Gifts

I've never had a two-year-old without a newborn.

It weighed on my heart, yesterday, celebrating Nate's birthday. My thoughts refused to wrap around it. I pulled the precious overalls that Garrett wore to his second birthday party from the drawer and thought, oh no, Nate's too small. They were too small for him.  I rocked him with his bottle before his nap and remembered how I unceremoniously yanked all bottles and most rocking from Garrett and Saige and then Quinn months before this.

I'm done, I justified in my head. The new baby is coming and these simple tasks can't take this long.

It was fine. They are happy, loving children who exhibit few emotional scars from their mother's speedy refocus on a new baby, unless you count endless whining and a Scooby Doo obsession as emotional scars, which if you do, I can't help you. I am wearied by talk of how to set schedules for not-so-small babies.  Wearied.  That is not to judge, I understand the angst and fear. But I can't get there from here. Children are not so fragile in my mind that I will sacrifice my afternoons to their crying or my mornings to their whims or my dinner hour to their pain-in-the-ass finickiness.

He cried for fifteen minutes and it broke my heart.  Really? Because I usually think, good. Get yourself nice and tired, sweet thing, and then take a really good nap.

I am a good, good mother, but after the first four months of life, it is hard to break my heart.  Crying doesn't even come close.

Yet, hypocrite that I am, my new two-year-old is still The Baby and he gets a bottle before he sleeps and sometimes even rocked and cuddles.  Why not? There is no newborn screaming in a bouncy seat to drive me forward.  Nate has had a zero entry into toddlerhood. That is the gift of his place in this family, I suppose.

My other children, no less babies at the time, had an experience closer to being pushed off of a diving board without a life jacket. Maybe it is my own guilt that leaves me impatient with waffling and tip toeing.

Maybe it is. Each family works in its own way, I firmly believe that. One mother's agonizing over crying and sleep has its pros and its cons just as my "put on your big kid diapers and get over it" attitude has its pros and its cons.  Happy children are the product of so many different styles.

There are consequences to The Baby status as well. We sat down after dinner, our faces sticky and our stomachs stretched with cake (A Costco sheet cake. With copy errors. In my continuing quest to make every one who visits here feel like an excellent parent.) to open Nate's two presents.  One from each grandma.  Matt and I planned to take him out for the evening by himself - a family tradition on each child's birthday - and our budget, which is ample but rigidly observed, did not have room for both presents and an outing.

His gifts were few, but the chaos was as large as ever. The bigger kids had to be beaten back from the paper with warnings and then threats and then sharp, tired words. Nate couldn't get a turn with his new bike and he gave up and went back to his favorite toy - an electric guitar beloved for its ability to drive me stark raving mad in 2.5 seconds or less.

It worked.

I snapped under the pressure of the fighting and the mess and the frosting-slick hands on my couch and my rug and the constant recorded strains of "Love Shack."  We put Saige, Garrett and Quinn to bed with more barked commands then cuddles and kisses.

********

Half an hour later, wandering through the park that winds on either side of the river flowing through downtown, I found my center and my remorse.  Many, many times a day, I am overwhelmed by the joy of our large family, but at least once a day, I am overwhelmed. Grenade like questions and requests and demands launched at my head with unnecessary repetition and volume bombard me until I crawl into my bunker and wait for the barrage to pass or worse take the offensive and charge, machine gun mouth crackling.

Nate held our hands and begged between us.  "A-GAIN."

One. Two. Three. Whhhheeeeeee.

"A-GAIN!"

We swung him over and over, across the bridges, bright with blooming flower baskets, past the ducks quacking for fried treats and around the antique carousel.  Children swarmed its gilded tigers and giraffes and ostriches like ants at a picnic. Nate buried his head in Matt's shoulder.  "No! No hoss. Whhheeeeee?"

One. Two. Three. Whhhheeeee.

A simple gift. Of time and unlimited swings. We don't play this game often as a family. The demands for turns grind us down. The inevitable screaming child on the ground dampens the most enthusiastic laughter.  The rules that must be set in advance exhaust us. One time. For each of you. If you cry, you will miss your turn.

One. Two. Three. Whhheeeee.

We walked into a restaurant just after eight thirty. Unheard of, but he was full of chatter and light still, waving to each table as we wove to our seats. We ordered him a lemonade and talked while he sat in Matt's lap and colored between sips, fixing his beautiful gray-blue eyes on mine.

"Dirsty.  I dirsty, momma."

Oh, the life we would lead if we had chosen this. Long dinners. Unlimited swings. Uncounted gifts.

He vibrated with exhausted excitement, pattering up our walk with his bow-legged baby run. The gorgeous evening light hung by a thread in the maples. Nate tried to tell me something all the way home. He started in the car and he said it still, climbing our front steps. His stub fingers wrapped in a tight grip around the railing. I repeated him with different inflections, puzzling his desire in my head.

"IFIE-SAY! IFIE-GARE! IFIESAY. IFIEGARE. MOMMA!!  IFIESAY! IFIEGARE!"

Nate's eyebrows drew together in irritation when I missed his meaning.  Elise distracted him for a moment as she left, but then he was off again on his baby quest and he climbed half way up the stairs before I got it.

"I find Saige. I find Gare. I find Saige. I find Gare."

They all slept, sprawled and sweaty, and Nate was loud, but content to peer into each baby face in turn. "Nigh, Kin. Nigh, Say. Nigh, Gare." Before I settled him into his crib beside them.

I whispered it after him. "Night, Nay. Night, Saige. Night Garrett. Night Quinn. Good night, my babies, I love you, I'll see you in the morning."

One, two, three, four, whhhheeeeeee.

Gifts uncounted.



Thank you, Jen. I couldn't find these words and she said "just start writing." The best advice is always simple.

Oh, Idaho

I malign you so.

(Southwest shore of Lake Coeur D'Alene.)

But you are really beautiful, for about four days every summer when you deign to be warm enough for mammals to survive.

And if it's too cold to swim ...

(Trust me on this, it's always too cold to swim. Nate fell in head first and I had to fish him out; I couldn't feel my legs.)

(Nate mentally projecting: WTfreezingF was that? My head. Went under the ice water! Did you take off your shoes before you ran in? You did, didn't you? (I didn't, they were already off. I swear.))

...there are always s'mores by the fire.

Lest you think we live this fabulously all the time, no, no. No. We live this fabulously when Elise's parents come to visit and rent a gorgeous house on the lake for a week and we crash their party for a day. (THANK YOU!)

In general, we live with a lot less stunning blue water and soldiering pines and a lot more whining and dog vomit.

And construction.

Last week.

This week. Progressing nicely, right? Soon I begin to bombard you with color and decorating questions because I'm clueless and, somehow, Million Dollar Design on Bravo is only adding to my difficulties.  Why is that? Could it be because they buy chairs that would consume my entire budget? Bravo? Not helpful.

School's OUT for SUMMER

Oh, was yesterday the first day of summer?

Because I thought it might have been renamed "The First Day of Wallowing All Over Your Mother Until She Wants to Scream While Whining About How Hungry You Are" when I wasn't paying attention.

No? My mistake. Well, if they're still taking votes. I vote "NO." Thank you.

Are you mocking me right now?  Maybe.

It's a good thing they're cute.

Truly.

Comments are closed. We are dog-gone-to-the-lake tired. Hope you all had an excellent, non-whiney start to your summer. xo, S

The door in the blog

Packing up books and pictures makes me nervous and sad.  Memories of moves and goodbyes stall the process and directionless anticipation revs my emotions, even though there is no move, no change but letting go of old rooms and making emotional room for new. 

Matt finally sent my sniping, bitchy self to Walm.art. 

On the highway on-ramp, a homeless man held a cardboard sign. "Hungry. Desperate. Help."  I saw him and glanced down at the sticky, gross center cup holder where I normally toss change just as the light turned green and a huge glass of water spilled on the floor of the van.  I'd set it there with no lid or holder. Its tipping and spilling was the most obvious, preventable event in the world. Like hunger. Or desperation. I couldn't pick it up or pull the car over or do anything except accelerate onto the highway because I was eating an ice cream bar. Chocolate dark chocolate. With my left hand.

The needle of my speedometer, when I check it, stayed buried below zero, even as I accelerated past fifty for the merge. Right at that moment, the cable snapped and I wanted to cry because I'm on my way to Walm.art eating ice cream and he's hungry.  Mothers in Libya screamed in my head and the tall pine trees lining the highway berated me about heavy metals and poisoning and global warming.  Must I eat for pleasure, not hunger, and drive about, killing things with my careless, blind consumption?

You wouldn't believe why I was driving to Walm.art. The irony of it would cause a blog supernova and there would be nothing left of this site but a sucking black hole.  It would bust the top off of the irony meter. The little door of this blog would open and a bald dancing circus man with curly chest hair and a handlebar mustache wearing a wrestling suit would wheel out with his huge hammer and his tall iron-o-meter bell.  He'd smash that black-as-night, heavy-as-death hammer down on the platform so hard that the metal riser would send the bell flying off of the top and into the sky where it would knock down all the stars. Like dominoes.

It makes me want to beat on the metal side panel of the world screaming, "slow down!"

"Slow the hell down. You're going too fast. Don't you know the speedometer is broken?"

Fortunately, there's no speedometer on life and stars can not be displaced by mere mortals. Trips to Walm.art end and children are still there when you get home and there doesn't have to be a point. Even if there is a point, it's acceptable for it to be an ironic point. Isn't it?  Maybe the point is to see the homeless man and care about the trees and hear the screams.

The trick is to let it all matter without drowning in it. Every single needle on every single pine, trembling like whiskers in the wind. Otherwise, none of it matters, and that can't be right, now can it?

****************
Comments are closed. And yes, the nursery and the Snow White room are bare now, after making me smile for six years.  What tipped you off? My teenage angst about the endless pointlessness of it all? ;-)

You love, you learn

Ten years ago yesterday, I held Matt's hand and watched Australian surfers bite it in the unforgiving surf off of the coast of Bali.  We thought owning a feral dog was a big responsibility.  I thought being married involved a lot of laundry. I didn't want any children.

Seven years ago yesterday, we had moved into this disaster of a house in a little town on the edge of the world also known as the Border of Idaho.  I couldn't imagine why anyone would want to live here.  Flights were so expensive. You had to fly to Seattle to get anywhere. It was cold. In June. And I was pregnant with our first baby, though I didn't know it yet. And I would lose him, though I didn't know it yet.  It would hurt like nothing had ever hurt before. Though I didn't know it. Yet.

Six years ago yesterday, I spun in an unbelieving circle in the middle of our rented house on the very edge of the island of Saipan. The Pacific crashed into the cliffs four hundred feet below me and I wondered how on earth we ended up back here?  The boy growing inside of me was five months along and the girl growing inside of her mother on the exact opposite side of the world was seven months along.

Yesterday evening, I sat in a pew right back in that much maligned (and now much adored) Border of Idaho town and watched the same little boy and girl graduate from Kindergarten. I would have told you - right up until 7:20 p.m. June 14, 2011, when I burst into tears and had to hide my face over a slide show featuring Billy Dean's Let Them Be Little and their forty-five or so bright, little faces - that Kindergarten graduation was a ridiculous concept and events for children after 7:00 p.m. were obnoxious and why in the HOLY HELL does there have to be CAKE at every.single.freaking.event.for. children.in.the.history.of.children.

But oh my God it was cute.  It would have been cuter at noon, but I concede that it was cute and maybe even worth it.

Keep on keeping me humble, universe. If I can give up Bali and learn to love the Border of Idaho, I should know never to say never to anything.  Congratulations, Saige and Garrett, on your graduation from your first of two years in Kindergarten. There was no prouder momma in that church embarrassing herself by weeping over cheesy country songs than me.

Yes, your child is totally normal(er than my children). Which isn't saying much.

The top parenting question/issue that I am asked about - aside from how on earth I get four children five and under to sleep twelve hours a night in the same room, which I keep telling everyone is because I'm wicked. No one believes me, but it's absolutely 100% true. I eat children after 7:00 p.m. - the second most asked about issue is the relative normalness of various p.en.is-related behaviors.

"You have three boys," the question goes, "are they, you know, all over themselves the way mine are?"

"Isn't he too young?"

"Do you think something's wrong?"

So, okay, I'll go there on this fine, quiet Saturday morning. (Hey, at least it's not Sunday. Bolt of lightening. Stacey ducks.)

Let me put your collective minds at ease. Yes, no, no.  Yes, it's like their pe.ni are very powerful magnets and their hands are made out of metal.  No, there's no too young; I don't think something is wrong; I seriously doubt your son is depraved. Based on the behavior I have observed over the past almost six years, whatever is bothering you is totally and completely normal.

Taking my family as a standard for normal, which may or may not be wise.

Here's my short list of debatably normal behavior:  (JUST TO BE CLEAR THIS LIST IS INTENDED AS A GUIDE FOR PARENTS OF CHILDREN UNDER SIX. UNFORTUNATELY, I FEEL THAT DISCLAIMER IS NECESSARY FOR SOME OF OUR BLOGGING COMPATRIOTS WITH INAPPROPRIATE BOUNDARIES AND ALSO FOR OUR GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS.)

1) Wince-worthy pulling, stretching, pinching, knot-tying, manipulating, fondling, mauling, turning inside out, squishing, etc. I know. I don't think it looks like it's meant to do that either.
 1a) Public display of any of the above behaviors.

2) Unnecessarily rubbing it on things or sticking it into things.

3) Having it appear from the pants in a little hand in awkward situations including the grocery store, the park, music class and a Christian school recital.

4)  Dropping trou suddenly and without warning to present an "owie."

5)  A small baby who enjoys wet wipes in a way that makes you go "hmmmm" or giggles during wiping.

6) A medium sized baby batting away your hand to prevent you from fastening his diaper so that he can proceed with any of the above behaviors obstruction free.

7)  Touching each other's parts with fingers or other objects or creating a game wherein everyone touches the same object with their p.eni.s.
 7a) The same. In public. Of course. While you're trying to complete a bank deposit.

8)  Having to say in any number of embarrassing public locations, "we don't touch our p.eni.s here; this is not an appropriate place for touching our p.eni.s; please put your pe.ni.s away until you are in your bedroom."

9) Hysterical laughter at the mention of the word p.en.is, v.ag.ina, bottom, butt, poop, pee, etc., etc. Usually after screaming it loudly at each other. Probably in a public place.  I mean, is it really funny if you're not humiliating your mother?

There, you see?  I'm pretty sure that whatever you are experiencing is completely normal.  For a child under six. For all other men, see your "penal" code. 

I put the dots in pe.n.is so that google searches involving the words "children" or "boys" and "s.ex" terms don't land skeevy per.verts here.  I would appreciate it if you would do the same in the comments.  Isn't it a wonderful world? ;-)

Random

I have much to share, but first, nonsensical, trivial crapola that makes me happy!

I love throwing things away.  Related: I'm making excellent progress on the great addition purge of 2011. The sewage and electric are in, we've passed all inspections to date and the footers are poured.  Onward, HO!  (That's pirate for "let's move this bitch forward," not for "Stacey, you ho, keep purging.")

The Bachlorette.  I'm completely hooked this season. Who's with me? High quality entertainment.  My favorites so far are Bentley and William, except William lost all cred with me this last episode when he wasn't all "listen bitch, you said roast, I roasted, bite me with the tears already."  And then Bentley uttered my new life anthem right before he left the show, a development which really kills it for me: "I'm gonna make Ashley cry, hope my hair looks alright."  Pure chocolate truffle filled pleasure.  Oh and Ashley's "my heart is like, totally broken," was a close second.  Oh yes, I mock.  COME ON. These are adults! Living in the same world that we live in!  Some of them have jobs and make money.  How am I not a millionaire by now?

My ship is like, totally going to come in one of these days, I hope my hair looks alright.

I'm done.  What? You're not watching? You have better things to do with your life like, oh I don't know, pluck a stranger's errant nose hairs?  You are like, totally missing out. That is all I have to say about that (and it was plenty, I know).

And now:  Things that are actually worth your time.

1)  The Spokane LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER videos are up at the national youtube page.  I hope that you'll watch them.  For me, they were equally stunning the second time. (Spokane starts with "B-R-E-A-T-H-E" and runs through "A Revelation of Sorts."  After you've watched Mindi read "Diagnosiverary," you are going to want to visit her here and help her reach her goal in the quest to fund childhood cancer research.)

2)  This lovely lady had cancer surgery a few weeks ago. The awesome Tracey at Just Another Mommy Blog had the idea to send a bunch of people to visit and leave her comments cheering her along on her road to cancer recovery.  I completely dropped the blog ball the week of her surgery and it sucks; so please go and leave a comment and tell her that we think she is incredible.

3)  Maggie.  You all know how I adore Maggie and her writing and her too-cute-for-school baby girl, Ever.  She wrote a short story, My Year in Mississippi, and it's in Story Bleed magazine.  We're just waiting for the novel, Maggie.

4)  A super long time ago, Shannon asked me to mention the book Mile Markers by her friend Kristin Armstrong.  I can't recommend it because I only run when chased by something with sharp teeth and even then not very fast, but that is okay because Shannon recommends it beautifully.  I know so many of you are runners - because you are insane and also no longer my friends on account of that whole "exercising" thing - and I think you'll like her post and the book.

5)  This post is gorgeous.  (And bonus: Heather just had a beautiful baby girl.)

6) Speaking of gorgeous posts, BlogHer 2011 Voices of the Year submissions are open.  Don't miss the chance to honor your favorite writers this year by nominating their work.  Also - and I absolutely mean this - write to me and let me know if you wrote a post that you'd like nominated.  It is so hard to keep up with all of the fabulous writing that happens over a whole year.  Help me get your favorite writing up there!

Alrighty then.  I think that's a wrap.

I'm gonna make Hampton cry, hope my hair looks alright.

The Temple of a Thousand Doors

Did you know that you should always hang a horseshoe prongs up, like a cup?  It's true.  If you hang it upside down, all of the luck will drain out of the bottom.

Two intertwined horseshoes are tattooed on my left ankle. They face up, still brimming with liquid gold luck.

I'm playing hooky.  I'm cuddled into the corner of a local coffee shop with a guilty chai clutched in my hand and a furtive pressure in my solar plexus.  Like I have skipped school and I am likely to be caught at any moment.  I'm supposed to be at a meeting, but the sun was shining.  Do you know how long it's been since the world felt warm and light?  It is so hard to parcel out all of my kids for two hours. The trading. The negotiations.  The logistics.  I sat in the driver's seat, free for 120 brief minutes, and I couldn't force myself to drive to a preschool officer's training.

It's not like me.  I'm never flaky. I never miss or falter or fail to show up.  I always follow through. I always meet my obligations, imagined or real.  I did every last errand I've been putting off for weeks before I came here. Of course, I did. And then I let myself slip in the door and I have 51 minutes left. 

Have you ever read The Neverending Story by Michael Ende? You should. It's lovely.  But, here's the important part, at least as I remember it across the decades.  In the beginning, the young boy-hero is trapped in a magical pyramid called the Temple of a Thousand Doors.  There is no way out; it's an endless maze of rooms with multiple doors.  Unless.  Unless you can form in your heart a true desire.  A heart wish.  A goal.  Then slowly, slowly, slowly, the temple shows you the way.  If I remember correctly, the boy-hero wanders for a long time before he realizes that he wants to see a particular girl again. He chooses a door because it reminds him of a necklace she wore.  Each decision is no longer daunting because his heart wish guides him. The painting over one door is the color of her eyes.  You see?  Suddenly, he is through a door and out in the bright sun with the green, green grass under his feet and she is there.

Oh, I know, the parable is obvious, but it has always bothered me. Is it the wish itself that gets you out or the attainability of the wish? Focusing on your heart's desire can make the way clear, yes, but our deepest desires lead us in a lot of directions. Rich experience tells me that they aren't always the way out.

There are things we can't have, after all, no matter how much we want them.

I want things.  Many, many things, but these things of which I speak are secret and sacrosanct because I want them just for me. Is that allowed? For mothers? I think it is.

I want to attend a foster parent informational meeting.

I want to get a masters in social work or counseling.

I want to finish the third draft of my novel and send it out to agents.

I have four minutes left.  Do you want to hear the funny, painful, silly secret? I won't tell you what I really want. Because then you'd know and all of the magic would drain out of the bottom of the world.  But, I will whisper this:  I think I'm going to have to let it go, if I want to get out.