Five Things You Should Never Say to the Mother of Your Children

Dear Husband,

You are a wonderful father and husband. I thank Fate everyday that we crossed paths and managed to scare each other into getting married. You do the grocery shopping (usually with the kids!), help with bedtime, cook dinner at least two nights a week, and are home for dinner almost every night. You are a dream! How did I get so lucky?

But, there are some phrases you should just stop saying. Every time I hear them, I  contemplate a one-way ticket to Tahiti…for me. Alone. All by myself.  For starters, here are five things you should never say to the mother of your children:

We need this in our house.

We need this in our house.

1. “I need a couple of minutes to go to the bathroom.” Almost without fail you come home, say hello, kiss me on the cheek, get the kids riled up with excitement to see their daddy and then excuse yourself to go to the bathroom. Alone. With the door closed. And locked. You get annoyed when one of the kids tries to follow you in there, or worse, bangs on the door demanding to be let in. I get to go to the bathroom alone only when both kids are at school or in bed. That averages out to about 1.5 times a day. And in reality, usually during one of those times you are in the bathroom brushing your teeth. No, dear husband, you get to have an audience, complete with running commentary on all of your body parts. Prepare to be humbled.  And by the way, our three-year-old is potty training so show some enthusiasm!

2. “I thought you were going to _______ .” Yes, I had big plans for today, too. I thought I was going to get a shower. I thought I was going to call the plumber. I thought I was going to put the Christmas decorations away.  I thought I was going to make it to the pharmacy. I thought when I grew up I would  travel around the world saving children from orphanages but then, guess what?? You knocked me up. Twice. And now those little bastards are holding me hostage everyday making me do things I never dreamed I would do without someone putting a gun to my head. I do not control my days, let alone my hours or minutes. Yes, I thought I was going to do something today too, but alas, I only managed to keep our small humans alive just so I can live to tell of their tortures tomorrow.

3. “Have you seen my ______?” You are a grown-up. I am keeping track of my stuff and the humongous piles of crap that come with our two children. I cannot keep track of your stuff, too. Please do your part and find your own crap. And while you’re at it, pick it up and put it away, too.

4. “It’s been a while since we…you know.” Yep. And it’s gonna be a while longer (see #1 and #2). I am never alone. Someone is always touching, grabbing, licking, wiping, hitting or otherwise abusing my body. At 8:30 at night when that finally stops, the last thing I want is a grown-up touching, grabbing, or slobbering on me. To say nothing of the other thirty things that I didn’t get done today that I must now somehow get done between the hours of 8:30 PM and 11:00 PM. Yes, I miss you. Yes, sex is important but you knocked me up (twice, remember!) and now I have certain responsibilities. I should be free in 2018.

5. “I don’t feel so well. I’m gonna take a sick day.” I call this the Man Flu. I didn’t coin this phrase but it is so true. It doesn’t matter what the affliction is but men seem to suffer so much more than anyone else when they are sick. In the five years I’ve been a parent, there is only one thing that has made me take to my bed and it was a horrible case of mastitis (can I get an “Amen!”?). So, dear husband, not that you aren’t allowed a sick day but you aren’t allowed to then lay in bed all day, complaining of how bad you feel and summoning me to fetch you drinks, medications, and meals.The barely controlled chaos of my day tips into uncontrolled chaos with the addition of your sickly demands. The lives of the three other people in our house must go on. I get sick yet our kids still get to school. They still get fed.  I still wake up at an ungodly hour to snuggle our youngest so he doesn’t wake our eldest. You can take a sick day but don’t be surprised when I only manage to throw some Children’s Tylenol and a gummy bear vitamin at you as I pass by with a half-naked toddler.  Yes, that is probably poop smeared on your drinking glass because you summoned me in the middle of a diaper change. If you get sick, do what I do and Suck. It. Up.

I love you. I appreciate you. You are amazing. But please stop saying these phrases unless you want to  be forced to hunt me down on a remote island in the middle of the South Pacific.

Hm. I think my plan is about to backfire. <Sigh.>

In case you didn’t see it, my husband  posted his reply, “Five Things You Should Never Say to the Father of Your Children.”

Photo credit: Beautiful Freaks

Awesome Moms on iPhones

A blog post, “Dear Mom With an iPhone” has been making the rounds and every time I see it my hackles raise up like a porcupine cornered by a hound dog. Yes, I’m feeling defensive because I am absolutely That Mom. My iPhone and I make regular appearances at the local park. So…here I thought I’d give it a different take:

Dear Mom on the iPhone,

You are awesome. Seriously. Take a minute to revel in your awesomeness. You are juggling 52,532 things on any given day all while being accosted, battered, verbally abused, and ignored by the very people whose schedule of feeding, bathing, entertaining, enriching and otherwise caring for, your entire existence revolves around – Handsome Little Devils and Perfect Princesses that they are. Oh…and you have a spouse, probably aging parents and at least one high-maintenance friend or relative who also demands your attention. God, you’re amazing! Oh, you have a job outside the home, too? You just doubled the number of balls you’re juggling because you have a second family to manage. Holy crap. I just died of exhaustion thinking about that.

So yes, you are thrilled that they have taken a break from pummeling each other over the last yellow Lego to push each other down the slide. You are thrilled to have ten minutes that don’t require your complete attention and adoration so you can see if your doctor has called you back to schedule that appointment you haven’t been able to make since….well, whenever your post-partum check up was because you haven’t had time to take care of your own health because you’re driving to the pediatrician’s office every other week to fish out a Lego from Handsome Devil’s nose or have the doctor look at Perfect Princess’s ears to see if that recurring ear infection has gone away, yet. <Gasp for air>

Oh, look, your kids just jumped off the swings and they are yelling at you, “Look Mom! Look what we can do!” And it’s amazing. And you should take a second to verbally acknowledge what they did. But, guess what? Your mom just called and she needs you to call her right away to help her decide what dessert to serve at your sister’s baby shower. And there are three emails waiting from parents from school who want to know if you can help work the bake sale on Friday. Oh, and you still haven’t called back your best friend who is passing through town tomorrow….oh crap, that was yesterday. Never mind. At least that’s one less thing to do. And your boss needs you to review the 123rd draft of his power point by tomorrow and wants to know if you have time for a “quick” call at 3:30 (when you’re supposed to be picking up Handsome Devil from soccer and taking him to the dentist).

Oh! Perfect Princess just made it across the monkey bars all by herself! That’s incredible. She’s never done that. Huge accomplishment in her short life. It is. Make a big deal about it at dinner tonight with Dad. But you have about three minutes left in your ten minute window before Perfect Princess decides to dump a bucket full of sand on top of the head of the cute girl in the pink flower dress. So, in those three minutes you better text your husband to tell him to pick up milk and cereal, find your son’s shoes that mysteriously disappeared in the sand, call your sister back and tell her you can’t watch her kids Friday night because you are now manning the bake sale table and call the mechanic to get your car scheduled for a service.

You can do it! Because this is what you do everyday and you are awesome at it!

Remember, as a parent, we get to witness amazing feats and accomplishments of our children every day. It is what inspires us, endears them to us, and keeps us from totally losing our minds when they fill the toilet full of Play-Doh. But you will miss a lot of moments in their life, big and small, and that is ok. Repeat after me, “That. Is. OK.” They know you love them. They know you support them.

Because, while you did not play with them at the playground, you did play a marathon game of Chutes and Ladders yesterday and didn’t say anything when he went up the slide instead of down and won the game just because you love the big smile he gets when he wins.

Because you stayed in her room late last night and helped her turn the scary shadows in her room into magical sleeping fairies.

Because when he was sick, you laid down with him in his bed rubbing his back until he fell asleep.

Because you made her favorite snack when she came home from school and told you her best friend didn’t want to play with her at recess.

Because you dug 11 holes in your flower bed to find him 20 worms to add to his snail and worm collection.

Because you taught them to have confidence in their own abilities and pride in their accomplishments – and not just because you do.

So, go ahead and take the last minute of your ten minute window to try another level of Angry Birds because your kids are going to be just fine.  You need a minute to let your brain rest and not think about those 52,532 balls (or 105,064 balls if you have a paying job). You love your kids and you are awesome.  And they know it. And that’s all that matters.

Love,

This Mom and her iPhone

And with that, I’m down to 52,531 balls.

Magic

I love this time of year. If I could freeze time and live in any month for the rest of my life, have a Groundhog Month if you will, I would live in October. I can’t find anything wrong with it. I get all four seasons in one month. I can still eat fruits and veggies from summer and I can start cooking soups and breads to get cozy on those cold nights. It might rain, but not a lot. It’s warm. And cold. We can still go to the beach and wine country is in its prime. But more than anything, I love Halloween. I love magic and mystery.

As a kid, during October, I spent my walks home from school swearing I saw fairies flitting in the falling leaves and goblins scurrying on the dark branches in the trees and that every rock was the home of a small troll. And I knew that on Halloween I was going to magically transform into the latest creature of my imagination and defy the laws of gravity and the universe to do whatever I wanted during my brief time as a Fill-In-The-Blank. Nothing was impossible. And nothing needed an explanation. It was perfectly fine if someone wanted to be a mummy princess or punk rock zombie. Nothing had to fit into the confines of our rules.

Our kids have offered a whole new perspective on magic. It’s everywhere and it’s not just about a holiday. To them, so much in the world is magical because they don’t have the comprehension of science, yet. I especially noticed it this summer on our trip to Iowa and watching Carter’s first firefly hunt. He just giggled and giggled and ran and giggled some more. He brought me a container full of fireflies, all of them flashing their little green behinds like crazy. Carter’s eyes were wide, his grin even wider. I asked him what made their little behinds light up like that. And he whispered, “Magic, Mommy.”

And then a couple of weeks ago we finally fulfilled a promise we made to Carter and Mitchell and let them ride in the convertible. Do you remember the first time you rode in a convertible or a motorcycle or a boat or anything that went fast and blew the wind through your hair and made you squint your eyes because of the cool air on your face? I remember riding in my cousin’s jeep with the top off and thinking, “Why the hell doesn’t everyone drive a jeep?!?!” I loved it. There was something about driving a car without a top (or sides in this case). It broke The Rules and invited an up-close interaction with the world around me that engaged my entire being, sense of wonder and didn’t demand an explanation because it was just…So…Cool.

It was magical.

One of the greatest gifts of being a parent is having a front-row seat to a child’s endless stream of “firsts” and encounters with “magic.” Most of them end up ingrained in our memories, maybe we are lucky enough to remember to write them in a journal or baby book, but the real gift is when we happen to catch that moment in a picture or video. We did just that when Carter and Mitchell rode in the convertible for the first time:

And later that day, I asked Carter what he thought of riding in the convertible and he said in his excited four-year-old voice, “It’s magic!” Thank you, My Little Love, for reminding me that magic is still everywhere, all the time. And although my tendency is to jump in with a scientific lesson about why the firefly’s little behind lights up or follow-up your convertible ride with a lesson on driving safety, I will try very hard to keep magic alive for you because all of those lessons will come soon enough. There’s no rush. And I will be on the lookout for more ways to bring magic into your life.

I hope you, reader, find some magic today, too. Go for a bike ride, put the top down or just drive with your windows open. And be on the lookout for fairies in the falling leaves…you never know!

The man on the bike with the baby

We have moved to the set of The Truman Show. At least, that’s what I keep telling my husband. In the movie The Truman Show, a man (Jim Carrey) is going about living his mostly idyllic life that, unbeknownst to him, has been a carefully orchestrated and scripted Hollywood reality show. The houses are charming and the lawns well cared for, the neighbors friendly and helpful, the wives beautiful, the husbands successful and handsome, the kids cute and perfectly behaved. We live a short walk from a cute downtown with a combination of boutiques, cafes, and “everywhere” stores (Gap, Pottery Barn, etc.). Carter rides his bike to school three blocks away with his new best friend who lives across the street. For every three people there is a golden retriever or labradoodle. There is no road-rage. Everyone waves and smiles when they pass each other on the street.  It’s wonderful…and unnerving. I often find myself fighting the urge to walk around saying rather loudly, “This is all a charade! You’re all actors! You can stop it now! I know what’s going on!”

And I feel guilty as hell. The deep, Protestant, you-can’t-go-to-enough-church-to-wash-you-of-your-sins, kind of guilty.

Shortly after we moved here, I was on my way home from driving Justin to work (I was driving our convertible Mercedes because our SUV was in the shop…not because it was broken but because it was getting serviced, what a luxury) when I stopped at a stoplight. I was on a busy street lined with old apartment complexes built in the 40’s and 50’s that haven’t been touched since and are now occupied by low and middle income families. Outside my window, I watched as a man dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and baseball cap stood in the doorway of his apartment, said his goodbyes with a kiss and hug to a woman and then leaned over and kissed a baby in a stroller. I was struck by how similar that scene looked to the one that had played out countless times in our own house. Justin goes off to work (but dressed in a button down shirt, khakis and dress shoes), kisses me goodbye and hugs and kisses the boys before he goes off to work. For some reason, I was momentarily comforted by watching this universal ritual unfolding in a setting so different from my own.

But then, in a fluid motion, one that revealed it was something this man had done countless times before, he picked up the baby in the stroller (tiny little bundle!), wrapped it in thick blankets, put the baby on his shoulder, hopped on his bike and pedaled down the street, holding the baby with one hand and steering with the other.

I couldn’t believe it. Forget that he didn’t have a helmet on (I could hear my son’s panicked voice in my head, “Mommy! He doesn’t have a helmet!”). Forget that the baby wasn’t wearing a helmet (they don’t even make helmets that small, do they?). Forget that the baby wasn’t even in a baby seat or baby trailer. Forget that the man was riding down one of the busiest streets in the area. I had a million questions flood my mind. Where is he going? Is he taking the baby to work with him? Is the baby sick? Are they going to the doctor (the only legitimate reason I could come up with for why he would put his baby at such risk)? Or is he dropping the baby off at a babysitter or daycare? Where, in God’s name, is he taking a baby wrapped up in a blanket while riding on a bicycle?

As I sat in my convertible Mercedes, I thought of my boys and the obscenely expensive, currently empty car seats carefully and tightly strapped into the rear seats of our SUV and how much energy I had expended in the last four years ensuring my kids were securely strapped into the seats every time we went anywhere in our car. We rode bicycles for fun and only after lengthy lectures on safety and responsibility.

My momentary comfort in the universal ritual of dads saying goodbye to their families in the morning fell away. I had no context or perspective from which to view this scene.

My guilt and confusion was overwhelming. I began to sob. And there I sat in my convertible Mercedes driving back home to our newly painted and decorated house in Burlingame/Truman Show, CA to ride bikes with my four year old who was most certainly already having his Oma help him get the straps to his bike helmet tightened under his chin. And when I got home I would carefully strap my two-year old into our way-too-expensive stroller so we could take a walk to the neighborhood park to play with other kids who were in all likelihood doing just about the exact same thing.

I came home and told my mom who was visiting for a few days what I had seen. I said,  “It’s not fair that I get the luxuries of safety and security and education when so many other people don’t. Why am I any better or more deserving than anyone else?” Because I worked hard? Lots of people work hard and don’t get what I have. Because my parents could afford to send me to college (at a state school with ridiculously low tuition)? Because I can afford to pay my law school loans (because of said ridiculously low tuition)? Because I married a man who also works hard and is smart and works in an industry that compensates him well? Because, frankly, we had also been very lucky?

And then my mom told the story of my great-grandmother whose husband died unexpectedly when my grandmother was a senior in high school. There she was. Mother of four kids aged 17, 16, 14, and 12 years old with a farm in Iowa to run just as the Great Depression was starting. How unfair. She did not wallow. She did not feel sorry for herself (of course she did but no one knew it). No time for that! And she did everything she needed to to keep the farm afloat (it is a business, after all). Rather than sending her two oldest girls to college, as was the plan, she kept them close to home and they worked in town, giving all of their pay to keep the family farm alive. My great-granmother got up before dawn to tend to the farm animals, gather cow pies (that’s dried cow crap for you city slickers) to burn for fuel. She turned her home into a boarding house to help bring in a little more money. Once the two youngest boys were old enough, they started helping with the farm, too. This wasn’t temporary. This was how she spent the majority of the rest of her life. She saved the farm and it’s still in the family. One of her great-grandsons still lives in the house. Below is a picture of it that I took during our trip to Iowa this summer:

The four kids helped my great-grandmother as best they could, all raising their families close to the farm. My grandmother later married my grandfather who also lived in the small Iowa farming town and moved to a nearby farm. Here, they raised my mom and her two sisters. Farming life is not easy nor lucrative. My grandparents worked very hard, lived modest lives and sacrificed like crazy to give their three girls a chance at going to college and having careers. Which they all did (still do).

My mom married my dad, also raised on a farm in the small Iowa farm town. My two aunts married men from the same farming community as well. And they all promptly got the hell out of Dodge. Not in a spiteful way (our family remains close-knit) but in a way that honored the opportunities my grandparents tried to create. And my parents did everything they could to provide me and my siblings the same opportunities, with an exponential increase in expectations and sacrifice. Standing on that foundation created by my parents’, grandparents’, and great-grandparents’ sacrifices (and the inherent advantages of being a middle-class white female in our society), I went to college and law school and built my career and life with my husband. And then Justin and I made our sacrifices to start a family and began to build a foundation for our children on which to build their futures.

Maybe the-man-on-the-bike-with-the-baby is doing the same thing…he’s just a couple of generations behind my family. The evolution of wealth is usually slow.

Maybe. Maybe not.

I still feel guilty.

I also told my husband about the-man-on-bike-with-the-baby and in the only way that he can give me an ass-kicking, he gave me an ass-kicking (reason #3 I married him). He said, “How do you know that the man you saw is not actually every bit as happy as you? Maybe his life in the last 10 years has been hell and he’s thrilled to be enjoying the life of a new dad and he’s grateful for a job that makes it possible for him to live in that apartment. Just because the two minutes of his life that you witnessed is shocking to you doesn’t mean he doesn’t love his life.”

Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe Justin was also just trying to make me feel better (reason #8 I married him).

The truth is, I have no idea where the-man-on-the-bike-with-the-baby was going and whether or not he was happy or satisfied with his life. Just like I have no idea whether the beautiful wives, handsome and successful husbands, and well-behaved children we are now surrounded by are happy or satisfied…or not.

But, right now, I am happy and satisfied. And I’m going to enjoy it and be very, very grateful for this moment in time.  My great-grandmother wouldn’t want me to take my happiness for granted but she’d be damned if I felt guilty for it, too.