More Rambling Nonsense On Motherhood

Plant Flower Boxes

Those words have been on my TO DO list for the past three weeks.

You would think that after seven years of motherhood I would have learned by now that I Am Unable To Do What I Want To Do When I Want To Do It.

I'm a slow learner.

I'm also a sucker for To Do Lists. Sometimes I put things on my list that I would be doing anyway just so I can feel like I've accomplished something. Almost every morning I put pen to sticky note and write things like feed kids or check email or when I'm feeling ambitious, Plant Flower Boxes.

It's now Sunday evening and in the last 48 hours I have managed to clean the gerbil cage (which wasn't even on The List) and supervise impromptu play dates (also not on The List).

I don't remember what it's like to wake up on a Sunday morning and walk out the door to see what the day will bring. To lounge around with the Sunday paper and a pot of coffee until every section of the Boston Globe is scattered on the floor and the carafe is empty. To hop on our bikes and ride around the city, stopping for an afternoon meal and pint.

I don't remember.

I have a funny feeling that when I was living those carefree days I didn't embrace them and love them for the gift that they were.

I vaguely remember, during those kid-less years, waiting rather impatiently for my life to begin. Waiting around for the house and the kids and the picket fence because were those not the things one needed to begin an adult life?

And now that I'm here, now that I am paying a mortgage and playing Candyland, I am waiting for future days when the kids are old enough that I can walk out the door When I Want To and buy flowers for the window boxes.

Why do we always want something other than what we have?

I wonder how I will remember these days. Years from now, when the kids are grown and (God willing) out of the house, will I look back all teary eyed at these little league days and long to hold their sticky little hands and hear their infectious giggles? Or will I think, Jesus, Peter, Paul and Mary, THOSE were frustrating years, as I sip my skinny latte in a quiet coffeehouse?

I think I know the answer.

So in my on-going self improvement efforts (are you so sick of hearing that phrase from me yet? Would it make any difference if I told you that I am making progress?) I am implementing a few new initiatives this summer:

1. Eliminate To Do Lists
2. Spend more unplugged time with the kids (and be happy about it)
3. Increase frequency of Martini Nights

The first two are particularly important because I know that sooner than I think, in a blink of an eye they say, my children will turn against me. They will. I've seen it happen in other families. It won't be long before my children declare me a complete moron who knows nothing. I may only have a few more years left before The First Grader begins his descent into adolescence.

[number 3 on the list is a vital component in the success of numbers 1 & 2, and also dependent upon Martini Night Friends participation]

So here I go again...reminding myself to stay all zen-like and enjoy these fleeting days with my darlings. I will try. Oh, I will try.

But do you know what I really want?

I really just want to get the damn flower boxes planted.

Maybe tomorrow.

A Public Service Announcement

You know that little voice in the back of your head?

The one that keeps you from doing stupid things?

Listen to it.

It turns out that The Voice of Reason has an actual purpose.

It was tapping me on the shoulder a few weeks ago, but guess what?

I ignored it.

And got myself in a little bit of trouble.

Not the kind of trouble that requires bail money or a 12-step program, but irritating kind of trouble that is weighing on my shoulders and making me think, which is annoying in itself.

So, take it from me, no matter how much you want to silence The Voice Of Reason, and no matter what adrenaline wave you may be riding when you are about to do something stupid, take a minute to listen to what The Voice has to say. Chances are it is smacking you upside the head and yelling profanities at your idiotic self but you're too busy listening to The Promised Land on repeat for the 500th time that the name-calling is drowned out by the noise of your ipod while you are all Hey, look at me! I can run a mile AND make a killer martini!

Anyway, listen to the damn voice.

You'll be glad you did.

The Family Photo Shoot

We spent the holiday weekend on the rocky coast of Maine attempting a Large Scale family photo shoot. By Large Scale I mean nine adults, four cranky teenagers, and three fidgety boys.

Ever herded cats? It was a lot like that.

Despite the Large Scale chaos, the sun did eventually shine, the blue waters sparkled behind us and the sailboats in the distance added a nice Norman Rockwell-ish touch.

My many sleepless nights spent worrying about what the fuck to wear paid off as we were all perfectly color coordinated (thank you Lands End, Eddie Bauer and the Fed Ex man who is pretty much part of the family now).

All was looking pretty okay until the photographer called my little family over for our first photo op.

Because what I failed to consider was the insurmountable challenge of photographing two sleep deprived boys, who have just been exposed to the stomach bug AND the swine flu, and who would rather eat spinach for breakfast for a week than sit for a family portrait session.

We tried. Oh, how we tried.

After the Four Year Old folded his arms and announced that he would NOT smile OR get within a mile radius of the photographer, I did the only thing I knew to do.

I bribed him with chocolate.

And then ice cream.

Please, just SIT and SMILE and then you can eat ice cream until you throw up all over your new chambray blue polo shirt.

Through my clenched teeth I told the First Grader to stopfoolingaround and that this was veryimportanttome.

Please, for the love of God, PLEASE, put your tongue back in your mouth and stop making that pig face with your nose. And SMILE for the effing camera.

But promises of ice cream and thoughts of pleasing their mother are not high on their priority lists.

Because when you are 4 and 7, and there are 500 bazillion rocks just waiting to be thrown into the water, the choice is obvious.

This:



is a whole lot more fun than this:





My only wish is that when those proofs come back, we don't become the new Awkward Family Photo poster family.

More Thoughts On Crackbook

When I first got sucked into the crackpipe-smoking vacuum that is Facebook it was all good and fun and innocent.

Sure there were the high school overachievers on there, but I got over their 'hey look at me crap' by making fun of them on my blog.

But what started out as a simple way to keep in touch with a cozy group of friends has turned into a full blown time sucking explosion of (almost always) useless information.

Honestly? I find it hard to believe that I even know 119 real live people.

Because, in case you haven't noticed, I don't get out much.

But these Facebook friends keep crawling out of the dusty cracks of my past.

Life on my laptop was so much simpler when I only had 30 friends. But now that all of my worlds are colliding on my profile page I have to be more thoughtful (although you'd never know it) about the words I write and the pictures I post because do I really want to broadcast to 119 people that I drank yet another martini last night?

Actually, does anyone even care?

I am starting to think that there are people in our lives who should stay firmly planted in the past. What purpose is served by inviting them into our daily, albeit virtual, lives? Is there even anything left to say after those first few good-to-see-you-I'm-doing-great-how-about-you wall posts?

Yet here I am riding full speed in reverse, crashing directly into the 1980s.

Ouch.

I read an article recently that suggested an inverse correlation between virtual friends and 3-dimensional friends. In other words, the more Facebook friends you have could result in fewer real life friends.

I think there is some truth to this.

There is something seriously wrong when I hear myself telling the Four Year Old that "no, I can't play Zingo right now" because I am busy checking the status update of that kid with really sweaty palms who I always got stuck square dancing with in 5th grade.

Huh?

And even though I know it is ridiculously insane to sit in front of this screen perusing tagged photos of my awkward teenage years I just can't stop.

But since I am immersed in self improvement efforts, I am going to attempt a partial Operation De-Facebook unless something really cool happens*.

I've already gone a whole ten one and a half days without posting a status update.**

Yay me.




*like if I jump out of an airplane I'd kind of like my 119 friends to know about it

** it really was 10 days when I started writing this post, but then something cool happened

A Request I Can Honor

The Four Year Old has been asking for a baby sister for what seems like months now.

Actually, more like whining for one.

"Can we pleeease have a baby sister?" he cries incessantly.

To which I usually reply with something like, "well, probably not gonna' happen, my friend" or "mama's pretty happy in her size 4 jeans right now" or "did you know that a woman's eggs start to deteriorate after age 35?" followed up with "and do you know how old mama is?".

But still he keeps asking for a baby sister.

Yesterday I finally pressed the issue with him.

"Why do you want a baby sister so badly?" I asked.

"So we can stay up late and eat ice cream!" he told me.

HUH?

"You KNOW. You and Daddy can go out and we can get a baby sister and watch Star Wars! And eat popcorn! And stay up past our bedtime!" he gushed with all of his four year old enthusiasm.

Ah. Gotchya now.

A BabySitter.

Yeah, no problem, kid.

Just One Mile

I have this friend who runs. A lot. Crazy amounts of miles and sometimes all on the same day.

She claims to actually enjoy the whole marathon thing.

Personally, the sadistic thought of running 26.2 miles doesn't make my tummy feel so good.

But all her talk about running did make me realize that my 30-something body can't even make it around the high school track without wanting to vomit.

Turns out that walking the First Grader to the bus stop and lugging loads of laundry up and down the stairs don't count as exercise.

Damnit.

So about a month ago I set out to shape up my pathetically out of shape self.

Just one mile. That was my goal.

How hard could it be?

Here's what I learned shortly after starting my One Mile Quest:

Forcing a body, that has birthed two children, to
run after chugging a bottle of water brings about new challenges one never before considered.

All I'm sayin' is that I was glad I was wearing black shorts. And equally glad that those two high school jock boys seemed to be more interested in running their sprints than noticing me.

However.

Since I Ain't No Quitter No More, I went back out there until I could run around that damn track four times. In a row.

And you know what?

I kind of liked it.

Leakage and all.

Notes From The Top Bunk

Is it just me or does this look like a threat?

The First Grader has a case of early onset insomnia.

Instead of falling into an easy, blissful slumber at night he spends hours in his top bunk creating action figure battles, reading Jedi training manuals or writing us notes and leaving them on our pillows.

Like this one.

I think, and this is just a guess, but I think that he wanted the Clone and he wanted it NOW.


note to self: must work on the Art Of Subtlety with the children.

Bartending School Drop Out

During my junior year of college my drinking partner friend and I thought it would be a good use of our time to enroll in Bartending School.

We thought, very smartly I might add, that not only would studying Mixology be a hell of a lot more fun than passing a Neuroscience exam, but we'd also have a practical skill to fall back on once we graduated (this was 1993 when graduating from college meant either waiting tables or grad school).

Patting ourselves on the back for our good sense to think ahead, we set off to our Wednesday night Bartending School (sacrificing 90210 before the days of DVR! What commitment we showed!).

My friend (let's call her The Smart One because she actually went on and got a Ph.D.) took meticulous notes at Bartending School. She came prepared every week with her three ring binder, extra pencils and homemade flashcards. She dutifully memorized each week's drink recipes and was the first to raise her hand in class with the right answer.

I, on the other hand, (let's call me The Fun One because, well, isn't it obvious?) was just happy to be listening to a lecture on something other than neurons and synapses and other stuff I don't remember about the brain. I do, however, remember that Mr. Cute Young Bartending School Professor was a lot easier on the eyes than Mr. Older Than Dirt Neuroscience Professor.

Each week we learned about long pours, short pours, shaking vs. stirring and appropriate cocktail garnishes. We learned about shot glasses, highball glasses, wine glasses and beer goggles. We were even sent home with our own tools of the trade like shiny new shakers and fun little liquor pourer spout thingies.

What we did not do was use real alcohol in class as we practiced our pouring and measuring and mixing. Imagine our disappointment when we found water instead of gin in our shot glasses because, honestly?, the prospect of free booze was one of the reasons we signed up.

After six weeks of Bartending School there was a little something called The Final Exam upon which passing said exam would result in Bartending School Graduation and a dot matrix printed Certificate of Completion.

Guess who didn't show up on Final Exam night?

Guess who did?

Yep, The Smart One, in addition to her Ph.D., also has a Bartending School Certificate.

The Fun One does not.

Right about now you might be recalling a recent post where I mentioned that I am a Quitter.

And right about now you might be thinking to yourself, wow, she wasn't kidding about the quitting thing.

You might also be recalling that, in an effort to change my ways, I am engaged in some intense goal setting for myself these days. Little goals, big goals, it doesn't matter as long as I reach them, right?

So what did I do this weekend?

I unearthed the shiny shaker and liquor pourers, and I mastered the beautiful magic of The Chocolate Martini.

And it was heavenly chocolate creamy sweetness wrapped in a bowl of vodka-infused sunshine.

Amen.


I will never know if The Chocolate Martini was on that final exam, but I do know that one small goal has been reached in the land of Reformed Quitters.

Mother's Day

I have been reading a lot lately (that's what we do here when the winters are eight months long).

I read this book months ago, and it is still lingering in my head. You know those kinds of books? The kind that follow you around for days, weeks, sometimes even years after you've turned their last page? Barbara Kingsolver tends to stay with me long after I've returned her to the bookshelf. Read her if you haven't already. And if you have, read her again. She will tell you something different each time you visit her.

Since Mother's Day is around the corner, I thought I'd share this particular quote that pretty much moved me when I first read it and continues to dance around me from time to time.

“All told, probably more women have lost a child from this world than haven’t. Most don’t mention it, and they go on from day to day as if it hadn’t happened, and so people imagine that a woman in this situation never really knew or loved what she had.

But ask her sometime: how old would your child be now? And she’ll know.”

-Barbara Kingsolver “Animal Dreams”

Goal Setting For Slackers

I am setting some small goals for myself.

And by small goals, I mean teeny tiny attainable goals.

Why so small?

Because I am a Quitter.

And? I lack Follow Through.

So I figure if I set my goal-setting-bar pretty low, the chances of success will be that much greater.

Makes sense, no?

I have a history of running away from challenges. Which could either mean a deep seated fear of success OR a terribly-lazy-almost-non-existent work ethic. I choose to think it's the former.

In my world, when the going gets tough, well, the tough notoriously quit. Because it seems to make so much more sense to uncork a bottle of pinot and settle in for a night with Jon Stewart on the old DVR than to actually work towards something constructive (because, hello?, that might lead to a little something called f-a-i-l-u-r-e).

Grad school? Yeah, I could have said yes. But it would have been So. Much. Work. AND it would have resulted in long term commitment to, like, a CAREER.

AP Calculus class? Sure, I was signed up, but it was so easy to unenroll that it seemed silly not to.

Making it to the top of the corporate ladder? I was getting close, but it turned out I was afraid of heights.

Damn, even blogging on a regular basis? You mean real live people are actually reading what I write? Run Away!

Don't nominate me to head up a committee because chances are I will quit halfway through.

[although, yay me!, I've attended every single one of my volunteer days in First Grade this year]

So for the first time in 37 years I am going to actually challenge myself. Maybe, just maybe, start to find out what this almost middle aged body and mind can do when pushed.

I'm not even going to tell you what my tiny goals are because they are so itty-bitty you'd need a telescopic lens to see them anyway.

But here we go, yo.

See, I told you I was waking up.

Tick Season

I just read that a tick can live for up to 200 days without a blood meal.

Bad news for me. Good news for the tick that is roaming around my living room somewhere.

Yep, it's Tick Season here in the suburban woods of New England.

And Tick Season? Sucks.

I've already tweezed out two of these blood suckers from the Four Year Old's head and am now seriously considering Front Line for him.

It's really just a matter of time before someone in this family wins the grand prize of a big bulls eye rash followed by 28 days of antibiotics.

Something just ain't right when I hear myself yelling, "STAY OUT OF THE WOODS" to my boys. And "For the love of God, play only in the SUNNY SPOTS OF THE YARD!" Boys who only want to do what they are genetically programmed to do: explore the great wide open, capture garter snakes from wood piles, dig foxholes in the front yard, dance in their spiderman underwear, you know, that kind of thing.

At the end of the day the boys know the drill as we perform the Nightly Tick Checks on them. They undress, hold their hands up over their heads and rotate slowly so we can inspect for any parasites attached to their skin. Nice, huh?

From April through June I pretty much limit my outside activities to a three foot circumference around my house (this may explain my recent desire to get out of the self-imposed suburban bubble). Yesterday was no exception. Except that when I came back inside from my ten minutes of allotted outside weeding time I felt something creepy crawly on my leg. I lifted up the bottom of my jeans and saw the little bastard laughing its way up my shin.

And then I did what anyone would do: I screamed. And then I flicked him off my leg with such superwoman-power-force that I inadvertently flung the little bugger across the room.

Which is how there got to be a tick in my living room.

And now I know that I have 200 days to find him.

Unless he finds me first.

Finding My Spirit In The Night

What can I say? I've had a long winter's nap.

But I'm finally waking up.

I was jolted back into life last week by two consecutive nights with a pretty amazing guy from Jersey. Two nights at the Boston Garden with my man, Bruce, makes me soar. I've spent the last seven days still feeling slightly hungover from the double shots of adrenaline I downed while waiting for Rosie to come out (she did, by the way). Standing in the crowded pit on the floor of the Garden with fellow Bruce peeps (and my partner in crime) was the push I needed to emerge from the cocoon that is The New England Winter.

It's almost an effortless act to allow yourself to get lost in life's daily monotonies. The days go by, different, yet exactly the same. Pancakes, bus stops, preschool, playgroups, laundry, dinner, date nights, drink nights, laundry, dinner, pancakes, preschool, bus stops. After awhile you stop paying attention. It's only when something unexpected sneaks up on you and shakes your soul awake that you realize you haven't been fully present. Functioning, but not present. There's a big difference. But when that something, whatever it may be, shakes you out of your dream state, extraordinary things start to happen. Suddenly, you're eyes open wider than before and Technicolor technology kicks in and you start to actually feel the world again. You find your way. And it's pure magic.

Maybe a slight exaggeration, but that's kind of what happened to me after the second night (in a row!) of revisiting my Jersey roots with a Mr. B.F. Springsteen last week.

My husband accuses me of wanting to be young again.

You can't go back, he tells me.

He's right. I can't go back. And I don't want to. Turbulent teenage years have no right to be experienced more than once.

But rocking out at the Church of the E Street is not about being 17 again. Good God, no.

It's about waking up. It's about getting back the I-Can-Conquer-The-World enthusiasm that we once had long ago before mortgages, kids, retirement plans, bailout plans, flu pandemics and home improvement projects made our heads heavy with responsibility. It's about allowing the energy of a single night to wash over your whole being, and then dragging that energy back home to suburbia with you.

Yeah, I know, we grow up and become respectable card-carrying adults. But does growing up mean losing our spirit? Playing it safe? Doing the right thing? All the time??

Do the risk-taking-adrenaline-pumping dreams of our youth have to be locked away in the time capsule? When do we get the key back to unlock the vault?

We went to the beach last weekend (two days post-Bruce high) on an unheard of 90 degree April day in New England. When we got there I inhaled the warm, salty air and cried. Real tears of pure joy. It really had been a long winter. I took my first real breath in what felt like months and my lungs thanked me. Later, still feeling good, I walked down towards the water and did a terribly clumsy cartwheel. In front of people! In broad daylight! With strangers watching!

A cartwheel?!? Me? Reserved, stay-under-the-radar-me?!? A fucking* cartwheel?!?

I. Am. Awake.

I know, an attempt at a gymnastics floor exercise is hardly an adrenaline-pumping feat, but still so good, so healthy, for the spirit.

But do you know what I really want?

What I really want is to throw back another shot of adrenaline.

So I'm looking around for my next adventure outside of this suburban bubble. I think (I KNOW) it will make me a better person. A better spouse, and a better parent.

It doesn't even have to involve a nearly 60 year old Jersey boy (although that would obviously be the ideal solution).

Juvenile?

Maybe. But now that I'm awake, I don't want to fall asleep again.

Maybe it's an early mid-life crisis.

I dunno. All I know it that I am seriously looking into jumping out of an airplane for my next birthday.



* I also seem to be utilizing the under appreciated F word a lot more in the past week.