Geronimo!

Got some sidebar silliness happening down lower on the home page…teeny eeny type size, and I’m not having success in straightening it out…I’ll have to wait for my Techno Wizard to get home from work today. Sorry for the mess down there. I’m sure it’s putting a serious crimp in your day. We’ll get through this, together.

On the upside, it is TV Free Tuesday, hosted by cool beans. Turn off the tube, and tell us this evening what you did all day, and if you indeed, start drinking by 2 pm. Not that I’d ever consider that myself. Just saying.

And, my scales are my best friend again this morning. They gave me back the two pounds I’ver worked so hard (don’t watch…my nose is growing) to lose in the last nearly 3 weeks. I think I’m going to publish a book, maybe just an eBook, based on a commenter that left me a brilliant suggestion. Wine Your Way to Thin. I’ll write her into the credits. I don’t want to give away any secrets, but just suffice it to say that it has something to do with eating only 400 calories all day, till, say, 5 pm, and then drinking the rest of them till, say, oh, 8 pm. You know, it’s not good to consume calories after 8. You don’t want all that sitting in your stomach all night, just ganging up on your thighs. If you like, between 5 and 8, you may also have something like a stick of celery, and some of that Laughing Cow, lite, cheese. But not more than maybe, 100 calories worth. Want to stay under 1500 for the day. And if you feel really ambitious, you can get in a day or two of cardio, or weights, but not more than 5 times in 3 weeks. But that’s all I’m going to say. I want the rest to be a surprise when the book is released.

Finally. Our Marker Art Boy, in all his glorious splendor:

I swear. I. do. not. stage. these. shots. I’m only here to grab them as they happen.

Happy Tuesday, all. Be sure to tune in later. I’m working on sheer brilliance up here in my noggin. No. Don’t thank me. Really. No. Hold your applause. I’d be nothing without you. You are the wind beneath my wings. Until then, adieu.

And now, for my dear friend, who’s oldest child is just reaching 6 and a half. She called last night with the eternal dilemma of what do I tell him when he says but everyone else gets to (fill in the blank). After telling her what I usually try to say in these instances, she said would you just write that down? I need a script, or something. So Mel, your script…

(with much empathy) Ooh, hon…I am sooo sorry that it feels like every one else you know in the whole world gets to see “Saw II” and have their own personal cell phone. Mommy and Daddy know just what that feels like. We remember when (use personal anecdote, like say, when it was your birthday party at the roller rink, and you were the only one in farm print quilted overalls, that your Momma made, and all your little girlfriends got to wear their embroidered jeans and logo Ts…just pulled that one out of the air, of course). Then move on to…we sooo wish we could just let you do all these things that feel so important to you, and that when you don’t get to do them, y - (wait a minute, Blue is up, snuggle fest) - you feel so left out. And that feels really bad, we know. Like you have to miss out on all the good stuff. But you know what? It’s just not our choice alone. We have a job to do, that God gives us. And he tells us (when he asks how, you can say, through His word, or in our spirit, etc.) what is good for you and what is not. We have to make decisions for you that are not always easy, for you or for us. Because it is our job. It’d be easier to just let you do whatever you want, whenever you want to, but you wouldn’t turn out to be the young man one day that you’re supposed to be. We wish we could do for you, and give you, just anything you want, but it would be wrong. It would actually be bad for you. So we just can’t. And we know this sometimes will make you angry. That’s OK. We understand. You just can’t be disrespectful to us while you feel that way. But we’ll be here when you want to talk about it, and all the other stuff that’s hard out there, and makes you feel left out. ‘Kay? (hugs all around)

And Mel, when and if that fails, this is the most fool proof method I know to use. Choose one of the following:
1. Because I said so.
2. Because I’m the boss of you.
3. Because I’m the mom/dad, and you’re not.
4. Because I like to see you suffer. (just kidding) But you know, sometimes when one of ours persists in a ridiculous line of questioning concerning something that’s just not fair, or how come he/she gets to (whatever), and he/she doesn’t, or why don’t we do (something) for him/her, we just say because we love him/her more than you, or because we think it’s funny when you’re miserable, or well, you know, he/she is our favorite. And you know what? They get this look like whaaaaaa? and then know immediately that we’re kidding, that we are doing what we do because we’re doing the best we know how, and they relent. And we usually start laughing. Just a thought. Sometimes works for us.

…o-o-o-h, o-o-o-h…wish it were Sunday, o-o-o-h, o-o-o-h…

First. My stupid scales say I’m back up that presumably lost 2 pounds. Damn cream cheese-salsa dip. And damn the Fritos Scoops. They were my only splurge all weekend. Besides the wine. And it’s just wrong to damn wine. Maybe I’m retaining water.

Second…it’s time to play Monday Memories! So without further ado…I present (drumroll)…something I remember!!!

Monday Memories You know what I remember? I remember when I could come home from school and drink about 24 ounces of real Coke. And eat half a box of Cheez-its. And order a small Dominoe’s pizza. Eat the whole thing. Do a little homework after watching back to back M*A*S*H* re-runs sitting in my favorite arm chair. Have supper with my family. And eat 2 or 3 helpings of Momma’s fried chicken, rice and gravy. And. weigh. 100. pounds. That, my friends, is my memory for the day. Sadly self absorbed, but that’s it.

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it’s nearly noon, and I’m still in my jammies, with dark, old mascara under my eyes, and my second cup of coffee, at my laptop, and not only am I completely ignoring the fruit of my exhausted loins, but their little voices are really really causing a small, sharp stabbing sensation in the back of my right eye, BUT they are teaching themselves Chess, can this still be considered a good day? Forget that. Now I hear increasingly shrill pleas of you can’t do that, you can’t do that, you can’t dooooooooo that…it’s not faaaaaaaiiiiiiiirrrr, from a 5 year old who wouldn’t know the rules of Chess from the origins of DaDaism. I’m sooo going to leave the house when my husband gets home from his trip.

statements. Ever again. Come out of the mouths of my children.

1. Is that all? If it’s on your plate, and I’ve called you to a meal, what you see is what you get. And the answer to that question will be, nope (with a removal of your plate, and a reference to the remaining empty spot), that is all you get. I. am. not. your. personal. short. order. chef. And those assanine books suggesting I make plates of food that resemble ships in bottles, some demented clown face, or the leaning Tower of Piza? Screw it. By the time the kids of those parents are 12, they’ll (the parents) be carving sides of beef with a chain saw, to get a custom cut of steak in the shape of Poke’ Man. Or whatever the heck that character’s name is. Forget it.

2. But you said you’d (fill in the blank). Um, the last time I checked, I was generally with my lips when they start flapping. You think I’m going to suddenly forget, and then suddenly condone the promise of a purchase of a cell phone, so I can always know where you are. Because once, for .2 seconds, 8 months ago, I said to your Dad, and you overheard, that I can see why some parents would find that useful for some younger children. Little newsflash, Speedreader. I already always know where you are. You’re 10. And we homeschool. And your Razor has a busted wheel. Where are you going to go? I know what I said, and usually when I said it, and what I was wearing when I said it, and if I was having a good hair day or not the day I said it. When it comes to you and your siblings. Why I can’t find my keys, ever, I have not one clue.

3. But I didn’t doooo it! Oh hon, oh my darlin’. Oh sweet Blue. Lord knows I do love you. But when I hear the crash, and see the flash of light from the other room, and run to the area of presumed disaster, and the lamp is smashed to smithereenes, and the side table is knocked over, and the picture frame is busted, and you are the only one in the room, and the only one who just so happens to be sitting in the chair by the aforementioned lamp and table…my dear, you did doooooo it. You did, you did, you did. I. am. not. stupid.

4. But he/she grabbed (whatever). I just don’t know what to say here. Really I don’t. We’ve scolded you. We’ve spanked you. We’ve time outed you. Or whatever the past tense is there. We’ve taken away the Object of Grabbing. We’ve re-enacted scenarios where one of you has an item, and another asks nicely for this item, and we practice how that situation can be handled, and we all do this little skit together, and then demonstrate the wrong way to handle it, and we all go away with a fresh understanding. Smiling. Nodding. Oh yes, we understand. It’s so much better this way. Why, oh why, dear Mother and Father, have you not shared this precious information with us prior to this most seminal moment? Freed forever from the insidious whines that creep through our walls, but he graaaabbbed…around here, forever is about a 6 minute span. *sigh* I have no answer, but I’m warning you. I. am. sick. of. this. phrase.

5. I’m so worn out’a doing this! Blue Boy, let me tell you something. There is nothing. I repeat, nothing. That you could possibly be worn out’a doing. You. are. 5. All that is ever asked of you is to brush your teeth, fold a blanket every now on then on your bed, and help Catgirl if you sleep in her bed, with all those blasted decorative pillows. And oh, carry some of your clothes up the stairs, to your specially arranged room, just for you. These are words that really get me going, and it would be better for your health, if you learn right now, to stop saying them. You do not, and again, I repeat, do not. want me to start on the loooong-a** list of what I’m worn out’a doing. Not the least of which is raising you. Boy, you’re gonna be lucky to make it 20. By the grace of God…

6. But you get to (fill in the blank). I, my sweets, am the adult. And for the crap I have to put up with from yall, I’ve earned it. Staying up til midnight is a small, small perk for the totality of my job description. Let’s not even mention that if I can make it up that late, I’m usually folding your underwear! Enough.

7. In just a minute. Oh, ho, ho, hoooo. Oh, Mom and Dad. I’m so sorry I was probably getting married before I began to outgrow this. And listen up little peeps in my house. I. am. the. boss. of. you. And when I say, or request something, you have not, you have earned not, the privilege of putting me off for a minute. Not even for a second. For in that amount of time, you are capable of forgetting that you desperately have to pee, and may wet the floor. Mom, Dad, I never understood. Now, I do. In spades.

8. Mo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-m! Where are yo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-u? Oh. my. G*d. This makes me insane. We have a nice house. A great house. It is large enough, certainly, but not too large. There is no east wing. There is no west wing. 2300 sq. feet. Not one of which hides any of the smallest decible of sound from any other part of the house. When you fart in the mudroom, I hear it from my bathroom, on the second floor. Do. not. call. for. me. from. any. part. of. the. house. Unless there is blood. Large, copious amounts of blood. A smallish gaping wound will not do. Something requiring 12 or more stitches, maybe. Other than that, come. find. me. Period. There are few things I hate more than screaming up heeeeeeeerrrreeeee when I am upon the john. Which, by the way, statistics show, is the number one time in which you go about yelling all over the house for me. You all? You ask for privacy. Me? You ask why I have to be in there so long. Stop. it.

9. I don’t really wanna… Oh. Really. You. don’t. really. want. to. That’s funny, really. Hysterical. I don’t really wanna do the laundry. Wipe your bums. Get up early. Clean the kitchen all day, every day. Dust. Rid the toilets and surrounding areas of your pee, and worse. Pick the dog (that you begged for) poop up off the floor. Vacuum. Think of something to make, 3 times a day, 7 days a week, 52 weeks a year. Um, let me think. Wear the clothes I purchased 10 years ago. Live with these stretch-marks…and on, and on. But sometimes, love is doing what you don’t really wanna do, because you do really do love someone. You’ll learn that soon enough, I suppose.

10. That’s not fair! Waah, waah. It may not be. Niether is life. Get over it. The sooner you do, the better.

For our second baby, who is 8 years old today. Yep. If you checked in in the last day or so, you know we’re birthdaying again. But, as Queen Mum, I’m just reveling in the memories. So come back in another day or so, if this theme is making you yawn. I’ve pulled out the old journal, kept while I was pregnant with Catgirl…

August 8, 1997

Dear Baby,
I’ve been feeling you move around for a week or so now. It’s such a nice, familiar feeling, knowing your tiny body is growing, getting ready to meet us in January. On Wednesday (in 5 days!), we’re going to try to see if you are a boy or a girl! Will we have a house full of boys, or a little girl too? I’ve dreamed twice you are a girl, but I’m just not sure. Who are you? Maybe in 5 days, we’ll begin to get an idea…

13 August, 1997

Well little one,
It seems you are a girl! The doctor today told us your immodest sonogram pictures reveal a little girl. We are so thrilled…your brother is going to have a little sister! Oh the clothes I am going to find for you! The sonographer tells us you look very healthy, despite my rotten eating habits, and you are 18.5 weeks along. Almost half way til the time we can meet your sweet face! Now. What to name you?

9 September, 1997

Baby Girl,
I fear even putting that on paper, should you surprise us and turn out to be a boy. I’m going with it now, hopefully. It is a gray Tuesday, shortly before noon. Your brother is watching the garbage trucks and back hoes go by outside the window…it is the height of his day. I am on the sofa. Still sick. At 22.5 weeks, I’m still throwing up, and exhausted. At this point, I’m just hanging on til January…I’ve dreamed you have dark hair, like your daddy’s, and surely you’ll have blue eyes like the rest of us. As much as I know better than to wish time away, I do hope these last months go quickly til your arrival. I’m trying hard to just let them be…

20 February, 1998

You are one month old tomorrow. I cannot believe the time has passed so. After your birth, a last minute second section for me, I was so exhausted I wasn’t sure I could even focus my eyes to see you, much less even lift my arms to hold you when the nurse asked if you should be brought to me in recovery. Then, I thought of all we had struggled through together to get you here, to meet each other, and you were placed in my arms. You were amazing. So dark, and alert, only about an hour old. As with your brother, and much to my dismay, that was as early as I could see you O.R. You nursed well for about 30 minutes as I tried to get a good look at you. Your hair was nearly black, and your eyes seemed navy, almost black, also…when we finally were taken to our room, I called all our dearest friends to announce your arrival. I told the story over and over, and never grew tired of it…

So. Apparently I still haven’t tired of it. There’s just something about reliving the birth of your babies that only gets sweeter with time. Here’s to you, Baby Girl, who’s just not a baby anymore!

About this time, 8 years ago, my midwife declared me 3 cm. and 80%. Any women who have ever given birth know exactly what I mean. And at 11 days over due, I was elated. And ginormous. For anyone just dying to read some stranger woman’s birth story, it’s here. All 10 months of pregnancy woe, nausea, and considerations of doing myself in. Or my husband.

This afternoon, those 8 years ago, became the day we knew we were going to have our baby girl. Labor progressed. Excitement rose. Emotions flew. I began to view our first born in an entirely different way. He was about to be a Big Boy. Catgirl didn’t actually make her arrival til 6:20 tomorrow morning, but I suppose I’m like so many other mommies out there who start remembering the little things surrounding the hour of actual birth. So today, I’m celebrating her. And oh, I have discovered who can, and who should, wear satin cargo pants.

early a.m., 1998

today, in her new satin cargo pants

Happy Birthday, Yummy Bunny.

I had the most strange experience this afternoon. At Speedreader’s Karate class. Where, you know, he has just earned his yellow belt. Because he is an attentive student. A serious student. A good boy.

Today, as one of the other boys was receiving his Yellow, Speedreader was seated beside a friend. Another good boy. But today, they were chatting. Not loudly, but not giving the boy in his Bow Out ceremony the full and proper respect their instructor expects, and fortunately requires. Fortunately, until today.

I have always appreciated that this man does not take guff off the kids. That he will not allow a paying student (his folks, that is) to remain in class if the child cannot maintain enough self control as to not disturb the others, and actually learn. I wouldn’t want our son in any other kind of class. This instructor has also stated clearly, that if your child is not ready to test, he’ll talk to you ahead of time, because he will not give an advancement that is not actually properly learned and earned. I like this, too. And he fosters comradery with the students; smiling big, praising, high fiving. But when it is time for class, and work is to be done, or someone is due quiet respect, Mr. Tim means it.

So today, my boy was a young boy. He forgot to concentrate on the ceremony at hand, as he sat by his buddy. And as the ceremony ended, Mr. Tim said evenly, calmly Speedreader, since you and Jordan were chatting through the Bow Out, when your classmate deserved our attention, drop and give me 25 push ups. Nearly before I could register what he had said, and clearly before Speedreader thought he was very serious, he let out a soft chuckle. More of a “gosh” sound, really. It needs to be understood, that while he is yet just a boy, disrespect to authority is not something he struggles with. I don’t believe I’ve ever witnessed him give lip to any adult. Not even slightly. Don’t get me wrong. We go round and round around here. But out there, he puts on his armour of correct behavior. And I appreciate it. And we thank him, and praise him, as many other adults over the years have. Total strangers on a not infrequent basis. I say this not to brag, but to give background to the predicament Speedreader found himself in. This is just the kind of boy he is. The situation in which he found himself is not common.

At the sound of this presumed chuckle, Mr. Tim said quickly, Speedreader, since you laughed, give me 35. Even as I type, my hands begin to quake. I was suddenly a schizophrenic female bear, with cubs weaning age. Do I refuse him milk? Do I insist on the grass? Do I allow him to spar with a superior bear, as he needs to learn his place in the world? Or do I completely rip the entrails out of the beast that has just had the supreme stupidity to threaten him??? Like a large part of me most definitely wanted to. The entire room quited, students and parents alike. I caught meaningful glances from other mothers around me. I felt suddenly hot, fiercely protective, a bit confused, embarrased for him, embarrased for me. The several minutes to complete the task seemed half an eternity. He took it on the chin, like the other boy, and pumped out those push ups, the best he could. Never having done more than maybe 5 in his life, it was a herculean task. Or felt so to me. Maybe it was just that it was a herculean task for me to sit back and allow him to handle that by himself.

The time crept by, one earnest push up after another, with the other boy finishing first, and mine…mine left to finish the last 10 all alone. I could see his arms shaking, his sweet face red. His knees buckling. And I continued to resist the urge to tackle Mr. Tim and pummel his bald head. I would have jumped out there in half a second, if I could have. But I couldn’t. It was a moment of defining himself, for my son. A time to follow the rules of the world around him, and show he could. Without his mommy rescuing him, as I so desperately wanted to do. Really. It was so incredibly emotional for me, that even now, as I digest it all in this post, I’m teary. Kind of breathless and shaky. I’ve spent this last entire decade protecting him in incremental degrees. Today was like throwing him in the ocean, with only a few YMCA swimming lessons under his belt. But he did it. He did not sink. And afterwards, he apologized to his instructor, who holds no grudges. All was well in the studio, and apparently, in my son’s spirit.

He seems to have weathered no damage. In fact, as I sat and wished I could morph into him and spirit him away from the evil Push Up Commanding Karate Man, I knew. I knew that this was something that he could do. Should do. And it was a tremendous life lesson. Strengthening. It was important for him to prove to himself he could live through the embarrasment, and the physical strain. And for the rest of the day, he truly seems great. Outside right now playing kick ball with his brother and sister, he actually looks a bit older. And somehow, that almost makes me more sad. For I surely only want the best for him, which includes getting knocked around once in a while to see if you can hack it. And being proud when you can. But when he can indeed hack it, like today, it only proves he’s getting all the older. More mature. That there truly is a man in there, waiting and working to come out. That he is not my baby boy, and really, never was. That I was only loaned a child, with the tremendously high interest rate of nearly unbearable love and attachment, to be paid in full, sometime not so far in the future. Some moments, I’m not so sure I’m going to be able to hold up my end of the deal.

I jotted this down yesterday morning. If you’re back, thanks. Blogsome has been down. A whooole lot of bloggers have been groaning loudly. If you’re not back, then this doesn’t apply to you.

I am reading The Gold Coast. Nelson DeMille. Great book. Loaned by my Dad. And I’m liking it so much, I *gasp* crawled back in bed with it this morning, while the children still slept. And. did. not. get. on. the. computer! Till now, of course. What’s to become of me???

Mafia dons, old east coast very monied families, country clubs, restless mid life crisis lawyer to the elite, gentry and servants, regal women, a little great marital sex (even some fantasy)…all the good stuff. And that’s just the first 50 pages. Now, my dear husband has just finished a book of, well, substance. The Holiness of God. R.C. Sproul. And suggested on his way out the door that this is a book I would like. I should read. It is compelling, and thought provoking. Challenging. I must have stared back at him as if he had just suggested I shave my head and march naked down the street singing Yankee Doodle Dandy, for he just shrugged, shook his head, and stated you’ll never read it. And he seems to think (I’m talking to you, love) that I never read anything he suggests. I have a simple answer. And it’s not some form of subtle passive-aggression. Really. It’s just that I have chosen, for a some time now, to read nothing that challenges me to anything other how to retrieve the Cheez-its from the kitchen while I turn pages breathlessly to discover if the lawyer really does get into cahoots with the mafia don, and is she, his wife, as I suspect, going to have an affair with same said don?!?

So just in case you’ve forgotten, hon, I used to read for brain stretching. Really I did. Whitman poetry. Faulkner. Kate Chopin. Doris Lessing. Thomas Hardy. Some Shakespeare (for pleasure, no less), Christian theologians. And you, my dear husband. You still readMere Christianity, and The Business of Heaven by C.S. Lewis. The Narnia series. This Sproul book. Waking the Dead, John Eldridge, and Purple Cow…Transform Your Business by Being Remarkable, Seth Godin. And Lord love you hon, I really admire your brain and stamina to get through such incredible material, but I. don’t. want. to. think. any. more. than. I. have. to. I have to think all the time. Why does electricty work? Don’t you think I’ll be bored in Heaven when games are played, because no one wins or loses? What’s for breakfast…what’s for lunch…what’s for dinner…where are my socks…how do you spell ‘tenuous’…why do you like him more than me…why do I feel melancholy…he said I’m stupid…she won’t let me in her room…Moooommmmm, he won’t put his pants back on…Moooommmmm, that thing is gross…Mooommm, why do I have a penis…no you didn’t, yes I did, no you didn’t, yes I did…

This is all along the lines of the fact that I stopped listening to/buying/understanding current music somewhere in 1998. And when you, my sweet hubby, want to share your latest discovery, it gives me a headache. The girl who used to roll down the windows, and blast the stereo, and sing at the passing cars has gone away somewhere. The girl who let you convince her to smoke a Clove and really inhale, to ‘carpe diem’ , and didn’t mind the price of wretching on your sofa an hour later, in the name of mad infatuation…she isn’t here right now. Or at least, she’s temporarily on hiatus. I hope it’s temporary. That I don’t stick this way. Like if I cross my eyes too long. I loved that girl. Or parts of her. Some of her was just ridiculously self absorbed. And I loved her with you. Oh, that was awesome. That time in a relationship when you just. can’t. keep. your. hands. off. each. other. When it’s a good thing you may still be on your parents tab, because if were up to you to make a living, you couldn’t. You’d be too busy sneaking around to steal a little nookie. But somehow, that girl would be too flighty to hack it in our current world. Which is full of, along with real joy, sacrifice, long hours, choices about bills, how to raise the children, can we handle our mortgage, and the neighborhood assessment bill being due. She’d bail out for sure. The first bad hair day, and she’d be out the door. Forget the ripped up nipples of early breastfeeding. And these stretchmarks {shudder}. And the giving up great new shoes for 3 children’s wardrobe.

In her place, I pray is someone better. A bit more stable. And able to be counted on. Someone who may be filtering the not so important from really important. Someone who, while seemingly having lost a good portion of her thinking capacity, has really just been forced to replaced it with something worthwhile, eternal even. If I have to choose between great stimulating literature, and being able to absorb all our children have to throw out at me, I guess the later is where I have to go. Not that it’s always great fun. Or that I come off as very bright. I cannot tell you, or anyone else, the real current state of the affairs in Iraq, or give you a reasonable opinion on whether or not we should really be over there in the first place, but buddy, let me tell you how to get an unwilling toddler to use the potty. I’m somewhat embarrassed to say I don’t really understand the NASDAQ, or even what those letters mean, but I’ve got some good coping skills for sleepless nights. And I know how to have a rocking anniversary celebration on $22. And how to check out 53 books from the library, keep up with them all for a month, and return them on time. Usually. Want to know how to continue to sit on a sofa, and love it, years after it should have been curbed? I’m your gal. What’s for dinner with 7 left over ingredients that in my right mind would never ever never go together, and wow, it’s yummy? Me. I can do it, go figure. I can take days, weeks, months, years of constant child care, birthing and nursing, while we move, many times (OK, with a little help from my friend Zoloft). I just can’t take Radiohead. I can turn a house into a home with some cheap Christmas lights, $50 and my designer hubby’s input. I’ve learned to say things like stop diddling yourself at the table (to our sons, not you dear, that’s strictly up to you), and don’t draw on the toilet seat while you potty, like they’re perfectly normal statements. These are the things of survival now that 15 years ago, I would have thought were a pathetic excuse of a life. The things, that when as a teenager, I pointed out some youngish mom to my own mother, inquiring how could she be so lame? and she replied, no really, it won’t matter, I couldn’t decide which was worse. That anyone could be like that, or that it had indeed, become no issue over which to fret and fuss. How could a woman be so pitiful as to not care?

What makes me a bit nervous, truth be told, is whether or not, when the intensity of this season passes, I’ll be able to let loose, or looser, again. Not with my personal hygiene. I can only go up from here. But be a bit more free, in my spirit again. Run out the door without the forethought of drinks, snacks, is- everyone-buckled, no-you-sat-in-the-front-last, I said-sit-on-your-bottom, do-I-have-to-come-back-there. But with the hard earned wisdom that comes with getting that far. To sort of rediscover who I was, and meld it into who I have become, and who I can be. Is that possible? I don’t want to be the mad-face-no-fun mom (you get wrinkles on your forehead), but sometimes, that comes with the job description. I don’t want to be the grumpy say-no Mom, but I’m not put on this earth to be their best friend. Not yet. You know, you get into this mode, of responsibility and real consequence. And really, we can forget what it was like to have the deepest worry of our life be passing the oral Spanish exam, a big zit on my nose, or if the clothing allowance check from your parents would come in time to buy some more ripped up jeans and margaritas for Friday night. When my brow didn’t furrow 712 times a day.

I just can’t help it. That how I cope with all this seems to be by eliminating most of the current world input as it zooms by me, and that it leaves me to think the Rachel haircut is still hip (is hip even a usable word now?). And just what kind of shoe do you wear with satin cargo pants? Should I wear satin cargo pants? Should anyone wear satin cargo pants? I am in brain overload all day, every day. The constant input, output, stimulation, challenge. It is exhausting. Yet this thing of raising our children. This thing of being called to educate them here. These I have to do. I want to do. Most days. I do not have to read a book that doesn’t fly by like a beach bodice ripper, or listen to any music post Y2K. And you can’t make me. Nanny nanny boo boo. But when they’ve grown, and I’m not wishing it to pass quickly, just don’t leave me in this current state. Get me out of the house and show me what I’ve missed. Or actually, didn’t miss. But just didn’t experience, because I really didn’t want to miss what matters most. This job of loving and raising our children. Are we on bell bottoms, straight leg, or back to pegged jeans now?

Hey, Mom, I left the room to toot!

Blue Boy, age 5

After months of telling him he was about to knock us out, he needed to excuse himself, he has just started doing so. And he is so very proud. And. We can breathe better.