Motherhood Uncensored

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.

Snips and snails and puppy dog tails. That's what girls are made of too.

When Quinlan decided she wanted a Harry Potter party a couple of weeks ago, I was equally tickled and freaked out, mostly because I'd never actually thrown any of my kids an official party, let alone one involving dragons, magic, and wizards for a bunch of 4 and 6 year old girls.

I thought about making it a Harry Potter tea party but my inner feminist smacked some sense into me.

And so, I found myself making bloodworm and blind cat eye centerpieces out of spaghetti and pearl onion, and filling my craft store cart with toy dragons, snakes, spiders, and bull frogs.

Definitely not your typical girl's birthday party decor. Because if you hit the "girl's" section at any party store, you might think the pretty pink princess monster took a gigantic shit in the aisle.

Maybe my daughter knew that I had paid my dues over the years, with three years in a row of Ariel birthday cakes, Barbie halloween costumes, and a collection of "play" make-up that somehow always ends up on walls and clothes. 

And really, if she wanted some sort of Barbie Luau Party, I would have obliged her - leis, hula skirts, limbo and all, though with much less gusto and plenty of inner eye-rolling. 

My main concern wasn't so much that my kid was wearing a striped tie, white shirt, black shorts, and a cloak at her birthday party, but that the party goers, all girls, would somehow be off put by the lack of, well, girliness.

But I threw on my old grad school robes and a terrible British accent, waved around a wand of my own, and wouldn't you know, they all had a smashing good time. No moans, groans, or screeches even. On the contrary, they dug it, all of them bound and determined to find the gigantic plastic snakes, spider, and bullfrog that I had hidden in the yard.

And really who can blame them? As much as tiaras, princess dresses, and sparkly make-up can make for plenty of fun, so can a few two-headed dragons and a plastic tarantula.

Somehow we've come to believe that girls are genetically programmed to like all that glitters, when really, that's absolutely not the case. They can have a diamond on one and a frog in the other, and still turn out just fine.

In fact, they'll be better for it.

Seven.

In 2011, you told me that I was the best mom ever. And I promised to remind you of that when you were screaming "I hate you" just a few years down the road.

You said you could never hate me.

I hope that you're right.

If there's anything I've learned about being your mom for the last seven years, it's that nothing has been how I expected it would be. Which sort of makes sense because I really had no expectations.

There were no cliches', no "aha" moments about you that I could pinpoint in an index notation of a best selling parenting book that prepares for the generalities of caring for a baby but not really parenting one.

Maybe that's because there aren't any words to describe what it is to be someone's parent. For me, it felt like simultaneously getting the wind knocked out of me and air being pumped back into my lungs. 

When they laid you on my bare chest, it was equally terrifying as it was glorious.

It still is.

But each moment we've had together are new and fresh, ones we we made together, on our own. Not in some book. Not in my mind. Or even in my mind's eye.

Sure, I've tried to picture what you would be like, but, Quinlan, my imagination didn't do you justice.

So instead of seeing you at 10, 13, or 18, I'll just enjoy you as you are right now.

Seven.

Happy Birthday, love.

Here are a few birthday posts from past years if you're so inclined.

2010, 2009, 2008, 2007, & 2006

The joys of raising a creative child

If you've got a crafty, creative kid in the house, then you know how hard it can be to throw shit away. She has no qualms going through the recycle bin or the trash can to find whatever she needs to make whatever the hell she is making.

And if she doesn't have a pressing need for something, she'll tell me "Don't worry, Mom! I'll find some way to use it!" which means I will find it or some part of it taped to an empty milk carton with an entire roll of packing tape.

I do put my foot down to formerly edible items, but for the most part, I end up giving in once she explains what sort of fabulous invention she's trying to complete and well if she doesn't have that empty tissue paper box then how will she be able to finish her "Namerator" aka "Big box with holes, a nail, and a lot of permanent marker that is sitting on my kitchen table that I'd like to accidentally drop off the back porch."

(Only after taking 15 pictures of it, bragging about it to all my friends, and patenting it).

Just when I'm about to tell her that she may not use the 400 styrofoam peanuts, I picture her first gallery opening where she's describing her unique "trashtastic" work and telling the captive audience about how her mother never let her use the empty toilet paper rolls and water bottles so she had to scavenge the neighborhood trash bin looking for materials.

And since I shall never be accused of not supporting the Arts, I reluctantly save anything that I think she could possibly use that won't pain me to look at for the next month or clean up pieces of and I give them to her. Willingly.

But the trash picking isn't the only issue.

There are the kitchen utensils with writing on them. 

 
I have no idea what it means but it makes me laugh every time I see it.

And there are spots around my house where it looks like a crepe paper bomb went off or the glitter fairy took a giant shit, which isn't so terrible but when combined with whining that ensues when I tell her that she needs to clean up the mess herself makes me want to do like the government and start cutting art programs.

"All by myself?!" she'll exclaim, to which I respond by singing the song, Celene Dion version if you're wondering, and say something like "If you make a mess yourself then you should be able to clean it up yourself" from the mouth that is now apparently attached to my own mother's body.

But my favorite is the one track uber-focused mind that results in post-bathroom break art sessions ala sitting naked at her craft table sifting through a sea of googly eyes. Or worse, forgeting to pack the jelly beans for our family trip last week.

Now I've never given much thought to jelly beans, but that was before I understood their true power: Children will do many things for them, including going potty and shutting the hell up on a plane.

So imagine my chagrin when my slightly antsy middle children requested access to the Jelly Belly buffet and found no such thing.

A whole bag of precious silence and eager potty breaks gone.

I glared over at Quinlan who was supposed to have put them in her backpack. It seems that when I told her to take the bag of jelly beans and put them by her bag so we don't forget them she heard me tell her to put them down wherever so she could finish making a weather vane out of some printer paper, yarn, and a wire hanger.

Alas, no jelly beans to be found, but in their place,  something even more entertaining, at least for me, anyway:

Perhaps she did, in fact, pack food!

Not sure if carrots will beat jelly beans, but worth a try.

 
Except they're not real carrots, but rather a carrot made from crepe paper, clear packing tape, and yarn. The bags of shredded paper you ask? Why CARROT TOPPINGS, of course!

Treats for humans? Not so much. But so glad her stuffed bunny was taken care of. Phew.

Well, at least her Knuffle Bunny was well behaved for the flight. And we got to come home to a big bag of jelly beans.

Sitting on my printer.

Of course.

You can call me "Mom"

Even though Georgia is still very much the deep south, because it's been infiltrated by hordes of Yankees, it doesn't really feel that way most of the time.

We even have Rita's "wooter" ice. Except they call it "Wahter Ahce." Tastes the same to me.

But every now and then I'll forget that I have to specify "unsweetened" tea or I'll ask for the vegetable selection at a restaurant and get my choice of "mashed potatoes or macaroni n' cheese." Other than that, it's pretty close to home.

But lately, my oldest daughter has taken to calling me "Mama" and it's driving me completely insane.

Like most moms, the first time your kids say the word "mama" is pretty magical, although soon thereafter, you're wishing they would say (or if your kids are like mine, screech) "Dada" a bit more obsessively, particularly at 3am.

And I admit, the "Hey sexy mama" from the guy in the beat up Datsun at the grocery store a few weeks ago was almost as endearing as it was offputting.

But when it comes to my kids, once they hit a certain age, they're supposed to transition to "mommy" and then "mom."

Except we live in the South.

And once a "mama," always a "mama."

Thus far, the southernisms have been few and far between. There was the time a few Christmases ago when we had to convince her that it was indeed "BethleHEM" and not "BethleHAM."

And every now and then we have to remind the kids that words like "hair" and "there" are only one syllable, not two. 

But no matter how many times I ask her to just call me "Mom," it doesn't quite seem to register.

So for now, I've relented. Call me what you will, kid. Because "Mama," no matter how you say it, has a much better ring to it than "That mean bitch."

And we all know that's coming sooner or later, whether I like the sound of it or not.