Hold My Beer

You know those women who glow during pregnancy? The ones who giggle with friends about their unreasonable cravings while praising their growing bundle of joy for blessing them with gorgeous locks and glowing skin? Those women who simply emit a golden hue of pure joy for nine months?

I was never one of them.

I was the pregnant girl attached to an IV pole because my growing cherub caused persistent severe vomiting leading to weight loss and dehydration. That was the clinical definition of my first pregnancy, but I simply called it really effin’ annoying. New moms assured me that it would all be worth it. I smiled and excused myself to vomit out back in the parking lot like some drunk sorority girl.

When my oldest was two, I decided it was time to give this pregnancy thing a second chance. How much worse could it possibly be, I wondered.

That’s when my second child whispered into the wind, ‘Hold my beer!’

My second pregnancy played out much like my first. Once, during Sunday mass, I emptied my first born’s toys onto the floor and immediately threw up in her favorite bag. Right there. In church. During the priest’s eulogy. Our exodus from the Roman Catholic Church can likely be traced back to that very moment.

I developed a strong affinity for elephants during those nine months, pitying them for their unlucky place in the evolutionary chain. Two years. Those Momma Elephants grew their babies for two years! How unfortunate for them. And how unfortunate for me that my 9-month tenure felt more like their two year reality.

But, remember those new moms? The ones who told me it would all be worth it? They were so right.

Earlier this month, my youngest daughter – you know, the one who whispered ‘Hold my beer?’ She celebrated her last, first day of high school. Her last, first day! And I suddenly find myself envious of those Momma Elephants and their two, whole years while I count down my measly nine months.

In nine months she’ll walk across the stage, wearing her cap and gown. In nine months she’ll be ready to leap into the next phase of her life. In nine months I’ll curse my place in the evolutionary chain and wish time would somehow just. Slow. Down!

Sigh…

Our babies need those first nine months to ready themselves for the world. I suppose we parents need these last nine months to ready ourselves for a new chapter ahead. But, I wonder, how much better could the next chapter possibly be?

Hold my beer!

Waiting For Extraordinary

A lot happens in a year.  The mundane, daily routine of life snatches that realization from us.  The sun rises, the sun sets.  In between we muddle through the ordinary, waiting for the extraordinary and while we’re waiting, we miss it – we miss the reality of life happening.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned from this year long experiment, this is it.

I’ve chronicled so many moments, experiences and milestones over this past year.  Looking back at it all now, it seems that some of those moments happened a lifetime ago.

Was it just last spring when my youngest daughter made her communion?  Has it only been 4 months since my oldest daughter moved up to middle school?  

In a rare quiet moment with my oldest daughter tonight, I realized how grateful I was for having captured this moment in time with her.  This strange and awkward time…for both of us.  The growing up, the moving up, the looking up.  The new places, the new people… the new stuff.  There’s just so much stuff!

While the mundane, daily routine of life was happening, so too was all the stuff.  Looking back, it seems I was muddling through ordinary while something extraordinary was happening right under my nose.

I’m happy to have chronicled the extraordinary.

Strange, But Interesting

I had an interesting story brewing this evening.  A story whose sentiment was a tad bit odd, but interesting.  A story about saying out loud what sometimes stays buried in our hearts until it’s too late.  A story about saying what you need to say when you need to say it to the people who need to hear it.  It was the story of a living eulogy of sorts.

Like I said – strange, but interesting.

But then I was rudely interrupted by a little girl who lives in my house.  A little girl who is struggling – more and more each day it seems – to grow into a big girl.  A little girl that I alternately want to hug so tight out of pure love and squeeze so tight out of pure frustration.

This whole motherhood thing definitely falls into the category of strange, but interesting.

The story that was brewing earlier today will have to wait.  It will have to wait until I get to say what I need to say to the little girl I need to say it to and who definitely needs to hear it.  It will all just have to wait.  And tonight I will just be happy for the chance to sleep on it, because sometimes distance and perspective make everything a little bit better.

I’ve Run Out of Cunning Conversation Changers

Do you ever ignore what you know is coming next?  Just sort of pretend that the inevitable can be avoided?  Put it out of your mind?  Smile politely whenever someone mentions it and then cunningly change the subject?

Or is that just my thing?

I’ve been ignoring my youngest daughter for quite awhile now.  Not ignoring her completely, of course.  Just ignoring her affection for her after-school activity.  Ignoring her desire to continuously stand on her head and her passion for tumbling across the floor.  Ignoring her love of gymnastics.

Today I ran out of cunning conversation changers.

Today I reluctantly gave in to my daughter’s pleas for time alone with her coach;  time to begin perfecting her skills. Time to usher in the inevitable change that I’ve been trying to avoid.  Today I opened the floodgates that will undoubtedly transform this after-school activity into a big ol’ time suck.  Ooops.  I meant to say, transform this after-school activity into a healthy and disciplined approach to a sport that she loves. 

Ugh.

I do wish that I had come up with a couple more cunning conversation changers, but I must admit that I was unexpectedly delighted by the sight of my daughter this afternoon.  She was glowing – exuding pure happiness while working hard to get every move just right.  Don’t tell her, but it did make me just a tiny bit happy.

 

I Could Be Your Mother. Yep, That’s Right.

Earlier today I was sitting in a meeting with a woman named Susan.  Susan and I are around the same age.  Her children are a bit older than mine, but we are certainly generationally equivalent.  She was disappointed to learn that her counterpart, who she had been looking forward to meeting, cancelled out on the meeting at the last minute.

“Do you think I’ll ever get to meet her?” she asked.

“I hope so,” I started.  “She’s young and possibly a bit overcommitted.”

“How young?”  Susan asked.

“In her early twenties.”

“Oh!” Susan swung her head back dramatically.  “She’s not a woman.  She’s a girl!”

I laughed at her response.  It seemed a bit of an overreaction.  “She’s got great perspective,” I assured her.

“I could be her mother!”  Susan couldn’t seem to get beyond her age.

Again, I laughed believing she was overreacting just a tiny bit.  But she continued on.  “Really,” she was adamant now.  “I could literally be her mother….”  She rambled on for quite a bit but, with that last comment, I had already escaped to my own head and thoughts.  I was counting backwards, wondering if she could possibly be right.  Could Susan be her mother?  And, if so, did that mean that I could be her mother?

Oh dear.

I returned home with the realization that I was somehow old enough to be the mother of a 20 year old.  A 20 year old.  The thought lingered, taking up too much space in my brain.  Looking to drown my new-found sorrows, I turned my attention to (what else?) Facebook.  Something silly, ridiculous or hilarious had to be posted there.  Surely that would help to distract me from this stunning discovery.

That’s when I saw it.  A post from a childhood friend.  A childhood friend that I started kindergarten with and eventually graduated high school with.  I couldn’t believe what I was reading.  I rubbed my eyes and read it again.  ‘Happy 20th birthday to my son,’ it read.

Ouch.

I pouted for a bit after that, but then I remembered a conversation I had with my husband just the other night.  He watched me curl up under a blanket with my fleece pajamas and he laughed.  “You’re just happy to be getting old, aren’t you?”

I didn’t hesitate when shaking my head yes.  I do like getting older. I do like feeling comfortable and cozy in my own world – my own life.  I don’t want to be 20 again.

Oh good God, I definitely don’t want to be 20 again. 

As it turns out, I’m pretty happy being mature enough to be the mother of a 20 year old.  That must mean I’m entering the wise years.  Yep, that’s right.  The wise years.

**Happy, satisfied grin**

The Orderly, Systematic Approach

My youngest daughter has a….what shall we call it?  A meticulous way about her.  She prefers order, structure and uniformity in life and she is not shy about taking the initiative when it comes to creating that order, structure and uniformity.

She makes life interesting.

She’s always been this way.  As a toddler, she never took her favorite stuffed animal out of her crib because it wasn’t safe for a giraffe on the outside.  She didn’t play with her special toys because they might break or, worse, get lost.  Instead she would hide her toys in the depths of her dresser drawer, visiting with them on occasion – but only briefly and only when no one else was looking.

These days, her backpack has a designated space for her water bottle – and only her water bottle.  She does not, under any circumstances, take snacks to school in her lunch box.  Her lunch box is for lunch only.  And her favorite stuffed giraffe – still as immaculate as the day she got it – has yet to leave the confines of her sleeping area.

Oh, and there’s one other thing:  her ongoing obsessive maneuvering of these cars.

This enthusiastic approach to playing with Hot Wheels might be considered unusual by some, but it’s par for the course in our house.  This ordered line-up of cars can be found decorating the floor of our family room on any given day that has just a little bit of down-time in it.  Every car moves systematically through the line-up:  cars at the rear drive up the center lane searching for their rightful space in front.  Once properly parked, the next car at the rear of the line moves along in the same way.  It goes on and on.

There hasn’t been much down time in our house lately, but that all changed with the threat of a blizzard in the forecast.  With school out early and all activities canceled, my little one took to her orderly activity once again.  She started this systematic car parking game at 6pm this evening.

Is it weird that her orderly, systematic approach to car parking makes me happy?

Every Swimmer Has Her Day

Just like every dog has his day, so too does every swimmer.

Unfortunately, today was not our swimmer’s day.

After somehow convincing my parents, my sister and my brother-in-law to make the 2 hour trek to cheer her on, my daughter fell victim to her nerves while swimming in her first meet of 2015 this afternoon.  It was a rough one.  Her first event set the tone with an unfortunate disqualification – the collective groan that escaped her coaches and I could be heard ’round the deck.

Recovery was difficult after that.  I knew it would be.  My daughter’s greatest adversary is her own wild and unforgiving mind.  She began texting me from her classroom holding area, “I got disqualified.  I was really worried and I don’t know why.  Can you come down?”  Of course I ran to catch up with her, anticipating the flood of tears that awaited me when I found her sulking alone.  I had only a minute to talk her off the ledge – encourage her to refocus – before her coach swooped in and whisked her off to her next event.  It should have been an easy second event.  It should have been a great ego-booster, but it wasn’t.  Instead of shedding seconds off of her time, she added seconds to it.  Ugh.  She was struggling to shake off her nerves.

Fortunately (I suppose) today’s meet was a (really) long one, giving my daughter plenty of time to work through her nerves and settle her mind.  It was her third event that finally saw some of that nervous energy dissipate.  She managed to shave 12 seconds off of her stroke, giving her a personal best that she was not expecting. Still dripping, my daughter and her ear-to-ear grin scurried up into the bleachers to find us and share her excitement.

Big sigh of relief.

Her nerves finally in check and a solid swim to show for it, my daughter happily bid farewell to this day and to her adoring fans….and now I will happily do the same.  Goodnight.

The Porcelain God Worshiper

I’ve scrubbed my hands so many times today that I’m fairly certain I’m now missing fingerprints.

I spent the day with an 8 year old and her stomach bug.

It seems that my youngest daughter can catch the stomach flu from a symptomatic stranger who looks at her funny from 100 yards away.  She has had the stomach bug so many times in her short, little life that one might actually refer to her as a professional worshiper of the Porcelain God.  It’s so sad to standby and watch her go through this same awful routine every single time the bug begins to spread.  And yet sometimes I wonder.

Sometimes I wonder if this is my daughter’s ingenious (albeit painful) way of saying, “Slow down.  What’s the rush?  Where are you going?  Why are you in such a hurry?”  We are always on the go, always rushing from one place to the next, one activity to another.  Sometimes I forget that she’s eight.  Sometimes I forget that she likes her downtime.  Sometimes I forget that she really loves time to snuggle and sometimes I forget that she won’t always really love to snuggle.  Sometimes I think she sacrifices herself to ‘the bug’ so that I’ll stop and remember – remember that she’ll never again be as little as she is today.

Sometimes my little Porcelain God worshiper knows exactly how to stop me in my tracks so that I will remember.  I suppose that is the happy silver lining in the lysol-coated cloud.

Flashback Friday – It’s Only Funny Now

Funny Story.  Of course, like most funny stories, this one needed a bit of hindsight before it could officially be called a ‘funny story.’  With ten years behind me now, it is finally official.

My oldest daughter began walking and talking at a ridiculously young age.  I chalk that up to my dedication to my full time job as her mother.  At the time, I wasn’t just a mom.  I was a new mom – the new stay-at-home kind of mom.  I jumped right in to my new responsibilities, taking them quite seriously.  Possibly a little too seriously.

I was that crazy mom who began teaching her kid sign language when she was only 4 months old.  By the time my daughter was 9 months old, she was using sign language to tell us that she was hungry or thirsty or that she wanted more of something.  She could sign her own name and our names and most of the alphabet.  It was adorable really, but yes, I was a little crazy.

In our downtime, I thought it was important to begin strengthening my daughter’s little legs.  This was a purely selfish move on my part.  You see, I hated carrying around that 50 pound bucket of a car seat everywhere I went.  I couldn’t wait until she could walk on her own so that I could simply unhook her from her seat and watch her toddle out of the car.  She was finger walking by the time she was 9 months old and walking completely on her own by the time she was 10 months old.

Of course, being the new mom that I was, I hadn’t given much thought to what it might be like to live with a walking, talking 10 month old.

We moved to our new home shortly after my baby began walking.  In our new town, there were no baby sign language classes that I could find and so we spent most of our time strengthening those legs even more.  We walked to the playground and into town.  We walked around our neighborhood and in nearby strip malls too.  We walked, we walked and we walked some more.

I always took the stroller along on our outings, but discovering the freedom that her toddling legs gave her, my walking, talking toddler generally refused to sit in it.  Instead, she preferred to push it along herself.  She called it ‘helping’ and whenever she felt the urge to push her own stroller (which, of course, at 2 feet tall she couldn’t effectively do on her own) she would turn in my direction and say, “Help.”

Cute – right?

Well, it was cute until….  One day I decided to take a ride to a strip mall that I had been eager to explore.  As usual, my daughter hopped out of her car seat when we arrived and watched me unfurl her stroller.  She held the side of the stroller as we crossed the street and she alternated between toddling alongside and in front of me throughout our trip.  It was when I decided it was time to go home that things went terribly awry.

My daughter was smart enough to understand that if I couldn’t catch her we couldn’t leave.  She managed to cleverly slip away from me each time I had her in my grip.  Eventually, of course, I began to lose patience.  Recognizing this, my little angel made a last ditch effort to prolong our outing.  She looked up at me and pleaded “Help?”  Hoping that allowing her to ‘help’ push the stroller to the car would quietly allow us to exit without a scene, I agreed.  But she didn’t want to go to the car.  She wanted to go in any direction other than the car.

Having had more than enough, I picked my cherub up, tucking her under one arm in a football hold while pushing the stroller as fast as I could towards the car with my free hand.  As I murmured through clenched teeth, she began screaming “Help!”

Do you have this mental picture in your head?

She screamed so loud and I began moving so quickly that heads began to turn.  People in the parking lot began to question why this poor, sweet child was yelling ‘help’ while some manic woman swept her away from the store.  I made eye contact with only one person;  an older woman who stopped dead in her tracks to look at us.  I heard her quiet mutterings as she looked me over and only one thought popped into my mind – thank goodness she wears glasses.  She’ll never be able to catch my license plate from where she’s standing.

And with that, I miraculously tethered us both into the car and took off just as that eyeglass wearing old lady reached into her purse for her phone.  Phew.

In hindsight, maybe I should have let the authorities come.  Some alone time in lock-up likely would have been a welcome surprise.

The Nincompoops and the Snow Day

Remember when snow days felt like Christmas?  A free day to just play.  A day to bundle up in a pile of layers that made it difficult to walk, pull on plastic bags over your feet because there was no guarantee that hand-me-down snow boots were waterproof.  Remember neighborhood snowball fights and igloos made out of that plastic snow brick maker?  Remember being tossed out the door first thing in the morning only to return when you were absolutely starving?

Ahhh.  The good ol’ days.

These days, my kids are shellacked in waterproof clothes because anything less is unacceptable.  A cooler filled with snacks and water is a necessity simply to go outside and play – our pediatricians have warned us about those tiny, delicate stomachs and the high risk of dehydration.  And if our cherubs wish to wander farther than our front steps, a fully prepared-in-case-of-emergency adult is required to tag along.

Hmmmm.  Anyone else think it’s possible we’re raising a generation of incapable nincompoops?

I desperately tried to convince my kids that they should stay outside and play in the snow all day on Friday – our first official snow day of the season.  Early on, they seemed to appreciate my encouragement.  They bundled up, they went outside, they played….and then they came back inside 45 minutes later and have been causing non-stop havoc ever since.  Ho-hum. 

Tomorrow is Monday.  Sweet, beautiful, school-day Monday.  That makes me happy.  It better not be another snow day.