This gem was from May. Blame Sophie.
But gosh that was a fun afternoon. A really, really, really fun afternoon.
And it’s sometimes nice to remember those fun afternoons after evenings like tonight. Evenings in which my dear, hardworking husband didn’t come home until 6:40pm and instead of finding dinner on the table found me, in bed, hiding under the duvet.
I’m sorry.
“Fashion is instant language.” —Miuccia Prada
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
Owen, crying: “Can you figure out what I need?”
“You know that children are growing up when they start asking questions that have answers.” —John J. Plomp
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
A couple months ago time-outs became tough. Our rule used to be you had to sit in the time-out corner in the dining room for the number of minutes equivalent to your age—and if you kicked, screamed, or otherwise created drama, time-out started over.
There was kicking, screaming and drama. Always. It was miserable, for everyone.
Enter the hourglass sand timer, which I keep tucked away in our secretary.
I purposefully chose glass.
Now the kids have to sit in time-out and gently hold the timer. I explained that it’s glass and holding it is like holding a bird’s egg—if it’s dropped or thrown, it breaks. The gentle handling requires almost immediate calmness.
It’s also a five-minute timer. At first I worried this would be too long, but they spend the entire time watching the sand fall, and they calm, calm, calm.
Once the sand runs out we spend time talking about why the time-out had to happen, and follow-up with the usual apologies to those needing them, hugs and “I love you” from me.
It’s not foolproof. But for the most part it has greatly improved what had become a nonworking discipline technique.
Rarely do I have success with these sort of things, so when I do, I feel the need to pass these tricks along.
“While you’ll feel compelled to charge forward it’s often a gentle step back that will reveal to you where you and what you truly seek.” —Rasheed Ogunlaru
Last night ice crystals formed on our single-pane, leaded-glass windows that frame our front door.
This morning, I noticed the most beautiful ice formations on the window in our half bath, accentuated by the early morning sun.
And then Owen climbed up on the stool to wash his hands and … nothing.
I looked at the ice crystals and let out a slow and heavy sigh.
We had forgotten to let the faucets drip overnight.
I read some “how to thaw frozen pipes” articles online, all of which talked about the importance of prevention. I called Andy at work. I turned on all the other faucets in our house (which were still working) to a slow trickle. I turned on the half-bath faucet, too. I put a space heater in the half bath, turned it up to 70° and shut the door.
Our house is more than 100 years old. The half bath was an addition. There is nothing below it, except a crawl space (which we discovered after moving into the house was used to store piles of slate tile that once served as the roof on the house—we’ve since turned several into mini chalkboards).
“You have to go into the crawl space,” Andy said, over the phone. “You have to find out what’s going on in there.”
On went my boots, coat, mittens, hat and scarf around my face. I bribed the kids with Neccos (yes, it was still morning) and TV. Out I went. Except the four-foot door, made out of wood and lattice and held on with rusty hinges, wouldn’t open. I looked down to see that a block of the concrete sidewalk had risen high enough to block the opening of the door.
I pulled, and pulled, and pulled.
Back inside, I called Andy.
“The pipes are more important than the door,” he said. “Do I need to come home?”
“No,” I said. I was determined to handle this mini household emergency myself.
I dressed again, and went back outside with a hammer. I looked for a pin to pull out in the hinges, but everything was ice-encrusted and rusted over. Still, I hit the hinges with my hammer a few times. Nothing.
So I lifted up and pulled on the door, with all my might, thinking if the door broke, so be it.
Success.
I crawled into the crawl space, smiled at the piles of slate tiles and wondered about the old moulding and hooks that were also down there. I could do something with that, I thought. I tried to focus.
I could (obviously) see no pipes. All I saw was cold stone foundation, and some poured concrete.
And then, I heard screaming. Owen screaming. A blood-curdling scream followed by sobbing.
I ran out as fast as I could to find him on our icy deck, in his winter coat on but upside down, barefoot.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I screamed, scooping him up and rushing him inside.
As I rubbed his feet to warm them up he said, “I wanted to help you and I couldn’t find my shoes.”
(He’s fine.)
Back outside. I cleared out some debris and carried another space heater down to the crawl space (where, conveniently, there was a plug). I plugged it in, turned it up to 70° and shut the door.
Then I went back inside and read up on the dangers of space heaters, freaking myself out well enough that I checked on it (which required re-dressing for the weather) every 20 minutes throughout the day.
Around 3pm I noticed the ceiling of the crawl space bulging. I could see the insulation peeking out. I also noted past water stains.
Surely, I thought, our pipes had cracked and the space was filling up with water.
I went back inside, called Andy.
“Drill a hole,” he said. “See what happens.”
So I grabbed our drill, chucked a 3/8″ bit into it and didn’t think about the possibility of accidentally drilling into the pipe until I was halfway through the drilling job. I pulled the bit out, held my breath and waited.
Nothing.
Back inside. Back to peeling clementines, building Lego towers, insisting on Christmas thank-you notes, soaking a doll’s hair in a concoction of water and fabric softener, negotiating TV time, fruit snacks and games on the computer.
Back to checking the crawl space.
Over and over.
And then, something clicked. The space heater running in the bath wasn’t pushed up right next to the pipe. I was simply using it to heat the space, in general. I felt the pipe, behind our pedestal sink, and close to hardwood floor it was, indeed, very cold. So I pushed the space heater up practically against the pipe and set the temperature for 75°. And while peeling clementines (for the 10th time that day) I heard the noise of rushing water—it was from our faucet, into our sink.
I’m still holding my breath. Having only lived in 100-plus-year-old houses since Andy and I have been married, I’m used to things not working out. In fact, I still keeping checking the crawl space, expecting to find water everywhere.
But for now, we have running water. And for now, our pipes haven’t burst. And forever more, I’ll run a bit of water every time it gets this cold (that’s what you’re supposed to do, right?).
Fingers crossed.
“Three feet of ice does not result from one day of cold weather.” —Chinese Proverbs quotes
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
Owen and James hit each other when angry—sometimes with their hands and sometimes with objects, like their wooden trains. We have a zero-tolerance policy re hitting. They know this but still—still—it’s something we’re working on.
Sophie is old enough to know that hitting is absolutely not allowed. Still, I watch her sometimes, so angry with her brothers. She balls up her fists and shakes—shakes with anger, shakes with the restraint necessary not to hit them.
It can be so hard, being 5 years old and 3 years old, living in the same house.
But as much as they hate, they love. They love. Like patiently help each other across the shake-shake bridge at the park love. And fall on the floor crying if they think we’re leaving one behind love. And get so incredibly excited when the other one gets to put a sticker on his potty chart love.
And then there was Sophie’s love, today.
We’ve been struggling, discipline-wise, with Owen for several weeks now. Punishments simply don’t faze him. We have to work hard to find a consequence that will make him understand the severity of his actions. Most recently, we throw a piece of Halloween candy away for each major infraction (such as hitting). Today, he lost six pieces of candy for various infractions, five at one time (it was a bad one).
Sophie was extremely upset by this (even though half the time she was the one being hit). She couldn’t bear the thought of him losing candy. Whereas a time-out was often plenty enough for her, she didn’t understand that for Owen, it wasn’t.
And so that is how I caught her sneaking some of her own candy, from her own Halloween bag, into Owen’s.
When my three children are angry with each other, the whole world knows it. And yet, like much of life, their love for each other is so much quieter—and so much bigger.
They love.
They hate.
But ultimately, they love.
“The opposite of love is not hate; it’s indifference.” —Elie Wiesel
