One smokin' hot fireman!

Call it luck. Call it coincidence. I call it Mother's Intuition.

Last night I was sogged out on the couch watching TV. I have to admit that once the silence has descended that only sleeping children can bring, the corner of the couch is usually my first - and last - stop before bed. It is here I pay the bills, write my blog, go through paperwork, and of course, eat ice cream.

But last night for no particular reason, I suddenly decided to get off my lazy butt and brush my teeth during a commercial. When upstairs I saw Tator's door was closed and the light still on. So I went in to turn it off. As I reached for the light I realized there was something red on top of the lamp. At first I couldn't identify what I was looking at or that anything was overly amiss, but when I reached for the item I figured out what I was looking at - and what was happening.

The red plastic fireman was slowly melting onto the hot bulb (we hadn't yet converted this lamp to the energy-saver ones). I turned off the lamp and pried the gooey, slightly smoking mess off the bulb.

As I looked at my peacefully sleeping little boy, covers thrown off and padded bottom up in air, the could-have-beens began whirling around my head and my heart started pounding. Why had I come upstairs early? The extra half hour I would normally have been downstairs with eyes glued to the box could have been enough time to turn the smoke to flame. And with his door closed to curb the constant trips downstairs... it's too much to contemplate.

Intuition. Can't explain it. Don't discount it!

She can't control her kids

Yesterday I wrote about my bad day. What I didn't tell you was how the day began (which might explain a lot).

As any good mother should, I dress and brush my offspring and we walk to the library for that SAHM staple, Story Hour. There, along with other blandly smiling and dark-circle-eyed mothers, we sing "Twinkle, Twinkle" and "Open, Shut" and listen to the soft-spoken librarian reading King Bidgood's in the Bathtub (really good!). My two sit attentively like the in-public angels they usually are. We do a simple craft before thanking the librarian and her sweet volunteer and go on our way.

All's good! We've gotten some fresh air and exercise, some education, I'm feeling confident with my new haircut and push-up bra, and my children have made me proud.

We head downstairs to pick out our weekly DVDs. E.T. and Oliver. Now it's Mommy's turn to choose her visual brain-suck of choice. I find them each a book and some slightly disturbing giant hand chairs on which to sit while I quickly grab something. Little Lady is happyly absorbed in a book on wizards and witches but Tator isn't overly impressed with the polar bear book I offer. I sweetly ask him to give me just one moment. Crawling under the circle of cupped hands is more appealing to him. So, I ask him if he'd like to help Mommy pick out a movie. And I turn to go.

And he's off. I swing back around and he's disappeared. Hoarsely, I whisper-yell for him. But he's nowhere to be seen. Then, over the other side of the reference desk I spot his curly tete.

Tator!

And he's off again. Like a baby elephant he's pounding through the still of the computer-gazing, paper-reading, and book-browsing public. I speed-walk after him, and the game is on. He squeals with joy (or fear at the look on my face?) as he corners bookracks and knees.

Tator, STOP!

Each time I get within reach I miss him by millimeters. Here I am, a grown woman running through the library fuming like the dragon on the wall of the children's reading room. And the imp is having a blast knowing his mother is playing this wonderful game of cat and mouse.

Finally, I have him cornered, and in front of a woman trying to quietly research, I wrestle my screeching child to the ground. The look she gives me is one not of sympathy or empathy, it's more like disdain. And at that point I feel only disdain for myself. I cannot control my child and, like an idiot, I lost my senses to the point that I humiliated myself in this public place. My anger flares.

With captured child held tightly in my arms I grab my bag and instruct Little Lady to leave the movies and come! NOW!

I march out, careful not to catch anyone's eye. I throw Tator in the stroller and power-walk the fifteen minute walk home in half the time. Little Lady is near tears because the movies were left behind. I try to soothe her with the assurance that I am not angry with her.

Tator tearfully says, "you not happy with me, Mama?" He is sent to his bed once home and he has the grace to stay put for a half hour. When he calls to me we talk about why he had been sent to bed and says he's sorry for running away. He is hugged and kissed and sent downstairs to join his sister watching PBS.

I remain on his bed, still trying to disperse the darkness pooled in my chest.

My husband's gone...

... and I was alone with the kids overnight for the first time ever. I know, boohoo, right. He's only been gone for three nights but my anxiety went through the roof. (I'm not afraid of boogie-men in the night, I just have a slightly dysfunctional panic button.)

Haul in 40lb-put-the-chiropractor-on-stipend-bags of pellets to keep the stove running? No choice there. Take the garbage and recycling out when the windchill is -20? Er, it doesn't smell that bad, it can wait another week. Scoop out the cat litter? The cats are standing outside the door with their little legs crossed... guess I can't skip that one, but I won't like it, not one little bit. Put gas in the car? Do I have to? It's stinky and so... so unfeminine.

You did not just say that! Oh, yea, I did. And I won't apologize...

Truth is, I'm a traditionalist at heart.

And I blame my mother.

Growing up, my mother told me I needed to find a man who spoiled me and treated me like a princess. She also told me respect was the most important part of a relationship. So what did I do? Go out and date the most controlling and disrespectful men (boys) I could find. One pushed me down the side of the bed and threw clothes on top of me, just for fun (which might explain the panic button issue). One just wanted me around to wash dishes while he entertained his ex. One told me my dreams were just that. Another allowed me to go on loving him (and criticized me for it) while he loved another. You might say I wasn't taking out the garbage back then either.

And then my prince came along. If being told you're beautiful and that your dreams are important enough to pursue no matter what is being spoiled, then I was... rottenly. If hauling bags of trash and (wo)man-handling feline excrement was also taken off my to-do list, as well as removing rodent remains from the carpet or wiping up dog vomit, I wasn't going to argue. Can you really blame me?

I do the mommy-stuff around here. I won't up the gross-factor of this post any further by listing them, but we all know the disgusting bodily fluid messes in which we mothers dabble. It's not that my husband won't do them, he'd just rather not. Well, call me a princess, but I'd rather not pump gas, inflate tires (I have an irrational fear of explosion), empty garbage cans, or scoop poop.

He's been gone a few days and I would say I enjoyed having the expanse of our bed to myself but I spent the night being kicked in the back by Tator who missed his Daddy and needed to sleep next to me. I would say I didn't mind snoring through the arrival of 2009 (while insane people stood outside in zero degrees to watch a ball drop - who does that?), but today felt no different than any other day because I hadn't shared the moment. I would say I can handle everything because I'm a Woo-oo-oo-man, but I'd be lying. I was a single mom for three days and my respect for real single moms, while already high, has sky-rocketed.

I don't intend this to sound as if I only need him around to help me get through life. I also need him walking through the door all tall and handsome, cheeks red from his cold walk home from work; I need him animated when he talks to the kids at the dinner table; I need how my head fits perfectly in the indent of his shoulder. I need how he listens. I need our partnership.

Thank goodness he's back tomorrow - the trash does smell rather bad.

Saying goodbye

Today I took down the crib that cradled my two children through nights and naps from infancy into their toddler years.

And today I cried.

It's not that I want another baby. It's not that I'm attached to the 3rd-hand crib or the space it was taking up in the kids' room. It isn't even because I jammed my finger while trying to wrestle the thing apart (which I didn't, but surely would have if I hadn't enlisted my husband to pry its bolts and screws from their nooks and crannies). No, I cried because... well, I don't know exactly.

Twice I have endured the morphing of my body into an unwieldy monstrosity. Twice I have labored and summoned strength and stamina I could never have imagined for myself. I have brought into this world two babies, two beautiful, smart babies.

I have been splattered and spit up on. Puked on and peed on. I have been sucked on and slept on. I have picked up, mopped up, and been fed up. I have cried, I have laughed, I have felt pride, and I have felt guilt. I have yelled and I have hugged. I have felt alone and I have craved to be alone. I have wanted my life back yet never want to go back to life before I met my children.

I love my children but I know I don't want any more. I am ready to get myself back, to begin the life I have wanted for myself but have had to put on hold. With one child in kindergarten and one ready to take on the world in his new 2-year-old shoes, I am beginning to get a glimpse of that life.

So why the tears?

Maybe I was crying for the babies I will never hold to my breast again. For the times I gently placed them, limp with sleep, into that crib, their soft breath whispering through milky lips. For the first time I found them standing, holding the crib bar for support, triumph beaming on their face.

Or maybe I was crying for the future toward which they are headed now that they sleep snug and secure in their big girl and boy beds? For the patter of feet down the hallway or the thumps down the stairs. For the curly-topped head that seems each day to have grown a little closer to my waist. Or the slammed doors and stands of defiance that mark another step toward independence.

I can't answer the question with one definitive answer because I don't think there is one. Taking apart and stacking in the hallway the biggest physical aspect of my children's babyhood is an obvious metaphor. What is not so obvious is the part of me I was dismantling along side it.

Squeezing me in between

The honeymoon's over.

Me and this blog, we don't talk so much anymore.

My life has radically changed from when I was a stay-at-home, wannabe writer. Even though the last of those days are barely a month gone, I have already made them into golden nuggets. I catch myself thinking, remember when I could put Tater down for a nap while Little Lady was at summer camp, and I could sit and think and write? Of course, my memory has blotted out the crazed insanity of the hour prior to getting her out the door.

The first morning I put Little Lady on the school bus was the also the first day I put on some make up and clocked into my new 22-hour a week life. Four hours a day... oh, poor me, right? But listen, here's the reality of how four hours of work morphs into a whole day:


7AM - 8:30AM: Kids up, breakfasted, dressed; make lunches; squeeze in a couple of chores

8:30: Walk to bus stop; wave off Little Lady

8:40: Walk or drive to work; grab a coffee if time

9:00: Kiss Tater Tot goodbye downstairs in toddler room; walk upstairs to office or return home to do laundry, dishes or bills, or run into town to grocery shop

11:00: Return to work

3:30: Leave work

3:45: Meet bus

4:00-4:15: Disperse snacks, check backpack, go through mail

4:15-5:00: Workout while watching Oprah (who am I kidding? I'm mostly just standing in front of the TV, doing the occasional leg lift to justify watching TV for a few moments.)

5:00-6:00: Prepare and eat dinner

6:00-7:00: Clean up dinner and kids

7:00 - 7:30: Put kids in bed, read story, sing song, say good night, go downstairs, come back upstairs, put Tater back in bed, kiss goodnight, go downstairs, come back upstairs, put Tater back in bed, kiss goodnight, walk downstairs... (this can go on for 5 minutes or, like last night, 1/2 hour).

7:30 - : At this point I collapse on the couch and try to push my brain into writing mode, usually unsuccessfully, until I can keep my eyes open no longer.

Needless to say, I left out of the schedule the 6 circles I make around the house looking for the left shoe, or the 7 minutes I spend debating with Little Lady whether she should eat the soggy cereal of which she gave herself too big a helping, or the 11 minutes I am chasing a giggling Tater trying to grab his soupy diaper.

And there you have it - Monday to Friday, 7AM-10:30PM, poof!

I ask you, where's the me in there? Where are the great tomes I'm meant to bring forth?

I know this is a time of transition and I will eventually settle into my new life. I plan to take three mornings for myself - schedule in my writing. No housework. No errands. No excuses.

NO excuses.

Think I can do it?

The Sound of Silence

It's 6AM and I've been awake since 4. Ike (Tropical Storm Ike, that is) has been blustering around the house all night, licking us with hot, sticky tropical winds. It's 6AM and almost 80 degrees outside... in Vermont... in September! It'll probably snow next week.

Once in a while I don't mind not being able to sleep - getting up in the dark and having complete silence and motionless-ness for a few hours is intoxicating. I think that's the most difficult part of motherhood for me - the constant motion, constant noise. I'm an introvert, I don't particularly like to talk (unless I'm in a comfortable social situation or feeling overly emotional, then I don't shut up).

When Little Lady was a baby, and my mother or sister was visiting or babysitting, I was struck by how they would talk and interact with the baby continually. When I was home with her there was almost complete silence. Of course, I talked to her but wouldn't offer a running commentary. I'd get so tired if I had to engage my brain and move my mouth that much.

I used to worry that I was doing our child a disservice by not reciting the alphabet or giving her a blow-by-blow of what mummy was doing every second. When we began to socialize at a mommy-n-me group, I'd feel ashamed when the toddler on the next mat could count to ten in English and German when my little one could barely count to three in any language. But she was dancing with abandon at music time or sitting quietly at still time. And, I think, more importantly, she knew (and knows) how to entertain herself.

Today, I look back on those quiet hours with my baby with longing. From the moment the kids lift their sleepy heads to when they finally give in to the drug of sweet slumber, there is a racket - either from their games, their music (which is still danced to with abandon by both), or from PBS or Disney. Now, I am forced to use my voice interminably: Stop that, food's ready, don't fold your brother in two... or just to answer the never-ending flow of demands for "Mama, Mama, MAMA!"

I'm tired. Very, very tired. Listening takes almost as much energy as talking. I crave silence more than a manicure, more even than Ben and Jerry's Coffee, Coffee, Buzz, Buzz, Buzz (and that's saying something).

It's my birthday on Friday and all I want is a big box of silence, wrapped up in a bow.

So, thank you, Ike. Although you did some harm down in Texas, and I admonish you for that, I do appreciate the gift you gave me this morning: Two hours of... nothing.

Unfortunately, it's a gift I will have to pay for with lots of coffee (or maybe some coffee ice cream?).

Start your engines... hear the roar... the madness of a school morning is about to begin.

The many hats of me

I need a haircut. The shaggy, steel wool mop that haloes my head is reflected in the screen of my laptop as I sit on the deck this glorious late summer morning.

I also need to finish organizing the new office which until 3 days ago was the kids room. Boxes of books, old files, and decades-old computer stuff, retained "just in case" (or rather "just too lazy") were crammed away in a closet. Now, due to the room rearrangements, they have resurfaced and are demanding my attention. I need to make curtains for the new kids' room. I need to hang out the laundry that's slowly rotting in the washer. I need to put away the clothes that have been sitting in a basket for a month. I need to empty the dishwasher. I need to put two years worth of photos in the kid's albums. I need to listen to another session of my journal workshop instructor training. I need to dig through the heap of shoes on my closet floor and take half of them to Salvation Army (so I can justify buying more). I need to be brainstorming article ideas and getting out queries. I need to pay the bills...

I need to not be sitting here writing this blog.

Ever since I began this blog-ourney I have neglected everything else around me. I send my husband to bed with a "I'll be there soon," and then not show up for another 2 hours. I don't even give the TV my full, undivided attention. And next week I start work. I wonder how I can possibly divide a 24 hour day into so many increments. I feel writing this blog is important (I'm not sure exactly why yet) and I don't want to give it up. But, really, how does one wear so many hats?

The Mom Hat: The shabby one with the unidentifiable stains. It has a big brim and droops in various places. It's worn out and really needs to be replaced but no other hat will ever fit quite as well.

The Wife Hat: The one most often forgotten in the closet even though it is nice-looking and can be fun to wear. It should be worn more frequently.

The Housewife Hat: This one's dusty; hard to get clean. It's very large and kind of overwhelms the wearer. It gets in the way of other more agreeable hats.

The Administrative Hat: The one decorated with numbers and letters. It's an annoying but essential little hat worn for protection of one's assets.

The Employee Hat: This one's new and very smart. It is a good one to wear in public due to it's professional appearance and lack of accouterments.

The Writer/Artist Hat: The one with a veil behind which one can hide. This hat fits the wearer well and is the preferred one in the selection, but other more practical hats are usually (or should be) worn instead. It is very colorful but does have some ink stains.

The Single Gal Hat: Rarely worn, or ownership even acknowledged. It is bright, stylish, shapely and attractive. If worn more often it could revitalize that which is dull, monotonous, and all together too blah.

I really do need a hair cut... maybe then I can cram two (or three) hats on my head at once.

Booster seats and belly buttons

Now's this for a bad day? I almost get the cops called on me and my daughter could have gotten lyme disease.

With one minute remaining to get to daycare on time I discover the only thing filling the space where H's booster seat usually sits is a smorgasbord of crumbs, small toys, and juice stains. H stayed with my parents for the last couple of days and the booster seat never made it back out of their car.

I debate whether to stay home. But I pay for daycare whether T is there or not and I have promised H a girl's breakfast out. I decide to take the risk. It's a two-minute drive on back streets and H is tall for her age. She is, of course, securely buckled in. My plan is to ask at daycare if they have a spare booster seat. Which I do and instantly wish I hadn't. The answer is no, and if we see you leave with her without a seat we'll have to call the cops. Mandatory reporters.

My heart drops. I suddenly feel like a criminal. I've never done anything like this in my life and I never would have if I didn't think my child was safe. After a momentary panic I realize H can still fit into T's carseat. Ten minutes later H is safely - and legally - buckled in a new booster. I silently bless Walmart (which I won't own up to it again if you ask me) for being so close and so cheap. But for some reason I still feel blemished, as if, just with a glance at me driving by, a cop would know my sin.

A hour or so later, H is parading around half naked, various scarfs and oversized shirts draped this way and that. Sitting on the couch I have an eye-level view of her belly button, which in normal circumstances, despite its curly-q cuteness, I would not have noticed. Now, I know my child is usually a tad grubby, she plays hard, but I laugh when I see she has dirt in her belly button. How on earth? I call her over so I can do the mom thing and extract the offending dirt speck.

But it won't budge. Bewildered, I dig at it a little harder - it suddenly becomes a challenge like a stubborn black head or a deep splinter, and as my poor family knows, both of those impairments bring out the evil conqueror in me; vanquish the perpetrator no matter the consequences. So, I'm trying to grasp this strange dirt when I realise what I'm looking at... a tiny, disease-carrying, uninflated balloon that's buried its arrow of a head in my child's flesh ready to gorge itself with her blood. Argh!

A call to the doctor assures me the lack of engorgement means the tick hasn't been attached long enough to create any trouble. Only after 24 hours can they transfer lyme disease. With a quick tug with the tweezers I rip the beast out and all is well.

And all this before lunch...