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

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

Sisterly Love

September 9, 2011

I think the boys are sometimes baffled by Sophie. On this day, in early August, she picked out their outfits (note they’re both wearing plaid shorts and mismatched shirts). She’s very loving to them, sometimes, aggressively so. She doesn’t just hug them, rather she tackles them with hugs, pats them (sometimes too hard) on the back over and over while saying “I love you bud” through gritted teeth, and shakes their hands. My favorite, though, is when she pins them on the floor and tickles them. Their laughs are so deep, so real, so sincere.

Someday, though, I suspect the boys will be bigger than Sophie. I remember wrestling with my sister and brother when I was little. Although we fought, sure, our fights were always verbal. The wrestling was fun wrestling, for the most part, a pile of arms and legs flailing on the family room floor. Being the oldest, I was the strongest. For awhile.

I vividly remember one family room match with my brother, surprised as he smiled down on me, while pinning me to the floor. Although younger, suddenly, he was stronger.

It’s coming, Sophie. It’s coming.

“Siblings are the people we practice on, the people who teach us about fairness and cooperation and kindness and caring—quite often the hard way.” —Pamela Dugdale

Sophie & the Dentist

September 9, 2011

For a couple years now, Andy and I would take Sophie with us to the dentist, just so she could get a feel for what it was like. She loved the trips because she got to sit on a stool that swiveled and she always walked away with a new Dora toothbrush. Still, I was nervous when it came time for her first pediatric dentist Ashburn appointment. Make sure to visit a trusted dentist that does Invisalign Alliston and other dental services for quality results. Andy offered to take her, while I stayed home with the boys. I, perhaps selfishly, happily agreed to this plan, fearing the worst. To my surprise, Andy later told me that Sophie not only enjoyed the visit but even giggled through her dental cleaning like it was just another fun adventure. Parents who prefer a holistic approach to their kids’ dental health may contact specialists in biological dental care in Newport Beach. You can also visit Dentistry at Frederick, a leading Kitchener dentist known for personalized care and modern dental solutions. St John’s Wood dental experts offer preventive cleanings, restorative treatments, and cosmetic dentistry in a welcoming, state-of-the-art clinic that helps families achieve lifelong oral health and beautiful smiles. Some families also choose to consult a dentist New Brighton for additional guidance on maintaining positive and stress-free pediatric dental experiences.

She did great.

Which makes me wonder, why is it she’ll sit still, open-mouthed, smiling while having her teeth scraped but the moment I try to put a brush to her hair she immediately begins flinging herself backwards, reaching for the brushing saying “I can do it!” And by do it I mean she puts the brush down, takes both of her hands and flips the sides of her hair back and then says, “Done. See! That’s how I like it. No brush.”

Then again, I don’t give her new Dora toothbrushes every night. If you have missing teeth that prevents you from having a beautiful smile, you may consider seeking a full smile rehabilitation.

“Every tooth in a man’s head is more valuable than a diamond.” —Miguel de Cervantes

The Lure of the Open Laptop

September 8, 2011

“The quickest way for a parent to get a child’s attention is to sit down and look comfortable.” —Lane Olinghouse

Sophie’s 1st Day of Preschool

September 7, 2011

She was so excited. When I woke her up yesterday morning, she claimed she was still tired (we had just returned from a wonderful visit—but long drive—to see Grandma and Paw Paw Uhl in Baltimore). Then I reminded her about preschool. Never before have I seen someone perk up so quickly in the morning.

Her backpack.

I was worried about Baby Doll. And Baby Doll’s diaper bag. But Sophie said Baby Doll could stay in the car, as long as I took care of her. I promised I would.

After I got her out of bed (and by bed, I mean our bed—that’s another story) she ran to my closet and pulled out my purple shoes, insisting I wear them for this special day. I did. (Her first-day-of-school outfit, by the way, was a gift from Grandma. She was so excited to wear it.)

Nini helped with first day of school preparations, too, with a book, The Kissing Hand, and the above card. We read it to her over and over again. Still, I was worried. We had been talking about preschool for months—and I knew she was excited to go. But I was worried about the actual day. And the fact that we weren’t going to walk in with her—rather the teacher was going to come out and get her.

I shouldn’t have been worried. Look how happy she was on the short drive there.

Once we pulled up to the school I got out, fanned out the fingers of her left hand and kissed her palm. She smiled (and refused to put her palm to her cheek). I unbuckled her and she (slowly) left the van. And turned around. Assured. Happy. Waving goodbye. It was as it should have been. (Note I wasn’t crying at this point.)

(This is where I cried.)

And the pick-up.

This week she only went Tuesday and Wednesday for an hour each day. Next week she goes for an hour and a half, and the week after she’ll begin her full 2-1/2 hour days, Monday through Wednesday.

Yesterday, before we could even get her buckled in, she said, “Are you ready to hear what happened?”

“Yes!” we said.

She told us about sitting on the line and singing “Open and Shut Them” and her “work” and the small potty.

Today, after I buckled her in, I asked her about her day. “We did the same thing as yesterday,” she said.

I tried asking again, a more detailed question this time.

“Enough, Mama! I don’t want to talk about it! I’ve had a long day and I’m tired.”

Seriously? I assumed such a response from my someday-junior-high child—not from my 3 year old.

So far she’s been quiet about today’s activities although she has asked when she gets to go back. I take that as a good sign. And maybe, someday, she’ll share with me the books she reads, the songs she sings, the friends she makes, the pictures she paints.

Everyone said the 2-1/2 hours would go so fast. She isn’t even going 2-1/2 hours yet, only an hour, and these past two days, it has gone by so slow. I know that will change. And I know that, perhaps in even a week, I’ll wonder why I didn’t sign her up for five days a week. It’s just different at home, with Owen and James and no Sophie. Not better. Not worse. Different. The dynamic has changed. As it will when she shifts to her 2-1/2-hour days. And then, next year, five days a week. The year after that, kindergarten. And then school. And then, someday, college, perhaps—away from home.

That’s the nature of life, shifting, changing, adjusting, readjusting, renewing. I understand that. But life—our life—didn’t just shift yesterday. Rather, I feel like it jolted forward. I knew this was coming, yes, but in a “so far away” manner. Not, as in, this week. I look at her as changed. She’s older to me now. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. She surprises me with her thoughts. The thickness of her hair. Her tallness.

I swear, she’s smarter.

Take today’s lunch, for example. She was fingering a slice of green pepper on her plate, not wanting to eat it. “It’s just like a pickle!” I said, as she loves pickles. I felt a little bad about this, as green peppers are nothing like pickles, but consoled myself with the fact that both are green so it wasn’t an all-out lie.

She looked at the green pepper for a moment. And then at me. And then her eyes narrowed and she smiled, slightly. “Are you tricking me?” she asked.

My daughter, she’s growing up. I can no longer trick her into eating something she doesn’t want. She’s experiencing things I can’t bear witness to. It’s up to her whether she shares her day’s activities with me or not.

I love that she finds comfort in her nest, our home. But I’m also so very happy she was eager to leave it—and, perhaps selfishly, for now, eager to come back home, too. Eager with her hug and “I love you” and tickling of the boys. Eager to go back. Eager to stay. Eager for life, in general.

“There are two lasting bequests we can give our children. One is roots. The other is wings.” —Hodding Carter, Jr.

The Grand Carousel

September 3, 2011

I have long loved carousels, believing them to be the most elegant of amusement park rides. The Grand Carousel at Kings Island was built in 1926 and I remember, even as a little girl, imagining those in the late 1920s and early 1930s riding it—children, adults, everyone happy.

The carousel is painted with more than 20,000 sheets of 23-karat gold and 1,000 sheets of sterling silver—I love the painted scenes and as a young girl I spent many a hot summer afternoons dreaming about living in them.

We sought shelter under the carousel during a long thunderstorm. Two older men were operating the ride—and beautifully singing the old-fashioned words to the songs coming from the carousel’s organ into their microphones. They both acknowledged the fact that we kept getting off the ride and getting back on. Because the ride was quite empty they insisted we just stay on for the duration of the storm. Sophie loved this.

As did the boys.

I think we rode the carousel at least six times. Maybe more.

And if you count the smaller one in the kid area, well, it was probably close to 20.

Sophie still talks about the carousel, almost daily. She likes to play “Kings Island” in our entry at home, although she often calls it “Kings Land.” We sit on the area rug and pretend we’re on the horses, going up and down, or on another ride, going “super fast.” Grandma is particularly good at this game.

I see so much of myself in Sophie. Especially, though, when she’s doing things I did as a little girl, such as riding the Grand Carousel. Maybe it’s the memories. Maybe it’s what happens when you’re a mother. Maybe it’s just the cyclical nature of things, which Joni Mitchell put so well: “And the seasons, they go ’round and ’round. And the painted ponies go up and down. We’re captive on the carousel of time. We can’t return, we can only look behind from where we came. And go round and round and round in the circle game.”

“You don’t really understand human nature unless you know why a child on a merry-go-round will wave at his parents every time around—and why his parents will always wave back.” —William D. Tammeus

Kings Island

September 3, 2011

As a child, my sister, brother and I got passes to Kings Island for Christmas every other year. In high school, I spent two summers working at Kings Island. The first summer I sold baseball caps and mini baseball bats in an outdoor “dugout” at a sports memorabilia store. The second summer I was in charge of several souvenir stands throughout the park (and, as such, got to play with dry ice—which we used to pack glow-in-the-dark necklaces—on a daily basis).

It had been a long time since I had been to the park. But the sights, sounds, smell—it was all the same. So many memories.

It was incredibly hot, the day we chose to go (with Lizz and Eric, and their friends, although they spent their time riding the adult rides while we, obviously, stuck with the Sophie-friendly rides).

Sophie only tried three rides. The carousel, the swings and this helicopter thing that followed a high-above-ground track around the park.

We decided to cool off in a theater, where we watched a Snoopy on Ice show. James loved Linus, who was standing outside.

He also loved the show, constantly dancing and clapping on Andy’s lap. (Owen sat on my lap, still and mesmerized.)

Sophie slept.

After the show Sophie attempted to walk through a water thing. She flipped out, about halfway through, refusing to go forward (through a water wall) and refusing to go back the way she had come (where she had been blasted with water). So I had to rescue her. And lift her over some landscaping and a fence, and endure glares from people working the “ride.” Here she is, happy to be out of the storm.

We endured a real storm (more on that later) and grabbed some ice cream before the second round of storm clouds moved in. Despite how hot it was the boys were so, incredibly, well behaved. And Sophie had a great time. Andy and I, honestly, were expecting the worst—thinking we’d pay a lot of money for what would end up being a very short trip. But we stayed for hours. Sometimes, things do work out the way you want them to.

“If I had my life to live over, I would start barefoot earlier in the spring and stay that way later in the fall. I would go to more dances. I would ride more merry-go-rounds. I would pick more daisies.” —Nadine Stair

Island Party 5

September 3, 2011

This year Andy’s sister Lizz and her boyfriend Eric joined us for Jenna and Greg’s 5th Island Party.

The kids loved the water table. Here, Jenna with Hannah and Mark with Connor.

The party is always an OU reunion of sorts, with friends from near and far attending.

I finally got to meet Dara and Mike’s beautiful baby daughter, Nora.

Sophie loved the flamingo cupcakes Greg’s mom made.

cornhole, of course

Sophie swung for hours.

Lizz and Eric

my family

Once 8pm hit I tried to give the boys their bedtime bottles in their car seats, hoping they’d simply drift off to sleep in the quiet, living room darkness. This picture shows you how well my plan worked.

Once again, thank you, Jenna and Greg, for a fun party. It’s always fun (see here and here).

“On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.” —George Gordon Byron