Overheard

At kindergarten round up, R was talking to a boy I vaguely recognized from his preschool class. The boy had started at R’s preschool a couple of months before, and both boys were thrilled to see a familiar face. After we toured the classrooms, I overheard the little boy explaining to his grandma, who had accompanied him to round up, how he knew R. “We go way back,” he told her confidently.

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J stayed home with R from school one day when R was sick. They were listening to The Beatles when “All You Need Is Love” came on. R was looking thoughtful, so J asked him what was wrong. “Dad, The Beatles keep singing all you need is love over and over, but you need a house and other stuff like that too.” (I’m guessing “All You Need is a 401K” didn’t have quite the same ring to it.)

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About 2 ½ hours into a 3-hour car trip, K had had it with being strapped into a car seat and decided that the rest of us should suffer too. She took up a particularly high-pitched screaming routine that is supposed to signal maximum displeasure on her part. R turned to her, and shaking his head sympathetically, said, “It’s a hard, hard life K, but you just have to get through it.” (That’s right folks, Joan of Arc, the Cambodian people under Pol Pot, Nelson Mandela, and my children; all people who have suffered greatly.)

What Women Want

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Normally, I wouldn’t presume to speak for my entire gender. However, after years of careful observation, conversations with friends, listening to people who confide in me when they hear the world “counselor,” and studying umpteen-thousand country songs, I have decided to go out on a limb here.

When I was in high school and college, I worked a retail job in women’s clothing at a major department store. Without fail, the evening before any major holiday (Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, plus anniversaries and birthdays), a strange phenomenon would befall the women’s department. Where no man had gone before, men would appear (usually looking either A) dazed B) frightened or C) panicked) in the women’s lingerie, jewelry, and apparel departments. Their common shared goal was to get in and out in less than 20 minutes. In honor of Mother’s Day, here’s what I would have told these men if I had known then what I know now:

Most women don’t care about the gifts you give them five times a year. Gifts are nice, and they signal to us that you were thinking about us. (Although, gifts of household appliances and lingerie are generally a sign that you were thinking practically or of yourself. Regardless of how practical your wife is, she doesn’t really want a new dryer for her birthday, even if she says she does.) Tangible gifts that demonstrate that you listen when we talk about our tastes and preferences, no matter how small, score major points. Tickets to a concert for her favorite performer, or that you remembered that her favorite flowers are daisies will ensure that you actually get to see that lingerie out of the box if you catch my drift.

Unless you have the misfortune of being married to a gold-digger, most women are rarely focused on the cost of the gift being given. Think about how your wife reacts when one of the kids hands her a dandelion. Like she just won the lottery. (Disclaimer- I am not suggesting that you go out and pick dandelions for your wife for Mother’s Day this year.) My point is, coming from a child; the gift of a dandelion is huge because of its intent. It says, “I love you, mom. You are the center of my universe, and I didn’t consider any other recipient for this dandelion. It was selected just for you.”

And that, my friends, is what I think women really want. They want to be told that they’re appreciated, and that your world wouldn’t be the same without them. They want to be thanked for being good mothers, for the doctor and dentist appointments scheduled, the dinners cooked, and the fact that your underwear hasn’t disintegrated around you because she buys more when she notices the holes. And they would like to be told more than five times a year. Not everyday, per say, but at least on occasion.

So, on this Mother’s Day Eve, save yourself 20 minutes, and tell your wife (or girlfriend or mother) you couldn’t live without her. Here’s a song to inspire you:

A Woman Like You

In Hiding

When I was a kid, I had a recurring nightmare in which I was running through a dark house, desperately searching for some place to hide. Although I couldn’t see anyone, I sensed that someone or something was chasing me. I would locate a closet, dive inside, pull the door shut behind me, and then silently pray that I wouldn’t be found. When I awoke, heart thumping in my throat, I would peer through bleary eyes around my bedroom to ensure that neither ghost nor serial murderer lurked in its shadowy corners.

I was reminded of this nightmare a while back when I found myself crouching on the floor of my bedroom closet while I tried to have a telephone conversation with my mother. I ducked behind the bathrobes and floor-length dresses to avoid detection. It was not an ax-welding maniac or a disgruntled spirit that sought me, but rather my children, aged 5 years and 18-months old (cue the shower-scene soundtrack from “Psycho”).

For whatever reason, my offspring seem to have a sixth sense for those moments when their mother (or father) needs to have the ability to concentrate on a task that doesn’t directly revolve around them (paying bills, fixing dinner, having a phone conversation, showering, and going to the bathroom to name a few). At those moments, everything takes on a sudden urgency. Case in point:

R: (Standing outside the bathroom door.) Whatcha’ doin’ mom?

Me: I’m in the bathroom.

R: When will you be done?

Me: Well, son, I don’t currently have an estimated time of departure, but I’ll be sure to send out a bulletin as soon as I know.

R: What does that mean?

Me: Never mind. What do you need?

R: I need you to see something. It’s REALLY important, and I need your help.

Me: (Wondering which of his body parts is requiring medical attention.) What’s wrong?

R: The arm fell off of my Ninja Turtle; I can’t get it back on.

These types of conversations have led to further discussions regarding what constitutes an emergency in our house. Here’s a handy checklist for future reference:

1. Has anyone in the house turned blue and stopped breathing?

2. Is anyone bleeding profusely enough that they are going to stain the furniture or carpet without immediate medical application of a tourniquet?

3. Do you see or smell smoke or flames?

4. Has a catastrophic natural disaster occurred within 5 miles of our house? Is our house still standing?

5. Has the local news station announced that apocalypse is impending? (In this case, there is nothing any of us can do anyway, so please let me finish my last shower on Earth in peace.)

Under her brother’s tutelage, K has learned that the best time to do-something- that-your-parents-would-never-let-you-do-under-normal-circumstances is when they are distracted. This is how she has managed to eat potting soil (fixing lunch), bite the tip off of a blue marker (tying R’s shoelace), pull every children’s book we own off of the bookcase (trying to get rid of a carpet-cleaning salesman), and drive her toy car over a flower bed and down a hill (opening a bottle of bubbles).

Of course, some of this could be me too. While engaged in a non-child related task, I’ve become so adept at blocking out non-essential noise (car crash and weaponry-related sounds made with the mouth, sibling squabbling, whining of any kind, the 1,000-decibel singing of camp songs, and the repetitive chanting of a just-learned word) that I sometimes don’t hear or process things going on around me. Don’t judge. It’s called self-preservation. The resulting conversations go something like this:

Scene: In the kitchen, fixing dinner, TV is blaring in the background, K is pleading with me to “Pease up” (pick me up) over and over, while I step over a layer of alphabet magnets on my way to drain noodles over the kitchen sink.

R (Enters stage left): Mom, I want to make a headband like the Indians wore.

Me: Mmm hmm. That’s a good idea. (Stumbles over the letter V.)

R: I need construction paper.

Me: Check downstairs.

R (Exits stage left and returns 5 minutes later.)

R: Now I need scissors.

Me: (Stirring spaghetti sauce while K clings to the back of my calf like a baby koala bear.) Ask your dad.

(Exits)

(Returns with scissors)

R: I need tape.

Me: (Retrieves tape from junk door. Curses under breath because junk drawer won’t close. Makes mental note to clean out junk drawer. Continues to stir spaghetti sauce, which is now bubbling, splattering flecks of red over the range top. K continues her quest for parental domination. Get K a cracker because right calf is going numb. 10 minutes pass.)

R: (Returns and holds up brown strips of paper.) Look Mom, I made one for me and one for K.

Me: (Banging a bag of frozen broccoli against the counter.) That was nice.

R: (Thoughtfully) I don’t know how to keep them on our heads though.

Me: Mmm hmmm. (Pours broccoli into microwavable dish and adds water. K is out of cracker and resumes wailing. Wonders if the pasta is a little too “al-dente.” Adds spices to pasta sauce. Gets fed up with alphabet magnets and starts putting them back on the fridge. Finds some measuring cups to appease K.)

R: Mom, are you listening to me?

Me: (Absentmindedly) Mmm hmmm. (Removes sauce from stove. Stirs broccoli. Wipes up sauce splatters. Gets K a drink of water.)

R: So where’s the stapler?

Me: (Snaps back to attention) Why do you need the stapler?

R: You said I could staple the headbands to make them stay on me and K’s hair.

Me: I don’t remember saying that.

R: (Indignantly) You did too! You said “mmm hmm.”

He’s got me there.

A few of my favorite things

--> -->One night while my husband was picking K’s toys up off of the living room floor after both kids were in bed, he started laughing quietly to himself. I asked him what was so funny. Oh nothing, just seeing the toys and dolls reminded him of cute things K does and says. I knew exactly what he meant. Sometimes in the middle of a work day, something I see or hear will make me think of the kids, and I can’t help but smile.

As the parents of two small children, it’s easy to get bogged down in the routine of every day life. Get up, get ready, get kids ready, feed kids breakfast, drop off at preschool and daycare, work for 8 hours, pick kids up, play, check e-mail, fix dinner, play, give baths, get kids ready for bed, read stories, hugs and kisses, get someone a drink of water, do the dishes, do a load of laundry, watch a little TV or read, go to bed, get up 7 hours later and start over. It’s enough to make anyone’s head spin.

Frequently though, I have these fleeting moments during each day when I imagine the curve of R’s cheek, and the way K’s eyelashes stick together when she first wakes up in the morning. Or I picture the way she moves her tiny hips back and forth when she hears a song she likes. For a brief moment, I picture R riding his bicycle with his head thrown back as the wind ruffles the top of his hair. And I feel calm and happy in those moments.

I love the movie The Sound of Music and will probably continue to torture my children by forcing them to watch it with me well into their adolescent years. My favorite song from the movie has always been My Favorite Things. A few years ago, Julie Andrews (who was brilliant as Maria Von Trapp) wrote a parody of the song geared toward senior citizens. Here is my attempt at a version for parents:

My Favorite Things

Handprints on windows and toys on the floor

Tickles and giggles, then asking for more.

Long bedtime cuddles that end with a kiss,

These are the things that fill my life with bliss.

Singing at bath time and forts on the couch

Running through sprinklers and Oscar the Grouch.

Watching a movie for the one thousandth time,

These are the things that make my life so fine.

When the flu hits,

When my head rings,

When I’m feeling stressed,

I simply remember my favorite things

And I know that I’m truly blessed.

Twenty little fingers and twenty little toes,

Chocolate ice cream on everyone’s nose.

Seeing them discover something that’s new,

These are the things that I look forward to.

Soccer on Saturday and pancakes Sunday morning,

Papers and art projects my fridge is adorning.

Sleepy heads on my shoulder as they fall asleep

These are the moments in my heart I’ll keep.

When the milk spills,

When the fits rage,

When the world has me spent,

I simply remember my favorite things

And then I’m completely content.

Sibling Rivalry

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Since the days of Cain and Abel, across generations, cultures, ethnicities, bathroom counters, and dinner tables, siblings have been at odds. Oldest children compete to maintain their rightful place at the top of the proverbial food chain, and youngest children learn to claw their way up from the bottom of the pile (sometimes literally).

When K was first born, she was a novelty, something R could show off to other people. I don’t think he thought of her so much as an actual person, but as a possession that belonged solely to him. He proudly introduced her as “my baby-sister-girl.” This lasted approximately 6 hours. Then K dared to make noise and require the attention of HIS parents, and from then on, he referred to her as “that baby” or pretended she wasn’t in the room.

During the first several months of K’s life (usually when he wanted our undivided attention), R would dramatically say, “THIS is why I didn’t want a sister.” He also told us that he would have preferred a sister who wasn’t a baby, one that could play toys with him.

Of course, K eventually got old enough to play with toys. However, much to R’s disappointment, she wanted to play with HIS toys, but never in the way that he wanted her to. Before she could walk, R would gather up all of the toys within her reach and move them. K would holler with indignation, but since she was immobile, it was futile until J or I came to her rescue. Now that K is walking, she seems to be making up for lost time.

I was in the kitchen the other night fixing dinner when I heard an ear-piercing scream coming from the living room. I turned the corner to find a scene straight out of the World Wrestling Federation. K had ahold of a chunk of R’s hair in one fist, while she stubbornly wrestled with her brother over a plastic car with the other. At her mercy, R crawled along behind her in an attempt to ease the pressure on his scalp. This created the visual impression that her tiny frame was dragging him across the living room floor. I intervened before any bald patches resulted.

My kids compete for toys, attention, couch space, and food. (Like the time I caught R eating the baby puffs off of K’s high chair tray when I wasn’t looking. No wonder she was still hungry. My husband, a second child himself, likes to tell the story about hiding sausage links in his sock drawer so that his older brother wouldn’t eat them all.)

As a first-born, I think I tend to sympathize with R. After K was born, despite the fact that I desperately loved her, I felt incredible guilt over the idea that I had ruined R’s life. After all, we first-borns don’t appreciate it when our universes are altered. J is usually in K’s corner because he is accustomed to looking at sibling relations through the eyes of someone whose best bet was, in his words, “to get down on the ground as quickly as possible because I was going to end up there anyway.”

In spite of their differences, R is his sister’s greatest defender. At Christmastime, we were in a department store at the check out counter. K was strapped into her stroller, happily playing with a sticker that she had been given. A little boy, probably around two-years-old approached her stroller, poked her in the chest and attempted to take the sticker out of K’s hands. R witnessed this transgression and marched over to the little boy. “Nobody touches my sister,” he said before the boy’s mother noticed and retrieved her son.

I’ve heard it said that siblings are the only people who get to know you for your entire lifespan. Not even parents or spouses usually know you from beginning to end. In this way, siblings are like a link from your past to your future self. No one else knows all of the embarrassing, humiliating stories from your childhood (and delights in retelling them) or the triumphs and tribulations of your adolescence. Siblings witness your graduations (sometimes grudgingly), your wedding, and the births of your children. They are our history keepers.

I look forward to the first time K calls R from college because she got a speeding ticket or got busted for underage drinking (not that this has happened to anyone I know), to ask him, “On a scale of one to ten, how mad do you think Mom and Dad are going to be when they find out?” I hope that in that moment, both will appreciate the gift they have been given in one another. And when they’re arguing over which nursing home to put their father and me in, the Econo-Care Lodge or The Four Seasons Geriatric Edition, I pray that each only remembers the times that I sided with them.

A spelling lesson

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R, J and K were in the living room playing with wooden alphabet blocks. R has started to read short words by sounding out the letters, so they were taking turns spelling and reading words on the blocks. I turned the corner from the kitchen to watch, and wanted to get in on the fun too, so I asked R, “What does D-A-D spell? How about M-O-M? S-I-S-T-E-R?” He got all of those correct.

I looked around the living room for inspiration and asked, “What does B-O-O-K spell?” I could see his lips silently sounding out the letters. Suddenly, his face lit up with understanding. “BOOB!”

Hopefully, he gets a kindergarten teacher with a sense of humor.

A letter to my firstborn

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Dear R,

You’re five today! It seems like only yesterday that you were peeing all over your dad every time he tried to change your diaper. From the moment that we met, I knew that being your mom would be a wild ride. You decided to make your appearance a week past your predicted due date and arrive on April Fool’s Day. Do you know what people say when you call to tell them that your one-week-overdue baby was born on April Fool’s Day? No way! I knew even then that you would have a unique sense of humor.

You must have really enjoyed our company because you woke every 2-3 hours for most of the first 9 months of your life. You were rarely unhappy, just hungry and ready to play. The baby sleep books (and I’ve read them all) said that I shouldn’t “engage” you when you woke in the middle of the night, but how to resist that toothless grin at 3 in the morning? Until you were born, I didn’t believe in love at first sight.

As a toddler, you were unusually in tune with other people’s emotions. One morning at daycare, another child stood at the door crying at drop off, and I saw your tiny two-year-old hand reach out to pat him on the back. I have loved that about you ever since.

You have learned and changed so much this past year, and have transformed from preschooler into full-fledged “kid,” as you refer to yourself. You know how to write your letters and their sounds, have started to read short words, and can do some addition and subtraction problems. You mastered riding a bike without training wheels, moved up to the next level of swimming lessons, and started taking showers instead of baths. You broke into t-ball and basketball, and now understand which goal you need to run toward during a soccer game. Many times you have amazed us by doing things we didn’t even know you could do.

You’ve made new friends over the past year. It makes me happy to see you building relationships outside of our family, but I also realize that means that our house isn’t the center of your universe anymore. You will go to school soon, and meet more new and interesting people with ideas and thoughts that are different from anything that Dad or I have taught you. I hope you will remember the things that our family values, even when we can’t be right there with you.

-Show care and kindness to all living things. Remember that you have a lot of people who love you and help you along the path you are on. Keep in mind that not everyone has those people in their lives. Be that person for someone who needs it.

-Live your life with integrity, even if it means you won’t be the richest guy on the block. Remember that wealth is measured in many ways, not just by the stuff you have or the amount of money you make.

-Protect your health. It’s the greatest gift you’ve been given, so treat your body like you would treat a brand-new car. Take it in for regular tune-ups, and put good fuel in it. Wear your seat belt and bicycle helmet.

-Value education. It’s the only thing that can never be taken away from you. Having a wide base of knowledge makes life fuller and richer and opens many more doors to you in the future.

-Know that you can come to Dad and me with anything, and we will listen and help you figure out what to do.

Thank you for making me a mother. And remember that you’re never too old to be your momma’s baby.

I love you Little-Big Man!

Mom