Reflections

As the school year draws to a close and my kindergartener becomes a first grader, while my preschooler looks forwrad to kindergarten, I have a moment to reflect.
(I'm hiding in the bathroom so I can have five minutes of peace and quiet. If you count peace and quiet as my children banging on the door and asking what I'm doing in here.)
It's been a good year, a bumpy year, a year of highs and lows and lessons learned that I thought you might like to share with me.

1. Alvin and the Chipmunks 2: The Squeakwell is EVIL. Alvin's no gonads voice will insinuate itself into your child's head and make him give an unsuspecting girl a wedgie. And then tell his teacher Alvin told him to do it.

2. Preschool girls are way too advanced and pre pubescent boy crazy for me to allow my child to attend that school any longer. Yes, I know Boo is hot, but he's five and has medical school in his future, you shameless hussy.

3. Boys on sports teams will try anything to stop a runner from reaching base, including but not limited to: pushing, tripping, and blocking.

4. Said boys on sports teams will trash talk any foe who comes near them.

5. Teachers who love your child will delight in sharing his embarrassing moments with other teachers, including the next years teacher and telling them "Look what you'll have in your class next year."

6. Kindergarteners can get detention. At least twelve times in the school year. Maybe more, but twelve was our capstone. Just one detention shy of a baker's dozen. And you will be embarrassed each time you have to send back the signed form.

These are just a few of my academic lessons this year, taught to me by my children, who have enjoyed schooling me more than I would like to admit.

I'm upping my meds in prepation for next year.

Mamas

I have a pretty good mama.
She's a pain in my tail some days, (smooch!) but I know if I needed something, she would drop everything to get it done.
I know she loves me and my kids with a passion that defies all logic. I'm pretty sure she's kind of fond of The Man, too.
She's one of those moms, not June Cleaver, not Roseanne, but a meet in the middle, real mom who made sure we always had what we needed and a good portion of what we wanted.
She's a pretty good role model for motherhood.
I, on the other hand, fall into the Roseanne spectrum.
Despite my good upbrining, I'm loud and crass and sarcastic.
I threaten to hang my kids out of the window by their toes in a move reminiscent of Michael Jackson and Blanket.
According to my children, I work their fingers to the bone and never let them rest or play.
I make them eat their veggies because I want them to get sick.
I make them go to bed at night because I don't want them to be happy.
I dress them warmly because I'm cold.
Basically motherhood is all about me.
But anyone who knows me knows there is no surprise there.
I am no Mother Theresa.
I do have wire coat hangers, although I have never had the opportunity to chase my children around the house shrieking that fact.
As Mother's Day approaches, I find myself reflecting on mothering styles.
There is the selfless, self sacrificing mother. I personally think her kids will never leave the nest and she'll be supporting them until she's dead and buried, but that's just me.
There's the militant mom. Watch out for a child with access to an arsenal.
There's the fluffy, sweet mom. Let's just say road kill.
And then there's mom's like me. Kind of a mix. I'm Nurse Cratchette when they are sick, determined to will them better (Or scare them well, either way it works). I'm a cheerleader (who wants to steroid test and see birth certificates for the opposing team! No six year old is that good at baseball AND that big, damn it!) And I'm the mama whose pushing her kids out of the nest with trembling hands and thre realization that once they are out, they won't come back.
Am I a great mom? Nope. I freely admit that.
And I a good mama? Some days. Not on the three days weekend alone with my kids.
Am I a devoted mom? Hell yes.
Am I a loving mom? Gods yes.
Amd I a mom? With every fiber of my being, yes.
Happy mother days to all moms, mine included, whose styles might be different, whose kids may be shopping around for a nursing home, but whose hearts are full of love and laughter.

The power of words

I love words--written words, spoken words, words are the love of my life.
I revel in the way they feel on my tongue, the way they express my thoughts and feelings, the way people react to them.
I even love the word . . .word. To your mother.
I don't think about my words too carefully before they fall out of my mouth, either landing with a splat at my feet or soaring to the heavens on a particularly brilliant day. And, yes, I do have those days.
For example, comparing an epiphany to a flaming orgasm last week had my coworkers busting their proverbial guts in laughter.
(I'm waiting on the sexual harassment complaint to arrive later this week, BTW.)
Or discussing with my brother and sister in law that I enjoy low fat salami in front of my mother.
(She was so proud of that college education at that moment.)
Anyhow . . .
I find myself lately facing a quandary. While I love words, I find that when thinking about writing them, the words spiraling my in mind become log jammed somewhere between my mind, my mouth, and my fingers and nothing spews forth.
My Old Faithful has become an Old Fizzle.
And while I realized that, in my old age, I might be good for fewer and fewer literary epiphanies, I didn't think it would happen in my thirties.
So my love affair with words is becoming distinctly one sided as, for the moment, I find that they don't love me back.
I am hoping to jump start our relationship once more, to renew it over a weekend of faithful contact, of devoted attention, of loving caresses.
I'm hoping to remind my words what they'll be missing if they stray.
And what is that exactly?
A woman who loves them passionately, blindly.
A woman whose verbal filters are mostly switched off and who will say almost anything without hesitation and without liquid libations assistance.
A woman who, when she dies, hope the afterlife is a enormous library with comfy reading chairs and hot tea at all times.
I am a word slut.
Come and take me baby!

Changes

The Man started a new job this week.
That new job has him home nights, but every other weekend I'm a single parent.
So we're adjusting.
Sort of.
Okay, badly.
Don't get me wrong. I can handle my kids. But since I'm not the fun parent--and my boys will tell you that in a minute--we're all having to adjust to a new way of life.
My children love to be outside. I hate it. Between the sunburn and the dust allergy, I'm miserable.
But I did it yesterday. Until I broke The Man's tractor and decided I was done with Green Acres.
I love quiet afternoons that include naps or at least curling up with a book.
None of that happening here.
I like Wii work outs in solitude.
My audience just wouldn't leave, but they were great cheerleaders.
I love kid kisses, but not the fights and "he's touching me" or "he looked at my apple" that I've been dealing with. (Punk threw an apple at Bug's head for daring just such an offense. Girl has an arm on her!)
I like freshly folded laundry and toys in their bins and chaos at a minimum.
I very rarely get what I like.
And, yes, it is all about me in this house. I like it that way.
So I made a deal. You want something, you're gonna do what I want, with a good attitude.
And it seems to be working.
Okay, it's akin to bribery, but I'm a desperate woman hovering over a fresh made batch of white chocolate macadamia nut cookies and I'm about to jump, damn it.
There are times when its all about survival, baby.
While I am most definitely not a shy, retiring wall flower, I talk to people all day, every day. Most not by choice.
Don't get me wrong. I adore my friends and family and I love a good chat, but on weekends, I could care less if I say two words to anyone.
Weekends are my time to stoop an decompress and regroup before I climb on a building and start shooting people.
Really. If you know me at all, you know how easily that could happen.
But every other weekend I have to step up, parent solo, and pray to the gods that The Man's day ends quickly.
My heathens and I all have our faces pressed to the glass waiting on him.
Because, while my idea of fun is not running outside barefoot, it is the quiet that comes when he takes the heathens outside to run amok and I can close the door and finally breathe.
Sometimes, I even unlock the door and let them come back in.
Sometimes.

Chasing the wind

Growing up, I was always told I could be anything I wanted to be.
And I believed it.
I still do.
I still believe it so much I tell my heathens that they can be the president or a doctor or whatever, they just have to find their star and reach for it.
A child needs that damned star, after all.
But, as an adult, while I still know I could be most things I want to be, some things will continue to elude me. I'm pretty sure I'll never be a fashion model or a size two. NASA isn't going to come calling for a new idea on the space shuttles. And I'm probably never going to win a Nobel Prize.
I know now that there is still a star out for me. It's patiently waiting for me. And I know that, while reaching for that star, I got distracted by some lovely leaves blowing in the wind and decided to chase them instead.
Dreams change. I use to dream of publishing books, being rich, and having it all.
Now I dream of happy, healthy kids, writing for pleasure, and having enough.
While I once dreamed of overwhelming happiness, I now find myself happy with being content. Because I know who I am, and she's not the girl I once was, but she's one tough mama whose mostly got her priorities straight.
The other dreams are there, but they know they simply can't shine as bright as my new dreams.
My new dreams are not for myself, but for my babies. My new dreams involve making sure they have what they need and some of what they want. That they know they were wanted, loved, and the best gifts with purchase I could have ever asked or.
I still dream big. And I'm still reaching. But I'm reaching with my arms full of my babies, trying to get them just a few inches closer to their stars.
I love my leaves, so bright and beautiful. And I wouldn't give up chasing them for all the stars in the sky.

Love letter to my five year old on the anniversary of his birth

I am in love with a blue eyed boy.
And The Man knows about it.
Even better, he's okay with it.
And he understands completely that I will toss his butt over in a heart beat for this boy.
My beautiful blue eyes Buddha baby.
Who is turning five tomorrow.
It is so hard to believe every birthday that my babies are aging, are growing, are becoming the people that will one day drive me to the nursing home and kick me to the curb.
Buddha is my sandwich child. Literally. He's the middle child, wedged between the baby girl and the oldest boy.
And he's very fond of sandwiches, so both analogies fit perfectly.
In fact, Boo loves any food as long as its given to him frequently.
This year I've taken to calling him a Hobbit due to his voracious appetite. He hits the floor hungry, and wants not only breakfast, but second breakfast, brunch, lunch, midday snack, late afternoon snack, dinner, after dinner snack, and we've caught him in the kitchen in the middle of the night on a bender.
If his toes sprout fur, I'll know I was given a changeling at birth.
Not that I'd give him back.
Once you're mine, you're mine. Just try to escape.
And Buddha B is definitely mine from the top of his fat little head to the toes that I'm anxiously observing.
He is the child who makes me laugh with silly dances and odd expressions.
He is the child I have to chase for a hug and a kiss.
He is 1/3 of my heart, walking outside of my body.
I chuckle at his raspy voice yelling, "Look what I can do!" as he flops on the floor in some bizarre pantamine.
I smile when, every night, far earlier than his siblings, he curls up and goes to sleep with the chickens.
And I curse that early to bed motto every morning when he follows it with early to rise.
He is a soother when his brother simply cannot cope and the protector when his sister might need one. He is a balm to my soul on the hard days.
He is not my most affectionate child and he doesn't routinely stun me with bizarre facts he's learned from Gods knows where, but he is the child who pacifies, who calms, who reminds us that there is joy in life and there is always something to laugh about.
He is perfect in his own way.
Boyishly sweet.
Impossibly bright.
Charming like Clark Gable at his finest.
And he's stopped running like Charlie Chaplin on crack.
He is the filling in my family's oreo cookie--my favorite part.
Happy birthday, Buddha my love. May your day be bright and brilliant, just like you.

Happiness is . . . .

Having your husband go off to work while you are still laying in bed.

Stretching out an putting your feet on the empty while watching a chick flick on TV.

The heathens waking up in their own time, happy and sleep smiling.

Breakfast with no battles.

A cup of hot vanilla laced coffee with froth.

Cold weather an a warm house.

Fuzzy slipper socks.

A curly headed girl that lets me brush her hair with no complaints.

A smiling dog that howls when The Man sings.

The sounds of bare piggies and friendly words filling the house.

Candles that smell like flowers.

A quiet start to A Sunday morning and the peace we find there before the craziness of Monday brings it all back around to reality.