Poking at keys

"What do you write about?"

I've gotten that question a few times today because I'm at the annual BlogHer conference of women who publish online. And, to my surprise, I've met the question with a moment of pause. Not because I (admittedly) haven't written much lately, but because so often what my brain processes and sends to my fingers to poke out on my keyboard is a free flow and not well planned. But at the same time, the reason I go for days,weeks or months without writing is because I'm afraid of the free flow and exposing too much of what my brain is processing.

"I write about life with kids," I said.

And I guess that's what I do here. And I guess that's also what I stop myself from writing about. And it's hard to make that the answer because "life with kids" sounds so trivial and menial... an oscillation between boring and saccharine. But in reality, it's layered and complex and heart bursting... and hard. I overthink. "What do you write about?" is too close to "what do you think about?" and I won't give that away.

See? Not well planned.

A Short Reflection on a Short Year

I'm sitting up (hooray for at least sitting up) in bed, propped up by pillows, laptop glowing in my face, sleeping baby cradling my hip and breathing rhythmically in and out. I can't remember the last time in my life I was so sick. I am on day five of fever, chills, aches, coughs, and surely death's door - the whole nine yards. What a wonderfully ruined Christmas vacation. This is the kind of sick that isolates you to bed upstairs while you get to listen to the family open their stockings and eat their Christmas dinner downstairs. Yes, next year I will be getting that flu shot.

I am alone on New Year's Eve with just my girl, while the guys have gone to a germ-free friend's celebration. What a wonderfully ruined New Year's Eve. But in the stillness of this house, and having read my book, caught up on my People, and watched the entire season one of Downton Abbey, I'm suddenly struck with the realization that I have no other obligation than to reflect on this year.

We are a blessed family of FIVE.

We survived the Great House Remodel. And I even managed not to maul any of the contractors who spent my entire maternity leave in the house with me.

We are fighting the vicious beast that is ADHD and though it's an exhausting daily battle for all of us, I believe we mark a W on more days than not.

We have cultivated new meaningful friendships in the arms of a community.

We got to introduce our sacred beach and annual family tradition to the newest member.

We celebrated 10 years of marriage. We are high school sweethearts who have grown into teammates.

We have contributed time, talent and treasure to local causes that can benefit from what we have to offer.

We are given a daily gift of watching our boys love our girl, and vice versa.

They say the days are long but the years are short and it feels no more true than at this time of year. How do I have an 8-month-old baby? How am I possibly going to remember all the little moments of this precious, fleeting time that I find myself begging my brain constantly to imprint? It's the catch-22 of a full life: it will not last. So here's to hoping 2014 brings more big and little moments that make me catch my breath and hit the pillow hard at night with the knowledge that I did my best to earn it every day. That I worked hard and played hard and prioritized appropriately. And that one year from right now, I will be cursing time, begging it to slow down while also recognizing that my begging means it was again a year full of so much to be thankful for.

Cheers to you and yours and happy new year!

Now

I look down at my ring and scratch some dirt off the diamond with my thumbnail. Things are cloudy, just like its surface. Just like the air around me, spitting snow. Snow that annoyingly invades my space when I roll the window down to tell the Starbucks drive-thru speaker which caffeinated escape I need today. I roll it back up before a crackly voice responds. Doesn’t she know it’s snowing out here? Faster, faster. Move faster. Away from this morning and towards whatever comes next.

I am a year older today than I was yesterday.

Nothing makes any more sense today than it did then.

The boys gave me a card with a perforated crown. I painstakingly poked it out of its cardstock home and put it on my head, feeling uncomfortable with a fake grin. The smallest things feel the biggest. Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear. Move faster. Towards the next thing. Something else.

They were almost as excited about my birthday as they would be about their own. But the problems of mundane daily life, getting through one step at a time, those don’t disappear just because it’s someone’s birthday. Their excitement makes up for my lack of. I’m grateful for it.

My computer dings the alert of an incoming email. “Help,” it says. I chew my lip too hard and it’s bleeding. Angry red pulses just below a thin surface and with a little more pressure, release.

Something’s gotta give.

All this in one Fall?

The starts and stops in my posting schedule are probably indicative of the volume of stuff in my brain clogging up the flow of words from mind to fingers to keyboard.

It's a tangled web.

Since my last post, I have quietly celebrated a new life growing in me. And also shed tears for my best friend and her daughter over a leukemia diagnosis.

I have watched our home lose more of its walls, floors, and shell. And I have watched new lumber raise up, constructed where old once was.

I have ached for various colleagues, many of whom I spend more time with than my own family members, as they have alternately contemplated divorce, prayed for their infant son's cancer to go away (again), taken in a homeless person, and buried their mother-in-law. And I have marveled at the fact that no matter what is happening at home, behind closed doors, we are a group of people who show up and perform at the top of our games and bring passion and enthusiasm, even if it's cobbled together some days, to a job we are truly invested in.

I have held my tongue and my breath while navigating the tricky waters of first grade reading curriculum as a parent of a smart kid who is bound by hurdles in his brain that he didn't create. And I have reveled in the relief of his good grades, awesome spelling tests and a teacher who is actually on his side, working with, not against, him and his quirks.

I have been reminded that I am the daughter of a selfless mother whom I don't outwardly appreciate enough. But oh how I appreciate her. She is my village. I could not _______ (you name it) without her.

I have tried to stop myself from thinking that things are going so well right now we must be in for a disaster around the corner. 

I am emotional.

I am pregnant.

I am getting fat. And dealing with my anxieties. And wondering if this will be the last time in my life that I will physically experience this miracle of humanity - that I have the ability to produce and grow another person. Every now and then reminding myself that I need to stop and be conscious of that more often, in the 21 weeks remaining of this unique time of my life. 

I am thankful.

No more Winkles Dinkles

Reid decided this morning he is so over being called "Winkles Dinkles."

I have no idea why. Obviously Winkles Dinkles is a very fine nickname and it makes no sense as to why he wouldn't welcome being called Winkles Dinkles right on into his sunset years.

Luckily we still have his other various nicknames, including:

Reidy

Reidy-Bo

Reidy-Bo William

Doogie

Doogie Pants

McGavin

and

Doogie McGavin

But Winkles Dinkles? Don't even think about it.

As for his brother, for some reason he's always been Graham, or the abbreviated version of his one-syllable name: G.

So glad we've cleared that up. As you were.

What I want for you

You came home last night with exciting news. You had already told Mimi and couldn’t wait to tell me, with a sheepish grin.

“I wrote my name on all my papers today,” you proclaimed. Followed by, “You can go ahead and cry now, Mom.”

You were so ready to see tears of elation.

You know. Oh, you know how it kills me that you aren’t more like I was in school – teacher pleaser, honor roller, over achiever. You know how much advice I’ve sought simply because you are so desperate to divergently walk your own path – the road less (or never?) traveled – so much so that you do these things that land you in the “safe seat” constantly, that get your name on the board, that have put me in constant contact with your teacher.

“Graham is smart,” she reassures me. But you won’t show your cards. You can do what you’re asked, but you refuse. You can finish the worksheet, but halfway through when you’ve shown you know how to write that letter G, you don’t see the need to keep going. You can write your name on your paper, “but everyone knows the one without the name is mine.” This is Kindergarten.

And oh we have so many years to go.

You exhaust me. Your brother who actually has diagnosed needs? Piece of cake compared to you. But here we are in the trenches together. I subconsciously dress myself in armor in your presence. I try to mentally anticipate your needs, your actions, before they happen. I work to diffuse your “spirited” ways. And it’s work.

I remember hosting our first Parents As Teachers meeting in our old house when we still counted your age in months and we still wore our naiveté on our sleeves. Our instructor asked us to tell her what characteristics we hoped you would have. I remembered how surprised she was that we knew so clearly what we wanted for you.

Perfectionism wasn't one of those things.

Unfortunately what I’ve found is that you are in fact more like me than what I want for you. “It has to be perfect!” you shrieked recently when your pencil line contained a wobble. “It’s not perfect and it has to be perfect!” The wobble became a roadblock and you refused to go any further. I saw my reflection in your eyes and my heart broke.

Who doesn’t want their child to do well? But you don’t believe me when I tell you that you can indeed make mistakes. You can wobble. That you only have to do your best, whatever that may be, try again, learn from it, move on. Move on.

Things are harder than they have to be. I know because I make them harder, too. I want to be perfect, too. I know how exhausting it is inside your mind, too. Trust me, son.

But while I yearn to see you as the teacher pleaser, honor roller, over achiever, what I more so want for you is to not be like me. To get off of this steamrolling perfectionist train before it’s too late and you live your life on it, mile after exhausting mile. What I want for you is to be imperfect and happy in your skin, in your surroundings, in your intellect. To have character, not perfection. To shrug glitches off, not let them incapacitate you. To write the word, not dwell on the wobbly line.

A couple nights ago, between stories and tucking in, you looked in my eyes and said, “Mom, I can’t tell you how much I love you. And the more days we get, the more I love you.” And oh my heart. My armor fell off.

Child, you slay me – with both frustration and elation. How do you do that? You do it so well… so perfectly imperfectly. This is what I want for you. If only that was all you wanted for yourself.

The Night Before

This is not a time for sentimentality. You have been going to “schools” for several years now. Parents’ Day Out at church, “Friday school” at another church, Bible School, Zoo Camp, Pre-K… You completely bypassed the separation anxiety phase. You have never clung on to me, as much as I have wanted you to sometimes.

So tomorrow really won’t be that big of a deal. For you.

You don’t realize the finality of it all. But I see a page turning and a chapter ending. A chapter that I’d prefer to read and re-read again and again.

So yeah, I’m a bit sentimental. For me. For the You and Me that we have had for these five years.

Now I’ll be sharing you even more than before. And we’ll be in this new dance for the next many years. And after that? You’ll totally fly from this Hawks Nest. So yeah, I’m now tearing up at the thought of my five year old becoming a man and getting a job and a house and a family of his own. Damn you, Kindergarten!

I met your teacher yesterday for the first time. I wanted to sit her down, look her in the eyes, and tell her everything about you. That you are a hugger. That you like the sound of your own shouting a little too much. That you are a rockstar obsessed with guitars and I want to encourage that while also not encouraging it to the point of hosting heavy metal concerts in my garage. I wanted to tell her that you eat your lunch very slowly and it worries me that you aren’t getting enough nutrients because you just can’t eat on someone else’s arbitrary schedule. I wanted to tell her that you may be ambidextrous. That you are a perfectionist who does not want to do something unless you know you will succeed at it. That you love Legos but hate coloring. That you may want to have more control of the class than she does. That you need to know how serious she is about the rules and boundaries right from the start or else you’ll show her your way around them.

I wanted to tell her that I’d be watching her and she’d better not mess this up.

But I had about two minutes with her, in which I had enough time to find out whether you should bring your own milk for lunch or buy it at school. I could feel stares from some of the other parents waiting for their turn. And I had to walk away without telling her about all your awesomeness.

Tomorrow’s going to be just fine. And so will the day after that and the month after next and the year after this and on and on. We’ll be just fine.

And after I drop you off for your first day, I’ll drive to work like any other Wednesday. But on this Wednesday I may be swallowing a lump in my throat while at the same time looking forward to what this year has in store. For you. And for me.

A Day in Americana

Today I stretched my legs out in plush grass under a shady tree in the middle of picturesque Small Town U.S.A., a place where the suburbs are corn fields. I leaned back on my hands and looked up to find not one cloud in the blue sky.

My ears were full of melodic patriotism blaring from bull horns dotting a small town square, and a speaker system propped up on an empty portable outdoor stage in front of the local bakery.

I watched my kids hand tickets to the kind of ride operators who spend their summers driving short highways between small towns, towing carnival parts behind them. They claimed their seats on rickety metal Ferris wheels and homemade barrel trains. They rode over and over for what seemed like forever, waving to us excitedly every now and again when their eyes caught ours. They worked up a sweat in the bounce house, where wee ones placed their sacrificial shoes at the entry – an homage to the gods of inflated plastic and generators. Across the town square I noticed a dunk tank with an excited crowd gathered around. On the other side, a bean bag toss.

Today I sat on a curb for nearly two hours watching a parade, comprised of what was clearly the pride of Small Town U.S.A., weave its way through rows of lawn chairs and parked strollers. I watched sweaty politicians in button-down shirts shake hands with old folks in the crowd while kids scrambled to catch candy tossed their way by clowns and volunteer high schoolers. Between homemade floats came herds of tractors, different models and colors, all manned by resilient, wrinkled men who oozed hard work.

We waved at local firemen and small business owners, sports teams and civic clubs. I chuckled to myself at the irony of the town’s historical society inviting people to “like us on Facebook!”

Today we stood in honor of the vets as they marched past us holding flags. I looked at their faces and wondered where they had been, what they had seen, if they were perhaps looking back at us thinking that we just.don’t.understand. I silently thanked them for seeing what I don’t have to see.

Today my kids ate corn dogs on sticks with a side of root beer float. They shared a tire swing with their cousins and stopped running/crawling/skipping/jumping among a wooden park maze only long enough to shake stray mulch out of their shoes.

Today was full of big times in a small town. A day spent exactly how I wanted to with the people I most wanted to see in America’s quaintest place.

Made possible by the freedom that we gathered there to celebrate.

A Mother's Letter to the Foo Fighters

Dear Foo Fighters:

I don’t know much about you. I like your songs, but can’t remember their titles. I can picture at least two of your faces, but can’t remember your names. I do recall the music video featuring you as flight attendants, but don’t recall the last time I watched MTV, so I must be digging deep there. So clearly this is not a fan letter, per se. Nope, it’s a warning-letter-slash-request-for-help. You’d better check yourselves, Foos, because my 5-year old is watching you closely.

You see, my baby boy reeeeeally digs you. And, um, he’s five. Naturally you may think he also is into his extensive CD collection featuring the greatest hits of Sesame Street, Bob the Builder, The Wiggles… even Free to Be You and Me (a personal favorite that I used to have on record… ah the good ‘ol days). And oh the Kindermusik songs. They are in his room, in our cars, on our iPods…

But no! Kindermusik be damned! Thanks to his getting a glimpse of you on Palladia, now we’re all Foo Fighters all the time!

I blame you, Foos. I blame you that my 5-year old said to me last week (from his spot in the hallway at Kindermusik where he was in time out for retaliating against age-appropriate music), “Here’s the deal, Mom - I just don’t like this music. I like rock star music. I need drums and guitars. This? Is not rock star music.”

I tried a meager come back about the fact that all musicians have to start at a place of learning rhythm, and that learning all instruments will help him eventually be better at both drums and guitars, and that these are the benefits of Kindermusik, yadda yadda. But he wasn’t having it. “Rock star music, mom. I want to scream into the microphone.”

It’s not just the screaming. My 5-year old, Foos, wants to wear his hair like yours. Long. He wants to headline an amphitheater concert in a big city in the pouring rain. Like you did. He wants to strap an electric guitar to his torso and head bang. Mmm hmm.

“When I grow up, I’m going to join the Foo Fighter team,” he reminds me occasionally from his booster in the back seat. You know, because he’s five and all, and still sits in a booster seat. But yet loves the hard rock. He tells me these things when other bands come on the radio. Like, oh, the Rolling Stones. Yes you, Foo Fighters, are cooler than the Stones in my 5-year old’s humble opinion.

No, neither you nor Charles Barkley is a role model. But this mom is a wee bit concerned about the glimpse I’m currently getting into my son’s teen years (and having heart palpitations) and so anything, ANYTHING you can do to show my baby that it’s totally cool to be a head-banging heavy metaler while also being an upstanding young citizen who eats his veggies and respects his parents? Yeah, that would be awesome.

Very best wishes with the next album and all,
Mama Hawks

Life Goes On

When your parent dies, life goes on, you know. Oh blah dee, oh blah dah.

When your parent dies, and you are a parent, wee ones still force you to get out of bed and take them to school.

They still need breakfast and backpacks. (Oh, your dad died.) They still need help finding their shoes/toy/belt/jacket/truck-with-the-blue-trailer-not-that-one-the-other-one-because-I-hate-the-red-one! (Yeah, your dad died.) They still need baths and stories and don’t forget to brush your teeth, please don’t make me tell you one more time. (Um, your dad died.) There are still little kid birthday parties to attend. Like a zombie. Where the other moms who you don’t know very well may or may not be looking at you sideways, wondering if you are still wearing yesterday’s makeup. (Hey, your dad died.) The radio shoots sad songs at you like bullets. Like you accidentally tuned the station to 101 The Dramatic. (P.S. Your dad died.) And you find yourself using the words “bizarre” and “ridiculous” a little (lot) more than normal.

Oh and that meeting with the pre-K principal? The one that took three weeks to schedule, the one for which you meant to fully prepare the five key points you wanted to get across to the person who supervises your son’s less-than-adequate educator? Yeah, that still happens. Even if your dad died.

Though you may have a heightened desire to throw down in that meeting. Because, well...

But all the rest of us? We are still alive. We still have motions; we still go through them.

Isn’t it funny how life is always lived in such parallel paths, no matter what drama is going on in one?

Oh brother, how the life goes on.

To Dad

I'm sorry I was stubborn. I'm sorry you were stubborn.

It doesn't matter now.

You left me once before. In college, after you had called me to get the typical updates, the same type you had been getting over the phone for about 10 years already. But that time you told me you would call next Wednesday. And next Wednesday came and went, and so did many more Wednesdays. You checked out and I grieved while inside thinking that someday, one day, somewhere in the future we would figure things out.

We can't do that now, or ever. You are really gone now.

I have memories, good and bad. So many memories. You were so funny. People know you as the funny extroverted guy, always joking, always telling stories. Oh the stories. You used to tell us as little girls tucked in our beds, about the time you and your friends jumped the city pool fence at night and skinny dipped. I couldn't believe your audacity and every time you told it was like the first time I had heard it. Your inflection never changed. Oh the stories.

You played Barbies with me when I was home sick from school. But you also taught me about Semper Fi and hoo-rah and how to sing, "From the halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli..."

We grew up on a farm because you wanted us to. You introduced us to piglets and chickens. You worked on the tractor. You cussed. You fixed the seats of our swingset. It was on that same swingset a few years later that my friend Jill asked me why you and Mom got a divorce. We didn't know anyone else at school whose parents were divorced. I told her it was because you cussed too much.

We ate Ramen noodles on weekends at your house, and watched movies Mom would never have let us watch. We went to different churches on Sundays. We met various women. We listened to classic rock in your truck. Sometimes I would rest my head on your lap or your shoulder for the long Sunday afternoon drive home, sitting in the middle seat between you and Sara. I remember the smell of pleather truck seats mixed with chewing tobacco.

You taught school - many friends, people I grew up with, people who still tell me you were their favorite teacher of all time. They describe you like a hero, larger than life. I wanted to know only that person, not a cheater, not an alcoholic, not a divorcee.

I hate that my eternal image of you is pocked with negativity. No one is perfect. I needed my dad to be perfect. I shouldn't have had that expectation. I'm sorry. But I'm not sorry I needed you to be the grown-up, the parent, the one reaching out rather than feeling sorry for himself that his daughters didn't try harder. We were so young. You? You were young at heart.

I will hold on to the time you came for "Dad's Weekend" at the Chi-O house. We all went dancing in the Fort Worth stockyards to country music. We cut a rug together and we were happy.

You are described as a Renaissance man. I think of you as a drifter, your own person, unable to commit to anyone or anything. God knows parenting was too hard for you. It tied you down. You were free, and yearned for nothing more than flying your little planes whenever and wherever you wanted. It was a theme that permeated your entire life, one handed down to you.

I know it wasn't your fault. I know.

The last time I saw you was at your mother's funeral, wrought with family drama and high emotion. It was also the first time you met your grandsons, but I never told them who you really were. They ran around like two wild little boys do at pot luck dinners in big open fellowship halls, unaware of the messiness of grown-ups' hearts, and you looked at me like maybe we could be friends. I felt peace, and silently thanked Grandma for it.

But truly, you spent years hiding behind your bruised ego. I was as stubborn as you, after all, and you couldn't stand it. That I could carry a grudge for so long. That you could as well. You knew I had not fallen far from the tree. We both bore the guilt. I still do, and will alone now. But I know you loved me. I hope you know I loved you, too.

Occasionally my boys have asked why their daddy has a daddy but mommy doesn't. Now, my answer is more definitive than it was before.

Things were so complicated, but now they are simple. They have to be.

Fly high. Fly free. Fly away home, forever, Dad.

Moms Can Have Firsts, Too

On Sunday morning the alarm went off early. I put my feet on the floor and attempted to decipher if I should wear short or long sleeves in the 20-something degree air.

I was preparing for a first - my first 5K race.

Hubby suited up with me. "Don't run ahead of me!" I begged him. He promised to stay beside me, no matter how embarrasingly slow.

He saw me gathering my headphones and reminded me that headphones are against race rules. I told him he would have to sing to me, then.

We made our way to the caves, stretched (like I knew what I was doing) and took our place with the masses.

At the start, the mass began to stretch forward into a cave snake. We found our stride. I wanted to impress my husband on our first time to ever jog together, side by side. Not sure that 12-minute miles impress him, but who's timing?

He may as well have been strolling down a beach. He was the picture of ease, talking on and on, apparently see this as an opportunity to catch up with his wife who'd just returned from a business trip. I told him several times that I would not be talking back. But still he was effortless, a verbal stream of consciousness:

"What should we have for dinner tonight?"

"I'm hungry! Let's go somewhere for breakfast right after this!"

"Did I tell you about when we appraised these caves...?"

"Did I tell you about Kindermusik the other night...?"

"So I was talking to (so-and-so) and he said..."

Eventually I asked him to provide some motivation if he was going to chat the race away. Literally, he talked the.whole.time. He responded with his best effort: "Don't fade on me now!"

Um... or not.

And then, 37 minutes after I started, I finished. I crossed the finish line running, next to my man, hopefully making him proud. But also, making myself proud.

Night-Before Needs

The night before a business trip there are so many things we need to do to get through today and prepare for tomorrow.

I need to make a list.

One Hawklet needs a bath. The other needs a shower. They remind us they both need their own thing occasionally, even though most of the time they just need to be together.

I need to start packing, need to gather clothes, need to think about what must be accomplished - and what I'll need to wear doing it - for the next four days.

I need to decipher if I've forgotten anything... if the team is set... if we're all set up for success.

I need to tell Hubby about the things to remember and appointments to keep in my absence. (He needs me to stop reminding him to not forget.)

We need to figure out what everyone will take to school for show-and-tell that starts with a "D."

Simultaneously little wet Hawklets wrapped in towels need pjs and stories.

They need to brush teeth and understand what will be different about their routine for the next few days.

I need to put down the iPhone and laptop and focus on gathering us all up into the cushiony chair that rocks to read and talk for a bit.

I need a mommy time-out with my boys.

Because I want to stay here forever.

New Year, New Radomosity

You know you're not starting things off right when you have to commence with an apology, but... um, sorry. I left you with one post in the whole month of December. And it was about the horrific effects of drunk driving.

So happy holidays and everything!

Anywho, we're already a week into the new year. And I'm doing that thing where I drop the kids off and realize 20 minutes later that I'm still listening to their CD in the car, "Hokey Pokey" and all. And at home, Hubby walks out of the room and 20 minutes later I'm still watching the football. So I'm apparently starting my year in the clouds.

We really had such an amazing break over the holidays. I can not express in words how much I love that time of year. And, oh, the little people questions that came along with it this time around, including:

"Does God have powers?"
"Did Santa start out as a baby?"
"Are angels' eyes closed in heaven?"
"Does Santa have birthdays?"
"Do you have a baby in your belly?" (Um, no... damn you, holiday cookies!)

Today I allowed Graham one last Christmas cookie before throwing all of that hard work in the trash. And a couple hours later he apologized to me: "Mom, I just wanted to say I'm sorry I ate the cookie that I made for you."

In the meantime, we decided it would be a good idea to knock a wall out of the side of our house to expand our kitchen starting, oh, the day after Christmas, and the dust is starting to get to all of us. So Mimi and I took the boys to see Tangled today at the theater. We were 10 minutes late because my beloved 4-year-old had to take time to change his clothes, putting on his "movie theater outfit" before we left the house.

After the show, Reid told me his favorite part was "when they cut off her hair," simultaneously solidifying the fact that if Reid had been a girl, no Barbie in his possession would have been safe from the scissors.

So there you (basically) have it - our 2011 to date. So as I attempt to pull myself back up on to the blogging wagon, please accept my apologies, as well as my wishes for a very happy new year -- from our (dusty and disheveled) hawks nest to yours.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, a "movie theater outfit" is a gray track suit. But of course it is!

Scraping the Barrel

A couple forkfulls of cottage cheese. (I refuse to eat cottage cheese with a spoon.)

Some reheated restaurant fries from a few nights earlier.

A few bites of reheated mac 'n cheese off the Hawklets plates.

A bowl full of Brussels sprouts. Oh yes, a whole bowl full.

The rest of the halved grilled cheese (leftover from said restaurant) kids' meal that Reid couldn't/didn't want to finish.

All that? Oh, just my dinner a couple nights ago. At which time it glaringly obvious this mama has been working too much. Mom guilt in tow, I drug my bag of bones to the grocery store after that Top Chef dinner and like a zombie, walked the aisles tossing a little off this and some of that into a cart. And then - the crown on top of this perfectly imperfect mom moment - I walked out with my bags and had no idea where I had parked. I literally had to stop myself in front of the store and scan the lot, no idea even which direction I should head in.

But our fridge is not bare and our children are happy!

And that work part? Well, I'm working on it.

Let me Tell you about the Show

I learned something this morning in the Pre-K class by accident. Or osmosis. Actually it was eavesdropping.

Every Friday. EVERY. FRIDAY. Is show-and-tell day.

I learned this by overhearing Graham's teacher ask another kid if she had something in her backpack for show and tell. The only things in Graham's backpack were lunch and a just-in-case change of clothes.

So bizarre that I didn't get the memo in the FIVE HUNDRED various pieces of paper we've received from the school over the course of the first few weeks. I read it all. Even the stuff that had absolutely no relevancy to the pre-Ks at all. Did it say anywhere anything about show and tell? No. Did it say anywhere anything about what the key code combination is for the pre-school door? Nope. Did it provide a parental outline the curriculum or objectives or strategies for what my child will be learning this year? Nah. Did it outline the hot lunch menu for the K-8th graders that indicated only two days of the month would be healthy lunch days? Well, yes.

Thisschoolhasagreatreputation.Greatreputation.Greatreputation.Greatreputation.Greatreputation.

Never mind the clear lack of communication skills on the school's part. And the disorganization around getting simple messages to parents. What I am most frustrated with is not that I did not know that Fridays are show and tell days. It's that EVERY FRIDAY IS SHOW-AND-TELL DAY.

Yes, I am a marketer. I have built a very meaningful career around getting people, mostly moms, to buy my clients' products. I love doing this. I am fascinated with the psychology of the consumer - most particularly moms and the power they (we) wield, and what they buy on behalf the household, including their children. I soak up data about why they are buying, where they are buying, and how they communicate with each other about those purchases. Those toys - the ones that my son's classmates brought today for show and tell? Somewhere out there, a marketer's objectives were assisted by the purchases of these toys.

Yes, I am a fan of American consumerism! I study and practice this art daily! I make a living on consumerism and I personally contribute part of that living to the American economy!

But my 4-year-old? I want to protect him from the want of things. My stomach turns with the idea that today at school he might think someone is better because they have a particular monster truck. Or the bigger Buzz Lightyear. Or this thing or that thing that he doesn't have. Things. To have. Or have not.

Who cares? My problem with this is that he doesn't know enough to not care. He cares. He loves toys. He is four. Jealousy? Materialism? These are unwelcome attributes in our house. But today at my son's school, they may be lurking. They may be hiding in the shadows of the classroom, just waiting for the opportunity to make themselves at home in his heart. The opportunity that may come at show-and-tell time. I can't stand the thought.

Why is show and tell still okay? Where is the teachable moment in this activity? I posed the question to the experts on Twitter. You know - the place where the experts congregate! @eCelebrating was optimistic with this response: "no idea. best bets: sharing, storytelling, taking turns, paying attention, learning about new items. ???"

I agree with the question marks. In my opinion, show and tell fosters unnecessary materialism in our youth. Four-year-olds don't need to learn public speaking by showing off their favorite toys and feeling badly that 'Johnny has this but I don't.' They need us to remind them about what really matters. Thoughts, not things. People, not products. Yes, this from a marketer.

I believe show and tell has no place in an educational class room.

What do you believe?

Five

“When I turn five,” you say, “I will go to a new school.”

“I will play tennis.”

“My feet will touch the floor when I sit down.”

“I will be a daddy!”

“When I turn five,” you say, “I will ride the Ferris wheel.”

“And, Reid will be four. When I am five.”


But also?


When you turn five, I will celebrate my fifth anniversary of being a mother.

I will realize that in 13 short years, you will be flying from this Hawks Nest.

I will know that I have done my best for you for five years, but promise to do even better, to work even harder at this most important job of mine – being your mother.

When you are five, I will wonder why time passes by so fast. I will laugh at the clichés and embrace them. And curse time.

I will remember what it was like to see you, to hold you, for the first time. Probably most especially when I drop you off at Kindergarten on your first day there. And I will size your new teacher up and say a little prayer that she is the best, most qualified, accomplished and award-winning Kindergarten teacher in the whole world.

I will watch your unique personality continue to blossom and be so proud that you are your own person. I will hope I’ve had something to do with it. And I will realize that I’ll have that same hope for the rest of your life.

I will worry about whether you are getting enough nutrients, whether we’re too involved with technology and not enough with nature, whether we have you in the right amount of extracurricular activities.

I will look at you and marvel at how far we’ve come in these few years together.

I will love you with my whole heart. Just like I do today. Just like I will when you are 50.

When you are five.

There was a hula-hooper in the corner at Kids Eat Free Night

It was a clown. Need I say more? What happened to the good old-fashioned clown we used to know? The one that made children laugh and was all full of happiness and goofiness and carried around a bicycle horn and was not remotely odd or slightly scary or seemingly drug-induced? Yeah...that.

Let me explain...

Tonight we dined at Jason's Deli. Me loves a good salad bar so I can't ever resist Jason's Deli. And Wednesday is Kids Eat Free night -- an even better reason to patronize this lovely dinner establishment. Because let's face it, spening $5 on a plate of Kraft Mac & Cheese that I know costs $.99 at the grocery store and that I know will get a couple bites of attention from my 4-year-old is just annoying. But a free plate of Kraft Mac & Cheese that might get a couple bites? You had me at hello!

Tonight there was a special extra something at Jason's Deli for Kids Eat Free Night.

A she-clown.

With a hot pink tutu, hot pink thigh-high leggings, sparkles, blush and a pig-tails wig. And? Three hula-hoops. And PG-13 rated hula hooping abilities. She was "performing" in the corner at Jason's Deli. Sort of entranced in her own clownish hula-hooping world.

It felt so awkward. At one point she walked in the back room to get a chocolate chip cookie. She sauntered out munching on it and grinned at us. Then, back to her corner. I looked around at the kids in the room, some of whom were occasionally watching her, others not really noticing, a couple little girls wanted her to make them balloon flowers. I wondered, "What is going on here?" Clearly, nobody really cared.

Is it Stephen King's fault? The downfall of clowns everywhere? Being reduced to a clownish, fuschia-wearing, sparkly teeny-bopping, multiple hula-hooping "performer?"

After probably about 30 minutes, her gig was up. She walked out to the parking lot at the same time we did, chatting away on her cell phone. Her Blazer had a "Bang This" bumper sticker. She loaded the hoops in the back.

But hey, the Kids Ate Free.

How the drive-in reignited my love for Disney

When is the last time you saw a movie outside, from the back of your car, or bed of your truck, under a starry summer sky, the sound resonating from car speakers and maybe just a tad bit crackly?

It was Hubby’s idea. I was going to take Graham on a date to Toy Story 3. He’s been so, SO into Toy Story lately and didn’t even realize there was a third installment in movie theaters taking the country by storm. I felt like I was holding out on him, like holding a bouncy red ball over my head, too high for him to reach. But also? He didn’t even know there was a red bouncy ball out of his reach. To be fair, I just HAD to share it with him. And then Hubby discovered it was playing at the drive-in and suggested we make it a family affair.

“Yeah,” I said to Hubby, the light bulb slowly starting to glow in my mind as I tried to picture us at a d-r-i-v-e i-n . “Yeah, let’s go to the drive-in.”

Hubby and I reminisced about the old drive-in in our hometown. I remember being there in my pajamas, in the car, blankie in tow. I don’t remember the movie we saw from the comforts of the car, but rather just being there because it was different. It’s the “different” that we remember.

I think my kids will remember the “different,” too.

We popped popcorn at home first and put it in paper sacks. We filled up lidded cups. We packed peanut butter and crackers in baggies. The boys took baths and pulled on their pajamas. We loaded up the car and didn’t forget Buzz Lightyear and Jessie – so they could see themselves on the big screen under the stars. I grabbed their blankies. They didn’t care as much as I did about the blankie part. It just felt right.

The movie started “at dusk.” We weren’t sure exactly what time that was. There was some mystery to it all… who else a drive-in attracts these days, how exactly it all works once you get there (you park backwards, by the way, and open up the SUV hatch, sit on the back, pull out camping chairs and coolers – much more of a community experience than I remembered), how hot it might be and whether our car battery would die if we sat for two hours with the AC on (which we did not do).

They looked at the speaker-on-a-stick and asked if Woody was inside.

“Daddy, do you want a cold beer?” Reid asked in his loud voice during a quiet part.

“But that’s not HER cowboy, it’s HIS!!” Graham shrieked right at that heart-tugging part when Andy bestowed his beloved Cowboy Woody to the next generation of playmate.

Graham hopped down off the bumper and climbed up in my camping-chair lap to give me a big hug right at the point that Andy was playing with his pals for one. last. time. He’s not old enough to get emotional, but I think he knew there was something special about that part. Something… different. That boy has quite the intuition.

Did the drive-in reignite my love for Disney? Or did Disney re-ignite my love for the drive-in?

Maybe a little of both. It was different. It was awesome.

Thinking like a 4-year-old

I've been a sparse blogger lately. But it's because I have so much to say. There is so much swirling in my mind that it has given me blogging paralysis and I can't possibly figure out where to start.

Leave it to Graham to remind me - in his unique way of always snapping me back to reality - about focus. He informed me out of the blue as we were driving around town recently that he has ideas in his mind. He told me that they don't just come to him - he goes looking for them and uncovers them inside his mind, where they are all there, waiting to be found. My 4-year-old explained how he thinks - actively, not passively. And then went on to ask me about the difference between his brain and his mind.

My 4-year-old.

I think I can do this. This focus thing. So I hope you will stay tuned.