Category Archives: Parenting

Remedial Mom

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That should be my superhero name.

After this morning, I need a serious refresher course in motherhood. Whenever I think I do okay, my kids quickly remind me, “I don’t know nuffin.”

I'm a supa hero.

It started with an extra-early wake up. Followed with Lillian insisting I take her termperature because she was quite sure she (once again) had a headache and could not go to school. Why couldn’t she go? Because she was not going to wear a the skirt she had decided on yesterday. Because the pockets bother her. When she put on her second choice, she decided the waist band was “noying” her. And proclaimed again, she must have a headache.

While this is going on, the little man of the house is running at full-force with a toy shopping cart banging into closed doors. Which is every door, because we have to protect rooms from his wrath. As a diversion, he runs into my legs, as I stand attempting to make sandwiches for those heading to school. We’re planning to repaint two rooms, and I think for a moment, why? But water damage, child damage. Got to be done. Wait, is there rubber paint?

Out storms Lillian. With a summer dress in hand (which regrettably didn’t make it to the right spot after Florida), “I’m going to wear this.”

“No, you’re not,” I calmly reply.

“I said: I.  am. wearing. this. I will wear a sweater.”

“No, you will not.” I’m still remarkably calm. An audible hmph echos behind the slammed door, in the nick of time as the shopping-cart operator crashes into it full-bore.

I take away the cart. He squeals and runs off with his little padded jammy feet to find something else to destroy.

Lunches are packed. Gloves and scarves accounted for. Two out the door. (Not the two I wish were leaving …)

“When I have PE. I am wearing a DRESS!” I hear behind the door. The ultimate declaration of defiance in the world of my 4-year0ld who knows she cannot wear a skirt or dress on PE (physical education) days at Montessori school. She has to be able to clearly see her feet without the obstruction of a puffy garment. (And she’s all  puffy. All the time.) PE isn’t even until tomorrow. So, is this the set-up for what lies ahead?

After given some acceptable choices, she finally agrees to an appropriate dress. Chooses tights that don’t match. But who cares? Then insists that she wear her snow boots and take her school shoes. I should note that her snow boots are hand-me-downs from Henry that she has adorned randomly with little sticker gems so they could have “twinkle toes.” A sight, for sure.

Thrilled that she even got dressed and dropped the headache bit, when she orders me to go warm up the car and take her to school so she’ll have time to change her boots, I jump. Who cares that it was a half-an-hour early? I am just grateful to strap her in the car and unstrap her anywhere but home. (I know. I’m rotten.)

I take her to school and share a bit of my woes. Dear teacher thoughtfully reminds me to set out her clothes the night before. Which with Lil is truly an exercise in futility. After all, how can Lil make a decision about what she’s going to wear tomorrow when she changes her clothes 5 times a day based on which imaginary world she’s in. It’s what she does. And pretty much what she lives for. And a part of her I appreciate. Most of the time. Just not today.

Okay. But there’s the happy ending. Once in my van, I got a text from our oldest away at school. Reminding me she loves me. Thinks she’s lucky to have me. (Me? Remedial Mom?) Thinks I’m hilarious and sweet and misses me completely.

For that moment, until Clifford screams at me from the back of the van and chucks his sippy cup, I feel like a superhero. Instead of like this …

BOILED ALIVE!

Who left me in charge?

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And what were they thinking?

I started my day this morning in the drive-thru at the local Starbucks to buy a pound of coffee.

When I got to the window to pay, I realized that my debit card wasn’t in my wallet. Called my spouse inquiring about said card, because I last used it while in his car buying Taco Bell last night. (I know. Judge me. Thursdays are tough at our house.) I drove to his office with now sleeping baby (who I am, obviously unsuccessfully, trying to train out of the morning nap).

No luck.

Drove home.

I was completely unable to place what in heaven’s name I did with that card. I remember getting it back at Taco Bell. Racking my feeble brain. I parked the van on the drive, looked down and noticed that the card was in my lap the whole time! I had taken it out — while in the drive thru mind you — only to FORGET that I had done that, in what? A two minute period? Needless to say, my head was just numb with the dumbness of me. (That should be a song.)

Still is actually. I think. I don’t know. The numbness thing …

I HATE when that happens.

The good news is, I got to call my spouse back and ease HIS pain. Just yesterday he couldn’t find his cell phone, had me call it … only to discover he was HOLDING it. Ah … the joys of multitasking …

Three (really) stupid things

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Hard to believe it’s already Thursday in my “quiet week.” This is the week where everyone, except the baby and me, has gone to Florida. I stayed put because it is more relaxing to stay home versus chase my little madman around my parents’ non-baby-proofed condo. And he’s just not a good traveler. So there you have it. And here we are. Next year … anyway …

It has been quiet. And mellow. And nice. I’ve enjoyed my little guy. He’s a sweet little lover boy and has been generous in demonstrating his affection. But I’m ready for the return to chaos. I’m sure Cliff is, too.

I discovered, however, that even without the excuse of the mayhem of our full house, I’m still prone to doing really stupid things. Drat. So, it’s not them. It’s me.  So, here are my top three in the past 24 hours …

And-a One. I packed up the baby for a trip to the UPS store. Transferred his stroller from the van into the car to make it easy to take him in. ‘Cause, you know, I’m  a thinka.  All the way there, I reached back to tickle his legs and keep him awake; he was on the verge of dozing. After 15 minutes of my hooting and hollering, tickling and poking, we made it. I unpacked the stroller. Unleashed the strapped-in child and managed to maneuver him and his cart through the snow to the sidewalk … only to discover that I left the package I was going to send at home.

And-a Two. I returned home, by this time, with a sleeping baby. There was the durn ol’ package just where I left it in the open breezeway between the house and garage.  Next to it was a baby car seat that I pulled out of the garage during that brilliant transfer of the stroller. And in that car seat, was a squirrel, who had obviously (at light speed) decided to dig a hole in the cushion to make a cozy home. He scampered, but the (permanent) damage was done.

And-a Three. In a rush to get out of the house, I reached under the bathroom cabinet to fetch hairspray and, instead, sprayed my freshly washed hair with Dow Scrubbing Bubbles. I realized it as it was foaming on my head. No, it doesn’t work like a mousse. But my hair smelled really clean all day …

Newest in hair care

Verbose

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I know I’ve posted about how Cliff doesn’t talk. There is some hope on that front. He does say more words. In Mandarin. We think. But he says some in English, too.

Unlike my Mynah bird children of yesteryear, I cannot take him around the house and point to any old object for him to repeat. Oh no. There’s none of that let’s-develop-a-vocabulary uselessness. He’s not interested in any old thing. He’s all about doing.

Busy boy

Clifford speaks in verbs. Almost exclusively. His favorite one-word commands are: EAT. NEED. DOWN. UP. NO (actually an adverb). GO. HAVE. The others are less intelligible to the untrained ear and usually involve him pointing, tugging at pant legs, shoving me into the next room, trying to force the TV remote control into my hand and the like.

Okay, he appeases us with the occasional Mommy and Daddy. And he yells Henry. He knows we’re the suckers who fulfill his commands. And he knows Henry is his ally in testosterone and things that bounce and shoot, if nothing else.

Oh wait. He does very sweetly say Jesus.

Maybe because Cliff knows Jesus is his ally in all else.  (Or at least that he’s mine.)

Magic words

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Yes, I know … Please. Thank you. 50% off. Free. Those are all magic.

But last night, as I was tucking Henry in we discussed some of the highs of the day. Sledding. Working on a project in the basement. Laundry.

Yes. You read that right.

Laundry.

I’m sure it has to do with pushing buttons and the fancy lights on the new washer.  But here’s the best part. As I’m turning out the light and rounding the corner through his door he reminds me, “Oh, and Mom, don’t forget to move the medium load to the dryer.”

Whatta man. Music to a mother’s ears.

Whatta man

Swan star

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“That was awesome!” Those are Lillian’s words to me after sitting through her first full-length ballet. After two hours of quiet from a girl who talks pretty much incessantly, THAT was awesome.

At the ballet

She was mesmerized by whole thing. Tickets to a performance of Swan Lake by the Russian National Ballet were given to us by a friend’s mom. Little did she know when offering tickets to us, that Lillian, at the tender age of four, is a Swan Lake scholar. Her love affair with the story began by chance.

It was the music that appealed to her first. After watching the Disney Sleeping Beauty  DVD (with a Tchaikovsky sound track), then two-year-old Lillian watched the special “documentary” about the composer that auto-started following the feature. Then came Barbie Swan Lake. (I know, we’re so highly cultured.) But that wasn’t enough. She wanted to hear all the music. So we played it. Then came Swan Lake books and CDs from the library. And then watching clip after clip on YouTube. She would hide behind a chair as she watched the “evil guy.” Critiquing the costumes and sets of the different versions. And as scared as she was at times, she insisted on watching, again and again. On her third birthday, she was gifted with a ballet tutu that has a recording of music from Swan Lake built into it. With a push of a button, her fancy fluffy skirt, and her beautiful imagination, she was transported to that enchanted lake.

I don’t think I would have thought of taking her to a ballet at this age. A musical maybe. The other kids were her age for that. But here was this lovely opportunity. We really made a date of it. We shopped for a new dress (thanks to after-Christmas sales). Went for a haircut. (Which she needed—but just added to the excitement of the day.) She ate lunch. Napped. And then it was time to go.

Our seats were front-row, center in the balcony. Perfect for a little person. The music began and so did the joy. She gasped at each leap. She occasionally raised her arms in imitation of the elegant and beautiful white swan Odette. Her jaw dropped at the lifts, and she was the first to clap to acknowledge skill. She was never lost in the story and didn’t miss a thing. She grabbed my arm and pointed to make sure I didn’t miss the times when Odette spied the Prince dancing with imposter Odile. And, by the way, the Odette and Odile were fantastic. Odette especially. But more than that, the experience was priceless.

The best part: her recall of the day. On several occasions, out of the blue, she’s looked at me with “love eyes” and said, “I loved my date with you.”

My swan star

I loved it, too. It made me really appreciate the wonder of Lillian. Other than her recent interest in the process of waste disposal and local landfills (don’ ask), she hardly shows much grounding in reality. The same part of her that would hide MC’s video camera because of something she may have imagined, is the same part of her that made her able to enjoy so completely the fantasy world put before her on that stage. It wasn’t about suspension of reality. For her, what she saw was reality. Why wouldn’t it be? Swans dance. Princes spin. Jesters leap, and evil guys try to mess up everything. And her commitment to it all is beautiful. I know that without minds like hers, that kind of creativity and beauty wouldn’t exist, nor would there be a gasping, clapping audience to appreciate it. We should all embrace that part of ourselves a little more often, or at least try once in a while to see the world through the eyes of a child.

St. Expedia dot com, pray for me

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Mary Claire turned 14 on New Year’s Eve. Not the eve exactly. The day. But, you know what I mean.

Richard and I decided to splurge and get her an hd video camera. She loves to make movies and her little camera just can’t keep up with her.

We always host a party in her honor on New Year’s Eve. Family. A few friends. This year, no different. Just before everyone was to arrive, we skyped (if that’s even a verb) my mom and dad in Florida. She showed them her camera and a few other gifts. A few minutes later, Cliffy was playing dead. So she recorded him. (It’s hilarious).

When it came time for MC to open her gifts, she was thrilled to receive a case for the camera from my sister. She went to gather the camera and it was no where to be found. We wracked our brains. Did Richard pick it up in a last minute tidy before guests? Did Cliffy get a hold of it? Did MC put it somewhere? It was a mystery. We spent a little time looking, but then went back to our guests.

I admit. I was feeling a bit like a loser. My house isn’t that much of a disaster. I generally know where stuff is. But somehow, in the course of the party, the TV remote went missing, too. Our house was becoming a vortex for battery-operated items. Lithium ion or AAA. There was no prejudice.

We spent the better part of New Year’s day searching for the camcorder and the remote. We stripped beds, emptied drawers. Even went through the garbage. You may remember that my littlest one has a certain affection for the trash can. No luck on either item. Mary Claire suggested a prayer to St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost things and missing persons. Richard said no. This is not lost. Just misplaced. And Richard has a very specific opinion about praying for material possessions. So we kept looking.

You know that feeling. It’s maddening.

The next day, after church we shared our story with our dear and very tall pastor. He said if St. Anthony doesn’t come through, try St. Expedite. Of course, just the mere fact that there is a St. Expedite was a crack up.

When we got home, we started the process of “one last look” through all the places we’d already looked about 15 times. Finally, I said our prayer to St. Anthony isn’t for the misplaced item, but for my sanity, which at the rate we were going was certain to be lost. A quick prayer.

Two minutes later.

“I turned that chair upside down,” said Richard as I reached behind the cushion for the third or fourth time. Lo and behold, I found the TV remote. It was stuck in the folds of fabric. It’s a recliner. Three cheers! But really. Who actually cares about the stupid remote? I wanted to find that blasted camera.

We devoted another few hours, cleaned the laundry room. Which was good. Went through the linen closet. Also good. But no camera. Found a missing piece to a wooden puzzle. Another bonus. Our labors were definitely bearing some fruit. (That glass is always half full.)

That night, as Richard took out the trash for Monday pickup, he checked it all again. Heads were reeling. Mine the most. MC was occasionally drawn to tears. Who could blame her?

We had to free ourselves. Sat down for dinner. Watched “Despicable Me.: (Cute movie.) Then started the bedtime routine. Defeated.

While in the little kids’ room, MC came in and said, “What’s that saint Fr. Mike said ask for help?”

“Expedia.” I replied.  After laughing and being laughed at (which as a parent of two teenagers, is part of the sound track of my life), we remembered it was St. Expedite. We said a prayer. No joke, two minutes later, I’m standing in Lillian and Cliff’s closet, I’d checked all the bins in all of the cubbies, was ready to turn off the light, only to peer over the cubbie unit to see in the maybe 3-inch space between the shelves and the wall, there, in the far corner, was Mary Claire’s camcorder.

“Eureka!” I shouted. Because that’s what normal people shout. And I presented the camera to cheers from Richard and MC. But then I pondered aloud.

“How could Cliff have done this?” It never made sense that the kid even had his hands on the thing. We’re kind of pros at keeping stuff out of his reach – since he throws EVERYTHING.

Lillian said, “I did it.”

And there stood Miss Lil, who promptly put her thumb in her mouth. Hiding, of all things, a smile.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because Daddy threw away my tricycle.” Which, you know. HE DIDN’T. Then she said, “When is it MY birthday?”

For a flash, it felt like Little Women. When Amy burns Jo’s book because Jo is going to the theater and Amy has to stay at home and do school work. Except the fact that Jo DID actually go to the theater. And Amy DID have to stay home and do homework.

So my dear and delightful four-year-old has a vindictive streak that she apparently acts on based on her delusions.  Excellent.

Well, St. Anthony couldn’t come through because the camera wasn’t lost. It was stolen. So, special thanks to St. Expedia dot com. But after I realized that Lillian watched us for two days tear apart the house, my next question to our pastor was: NOW which saint do turn to for intercession?

St. Expeida dot com pray for me!

Body conscious

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My mom picked up Lillian after school, then made a trip over to the near-by cemetery for a drive/stop by of my grandma’s grave site. She was explaining to Lillian that great grandma was buried there. And Lillian glanced around and said, “Wait. Is THIS what heaven looks like?” My mom did a lot of explaining … however, I’m not sure she chose the right words because when Lillian told me that they had made the trip, she told me that grandma said that great grandma’s body was buried there. Then she said, “So her head must be in heaven, with Jesus or something.”

Imagine that picture in a four-year-old mind. I’ve got to work on that one.

A wing and a prayer

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As I’ve been preparing the children’s choir for our special nativity program, (which is tonight!) it has been my greatest prayer and hope that they will always remember this experience–that they will take some bit of their joy, their reverence, the details of the story, the words of the songs with them–as they grow in their faith.

After our practice yesterday, the mom of one of the angels questioned if her daughter’s costume was too fancy, because it is trimmed in gold and the others are simple white. I assured her it wasn’t because her daughter was Gabriel.

That mother put her hand to her heart and said, “I was Gabriel when I was a girl at school here.”

She remembered, and now she is passing her faith to her daughter. Glory to God in the Highest!

The angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for behold, I proclaim to you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. For today in the city of David a savior has been born for you who is Messiah and Lord .And this will be a sign for you: you will find an infant wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.”