passing through

Princess Commando bounded into the dining room as I was setting the table for dinner. 

'Mom! The butterflies are so beautiful. There are hundreds of them in the trees!' She had that look upon her face- brush strokes warmly, softly suggesting that she had been illuminated, her spirit bathed in grace.

But, I was too enmeshed in my moment- the dinner boiling over, The Baby demanding 'Green Juice!' (a store bought concoction of green vegetables and fruits), The Dog scratching the paint off the back door to be let inside, the realization that we did not have any clean forks. Her words barely registered and all I could come back with was a thoughtless pin prick to her iridescent bubble, "Butterflies? They were probably moths."

She shrugged, "Well, they are pretty moths then."

The following day I strapped The Baby into her stroller and took her for a walk in our neighborhood. To distract her from trying to escape, I told her that we were on the hunt for animals. 'Let me know if you see any squirrels or cats.' 

'There's a bird,' she announced pointing to a plump robin hopping in the grass. 

'Yes, that is a robin,' I certified. 'See his red belly?'

'A butterfly,' she reported. 'Yes,' I confirmed. 'That is a butterfly.'

A few steps later, 'A butterfly!'

Another few steps, 'Another butterfly! And, there's one! And, another one! So many butterflies'

Princess Commando was right about her discovery the evening before. There they were- in the trees above us. There they were airily dancing on the sidewalk before us- daintily lighting on a blade of grass, a blossom, a tender twig. We could feel the flutter of their wings whisper past as they traced tiny S's around us. Hundreds of butterflies- flashes of red-orange then black. Ethereal bodies coming in and out of focus. The Baby giggled. It was enchanting.

A warm front had blown in these tiny out-of-towners from the South.  Red Admiral butterflies had not been spotted here in over 15 years. And, now, here they were magically transforming the landscape with the delicate rise and fall of their passage. Little beacons of light enlivened places in the garden of my marrow where the weeds had stifled new shoots from efflorescing.

I wished I had paused what I was doing when Princess Commando's spirit had been so clearly moved the night before. I wished I had not put so much weight in my obligations at that moment. It was not just the fragile beat of gossamer wings I was dismissing. It was the radiance of a soul's awakening in a dearest face- that I let slip through my fingers-which reminded me once again of the fragile and beautiful passage of childhood. Dinner can boil over, dirty forks can remain soiled, The Dog can claw the paint off of the door; and, the world will most likely not end. But unexpected moments of breathtaking beauty are ephemeral. Flashes of red-orange, then black evaporating before our eyes.

Everybody Dance Now

Pre- Christmas (chaos) Party with the Neighborhood Kids. It was truly all a blur.

Ahhhh. The day after Christmas is like loosening the button on your waistband after overindulging in a holiday feast. Relief and room to breathe a little more freely. Christmas is over. And, it was successful. There was joy, love, happiness, family, homemade lasagna.  The children did not receive coal or, as my father likes to tease, bags of dirt. But, in the 3 weeks prior to the arrival of the merry holiday,  my gut had felt disordered and heavy with lead. I was doubled over in pain for days. I knew that I was anxious about everything falling into place-not just the holiday business( buying last minute gifts, wrapping them, making cookies and preparing for the kids’ pre-Christmas (chaos) Party at our house on Thursday, etc) but the business of The Mr. finally coming to a critical decision about the future of his employment contract with “The Bank.”  I felt out of balance which only perpetuated the anxiety- fretting that I would not be able to complete the tasks I needed to carry out to regain a sense of order.  I was shamefully snappish and short with my family but, also, incredibly apologetic.  “It’s all right,” The Mr. would reply gently. “I know that you don’t handle (long pause) …well, life very well.” And he patted me tenderly on the shoulder and walked away. As soon as I realized that I wasn’t dying from some tragic abdominal disease and that my mind was wreaking havoc on the rest of my body, things began to fall into place.

The recap of last week begins with cookies. The Sunday before Christmas, The Mr. was kind enough to gather all of the supplies I needed to make cookies for our family and also for the neighborhood children (8 in addition to my four) who would be celebrating the last day of school before winter break with Princess Commando. It is the first year that I cheated- buying pre-made logs of dough and canned frosting. I rolled out and baked the cookies on Tuesday while The Baby napped. It is no easy feat to prepare any meal in our kitchen as we have no counter space and we are using an old wooden desk as a table (which is, also, catching the overflow of kitchen staples from the cupboards). I was relieved, to say the least, that the cookies baked up exceptionally. My anxiety began to diminish. First Born Son and Princess Commando helped me frost the cookies after school on Wednesday- while the air was filled with Christmas carols and standards pumped from a playlist (9 hours long) on our MP3 player. I realized I hadn’t pulled enough bowls to mix the frosting and food coloring; so, I asked Princess Commando to gather 3 more. We finished our frosting and the cookies looked perfectly whimsical. I stood back, surveyed our work, and let out a sigh of relief that at least one task could be crossed off the list. And, for the first time, I felt as if the season was something to truly enjoy. When the Peanuts gang began to sing, "Christmas time is here..." it didn't feel like they were taunting me.

And then I went into the kitchen, opened the dishwasher, and realized that where there had been 3 dirty bowls- the rack was empty. Sh#@!!!! Princess Commando had mistakenly taken the dirty bowls and we had been mixing frosting in them. "But this morning you told me the dishwasher was clean!" she cried. I broke down. All I could think about was a parent at school that I met once who was a germaphobe and would not  let her child consume anything at school parties because she worried everything was contaminated by unwashed hands. If somehow it leaked (and with children who choose to be honest when it is least appropriate- it was bound to leak) that we served dirty cookies than maybe my neighbors would never allow their children to play with our kids again. So, I threw out the cookies. My mother rolled her motherly eyes in exasperation at my story (well, more at me than the story) and chastised me plenty for being wasteful. In hindsight, I agree that it was. But, while I don’t mind if my children eat cookies off our sullied, dog licked kitchen floor, or ones that have been frosted from unsanitary bowls, I just can’t stomach the idea of our guests eating frosting that may have been mixed with the saliva (I’ve seen how the kids lick their cereal bowls clean) of my children. I still had dough left over in the refrigerator. I made 3 dozen more cookies burning one dozen in the process. The cookies cooled, we frosted, again, but this time with clean bowls. And we had splendid, wonderful, fantastic cookies.

In other preparations for the children’s party and for a visit from my sister and her family, I had scrubbed and polished the house until it sparkled and glistened and smelled of Murphy’s Oil Soap and other lemony freshness. I gave myself a moment on Thursday afternoon to take it all in. I actually sat down for 20 minutes while The Baby napped; and, I smiled at the invigorating glow and warmth that emanated from our rooms. Really, I was bracing myself for the tornado that would sweep through at three o’clock. My mother would be there to help but a little bit later than I expected as my sister and her family arrived in the wee hours of the morning from Las Vegas and needed Mom’s car for transportation to and from my father’s house where they were staying. During The Baby's second nap, I prepared the table with carrots and dip, the cookie plate (which also consisted of chocolate covered pretzel rods, and melted marshmallow and cornflake treats dyed green and shaped into trees), crackers, juice boxes, peppermint candy canes. I waited on the porch for the rumble and grunt of Princess Commando's bus as it pulled up to the corner. The joy of the season tickled the air as Princess Commando gleefully bounded through the snow toward the house and Ms. L, the bus aide, shouted down the street “Merry Christmas!”

In honor of Princess Commando’s first party where she was to play hostess, I forced her into an adorable lilac colored knit dress which had dainty little white and cranberry flowers painted on it. She wore striped stockings on her legs. She had only two minutes to put her school things away before, J, the boy who professed his love to her before Halloween- walked up the steps to our house, his little sister M in tow and their Mama right behind. When J saw Princess Commando in the doorway- oh his face!- his little -blushing –cannot- contain- my joy at being able to spend time with you grin- made everything worth while. They were instantly riled up and started chasing each other around the house. His mother who is from Boston kept warning, "I'm gonna be wicked mad if you don't behave." In the midst of their little love chase, everyone else poured in. This is an 8 and under crowd. I didn’t have anything planned for them. I figured that they always took care of themselves when they had gathered in the past. I could just sit back and watch. The Mamas even asked if they needed to stay. I happily and confidently shooed them away. “We’ll be fine. It will be great.” 

My wonderful mother entertained The Baby while I ushered the children to the table. After all of our cookie trials, no one even wanted cookies. They only wanted candy canes! With so many little boys- fueled by the promise of Christmas, the last day of school, and the sugary candy canes- the living room was bursting with energy which needed a little reigning in ( I saw someone start to do cartwheels up the walls). My mother suggested that I read a Christmas story. The children obliged as I temporarily settled them to the couch and about my feet as I read The Red Ranger Came Calling by Berkeley Breathed, my most favorite Christmas story. It takes place during the Depression era and is about a prickly little boy, doubtful of the existence of Santa Claus, and transformed by a fateful meeting and the surprise realization of an unlikely Christmas wish. If you haven't read it, please do. When we were finished, all of the children's eyes were wide with both belief and disbelief at the snapshot of proof that the story provides. It was magical!

And then there was more magic, as my sister and my nephews, Gus (2 years old) and Lu (7 months old and inches taller than The Baby) arrived in the middle of the children's impromptu dance party. The look of bewilderment on my sister's face was priceless. The photo above is a fair representation of what my sister walked into. It was a whirly- twirly blur. There were boys jumping off the arms of the couch. Some were hiding in the tree. There was a tickle attack going on. Someone started singing C&C Music Factory's "Everybody Dance Now. " What decade are we in and how does a 6 year old know that song? I had run out of clean drinking glasses so I had to give little M (on the couch) a pink, plastic wine glass to sip her juice from. It looks like she is "getting her drink on." It was a little crazy. But, at the end of the party, all the children exclaimed that they had a wonderful time. And, when I went to clean up the table, I found that all of the cookies had been devoured. During the dance party, they must have burned off a million calories and needed to refuel. When they all left, I found myself feeling so fortunate- to have been able to move into a neighborhood with such exquisitely entertaining little children whom my children love dearly. I feel that we have a holiday tradition in the making. Next time, in lieu of Christmas lights, I will hang a disco ball.

Would You Frickin Smile Already?

If it was up to me, I would not even send out a holiday photo with our Christmas cards. With Facebook and other photo sharing websites, I feel that my out of town relatives already have a window into our world that normally would be shuttered by geographical distance. There is nothing that this one photograph will tell them  that they have not been able to figure out over the past 11 months of viewing my online photo album. But, my family continues to put pressure on us- to keep up this tradition of torment. It is a legacy of torture that has been passed down from my grandparents to my parents to me. I am getting that sickish feeling in my gut now as I recall our photo sessions at Olan Mills photography studios- with my curly hair brushed out vigorously by my mother into an unseemly, bell shaped bob. On any other given day, my kids will ham it up for my camera. As long as they are allowed to make screwy, laughable faces, they are all in. I prefer those expressions. But, on family photo day, they look like prisoners of a juvenile detention center.

I gave them fair warning that we would be taking pictures before we left for my mother's house for Thanksgiving dinner. It is one of the few occasions when they all are semi-dressed up. I reminded them through out the day to be ready because I wanted this to be quick and painless. One of the boys asked what they would get as a reward for cooperating. Reward, are you kidding me? Cooperation means that you escape punishment. But, in typical fashion, as soon as The Mr. and I started to assemble the children on our tattered couch, Princess Commando put on the brakes. I have never heard another human make such dead- on animal growl protests. Once she starts, they all get ornery because they know that what could have been taken care of in five minutes with good old fashioned acquiescing was now going to be an epic battle of wills. First Born Son was ready to order a Hazmat shower from being forced to sit next to his brother for more than 5 minutes. And, he kept talking to Princess Commando through is teeth while trying to maintain a smile for the camera, "Would you just frickin' smile already?! Don't you want this to end?!" Right on schedule, the resistance and irritation quickly gave way to tears.

Oh, surprise, someone is missing from this picture. H held his pose through it all. He knows that willingly participating will earn him valuable points. And, he'll become the favorite child for the day.

The baby looks concerned because this is what was going on in the other room...

Oh, the drama! The tears! You would think that she had been abused and beaten. I threw up my hands and told them, "Forget it!" Those words broke the evil magic spell that had been cast over them. They fled from the couch as quickly as if they had discovered it was on fire. I could not "Forget it" though. I was stewing on the short ride to my mother's house. The tirade of anger spilled forth from my lips. I suppose they have come to expect it, as no one even flinches at my bitterness. And then I wind down with a sprinkle of guilt, "I do so much for you. I do not ask you for much in return. Just one damn family photo where you at least look like you love each other. So, we are going to try again at Nana's house." They all grumbled in reluctant agreement.

But we did not stand a chance with my aunts and uncles walking around, interjecting criticisms of my children's forced expressions of love. "You all look like you are in pain," one of my aunts observed. And then, Princess Commando lost it when my Uncle M said to her (as I just got them all to look in my direction, mind you), "Let's see who can make the ugliest face," without the slightest pause for her to respond, "Uh- you won!"

I made one more attempt on Friday as our Day After Thanksgiving Thanksgiving Turkey was roasting in the oven. I know, I was asking for more trouble and heartache. They did not disappoint. But there was a small miracle. Princess Commando consented merrily. Her brothers were a different story. I am tempted to settle on this image.

But, I don't think my family will appreciate it. They will be receiving this heavily Photoshopped image in their Christmas cards. So, hang that on your fridge with your Mom and Pop Pizza Shop magnet, Family!

Now, I am on to the task of creating the illustration for the front our Christmas cards. At least, in this scenario, the children in my illustration all get along and cooperate for their mother.

Dark Rooms and Flashlights

The other day I was inquiring about H’s Language Arts teacher. I asked him if she had said anything to the students about her impending maternity leave.  “Nope.”

Had she even mentioned that she was pregnant? “Nope.”

Was she looking any more rotund? “I don’t know. She looks the same as she always has. She always looked round to me.”

“Maybe she’ll go into labor during ELA and you can deliver the baby.”

He looked confused. Of course he would. He can’t remember back to the tender years of childhood when he proclaimed that he was going to be a midwife.

He was three years old when I was pregnant with Princess Commando. He was my little companion to all of my prenatal visits with my beloved midwives. Their office occupied the first floor of a lovely brick Victorian home. That is what the office felt like- home- with its waiting room set up in the original living room and decorated with worn couches and children’s toys. H loved it there. He was impressed that they always left out nutritious snacks like fresh fruit, cheeses and crackers for visitors. Usually, he would stay in the living room with the receptionist, Mary, while I was having my examination. Mary put him to work copying papers, putting stamps on envelopes, etc. But, there were occasions when he just wanted to be with me. He would sit on the chair in the corner of the exam room, keenly observing every gesture, every soft laying of the hands by the midwife. I was used to the boys barging in on me in the bathroom- coming in to have a conversation while I was taking a bath or getting dressed. I had long gotten over being modest about my body around them. But, I also wasn’t parading around the house flashing my lady lumps.

On the day that I was to have my internal exam and Group B strep test (about 36 weeks), H decided that he wanted to join me. I was hesitant because up until now the only body part ever exposed during an exam had been my belly. I knew I would be draped and if he stayed in his corner, he wouldn’t see anything. I asked my midwife, S, if she thought it would traumatize him to be there while she was all up in my lady business. She laughed and told me that children (siblings) had seen far worse in the delivery room. S let H put the blue jelly on my stomach for the Doppler. He called it blue mustard (maybe this is why he has an aversion to mustard?) She guided his hand with the device to find his baby sister’s heart beat. He was spellbound. When S began the internal exam, the lights were turned down low. S told H that he could be her assistant and she gave him a flash light. So, there I was with my legs in the stirrups, draped, with my parts exposed. And, there H was, at my feet, dutifully pointing the flashlight. All of a sudden he exclaimed with equal parts pride and wonder, “Mommy, I can see right into your vagina!”

I kept trying to assure myself on the ride home that that he would probably forget that visual before we even pulled into our driveway. And, it seemed to be the case as he didn’t mention the experience at dinner when the Mr. asked him how his day was.

A few days later,  H and I were at Target. I cannot remember why we were there. All I remember is that we were standing in the home goods section when the lights went out. There was a sudden sputtering and belching sound from the building as systems were shutting down. And, then, silence. I was struggling to find my bearings. My eyes were adjusting to the darkness and I could make out the form of an elderly woman at the other end of the aisle. We stayed put, listening to the muffled confusion of the employees trying to figure out why the back up generator had not kicked in. I looked down at H sitting in the cart, who seemed more amused than frightened.

 “Are you okay?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said with a huge smile exposing his little chicklets.

“Hey, Mama?”

“Yes, buddy?”

“You remember when we were at the midwives and it was dark in the room, and I got to look into your vagina?”

Oh no! There is was, as loud and clear as Christmas bells. There was no mistaking what my sweet boy had said. I thought I heard the old lady gasp in horror. And typical H, kept going, the more I tried to hush him and the less I tried to answer. “What? What did I say?!”

I tried to unbuckle him and rip him out of the shopping cart in the shroud of darkness, but the power was restored and the lights came back on. I hung my head and sped out of the aisle. This wouldn’t be the last time one of my children embarrassed me in a Target store. And it certainly was not the most scarring (that incident involved an epic tantrum, a Lego set and the help of 4 adults to get us to our car).

While I am a little disappointed that he has forgotten about his dreams to be a male midwife (he would be perfect for the job), I am certainly grateful that when recalling this story to him today, not a single thread of it sounded familiar. I am putting money aside for therapy, just in case.

Old Musings #3: Sacred Language

Since my last post painted First Born Son in an unflattering, teenager-y light, I felt the need to review my old writings about him- from a time when there were only the two boys in the house and the only homework was to cut and paste words with their corresponding pictures. The Baby is helping to stir up old memories of when the older three were much younger- filled with wonder and imagination-where each small milestone warranted a huge celebration. I will have those moments with The Baby. I will cherish them. But, I can not help but pine for the sweeter, less stressful times our family was allowed to revel in for so many years. Anyway, this passage is from June 2, 2002. First Born Son (referred to in the piece as "M") was only 5 years old.

As it often goes, my children have taught me so many things. Most unexpectedly, the depth of mothering evolves from a sacred language with one’s children.

One night when I was doing my goodnight rounds I found M lying in his bed with a wooden stick thoughtfully pressed into his chin. He looked pensive.

“What’s up Buddy?” I asked.

“ I want to go back to where it all began,” he answered forlornly.

Such a profound statement from my five year old made me smile. But, he was serious.

“ What does that mean, M? Where did you hear that?”

“I didn’t hear it anywhere. It just came into my brain,” he answered eyes widening. “ I want to be a kid again, not a grown up, not do work in school.  I just want to play.”

It was all making sense. He was tired. It was the end of a very busy school year. Kindergarten was approaching its grand finale and the teachers were preparing the children for the rigors of first grade. One of the most important lessons was learning how to sit still for a longer stretch, without wiggling and with concerted effort to complete written work in record time.
          He loves school. When given the opportunity to stay home complaining of vague ailments, he protests. He would rather be with his friends; he might miss out on valuable fun.  If we force him to stay home when he is truly ill, he reluctantly rests, anxious to join his crowd, those comrades who are so separate from us. There are precious secrets and encoded languages there. Teachers are privy to all of this, but even they respect the sensitivity of keeping these things sacrosanct.

I was pregnant. M was soon to be a big brother again- not his choice. He accepted more responsibility like feeding the dogs and letting them outside, getting his own juice and snacks, keeping his room clean, etc. For him, it was sometimes too much. “I’m sick of doing work!” he’d grumble. “ I don’t want dogs anymore.”

It’s not often that he complains about such things. He is by his own nature exquisitely amiable. He has developed an amazing empathy for others. He’s curious and mischievous and often wild, but above all, he loves. And when he lies on his bed at night- awake when he should have been asleep an hour earlier- thinking, thinking, thinking because it is the first moment of the day that quiet has entered his body- pondering the whys and the hows of the way the world around him works and more than that pondering his own feelings about the things he knows to be true, I must just let him feel. I must let him know he is wonderful and amazing. He’ll answer, “I know.” I let him know that I don’t want him to grow up too fast. He doesn’t need to be a grown up yet, but the things he does for us are helpful and they make this family run more smoothly.  I tell him that he is doing just fine and I don’t want much more from him than to continue to follow his heart to help other people out.

He’ll ask me to rub his back, and even though I am tired I will do it because he is still so fragile in these moments, so tender as he was when he was a babe. I know there will be a day or a thousand days when he won’t want me to touch him at all and he won’t even speak those truthful worries of his brain. I’ll be left to wonder if he is really okay. For now, I savor the sacred language we have that allows me to speak simply and make him all better.

Old Musings #3: Hard Candy

This is from January 18, 2003. H was 3 1/2 years old.

Yesterday I was feeding Princess Commando her morning bottle at the computer desk while surfing the internet. H came to me sheepishly, "Can I  have one of the hard candies Nana gave me yesterday?" He had already eaten a hearty breakfast, so I didn't think one would hurt. "Sure. You may have one." H was so proud of his candy- 4 pieces of banana hard candy. He had already eaten one the night that my mother brought them over. He had each designated for a special moment over the next 3 days. "This one is for after I play with my Rescue Heroes in the morning time. This one is for after lunch on Thursday. This one is for when M comes home on Friday."

I was distracted by an online article I was reading when he came back into the living room. But, I could hear the crisp crinkle of candy wrappers. He was singing in the background, "I'm a big kid, yeah. I can eat hard candy. Hmmm, hmmm."
 
"Yes, you are a big kid," I absently agreed.

Not 10 minutes had passed and he peeked his head up over the side of my desk. " By accident I ate all of the candies."

"What?"

"I ate four candy." I thought for a moment. But, there were only 3 banana candies left.

"What candy are you talking about?" I now noticed the blue sugary specks flecked on his lips. What did he get into? I put Princess Commando down and pulled him closer to me. "What do you mean you ate four candy?"

"I had a blue one, and a green one, and the orange one and the red one." Lollipops! Old lollipops that had been tucked away in the cupboard since Halloween.

"You ate four lollipops?"

"Yes," he lowered his eyes in shame. His lower lip stuck out awaiting my reaction.

"Well, do you still have the sticks?" I wanted to make sure that he really ate lollipops.

"Yes, they're on the couch." Sure enough, all in a row, four lollipop sticks gleefully sucked bare lay beside their wrappers.

"Do you have a tummy ache?"

"Yeah, kind of,"  he paused, "But, you're not mad."

"No, I'm not mad. How were they?"

" Good! I tried the blue one and the red one and the orange one and the green one! Cause I'm a big kid and I can eat hard candy."

"Yes, you are a big kid. But, you know that you are not having any more lollipops for a long, long time."

"Yes," he agreed with a mock pout. "But you're not mad."

Old Musings #2 The Taste Assignment

Your food is killing me.

This entry is from an old notebook I found from 2002-2009. First Born Son has always been a super taster which makes mealtimes unenjoyable for all. The following is early evidence of his inability to handle new textures. He was 5 years old and in kindergarten. He is referred to as "M" in this reflection.

April 30, 2002


Last night Mrs. T sent home a very fitting assignment for M. The children were to draw a picture of themselves eating that evening's dinner. They were to pay careful attention to their sense of taste. I laughed when I read it because M has the most delicate palate. Everything makes him gag except for marshmallow cereals and fast food burgers (without condiments or cheese, of course). We have been struggling since he was two years old to entice him to sit at the table and at least try a bite of everything on his plate. The fights and dramatics that ensue would seem to warrant a call to Child Protective Services from those listening from the outside. It sounds like the kid is being tortured; and, for him, it feels that way. His repertoire of dinner fare is limited to those foodstuffs that are white (boiled chicken breasts, plain pasta with butter, an occasional piece of mozzarella cheese, and apple slices).


Last night, we grilled homemade turkey burgers on our new charcoal grill. I warned M when he came home from school about what was on the menu. He seemed fine with it until his father brought in the thick burgers nestled warmly in toasted buns. M began to panic. Those burgers did not look like fast food burgers and the bun was too hard. The meat was too spicy and it didn't stick to the bun properly. "Can I have something else?" He pleaded. We have tried to stand firm in our rule that he must eat what is placed before him before he can ask for something else.


"I'm going to throw up!" He kept threatening. 

"You're not going to throw up," We insisted. And then he gagged hysterically on his food.

"I can't eat this!" He protested. "You don't love me!"


This behavior is something we should be used to by now, but the frustration never wanes. And, the energy of fighting against him is more easily sapped now that he has discovered other battles to wage against us. If it was not for H's agreeable dinnertime presence, I might give up on constructing a meal. H takes his time to eat, savoring each morsel, purring with contentment at mealtime, and trying new foods at least twice. Last night, I even made brownies for dessert- a reward if M ate his dinner. But this meal would have consequences for M. He kept spitting out the food and letting it drop to the floor like an infant starting solids. We sent him to his room to settle down. He kept shouting," Nobody loves me! I want to move out of this house!"


I went in to calm him down, "Where do you want to move?"

 "With Grandpa."

 "Call him and ask him if you can live with him. But, if you go, we will miss you very much." I retrieved the phone for him and let him call my father. He wasn't home. M was falling deeper into despair. " You can't live with Nana because she will make you eat spaghetti with sauce, and pork chops, and broccoli, and steak."

 " Where can I live then?" 


"I think you are stuck with us."


He slumped in the hallway and begged with puppy dog eyes to be accepted at our table where the three of us were enjoying our brownies.  I made him sit at his place and complete his "Taste" homework. I suggested that he draw a picture of himself crying at the table with hamburger falling out of his mouth. Instead, he drew a picture of himself with a huge smile and an enormous burger in his hands. This is what he wrote:
"My Mom and Dad made burgers on the grill. They were spicy and hard. I did not like it! I wanted to throw up. Then I went in my room and cried."

That sounds about right. I wonder if Mrs. T, in her 25 years of teaching kindergarten, has ever had a student who suffered so much through such an innocent assignment.

From the Days of Pen and Paper, Old Musings #1: Care Bear Scat

I found an old notebook that I had kept over the years to record anecdotes about my children. This entry was originally written on 03.21.05 when Princess Commando was 2 1/2 years old.

A few weeks ago Princess Commando had her second ear infection in two months. She was stirring in the middle of the night with a fever; so, I brought her two purple, grape flavored, children's acetaminophen tablets. I left the light off in her room, so not to rouse her any further. Of course, I could not see what I was doing and one of the tablets fell out of my fingers before I could get it in her mouth. She was already laying back down upon her nest of Care Bears- so I didn't bother fishing for the tablet, figuring it would be okay if she found it when she woke up.

The following morning she came into my bedroom with a concerned look on her face. She informed me that there was "dirty"in her bed. Sometimes "dirty" was just a piece of fuzz; so, I dismissed her worry and brought her into my bed to snuggle.

Later, while I was in her room helping her get dressed, she pointed to her bed, "See? My bed's all dirty!" I examined her sheets and, sure enough, the purple tablet I had dropped the night before was crushed into a fine powder. "Oh, what happened here?" I feigned surprise. To that, she answered quite definitively, "The Care Bears did poopies in my bed!" And that is how I learned that Care Bear scat is grape flavored and it takes your pain away.

Making Smart Choices

Evil Princess Commando, Sweet Princess Commando

If Princess Commando was an animal, she would most likely be a cat. She reminds me of our younger cat, Mitsy. She curls up with you on her own time- peacefully, graciously snuggling one minute; and then, as quickly as she perceives being crossed, she snaps-claws out-hissing! The only difference is that Mitsy makes herself scarce; but, the 8 year old girl throws herself on the couch in a whiney tantrum when she does not get her way. It is no secret that she has been dubbed "The Brat" within our family. Princess Commando's attitude has taken a turn for the beastly as she has begun to face the rigors of 3rd grade. The word from school is ( although I am inclined to believe this is a myth) that PC is a dream student in the classroom. She is well behaved, respectful, thoughtful, helpful and kind. I try to be sympathetic to her new challenges, yet firm in my direction with her. But, there is only so much ornery, selfishness that a parent can endure.

We were well overdue for some alone time. This past Friday, I followed through with a promise of a "girls night" with my number one girl. The Baby went to sleep at a reasonable hour. The boys found a way to busy themselves; and, The Mr. agreed to sleep in Princess Commando's twin bed in order to accommodate our sleepover. PC's only requests were popcorn, The Diary of a Wimpy Kid movie and some gaudy nail polish. She was in a rare good mood. She allowed me to braid her overflowing locks of hair. (She no longer lets me dress her hair in any way but "plain and straight." So, this was a treat for me). Despite being exhausted from caring for The Baby all day, I made it through the movie; and, PC was soon purring, blissfully curled beside me.  I had forgotten how much I missed time alone with her.

Any sign of sweetness, was eradicated the next day when Princess Commando came down for breakfast. She was quick to whine and hiss at her brother's benign teasing. She recoiled at our attempts to cheer her up. She was grumbly when we instructed her on what tasks needed to be completed for the day. In fact, she stopped using words, she just groaned through the day. She was pouty and obstinate all weekend. She was disrespectful to the Mr. and me. But, she looked adorable. She had unraveled the braids from the night before and her hair hung in crimpy plaits about her head. The hairstyle dwarfed her petite body; and, she looked a little bit like a child who was raised in the woods by wolves. When I showed her this new version of herself in the mirror, she softened. She actually enjoyed it and decided that we should braid her hair on Sunday night so that she could wear the new look to school on Monday.

On Sunday night, after her shower, I attempted to replicate my design. This time, I decided to add more, thinner braids. Her hair seemed to be a mile long and my fingers were stiff and aching when I was finished. We waited until the last minute on Monday morning to unweave the braids. This time, with the addition of the much smaller braids, her hair increased in volume.  The effect was not lost on her. As soon as she saw the big reveal, she broke down. "I hate it!! I hate it!!" "I'm not going to school like this!" "It's too puffy!" I calmly sprayed her hair with leave in conditioner to tame it. She did not look any different than the other day when this style was met with beaming approval.  She was not budging. She sat on the floor of the bathroom refusing to brush her teeth and move on with the morning. The Mr. was taking her to school on his way to work- so there was no time to waste. And, I had precious minutes left before The Baby woke up and my chance of a shower sped down the drain. I tried to hurry her along. But she became more and more disagreeable. I finally snapped- as this Monday morning was the last straw of mornings, and afternoons and evenings like this. I threw every ultimatum, threat, and bargain at her. She wasn't buying it. She finally left with the Mr.- but not quietly.

I mulled over how to handle this behavior. What has worked for us before? What consequences should I instill? I sought the advice of my mother, a newly retired 1st grade teacher, a mother of three, a grandmother of 6 and a veteran of doling out consequences. I took her suggestion to give PC a warning that Monday's behavior would be the last time she would go without punishment. If she were to act up again, I would bag up her beloved stuffed animals. She would go on a behavior chart and would need to earn 3 stars/ day for seven days and then she would be allowed one of her animals back. I also would have her fill out a "Making Smart Choices" sheet that was sent home from school as an example of the behavior plan that is implemented in the classroom.

She came off of the bus, happy and high on the bus social hour, as if nothing happened earlier in the day. I sat her down and laid out the new guidelines. She apologized and agreed that she would try harder. She reluctantly filled out the Making Smart Choices sheet. ( I didn't have her fill out the section about what rule she broke). Find the completed form below. It may not be the explanation that I hoped she would muster up; but, it's a start.

Yep, You Look Normal to Me

Two weeks ago, on a Friday, I received a call from H's middle school nurse informing me that H had been to see her after lunch complaining of chest pain. I appreciate the stellar communication between the school and home. We get called for every hang nail and gas pain; but, I was truly hoping that on this particular Friday "chest pain" wasn't on the list of ailments which required immediate pick up from school. I had just gotten The Baby down for a nap and she truly was fighting off an ailment, her first ear infection. The nurse brushed past the chest pain and said that she was really calling because upon listening to his heart, she heard an abnormal rhythm. "It's probably nothing, but you should call your pediatrician to see what they want to do about it. I know that if it was my child, I'd want it checked out. And I know that you are a good parent, so you will want it checked out, too."  Jabbity-jab right into my heart. Thank you, School Nurse. I know what our pediatrician's office wants to do about every phone call, "Bring him in." And sure enough, after years of managing to avoid the pediatrician's office for sick calls, I was going to be visiting them for the third time in one week. H made it through the rest of the school day and the bus ride home. He wasn't too happy when he walked through the door and I told him to keep his shoes on because we had a date with the doctor at 3:30. After some griping, I reminded him that he was the one who went to the school nurse, not me. I suspect that some small part of him was hoping that this was an opportunity to prove, once and for all, that there is something truly wrong with him.

H has always maintained that he is not normal. It has become a full time job trying to understand what normal means to him and also reassuring him that his concerns, his feelings (physically, emotionally, intellectually, spiritually) are all normal in relation to the rest of human kind.  September always drums up the insecurities of his soul. At the commencement of each new school year, we navigate through a phase of questioning his purpose on the planet, of self loathing, of loathing his family for being honest with him, and a swinging pendulum of moods. I offer my own experiences with my struggles with school related anxiety- a battle so paralyzing that I missed a year of school in a normal classroom setting. But, my experience, my story of success in overcoming the suffocating strong hold which is anxiety, does little to quell his self-doubt. And, he turns toward every ache, pain and twinge in his body- seeking a tangible reason for why he feels bad.

H is a bright child- attending an elite public school where he takes advanced classes. He is stubborn with enough obstinance to occupy a small city.  He is a clam- hard shell and squishy insides. In the presence of company he is often quiet, maybe even aloof (unless, of course, he is playing with his sister, Princess Commando, and then the din in the atmosphere is deafening). He can do without offering my family- the only extended family he knows- so much as a casual conversation that allows them to know that there is something going on upstairs. But then, unexpectedly, unsolicited, empathetically, articulately and oh so privately- he will  connect with someone who needs it most at that moment. He has been this way since he was a baby. He was very connected to me, but he was difficult for others to connect with. But in times of darkness, he could be light. We first noted it when he was about 8 months old. My mother and step-father had taken him to my Aunt L's home where her husband, M, dying from lung cancer, was placed in a medically induced sleep on a convalescent bed in the dining room. I am told that H was placed upon the sick bed and he made his way up to M's feverish face placing his chubby hands on him- gently, lovingly settling down beside him. He knows how to reassure as much as he as adept-during times of his personal duress- in knowing how to cut your heart with a vicious tongue. In short, he is exquisitely sensitive and keenly observant.

For the past three years, I have taken him to our homeopath for help in balancing out his issues. Just talking to her and having her listen validates his feelings and helps him to get over the hump which is September.  But as sure as these manifestations of anxiety are likely to bloom at the start of the school year, I will surely (not deliberately, mind you) be slow to catch on to the fact that H is suffering from apprehension again.This is why I proceeded in taking him to the pediatrician's and did not think much of offering his school fretfulness as an explanation for his chest pains. At the pediatrician's office we were seen by the nurse practitioner. She was thorough in her questioning. She confirmed the abnormal heart beat- a sinus arrhythmia which is considered a normal abnormal. And because she could not detect any defect in his lungs or sinuses, decided that it was best to run some tests which might give us an explanation to the chest pain: an x-ray, an EKG/ Echocardiogram and some blood work. She was fixated on his skin color. "Is he normally this color?" He had been looking a little pale the past few weeks, but he always did when he was tired or his allergies were acting up. "He looks a little pale," I offered. "No, its something else. Maybe just the lights," she said thoughtfully examining his tone and the whites of his eyes. She asked which doctor we normally see- so she could bring that person in to compare his tone to what he normally exhibits. She left the room and brought Dr. S back with her. He didn't seem overly concerned but agreed that H looked a bit sallow. So, they would check his liver function, too. Great, now there is something to worry about- something to send my head into Google induced panic-something to prove that some small piece of H is truly not normal.

Fast forward to this week. After the x-ray came back with nary a speck to suggest an anomaly; and, he survived the bloodwork (which, I am assuming is fine as the doctor has a 'no news is good news' policy and we haven't been called to confirm otherwise), he has the slightest hint of a spring in his step. We still have the EKG/ ECHO today which may pull the rug out from underneath us. But, my gut is telling me that we will discover what we already know- he has a benign arrhythmia and he has a human heart. When I asked to take his picture to compare his current skin tone to earlier images, I was met with that playful, scrunchy, tongue out of the mouth, oh so special expression above. All I could say was, "Yep. You look normal to me." And, by the date on the calendar, it appears that we've, once again, gotten over the hump that is September.