I was without a working laptop this past week, but a trip to the Genius Bar at the Apple store this evening and I’m back, with my first throwback post—this one to spring of last year.
Sophie knows her butterflies. She insisted on wearing a floral dress and bringing her own silk flowers, both of which the butterflies loved.
“Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you.” —Nathaniel Hawthorne
I’m back.
With a goal to post every day, going back in time and documenting all I missed, until I catch back up.
This past year threw me for a loop.
Age 3, times two, was hard.
But I excel at looking back through rose-colored glasses, which is why going back in time and writing about all the happy moments, holidays, meltdowns and celebrations I didn’t write about day of, will be possible. (Still, I’ve promised myself to remain honest and true.)
It’s a lot like this:
You step onto your porch and see the above lining your front walk and you think, Why are there drawings of penises all over my front walk? And you sigh and wonder where your children are and you think about all the things no one told you about parenthood and you realize how tired you are, how very, very tired you are, and you know there is no way you’re going to be able to write about this because it’s just too much.
And then you find your kids and you inquire and you realize what you thought were penises really are parking spots for scooters.
And everything seems so much better. Doable. Hilarious, even.
And that’s where I am now. Although I still have what look like drawings of penises all over my front walk, I know they’re parking spots for scooters.
And so, I’m diving back in. Because as difficult as this past year has been, there have been some really great moments. Things I worry about forgetting without documenting. And even the most difficult moments seem funnier, softer and easier, months after the fact—as is true for much of life.
Plus, I’ve realized how much I miss writing when not writing. And the act is much cheaper than traditional therapy.
So here goes.
“Don’t call the world dirty because you forgot to clean your glasses.” —Aaron Hill
I could have renewed my driver’s license this morning, while the kids were at school. But I had editing to do and I love my quiet/coffee/home-alone time. Plus, I thought, the kids would get a kick out of helping me on the errand. I could teach them about licenses and the responsibility that comes with driving a car and … lines.
I’m an idiot.
I picked the kids up from school and the first thing we did was eat out—this allowed everyone to use the bathroom and everyone to fill their stomachs, and as a bonus, they felt as if it was a treat. So, they were happy.
Next up, the DMV.
“Just drive down 27—it’s the new building on the left,” Andy said.
I did exactly what he said and somehow ended up at the police department. The woman in front of us was, shall we say, in distress. After I noted the bars over the windows and the fact that everyone was carrying a gun, I said to another woman behind me, “This isn’t where you renew your driver’s license, is it?”
She said no.
We left. I answered lots of questions. I loaded everyone back in the car. I called Andy.
“Why would you go to the police department? You need to go to the other new building,” he said.
“What’s the building called?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. He looked up the address. “1098 Monmouth Street.”
Turns out it was the County Clerk’s Office and wasn’t far. I drove, parked, unloaded the kids, found “DMV” on the directory and we waited in line, for about 20 minutes.
“Are you here for a renewal?” a woman asked, when it was our turn.
“Yes,” I said. “My driver’s license.”
“You’re in the wrong building.”
At this point I had already threatened the loss of and given back the promise of fruit snacks once home to the kids about 12 times.
“What?” I asked.
I needed to be at the Circuit Court Clerk’s Office, on York street. Not the County Clerk’s Office on Monmouth street.
Of course.
I loaded everyone back in the car. And drove to the courthouse.
This time, I had to parallel park the minivan. And once inside the courthouse, the kids had to walk through a metal detector, which James tried to go back and forth through three times. Thankfully, the officers were kind and awarded the kids for being somewhat reasonable with gold Junior Sheriff Deputy stickers.
We walked down a hallway and down a staircase to another hallway where there was a really.long.line.
And so we waited. The kids begged for candy from one of the four snack machines next to us. I didn’t have enough change. We waited. The boys couldn’t leave the flexible line divider thing alone. I scolded. We waited. We played Simon Says. We waited. The kids spotted a water fountain and I tried to bribe them with water, saying if they were good in line we’d visit the fountain when we were done. We waited. A bench freed up and the kids sat. Well, Sophie sat and the boys started a wrestling match with each other. I scolded and gave them my phone to look at pictures. We waited.
We waited and waited and waited until we were called and the woman behind the desk asked me if the address on my license was current and I said “yes” and then looked at my license and realized it was not (we moved years ago) and I told her so and then she asked for proof of address, such as a piece of mail.
I considered crying.
Thankfully, my checks have my current address and that sufficed.
Next I spent an entire minute explaining to Owen why he couldn’t be in the picture with me. I smiled against the blue backdrop, while all three of my kids were on the floor around my feet, done with the day.
I got my new license.
“Do you want to see it?” I asked Sophie.
“No.”
I’m an idiot.
“Everything in life is somewhere else, and you get there in a car.” —E.B. White
“Mommy, when we came out of your tummy you gave us a birthday!” —James, thinking deep thoughts, almost two hours past his bedtime
“The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.” —Mark Twain
I’m at my wit’s end.
Owen is completely trained—day and night.
James James James! No. 1, great. No. 2, refuses. He hides and then comes to us, hands covering his eyes and whispers what he’s done.
We have tried e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g. For months. Many, many months.
We’ve tried charts—three different charts—each with different goals and rewards.
We’ve set the timer for every 15 minutes for days at a time.
We’ve sat with him, reading book after book.
We’ve let him sit in the living room, watching TV.
We’ve tried a small treat for each attempt.
We’ve let him go naked at home, all day long.
We’ve tried padded underwear, smaller underwear, bigger underwear, an array of different character underwear.
We’ve tried peer pressure. “Sophie does it! Owen does it! Everyone at preschool does it!”
We’ve purchased the toy he wants most and placed it, still in its package, on a shelf above the toilet. For weeks he broke my heart, holding it while trying to go.
We’ve tried having long talks with him after an incident.
We’ve become frustrated with him, showing him our frustration.
We’ve made cheerleaders out of Owen and Sophie—they sit with him or they dance in the bathroom while he sits or they sing silly potty songs to make him laugh.
We’ve tried the potty training DVDs (Elmo, Daniel Tiger, etc.).
We’ve tried the potty training books (all of them).
We’ve tried putting him in charge—letting him pick out the underwear, the treat, the reward. Letting him make his own chart and help set his own goals. Letting him ask us what he needs from us or, at the least, letting him tell us what’s working and what’s not (it’s forever, “I don’t know”).
And now I don’t know. I don’t know what else to do.
He’s 3. Very much 3. He’ll be 4 in May.
We’ve had some small triumphs. He earned the toy, in the package, just last week—and then promptly lost it.
And then there was tonight. I saw him get up and hide in a corner. So I jumped up, picked him up and carried him to the bathroom. He was furious with me. I took a deep breath, and remained calm. I talked in a soft, low voice. I asked him questions, like I always do.
Me: “What are you feeling right now?”
James: “I don’t know.”
Me: “Are you afraid?”
James: “No.”
Me: “Is it easier standing up?”
James: “No!”
The questions got more graphic from there—I will spare you.
After about 40 minutes of the two of us sitting in our small half bath, with Owen and Sophie bopping in every once in awhile with cheers of support, he went. He was so pleased with himself. Knowing he was close, I had told him we’d go straight from the half bath to Target, where he could pick out a new train. I knew he was close, and I didn’t want to waste the opportunity. I thought he was over the old toy he had earned and lost. And this was something I never do—the very thought of it was a treat.
It was 7:45pm. Bedtime is 8pm. Andy wasn’t home, which meant me piling all three kids into the van in 21° weather, navigating our icy driveway, getting everyone into Target and negotiating a reasonably priced toy.
I let Sophie and Owen pick out something small, too, which again, is something I never do. But they have been so supportive of James, and they have been so good playing with each other while I spend a ridiculous amount of time with James in our little half bath, as they did tonight. They deserved a treat, too.
The trip went so well, with little complaining—even over the cart seating arrangement. James, clutching his new train, promised, over and over, to not have any more accidents.
I felt like a huge weight had lifted off my shoulders.
We got home, well past bedtime. I wrangled everyone into pjs. We brushed teeth. Turned down beds. The whole bit.
And then James covered his eyes with his hands and whispered, “change me.”
I inwardly screamed. I stared at him, mouth set, making no noise. Inside, I was losing it. Inside, I was a tired, frustrated, defeated mama who would just like to go one day—one day!—without cleaning up someone else’s poop.
He lost his new toy, which I felt terribly bad about but he didn’t fight me at all—he knew he couldn’t keep it.
I told him he could earn it back.
But we’ve done this already, with the other toy that sat on the shelf above the toilet for weeks.
So now what? He’s working to earn two toys back? When does it end?
People say to give it time. But we’ve been doing this for more than a year now.
A year.
That’s not normal, is it? I mean, what’s normal in parenting, right? But seriously, that’s not normal.
Help. Please help. Not with stories of how you potty trained in a weekend (those stories aren’t real, right?) but with tricks, tips, ideas.
(And thank you.)
“The story of a mother’s life: Trapped between a scream and a hug.” —Cathy Guisewite
This morning James ran into our bedroom in a flurry, ripped open the blinds and screamed, “IT’S MORNING TIME!”. He then turned on the radio, switched on the lights, jumped on top of me and yelled, “GET UP, LAZY BONES!”.
And it wasn’t just this morning.
It’s every morning.
Boundless energy, that boy has—boundless.
“No human being believes that any other human being has a right to be in bed when he himself is up.” —Robert Lynd
Sophie spent the night with her cousin Colleen at Nini and Pop Pop’s house over Christmas. So tonight, it was James and Owen’s turn to spend the night at Nini and Pop Pop’s. My parents asked the boys if they wanted to spend the night together or separate and they said together (everything is together these days, including their clothes, which they love to match).
This worked out well, as Andy was in Columbus all day and Sophie and I had a baby shower to attend.
Lovely Danielle is due in March!
Sophie’s next request: the aquarium.
Once back outside, we watched the snow fall on the Ohio River.
And then: Dinner at Bravo. All she really wanted for dinner was to sit in a high chair (bar stool). (Halfway through talking about it, she realized, with hilarity, that “high chair” sounded an awful lot like she wanted to sit in a “highchair.” We used the phrase “tall chair” then on after.) She got her wish and so much more. Newport’s Bravo does have tall chairs, which overlook the kitchen. We got to watch everything being cooked. And (I had no idea they did this) she was given a small ball of dough to form into any shape she wanted (she chose five “snowballs,” one for everyone in the family). Marissa (at least I think that was her name, it was loud when I asked her) was in charge of making and cooking all the bruschettas, pizzas, etc. She cooked Sophie’s snowballs, in the wood-fired pizza oven. Sophie watched them rise and brown, and was thrilled.
We drove home slowly, in the snow. Once home I discovered my parents had my house key (we switched vehicles). And both our front door and back door were (for once) locked. So I tried the cellar door—thankfully, the basement door at the bottom of the steps was unlocked, and Sophie laughed with great joy at the oddity of entering our house this way. Once inside, and having fed Tucker, both on our own, we immediately put on comfy clothes. I started a fire and she curled up on her new bean bag couch, a gift from Grandma, and we watched “The Little Mermaid,” which I had ordered online earlier in the week and which she had been waiting patiently for, as she had never seen it.
My mom just emailed me. “They went to bed at 8:00 and fell asleep before I hit the bottom step. They were on their best behavior all day.”
Today was so nice.
I could spend a paragraph writing about how much I love Owen and James but truly, I feel it’s unnecessary. I love them.
But I also love and crave one-on-one time, with all my children, too.
And this has been a tough year for me, with two three year olds. It’s, well, chaos. I don’t think even the sleep-deprived nonstop first six months was chaotic as this has been. There was more control to their infancy—there was a schedule and when they cried it was OK because that’s what babies do and everything—they and all their things—stayed put, unless I moved them.
Now. Now it’s just chaos.
And today, I could have fixed that chaos a bit. A bit more, I should say, as we’ve deemed the year 2014 as the year we put our house (and lives) back in order. But instead, I spent it looking at fish. And making dough snowballs. And breaking into my own house. And remembering how sweet and funny and kind my little almost 6-year-old is, and how much she shines when, every once in awhile, the wonderful, beautiful chaos of being a big sister to two 3-year-olds is removed.
I’m so good at seeing the beauty in the chaos once removed. Now, I just need to learn how to recognize the grace while in the thick of it.
“If chaos is a necessary step in the organization of one’s universe, then I was well on my way.” —Wendelin Van Draanen
I found this in Sophie’s backpack.
my BUVRZ = my brothers
JAZ = James
ON = Owen
“Thanksgiving is the holiday that encompasses all others. All of them … are in one way or another about being thankful.” —Jonathan Safran Foer
So James and Owen are in preschool. They go five days a week, 9-11:30am. They seem to love it. (I love it.)
They’re excited to go in the morning. They’re all smiles when they climb up into the van when their day is done.
They sing the songs they learned. They tell me about the rug work they did, the books they listened to, the snacks they ate.
They eagerly show me their papers.
Owen:
James:
Owen (apparently he can write his own name and cut out bats):
James (this is about as much as he can get done without moving on to something else—in fact, I’m rather impressed with his “skeleton” above):
Today, Andy observed for a few minutes before going to work. Here’s a picture he took, of Owen and James “sitting” on the blue line:
I know you’re not supposed to compare but seriously, all of this cracks me up. Because here’s the thing: I’m not worried about James. Truly, I’m not. Give him a puzzle meant for 8+ and he’ll sit and concentrate, finishing it. Give him anything he shouldn’t take apart and he’ll expertly dismantle it. Give him a pile of tracks and he’ll put together an elaborate, working system. All the rest of it? Well, he just does things on his own time, in his own way.
OK, so maybe if by spring he’s still bringing home papers with only scribbles on them, I’ll worry (a little). And if one of his teachers tells us he’s being disruptive while (not) sitting on the line, we’ll talk with him. If any of this becomes a problem, we’ll deal with it.
But for now, carry on, little man. Carry on.
“If you cannot be a poet, be the poem.” —David Carradine
Work, for my dad, started early—in life and in the day. He grew up on a hog farm in Lewisburg, Ohio. He helped with the hard work of the farm, and my grandparents paid him and his siblings for the work that they did. He went to college, taught, got a master’s degree and taught some more. He was good at his work, but he never let it define him. Case in point: In 1982, he started working for McGraw-Hill Book Company. I have postcards from the early 80s from places like New York City—places my dad traveled for work. I remember going to the airport with him, getting on his plane and stepping into the cockpit. I remember a pilot giving me my own pilot wings. I remember watching his plane leave the airport and I remember the excitement of postcards in the mail. I don’t know if I simply associate Harry Chapin’s “The Cat’s in the Cradle” with my dad’s decision to leave his district manager job or if the song truly influenced him but he did leave it after three years. And most of his career, from 1985 to 2013, was spent with Great Oaks Institute of Technology and Career Development, most recently as Vice President of Business Operations. He did a lot of good there.
In June, he retired.
We attended a banquet for all the Great Oaks retirees late this spring. His speech made me teary.
And then in June, Kyle from San Francisco, and Katy, Tom and Colleen from North Carolina, came to town to celebrate.
These were some of the best summer days and nights.
We celebrated many things that week. We had dinner at A Tavola followed by cake and gifts at our house to celebrate Father’s Day and my mom’s birthday.
Our immediate family toasted and gifted my dad after dinner at Troy’s Cafe. My mom gave him two engraved bricks that both say “But it’s Baseball! Gary Gebhart”—one’s at home, the other, at Great American Ball Park.
For weeks beforehand my mom gathered one word from people who know my dad—one word that describes him. She then made The List.
The List
caring
major league
sincere
genuineness
animates
thoughtful
worker
lists
builder
fanatical
awesome
smiley
OBT
stupendous
committed
loyal
trustworthy
quick-witted
magnanimous
friendly
organized
considerate
realistic
smiling
farmer
finisher
comfortable
conscientious
industrious
tenacious
Kotter
nice
loving
egalitarian
friends
baseball
glasses
passionate
kind
right
quick
interesting
helpful
respectful
genuine
witty
cute
card-maker
dedicated
baseball guru
photographer
inspirational
detailed
pliable
humorous
high-fives
perspicacious
dependable
late
funny
brotherly
Xenia
generous
Carnac the Magnificent
courteous
kind-hearted
diligent
fun
sports guru
brilliant
hospitable
family
supportive
selfless
beloved
The next day family, friends and colleagues attended a party at my parents’ house.
My dad and brother-in-law spent days preparing Detling Field for a ballgame. We played a bit but then …
a downpour.
Still, an enjoyable day, complete with Eli’s BBQ sandwiches for all.
Now my parents are both retired. My dad still works, but it’s work of his choosing. He gardens. He works in the yard. He works out. He attends services at First Unitarian Church of Cincinnati. He volunteers at the Freestore Foodbank. He tutors a kindergartener once a week at South Avondale Elementary School. Every week he and my mom go on a date—Shaker Village of Pleasant Hill, Findley Market, a concert in a coffee shop. Next weekend they’re going to Colonial Williamsburg to see the Threads of Feeling exhibit with my grandma and my sister and her family. They went to Hawaii.
My dad stopped by the other day, after tutoring, just to hang out, to play tickle monster with the kids, to be beat in Bingo. This time for him is so incredibly well-deserved. And I’m just so thankful to be a part of it.
“Don’t simply retire from something; have something to retire to.” —Harry Emerson Fosdick
