Year: 2012

To the Woman Who Sold Me Stamps At the Post Office Today:

I would have liked to zip in and out sans kids but because you close at 5pm and my husband doesn’t get home until 6pm, I had no choice. Plus, I want to take my kids to the post office. I want to explain how “mailing a letter” works and what “stamp” means and I want to help them understand how our mail gets from here to there.

My children are 4-1/2 and 2-1/2. The line was long. When Sophie complained about having to stand, I talked to her softly and she stopped. I made everyone stay close to me. No one was running around. They started humming and singing, and I asked them to do it quietly. When Owen and James started whining and asking to go home, I held them one at a time. Yes, the other child was whining while waiting his turn to be held but I did what I could.

So, dear postal worker, when it was my turn to make my purchase I was sort of upset when you pointed to Owen, who was in my arms, and said “You have a spoiled one there, don’t you?” And then, when I mumbled a response while lifting each child up so they could see over the counter (something they love), “I have a stamp that says ‘spoiled’ if you want to put it on his hand.”

I would love to have toddlers who never cry and whine when having to wait in a long line in a place they have no interest in. I would love for them to always be content standing next to me (although, I admit, after awhile I’d miss occasionally holding them in my arms). I’d love to go somewhere with all three of my children and once, just once, have such a quiet and calm experience that no one even so much as glances at us.

But right now, that’s not possible. Both my boys are getting over colds, colds which required regular at-home nebulizer treatments. They’re hopped up on steroids, too, which makes them more irrational than usual. Owen also is battling an ear infection and is on antibiotics. And yesterday, they only got a 40 minute nap.

These may sound like excuses and, perhaps, they are. But just know that I’m trying my best. I’m trying my best to lay down rules and expectations for my children while also taking into consideration that they don’t feel good. Maybe I shouldn’t have given into Owen’s whine/cry to be held but honestly, I don’t mind holding him—especially when he doesn’t feel good and especially when he just wants to see. The woman who sold me a cup of coffee understood that yesterday. As I picked up each of my three children so they could see what I was seeing over the counter she smiled and noted how hard it must be for young children to miss so much when everything around them is so tall.

I realize I should let these comments go. But these comments are like tiny gnats buzzing around my head that I can’t seem to kill. They bother me. They make me wonder if I’m screwing this thing up, if I really am raising spoiled children. And part of me hates them because maybe there’s truth to them—Owen and James have been so whiney lately. I try not to respond to it. I try to insist on “nice words.” But, sometimes, I fail. Especially in tiny, crowded post offices when I’d rather just hold my child than deal with—and make everyone else around me deal with—a full-blown tantrum.

As a mother, every day I feel like I’ve failed some way, some how. I make mistakes, constantly. I question myself and worry, worry, worry. But I’m waking up every day. And I’m getting them out of bed every day. And I’m trying to teach them, guide them, share with them, show them, play with them, feed them and care for them the best way that I can. And I know my best isn’t as good as it always could be, or should be. But I’m trying.

In closing, I know my son was acting spoiled. I’m sorry about that. But I don’t need it pointed out. And I certainly don’t need to stamp it on his hand. What I need is a knowing smile, a small word of encouragement, a friendly “hello” to my upset child or, at the very least, just my stamps and receipt so that I can exit as quickly as possible. I imagine throughout your day you experience many unpleasantries—upset children, upset customers, maybe an upset boss. But I was doing what I could to make your day as pleasant as I could—given that my three children didn’t want to be there. In return, I had hoped for something different than the offer to advertise my parenting failures on my son’s hand.

Sincerely,
a sometimes-frazzled, constantly worrying, hoping-tomorrow-is-better mother of three

“No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” —Eleanor Roosevelt

Make a Wish

Owen was drawing on the slate hanging in the playroom when I noticed one of the toys underneath the slate was covered in chalk dust. I blew the chalk dust off.

Owen: “Mommy, that’s not a cake, OK? It’s not a cake.”

“I wanted to buy a candle holder, but the store didn’t have one. So I got a cake.” —Mitch Hedberg

Ready

James is anxious to start preschool—even though he has awhile. In the meantime he likes to walk around our house with a backpack on while waiting to pick Sophie up.

“I did not have a chance to write novels until my youngest child started school fulltime.” —Anne McCaffrey

(OK, so that quote has more to do with me than James and preschool and backpacks but, I like it.)

Double Bubble

James is obsessed with bubble gum, even though he’s not allowed to have it. If I leave my purse or the diaper bag on the floor he makes a beeline for it, as soon as I’m not looking. He dumps everything out in search for his treasure. He’s fast at unwrapping. And then he sits there and chews, this look of utter contentment on his face—until I discover him and pry the gum out of his mouth.

What follows is a pictorial essay of the lengths he went to get some of Andy’s Double Bubble (yes, I realize it’s ridiculous we have a tub of Double Bubble in our pantry—it involves Andy shopping alone and Sam’s club), which he calls “Daddy’s gum.”

First, he moved both training potties to the other side of the half bath, and scooted the rug over as well. This gave him bare hardwood floor to push the stool across.

Next, he took all our paper towels, reusable grocery bags and plastic garbage bags (which we have because we never seem to remember our reusable grocery bags) out of the pantry.

He must have carried the (heavy) wooden stool over the above items because there was no clear path. But there the stool was, perfectly positioned.

Double Bubble sighted.

Success. He managed to open several pieces before I caught him. I only found one piece in his mouth (I don’t think he swallows them, but who knows).

“Once in a young lifetime one should be allowed to have as much sweetness as one can possibly want and hold.” —Judith Olney

Woodfill’s Big Top Festival (Year Three)

I love everything about this festival. I love how kid-centered it is. I love how inexpensive it is (although as the kids get older, we’re discovering it becomes more and more costly). I love how everything is run by volunteers. I love how all the money earned benefits the school. I love how excited my kids get over cheap plastic rings and lollipops. I love that we can walk to it. I love the community feel of it. I love that afterwards, we can walk to a local park and meet good friends and then walk to Anita’s with said good friends for good Mexican food.

I spent most of my childhood living in houses on land. That land was surrounded by more land and everything was so open. Views, from everywhere, included fields and tree lines and yard, yard, yard. Often, in Fort Thomas, I feel closed in. The neighbors (as much as I love them) seem too close. The traffic from 27 sounds too loud. The lights from the gas station on the corner seem too bright. The fact that there’s a pseudo-junkyard behind our privacy fence, which you can see from our second-floor windows when the leaves are down, drives me insane. I lament how few stars I can see—my children can see—and that it’s impossible for my children to play tag football or softball in my backyard. As much as I’m crazy-in-love with my house, I wish I could move it to LAND. (Although, while I’m wishing for things, a first-floor laundry room and garage would be nice, too.)

But there are advantages to living so close to the city. A short work commute for Andy (something I strongly believe in). Sidewalks. The ability to walk to parks, restaurants, the library, school, the local Y, farmers’ markets and shops. A sense of community (we will long be newcomers in Fort Thomas but already I feel like I know—and am friends with—many). Accessibility to everything Cincinnati has to offer (the zoo, museums, restaurants, sports, the river). Afternoons and evenings spent like the one pictured here.

It could be better, I say. But I think, no matter where I was, I’d think it could always be better. I’m working on that, about myself. It’s slow-going. And the truth is, it could also, easily, be a lot worse. Practicing, working on, gratefulness.

“The grass is not, in fact, always greener on the other side of the fence. Not at all. Fences have nothing to do with it. The grass is greenest where it is watered. When crossing over fences, carry water with you and tend the grass wherever you may be.” —Robert Fulghum

Pork Festival 2012

My dad was sick—we think it’s the first Pork Festival he’s missed since his dad helped create it. The kids walked away with homemade Barbie clothes and wooden trucks (thanks Aunt Ellen), as well as full bellies. Despite the missing family, it was a fun—and beautiful—day.

“Life is a festival only to the wise.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson

Candy Land and the Art of Cheating

Place: living room

Time: boys’ nap

Game: Candy Land

Game No.: three, I think (we play it over and over and over and over …)

Situation: I took a break to go to the bathroom. When I came back, it was Sophie’s turn.

Sophie: “Hmmm, what’s this card under here? I think I’ll pick it. Oh! It’s double yellow! Just what I needed!” (Her honest-to-God exact words.)

Sophie’s Candy Land game piece: hopping along the board, taking the shortcut Sophie so coveted

Me: “Sophie. Did you hide that card under the game instructions while I was in the bathroom so you could take the shortcut?”

Sophie: “No. I mean yes.”

Talk: about cheating and lying and truth-telling

Game No.: four, after I told her game No. 3 had to be abandoned because of cheating

Cheating Since Then: zero, unless she’s simply gotten better at it

“A lie has speed, but truth has endurance.” —Edgar J. Mohn

Some Days, I Have No Words

“It would seem that something which means poverty, disorder and violence every single day should be avoided entirely, but the desire to beget children is a natural urge.” —Phyllis Diller

Sophie’s New Backpack

Last year I wrote an essay for The New York Times Motherlode blog titled “The Perfect Backpack.” You can read it here.

After all that, we ended up getting Sophie a new backpack this year. Two reasons: (1) Last year’s backpack was too small for a regular size piece of paper—and her preschool teachers suggested that students have bigger backpacks at this year’s orientation. (2) Sophie’s obsessed with princesses. Disney princesses, specifically.

So I asked Andy’s talented Aunt Susan to make her a new one.

Sophie loves it. I do, too. It has Disney princesses on it but is still homemade. Her name is embroidered on it. It has adjustable straps and a pocket inside. It fits regular size papers perfectly.

Susan sells her work on Etsy here, and she’s very much open to custom work, such as this backpack.

Thanks, Aunt Susan.

“The best thing about doing needlepoint for very small children is that they are so uncritical. The don’t say things like, ‘I see you’ve missed some stitches over here on the leg, was that intentional?’ or ‘Was this creature blinded in a fight?’ They will clasp it in their little arms and love it besottedly, inseparably as the thing becomes more and more rancid.” —Carole Berman and Jennifer Lazarus

Tomatoes

A couple days ago, in preparation for winter, we pulled all the tomato plants out of our (tiny) garden bed. Late this spring I went to pick up lunch at a restaurant for my family and in-laws, who were visiting. It was a Sunday—I didn’t realize the restaurant didn’t open until noon on Sundays. It was 11:45am and I had time to kill. On the way to the restaurant I noticed a man selling plants in a parking lot where the Highland Heights Farmers’ Market usually takes place. I hadn’t bought tomato plants yet—and wanted some—so I turned around.

I so wish I had taken a picture of the man—and his car. It was an old car with a rickety wooden greenhouse attached to its roof. The man had a ton of plants, knew everything about them, pulled seeds out of his pocket when explaining their beginnings to me—we talked for 20 minutes.

I bought six tomato plants.

When I got home, Andy said we didn’t have room for six tomato plants.

I disagreed.

He was right.

Still, we got some beautiful tomatoes.

James and Sophie loved to eat them straight from the garden, warm from the sun, the insides spilling (and staining) their summer shirts. At times I wondered how it was possible James could fit that many tomatoes in his belly, yet he did. And I let him.

Even when it was close to dinnertime.

“It’s difficult to think anything but pleasant thoughts while eating a homegrown tomato.” —Lewis Grizzard