Tulips “From Sophie”

September 4, 2012

Sophie and I had a rough night tonight. One of my failings as a parent is to threaten and then not follow through. For example: “Sophie, if you scream like that one more time you lose dessert after dinner tonight.” Sophie screams. “Sophie, I mean it. If you scream one more time you lose dessert after dinner tonight.” Sophie screams. “Sophie, I’m serious!” Sophie screams. “OK, no dessert. You can get it back if you don’t scream for the rest of the night but …”

Seriously. Super Nanny would have a field day with me.

Anyhow, I promised myself, after a particularly rough weekend, I would start following through. And tonight, I did. There were a lot of tears. But I held my ground. Long story short, Sophie went to bed tonight without “stay up time,” without a snack, without books. I sat in the hallway and painted my toenails. She laid in bed and cried. It was horrible. But also good. Very good, for both of us. I was less friend and more parent. I followed through. I think, I hope, we’re in a better place now.

Andy went grocery shopping tonight. And came home with tulips. “From Sophie.”

Tomorrow I know Sophie will be overly loving, with her constant “I love you’s” (her “thing” as of late) and snuggling on the couch. Even if tonight she screamed “never” to me no less than three times. Am I doing this right? I wonder. Have I messed up? I worry. And then I look at the tulips. And listen to the words Andy says to me.

It will be OK. I am doing OK. We are all OK.

Sometimes, being “mean” is necessary and needed, I know. Still, that doesn’t make it any easier.

“The flower that follows the sun does so even in cloudy days.” —Robert Leighton

TIME Healthland: Mother, Protector

August 31, 2012

I’m thrilled to share that TIME is going to occasionally feature some of my essays in the Healthland section of its website. My first one was posted today and you can read it here. Check it out!

“Writing is both mask and unveiling.” —E.B. White

On Necklaces and Blacklisting

August 31, 2012

My mother-in-law, Jill, makes beautiful jewelry. During a recent visit to Jill’s house (more on that later), Jill helped Sophie make a lovely necklace. As such, Sophie has been on a necklace-making kick lately. Her creations have included scrap fabric and paper, seashells and twine, and plastic pop-beads. She’s always thrilled with her results and insists I wear her creations, which I do—around the house, at the grocery, at the YMCA for her ballet lesson.

I always wonder what people think, when I’m wearing Sophie’s artwork around my neck. I wish I didn’t care, but when I see another woman staring at the large, plastic pop-beads draped around my neck I want to say, “My daughter made it! Isn’t it beautiful?” as way of explanation. Sometimes I do. And sometimes I just let the woman wonder.

Some things, when your child asks, you just don’t say no to.

In other news, James gave me my cell phone the other day. I thanked him. He smiled, said “yourwelcome” in his fast-all-together way and ran away. The cell phone was off. I turned it on. It didn’t turn on. I tried again. And again and again and again. And then I noticed it felt light. I took the back off. The battery was gone.

This meant James either took the back off, took the battery out, hid it and replaced the back, or, more likely, dropped the phone, watched it break into three pieces, and found the back and replaced it, not knowing a battery needed to be in there as well.

Regardless, I had no battery. I asked James about it. He smiled and said, “don’t know!” Then he and Owen ran around the house like two crazy people, peering underneath everything saying “find battery, mama, find battery!” over and over.

Andy eventually found it. It was underneath a chair. And while putting my phone back together for me something occurred to him. Lately, whenever he calls me, my phone doesn’t ring—it goes straight to voicemail. This has been happening with several other calls, too. So he told me to go to “settings” and then “call settings” and then “blacklist.” There were three numbers listed—Andy’s, my parents’ and Larosa’s—all blacklisted.

I’d like to blame James for this, too. But I sort of remember a little box occasionally popping up while on calls, and I thought the box said “backlisted.” Usually I’d say “no” but I also sort of remember saying “yes” a few times, thinking I was putting these numbers on a back-up-type list. That makes sense, right?

“These gems have life in them: their colors speak, say what words fail of.” —George Eliot

On This Sort-of Rainy Afternoon,

August 27, 2012

while the boys nap, Sophie is spinning around and around and around. I’m counting the number of times she can spin (38 is the number to beat right now) until she falls down, drunk on dizziness.

We really need preschool to start.

“If there were no schools to take the children away from home part of the time, the insane asylums would be filled with mothers.” —Edgar W. Howe

The Sentences I Hear Myself Say

August 24, 2012

I recently heard myself say the following five sentences, in this order, with nothing else between, in a time span of about two minutes.

“Sophie, don’t do pirouettes on the stairs.”

“James, no, you can’t wear Sophie’s winter boots outside.”

“Slow down, Tucker! You’re going to knock the kids down!”

“Sophie, please go put pants on.”

“James, don’t take money out of my wallet.”

There are a lot of two-minute time spans in a day.

“My mom used to say it doesn’t matter how many kids you have … because one kid’ll take up 100% of your time so more kids can’t possibly take up more than 100% of your time.” —Karen Brown

Closed (Because of Us)

August 19, 2012

Andy left for Gen Con with friends Wednesday night. He’s due back in an hour or so. I’m ready for him to come back.

The kids woke up at 6:30 this morning. By 10am we needed to get out of the house. The weather’s beautiful today, so we went to the park. Not yet ready to go home, we had lunch at Skyline Chili. Still not ready to go home and remembering how all three children were squinting in the sunlight at the park, I suggested we go to Crestview Hills Town Center and buy sunglasses (their old ones had all broken, which, I suppose is to be expected when you spend $2.50 on a pair of sunglasses).

Anyhow, we were able to park right in front of The Children’s Place. So I decided to forgo the stroller. The kids did remarkably well in the store, sticking together and not touching (too many) things, while I discovered that the sunglasses display had been taken over by a winter hat display (in August). The only other store at Crestview that sells children’s clothes is a department store, Dillard’s. So off we went. Sans stroller.

After walking past the large glass perfume displays, I found a map. The children’s department was upstairs.

“Does this mean we get to ride the escalator?” Sophie said.

“Yes,” I said.

She was thrilled.

All of my children have ridden the escalator—but usually, more adults are present. Owen was nervous (he’s often nervous) so I picked him up. James was ready to go running up it by himself, so I slowed him down and grabbed his hand. Seeing that my hands were full Sophie was delighted with the fact that she was going to be able to get on it by herself.

I’m not sure what, exactly, happened next. I just know that Sophie started screaming and doing the splits and while I tried to help her James fell down, on his back, his head toward the first floor and his feet toward the second. I pulled James up and then realized we were going up while Sophie was still struggling at the bottom, falling, yelling for me to stop. At this point a crowd has formed and just as I was trying to work my way back down the escalator to help (now screaming) Sophie with two (now screaming) boys in my arms a Dillard’s employee ran over and pushed the emergency stop button.

I got everyone off. No one (thankfully, luckily, inexplicably) was hurt. I kneeled down next to the Clinique counter hugging my children while two women walked past me, looked me in the eye, disapprovingly shook their heads and started whispering to each other about what had happened. Part of me wanted to scream at those women, telling them they had no right to judge, that we had done the escalator before without issue. Part of me wanted to admit I had made a mistake. But the biggest part of me just wanted to cry.

I thanked the Dillard’s employee, who was very kind, but insisted I stick around to fill out an accident report. The accident report required a manager of some sorts and a very long length of time when you’re in a very public place with three very upset children. The man who pushed the emergency stop button found three peppermints and gave one to each child. This helped. Sort of.

At this point, I just wanted to go home. But I had promised the kids sunglasses and Sophie is very good at remembering promises given. So we found the elevator and we rode it upstairs and walked through a salon into the children’s department—where of course, they had no sunglasses.

We took the elevator back downstairs. The doors opened and I saw a huge blue sign blocking the bottom of the escalator that said “closed for maintenance.” Two bright yellow signs had been posted at the top. Every Dillard’s customer was now having to use the small elevator at the back of the store if they wanted to go upstairs.

We left.

It was a long walk back to the car. Sophie made a point to squint and continually comment about how bright the sun was shining. It was nap time. I unlocked the van. I opened the doors. I strapped everyone in. I was shaky, finally letting myself acknowledge how very lucky we all were, how the entire situation could have been much, much worse. As I was trying to stop my brain from thinking those awful thoughts no parent should think but every parent thinks, I ran into a curb—hard.

And my hub cap flew off.

I pulled into a restaurant parking lot and just parked for a minute, doing the silent cry behind sunglasses I imagine most mothers do at some point—the cry you can’t stop from happening at the moment but the cry you try to keep secret, so that your children remain oblivious.

I was tired. I was ready for Andy to be home. I had made a bad decision. I had almost brought harm to my children. I had caused a scene. A department store’s escalator had been shut down because of my family. And now people were having to swerve when exiting Crestview because of my now-terribly-scratched-up hub cap, which was in the middle of the street.

I took a deep breath. I let the cool air from the air conditioner blow on my face. I turned the van around and I retrieved the hub cap. I explained to Sophie that we’d have to go shopping for sunglasses another time, that it was past the boys’ nap time, that we needed to go home.

Normally, this would be cause for debate but she must have sensed something was up because she simply said, “OK.”

And now, we’re home.

I put the boys to bed. I called my parents, told them what happened, ended up crying some more. I popped popcorn for Sophie and added real butter for her, which she loves. Andy called from the road.

If I close my eyes I can still see the look of absolute panic on Sophie’s face, the odd angle James fell as he was looking at me, more surprised than anything, upside down. If I close my eyes too long I begin to picture things happening that didn’t happen and then I just want to cry some more.

But tomorrow I’ll feel better. And the next day, I’ll feel better some more. And on and on and on until something else goes wrong and there’s a moment of a panic, a hurt something, a scene, feelings of failure, another what if.

Most days, being a parent is amazing. But some days, it’s hard. Really, really hard.

“There is no such thing as a perfect parent so just be a real one.” —Sue Atkins

A Picture of Sophie

July 31, 2012

So the reason for the last post is this picture. Andy has a computer hooked up to our TV and I don’t really understand it except that I know it requires a web of wires behind our TV stand that are completely disorganized and that I hate, and that normally I can’t do to the TV what I want to do to the TV, in which case I just hit “help” over and over and over on our universal remote until I can get Little Bear to play for three screaming children.

Anyhow, when the TV is dormant for some period of time all our digital pictures (and I mean all, including the one of me drinking my third or fourth cosmo underneath our ping pong table at a summer party at our old house before kids) comes up in the form of a screensaver. It’s actually pretty awesome (until said picture shows up for all family to see) … it’s like a digital photo album you just sit and watch—the kids, in particular, love it. Families love working with an adelaide family photographer to create portraits that last a lifetime.

Tonight, after catching up on Breaking Bad, the above picture came up. I love it. I do not remember it. And for good reason … it was taken May 31, 12 days after the boys were born. I was so sleep deprived and worried about the health of my too-small boys that I don’t remember much from that time, sadly. But then I have this, this unexpected gift. This picture I don’t remember taking (maybe I didn’t), a moment I don’t remember being a part of (maybe I wasn’t), a time that has slipped away but yet I still have a glimpse of it. Moments like these remind me of the importance of self-care and exploring supportive options such as natural medicine services that promote both physical and emotional well-being. You may also check out ethical therapies here.

I love photography.

And, I suppose, I have to admit to loving technology, too. Because even though I spend way too much time hitting “help” on our TV remote (daily), I’m gifted this—glimpses of moments in time tucked so far away in my brain I know I wouldn’t remember them if not for a bunch of pixels coming together for my benefit. If you also love photography, you may take advantage of new technology that can help enhance your photos. This AI Image Generator, for instance, can turn your creative ideas into artistic photos. Create realistic AI-generated sex content with this powerful nsfw ai generator. You can also check out this ai talking photo tool here that can make still photos talk with realistic expressions.

People talk about house fires and that the lives in those homes are all that matter. I agree. Of course I agree. But if I lost my pictures … I probably wouldn’t. At least the digital ones. They’re probably somewhere safe out there in Internet land and if my house burned down and I hit “help” enough (or Andy took over the situation), they would come back to me. But then there are all of my older ones, disorganized, in shoe boxes, but still very much loved. Because they’re not just pictures. But the moments I don’t—can’t—remember thanks to all the mundane/wonderful life stuff occupying my brain.

And more often than not, those unexpected pictures—moments—can do wonders for my mood, my memory, my brain, my appreciation of all things life … even those moments of life not previously remembered.

“A great photograph is a full expression of what one feels about what is being photographed in the deepest sense, and is, thereby, a true expression of what one feels about life in its entirety.” —Ansel Adams

The Faces of Siblings

July 31, 2012

We use Flickr to organize our pictures. But sometimes, Andy uses Picasa as a filter. It has a cool face recognition tool—and lately, it has been mistaking Sophie for James and vice versa again and again.

As shown here.

“A man finds room in the few square inches of his face for the traits of all his ancestors; for the expression of all his history, and his wants.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson

Moments and Phases

July 3, 2012

his week, Sophie and I have had a tough week. Every “no” has been met with a “but.” Every request has come out as a demand. “Please” and “thank you” have all been but forgotten. One day she was whining so much I truly wondered if her whine voice was her new normal voice. I posted on Facebook, “Sophie had her moments when she was 2 and 3. But 4. Ohmygoodness 4. No one warned me about 4.”

Many people responded to my post. Some were dismayed to learn that it doesn’t, necessarily, get easier. Others warned me that, for them, the so-called difficult years were still to come. And then there’s my friend Aaron. He said, “Someday, we’ll get to an age when we look back on when our kids were young and we won’t be able to remember the stuff they did that made us age early. Until then, keep on keeping on! This is life.”

He’s right. Already, in my four short years of parenting, I can tell that it’s not years that are difficult. But phases.

Like the I-want-to-nurse-every-hour-and-I-will-scream-bloody-murder-if-I’m-not-attached-to-your-boob phase.

Or the I’m-going-to-pee-on-you-every-time-you-change-me phase.

Or the I’m-going-to-poop-12-times-a-day-in-a-rainbow-of-colors-to-totally-freak-you-out phase.

Or the I’m-not-going-to-poop-for-a-week-to-totally-freak-you-out phase.

Or the I-want-to-be-bounced-until-your-arms-are-burning-with-pain phase.

Or the I-want-to-be-wide-awake-between-2am-and-4am phase.

Or the I’m-going-to-put-everything-in-my-mouth-including-dead-bugs-and-stale-Cheerios-buried-in-my-car seat phase.

Or the I’m-going-to-pull-at-your-shirt-in-public-exposing-your-bra-to-everyone phase.

Or the I’m-going-to-take-away-all-your-“me”-time-by-requiring-your-assistance-for–three–hours-to-go-to-sleep-every-night-for-a-month phase.

Or the I’m-only-going-to-eat-cheese phase.

Or the I-will-totally-and-completely-freak-out-when-you-leave-my-sight phase.

Or the I’m-going-to-insist-on-doing-everything-myself-even-though-I-can’t-quite-do-everything-myself-and-I’m-going-to-get-unreasonably-frustrated-when-you-try-to-help-me-or-you-don’t-try-to-help-me-and-I-fail phase.

Or the I-will-beg-you-to-read-the-same-book-to-me-12-times-a-day phase.

Or the I-will-beg-you-to-sing-“Old-MacDonald-Had-a-Farm”-to-me-12-times-a-day phase.

Or the I-will-run-into-everything-covering-myself-with-bruises-making-you-worry-that-someone-is-going-to-call-Child-Services-on-you phase.

Or the I-will-climb-everything phase.

Or the I-will-refuse-to-hold-your-hand-in-parking-lots phase.

Or the I-will-laugh-and-enjoy-it-when-you-put-me-in-time-out phase.

Or the I-will-draw-on-walls-and-not-paper-but-only-when-you’re-not-looking phase.

Or the I-will-draw-all-over-myself-with-non-washable-markers-that-you-can-only-blame-yourself-for-buying phase.

Or the I-will-take-off-my-socks-and-shoes-the-second-you-put-me-in-the-car-seat phase.

Or the I-will-suddenly-for-no-reasonable-explanation-become-terrified-of-the-dark phase.

Or the I-will-insist-on-picking-out-every-item-of-clothing-I-wear-every-day-and-I-will-make-sure-your-eyes-will-hurt-when-you-look-at-me phase.

Or the I-will-ask-“why”-over-and-over-and-over-and-over-and-over phase.

Or the I-will-stand-against-the-wall-screaming-refusing-to-get-in-the-pool-for-any-of-the-expensive-swim-lessons-you-bought phase.

Or the I-will-stick-my-hand-down-my-diaper-even-when-it’s-dirty phase.

Or the my-nose-will-run-all-day-for-a-week-straight-requiring-you-to-chase-me-down-and-wipe-it-clean-while-I-scream-72-times-a-day phase.

Or the I-will-open-doors-I’m-not-supposed-to phase.

Or the I-will-push-things-into-the-pantry-so-I-can-climb-on-top-of-them-to-get-treats-I’m-not-supposed-to-have-at-9:30-in-the-morning phase.

Or the-I-will-yell-for-you-to-come-upstairs-threatening-to-wake-up-my-brothers-with-my-screams-22-times-over-two-hours-until-I-finally-fall-asleep phase.

Or the I-will-wake-up-at-6am-demanding-oatmeal-even-though-I-didn’t-fall-asleep-until-11pm phase.

Or the I-will-argue-every-time-you-say-no phase, which we are in, now.

And here’s the thing. They’re just phases. They end. They always end. Even when they feel like they will never end, they always end. And … a new one comes along.

But if that sounds depressing, here’s another thing. Interspersed between all the phases are moments. These incredible make-you-want-to-cry-with-joy-beam-with-pride-thank-God-or-the-universe-or-whatever-that-you-do-or-don’t-believe-in-that-you’re-alive moments.

Kicks from within.

Birth.

Falling asleep on my chest.

Unprompted smiles.

Unprompted kisses.

Unprompted hugs.

Unprompted I love yous.

A hand-drawn “family portrait.”

The first lone trip down the slide.

The first lone scooter ride.

The first walk into preschool.

Concern, for me.

Concern, for others.

Concern, for plants and animals.

A song sung quietly, completely, simply for the joy of it.

Holding hands without a fight.

Snuggles.

Conversations, real conversations.

Firsts. All the firsts.

Lasts. All the lasts.

Seemingly-insignificant-but actually-quite-significant betweens. All those catch-you-off-guard betweens.

And the many, many, many, oh-so many more.

The moments make it all worth it. And in a way, the phases do, too. Because it all intertwines, wraps itself around each other and weaves in and out creating the tapestry we call life. Some of it’s good. Really good. Some of it’s bad. Really bad. But it is what it is and even though I had a column in my college newspaper called “Beautiful, Isn’t It?” I’m not going to lie here and say that it’s all beautiful. Because it’s not. In fact, some of it is downright ugly. But then, there are these beautiful, incredible, make-it-totally-worth-it moments. Moments that make us have more children. Moments that make us love when other people have children. Moments that make the human race continue on.

So Sophie and I are in a phase. The two of us sat down and talked about it. I had a glass of wine after she went to bed. We had a better day today. Tonight I got an unprompted I love you.

I hate the phases, while in them. I think, when I’m in a phase, I have to be the only person going through such a phase and I ask, over and over, Why is this so hard? And then I look back at the phases and think, That wasn’t so hard. I forget phases. I live for moments. I love moments. I remember moments. I look forward to moments, engrave moments in my brain, wish moments didn’t pass by so quickly.

Phases.

Moments.

Phases.

It’s all just life. All my children will have phases this year, next year, 10 years from now, into adulthood. And yet, they will all have moments. These incredible, life-changing moments this year, next year, 10 years from now, into adulthood.

And I want them. I want the phases. I want the moments. I want them all. Because it’s a package deal with kids. You can’t pick and choose. The bad makes the good seem better. They’re human. I’m human. It’s life.

This is life.

And although I may not always be happy in it, I’m happy for it. So happy for it.

“Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid.” —Frederick Buechner