Not Caring (For Just a Little Bit)

September 28, 2011

I responded to a friend’s comment on Facebook today with a story: Late this afternoon, close to dinner time, I just stopped. I pulled out my ipod and scrolled through e-mails at the worst possible time to take a break. Sophie was at her play kitchen stirring and mixing and transferring and patting real food (dry rice and pasta), which I had collected for her from the pantry while the boys napped—and never put away once the boys were up.

The boys, intrigued with what Sophie was doing, joined her. And promptly started throwing dry rice—everywhere. And breaking the angel hair pasta and throwing it—everywhere. Of course this was amid serious cooking, too, with Sophie barking orders and setting timers and pulling out wooden spoons and whisks and oven mitts. It was quite chaotic. Tucker joined in, eating more dry pasta than is probably healthy.

But I was done. The vision of the perfect mom—sitting on the couch reading a beloved story with three smiling children on her lap—a vision I hold dear, disappeared. I no longer cared. Owen, in particular, had been crying much of the afternoon. And for once, he was happy. They were all deliriously happy. And I was deliriously tired.

So I let them stir wildly, transfer poorly, spill and throw while I sat, hardly watching, catching up on non-important e-mail. If anyone walked into my house at this point, surely they would have thought I was crazy. For there was no lesson being taught. There was no scolding. There was no running after or picking up after. My dining room was being completely trashed and yet I was sitting, practically next to them, reading e-mail.

I simply let them go. And let myself go. They had fun. I had a small break. And you know what? Rice and pasta (if you position the hose just right) vacuums up quite nicely. So as long as they don’t think they can do that every time I pull real food out to play with, we’re good. I’m good, especially. And the longer I parent, the more I realize, sometimes letting go, stopping, taking a step back, not caring—even though the very definition of “mother” is “care”—is not only appropriate, but necessary.

“No matter how calmly you try to referee, parenting will eventually produce bizarre behavior, and I’m not talking about the kids.” —Bill Cosby

Sophie, on Beethoven

September 27, 2011

Each month the children at Sophie’s preschool are introduced to a different musician and artist. Yesterday, after telling me that she (again) rode the carousel (the horse, by the way, was red, pink, purple and yellow and had a pretend cake on its head that you could not eat) she listened to “Mr. Beethoven.” I asked if she liked Mr. Beethoven. Her response? “Yes. (Pause.) Mommy, he’s really, really good.”

I laughed.

“Yes, Sophie. Mr. Beethoven is pretty good.”

“Music is the wine which inspires one to new generative processes, and I am Bacchus who presses out this glorious wine for mankind and makes them spiritually drunken.” —Ludwig van Beethoven

Labor Day Trip to Baltimore

September 27, 2011

The week before Labor Day weekend Jill and Marty graciously flew to Cincinnati and then turned around and drove with me and the kids back to Baltimore so we could spend a long weekend at their house. Andy, who is low on vacation days, flew out after work Friday and joined us for the weekend, and then drove back with me and the kids Monday. We had our trials (including Jill slipping on a baking rack that James pulled out of a cupboard resulting in a trip to the E.R.). You can read Jill’s stories about them here and here. But all in all it was a wonderful visit. Following are pictures from our trip.

James entertaining Grandma

sweet Owen

Paw Paw teaching Sophie how to throw a Frisbee to Bonnie

sweet James (who still fits in 6-9 month clothes, which stresses me out to no end)

Sophie must give 20 hugs every day. I love that.

new puppy Jake

Grandma and Paw Paw’s snacks are so much better than the ones we have at home.

climbing on the chairs

Daily activity: Paw Paw threw a Frisbee or toy. Bonnie, Jake and Sophie chased it. Sophie always outlasted Bonnie and Jake.

As usual, James stood still, watching.

fun at the park

At one point Paw Paw took Grandma to a doctor’s appointment for her knee. So tired of constantly pulling the boys off of things, I put a bunch of stuff (lamps, books, frames, etc.) in Grandma and Paw Paw’s bedroom, and I just let the boys go. The above pictures are what happened next. (Sorry, Grandma and Paw Paw. The kids loved it, though!)

best indoor-tricycle-riding space ever

Owen rocking his tot collar

The kids loved playing hide-and-go-seek in the beautiful curtains Aunt Fran made.

Red Robin for lunch; The Moo for ice cream

a reluctant slip and slider

chalk drawings with Daddy

best buds (as long as Jake wasn’t licking, jumping on or biting Sophie)

Thanks, Jill and Marty, for all the help on the drive and at the house before Andy arrived, the delicious meals and simply being such a big part of our children’s lives.

“Grandma always made you feel she had been waiting to see just you all day and now the day was complete.” —Marcy DeMaree

Goodbye, Summer

September 23, 2011

To celebrate the first day of fall, I thought I’d wrap up summer. I, at times, get terribly behind—or too anxious to move on—and writing gets put off until I’m stuck with posting about Fourth of July on the first day of fall (which is exactly what I’m going to do now).

We met up with the Beets’ family and walked, in spitting rain, to Ft. Thomas’s 4th of July parade. I remember last year (oh how the boys have grown!) thinking that this year Sophie might be old enough to grab candy on the street. Might. It’s all she talked about for weeks after. She now thinks the definition of a parade is candy falling from the sky. That and her best friend Zoey, well, her day couldn’t have been better.

We also went to a great picnic at our friends’ Jessi and Link’s house—Jessi is a former colleague, former softball teammate, and she and her husband are good friends.

While there we hung out with Lauren and her beautiful family. Quick story: Harold (also known as the Mayor of Grant Street) told me all about Lauren and her triplets when he found out I was pregnant with twins. Apparently Lauren lived right down the street from me, when I lived on Grant. Even though I had never met her, while listening to Harold talk (and talk and talk and talk) I decided I would make her family dinner. I remembered how crazy things were when Sophie was a newborn—I couldn’t imagine three. Of course, like so many of my good thoughts, I never got around to it. A couple months later I saw her walking past my house, and I ran out to talk to her. She was so kind. We ran into each other several times while out walking and then, when I had my boys, she showed up at my house—with diapers, wipes and a delicious homemade chicken salad, made with organic, free-range chicken. I was in complete awe. I was barely holding it together, with Sophie and the newborn twins, and here she was, in my house, a mother of triplets, arms filled with gifts and homemade food. She really is amazing. And, turns out, Jessi’s cousin! Small world.

During summer’s hotter days, we spent a lot of time inside, camping in the teepee. And eating Life cereal from a plastic bowl while sitting on the living room carpet. And then knocking down the teepee on each other’s heads, resulting in screaming and laughing but mostly screaming.

I barely remember last summer, when the boys were newborns. I was so sleep-deprived that when I think back, everything’s just a haze. So in many ways, I felt like I missed that summer. This summer was wonderful although I was very sick. Early spring I took an antibiotic for a cough and ended up with c-diff. It’s awful. I hope you never get it. I’m still on antibiotics for the c-diff, but am finally beginning to feel better. (The exhaustion I felt was akin to when I was newly pregnant with the boys, but this time I was chasing the boys—and Sophie.)

My parents were a huge help to me these past summer months. My mom would help me with almost every single one of Owen’s physical therapy appointments (and my dad would take off work to help me, when my mom could not). My mom would come during the day and play with the kids and clean and insist I nap. And when Andy was out of town, my parents insisted I come to their house. Their house—the home I once lived in—is heavenly. Everything is clean and organized and homemade and delicious and while I was there my parents insisted I sleep or simply sit on the porch swing, and I would actually get yelled at—yelled at—if I tried to clean anything up.

The kids loved the sprinkler (which my uncle Skip made). I don’t even remember exactly what we had for lunch except that it was delicious. Still, I think about that day. I was feeling pretty bad and low then, and for the first time in a long time I felt good. And I really needed that. I hope I can recognize that in my own children when they’re older, like my parents somehow are still able to do with me. (Thanks, Mom and Dad.)

We also had visits from Grandma and Paw Paw. In addition to playing with toys, Grandma loves to play “Kings Island,” a game Sophie made up, which requires sitting on a quilt in the entry and pretending you’re on a roller coaster. There is a lot of arm waving and screaming involved. (You can generally count on screaming at our house, no matter the activity.)

There was a lot of ice cream eating, too.

We had a visit from my cousin Emilie (Sophie still has the picture you drew for her on her dresser, Emilie).

I love this picture. This is how I usually am, holding the boys. It’s just never captured on camera.

Great Grandma came for the visit, too (and Sophie got a story, walk and flower out of the deal, which she loved). Also, I should note that Sophie spent much of the summer in the above gorgeous dress, which her Great Aunt Susie made (I plan to post a video of Sophie twirling in this dress soon).

The boys laughed at our attempt to gate the stairs at my parents’ house …

climbing up them despite our efforts.

Steve visited and the kids loved when he pulled out his trumpet. Andy pulled out his trumpet, too, and there was much song and dance—a wonderful evening.

The boys spent a lot of time this summer standing on the back of the couch, waiting (patiently and impatiently) for Andy to come home from work.

They also spent a lot of time emptying the changing table’s shelves.

And I spent a lot of my time on the living room floor, a human jungle gym for my children.

Sophie spent a lot of time playing dress-up with the boys. (I’m sorry, Owen.)

We, along with all our friends, helped our good friend Marty surprise Angel for her birthday.

And, finally, my favorite part of summer—after-dinner wagon rides with the family.

Goodbye, long, warm days. And thank you.

Here’s to a happy, healthy fall.

“There shall be eternal summer in the grateful heart.” —Celia Thaxter

Tall Tales From Preschool 2

September 19, 2011

I did learn that Sophie had goldfish crackers and juice for a snack, and that she made a pinwheel and took it outside to watch it spin. These things, I believed. And then there was this:

Me: “Do you play with Arabella today?”

Sophie: “No. Another girl and a boy.”

Me: “Were they nice?”

Sophie: “Yes. But another boy was not. He was fighting.”

Me: “He was? What did the teachers do?”

Sophie: “They threw whipped cream pies in his face.”

Me: “They did?”

Sophie: “Yes, and it got all in his eyes. Then he had to go home to get baby wipes to clean his face.”

Me: “That wasn’t very nice of the teachers!”

Sophie: “He was fighting!”

Me: “Where did the teachers get whipped cream pie?”

Sophie: “They have a big cabinet full of them. They use them when you’re not listening.”

And later …

Andy: “What did you do at preschool today?”

Sophie: “We rode a carousel.”

Andy: “You did?”

Sophie: “Yes. The horses were so pretty. They went up and down, up and down, up and down.”

And later …

Andy: “So I heard a boy was fighting at preschool today.”

Sophie: “Yes.”

Andy: “What did the teachers do?”

Sophie: “They made him go outside and then they locked the door.”

Andy: “Really? They made him stand outside in the rain until his Mommy came to pick him up?”

Sophie: “Yes! He wasn’t listening.”

“It is always the best policy to tell the truth, unless, of course, you are an exceptionally good liar.” —Jerome K. Jerome

Sophie’s “Secret”

September 18, 2011

One evening my dad was over helping with the kids while Andy was out of town. Pop Pop and Sophie made a double-layer chocolate cake with pink icing. (There was a slight meltdown when my dad reached for the cocoa powder to make chocolate icing. “PINK, POP POP! PINK!” Sophie screamed. Because, of course, icing should always be pink. Of course.) Overall, though, she was thrilled with this baking adventure with Pop Pop—and the result.

A couple days later Sophie and I were in the living room. Out of nowhere she said, “Mama! You stay here. I have a secret.”

And she left. For about two minutes.

When she came back, I asked her what her secret was. “Nothing,” she said slowly, smiling shyly. Once she busied herself with a toy, I walked into the kitchen. And saw this:

I walked back to the living room.

“Sophie, can you come here, please?” I asked. She slowly walked with me to the kitchen. “If you’re going to snitch cake, you should at least be more secretive about it.” He eyes grew wide. She, honestly, had no idea how I knew what she had done. I pointed to the scene of the crime. “First of all, you should have recovered the cake,” I said. “Second of all, you should have moved the chair back to the kitchen table.” I looked at her. Her eyes were still wide. She had no idea if she was being scolded or taught. Or both. “And one last thing. Don’t snitch cake. If you want cake, ask me. And I’ll decide if you can have it or not. But don’t take sweets without asking. OK?”

“OK,” she said.

There have been no signs of before-dinner dessert snitching since. Or maybe I just taught her too well.

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

A Confession

September 14, 2011

Although it’s rare, every once in awhile, when the boys don’t really nap and Sophie’s in a mood, when 6pm feels very far away, when our house seems extraordinarily small, when I start feeling myself getting frustrated over the littlest of things, when I start thinking about how long 18 years really is, I drive. I load everyone up in the van with no intention of going anywhere specific, or doing anything in particular, except to drive, with all three children strapped into their carseats, unable to climb up onto anything, get into anything and hopefully, maybe, fall asleep.

There are many things wrong about this.

(1) My role as mother is to read to my children, take them on walks, provide them with finger paints, play hide-and-go-seek, push them on swings, build forts with them, produce puppet shows for them, and to tackle them and tickle them until they beg me to stop. A (good) mother, I would guess, does not strap their kids in their carseats, thinking of them not as safety devices but rather ingenious containment devices, wondering how many other seats in her house could benefit from a five-point harness system. And then think of the nannies she could hire off of patenting couches, for example, with just such a thing.

(2) This is not something a sort-of-vegetarian, recycler, former (shame-faced) cloth diaper-user does. I have no idea what the exact environmental impact is of me driving around aimlessly for two hours simply because I need a break but Earth, I’m sorry. You deserve better inhabitants than me.

(3) Gas is not cheap. Nor is the no-whip, non-fat grande pumpkin latte and three petite vanilla bean scones I bought at the drive-thru Starbucks all the way up in Kenwood, a good 25 minutes from my house.

(4) Time is invaluable to me these days. Days are meant for playing with my kids, feeding my kids and (trying) to occasionally do some laundry and run the dishwasher. Evenings are meant for bedtime routines and freelance work. So leaving my house in the middle of the afternoon for the sole purpose of achieving quiet means coming back home to a completely trashed kitchen, a pile of unfolded clean clothes, activities not done, snacks missed and a lonely dog.

This was my afternoon. The boys, who have given up their morning naps, slept for about 30 minutes after lunch before waking up screaming. I changed both their diapers and they did not stop screaming. I tried to play with them, dance with them, give them snacks, give them more milk, give them kisses—still, screaming. When they were done screaming at me they turned to each other, bopped toys on each other’s heads and, again, screamed. So much screaming. I e-mailed Andy. His response? “Drugs. Drug them. Tranquilizer dart from a distance.”

I looked at the boys. They looked at me. And screamed some more. So I scooped them up, barefoot, and took them to the van, with Sophie following me saying, “Where are we going? Where are we going?”

“Nowhere,” I said, promising her an unhealthy (a word that always prompts a smile from her) treat from a drive-thru (really, I should write a parenting book).

Two minutes into the car ride the boys were still wide awake, but calm. Happy, even. Sophie, on the other hand, dropped her princess doll and started begging, pleading me to pull over right now so I could get it for her. Two minutes later, she was asleep.

The boys stayed awake the entire time. And didn’t make a sound. Sophie got in a good nap, and I saved one of my petite scones for her, knowing the first thing she’d ask when she woke up was for her drive-thru treat. And I drove. And drove and drove and drove, sipping my latte, eating my scones, listening to NPR. And it was heavenly.

And now we’re home, and amazingly, everyone is pleasant. Even though we’re 20 minutes away from the dreaded witching hour.

I imagine many mothers handle afternoons like this differently. But if you had witnessed the screaming, the incessant screaming, you have to give me credit for something—at least when I left for the drive, I took them all with me.

“Parents are not interested in justice; they are interested in quiet.” —Bill Cosby

Andy’s Typical Thursday Night Attire These Days

September 14, 2011

“Each day of our lives we make deposits in the memory banks of our children.” —Charles R. Swindoll

Tall Tales from Preschool

September 12, 2011

Today Sophie was much more eager to tell me what she did at preschool. Here are some snippets of our conversation:

Me: “Did you have snacks today? I bet you had brussels sprouts, didn’t you?”

Sophie: “No! There was a big bag of candy and we each took turns jumping in it.”

Me: “Really?”

Sophie: “Yes. And then we had 55 cookies. And brussels sprouts.”

And later …

Me: “So what was your favorite activity at school today?

Sophie: “We played hide-and-go seek and tag. We chased each other.”

Me: “You’re allowed to run in preschool?’

Sophie: “You’re not allowed to run in preschool.

Me: “So how did you play hide-and-go seek and tag in preschool if you’re not allowed to run in preschool?”

Sophie: “Well as you play tag someone runs and then someone runs with them and then you try to tag their belly, like this. And to play hide-and-go-seek you count and the other person hides and then you find them!”

Me: “But how did you play those games without running?”

Sophie: “We just walked.”

Me: “Did you really play those games?”

Sophie: “We really did.”

And later…

Me: “Were there more kids there today?”

Sophie: “Yes. Five boys and 100 girls.”

Me: “Wow, that’s a lot of girls. Did you play with any of them?”

Sophie: “Yes. Arabella. Arabella, Arabella (singing, now) Araaaaa…belllll…a!”

Me: “What did the two of you do?”

Sophie: “Me and Owen and James and Arabella walked down the street without you. We went to Zoey’s house. We went up to her room and took all the pillows off her bed. Then we had a pillow fight.”

Me: “Really?”

Sophie: “Yes. It was really fun.”

And later …

Me: “So what did you really do in preschool today?”

Sophie: “Right now I’m just tired and tired and tired. And it’s a secret. That I can NOT tell.”

“Life itself is the most wonderful fairytale of all.” —Hans Christian Andersen

10 Years Ago Today

September 11, 2011

I wasn’t even in the United States. I was on vacation, with my then-boyfriend-now-husband, and his parents, in Costa Rica. We were hiking, oblivious, as the events of 9/11 unfolded. Someone who worked at Lapa Rios, the ecolodge where we were staying, told us what happened upon our return. There were no TVs at Lapa Rios, but someone, somewhere, found a small black-and-white one and hooked it up. We watched the images as someone translated for us. I remember hearing the words “casa blanca” over and over. It was so strange to be surrounded by the luxuriousness of the lodge and the beauty of the Osa Peninsula while such tragedy unfolded back home (I lived in Alexandria, Va. at the time).

And yet, even on the most beautiful of days, some tragedy, for someone, is unfolding somewhere.

I’ve always had a difficult time feeling connected to 9/11, in part, because my experience of it was so different from everyone in the United States. Eventually the little black-and-white TV was unplugged. There was a lot of silent staring over balconies. A lot of somber talks over dinner. A lot of trips into town to call home. But the fact of the matter was, we were on vacation. Eventually, we and everyone else, got back into the pool, back to our scheduled horseback rides, back to listening to the howler monkeys and watching the scarlet macaws bicker with their mates. And there was excitement (I was in Costa Rica!). And guilt (what right do I have to enjoy this with such tragedy taking place?). And sadness (the loss was unfathomable to me). And yet, there was beauty. Beauty in our surroundings, beauty in the living, beauty in the lives lived.

I can only share where I was 10 years ago today. The story of 9/11 belongs to others. Like Salvatore Siano, a retired New Jersey bus driver. (Read his story, by Ian Frazier in the September 12, 2011 issue of The New Yorker, here.) Or Lt. Heather “Lucky” Penney, whose bravery is astonishing and admirable. (Read her story, by Steve Hendrix in the September 8, 2011 issue of The Washington Post, here.) Or Lauren Charette, whose letter to her father who died that day, 10 years ago today, left me sobbing in bed tonight. (Read her letter, here.) I’ve been careful about the images on TV this week, careful because Sophie is beginning to see things, hear things and understand things that surprise me, daily. She’ll know, someday. But not yet. And I can’t help but think of all the children who didn’t have that choice—who had to be exposed to such hate, sadness and tragedy—in order to explain the absence of someone they love.

To be surrounded by such beauty when 9/11 happened was a gift. But what seems beautiful (a jungle, for example) always has hidden ugliness (jungle animals eat other jungle animals). There was a guest book at Lapa Rios, which we all signed. I wrote about having always wanted to visit a rain forest and how that dream had finally come true. My father-in-law was much more poignant. I don’t remember exactly what he wrote (I wish I did) but I remember it being about the beasts of the jungle and how we humans aren’t much different.

Although I often feel (unreasonable) guilt for being where I was on 9/11, it has also taught me this: beauty and ugliness, even the deepest and darkest ugliness, can and does coexist. I think of the raw, natural beauty of the jungle on that day. I think of all the babies born that day. I think of Frank DeMartini and Pablo Ortiz, who walked up instead of down that day, giving their own lives to save more than 75 people from the North Tower. I think of the hundreds of thousands of small acts of kindness that happened that day. And yet, I struggle with the why. Why was I allowed such beauty that day, while so many others were not? Why am I allowed such beauty every day, while so many others are not?

“The beauty of the world has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.” —Virginia Woolf