Lost

I'm feeling a little lost. My head hasn't been fully in the game. There are some things on my mind and it's fine and life goes on, but it's clearly affecting my ability to keep things together. Or maybe I've just reached and exceeded my brain's capacity for keeping track of children and their shit and my shit.

It started two weeks ago when I took the kids to Tar.get on a fine Friday morning. It wasn't unusually crazy, just kind of every day averagely crazy. Pack the diaper bag, grab the snacks, fill the water bottles, change the baby, make a bottle for later, tell everyone to put on socks, find my wallet and keys, okay now shoes, don't climb on there, oh, did you fall off of there and bump your head, take the dog out, watch the dog while I grab the baby, OMIGOD don't eat that, don't let the dog eat that either, where are your socks, did you poop, change Cue's diaper, get in the car, where in the heck did I put my keys, buckle the kids in, strap the baby in, put the dog in his crate, aaaannnddddd breathe. Shit. The bag. And the bottle. And my wallet. Unlock the door, collect necessary paraphernalia, back in the car, all children secured, check! And reverse.

Tar.get. We checked out and rebuckled and battened down and I drove to a really cool playground in the area where I had promised they could play for a while if they listened at the store. Listening being a relative term and standards being somewhat low. As I was unbuckling the first child for what felt like the 100th time that morning, I happened to glance at my left ring finger and my stomach hit my toes like seventeen tons of bricks.

I was wearing my wedding band, but not my diamond engagement ring. I knew I'd put them both on that morning and I knew it was loose because it has fallen off before, but never without me noticing and I also knew, absolutely knew, that most likely it was gone forever.

Fast forward through a lot of cursing and some crying (both by me and by my children when I hightailed it out of the playground parking lot and headed back to Tar.get). The whole time I tried to talk myself down. It's just a ring. It's just a stone. Three stones actually. One beautiful diamond that my husband, the love of my life, slipped on my finger from his knees in a pretty colonial square on the water in Baltimore, Maryland, twelve years ago and two smaller sparkly stones that I added on our tenth anniversary as a trade for my grandmother's earrings that I would never wear.

I adore that ring. It's just a ring. The ring Matt gave me; the ring that reminds me of my grandma. The children are fine, you are fine, it's just a ring. A beautiful, stunning, awesome ring that makes me happy every single day of life and yes, that's true, I would trade it in a heartbeat for anyone dear to me, but ALL MY DEAR TO ME PEOPLE ARE FINE AND OMIGOD I WANT MY RING.

It wasn't at Tar.get. Of course. But don't worry because we'll jump through the crying and sick to my stomach horridness all the way home. I'll just tell you that when we got home I remembered that I'd pulled a load of laundry out of the dryer right before we left and I flew to the laundry room and went through every piece of tiny clothing in the basket, my heart sinking with each empty piece, and then there it was, caught up in a pair of Ess' underwear.

So phew. Right? I'll put it away and take it to the jeweler and have it resized and reappraised and reinsured and all that good, responsible stuff. I won't make that mistake again.

Until the very next Friday. When I absolutely, totally and completely made the exact same mistake in the exact same way for a second time. I'll spare you. Honestly. Here's the short version. I put them on at 7:00 a.m. without even thinking about why I hadn't been wearing them. Repeat all above about packing and socks and children and dogs and buckling and unbuckling, etc., etc. City Hall. Micheal's Crafts. McDonald's. I kid you not.

We pulled into our driveway hours later and I went to unbuckle the baby and sure enough, once again, like a bad episode of Groundhog's Day, I was only wearing my band, not my diamonds.

Is it possible that one person can be this stupid? I didn't even look for it. I put all the kids down for naps and in quiet time and then I sat down at the dining room table and cried. Is there any worse feeling than having no one to blame but yourself?

After a while, I decided to call City Hall and Micheal's and McDonald's, just in case, just because, if I didn't, well I kind of had to do it, didn't I? I couldn't keep the tremble out of my voice, the hopeless, horrified tremble. The kind receptionist took my name at City Hall and promised to look for it. I looked up Michael's number with a lead heart. It probably fell off in a parking lot, or on a sidewalk, or I ran over it and pushed it into the dirt and whatever, does it matter who finds it because it's gone.

Katy answered the phone at Michael's, a sweet, teenage girl, working a minimum wage job. She answered the phone and listened to me choke out that I'd lost an engagement ring and I'd been in their store and would she please take my name and number just in case? Sure, she told me, of course. I could hear her ringing up a customer as she spoke. Wait, she said suddenly, how many diamonds are on it. Three, I answered in the littlest voice possible. Is it set in white gold? YES! Yes it is. I can see it, Katy said, you won't believe this but I can see it on the floor, I see it.

Did you hear that whooshing sound? That is the sound of all the luck and karma and random kindness due to me in my life time getting sucked out of my universe.

You read that right. My diamond engagement ring fell off of my finger in the check out line at Micheal's and I got it back.

I put it away and I haven't worn it since, but that hasn't stopped my rampage of absentminded idiocy. I haven't seen my keys since last Thursday. No idea where to even look. I vaguely remember that Cue might have been playing with them while I took a phone call. Then, Sunday evening my mom left me a message that went something like, "hi, honey, a Justin called me. He has your cell phone? He found it at the mall? Are you alive? Here's his number."

Sunday afternoon I met a friend at the mall and when I left I put Nate in the car and folded up the stroller. The cell phone must have been in the stroller tray because it ended up on the pavement where a lovely young man named Justin picked it up and kindly took the time to call the number labeled, "mom."

Honestly, it's a good thing that internal organs are, in general, firmly attached to your body or I swear someone would see my kidney just randomly laying by the side of the road. Oops! Dropped it! Must have just slid right out of one of those holes. Didn't even feel it. Aha. Also, I regularly panic that I have forgotten to put the baby in the car and he is patiently sitting in his stroller alone in a parking lot.

Yesterday, I met Justin at a Starbucks down the hill. He made me smile. He was a shy, adorable (twenty years ago I would have said HOT!) twenty-ish-year-old. He was thin and tall and he had a shock of dark hair with bright blond highlights over his forehead and one eye, cut in that incredibly trendy, ragged way. He was dressed so shockingly "cool" with so many random zippers and such large boots that I (in my infinite almost-forty uncoolness) honestly thought he looked like he stepped off of one of those Japanese space-travel cartoons. His porcelain-doll-beautiful girlfriend sat next to him at the small table, a streak of bright red perfectly accenting her short, lacquered-black hair.

If I had been twenty, I would have been intimidated by their almost funny trendiness. (Not to mention drooling, honestly, because, oh so cute.) But, as it was, I smiled at him and thanked him and offered to buy him and his friend a coffee and shook his hand when he refused and told him I would pay it forward and he looked down and didn't meet my eyes and nodded and shuffled his feet and then glanced up with big, eager eyes and told me, "it was just like laying on the ground, you know?" I nodded. I knew. He had no idea. I used to be able to keep track of things and then my life exploded and lately it's been all I can do to make sure all of my children are back in the car unmaimed.

But mostly, I thought, oh please, please god, let me raise boys like this. Let me raise quiet, shy men who would take the time to pick up a cell phone in a parking lot, who would realize what it would mean to someone to get it back and not just mess with it or throw it out or use up the minutes making calls. Let me raise young men who would drive to a random Starbucks to meet a random woman who's had a lot on her mind lately and just can't quite seem to keep it together. Let them smile at her like that. Let them be kind.

I don't even know why I'm typing all this out, and in fact if you made it all the way down here you are a hero. Sometimes, it just feels like the world is full of so much random depressing crap and it makes me want to sing these little moments from the roof tops.

Thank you, Katy.

Thank you, Justin.

People are kind. Not all people, I know. Not in every situation. But, overall, for the most part, people are kind. And though I already try, in most situations, to be kind as well, I will try harder. It's important. If only as an example to the little men and women-to-be that I am raising.

Change Therapy

I have this list. I have many, many lists, a whole pretty, journal-like book of lists in fact, but there's this one list in particular. I don't even have to look at it because I know every single thing that's listed by heart. Learn Spanish. Stand on Antarctica with a big "7" sign. Write a romance novel.

FINISH THE PHOTO BORDER IN THE KIDS' ROOM

Not really bucket list material, is it? It's listed just like that in big, angry capital letters that I wrote three years ago when I completed the photo border on one wall and had to take a freaking break already. A few weeks became months. Life happened. O and I melted down and he transitioned to his new home. Quinn was born just a few weeks later.

Suddenly. Suddenly? More than three years have past. Right before Nate arrived, we moved Quinn into the "big kids' room." We set up a borrowed crib with trepidation and talked about him moving and cringed when story time ended and it was time for everyone to go to bed. All for naught. NAUGHT! He marched in there like he owned the place with a big, proud grin on his face and woe be onto anyone who suggested that he was a baby after that. Of all things. A baby. The nerve.

I've confessed this before, so you all already know I'm nuts but until a month ago they were all still in cribs. I do like cribs, but this was more about my change issues. Change. Sigh. Matt finally gave up and went on C.raig's L.ist and found the most adorable hand made toddler bed ever made and then he copied the design and made three more most adorable hand made toddler beds and now, holy cuteness, it's like snow white and the seven dwarfs barfed up their room. I had to do my part and I do LOVE to cross something off a list and in particular the big list, and so, as of yesterday, I have officially crossed "finish the photo border" off of my bucket-type list. Hurray!! And sob. My cute big kids' room.



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The Walk to 160 Pounds

Someone else has changed a bit. Apparently, I suck at photo series, but I give you Hampton Noodle, Weeks Eight, Nine and Ten-ish.

Remember this?


Yeah, not so much.




(I pushed them all to the post office like that. People honked at me. I like to think it's because I'm awesome and not because I'm fruit loop crazy.)

Dear Hampton Noodle,

You weigh sixteen pounds. (!!!) Quit squishing poor Nate. Quit chewing on my table leg. Quit peeing in my house!!!!

Love, the woman who controls the kibble bag

All photos taken with my new camera. Box opened, various bits installed, absolutely no reading or learning done whatsoever, just pushing of "take a picture please" button. Purely gratuitous baby shot. I love it.


[THANK YOU!! A million times thank you for discussing all day Kindergarten with me. I liked the program and I'm going to sign them up. I loved hearing your experiences; I had no idea so many kids went to all day Kindergarten. I thought it would be a fairly unusual (possibly selfishly motivated) choice and it isn't and tons of people choose it for lots of reasons and dat dere is why I love this here blogging thang. XO.]

Mirror, Mirror

I had a conference tonight with Ess and Gee's preschool teacher. They are four. Energetic. Eager. Gee needs to work on his fine motor skills and he doesn't reach out to his peers easily, although he'll pester any adult in the room to read to him until they want to strangle him. He needs to know the details of how everything works. Ess craves sensory stimulation. She loves to be messy. She's a natural leader, but she already knows how to use that to exclude. They are both ready for pre-K. They are both easy to have in the classroom.

I was unsurprised. I know them. I spend all my days, every day, with them. I recognized them, my children, my beautiful four-year-olds, in her descriptions.

Then, we got to me and I got an uncomfortable glimpse of a me I don't recognize all that well. Teacher P and I like and respect each other. I love the way she runs her classroom and I think she's an awesome person. She gets where I am in my life. She understood, she told me, why I don't have a lot of time to devote to the class and she knows that I am an active part of Ess and Gee's life because she sees it reflected in their behavior, and so (here it comes) she explains to the other parents who feel that I am always in a such a hurry and I don't seem to be a part of the school community.

Sigh. Ouch. In all honesty, that shouldn't be such a surprise either. I can see myself through their eyes. I am always in a hurry. I'm not a part of the school community.

I get it. It's just. That's not really me. Except when it is? And is that so terrible, really?

Ess and Gee go to two preschool programs. On MWF, they attend "co-op" preschool. Hilariously, I would venture to guess that I might annoy some people in my MWF life for exactly the opposite reasons. I am on the board. I work in the classroom. I am someone to call with questions. I organize the park days in the summer and I know almost all the parents and I'm sure not everyone likes me, because, you know, we just don't manage to convey our hearts to everyone we meet, but I am absolutely certain that not one person there would ever accuse me of not being a part of the school community.

On TTh, they attend Teacher P's school. It's a big private school and I chose it for a reason. Nate and Cue and I attend baby and toddler classes on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. My schedule is full and I have all I can handle on my plate and I wanted a place where I could just drop them off and pick them up. I intentionally chose a classroom that looked like it had the resources to carry a few families that weren't looking for community.

I am not rude. I pay my bills on time. I am responsive and pleasant, and I don't complain, but I am in a hurry. When I drop off, I am on my way to toddler class and when I pick up I have two exhausted, hungry babies with dirty diapers in the van. Exhausted, hungry babies that I leave in the car while I run in to grab Ess and Gee. Literally, grab them. Like, Hi teacher P! Great to see you! Later!

I'm not blind. I see the other mom's sitting around chatting, hanging out for the last fifteen minutes of class. I see the look they give me as I fly past them, unbuckling their younger children from their cars to come in for a bit. I see them roll their eyes when Ess starts in on her temper tantrum as I hustle her out the door.

Can't she just slow down a little? Give the girl a minute to transition. I can. I do. On MWF, I do. I chat. I introduce myself to new people. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I'm tired and starving and I can't face it. I physically can not face hauling Nate and Cue into the building. I can not deal with Cue's fit when we have to leave again ten minutes later. I can not stay patient while Ess ignores my requests to get her coat because she knows I have no hands and I can not get them all out the door easily. So, no. I don't have that minute in me on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

What's funny is that when we know someone's heart, when we understand them, we rarely judge them. If they knew me, they'd probably say, girlfriend, give yourself Tuesdays and Thursdays. You can't get involved everywhere. There are only so many places where you can be invested. Just run in and get your kids and so what if you're "that mom" to a few people who don't know you.

So, I nod. I'm nodding now, to myself. I am that mom. That mom you don't know very well. I could be interpreted a million ways. A snob. Completely out of touch with her kids. Not a team player. Too good for the rest of us. Not good enough for the rest of us. And ohmahgawd she leaves her poor, neglected babies in the car (in dirty diapers!). But, you know, if you met me on a Monday or a Friday afternoon, you might like me. "That mom" has a story too. Whatever it is. I'm certain many, many moms have stories a hell of lot more complicated then, my uh, yeah, I have a lot of kids and I'm tired and I just don't try as hard on certain days, tale of woe.

And I am as guilty as the next person of forgetting it, but I swear I will remember it when I meet her elsewhere in my life.

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I wrote this right after the conference last night and then I didn't publish it because it seemed a bit whiny. When I read it this morning, I realized it's just kind of me, myself and I, in all my manifestations, working through my thoughts, noodling about how different we can appear, depending on what light is shined down on us and what lens the viewer chooses. It's interesting to me that I am a different person depending on where and when you meet me. I've read some great posts lately on feeling left out in the world of moms, maybe snubbed, by the intensely involved moms and I wonder, as a very involved MWF mom, do I appear that way? And then, conversely, funnily, weirdly, on TTh, I find I appear exactly the opposite. Huh.

In addition, this morning I flung myself with gusto into an intense, philosophical and complicated WHAT TO DO FOR SCHOOL NEXT YEAR FOR ESS AND GEE crisis, which culminated in Matt telling me to CALL MY FREAKING MOTHER because he couldn't take it any more and FORTHELOVEOFGOD woman, just pick a school and go with it, I cannot even remember preschool or pre-K and I am positive it matters not one iota. After which, he dialed my mother's number and fled to the garage where he continues to hide at this very moment.

So. Yeah. I had it in my head to send them to a relatively expensive, five-mornings-a-week version of their current TTh program. But, Teacher P basically flat out asked me how my behavior was going to change next year and I realized that my crisis in large part involved the fact that I don't want to change. They are nearly five. I have put in three fun, long years of helping out at circle time and bringing snack and helping organize activities and I'm not even done because I'm still doing all of that for Cue and Nate next year and um, oh geez, shit, (confession of a disorganized mom of four alert!) I DON'T WANNA.

I just wanna drop them off and pick them up. And I kinda sorta wouldn't mind if their coats were on when I got there. (Wince.)

I'm completely happy to volunteer a set day in the classroom or bring supplies or bake something for whatever fill in the blank hallmark holiday, but your totally going to have to call and remind me because I just suck like that. And oh yeah, I might sometimes be in a hurry and it's not even because I'm intimately involved in peace in the middle east or I work part time as an environmental attorney saving birdies or I have to rush to perform a life-saving surgery or something.

It's probably because I'm starving. Or I have to pee.

As a result of this deep soul searching and angst and endless discussing, which I have had to bring to my BLOG because my husband and my mother are both tired of me, in one of the biggest reversals of philosophical stances on four-year-olds in the history of me being the mother of four-year-olds, I am considering putting them both in all day Kindergarten. (Where they line them up and bring them out to your car! Oh! God! The happiness! The lack of sprinting and worrying and leaving of babies in dirty diapers in parking lots!) Let's discuss.

[[Matt (telepathically from the garage): YOU ARE INSANE. IT'S SIX HOURS A DAY. IT'S LIKE PARENTS OF TOO MANY CHILDREN UNDER FIVE NIRVANA. SIGN THEM UP BEFORE I HAVE YOU LOBOTOMIZED AND CONFINED TO YOUR BEDROOM IN A STRAIGHT JACKET.]]

Betrayal

A play in one act.

The lights come up. A man and a woman stand in the traditional, remodeled kitchen of a 1920s house.

He pops open a can of cheap beer.

Matt: We are not meeting our monthly food budget.

She pulls a carton from the freezer and digs in a drawer for something.

Stacey: Hmmmmmm.

Matt: We might be able to move some things from "food" to "family" this month.

Stacey: Or. Maybe beer shouldn't count as food.

Matt: Maybe Dryers Double Churned chocolate chip mint ice cream shouldn't count as food.

She staggers to the side, clutches her heart and falls to the polished hardwood floor.

The lights dim to black.

Counterpoint

It's easy to get a little disillusioned by internet life after a while. You read; you comment; you write; maybe you tweet a little. We all make friends, email, get busy, loose touch, our readers hit a billion posts and we have to back up, take a breath, dip back in. We think, what am I doing here? I could have organized closets and finally tried homemade play dough. (Okay, in my case, there would never be homemade play dough, but you know, ONE could home make play dough.)

So many of us pour our hearts, our thoughts, our joys, our sorrows out into that edit window, close our eyes and hit publish every day. Because it's fun. Because it's interactive. Because every blog is a window into someone's world. Because we like to write. Because we like affirmation. Because we are all shameless narcissists. Because human beings like to delight in others and be delighted in. I check all of the above. Does it matter? Because there is a community here. Here in this place called the internet and it's fun, and interesting and stimulating and dynamic and challenging to be a part of it.

Then. Then, as with anything, there's a downside. People can be cruel. Anonymity is powerful. A heart exposed can be cradled or cut. Disagreement and discourse are healthy and strong, but hate and cruelty are not. They are poison. A few huge voices speak up and say I don't deserve this. Nastiness is not okay. Judgment is not the goal. This is my space; my voice.

The negativity spreads like a noxious gas, thick and yellow. It's hard to see anything else. I think, is this it? Is the sum total of this place about cutting each other down? Finding fault. Passing judgment. Is that the purpose here?

I open my inbox and there's an email from a woman I'm just getting to know and it ends like this: "[Y]our words matter. And I just wanted to tell you." My whole day, my whole week, my whole attitude changes. How many times in your life do you hear that you matter to someone else, in some small way, stated out loud?

Another incredible woman gets an email and it ends like this: "What you're doing. The things you write. They make a difference." She decides to pay it forward and my whole day, my whole week changes.

Oh yeah. There it is. The purpose here. It shone so bright that I was blinded for a moment. I had to grope for my sunglasses and put them on and take a breath and take down my defenses and open my heart and then there it is.

I am not kidding when I tell you that I could pay if forward one hundred times. I have been moved and changed and taught and forced to grow and supported and hugged and comforted and challenged and engaged and loved by your writing.

Bon. Your words matter. Beth. Your words matter. Heather. Your words matter. Ann. Your words matter. Maggie. Your words matter. To me. (And so do yours, A.R., though I am atrocious with my email.)

My words matter. Your words matter.

Our words matter.

What you are doing. The things you write. They make a difference.

Comments are closed. If you were going to take the time to comment, I have a request. Add to Shell and Kim's energy. Tell someone you read that they matter. We'll blow a great big bubble of love so big that it will pop and get sticky goo all over the internet and the mean trollesque people won't be able to type because they'll have sticky goo on their hands and faces, but we will be able to type because we'll hand each other wet wipes. Internet parents ALWAYS have wet wipes to clean up the messes their unsupervised children make. XO.

Life, Uninterrupted

You are all rock stars. Thank you so much for the comments on that last post. It would appear that terrifying, life-threatening moments with children are a common experience among mothers. It meant the world to me that you would all take a minute to share your close calls and a few m&ms with me.

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We made Leprechaun traps on Tuesday. Sometimes, having kids is just fun. We discussed where to put the traps at length, with Ess bouncing in excitement and anticipation and Gee getting quieter and quieter the more we talked about Leprechauns sneaking into our house in search of the green gold we had put into the traps as bait. I could see in his eyes my fear of the dark, of anything supernatural or odd, of freaky little green men creeping into our house in search of coins under traps. No thank you, momma, keep your little nightmare legends to yourself. Ess wanted to set a trap in their bedroom and Gee shrank even further into himself in horror.

"Oh," I told her, "that's no good, you'll never catch one upstairs, Leprechauns are afraid of people." I winked at my tall, sensitive, taciturn son. He didn't say a word until later, when she begged again to put her trap in their room beside her bed. "No, Ess," he said with a bold laugh and shake of his head, "Leprechauns are afraid of people." Passing on my neurosis AND my defense mechanisms. Beautiful.

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Hampton Noodle won't walk on the hardwood floors. He wants to be carried from rug island to rug island and when he is marooned on a rug island without appropriate and timely assistance, he makes his unhappiness with the situation known. It's great because I totally needed more things in this house that cry or whine when they want me to pick them up. He's doubled his weight and height in two weeks and now, at nine-weeks-old, he looks like your average six-month-old puppy. Pictures tomorrow.

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Pictures! Taken with my new camera! I opened the box. I even put a lens on the damn thing. (Curtsy.)

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I opened the box and took pictures with the damn thing because we just changed the kids' room. I finally finished a decorating project that I've been working on for three years. Documenting the removal of all the cribs and the installment of adorable beds (that Matt made! the man is handy. it's an amazing quality in a life partner.) was my "change therapy." I plan to bore you all with pictures in continuance of my therapy this weekend.

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I'm a guest mouthy housewife today, dispensing life altering advice about proper godmothering techniques. Yeah, I know, like anyone should listen to me on "parenting" or anything involving "god." I have no idea what I'm talking about, but I make things up well.

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Speaking of God, and loving thy neighbor and perhaps getting thy neighbor's input before thou paves thy neighbor's paradise, I shall now deal with the fact that the huge church behind our house is illegally filling the lots that they illegally cleared to build their illegal parking lot. Have a fabulous weekend!

Too Much

Quinn choked on a carrot. He's a crammer. I don't know why I've been sent a crammer, but I suspect that some malign, capricious spirit of mischief and unpleasantness in the universe has taken a disliking to me because there is nothing - nothing! - that children can throw at their parents on a day-to-day basis that I fear more than choking. It approaches phobia level. It's something about the fact that they can't breathe and I am responsible for making them breathe again, post haste, before their lack of breath damages their little brains or worse, that, you know, frightens me a little.

He choked badly. Not the horrific, "I crammed my mouth so full I have now triggered my gag reflex and will hork my dinner back onto my plate and all over your table in a disgusting example of how nature protects toddlers from their own stupidity." This was the real deal, the "I am not making a sound or gagging because I can't get any air past whatever is in my esophagus, buggy-eyed choke."

I hadn't been watching him. I was in the room, I had even been sitting at the table eating and feeding Nate just moments before, but the puppy finished his dinner and Garrett wanted more water and Nate had used sweet potatoes and his body as a medium of baby expression in the performance art genre. I hadn't been watching him and I hadn't cut up his baby carrots because he likes them whole, oh my god, gnashing of teeth, thrashing of toddler torso, drama! despair! rejection of this pitiful, unacceptable, OFFENSIVE baby carrot that hath been CUT into PIECES by a KNIFE. The gall. The ... HERE! HERE IS YOUR WHOLE BABY CARROT PLEASE TAKE NICE BITES DO NOT CRAM THE WHOLE THING IN YOUR MOUTH.

I teleported myself to his side of the table and yanked him up out of his chair except that he had fastened the buckle on his booster because that is what you do when you want to kill your mother with fear. You fasten yourself into a seat and then stop breathing so that she must undue a buckle with her trembling hands before she can throw you over her knee, face down, head slightly lower than your chest just like it says in the baby and toddler choking section of her don't-let-your-children-die-on-your-watch book and pound you on the back.

If you really want her to lose her shit, after all of this, still don't breathe. Which is exactly what he did. I hit him twice hard and nothing happened and I had this moment where time ceased to function properly and in about a second my brain saw the page, the exact page, the exact sentence where it says if it doesn't work, call 911 so that they are on their way and then keep trying, while I simultaneously had a conversation with my panicked self. Now?! Call 911 NOW?! Or try again and then call?! I also whacked him twice more in the same second, I swear to you, while I was deciding.

He coughed up an entire baby carrot. The entire baby carrot, I suppose, that had been recently blocking his airway, pulled it out of his own mouth, turned his head to the side and said, "too much, momma, too much in my mouth."

I set him in his chair and took my jellified appendages into the kitchen so that I could cry and eat a handful of m&ms. Everyone knows that a handful of m&ms cures everything and what? I want chocolate when I'm shaky. Standing in the doorway of the kitchen, popping clandestine candy into my mouth, watching them finish their dinners, another scene overlaid the quiet one before me. Same room, same kids, but with lights flashing in front of our house through the big front windows, lighting our dining room with an ominous circling red.

Someone will read this; I know it's true; Someone will read this and think, what a terrible mother. She gives her toddler baby carrots? And then he chokes and she writes about it like it's funny? It won't surprise me when one of her kids [chokes to death] [substitute anything here/ drowns/falls/gets hit by a car/pulls something over on himself/breaks his neck in any number of clearly unnecessary ways preventable by the "perfect" every vigilant parent]. I know someone will because I get those emails. This is funny? You find this amusing?

No. I find it terrifying. I find it too much some days when my toddler has just choked or my stroller has just tipped over with my baby in it or my four year old has just fallen from the top of the slide. I find it too much. This place where I am. Too much responsibility. Too much room for error. So many places to go wrong. Too much to remember. Too much to attend. Too many places for attention to slip, so many permutations of fatal errors that one's brain could seize up into an anxious ball and fail to ever move again.

Too much love. I have so much to lose.

I have so much to lose. So much joy. Such happiness. Endless fun. Days filled with laughter and tears and peanut butter and jelly and snuggles and stories and dancing and bedtimes. I am a great mother, a mother who plays with her kids, a mother who breastfeeds, a mother who is strict about bedtime, a mother who doesn't do crafts, a mother who occasionally leaves her kids in the car, a mother who yells, a mother who has said to her kids, whether the New York Times thinks it is something to be mocked or not, "Find something to do for a while, I'm writing a blog post."

Because when it is all too much. Too much to bear. Too much to remember. Too much to hold onto to. Too much to process alone. Too beautiful. Too scary. I set it down in writing and sometimes, someone out there says, I've been there too. In the writing of it, in the sharing, I do see the humor. I see the humanity. I see that it is one moment; one mistake; one success; one misstep out of a million moments and mistakes and successes and missteps and even if it had ended another way, with flashing lights and terror and grief, it doesn't make me bad. Or you bad. It doesn't make someone "wrong" and someone else "right."

It's just life and life can be too much.

M&M? Leave the blue ones, they're my favorites.

The Walk to 160 Pounds

I'm starting a new series wherein I pretend I'm a real photographer, who does serieses. A real photographer who knows the plural of series is series. Weirds. You pretend that I didn't take all of these photos on my broken camera, which can only be accomplished by physically holding the lens on the camera in exactly the right position so that the broken "hold the lens on the camera" latch doesn't release and the camera doesn't get all shitty with me and flash "error, error, error, the freaking lens is not properly attached to the freaking camera." Grrrrrr. You also pretend that I don't have a brand new camera (A Nikon D3000) with two beautiful new lenses (lensies?), sitting in a box on the floor of our kitchen, a birthday present from my parents, who are now thinking, "what is wrong with you, open the box and figure out how to use the new camera."

Haven't you all learned anything about me? I fear change. Also, in case you've missed how I mention these things constantly, or maybe you're new: I can not stand for anything to be sticky, even temporarily; I am mercilessly anti-clutter; I obsess regularly about the passage of time and the steady growth of my litter of children; I'm addicted to chai tea lattes; and I hate messy crafts and/or messy art projects for children of any sort.

[[Funny aside. Today was my work day at coop preschool and our delightful Teacher M tried so hard to distract me from the fact that Ess was purposely doing this thing that drives me batty. She digs her fingernails into the ink pads set out on the art table for finger print picture making and pushes down until all the ink collects in this horribly bubbly puddle under her hand and I melt down into a psychotic, incoherent mess of a mother who's all, "if you do that one more time, you are done finger print painting," which is absolutely the worst thing I could possibly say because OF COURSE she does it again to test me and we are then engaged in a horrible power struggle at preschool and she is sitting in the hall pretending to cry but secretly delighting in the fact that she can drive me certifiably insane by squishing ink into puddles.

So yeah, Teacher M was all "How are you, Stacey, and isn't it wonderful how they are exploring with the finger printing today? And how is your puppy? And how was your weekend?"

Me: I can totally see over your shoulder, Teacher M, because you are short and because my daughter is looking me in the eye taunting me as she makes ink bubbly puddles and NO! That is not exploring! That is intentional horrible mess making and there is a difference! "Great, perfect, thank you, essthisisyoursecondwarningIamnotkidding."

Teacher M casually glanced at Ess, "Oh. Look at that, Ess. Doesn't that feel weird. Isn't that a neat feeling in your fingers?" Meanwhile, I have lost it, "Three! Done! Ohmygodwashyourhandsandfindsomethingelsetodorightnow!"

Teacher M: You are psychotic. (She didn't say that, but I'm pretty sure she thought it.)

I believe I failed coop preschool parenting today. I'm not sure that I care. End of long funny-in-an-I'm-absolutely-crazy-way aside.]]

Where the hell was I? Oh! Yeah! Look. Distraction. Puppies. Babies. Cuteness. A photo series.

The walk to 160 pounds.

Week Six.


Dear Hampton Noodle,

Your howling at night is annoying. Be quiet. I barely have tolerance for the sleep I've lost to the croupy human baby in this house. A whiny puppy is over the line. Also, it makes my milk let down. I haven't nursed anything for eight days and I'm trying to let go and be happy about moving on to the next phase of my life. I object to laying awake with a painful boob that has responded to your pitiful yowls. You pooped under my dining room table twice this week. There is absolutely nothing adorable about that, my friend. Curb it. While we're on the subject of not very endearing: Chewing on Nate's leg, standing on Nate's stomach and snarfeling in Nate's ear like there's a gourmet meal in there. Not to give you a complex, so on the positive side, it is absolute hilarious when you can't walk after you eat because your stomach is too big for your legs. You make that really cute puppy grunt/snuffle noise when you fall asleep in my lap. The fact that Matt has to get up with you all night amuses me. You weigh eight pounds.

Week Seven



Dear Hampton Noodle,

Hello? Hampton? You are not a human child. That is not your chair. (Nate, I'm sorry. You are not replaced, I swear it.) You have an aversion to grass. It's pissing me off. You are a dog, dude, that's where you pee. Thank you for sleeping through the night. I run a tight sleeping-through-the-night-required household and I appreciate your getting on board with that. The kids love it when you chase them around the basement. That may not be the case much longer. You weigh ten (!) pounds.

Okay fine. Maybe it is your chair, but only because I like it when you sleep. (Nate, I'll get you another one. Don't worry, the joke is totally on the dog, he won't fit in that chair in two weeks.)

This post completely exploits the creative genius of Panic Room Ryan for satirical purposes, except that I employ far less beautiful models and command a pitiful lack of photographic talent. His Walk to 40 Weeks series is stunning. I'm hoping he'll think this is funny and won't sue me or anything. Ryan? Email me before you sue me.

Wistful

The start of a rainstorm makes me melancholy and wistful. The solid stretch of gray cloud presses down on my heart. The first drops bouncing off my windshield make me long for something other than my minivan full of children, headed for the library to pass another cold, wet morning. A gallop up a steep hill to a small copse of trees. Stinging hail pelts our faces, mine all but covered by my poncho hood as I trust my pony to find shelter from the storm. A tropical storm blowing in off of the Pacific. First the wind, only, whipping my hair into my eyes. It antagonizes the surf that pounds the rocks below me into a frenzy, announcing the deluge that is visible a mile or so off shore. I count the waterspouts that snake from gray-black clouds to gray-green ocean and laugh at the power.

***********************************

I marked it like you told me. We lay together, curled perfectly side by side in the wan, underwater light of a February morning and nursed for the last time. I stroked his soft, red hair and tried to focus on the pull, the little chugging swallows, but my mind kept drifting. Is this done? Should I feel donefully doner somehow? Or will I always feel wistful for these growing, aching, joyful, painful baby days? I fear it's the latter. I'm a yearner. I tend to barrel, happy and fast-moving and sure through my days and then pause and gaze back, stunned and sad that the climb is over.

******************************

Another dank morning and we dance in a train in the wet-rock cold basement. They are so cute my heart hurts, but my camera is broken because I dropped it on the pavement in Mexico. The way that warmth kisses your cheek and massages your shoulders seems like a myth now. We dance past the train set and the wall with the hammer marks and the baby propped up by pillows in the corner of the couch. I leopard crouch across the room toward Nate and he bounces in anticipation, mouth open and hands pounding the pillow in his lap. He's wearing a Polo onsie, red with dark blue preppy stripes that I bought for Gee back when Polo didn't seem so ridiculous for our only child. What a different mother I am now.

Cue holds my hands behind my back and Ess holds his waist and Gee holds her waist. Laughing, we dance past the four bulletin boards hung on the wall in a careful rectangle that I stained so lovingly to match the room the summer before Ess and O came home in between nursing my one little red-headed boy. Our newest red-headed child smiles his wide two-toothed smile. Past the two-year-old finger paintings I can't bear to take down and the carefully decorated dinosaurs from preschool. Past the barn toy box my grandfather made for me. Past the corner cabinet Matt made a lifetime ago when we dreamed up projects to fill our free time.

There. Maybe I'm glad I didn't have a camera. What will make me more wistful when I'm eighty-four and I pass a wet, gray afternoon reliving the past? The pictures or the words?

**********************************

I'm thirty-seven on Sunday. I'm on the edge of moving past so many things. There's so much to do after all of this. I want to stand on my last continent. I want C&G to drag me around Uganda and mock me when I sob at the size of the spiders. I want to work again. I want another baby, a little. But I'm thirty-seven, not twenty-eight, and I'm beginning to understand that I always will. A little. At some point, you have to let it fade into the past.