books to scrapbooking to blogging in one generation, essentially chronically our children’s lives from year to year, then month to month, then to week by week, to daily, is a difficult, unrealistic adjustment.  Like an addict going from gateway drugs to illegal ones because they cannot get enough, we all need a little intervention.  (Hey kids!  Are you reading this in the future?  Remember, I took you to the park today!  It was really fun and I pushed you on the swing for hours and hours!)

I’m not a very good soccer mom.  I do have a really awesome dented mini van and I recently bought a couple of those fold-up outdoor, camping, sports-watching chairs, but I’m not really good at being that “sports enthusiast” my son needs.  Aren’t I a big person for admitting that?  It counts for something, right?   Owen (8) is the odd man out, I’m afraid, in our family because he loves sporty things.  Like watching sports and playing sports and baseball hats and Gatorade.  I have a really soft spot in my heart for him not only because he’s my son, of course, but because he’s so sweet and nurturing and undemanding.  He just happens to loves sports, and it’s really not that much to ask (I remind myself).

Topher was (is?) the odd man out in his family.  He is the only one of his five brothers who doesn’t like sports.  He was the only one (of 9 kids) who was ecstatic when the family got a baby grand piano for Christmas, while the other brothers were wishing (expecting) four-wheelers.  He’s the one who took piano lessons and read Shakespeare plays in the summer when his brothers were “shooting hoops,” or “going hunting” (that’s a sport, right?)  It’s not like they didn’t play together.  Topher played along when his big brother lined up the neighborhood kids in order to jump over them with his motocycle, because he needed someone he was related to to be on the very end, you know, just in case.  What’s that?  The family’s all going fishing?  Well, Topher can’t go anyway.  He’s rehearsing a play.  But please don’t send me emails fretting about his masculinity.  Believe me:  He’s ALL MAN.

Side note:  Have you noticed I refer to all things athletic as “sports.”  I say it with the same all-inclusive smug generalization as others use the term “drama.”  ”Oh, What does Topher do?  Is he still teaching DRAMA?”  No, DRAMA is not the same as acting, or directing, but it’s close enough, so,  whatever.  I’m sure you’d ask the BYU Basketball coach (I don’t even know his name–doesn’t that illustrate enough?!) if he’s still “teaching sports?”  Yes, I know you so well.

Owen gets those Parks and Recreation Forms in the mail or at school advertising the next sport offering and he receives them like a golden ticket.  He pleads for me to sign him up, and I do.

Owen played baseball last year, and when he made his first home run I was so excited because something actually happened. I’m usually so bored because I don’t understand the game and I don’t know what’s going on, and most of the kids don’t, either, in my defense.  So he made a homerun and in my excitement I forgot what you’re supposed to yell (I’m not, ironically, a yeller at sporting events.  When parents are yelling at their kids during a game it makes me really uncomfortable.  I think it’s because I’m worried they’ll get distracted or something.  You don’t yell at movies, tv, plays, or while reading a book.) So I yelled, “YEAH OWEN!  WAY TO MAKE A GOAL!. . no, that isn’t  right. . . a, it’s not a basket, it’s. . . WAY TO GO!”  A nice, older mother tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Owen’s really good!  And he’s a sweetheart.  Oh, and, it’s called a run.”  I must remember to write these things down:  bring water bottle, bring chair or blanket (it’s longer than you think!), snacks, and it’s call “a run.”

I try to remember how Topher’s mother and father sent him to the expensive piano lessons when he really caught onto it, how they bought that big piano, encouraged him to take summer theater workshops with his sister, and how excited they were for him when he earned a theater scholarship.  They must have seen that his heart wasn’t into pee-wee baseball but, still, it must have been a little weird to see him dressed in silk MC Hammer pants as the King in his high school production of The King and I.  I know my mother was a little taken back when she met him for the first time dressed in pink and white striped tights and in pancake make-up.  I try to keep a visual of that moment in my mind when I sign Owen up for wrestling, because if you’ve ever walked into a wrestling room, you know it’s a hot, misty sauna of warm armpit sweat.

Scene: My sister, Gina, was in the kitchen, explaining to her 5 year-old, Sheridan, that she couldn’t have any chocolate until she had eaten some dinner.  As soon as her on-going, lecture-loving, motherly discussion had ended, my dad, “the grandpa,” immediately hands Sheridan a piece of chocolate.  He is obviously pleased with himself.

Shortly after witnessing this seemingly innocent, common exchange, I had three thoughts, simultaneously:

1.  In that moment my father was thinking of all the times he tried to get Gina (or me, or any of his kids) to do something, and we wouldn’t, or we’d fight him on it, and this is his little payback to us.  He has the last laugh.

2.  This moment might also represent some fight against “the system.”  Our whole lives, people are telling us what to do.  Being defiant to societal expectations (chocolate before dinner), gives us a sense of power and a heightened sense of individual identity.  A small victory representative of a larger win.

3.  Sheridan is really cute, and her powers of persuasion were too much for any one person to deny.

The school schedule is underway, and the mismatched pieces of my daily routine are finally fitting together.  Slowly.  I’m not exercising, waking up earlier than the kids, or anything exemplary like that, I’m just holding it together and I’m excited about that.  The school schedule, versus the summer schedule, creates some sort of magical effect on the kids that gets them to do what I want them to do when I want them to do it.  The Summer is all about their activities.  The School Year is still all about them, but I have the illusion of control.  Who said parenting isn’t about smoke and mirrors?

Still, when I dropped off Phoebe at kindergarten for her first day of school, I had a little lump in my throat.  This is a big deal for me.  I had to practically run out of the school before I burst into tears (only made it barely out the door) when I dropped off Miles, and then with Owen, I made it home and cried in the quiet of my own home, which is more socially responsible.  So when I walked to the car with three-year-old Hugh and baby Margaret, Hugh just looked at me and said, matter-of-factly, “Well, you’ve only got ONE KID now.  And a baby.”  As if he was totally unimpressed, or commenting on the weather.  The little lump in my throat didn’t feel like a big deal to me this time around, mainly because I now realize that kindergarten lasts as long as changing a couple of diapers and barely two loads of laundry.  What, you’re home already?

Of course, the amount of tears shed by a mother on her child’s big day isn’t a contest to prove the amount of love that mother possesses for her child. It’s just a personality thing.  I get that; I’m a crier.  I came to terms with that a long time ago.  I just prefer, now, to do my crying alone when I think about how fast they grow up.  Some days I cry because I want them to stay this age forever.  Sometimes I cry because I think they’ll stay this age forever.

As I’ve said before, this isn’t my first rodeo, you know?  Mothering as an emotionally charged mother has its own special bag of goodies.  But today I discovered that only a week and a half into this new school year, Hugh and the baby and I have our little routine now, and it’s pretty great.  Now it’s their turn.  Phoebe went off to school and Hugh looked at me and said, “Let’s go to the store!”  I needed some supplies (because it’s a full-time job to keep this house stocked with diapers, toilet paper, soaps, etc, but that’s a long, boring post for another day), so off we went.  Shopping with two kids instead of five?  What a treat!  (That sounds sad, I know, but it’s all about my little victories).  At Target Hugh and I shared some nachos.  He likes the ones without any cheese sauce, I like the ones drenched in it.  How perfect! It was a special moment of clarity for me.  I always dread that the phase of life I’m in will end, and I don’t want it to, but then the next phase is good, too and brings unexpected delights (nachos).  Two things I love about that moment:  Hugh likes to go shopping, and I had my special mothering moment due, in large part, to my unnatural love of artificial cheese flavoring.