My Calling

A few weeks ago I pulled up behind an obnoxious teenage driver who couldn't have been a day over 17. She had just cut me off and then slammed on her brakes to avoid running the red light in front of us. As I stopped behind her, I noticed her license plate cover: I'm dead sexy and your crap.

I was a bit taken aback. How does a teenager become the type of young woman that would find it acceptable to not only think that way, but also express it for all to see? My thoughts immediately turned to her mother. Was she aware her child was cruising the streets of Boise proclaiming her high and mightiness to the world? Was her mother disappointed, saddened? Or did her mother support that type of attitude; even purchase the license plate cover perhaps?

If my daughters grow up to be the type of teenagers who would share that opinion, display it even, I will feel like I have failed them. And not just because of the blatant grammatical error.

I'm crafting them. I'm shaping their future. I'm trying to guide them and I'm attempting to teach them and encourage them to be brave and confident and kind. I am fully aware of my role as their mother. And I am also aware that I will make mistakes in that role. So many mistakes.

The magnitude of that calling is great; overwhelming if I pause to think about it. So I don't pause to think about it. I just do it. The only way I know how. But I don't really know what I'm doing and I don't think any mother truly does. We can read every parenting book in the library and still not have a clue. So we just do the best we can.  But what if that is not enough? What if I try to teach them kindness and they become the class bully? What if I try to teach them honesty and they cheat their way through high school? What if I try to teach them humility and they walk this earth believing they are dead sexy and you are crap?

I recently read an article written by Susan Klebold, mother of Columbine shooter Dylan Klebold. The article was fascinating and terrifying. He was raised in a loving middle-class, two-parent home. And as much as the public wanted to believe that he was from a broken home, or that there was a history of abuse to explain away that tragedy, there was not. A quote from that article rocked me to the core:

"Those of us who cared for Dylan felt responsible for his death. We thought, 'If I had been a better (mother, father, brother, friend, aunt, uncle, cousin), I would have known this was coming.' We perceived his actions to be our failure. I tried to identify a pivotal event in his upbringing that could account for his anger. Had I been too strict? Not strict enough? Had I pushed too hard, or not hard enough? In the days before he died, I had hugged him and told him how much I loved him. I held his scratchy face between my palms and told him that he was a wonderful person and that I was proud of him. Had he felt pressured by this? Did he feel that he could not live up to my expectations?"

She was trying to do everything right as his mother. As right as she knew how. But it wasn't enough. I have many fears, but that is my greatest. What if it is not enough? What if I am not enough?

When I kiss those chubby cherub cheeks goodnight, I have visions of what they will become. I wonder about the friends they will make and the men they will marry and the careers they will choose. Motherhood is a blessing and a burden. A responsibility so great I'm not sure any woman is ever fully prepared for it. And for some reason, that responsibility is weighing heavily on me today. I cannot fail them.

The Salesman, the Sidekicks &CPS

I'm a good parent. Except when I'm not. And I feed my children only the healthiest food. Except when I don't. And that is my disclaimer before beginning this story.

We had two neighbor girls over this afternoon to play. For hours we heard little squeals of delight as a houseful of girls created colorful signs pleading with passersby (all 5 of them on our private street) to wash their cars (in the howling wind) at the car wash they were crafting in their minds. They had a plan. A decent business proposal that never came to fruition. But those signs were superb. Enticing. I would have allowed them to wash my car in the pouring rain.

But when the novelty of their car wash wore off, the little entrepreneurs wasted no time hatching their next business venture. They found the stash of fruit roll-ups I had "hiding" in the pantry & asked if they could make a fruit roll-up selling business. Not quite sure what that meant, but eager to find out, I agreed. Off they went to make bigger and better signs for their bigger and better business. And off I went to make dinner, assuming the planning of their new business would take equally as long as their last.

I got lost in the smell of fresh baked bread, and 15 minutes had passed before I realized the house was entirely too quiet to be housing four giddy girls. I checked all of the usual hideouts. All of the go-to neighbors. All of the outside hot spots. They had vanished. And they had vanished with a hefty supply of fruit roll-ups.

All I had to do was follow the trail of wrappers (a salesman does work up quite an appetite while on the road). But by the time I caught up with them, they had hit up half the houses in our neighborhood. And while I was not worried about the fact that they were going door-to-door (we know all of our neighbors in our small little neighborhood smack dab in the middle of nowhere), I was worried that they had walked over half a mile before I even realized they were gone.

Things learned today:

1. After years of fearing it would happen, I have become THAT mom.

2. My children know how to smile their way into our neighbor's pockets—after they had divided up their earnings like proper businessmen, they raked in $2.25ish per kid!

3. I can no longer look my neighbors in the eye.

4. If I ever do get up the courage to leave my house again, I might have trouble explaining why 4 children under the age of 7 were left alone, somewhat barefoot (Cora), somewhat dirty (Claire) and entirely too far from home (all of them).

5. If you have any desire to send your kids on over (while I will stuff them full of high fructose, hydrogenated crap while they are here, they just may leave richer than they came!), I have a sneaking suspicion that my play date calendar was just wiped clean.

Now I need you to tell me all about the time you lost your 4 year old in a crowded mall so I can feel better about myself. What's that you say? You never lost your 4 year old in a crowded mall because you actually keep track of where your children are? Well then lie about it. I need you to suck right now, okay?

Happy 200

On December 6, 2007 I entered the world of blogging. Since that day, I have plopped myself down in front of my computer two hundred times & pounded my life onto this blog. During the span of time those 200 posts cover, our family has experienced a few changes. My daughters (and my hips) have grown, and we have tackled each new stage of their lives with wonder and amusement. We have seen loved ones watch in awe as tiny bundles take first breaths, and have clutched hands and watched helplessly as others take their last. We have surrounded ourselves with a solid base of friends that help erase the miles separating us from faraway family. We have changed cars, changed hair-dos, changed from sweaters to flip flops and back again. And life has gone on, undeterred.

But today I went back and reread my first post. I realized that while much has changed, nothing has changed. New day, same wild ride.

I have included my 1st post below. And while I no longer idolize or even watch Oprah, I hope that if she ever read my life story condensed into 200 occasionally coherent posts she would know what I know now. This life I'm living. My life as I know it IS in fact the American dream. My version might involve Pizza Hut on speed dial and toddler pee on hardwood floors and mind-numbing hours spent holed up with small children playing Go Fish for the 8th time in a row and half-shaved legs and an endless cycle of wash, rinse and repeat. But it's worth it. Every. Single. Day. And I hope if you have ever peeked in on us (me) and caught a glimpse of any one of those 200 posts, you read that between the lines.

Now here in all its glory, my first post:

Not Quite Mother of the Year Material

I love Oprah. You can mock me, judge me, think less of me. I don’t care. I watch her religiously, and she is all about empowering women. All women are beautiful. All women are strong. All mothers are amazing. So yesterday, as I sat sobbing on the bathroom floor, I was wondering what Oprah would think of me now. Here is what transpired:

I had been up really late working the night before (I work from home and so bedtime for the girls means work time for me). Then my girls, in an apparent race to beat the rooster, are up before dawn. And although I am half asleep, I whip up a mean batch of pancakes and eggs, feed both girls, bathe both girls and dress both girls all before 8am. I am on a roll. I leave my 10 month old, Claire, in her highchair with a sippy cup, plop my 3 year old, Cora, at the table with a box of crayons and a coloring book, and race to take a 5 minute shower.

I emerge, wrapped in a towel with hair still dripping, to see how much damage has been done (if you know Cora, you know there will be damage). Crayons all over the floor, not bad. Half the contents of our game closet emptied out, manageable. An entire cup of yogurt spread evenly on both girls after a failed attempt on Cora’s part to feed her younger sister; although it is nothing new, I’m officially annoyed.

Still in my towel, I drag both girls back to the bath tub. I get Claire cleaned off, minus the yogurt that has found a permanent home inside her ear, and dressed, again. I take her to the playroom hoping to buy enough time to retrieve Cora.

In the time it takes me to pluck Cora from the bath, wrap her in a towel and set her on the couch, Claire has managed to find the only black, permanent marker in the entire house not under lock and key. Like everything she gets her hands on, she eats it. Her lips are black, her teeth are black, her tongue is black. Off to the bathroom we go. Claire is wailing, I am scrubbing; neither one of us getting results.

The doorbell rings. The mail lady would just like me to know that there is a naked little blond girl on a Princess bike pedaling her heart out down the street. She has contained her laughter until Claire flashes her a black, toothy grin. She is laughing so hard she is almost in tears as she offers to hold Claire while I throw some clothes on.

Five minutes later and order is almost fully restored. And by almost, I mean it is not. Cora is screeching and flailing her legs as I try to dress her and comb her hair. I am in systematic mode now. Shirt. Check. Shorts. Check. Hair brushed. Check. Claire. Crap. She has escaped. I find her giggling in the bathroom as she splashes toilet water all over herself and the bathroom floor. I grab the mop and attempt to balance Claire while I mop up the mess.

Suddenly Cora changes personalities and decides to be mommy’s little helper. I welcome the change and hand over the mop.

Returning to the bathroom, Claire now in her 3rd outfit of the day, we find Cora dipping the mop in the toilet and proceeding to “clean” the entire bathroom. She is wading in an inch of toilet water, wiping down the now soggy toilet paper, the towels, the decorative candles. The trash can has tipped over and old diapers, pads and toilet paper rolls begin using their last absorbing abilities to aid in soaking up the flood.

I exit the bathroom, place Claire in her crib, wash Cora’s feet off and set her in front of the free babysitting service Nickelodeon provides. Then I retreat to the bathroom, empty the trash, bleach the floors, change the towels and the toilet paper rolls, and collapse, sobbing in the corner. I no longer believe a word that comes out of Oprah’s mouth. I am not strong. I am not amazing. I am not in charge. I am exhausted, mentally drained and near a breaking point. Good thing is, I get to get up and do it all again tomorrow. A second chance to perfect the chaos. Um, yippee.

We Are The Champions: Take 2

"I don't like soccer anymore," Cora declared as she cartwheeled down the field.

Said the soccer mom next to me, "I hear moms tell their kids to run fast or stick with the ball, but you might be the only person I have ever heard forbid your daughter from doing gymnastics on the field."

A few minutes into the game (which they won), we noticed Cora would sprint to the goal every time their team was playing defense and immediately act as goalie. She made a lot of great stops and fought hard to defend their goal. And at half-time she declared she was in fact the team goalie. Which would be fine if 5-year-olds played with goalies. Which they don't. It's 4-on-4 and they deliberately do not use goalies. Try telling that to my little defender.

She is a cartwheeling goalie who will occasionally throw in a handstand when the rest of her team is rushing down the field in a drive to the goal.

Yelled by Cora to the entire crowd after once again being asked not to cartwheel on the field, "I have no control. It just happens."

Said the soccer mom next to me, "I'm not really sure when we should cheer. When they score a goal or when your daughter lands a round-off."

Gymnastics: 1
Bank account: 0

A little bit crazy

You might need a bit of background to fully understand the following conversation that took place between Cora and Claire.

1. We just read a book last night that contained a few pages about a wax museum.

2. I mentioned yesterday morning that we needed to remember to clean out their ears after their next bath.

3. Claire believes that ear WAX is really ear WACK. And yes, it's funny every time she says it.


Claire: Cora I'm gonna take your ear wack and make a little car and when I'm 15 I'm gonna drive it away.

Cora: You can't drive, Claire. Mom and dad aren't even gonna let you drive when you are 15!

Claire: I can be driving a car when I'm 15. Why not?

Cora: Because you're crazy.

She just might have a point, but could you ever imagine this little thing turning crazy?

Driving a customized ear wack car or not, 15 will come too soon!