Because sometimes M.A.S.H. lies

In the middle of a deserted lot in Arizona you will find a massive heap of scrap metal. One particular metal scrap is about the size of my garage door. If a strip mall hasn't been built on top of it, that piece of metal would tell you that "S.P. hearts A.H. FOREVER."

It took S.P. about a week to carve his love proclamation to the world. To him, it was his way of assuring me that while most junior high relationships couldn't survive the duration of his 3 month grounding, ours could. It was the real deal. It was, as the scrap metal indicated, forever.

I haven't seen S.P. since 1993. In my defense, at 13, 2 weeks certainly does seem like forever. And if I had remained true to S.P. via handwritten, Malibu Musk-scented notes as he suggested, that would not have allowed me to begin "going out" with his best friend J.F.

This Thanksgiving I find myself more grateful then ever for all of the S.P.s and J.F.s I lived through. I am thankful for every ridiculous relationship, every missed opportunity, every misstep I have ever taken. Because of all of them, I have this:

 Because all of the whatifs in my life never materialized, I have them:

Because I've made a bunch of decisions I questioned at the time, I get to be their mother:

I know now that every turn I've ever taken has lead me to them:

And while Mrs. S.P. had a certain ring to it as I practiced it on the back of my Trapper Keeper, I think I'll take this forever any day.

Choose The Right

I would like to believe I know how to be a good mother to my daughters. I have an amazing mother as an example, and was raised around strong woman who mothered me like their own. I am also blessed to be surrounded by friends who are now mothers themselves, and incredible ones at that. I get what I should be doing. I understand what qualities I should be emulating. But often times, energy and a lack of patience get in the way. And I fail.

Many days that failure is catastrophic. Other days I teeter on good parenting, only to succumb to a random screaming rant. And then I lay in bed at night certain I have ruined my children. Confident I have over-parented, not hugged them enough or made the worst choices for them. Recently, that guilt has been consuming me.

Cora began attending the most incredible preschool when she was 3. Claire was not yet walking. Through the years, the women at that preschool have watched my children grow. They have not only provided an impressive learning base, but have also adored my girls more than one could hope. I knew when I dropped them off, they were surrounded by people who loved them like I love them. That is rare.

We began our 4th year there this September, Claire's last before kindergarten. Right before we began the year we got word that the owner has sold the preschool. I was upset, but had no qualms about Claire continuing her education there because the rest of her teachers remained the same, as did the curriculum. Or so I thought.

Fast forward two months. Last week the final hold out from her original teachers quit. The new owner informed me she did not believe in Montessori (you bought a Montessori preschool lady, come on!) and she also did not "get" my child. They had conflicting personalities she said and she was unsure how to teach her. And while I appreciated her honesty, I was a wreck.

Claire LOVES her preschool. She thrives there, her friends are there and it is her home, as it has been for 4 years. I did not want to uproot her. Plus, I spent weeks researching and touring preschools years ago and I was not impressed with the alternatives.

The new owner assured me that we could make it work. She was hiring teachers that would be able to relate to Claire. Claire was learning and excelling there. And she was right.

But remember that part about not "getting" my daughter? How do I continue to send her to a place where she is not understood. A place where she is not truly appreciated. And how does someone not love Claire? I had never encountered that. It is always just the opposite. "Claire just makes me happy." "You can't help but smile when you're around her." "Claire is just like bottled sunshine."

That is who Claire is. And I get she is also a pain in the butt. And difficult. And defiant. And naughty. I am her mother after all. I see all of that. But I have never come across anyone who saw only that. And I'm not sure what to make of it. I feel like whatever decision I make will be the wrong one. I already feel like I have failed her leaving her there, but I would feel worse ripping her from a place she loves.

I know children are resilient. Regardless of the choices I make, she will bounce back. But how many wrong choices can I make as her mother before they start having lasting affects. How many times can I screw her up and expect her to turn out okay in the end. And how on earth am I supposed to know how to make the right choices when this is all uncharted waters. I am running blind here. I can't fast forward to see what the clay will become after the years of molding I've done. How do you stop making mistakes you can't see the consequences of for years to come?

How do you become a good mother, when most days the hard truth is you don't even know how to be a mother at all?

Old McDonald had a Farm

It's been a wild week here at the Abercrombie house. I'm finally coming up for air. And just as things are settling down, Mark decides to go hunting. Boo.

The plan is to clean the house from top to bottom while he is gone. Or sit in a corner & shove Almond Joys in my mouth while trying to quiet the crinkling of the wrapper so my kids don't catch on. Could go either way.

So if you come to visit (please do, as I get lonely and I'm very needy) & I open the door dressed in my elastic-waisted pants, well then you'll know.

And before I sign off to slave away in the kitchen (I'm making a mean batch of Fruity Pebbles and milk. I'll send the recipe if you'd like), I would like to share a few random events.

One was a 5K charity race called The Farm Man Challenge I ran last Saturday through a local corn maze. It was below freezing. My legs were completely numb and I lost all feeling in my ears/cheeks/lips. But it was so. much. fun.


I was trying to color coordinate and match the hair color to the jacket. And the socks. We're bringing the 80s back.

Um, bootylicious?

We didn't win. We never do. That is never the point. But Evelyn (my running partner in crime) and I always finish. And that IS the point.

The next time I decide to wear shorts to a race when it is 30 degrees outside, please remind me that it took 4 hours to thaw out my legs. Thank you.

And the second thing that deserves mention is the conversation I overheard between Cora and Claire.

Cora: When we get a cat (as if) we have to make sure it doesn't have long nails.
  
Claire: The rule of cats is if they start to scratch you, you just have to throw them out the window & they'll stop.

I knew I raised her right.