Nature is a Mother

So the past few days I've had a little secret. Two little secrets if I'm doing the math. Their names are Nammy and Pop: My husband's parents but my own personal ninjas.














They've been here since Tuesday night.














Just in time for the recent snowstorm that ate trees and made grown Pepco men cry. Only six inches of snow but it must've fallen like kettlebells on to tree limbs that needed only one more reason to call it a life and crack in half over someone's silver Toyata. Evidently the roads here were utter anarchy with freezing people walking away from their own vehicles in search of a warm drink and a direct link to Facebook. Nuts-o. I wouldn't know because once the Nammy and the Pop arrived, I was lulled into a false sense of wonderful. They brought presents for Christmas, food for our refrigerator, and relief for the crazy woman living inside me.


I even had the audacity to tempt fate and pour myself a glass of Ries, crack open a new book, and prop myself up on the couch to be a bystander instead of the main event. The calm lasted minutes. Between sighs of relief and happy "OooOOOoohs" of kids opening gifts they liked, all the lights flickered then held their breath. That's all the crazy woman living inside me needed to completely mom out and begin disaster relief efforts in my son's bedroom. Flashlights? Check. Sleeping bags lined up in descending order? Check. Four pairs of everything for children in case we have to jump ship and sail the high seas to Cuba? Check. Cooler packed with peanut butter (protein), Fruitables (veggies), and crackers (sanity)? Check, one, two. Before I could even start packing my own things the power shut down for good and quiet shook around us like a big ole moose in headlights. Or maybe that was just me.

"I want a show!" demands Abby who obviously has a remote control for a lovey and seeks comfort in the warm glow of Dora the Explorer.

"It's getting cold in here," says Grayson who is already a little too much like his mother.

"I know, you guys. We'll be just fine. We'll climb into our sleeping bags and have a campout except we're inside! Fun!" I scream like the crazy woman living inside me. She's getting a little too much air time for my comfort lately. Perhaps an hour or so of living like Laura Ingalls will bring her down a notch. The quiet hums along as I fumble around the piano for our candles. I click each one on (oh yes, battery operated candles from Grandma Nonia saves the day!) and commence bed time routine while not believing for one second any of us will actually get any sleep.

-To be continued in the a.m. God and Pepco willing -

The Edge of Me

Months roll out

We answer three

Been here all day

On the edge of me






























You turn and dance





























































Make believe






















































Love and sing














On the edge of me.




We eat, we play



















































We even scream























Tiny hand or two













On the edge of me.




Hide and Seek














You're hard to see




When was it you left












































The edge of me?



This simple time














You're free to be

Here and there both

On the edge of me.

Displacement Theory

One weird thing about being a mom is the fact that you don't "fit" anywhere else. Maybe it's just me but I've found that the things I once enjoyed and the people I chose to surround myself with don't feel right anymore. I don't belong in those places, with those people anymore because I'm not that person anymore. I'm a mom and only a mom. I don't even really fit in new places or with new people quite well either. I feel awkward, ill-at-ease, apologetic, and generally socially inept. These are new characteristics I've picked up since having babies. It's starting to bother me.

I get that when you throw yourself into a lifestyle it can be dangerous. It can be risky because that lifestyle may outgrow you some day. This is true for full time mothering. The people you spend your time mothering will outgrow you one day. Fact. That's how nature designed it. Then what. Then what. Then what.

Right now the actual skeleton in my body aches because I'm dragging my bones around without their permission. But this post isn't about how tired I am. We're all tired. You can't compare tireds. Nobody wins that contest and it doesn't matter in the end. What matters is that at the end of my day I have sold myself out. I have given my best until only my worst comes out. It's not a good plan. It's not any plan. It's reacting to my current situation, not solving it smartly.

My current lot is a rare opportunity to spend hours upon hours upon days and more days with my children. This is unique and almost unheard of in this country. If I stay on top of that thought, I have a sweet perspective on things and can give my children my everything. But lately I've been asking myself, is that really the point? Will my kids be just fine, if not better, if I give them a portion of me and protect the rest for myself? If I don't nurture myself first then I have not taught them well. I have not taught them to look out for themselves first, then others. I have not given them the right example in the end. Because in the end, if I've done my job and served them correctly, I will be waving goodbye to healthy, confident, independent young adults who are able to care for themselves so well that they do not need me as their full time mother anymore. And that is exactly what scares me the most if I don't start figuring out just who I am today.

Ice Ice, Baby

Too Many Shoes

There is a library book we loaned last week called, To Be a Kid. It runs an ethnic gamut of children, their colloquial dress, and their individual landscape from Nepal's brilliant textiles and rocky background to Pakistan's soft earth tones and long dirt roads. It was probably the first time my children could visually drink in so many different cultures in the span of five minutes.

In one picture, Grayson asked why the children didn't wear anything on their feet. I explained that not every child has things to wear on their feet. You could've blown him over with a shoelace. While studying our crowded shoe rack he said, "We are lucky to have more than we need." I sat quietly with his words in the air. I held his face with one hand and agreed. We are so very lucky to have more than we need. It is a good reminder.

Because of this book, his words, and my uplifted mood by reading so many wonderful stories of faith, love and hope on Dr. Martin Luther King Day, today I give thanks to be in a place where I always have more than I need. And sharing space with those who are beginning to get that too.

Dinosaur Food

We have a pretty good night time routine going now that the children aren't downing Tylenol like apple juice around here. There are a few consistent rituals like after dinner dance off and/or letting them run amok while I finish up cleaning kitchen, then living room Night Owl time, followed by bath, jammies, teeth brushing, story time and snugglefest. It's fair to say we all look forward to the snuggling the most.

Then Grayson and I tuck Abby in her big girl bed. He likes to stand and rock back and forth like a peg-legged pirate while I rock Abby in the rocking chair. This goes on for 10 minutes or so. Then it comes time to tuck Grayson in. This is when I have my last cup of coffee for the night because I know I'm about to need it.

Grayson: Mommy? Can we talk about a few things?
Me: Yes. But let's keep it to just three tonight, okay?
Grayson: -BIG sigh- okayyy.
Me: Okay, what's number one?
Grayson: Ummm...where do...............how come...........what's inside.... curtains?
Me: Fibers. Cotton. Something called nylon.
Grayson: Cotton like the cotton candy we had at the dolphin show that one time it was pink and blue and reeeaaallly sticky?
Me: Yes. Exactly like that except not candy and less sticky. What else you got?
Grayson: Ummmm...do dinosaurs eat meat?
Me: Yes. Some sure do.
Grayson: (Quietly considering that response)
Grayson: Do people have meat inside them?
Me (finally cluing in to where this is going) Yes but not really. Not the kind of meat dinosaurs like. People taste very yucky.
Grayson: Like lasagna?
Me: (trying to forget that I made homemade lasagna tonight) More like rotten lasagna and very old eggs. Dinosaurs don't like to eat people. Most of them are herbivores: they eat plants and flowers and berries.
Grayson: (thoughtful)
Grayson: MOMMY! We had blueberries with dinner tonight!
Me: Yes. But you only had four.
Grayson: Right. And I spit out two when you weren't looking.
Me: Goodnight Dino Dan.
Grayson: Goodnight Lasagna Mommy

These Four Walls

My sentiments exactly.

Emoting Over an Otter

As always, I asked the kids to pick out one story before tucking them in for nap. Or "rest" as it is now dubbed because Grayson does not sleep but instead launches question after question about life, physics, religion, and ear wax until I beg him to hush please honey just stop making me think for the love of God thank you pleeeaaasseee don't talk just play with your cowboy and horse for five minutes please baby thank you.

Back to pre-nap story. They selected, agreed upon and sat motionless for "Franklin Has a Bad Day." Obviously, things weren't going well for Franklin (the cutest turtle ever drawn). He starts off on page one very grouchy. I hear ya, Buddy. He is not so nice to his friends, Bear and Beaver. Yep, sounds about right. Franklin melts down about a game or a picture or the clandestine crowd at the DMV, I can't recall but the point is the tantrum and the fact that it could've been for any reason whatsoever. Exactly, dude. Wanna share a pint? Then Franklin's dad comes in, wraps a paternal turtle claw around his son and asks what's really going on. What's really the matter.

This is where I had to deliberately set my jaw, swallow hard and continue reading. I have read this book a thousand times and yet at that moment it felt like those familiar words were hitting me square in the chest.

"Otter moved away." The truth shoots out like a cannon in the sky.

"And you miss her?" Dads always know that simple is best.

"Very much."

And this is where I had to physically set down the book, cover my face and not show my four and two year old that Mommy is the hormonal equivalent of Mount St. Helens.

"Mommy, are you crying?" Grayson asks nervously.
After some consideration of lying and getting caught red-handed I reconsider and come clean with him because the tears won't stop falling down my face. "Yes I am, Honey."
"It's okay, Mommy," Grayson reasons, "Franklin can still see Otter. He can go visit her!"
"You're right, Franklin can still go visit Otter. It's just that he really misses her already and she just left. I just feel..." sniff sniff, hands to face...." so sorry for Franklin," sniff, sniff, covering eyes, "and I am sad too because," my own truth washes over me like a frosty bath, "my friend is moving away also."

"Who, Mommy?"

"Miss Kathleen, Baby. She has to move away and Mommy's really sad. Kind of silly to be this sad because we don't get to see each other a lot but I already miss her so much."














"It's okay, Mommy. We will just drive to her new house when Daddy gets home and see her again. Don't cry, Mommy."














But I did. I cried like a dejected mopey turtle for much longer than I should have in front of my little turtlettes. It's just that right then I had to face the fact that my Otter is leaving soon too.














We just got back together and now she is the one who has to go.














A couple of weeks before she found out her husband got that job that would require them to relocate out of state, I had a dream she was moving. I was angry with her in my dream because she only gave me a few days' notice (in my dream, not real life...in real life she knows I need more than a few days to process high impact news) and I felt hurt that we couldn't say a proper goodbye. Then, two weeks later I saw a status on her husband's Facebook (in real life, not in my dream...in my dream i don't check Facebook) that they were indeed moving away.

Thirty some odd years we've known each other and the connection we have is so strong I can honestly say it was friend ESP. Something inside me had a feeling her life was about to change drastically and that same something was trying to break the news to me gently, in my soft spot, in my sleep.














We have since seen each other and every time we're together I am reminded of what it must be like to have a sister. She is the kind of funny that makes my shoulders drop for the first time in days and causes that embarrassing snort breathe thing to happen when we're laughing. She is the kind of beautiful that is distracting when her shiny blond hair curls around her face as she talks. She is the kind of amazing mother to whom I ask lots of annoyingly specific questions and then follow accordingly when it comes time to mother my own. She is the kind of friend who stays out until midnight to hang out in my living room reliving old high school memories with me (just last week!) even though she has three young children of her own to wake up to by 6am. She is the sole reason I survived the high school experience. Seriously, I would still be hiding in the girls' bathroom if it weren't for her pulling me out. She is the reason I was so excited to move to Virginia in the first place.

She is my Otter and only Otter and I am so sad she has to go. Sad for me but happy and excited for her to start this new chapter with her family.

And Grayson is right, we will visit her when Daddy gets home, however many times she can handle us.

After all, turtles like me don't come across Otters like her more than once in a lifetime and I'd be a fool to let her go that easily.

What Not to Wear

The Entire Mom Collection (courtesy of every local 2nd hand store and Target's 30%-75% off rack.)


Quite certain these should all be surrendered for parts as well:













It's time.

Let the bugle sound.

REI spring collection awaits.

* To my weekly photo challenge ladies: yes, these images were definite contenders for this week's theme of "mess." Just not as pretty as 5thousand colorful pegs or wrapping paper.

Thank You (Stop)

I learned something about myself today. Like most women I know, I do not accept a compliment well. I talk too much and spoil the moment. You'd think it wouldn't be so difficult to just say, "Thank you," and stop there. No explanation. No excuses why not. We all learned in kindergarten that when someone pays you a compliment, big or small, the right way to respond is simply with a smile and a single, "Thank you." Six year olds should struggle with this concept, not thirty-six year olds.

Today I took my son to his preschool in clothes not resembling items from the Lost&Found. And people took notice. Two very nice women complimented the color of my blouse (raspberry pink I learned) or gave me a nod and a, "You look nice!" You'd think I could've accepted those niceties with grace and dignity. I did not.

Instead I sounded like a moron. A thankless, probably deaf, definitely neurotic moron. Here, see for yourself. It went a little like this:

Nice Preschool Teacher: Oh, you look nice!

Moron Moi: (plucking dog hair off my black tights and not even making eye contact). Oh no, Thank you (at least I think I said Thank You? Not even sure at this point). I have SO much dog hair on me. I vacuum every other day it seems and still all this dog hair no matter how hard we try. Guess maybe I should give up wearing black. Oh, look at all this static! Dog hair, static cling, jacket on the floor, I'm a complete mess...

Nice Preschool Teacher: nowhere in sight.

So there it was. A perfect opportunity to graciously accept a gesture of warmth and I rottened it up with my big mouth. Too bad too because I really did want to let her know how much I appreciated her kind words toward me. Just couldn't make my own self-loathing dialogue stop long enough to do it the right way.

Next time I wear raspberry pink with black tights, I will remember to bring along the duct tape to apply instead of lip balm. I'm sure Stacy and Clinton would approve in the name of making strides toward grace and decorum.

Normal

So today my husband and I got into our first Skype scuffle. It was nothing really. Typical marital fodder or else I'd anguish about it here and embellish accordingly. This little row was well overdue because honestly, we were starting to make me a little bit sick. We had been getting along like teenagers in heat. Nobody faltered in their quest to woo even one iota. I passed him notes in French class and he met me at the water fountain before lunch. We were in l-u-v. So, now? We're finally normal; back to ourselves. The fragility of him being several countries over is gone. And I, for one, am more than glad to have it this way. We can still sneak off behind the gym bleachers to snuggle when need be but nobody has to take a Dramamine.

Before the fight, it felt like an endless first date. Both of us trying to be someone else. Pretending to be permanently "doing great!" - me: spouse and remaining superhero parent for our children who always has her sh*t together, eternally happy, kinda witty, super nurturing, and ultimately interesting while also having kept hair and video friendly facial expressions. Boy oh boy, that last one was a doozy the closer to midnight - US time -it became. And him: dealing well with separation from his family, succint, flirtatious, and military officious with a side of "meow."
(* Sometimes we only instant message each other - no video- if it's quite late because I'm too beat to find a hair brush, foundation, or okay I'll say it, a bra. And he's probably in a room full of exotic women with saris who can keep very quiet when required to do so.)

So yes, we had a fight. It's fine and we're completely over it. Figured it all out in approximately 7 minutes and 30 seconds which is about 4 days shorter than our usual turbulent duration for serious disagreements. Five days if I'm "moody" and mainlining peppermint patties. It is good to be free. It is good to be braless at midnight.

Happy New Year to you all and may you feel free to be yourself, no matter who is watching.