Geronimo!

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.

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?

Around here, this is a really busy season…this is the 3rd birthday in 2 weeks. And to celebrate, here’s 100 things about my friend, Mr. Tango. Happy Birthday. Love.

1. A lot of people say it, but he really is my best friend.
2. He has strong hands.
3. And a big heart.
4. And deep convictions.
5. And sometimes a hot head.
6. Because he’s passionate.
7. And more impulsive than I am.
8. So we’ve often clashed.
9. But we balance eachother.
10. Mostly.
11. He’s a visionary.
12. And a dreamer.
13. He won’t let me wallow in the negative.
14. I won’t let him go off half cocked (wait, that was about me).
15. He pushes the outer edges of possibilty.
16. And sometimes gives me a migraine.
17. He’s quiet in new situations.
18. While he sizes up the situation.
19. He doesn’t dig small talk.
20. He lets me blather all over the place.
21. He’s an artist.
22. And a musician.
23. And a Believer.
24. And sometimes spacey.
25. But not too much.
26. He used to lose his wallet and keys all the time.
27. But doesn’t any more, much.
28. He has the best hair.
29. And can cut it himself.
30. He can put on any accent in the world, and make you think he came from that place.
31. He cracks the children up reading books to them in those accents.
32. He makes a mean margarita.
33. But doesn’t make much else.
34. But could, I’m sure.
35. He hates to get up early.
36. And would be nocturnal if he could.
37. That’s tough for family life.
38. So he’s adjusted for us.
39. He was 20 when we met.
40. Today, he’s 36.
41. He gets better every year.
42. He makes me laugh. A lot.
43. He can learn nearly anything he tries to.
44. He is a perfectionist.
45. Which can make me nuts (oops, me again).
46. He was born in Texas.
47. Which he thinks is the greatest place.
48. He loves a good chile relleno.
49. And bold red wines.
50. And chips and salsa.
51. And his momma.
52. And Dad.
53. He is an only child.
54. Who says he was sometimes lonely.
55. So we had 3 children in 4 and a half years.
56. He is loyal.
57. And driven.
58. And won’t stop til the job’s done right.
59. He prefers the mountains over the beach.
60. And loves great architecture.
61. He loves to watch DIY.
62. And design shows on HGTV.
63. He can ski excellently.
64. Which I didn’t believe the first time he tried to help me down a mountain, so I fell and stumbled my way down refusing to let him just link up with me and guide me down (oh, again, me.).
65. He is extremely bright.
66. But very humble.
67. Unless he’s designing our house.
68. He has a great voice.
69. And can dance like Travolta in Grease.
70. But won’t show it off much.
71. He is red/green color blind.
72. Which is funny, because he’s a designer.
73. He has great lips.
74. And legs.
75. And I’m not telling.
76. He has an uncanny ability to see me just the way he saw me the first time, but even better.
77. He said he noticed my eyes first, but later confessed it was my bum.
78. When we met, he had long hair and 2 or 3 earrings.
79. He doesn’t anymore.
80. But he does have a tattoo that matches mine.
81. Which he gave to me partially as a 32nd birthday present.
82. He’s comfortable in his skin, and tries to help me to be.
83. He is a fantastic father.
84. But occasionally, the noise gets to him.
85. He’ll eat anything I put in front of him.
86. But is not a big fan of soup.
87. He loves my hummus.
88. And guacamole.
89. And me.
90. He’s more nervous about the children getting hurt than I am.
91. But took our oldest son hunting.
92. And helped him kill a rattlesnake.
93. He makes me better.
94. And, at times, has let me just be a big baby.
95. He has a twisted sense of humor.
96. And a real love for God.
97. He has put his family ahead of his career, and his potential income, and some things he’d really like to do.
98. Because he chose to.
99. His favorite show is King of the Hill.
100. And I gladly let him be the King of ours (dang, I just can’t stay out of it).

in a new year. What are you going to do with it? Me? Oh, I took a big nap. And am now, working on our New Year’s dinner. Cornbread, black-eyed peas (not the band), ham and green beans. It’s supposed to be collards, but I just didn’t think I could eat those. 35 years in the south, and I’ve never actually eaten “greens”. But my people sure did.

We got some shots last night, ringing in the new year. The children made it til midnight, so we did too. Watched movies, played games, made fondue. Watched the big apple drop, counted down the last 20 seconds together. Then suddenly, 2005 was gone. Now I can finally use my new calendar, declared Blue Boy. This is the year I turn 36, I thought. Blake and I exchanged a kiss and felt blessed to start another year together. Resolutions? I don’t know about resolve, but I do have a few ideas.

1. This should be the year we finally retire our debt, save the house and truck. Yay.
2. I may actually lose the last few pounds I’ve been gritching about for 5 years.
3. I’m looking for more balance between chores and play, where my time with the children is concerned.
4. Still trying to be an early riser (and by that, I mean, up before 7 am).
5. I have no idea.

What are yours?

3 minutes into 2006

That’s sparkling grape juice. And Blue Boy with short hair. I’m still trying to deal with that. Mr. Tango was in charge. But won’t be again.

8 minutes into 2006, Catgirl out.

Today, we get to visit my grandparents, the children’s great grandparents. We’re able to do that, albeit somewhat infrequently due to my lack of disciplined follow through, but, when we do, I’m always glad. Great grandparents?! How many children get to know theirs? Our olders have even had the opportunity to spend the night with my Dad’s folks, and been able to crawl up in the bed with my grandmother, when feeling a bit homesick in the middle of the night. A seven year old, and nearly 87 year old, sharing the same genes, name and bed. A great grandmother who’s seen history personally since 1919, made sandwiches with her Mom to get through the depression. A great grandfather that can recount his time at Iwo Jima, and days as a boy on horseback wandering fields by himself with a sack lunch and a .22. My other grandmother is not always with us, as dementia has really taken much of her since we lost her husband last year. But we know when we’re there, it is a good thing. And in time, the children will realize the richness of their visits, even if now, they’re not always so sure it’s fun.

So, what do we do all day? Sometimes, nearly nothing, sometimes paper animals, sometimes housework or math with sliced apples. And sometimes, history, personally.

I am. No matter how many exhausting attempts at some Norman Rockwell memory making moment, I can’t get it through my thick skull that it NEVER matches the vision. Not if I plan it, only at the times life just happens like that, and we have no recording devices to capture it. It’s one of the facts of life that makes me think the “quality time” over “quantity time” is a load of crap. You just can’t schedule warm fuzzy moments.

Last night’s little jaunt to select the family tree ended at Macaroni Grill with me hoping to mainline some cocktails. All we did was go to the tree lot, and pick out a tree. Just one lot, just one tree. Took all of 20 minutes. 20. of. the. longest. minutes. ever.

I’m trying to get out of the repeat myself pattern. The one where I say a child’s name 3 or 4 times before he/she decides to tune me in, or the one where I give an instruction, like, “get your shoes”, and say it 17 times before the action is commited. Enough. It wears me out. So, I’m trying to “deliver consequences”. I say it once, they listen and comply, and everyone’s happy. Or, someone will not be happy, and it won’t be me. Ha.

All day, they know Daddy’s coming home to get us and go for the tree. That alone creates a buzz of low level manic energy that damages hearing in all three of them. And when Daddy arrives, and we sit a moment to have a glass of wine before embarking (fortification), forget it. I thought we were going, you said we were going, we’re going as soon as Daddy gets home, Dad’s home, why aren’t we going, can we go now, when will you be done, are we leaving soon, can’t we go now? They circle our heads like expectant vultures. 2 of them ignore my announcement 10 minutes prior that they will need jackets. So I do not, of course, repeat myself. We announce we will now, indeed go, and then they nearly break each other’s legs racing to the truck. I’m in the middle, no I’m in the middle, you sat in the middle last time, no you sat in the middle last time, I want on the side, I want on that side, no this side is my side, that side is your side, who made you the boss of sides, that side is just like this side, so what does it matter what side you’re on, if it doesn’t matter, then why don’t you just move sides? Enough. Let’s just find some Christmas songs. I love that song, I hate that song, you told me you liked that song, I did not, yes you did, I never said that, can you turn it up, can you turn it down, can we switch stations, did you bring some CDs, can we just play the alphabet game, no silly, it’s dark outside, I am not silly, yes you are… And then I tell Mr. Tango where we scouted some good trees at good prices. I liked the other lot better, no this one was the best, no remember that big tree, that tree is too big for our house silly, mom, he’s still calling me silly, well, you are silly if you think that tree will fit in our house, aren’t we going the wrong way, is this the road we’re supposed to be on?.

We arrive, and the stampede exists the truck. Let me out, no me, you’re on my side, ow you’re elbowing me, I’m first, you were first last time, no I wasn’t, yes you were, mom he gave me a face, I can’t give you a face, you were born with a face silly, mo-o-o-m, he said I was silly again…Enough. Get out of the blasted truck and let’s go have a good family time getting a freakin’ family Christmas tree. I like this one, I do not like that one, this one is too thin, this one is too prickly, mom Blue Boy is out in the parking lot, mom he hit me with a tree branch, I want this little one for my room, you don’t get one for your room silly, mo-0-0-0-0-m, I do get one for my room if I want to get one for my room, if mom says I can get one for my room. No individual trees, thank you. Mom, it’s so cold, I’m cold too, can I have your jacket mom No he won’t stop trying to get my coat, will you pick me up, when are we leaving, it’s really cold. What was that brilliant thought on not repeating myself? Mr. Tango announces we have found the tree, I breathe deep relief and try to find all 27 children in the tree lot. It feels like 27 children. I find them, arguing over the best tree trimmings with which to light saber each other. I saw that one first, no you did not, I was waiting for it when the man was cutting, only Jedis get that kind of saber, and you’re not a Jedi, yes I am, not you’re not, yes I am, who made you the boss of Jedis, mo-o-o-m can’t I be a Jedi if I want to be a Jedi? No one will be a Jedi, you will all put every one of those branches down, or I will use one on your, oh and thank you to you too, and you have a very Merry Christmas also, Mr. Tree Man.

And on to the restaraunt, so another round of who sits where, and I declare the quiet game. And a minor skirmish over who gets which side of the booth. And some shelling over the crayon colors. And drinks.I wanted Sprite, I asked for orange juice, I thought I liked their milk. Mr. Tango and I were wearing down. This Family Fun was killing us. We skip the comes-with-dinner dessert, and get suprisingly little resistance. Maybe it was the tone in my voice when I announced that No, we were NOT going to stay for ice cream, not for 2 million dollars would we stay another minute. It was Bedtime. This evening was coming to a swift end. But what about the tree, aren’t we going to decorate the tree, I thought we were going to decorate the tree, I want to decorate the tree, you said we’d decorate the tree, can’t we decorate the tree?

In the end, the tree was hauled in, and hastily placed in its rickety little stand, while I threw children from teeth brushing to jammies to bed. Promises of decorating tomorrow were given, promises of getting ice cream tomorrow were made. I think I promised new cars at 16, and putting in a pool in the backyard. Anything, anything, to end the day, end the mental onslaught, end the Family Fun Time. All for a tree. An overpriced tree with which we can make a memory we’d rather forget. I hate Norman Rockwell. But the tree is nice.

doesn’t fall so far from the tree.

Or, is it just me? Mr. Tango, circa 1975, age 5, and Blue Boy, circa 2005, age 5.
(update 11/29…just found a better likeness of Blue Boy, and replaced other…)

We try really hard for a calm, predictable night time routine. We usually fall miserably short of this seemingly simple goal. As much as I hate to admit, I’m not the warm fuzzy, read a story, sing-a-song-tuck-in Mommy I once was, such long and brief time ago (like, 2 children ago). In fact, with a little truth serum, or a couple of drinks, I’ll tell you that I can’t FLIPPIN’ WAIT for bedtime, and that my husband better darn well take that sweet chore over, because I am DONE. By 7:30 pm, I’ve put in more than 12 hours, and my tattered Mommy Hat is coming off, if I can help it. Besides, he needs that time with the children. It’s for his own good.

But with the lingering holiday shenanigans, little children are extra wired. Grandparents introduce another level of mania, and bedtime just doesn’t get here fast enough. And last night, we let them all watch Shrek on TV, and eat pizza on the coffee table. All the “afterwards, you will go straight to your rooms to get ready for bed if we let you do this” in the solar system doesn’t really produce the desired effect, which we know, but deny, from the get-go. Half and hour past movie time, children are still leaping sofas and skateboarding through the kitchen. I have lost all control. It will take more than one parent in the trenches tonight.

UP THE STAIRS RIGHT NOW OR ELSE begins to put them in the right direction, while I try to figure out what the “else” would be. Toothpaste foams and drips from little mouths, dirty clothes start whizzing through the air, the “where are my jammies” song begins. All gets nearly settled, three warm bodies are in three warm beds, and the stuff starts, with our boys. Speedreader has figured out recently that it is a fantastic ploy to have some on-the-verge-of-adolescence personal crisis that requires private conversation, sometime waaay after he should be asleep. I clearly have “I’m the sucker” tattoed on my forehead, because he pulls it with me, not his Dad, and in my effort to be Sensitive and Aware Mom, I’ve been falling for it. Last night, I bailed, and handed the Sucker baton to Mr. Tango. You do it, I’ve got a five year old with springs in his bum…so off to boy #2’s room. Up, down, up, down, up, down. He seems physically incapable of staying in his bed. Water, book, pee, water, Lego creation, back itches, can you read a story, where’s brother, where’s sister, are you still sane ‘cause I have more…And finally, he is put, with serious threats of real physical damage, and the loss of every single solitary last toy he’s every owned. And even then, he only complies to let me feel I’ve won. But he’s DOWN.

And as I pass the sweet, still room of our only girl, I hear it. The sniffles. Soft chokes. Little whimpers. Oh Holy Cannoli, Now What?!? With all the patience I can muster, and a sip from my glass, I enter with trepidation, and put on Patient Mom. Honey, what on earth is wrong, are you sick? No, she explains. It’s just that, it’s just that, it’s just that we’re Always in the boys’ rooms at night, hanging with them, and not with her! I’m almost delerious as I try to explain how they test, demand, push and attempt to control, while she is so sweet, so yummy in her little nightgown and angelic compliance to just get in her bed and stay there. That we’re not hanging out having a hoe-down, we’re trying desperately not to kill them, and to get them to stay put and SHUT UP (but I said, “be quiet”). And thank you thank you thank you to her and to God that she does not require such machinations, or we’d really jump off a cliff, and as I’m pleading her understanding, I get it. It doesn’t matter at all. She feels left out, punished even, for being good. Yikes. My parents words begin floating around my head. You were could be so exhausting, demanding, insisting on attention, conversation, being dealt with…your sister, just got out of the way, hated the conflicts…was quiet, compliant, easy…we’d be in it with you, and realize later she had slipped out of the room…remember, being quiet doesn’t mean not needing…

With a sudden rush of guilt I’m convinced is only possible in mothers, I announced she was to get her 14 stuffed animals and come with me. We crawled up in my bed, the dog following, and snuggled in tight. I held her close, as she fell asleep, with a smile on her face. That was all she wanted, a little time and touch. And I prayed in the hope that God knew what he was doing when he gave us these children, because it sure feels like there’s not enough to go around sometimes. Not enough hands, feet, or especially brains. And I prayed I would have the ability to serve them all, and they would know they are loved, and treasured. For all their incredible differences.

One of the aspects of being a Mom I find most confusing is the ability to have many competing and bickering voices in my head, all at once. I don’t think this indicates a multiple personality disorder, but more the capacity to feel such a vast variety of feelings, at the same time.

It seemed simpler prior to giving birth. Is the actual act of birth, and the related personality and brain function fallout, or the morphing into the mother, or a blend of both? I am not alone anymore. In a way different than when it was just me and my friend, working out which way the toilet paper should be placed on the roll (paper flowing down, not up), and which side of the bed to sleep on, and who had to walk the dog in the rain. I always thought about where he was and what he was doing when we were apart, but I didn’t feel responsible for him. He could handle that himself.

My mother-in-law told me at our oldest’s birth this. She said for the rest of my life, I would be somehow restless to get away when I was with him, and restless to be with him when I wasn’t. As a Mom, I would need, crave time alone, and then not fully be able to be alone, for my mind’s inabilty to completely shut out the fact that my child was somewhere, and I wasn’t there. The child would always be with me, no matter what miles were between us. I didn’t understand.

And then, I did. Weeks of sleeplessness, postpartum hysteria, bleeding and cracked nipples, the inability to poo without him on my chest in a snuggli led to a night when he was sometime between 2 and 3 months old. My most wonderful mother, pleaded with me to keep him one night, just one night, with a storehouse of breastmilk, so that he wouldn’t be contaminated by anything other than the evil plastic nipple of a bottle, and I could sleep. Really sleep, and maybe, begin to be civil again. I couldn’t do it. During the day and I was miserably exhausted and unbathed, and at night I was sure we’d made a dreadful mistake by bring this thing home with us, but I couldn’t give him over. And then I finally broke.

She came by to get him after his last evening nursing, took gallons of breastmilk and a couple of the most breast-like bottles I could find, and took him to her home. I cried, and cried. Then paced and looked for something to do. And then I went to bed. But that night, I awoke 3 times, somewhat anxious and at loose ends, with full, leaking breasts, and didn’t feel very relieved to be alone at all. Because I wasn’t. It didn’t matter that he was over there, snuggled in a crib she put up just for him, he was still with me, in me. In the most frustrating way. I couldn’t be with him, or without him, in any real measure of peace.

I called over as soon as I knew she would be up, and asked her what times he had awakened to eat. He had yet to do anything regularly, no nursing routine, sleeping routine, or pooping routine. Every day that first 4 months was a freeform torture of trying to anticipate his needs, and then meet them. There was no pattern to when he woke each long, restless night. He just did when he did. So when she reported dutifully to me each move he’d made, bowel, and otherwise, I realized, that I had awakened precisely each time he did, 1o miles away. I wasn’t alone, at all. And in that season, as much as I dreaded repositioning the mantel of care-taking when she brought him home, I was nearly manic to have him back.

3 children later, I’ve certainly learned to relax. I don’t feel quite the intensity of separation anxiety that I did those early months of my first initiation into Motherhood. But I’ve never really gotten over that tugging of desires, to get away and get back to them, either. That exhausting, unpredictable baby boy will be 10 next month, and I still feel the sting of tears when he gets in a car to go off somewhere for several days, as he did yesterday. I watched them all three, as they pulled out of the standard Chick-Fil-A meeting place, waving and grinning, and giggling with the prospect of complete grandparent indulgences, and big ol’chunks of me went with them. I go over the clothes I sent, do they have their toothbrushes, do they have a warm enough sweater, and convince myself that this is OK, they are OK. I’ll be OK.

So this morning, I awake to a quiet house. Stetch and smile at the sheer pleasure of getting to do only what I want to do today, and tomorrow, and get up to fix the coffee. I think about getting to drink it all, while it’s still hot. And as I pass their rooms, I feel it. The tug, the little pang of emptiness, not completely unlike the time the nurses took my first boy from me, to weigh, clean and measure him. The silence truly is deafening, even while it is exquisite. Their rooms look frozen, the books and Legos a bit lonely. It’s odd to see it all so still.

I laugh at people who tell me “you’ll miss all this one day” when I’m fighting to get through the grocery with them, or get each the books they need from the library, or the youngest melts down for his need of a nap. In those moments, I’m the Mom who can’t wait to get a break. I dream of it, weep for it. And can’t imagine they’ll ever really grow up. But they do, and they will, with God’s grace, and I really will have hushed rooms one day. I’ll be able to drink all the hot coffee I want, and not have to pick up those Legos, over and over and over. But I don’t believe I’ll ever be alone, really alone, again. And while the depth of that realization, and the breadth of the love I never knew I could experience is so sweet to my soul, I know it exacts a price. When I somehow fused with each of them, with that powerful love, I accepted the pain that happens, and will continue to happen, as they step towards independence. A terribly bittersweet pain, made of pride, angst, confidence, doubt, celebration, and grief.

I’ve been given them to let them go. But in order to do my best by them, for them, I have to give my all. No holding back, no a little bit in love with them, keeping some reserve to save myself from the full gamut of emotion that comes with this privilege. To save myself from what I may feel when my intital task is done, and they go off into the world on their own. I cannot say what I will feel when I walk our rooms, just me and my friend again in residence. But I can say, that whether or not they ever realize it, they will be in me, and I in them, and if they are around the world from me, I will not be alone. And I hope they’ll know, they will not be, either.

I’ve loved you, my dear
from the first of time.
Long before
I ever knew your sweet smile
You can never go anywhere
that my love will not go too,
For longer than all time
I’ve loved you.

(a little lullabye for our first, created on the fly, one of those long, early nights, to the tune of John Denver’s Christmas song, with the Muppets. I like the Muppets Christmas Album.)