April 30, 2013

The "But" Stops Here

RH, DD, and SI playing in the back yard
I have begun to realize how wise I must secretly be.

You see, I have all of these bits of information I try to pass on to my kids. Little ways of explaining things so that it all makes sense to them.

And I keep accidentally teaching myself things in the process.

For example, SI has a bit of a "but" problem. I'll say, "SI, I won't give you any ice cream right now because it's naptime." And she'll respond, "But I want a LOT of ice cream!" or, "But it's TUESDAY!" or, "But Fiona is an OGRE!"

And then there is simply no arguing with her. So one day, I decided to just make something up. Because as the parent, I'm entitled to simply fabricate excuses for why I do what I do.

She began butting me, and I held up a hand.

"SI, do you know what 'but' means?"

She stared at me as though I had never said anything so strange.

"'But' can mean a lot of different things. Sometimes, when people use that word, they mean your bottom. And sometimes, they really mean 'and,' like, 'I like potato chips but I also like waffles.' There is another thing that people mean when they say it, though. When you say 'but' to mommy, you're not using it in a good way. What you're really saying is, 'I don't want to hear what you're saying to me so I'm going to say what I want instead and pretend that they are connected somehow.' And they're not. It's just you, telling me that you are angry and you are not listening. Isn't that right?"

I could see her thinking about this, and finally she nodded. Believe it or not, she then went off and actually slept during naptime.

And the moment she left the room, it struck me. I was right. That is, in fact, exactly what most people mean when they say "but..."

I've heard it a million times in political arguments. I've said it a thousand times on the phone to my sister. To M. To myself.

I love this kid. No "but"s about it.
I've told SI a few times now that "but" isn't a word I want to hear. She already knows how I feel about "I can't," those are forbidden words in this house. Instead, DD and SI always know to repeat, "I will try." So now, what do I do about "but?"

I am trained to live in a "but" world. I say to myself, constantly, "I'm going to exercise in the morning... but I'm really tired, so instead I'll just eat light." "I should get those laundry baskets emptied... but I still haven't watched the season finale of Walking Dead." "There's a big bunch of strawberries in the fridge... but I want ice cream." (SI comes by it honestly.)

So now I'm catching myself. I hear myself say "but," and I feel suddenly ashamed. Like I have no business telling my kids how to behave. And at the same time I feel flabbergasted by this sudden wave of wisdom that I must have actually had all along.

The list of words banned at Casa SuperMommy is growing.

...but I'm still having South African chocolates for breakfast tomorrow.

April 29, 2013

Dear Less-Than-Perfect Mom

Dear Mom,

I've seen you around. I've seen you screaming at your kids in public, I've seen you ignoring them at the playground, I've seen you unshowered and wearing last night's pajama pants at preschool drop-off. I've seen you begging your children, bribing them, threatening them. I've seen you shouting back and forth with your husband, with your mom, with the police officer at the crosswalk.

I've seen you running around with your kids, getting dirty and occasionally swearing audibly when you bang a knee. I've seen you sharing a milkshake with a manic four year old. I've seen you wiping your kids' boogers with your bare palm, and then smearing them on the back of your jeans. I've seen you carry your toddler flopped over the crook of your arm while chasing a runaway ball.

I've also seen you gritting your teeth while your kid screamed at you for making him practice piano, or soccer, or basket weaving, or whatever it was. I've seen you close your eyes and breathe slowly after finding a gallon of milk dumped into your trunk. I've seen you crying into the sink while you desperately scrub crayon off your best designer purse. I've seen you pacing in front of the house.

I've seen you at the hospital waiting room. I've seen you at the pharmacy counter. I've seen you looking tired, and frightened.

I've seen a lot of you, actually.

I see you every single day.

I don't know if you planned to be a parent or not. If you always knew from your earliest years that you wanted to bring children into the world, to tend to them, or if motherhood was thrust upon you unexpectedly. I don't know if it meets your expectations, or if you spent your first days as a mom terrified that you would never feel what you imagined "motherly love" would feel like for your child. I don't know if you struggled with infertility, or with pregnancy loss, or with a traumatic birth. I don't know if you created your child with your body, or created your family by welcoming your child into it.

But I know a lot about you.

I know that you didn't get everything that you wanted. I know that you got a wealth of things you never knew you wanted until they were there in front of you. I know that you don't believe that you're doing your best, that you think you can do better. I know you are doing better than you think.

I know that when you look at your child, your children, you see yourself. And I know that you don't, that you see a stranger who can't understand why the small details of childhood that were so important to you are a bother to this small person who resembles you.

I know that you want to throw a lamp at your teenager's head sometimes. I know you want to toss your three year old out the window once in a while.

I know that some nights, once it's finally quiet, you curl up in bed and cry. I know that sometimes, you don't, even though you wanted to.

I know that some days are so hard that all you want is for them to end, and then at bedtime your children hug you and kiss you and tell you how much they love you and want to be like you, and you wish the day could last forever.

But it never does. The day always ends, and the next day brings new challenges. Fevers, heartbreak, art projects, new friends, new pets, new fights. And every day you do what you need to do.

You take care of things, because that's your job. You go to work, or you fill up the crock pot, or you climb into the garden, or strap the baby to your back and pull out the vacuum cleaner.

You drop everything you're doing to moderate an argument over who's turn it is to use a specifically colored marker, or to kiss a boo-boo, or to have a conversation about what kind of lipstick Pinocchio's mommy wears.

I know that you have tickle fights in blanket forts, and that you have the words to at least eight different picture books memorized. I've heard that you dance like a wildwoman when it's just you and them. That you have no shame about farting or belching in their presence, that you make up goofy songs about peas and potatoes and cheese.

I know that an hour past bedtime, you drop what you're doing and trim the fingernail that your three year old insists is keeping her up. I know that you stop cleaning dishes because your kids insist you need to join their tea party. I know you fed your kids PBandJ for four days straight when you had the flu. I know that you eat leftover crusts over the sink while your kids watch Super Why.

I know you didn't expect most of this. I know you didn't anticipate loving somebody so intensely, or loathing your post-baby body so much, or being so tired, or being the mom you've turned out to be.

You thought you had it figured out. Or you were blind and terrified. You hired the perfect nanny. Or you quit your job and learned to assemble flat packed baby furniture. You get confused by the conflict of feeling like nothing has changed since you were free and unfettered by children, and looking back on the choices you made as though an impostor was wearing your skin.

You're not a perfect mom. No matter how you try, no matter what you do. You will never be a perfect mom.

And maybe that haunts you. Or maybe you've made peace with it. Or maybe it was never a problem to begin with.

No matter how much you do, there is always more. No matter how little you do, when the day is over your children are still loved. They still smile at you, believing you have magical powers to fix almost anything. No matter what happened at work, or at school, or in play group, you have still done everything in your power to ensure that the next morning will dawn and your children will be as happy, healthy, and wise as could possibly be hoped.

There's an old Yiddish saying, "There is one perfect child in the world, and every mother has it."

Unfortunately, there are no perfect parents. Your kids will grow up determined to be different than you. They will grow up certain that they won't make their kids take piano lessons, or they'll be more lenient, or more strict, or have more kids, or have fewer, or have none at all.

No matter how far from perfect you are, you are better than you think.

Someday your kids will be running around like crazy people at synagogue and concuss themselves on a hand rail, and somebody will still walk up to you and tell you what a beautiful family you have. You'll be at the park and your kids will be covered in mud and jam up to the elbows, smearing your car with that sugary cement, and a pregnant lady will stop and smile at you wistfully.


Dear Mom MemeNo matter how many doubts you might have, you never need doubt this one thing:
You are not perfect.

And that's good. Because really, neither is your child. And that means nobody can care for them the way you can, with the wealth of your understanding and your experience. Nobody knows what your child's squall means, or what their jokes mean, or why they are crying, better than you do.

And since no mother is perfect, chances are you are caught in a two billion way tie for Best Mom in the World.

Congratulations, Best Mom in the World. You're not perfect.

You're as good as anybody can get.

With love,
Lea

April 28, 2013

Sunday Blogaround - 4.28.13

Welcome to another edition of the Sunday Blogaround!

I know, I have hardly been here this week. Barely even tweeted. But here I am with the Blogaround!



The Writer Revived

"Reunion" - The Writer Revived
Elizabeth has been having a very difficult time. Her father has had to move into an assisted living facility due to his dementia, and her four year old has been unable to spend time with him for quite a while. This is what happened when they finally got back together.


"The Confidence of TWO" - Short Fat Dictator
I love this kid! We could all take a few leaves from his book.


"Shirtless Ballerina Hulk" - Little Girls R Better at Designing Superheroes Than You
So. Great. This artist is collecting pictures of little girls dressed as their own superheroes. That means, not ridiculous, über-revealing costumes, no lame powers, just actual superheroes that little girls have created for themselves. There are only a few so far, but it's one of my favorite ongoing projects online right now.


"To Vaccinate, or Not to Vaccinate? With a Lot Help From My Friends" - Momma Data
In honor of World Vaccination Week, a few posts on the subject. Studies showing probable causes for the trend in certain areas towards non-vaccination.


"The Facts in the Case of Dr. Andrew Wakefield" - Tall Guy Writes
In case you're unfamiliar with the recent confusion around vaccination, this is a very concise and readable explanation. I love explanatory comics.

April 21, 2013

Sunday Blogaround- 4.21.13

Hello, lovely readers! And welcome to another edition of the blogaround!


This was a sad week, and a confusing week, and a long week.  I hope you found as much good in it as you did bad. Here is something to help get through until the next week has ended, and then the next, and so on.

All my love,
-L



BWS tips button"Little Mean Girls" - The Writer Revived
What a difficult situation. I think the advice that Elizabeth gave her four year old was wonderful. I think that voicing what behavior actually is ("You're not being nice, I don't want to play with you.") is a great way to handle things. Unfortunately, these sorts of interactions are just more complicated than that. I hope things improve at preschool.


"No Place to Lay His Head: Jesus the Homeless Statue Rejected" - #occupythebible
Okay, I know you might find it weird that I'm posting about Christian blogs, but hear me out. There are a lot of elements of the story of Jesus that have always held appeal. The idea of a man who dedicates his life and death to promoting and assisting the most downtrodden in society... that is something I can get behind. I think this statue sounds both moving and honest, and I would love to see this characterization of Jesus take over from the "Family Values" rhetoric that gets shouted around much more audibly.


"By Trying to Get It Half Right, the BSA Gets It All Wrong" - Ask Your Dad
The Boy Scouts of America came up with a new LGBT policy. And if you want to know what it is, John has a pretty good grasp on the subject.


"Mama's Going Back to Work" - Urban Moo Cow
Deb has a new job, and she's excited. Not just to be working, but because of the frustrations of identifying yourself as a person with career ambitions and daily responsibilities when you are a "stay at home mom."


"Things could be so much worse, that's for damn sure" - Finally Mom
Here in Chicago, we've had some pretty epic flooding. The soccer fields on the Midway, near my house, are lakes with nets peeking out. Finally Mom's street? It's underwater.


"I'm Okay With That" - Mobyjoe Cafe
There are a lot of ways to look at what happened in Boston on Patriot's Day, but this is one of my favorites. Give yourself a little bit of perspective on yourself, and be grateful.


Photobucket"Today I Am Sad" - Making It Work Mom
I've read lots of posts by Bostonians in reaction to the attack on the marathon. Angry posts, hopeful posts, confused posts... this was the one I thought was the most honest and real. It's worth reading a couple of times.


"Why Dove’s 'Real Beauty Sketches' Video Makes Me Uncomfortable… and Kind of Makes Me Angry" - little drops
I saw the video. I watched it through, to the end. On the one hand, I was moved to tears, but it was with sadness. The whole time I watched, I kept waiting to feel uplifted... but the feeling never came. Jazz put her finger on it- the whole message... while well meaning, it's sort of off. And this is why.


"Conundrum" - Dad of the Decade
Ben is closing in on the deadline for his fundraising. If you haven't heard his story, click through his links. Learn about Relay for Life, and DEFINITELY send his team a few bucks.


"I broke his cheese in half"
Also- a GIANT shoutout to Reasons My Son is Crying. If you haven't seen it by now, you should, and here's why. This blog is two weeks old. That's right, two weeks old. And it has dozens of posts, and is 100% hilarious. But that's not why it's important. It's important because this is a normal, generally well tempered toddler. But like all toddlers, he is prone to melodrama. Now, lots and lots of parents, when their kid cries over NOTHING over and over again, they get frustrated. They get angry. They get exhausted. They feel... like maybe they're doing something wrong. Not this parent. Instead of figuring out what could be the matter with a toddler who's acting, let's face it, like a toddler, instead they post these pictures, hour after hour, day after day, showing how absurd toddlers are. How silly their anguish can be. This isn't about a kid who is fundamentally sad, it's about a parent coping with a toddler with humor and levity. And for that, I salute them.

April 17, 2013

The Helpers

from NPR.org
This Saturday is my birthday. And as during many of those 29 birthdays, everything will be a little more somber. Life will be a little more quiet. A little more subdued.

Why?

Waco, April 19, 1993
Oklahoma City, April 19, 1995
Columbine High School, April 20, 1999
John McDonough High School, April 14, 2003
Virginia Tech, April 16, 2007
Rio De Janeiro, April 7, 2011
Oikos University, April 2, 2012
Boston Marathon, April 15, 2013


So here's what I want to know...

What is it? What is it about April? I don't know if anybody else has noticed this trend, but there's something about the beginning of spring that seems to make people just... snap. A full third of the unabomber's attacks... he must have constructed them in April, even if they didn't reach their victims until the first week of May.

This is what I think.

I think that violence comes from a place of deep sadness. That throughout the long, cold months of winter, through the gloom and the chill, the sadness congeals into anger and hate. And in those cold months, plans are born. Plans to punish, to hurt, to seek revenge for the anguish in one's own soul.

I think that through the darkest months, a person can cultivate this anger and hatred and fear, until they seem ready to burst. Plans are made. Manifestos written.

And then the sun breaks through the clouds. Spring comes, but not quite. It rains. It snows some more. But suddenly, the air seems almost filled with new life.

And the streets fill up with happy people, people ready to rejoin the world after a winter's passing. And for somebody harboring so much pain, the joy in others is fuel to the fire.

I think that the beginning of spring is an ultimatum. That in their feverish, desperate minds, these individuals feel that if they don't act now, their window is lost.

That window that seems to fall in the early weeks of true spring.

And so March is spent stockpiling weapons, surreptitiously buying supplies, writing and re-writing and re-writing manifestos. And when the world is most filled with the joy of spring. the time must come to act or lose the nerve.

...

I can't imagine the pain and heartbreak that friends and families of victims in Boston are experiencing now. Stories of brothers losing limbs protecting each other, of children maimed and murdered... it's too horrible to comprehend.

And as a parent, I feel anguish and heartbreak for those children- small and grown- who lie in hospital beds, filled with bits of metal. And my soul is crying out for the parents who are living in bedside chairs, participating in never-ending phone trees, crying and praying.

And as a parent, I feel a deep confusion for the attacker. For whatever person did this. And I feel anger towards his parents, who failed to teach a respect for basic humanity. And I simultaneously grieve for them, because despite my knee-jerk reaction, who's to say it's their fault? Who's to say they aren't more upset, more devastated, that somebody they love so deeply could be capable of so much violence?

...

As on so many birthdays, this year I am thinking back to the strangers and friends alike who I have seen suffer in the cold winter months. Who I did not reach out to. Who I didn't offer kind words.

And I wonder- could that have made the difference? Could simply reaching out and telling them, "It doesn't have to be like this. You can fill your heart with peace instead of hate," it might make a difference.

It's not just these massive public attacks, it's deeper. The suicide rate climbs dramatically in April. The likelihood of depressed persons inflicting self harm increases.

So what do we do to combat this? What do we do to stop people from feeding their fears and their anguish during the winter, to keep them from coming to this point at the start of spring?

I don't know. But I think that kindness it a part of the answer. That opening our hearts and letting everyone know, everywhere, that the winter is not eternal. Not the winter outside, and not the winter in their own minds.

I wish I could have reached out to somebody. To let them know there is good in humanity, that they could be an agent of that good, rather than wrap themselves in their fear and anger.

Because fear and anger and hate... they're a comfortable shroud. They're an addiction. Acknowledging them is painful, removing them traumatic. It is so much easier to say to yourself that you are right and the world is wrong than to admit that you might be trapped in your own delusions, that you might have built an entire worldview based on a lie.

But one person can make a difference.

Mr. Rogers said, "When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.' To this day, especially in times of 'disaster,' I remember my mother's words and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers- so many caring people in this world." But we shouldn't wait until after the disaster to be those helpers. We need to be them now, to the people who would cause harm. We need to show them that we are always there, waiting for our time to be of service.

Next winter, I will try more. I will offer a smile, I will offer a hand, I will do what I can to show love and warmth. I will strive not to hide inside of myself in the winter, but to reach out to others. To strangers or friends, to whomever might be cultivating inside themselves the fear and anger needed to lash out like this.

Next winter, we should all spread the warmth in our hearts a little further. And perhaps the spring may be a little brighter for it.

April 16, 2013

The Grublings Take Manhattan

M and RH on the streets of Tribeca
Nothing went right the morning of our departure. For the first time ever, the girls forgot their lunchboxes at home, it was pouring rain, RH had a newly diagnosed ear infection, and our flight was delayed by hours.

I had managed to appease the children for the time being. Although they knew well enough to remind me at every opportunity that I was supposed to take them from school to the restaurant to the airport, I had concocted a perfect excuse.

Enjoying New York City
"Airplanes need to nap when it's raining," I told them. "So the airplane is going to take a little nap, and while the airplane naps, we'll all nap too."

After naptime, we had met up with M for dinner at our restaurant, made a quick stop at Target (yeah, that Target) to pick up the two items I had forgotten to pack, and then made our way to the airport.

Despite all the traffic, and the rain, we arrived pretty much on time for our delayed flight. We found what was probably the best non-handicapped parking spot in the economy lot, and we shuttled all our stuff to the airplane.

I had been led to believe by state laws, FAA regulations, and the airline's own FAQ that we would need the girls' booster seats for the taxi in New York City. And so we were lugging with us three children, a stroller, one car seat, two booster seats, a pack n' play, a suitcase, my purse, M's computer bag, a diaper bag, and each of the girls' backpacks. Oh- and a doll and a care bear.

We took the monorail to our gate, and the girls ooh-ed and aah-ed at the airplanes on the ground en route. They pointed out colors, and squealed with excitement, 

We were quite a scene.

Poppa with RH and her security bread
We got on the plane and got settled. M was with DD and SI, and I planned to nurse RH through the flight. I was fortunate enough to be sitting next to a couple who were taking their first overnight trip without their six month old son. While I red RH, she pumped. Across the aisle from me, M and the girls talked about the wings of the airplane, the cities underneath, everything. All three of them had the time of their lives.

When we started our descent, the city lights of New York came into view. SI began yelling across the aisle to me- "Mommy! I see New York City! It's New York City, mommy! We are in New York City!" I would have hushed her, but everyone in earshot smiled and giggled each time she said it.

When we landed, they wanted to rush off the plane, but I explained we had to wait until we got to the "tunnel" back into the airport. It was already past midnight, and they were finally starting to show it."You have to wait a little longer," I said, "but you girls were airplane rockstars!"

The middle aged man sitting behind SI, the person I would have expected to be most irritated, leaned around the seat. "You WERE airplane rockstars," he added.

As we exited the plane into La Guardia, I was struck as I always am at how different airports can be. La Guardia is old, crowded, and dingy compared to O'Hare, which has gone through a lot of recent renovations. But to the kids? "Wow!" SI exclaimed as we looked at a stained emergency exit door and a cracked floor and some ancient seats with peeling upholstery, "This is such a nice place!"

While waiting for a ride to Brooklyn, the girls admired the pavement. It sparkled. This seemed to confirm every suspicion the girls had that New York City was a magical place. I was vividly reminded of Nabulungi in The Book of Mormon singing about Salt Lake City. The five of us crammed into a taxi, thanks to completely abandoning all hope of using the booster seats for the girls, and it was off to Brooklyn, where my family had rented a condo for the weekend. Ten people in a three bedroom with one bathroom. And the place had some... quirks.

Playing with glasses
It was predictably tiny, of course. It had fresh paint, but was mostly very run down. I'm pretty sure the black spots over the shower were mold. There was no living space to speak of, just a three foot wide hallway that led between the bedrooms.

By the time we got the girls to sleep on their lumpy futon, it was almost 3am, local time.

Four hours later, and it was time to get up. We ate, sort of, and bathed, sort of, and climbed into the chartered cars that would take us to the bar mitzvah in Tribeca.

M particularly enjoyed driving through the Lower East Side. He'd never been to New York. I always enjoy New Yorkers walking around completely un-ironically in "I (heart) NY" t-shirts.

I hadn't seen my uncles or cousins since my own wedding, nearly five years ago. It was amazing to be surrounded by them again. So many hugs, so many people picking up my children, hugging, making friends.  DD and SI were a little nervous at first, but pretty soon they were getting comfortable with their relatives.

My cousin was phenomenal. He had a kind of rough bit of Torah- all about leprosy and sexist childbirth practices. But he handled himself like an adult, and we were all extremely proud. SI told me that she wanted to read the Torah for her bar mitzvah, too. For the tenth of probably hundreds of times that weekend, I held in tears of joy and felt the warmth of being with my family.

My cousin becomes a man
We walked down to the reception along the Hudson river. It was the closest thing we got to sight-seeing while we were there. SI walked with Aunt Something Funny, asking about everything, telling her stories as they went. DD walked with the crowd, swapping hand holding buddies, grinning at dogs,   looking up at the buildings.

What I think might be a years-long infatuation with my cousins started up. It's amazing, I remember when I was her age, my parents' younger brothers held the same fascination for me. Adult men, who wanted to play, who played funny games and didn't act like other grown ups. Now I understand it, they weren't like other adults. They were 20 years old.

At the reception, we danced and danced and danced. I did the hora until I dropped. The bar mitzvah boy was, against his better judgement, hoisted up in a chair and celebrated. RH passed out with a dinner roll in her mouth, clutched like her favorite toy for comfort. As she moved from person to person, she would stir, take another bite, and fall asleep again.

M and I danced, DD danced with everyone, I cried and laughed and drank and hugged and took endless photographs. After everyone else had gone, my father's family all remained. My uncles and cousins and sisters and children, the only people left. Talking and laughing on and on.

RH with her great-uncle S and her great-great aunt E
We got back to our condo well past seven o'clock, and ate leftover pizza and Grandmommy's South African candies.

My great-aunt gave the girls a copy ofMake Way For Ducklings, inscribed with the promise that when they go to visit her in Boston, they will also ride the swan boats.

The next morning, we awoke later that we'd planned, and I spent a crazed hour repacking everything. We took another car back to Greenwich Village, and spent the morning with my father's family, eating bagels. (BTW- there are NO good bagel shops in Chicago. If it's squishy and fluffy and you can eat it without chewing, it's not a real bagel. Chicago, take note!)

The girls played and played with my cousins and uncles. It was wonderful.  My uncles kept telling me how funny it was to them to hear their little arguments, and imagine that it was their mother and grandmother, DD and SI's namesakes, who were squabbling. I imagined my grandma pointing at my great-grandma and exclaiming, "She ate me!" and laughed outloud.

My uncle and aunt played with the kids and a giant bin of action figures. The girls were in awe of the diversity- not just Batman and Superman and the Hulk, but the Thing and the Green Goblin and Poison Ivy and host of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

Pretending to feed the baby
While we were there, my SD card became corrupted. I spent a solid hour with the help of Poppa and Aunt Genocide trying to retrieve my images, but to no avail. It seemed all my pictures were gone.

After a rushed dinner of Chinese food, it was another rush into a hired car (a minivan this time, thankfully), and off to the airport once more. In the car, the girls asked me to tell them story after story after story about the Green Goblin, and then other goblins.

All the goblins lived in New York City, and they all made lots of friends and Spiderman was happy.

When we got to the airport, the woman at the check-in recognized us. She had seen us disembark, and went out of her way to make our next flight easier. She changed our seats to the front of the plane, got us priority seating, and helped us rush through security.

Despite our flight home being delayed until after ten o'clock at night, the girls were cheerful and excited all the way onto the plane. As soon as we started taxiing to the runway, RH fell asleep. Moments after we were in the air, it was DD's turn to pass out. Five minutes later, SI.

M and I sat across the aisle from each other in the darkened plane and toasted our journey with a well earned cocktail.

Still, there's an epilogue.

SI dances with great-uncle S, DD dances with Grandmommy
When we landed in Chicago, we got off the plane as quickly as possible. We rushed down to baggage claim, but before we could make our way to our monorail M realized- he had left his wallet in the airplane.

He ran as fast as he could to the airline's help desk, leaving me with our mountain of things, RH strapped to my chest, and two overtired kids. It was 12:30 in the morning.

To keep them occupied, I told them the story of our trip.

I told them about two little girls who forgot their lunches, and an airplane that needed a nap, and the sparkly sidewalks in New York City, and their cousin's bar mitzvah, and looking at the Statue of Liberty in the harbor, and dancing and playing with their cousins, and sleeping on the airplane, and then Daddy leaving his wallet on the airplane, and how this was the sad part of the story.

That was when M finally came back, beaming. Miraculously, one of the baggage claim guys was able to go back onto the airplane, and found M's wallet.

Stunned beyond belief, we once again took the monorail, the girls pointing out airplanes and cars and busses out the window, and then drove home again.

The next morning, M went to work and all three children slept in until nearly 10am. I managed to retrieve two thirds of my pictures over the course of the afternoon.

I couldn't help myself.
The girls and I watched Tangled, and then we all had mac n' cheese with fake hotdogs and green peas for dinner, and the girls told me all the stories from their trip. 

They told me over and over how their cousin said he would come to visit them in Chicago this summer. How they wanted it to be summer now. How they wanted to go to Boston and ride the swan boats with their great-great aunt. I shed a few more tears of happiness and love.

I hope with every fiber of my being that it's not five more years before we're together again.

Best. Weekend. Ever.

April 14, 2013

Sunday Blogaround - 4.14.13

Hello, lovely readers! Welcome to another edition of the Blogaround!

As you read this, my motley crew and I are traipsing around the Big Apple. That's right, we're in New York City! If I find Jon Stewart, I will hug him. Which, of course, would probably land me in jail. Still...

On to the blogaround!



"Your Mom Guilt Isn't Pinterest's Fault" - Honest Mom
Yes. I can't tell you how much I agree with this. Oh- yes I can. Actually, I've written about it a lot. I feel like it's true- moms are constantly judging each other. There's no winning. But nobody judges any other mom as much as she judges herself. All that paranoia and anxiety... it's internal. We just project it outwards.


"Why We Can Never Go To McDonald's Again" - Ask Your Dad
I actually laughed out loud at the Khan thing. My own similar adventures are here.


"Clone" - Good Times Dad
This. is. awesome. Now, I'm not so into GNR, but it *slays* me when the girls talk about John and his friends. John and his friends? They're the Beatles. SI is totally into Yoko, too. So... that will be awkward eventually. But for the time being, "John and his friends" practically live here. I love it.


"How To Prevent Rape" - SlutWalk Phoenix
You might recall that I am a huge supporter of SlutWalk. Well, this is a great set of guidelines.


"A Gay Dad Sounds Off on the Home Life of the Anti-Gay Child Street Preacher" - HuffPost Gay Voices
I was pretty sure this blog was actually referring to the suicide of the son of the Saddleback Church preacher. I heard the news and immediately started wondering, is this another case of a gay kid killing themselves rather than facing the rejection of everything they ever cared about? Well, it's not. Not exactly. And I am all for this dad, he has his heart and mind in the right place. I'll just go back to wishing I could somehow will people to experience a little more empathy.


BWS tips button"Dear Mom Meme" - The Mom Pledge Blog
I think this is a GREAT idea. It has long been my experience that the moment you really begin writing to somebody, the things you never knew you wanted to say begin coming out. Profound things, deep things, secret things. If you're a parent, I strongly urge you to write a letter.


"
Professor Isaiah and the Dynamite" - Breaking the Parenting Mold
This? This is the funniest thing I read all week. Especially because that kid is FABULOUS. I mean really- I wouldn't be surprised if he grew up and became some super-villain a la The Monarch, the way he's selling this schtick. It's freakin' great.


"Parenting is a Human Experience" - Baby Rabies
I love this post. It hearkens back to my original rule of parenting- "Whatever makes you a happier, healthier, saner person IS good parenting." Being a parent doesn't preclude being human. Being a parent is an aspect of humanity. Not the only aspect, but there you have it. To be a human parent, you have to be a human being. No more, no less.


"Screw the Easter Bonnet" - Another Piece of Cake
See, here's another thing about Easter I just don't understand. Bonnets. The girls are supposed to have them? Why? And why do people care? What is HAPPENING???? Who decided that Easter had to be so complicated???? (And definitely, let's stop treating little girls like decorations, shall we?)


"The Seagull" - Short Fat Dictator
I laughed my ass off at this one, too.



Down Wit Dat"Prelude" - Down Wit DAT
I know, Down Wit DAT is another blog I've been highlighting a lot lately. Well, this is another one that really struck a chord with me. Wyatt, who has Down Syndrome, had open heart surgery on Thursday. This post touches on so many things- on the village helping her raise her children, on the fears any parent would have, on her own need to pay attention to HER needs even at this time... it's beautiful and moving. I know what it's like to wait for it, and then to sit endlessly in a waiting room while the person you love is under the knife. My heart goes out to the Down Wit DAT family.


"Pseudoscience R' Us" - Momma Data
It has bothered me for a while now that anything anybody wants to support has a home online. That there are dedicated "sources" to back up any claim. That there are websites that look like scientific journals that publish paranoid ravings by people with no real scientific education. Well, now I know why.


"The Man on the Street: Three Decades of Street Harassment" - xoJane
It being Sexual Assault Awareness Month and all, I feel that there should be more of this. More stories. More sharing. More coming out of the dark an announcing that THIS IS NOT OKAY. There's really nothing more to say than that.


"The Mother Who Says Having These Two Children is the Biggest Regret of her Life" - Mail Online
I find this woman fascinating. And the comments horrific, more so than usual. Here's a woman who felt obligated to have children, knowing she did not want them, and cared for them, grew to love them. Here's a woman who never wanted to be a mother, but was convinced by a husband that she loved that it was the right thing to do. Did she abuse her children? No. And she is very clear that she does love them very much. But I feel for this woman. Nobody should be able to tell you whether or not to procreate, and if you're coerced into doing so, nobody should judge you for not finding joy in the burdens of motherhood. I recommend this to anyone who doesn't want kids- and I know there are some of you out in my readership. Motherhood is great and all, but it's not everything. Don't trick yourself into believing that it will make you happy, if you feel in your heart of hears that it will not.

April 10, 2013

Into the Blue

Heading to the City That Never Sleeps. They'll fit right in.
So yesterday, I was watching the girls dance around in their dresses. RH was laughing and smiling, DD was doing "ballet," which meant sticking one leg out to the side with one hand over her head. It was remarkably graceful. And as I watched them play and dance, I couldn't help but wonder...

Where did all the time go? All that time, wasted, lost.

How did we get here so fast?

HOW THE HELL DID I MANAGE TO PUT OFF PLANNING A PLANE TRIP WITH THREE KIDS UNTIL THREE DAYS BEFORE WE LEAVE??????

That's right, lovely readers. On Friday, the SuperMommy family is taking its first manned flight since before SI and DD were conceived.

The bar mitzvah boy and Aunt Genocide
Allow me to rephrase that. In about thirty six hours, I will be wrangling my incredibly manic brood, a stroller, three car seats, three suitcases, a diaper bag, a portable crib, and various assorted carry-on bags through the fifth busiest airport in the world.

We'll be traveling to New York City for what might actually be the last bar mitzvah in my father's family line. The rest of the clan's boys aren't likely to make aliyah. Which means the next time my father's family all gets together will be for a wedding (not terribly unlikely, Aunt Genocide could get married sometime in the next five years), or for a funeral (I sincerely hope that it's not that). Either way, it's been since M and I got married- almost exactly 59 months. There's no telling how long it might be until we all get together again. Actually, this branch of the family is where DD and SI's namesakes came from- my father's mother and his grandmother- and none of the family has met them. I am utterly beyond thrilled that I will finally be introducing my kids to their extended family.

And, yet, somehow, I have managed to let this astronomical feat of chutzpah and hubris go essentially unplanned until now.

So, what does one do when planning on taking all their very small children into a giant flying machine?

I'll let you know when I've finished planning it. Until then, I think I have some packing to do.

And because you know I can't help myself...


April 9, 2013

What Happened to the Man Who Got Everything He Ever Wanted?

The three happiest people I know
I complain a lot.

I could tell you that it's because I have ample things to complain about, but that isn't it. It's that I am finely attuned to the minutia that has any potential to bother me.

I complain about my busy life, my occasionally thoughtless or absent minded husband, my neurotic family, an ingrown toenail... anything. Everything. I complain.

DD "sweeping" in opera gloves and SI... planking

But recently, not quite so much.

Something magical happened to me a few days ago. I was watching RH pulling toys out of the toy kitchen, with DD and SI coloring on their easel. They were carefully picking up every dropped crayon, thanks to a neat little ditty I made up for them. "If there's a crayon/on the floor/RH will find it/and put it in her mouth." It's catchy. And they were singing it, picking up their crayons, and occasionally looking over at their baby sister to grin and coo, "Isn't that right, RH? You silly baby!" She laughed and laughed, and returned to her minor destructions.

I drank a cold pop and breathed slowly, committing the scene to memory.

DD hanging out with RH

When I was DD and RH's age, I knew I wanted to be a mommy someday. I knew I wanted to grow up and take care of little kids.

As I got older, I had other things I wanted to do. I still have other things I want to do. But whenever I contemplated parenthood, I imagined having a house full of little girls, about three or four years old. Playing dress up, singing songs, dancing in their pretty little dresses.

I imagined bigger kids looking out for their little siblings, and hugs, and kisses, and everybody happy.

And so, here I am. I find myself at the bottom of "hug piles," or the recipient of wet, giggly baby kisses at no notice. I am the eternal supervisor of the three happiest children I have ever known.

SI monster and DD robot
Yes, it's occasionally chaos. There are days I just want to hide, days when I have a headache or feel overwhelmed or just can't arbitrate disputes over crappy cheap plastic jewelry any more. But more and more often, I find myself simply observing the three of them and feeling... happy.

Not just happy, though. It's a different feeling. It's pride and success and something more.

I don't feel like I deserve to feel the sense of accomplishment that comes with just watching my children play. But it's there. Each time RH moves another foot forward instead of rolling side to side, every time DD tells me she's "girl Superman" and that she's fighting a monster, every time that SI "fixes" her toy sink with M's Mjölnir, and every time one of them tells me how she wants to be like me...

DD and SI washing RH in the tub

It's narcissistic, but it fills me with intense joy. With pride beyond words.

Watching them play, standing back and letting them just... be kids together...

It's incredible. It's magical.

Watching RH watch her big sisters and mimic them, and then when she catches my eye and just grins at me...

Motherhood has never felt so gratifying.

Life has never felt so perfect.

M chasing SI and DD through the snow

And life is not perfect. There are still serious problems around here. Money problems, employment problems, health problems...

But life in general? It's amazing.

This is what it's all about. This is why I had kids. Watching them lose their heads with delight because their sunflower seeds are sprouting, because they sounded out a written word, because you walked into a room at just the right moment.

I don't know if I will ever be as happy as I am now.

I have everything I ever truly wanted from life. I am utterly, completely, and constantly enveloped in love.

It's always something over here...

It's an incredible feeling. Knowing that I am living in what I will probably look back on at the end of my life as the happiest I have ever been. The happiest I will ever be. The years when my life was pretty much perfect.

No matter what happens, no matter what changes... my life will forever be better because of this. Because of this incredible, magical, perfect time.

My three girls, playing together

April 8, 2013

April is Sexual Violence Awareness Month

I've got to be honest. I wasn't going to write a post about sexual violence this month.

What with the Steubenville news, I feel like awareness has actually been kind of high.

I thought I could just link up to the blogs I'd already written. About my own story, about the Chicago SlutWalk, about having daughters.

And then, I caught this story. About what's going on in Syria right now.

You probably know that Syria is in the midst of a bloody civil war. It's a nightmare- bombs and chemical weapons, hostages and war crimes. And nobody is exactly sure what's really happening. But there are some things that we can be sure ARE happening.

In a refugee camp in Jordan, some women are talking about the rapes they suffered in Syria. Rapes used as punishment against women who were perceived to be supporting the rebels. They tell stories of prisons where young women and girls were stripped, shackled to the walls, and raped repeatedly, day after day. For months. When visitors would come, other soldiers, they were offered the "use" of the girls chained to the walls.


Those women, they watched their sisters die, naked and chained and abused. For taking photographs of protesters, for knowing somebody, for being somebody's sister or daughter.

The worst part is that the survivors are as good as dead anyway. "Purity" is prized so highly, that if it is known that a woman has been raped, her family will turn their backs on her. It is more than a violation of her body, it is a total destruction of a life.

Sexual violence isn't just here, in our own back yard. We know it is, we know how pervasive the experiences are. But we can't close our eyes to the rest of the world. Turning our backs on other women, other girls, because those horrific crimes are half a world away... it implies our permission. It tells those women, "If we can't see your suffering, it doesn't matter."

It matters.

It all matters.

If we accept that rape can be used as a weapon, at any time, we say that rape is acceptable.

Rape is not acceptable. Not here. Not there. Not now. Not ever.

It doesn't matter what you think you've told your sons. Tell them again. Be clear. Unless she says "yes," and she means it, unless there is enthusiastic consent, sex isn't what's happening. Use the word "rape." Young men all over the world readily confess to rape so long as that word isn't attached to their actions. Attach it. Let them know that rape is rape.

And then let them know that it's not just their job not to rape, it's their job to prevent rape. It's their job to stop their friends from harassing girls, from making jokes about rape, from pressuring girls into sex. That's also their responsibility.

Teach all your children that all human life is to be treated with dignity, that abusing another persons body, violating it, is a horrific crime. That it leaves scars that cannot be seen, and cannot be healed.

Be outraged. Be indignant. Be enraged.

Take the time to visit the RAINN website, learn about sexual violence.

Don't just be aware.

Go do something about it.


My posts on sexual violence:
Daughters and the Female Experience
It Wasn't My Fault
One in Three
Holding My Own Hand

April 7, 2013

Sunday Blogaround - 4.7.13

Hello, and welcome to another edition of the Blogaround!
I swear, I'll make a new image including RH soon. And it will be better than this.

It's been a fun week in the blogosphere! Passover, Easter, April Fool's, and Autism Awareness month all together. Not to mention the fact that the internet is just full of awesome and creative people. While every week is a good week in the blogosphere, this week was a spectacular week. Maybe it's spring, maybe it's the Wolverines going to the championship game... who knows. Whatever it is, it's working for you, internet. ;)

Enjoy!


The Family Pants
"Winter Becomes Spring" - The Family Pants
I know, I've been pimping the Pants blog for several weeks running. I can't help it, it's been that good. This is a wonderful piece, about life and love and tradition... I cried a lot. But it was pretty much all happy tears. (Hey Mama Pants! I think your button grabber thing is busted?)


"Drawing the Impossible? Fully Dressed Superheroines" - GeekNative
My daughters have recently discovered superheroes. They LOVE Superman and Spiderman, and occasionally they'll run around the house with their capes (dresses or frogs pulled over their shoulders) and tell me they're heroes. Only sometimes, DD will say, "I'm a GIRL Superman!" Of course I haven't introduced them to Supergirl. Why would I? The bikini clad superheroines are not what I want my kids dressing as, no matter how heroic they may be. If only the DC and Marvel artists would take some of these ideas to heart. My favorite part? The conspicuous absence of high heels. Really, who can fight crime in eight inch stilettos?


"The Derby Brows" - The Spin Cycle
This post really broke my heart. First, because I felt so hard for DHM as a child- the victim of taunts and teases, learning to hate herself for reasons that used to give her a sense of self identity. I went through that too. But the thing that broke my heart the most was how obvious the scars still are. Rather than embrace the Derby Brows, instead she's helping her daughter to stop those taunts before they start, helping to modify her appearance. I understand it, but it makes me sad. I wonder what I'll do for DD when she gets older, when the Borenstein hair might become a social threat. I hope I'll teach her to love it. I know that, when the time comes, I might simply teach her to straighten it. I just hope she learns to love herself regardless of what the popular style of the moment might be.


"Father Who Beat Daughters With Cable Wire for Twerking Should Be Charged  With Child Abuse" - My Brown Baby
That should be awfully self evident. But it's really the conversation described in the post that is worth the read- really, why do we have these different visceral reactions to child abuse and spousal abuse?


"No Right Way- Sonnets of the Tired Mom" - The Leaky Boob
This.


"John Hamm Needs to Stop Dressing Like a Total Slut" - Thought Catalog
First of all, John Hamm? Definitely on my hit-it list. And second of all, that kind of talk? It's really not okay. This is an EXCELLENT satire piece, treating the description of Mr. Hamm and his body the way the media, completely un-ironically, treats women constantly.


"Navigating Masculinity as a Black Transman: "I Will Never Straighten Out My Wrist." - Everyday Feminism
This is a fascinating read. So many aspects of navigating the incredibly biased and judgmental society we live in. Racial biases and expectations, gender norms, the specific cultures of non-normative social groups, violence and love... Definitely worth reading.


The Mommy Chronicles"The One About the Louboutins" - The Mommy Chronicles
If there is anyone on earth who can understand the desire to literally shop off half your foot ala original Cinderella stepsisters in order to cram their dogs into high fashion footwear, it's me. You may recall just earlier this week I had issues regarding my dedication to my footwear. Still, had I been in her $900 shoes? I would probably still be slicing off toes.


"My Miss You" - Happiness Cubed
A post for Autism Awareness month. I know so many people on the spectrum, and I know how many of them oppose a month for awareness- how they would rather just be treated like everybody else. Then, there are those who truly appreciate it, who feel it incumbent upon them to combat fear. Regardless of how you feel about Autism Awareness, this is the sort of story that helps humanize the story- both from the side of an autistic child, and that child's mother.


"Baby Bullies or Lessons on Friendship" - Practical Parenting
I agree with the basic premise, that a lot of poor pre-school behavior is just plain pre-school behavior. Better yet, she offers real and practical solutions. So if your preschooler is lashing out against their peers, here's a toolkit you can refer to in order to keep a real problem from forming.


"Externalities" - xkcd
Okay, I know, it's not a blog post. It's the BEST WEB COMIC EVAR. Now that that's out of the way, it was also the best April Fool's prank I saw, and includes shout-outs that both my alma mater and my dad's alma mater won. Awesome. Bonus? More that $44K raised for WikiMedia. Go xkcd!


Down Wit Dat"Dream" - Down Wit DAT
An eloquent and impassioned plea for recognizing the civil and human rights of people with DS on the anniversary of the death of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. If you don't know about how people with Down Syndrom are treated, and what people get away with doing to them, you MUST read this.


"No Basketball For You" - The Hossman Chronicles
Daddy Hoss is a SAHD, caring for Little Hoss, Bubba Hoss, and now Bacon Hoss. And, sorry to say, he is re-learning the skills of coping with a colicky baby during March Madness. My heart goes out to him.


"I Want to Make a Difference" - Hope Whispers
Our last stop on the blogaround today is Kim, writing about organ donation. It's all there- reasons that you should register, reasons you should donate blood, and places to go online to get started. This is an issue particularly dear to Kim, who recently reached the three year mark on the wait list for a liver transplant. How easy is it? Read up on my own adventures here, here, and here.

LinkWithin

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...

Vote for me!

Visit Top Mommy Blogs To Vote For Me!