Fair Weather Friends

Laura showed up at my house requesting books to read. I dragged her through my entire house, looking through my stacks until she had my very favorite books. She's a big reader and mentioned she would be having free time soon.

"Their dad got his own place and the kids are spending the WHOLE weekend and leaving me all by myself!" she delightedly informed me.

"Is that the same weekend I am leaving for Hawaii?" I asked. "I mean, since you won't have your kids, you could drive us to the airport!" I tried to use my best cheerleader voice to make it sound enticing.

"What day and time?"

"Sunday morning. We need to leave the house by 4:30. In the morning."

She cackled wickedly and ran out of my house. With my books.

Strike one.

At work I passed the assistant principal's office, a really nice guy. How nice? "Hey Tim! Do you want to take my husband and I to the airport on Sunday?"

He looked up with his usual smile. "Would it get me out of church?"

"Does your church start at 4:30 in the morning?"

"Nope. Good luck with finding someone!" Not that nice.

Strike two.


"My brother said he would take us to airport..." Scott informed me, slightly dragging out the last word of the sentence.

"He agreed to take us to the airport like you agreed to a vasectomy?" I clarified. His procedure agreement came with an elongated "I will..." and the implied, "But...since you're already going to give birth to our last child, don't you think it would be easier to just get your tubes tied then?" I did.

Strike three.


I really need to work on my cheerleader voice.

Sweeping Me Off My Feet

Even though I work, I still feel the pressure to perform traditional homemaking chores. I feel guilty when Scott cleans the kitchen (which he does every night) or sweeps and mops the floor (which he does every week). Somehow I feel like I am a failure as a wife and mother when I realize I don't remember the last time I dusted the piano or the blinds have penciled art on it and I couldn't tell you if it happened yesterday or last spring. When I mentioned my guilt to my husband, he responded, "I just feel guilty that you have to work."

Ah. That's the funny thing. We don't know that I have to work. We've never tried it. I think we could but then my trips to Costco would be limited. Also, finding an identity outside the home provides me with a respite from my guilty conscience every day. My children are not perfect and my house is not perfectly clean so I am not a perfect mother or homemaker. But I am a competent educator who works hard for those hours I am in my office and I greatly enjoy the accolades, especially at graduation time. 

Bottom  line, if I am neurotic now, imagine me without the hobby of working. *Shudder*

So this year, Scott decided to treat me, a poor, underappreciated and overworked, working mother and wife to a 6 day trip to Maui for our anniversary. Maybe just because he wants to go, maybe to calm his guilty conscience because his wife "has to" work. Either way, I'm not going to tip my hand. I like to work. I like to be home when the kids come home from school. I like that he cleans the kitchen and mops the floors. I like all the nice little things he does for me but I am loving this big thing he's doing for me. 

I'll go ahead and let him sweep me off my feet again. Because I'm nice like that.

Blogging Tips and Faux Pas

I found a great list of simple blogging tips on Casual Blogger. I have a few to add. More like blogging faux pas. What not to post on your blog. These are all hypothetical blogging opportunities.

1. Pictures of your sons peeing in the toilet at the same time. Cutest and best picture of all time. If you do post it, don't tell your sons. Ever.
2. Your daughter's first kiss. Especially if your husband tells you specifically it would be bad form.
3. Where you found your first gray hair.
4. That when your husband suggested Maui for your 20th anniversary, you went to a tanning joint because you didn't want to be sunburned and carefully only scheduled it for 7 minutes, laid down, then scooted further down and your butt and back created a vacuum with a horrible sucking noise when lifted.
5. When you realized your son hadn't gone to the bathroom before going to bed and you got him up to go, he was so disoriented that he took off towards the bathroom but then disappeared. You found him standing naked in the laundry room with absolutely no idea how he got there or where his clothes were.

This is a public service to you and completely hypothetical.

You are welcome.

The Epiphany

I thought it was my parenting skills or lack thereof but I think it's more widespread than just my poor parenting skills. It's a family dynamic that somehow keeps everything else in and out of balance. The symbiosis of parent/child relationship, particularly in the high strung. It's true that every child is unique and needs more attention at one time or another, but there seems to be a preponderance of families that have one particular child that the other members of the family orbit. The one that dictates whether there will be peace or war. The child that holds the delicate balance within his or her hands and can crush or delight parental spirits and family bonding.

I've long maintained that there is, in nearly every family, one black sheep. If you don't know who it is, it is probably you. I will continue this litany because it makes me laugh when defenses arise, fingers point, and finally hands come up in surrender. But I think the truth is more complex than this.

There is one child that is higher strung, has louder vibrations, and bigger tears but if a tree falls in the forest, does it make any noise? In other words, there is another member of this chemical reaction that is rarely taken into account. One parent is more finely attuned to the subtle changes of that particular child's moods. She watches the child's pupil size, carefully monitors the voice decibels, counts the smiles as opposed to the scowls, and stands on guard at any time to intervene.

Some may call us a Helicopter Mom as we hover and assess. We are always at the ready to feed the child who is susceptible to deviations of blood sugar, guide the child to take a nap, give her a drink of water if we believe the problem is hydration. We ask about stool passing, eating habits, even (gasp!) menstrual cycles because we are trained to be the mediator between our children and the world. Or just between our children.

We stand ready to sacrifice ourselves if called to do so. When the pupils are too dilated, the voice too loud, agitation increasing, we know we will have to jump into the combat zone in order to minimize damage and save the other siblings from bodily harm or emotional insults. Every once in awhile, we are physically assaulted but more often than not, we are verbally slapped. I will admit that I have been told how much I am loathed, hated, and a failure as a parent. In fact, I'll come clean and tell you I've heard it from more than one child. I've heard it enough times that I can actually smile and reply with a perky, "Okay! Thanks for telling me!"

My job description indicates that I am to love my children unconditionally and I do. It does not say, in even the small print, that I have to be loved by them. I also found a loophole that I interpret that I don't always have to like my children. Sometimes one or another bugs the hell out of me. Those are the times when I know I need to disconnect my supersensory skills, allow Dad into the arena, and bow out. Often, it is the change of parent that defuses the impending bomb detonation. He notices the increase of electricity in the air nearly as well as I do but he allows me to play my part as the ears in the forest because it's what I do.

In the past week I've taken note of the mothers and fathers who, in passing, have mentioned that they struggle with one of their children more than the others. One is more needy, anxious, surly, hungry, angry, hormonal, or compulsive. On the other hand, one parent rises to the scale to balance the little universe. Sometimes we are successful. Other times, not so much.

So I may add to my children's woe, but I have the best intentions. I realize now why my dad spent a little more time with me than the other children and why, even though I'm middle age, he frustratingly reminds me every day to get an appointment with the rheumatologist or talks to my doctor at church so he can be more helpful to me. Even though I chewed him out yesterday for crossing ethical lines. Then I apologized. Because I get it. I was the anxious tree falling in the forest and he was the ears. Even though he's now 75% deaf, he still hears my branches creak. It's built into his DNA.

If this blog is still accessible in 30 years, I hope that child I am most attuned to realizes that I love her. And if, in 30 years I am still asking any of my children about their pooping habits, I hereby give them permission to slap me.

There simply must be a statute that limits the amount of mortification a parent can cause a grown child. Until those children are grown, however, we reign supreme.

Sorry, kids.

Insulting the Old Man

"Hey dad! You shaved! You look like a baby with a smooth face...except for all that grey hair."

"Get out and go to school son."

Worldful Wednesday and the best friends

I am asked the ages of my children. I tell them my oldest is sixteen and they give their condolences. I laugh at them because they don't know. This is the girl the other kids gravitate to because she is that wonderful. She's the kid that stays up late on my bed with me working on a crossword puzzle and laughing when her dad tries to casually kick me in a hint that he is trying to sleep. She's the kid who sat at the counter doing her precalculus while I talked to my spices during an organization spree. She "gets" it when I pick up a bottle and asks it, "Now where do you go?"

Contrary to this expression on her brother's face, they are best friends.

She has a lot of those best friends. And a few fans, too.

If I could, I would tell you how to raise them this good but it has nothing to do with me or my parenting skills. I take that back. It is probably her excellent coping skills to her mother that talks to her spices. It's just the way she is.