Motherhood Uncensored

Eight.

I see your book light on well past bedtime, crayons stashed under your pillow and papers piled high with your stories and drawings. 

You might be the first person to write Sisters Grimm "fan fikshun." 

I have a feeling it won't be the first time you're the first at things. 

The challenge I face as you are now long grown out of early morning wakings, when my presence was a matter of your survival, a demand upon me which I had no choice but to answer, is to remain as present for you as I was when I held you tight in my arms.

It was easy then, when we slept together in the rocking chair and I couldn't let go of you because you'd fall. But now I am learning how to parent without being able to grasp you as easily in my arms.

I hope you know that they will always be there. Even if all I can do is wrap them around you. 

But at least now you can hold me too. 

Happy 8th Birthday, Quinlan.

[Birthday posts from years past: 2011, 2010, 2009, 2008, 2007, &  2006]

I'll never be a tiger mom. And that's okay.

 "I only wanted to play so I could be like you," she told me, through her sobs.

Every violin practice for the last month has ended in tears. Hers and mine.

She asked to take lessons a couple of years ago, so I obliged her, thrilled that she was interested in learning the instrument I'd spent most of my own life playing. Even more thrilled that she was so good at it.

But then it got harder, as these things always do. And the practice sessions became fewer and farther between, as these things do when you're the one left in charge of the kids, the house, the whereabouts of everyone's shit.

And when you're doing something because you want to be like your mom and not because you actually like it.

At first, I'd get frustrated when she wouldn't get something. Then she'd get frustrated when she didn't get something because she thought I'd get frustrated with her.

"I just don't want you to get mad at yourself when you mess up because it's okay to mess up. I lived my whole life believing it was bad to fail. I missed out on so much. Learn from my mistakes." 

It sounded like a poorly written screenplay, overracted. Desperate.

I remember hating to practice, my own mom yelling at me, the timer in her hand, the countless hours I spent holed up in my room playing music I'd much rather be dancing in pointe shoes to.

I was really good at ballet, close to professional even, and I loved it with every ounce of my being, but one day, when I was about 15, my mom decided that I couldn't dance anymore.

And music was all I had.

Music filled with the anger and longing I had for ballet.

I played the violin because I was good at it, not because I loved it. And since I've had kids, I haven't picked it up.

I don't miss it. At all.

Quinlan practiced alone in her room for awhile, with a list I'd write of things she needed to cover, but inevitably I'd hear her start and stop the same measure of music 45 times, mostly because she's not practicing consistently because I just can't do and be everything that I want to or am supposed to or whatever it is that a homeschooling, sometimes single, full time work at home mom "could you try to remember to return the clothes to Sears when you get a chance, hon" GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK ALREADY ARE THEY GOING TO MELT IN THAT BAG IN THE CLOSET? Do we need the $30 right this second?

It's me, not her.

She's good at it but she doesn't really like it.

And so I let her quit. 

I worry that she'll regret it. That she'll learn that you give up on things that are hard for you, things you just don't like.

But what's so wrong with that?

She'll eventually learn that things will get challenging and that you can't always quit them. She'll get over the regret.

But will she forgive me when she digs out from under the piles of my unresolved shit?

"It's just a wooden thing in a box," I told her, as I held her tightly in my arms. "It's not worth shedding tears over anymore."

Hers. Or mine.

Welcome to the [dis]pleasure dome

Of the many joys I experience living in the suburbs, I savor the privilege of getting up in arms about important life issues the most. Like the HOA, who will actually take the time to inform you with a typed, stamped letter that your unauthorized garden stones are in code violation.

Then there are the foreclosures on my street, that wouldn't be so bad except a few of them have taken to using Facebook to update their friends (and former neighbors) about their exciting endeavors, like new cars! amazing vacations! fabulous view from our awesome house! all made possible now since they don't have to pay a mortgage.

Except they conveniently leave that last part out.

But lately, the neighborhood has been divided over a pool dome, or bubble, or whatever word you use to describe a gigantic cloth balloon encasing our neighborhood pool, which allows the local swim team to practice during the winter months, and gives access to residents at certain times which no one seems to know.

Dontcha wish your dome was hot like mine?

It seemingly just popped up one day, unbeknownst to most of us, which I think is everyone's biggest issue. The HOA approved a pool dome that looks like a gigantic pair of ripped, torn, and stained maternity underpants to be strapped down around the pool and then blown up with hot air but don't you dare let your lawn grow an inch too high.

And on any given day, the dome will be down, then up, then down again, sort of like a 14-year-old boy's penis, creating a liability issue.

Then there's this issue that it interferes with house sales, which in other circumstances I could get but when people are ditching their homes for greener pastures, I'm pretty sure the big bubble over our pool will not deter people from the "pay what you can" asking prices.

So, with neighbors divided and a committee formed in protest, it's no surprise that the kids are well aware of the infamous dome, mostly because we drive by it every day and it's become a source of entertainment.

Will the dome be up or down? Spot the new stain! What shape does that rip look like?

But then, just a few days ago, Quinlan decided to start a newspaper, The Atlanta Lanta, inspired by Kit the American Girl doll of all things, and handed me her first article.

"The Dome's End" 

An illustrated editorial piece about the pros and cons of the pool dome, ending with breaking news that it might be replaced by an actual indoor pool structure soon, deflating the divisive issue once and for all.

I wanted to put a photo copy in everyone's mailbox. And get her on the docket for the next Civic Affairs meeting because she's had the best take on this whole pool dome debacle that I've read.

And she's seven years old.

Then Quinlan asked me what issue she should tackle next. "Maybe your slow Internet, Mommy?"

I like the way this girl thinks.

Besides, today's pool dome and crappy Internet service might be tomorrow's women's rights and world hunger.

Everyone's gotta start somewhere, right?

Kids talk the darndest ways

I remember the first time my son said "orange," his longstanding favorite color. It wasn't really anything special, until my husband pointed out that it wasn't "aujun," the way he'd said it since he could talk.

Unlike Quinlan, who we dutifully corrected like some ridiculous parenting book told us to do so she'd speak properly and not require a private tutor and years of therapy, we just let it go.

We even committed the cardinal sin and called it that ourselves.

Oh shush, you do it too.

One of my own fondest childhood memories is recalling all the crazy shit my brother would call things; I still call helicopters "hoppo poppos," although, unfortunately, he does not.

These days, the funny words are fading fast, with Margot (and soon Bridget) keeping the dream alive, doing things "mybyself" and asking to read "The Turfin Tollboth" at bedtime.

And, like Drew, she begs us for some "beef turkey" after my monthly shopping trips to Trader Joe's.

I still correct Quinlan's "brung," "getted," and "more better," but I can't help but let the kiddisms run their course, as they always seem to do, often unnoticed.

To me they are the last bastion of my babies' childhood, the reminders that my kids are still kids, like LEGO pockmarks on my ass and crushed Cheerios under my feet on the kitchen floor, oddly comforting when I know full well it will be over soon enough. 

So beef turkey it is.

And beef turkey it always shall be.

So, tell me the funny things your kids say or used to say. Then do yourself a favor and go write them down.

The Littles

This week, my husband took the older two kids on a whirlwind tour of Philly and the Jersey Shore while I stayed put with the littler two.

Since he had the help of his parents and my mom, and well, I had our sitter for a couple of days and um, just two little kids, we've both basically been on vacation.

I have to chuckle that I actually think two kids is a break, but it is. It's really one step below a week at the spa.

With the two of them, there's no fighting whatsoever. There are simultaneous naps where the house is completely quiet for two straight hours.

No cooking. Very little cleaning. And no guilt about a couple of television shows while I get a little work done.

It's magical.

I realize that having all the kids together means they do occupy each other. And in some cases, I do a little less with the older kids are around because I put them to work.

It's the first time in a long time that I actually emptied the dishwasher.

But I don't care how great it is to have all the kids together to keep the others entertained, there is something about the quiet and simplicity of the two that I've appreciated.

It's also amazing how much they miss each other, clamoring to talk to each other (and not me) when they talk on the phone.

"I want to go to the playgwound wif evweyone, Mom" Margot told me. She then listed off all the members of the family, in case I had forgotten. 

It's all she knows.

And as much as I appreciate the bit of respite this week, I feel the same exact way.

Just ask me how I feel tomorrow afternoon when the hurricane arrives.

And I'm not talking about Irene.