Old Man Winter

The Man turns 41 this weekend.
And, true to form, I must celebrate in true wifely fashion.
No, I do not mean sexy negligees and sexual favors. That would require me to do something involving effort.
Nope, I will put pen to paper and celebrate in a more cerebral fashion.
The Man says 41 is much harder for him to accept than 40, so I'm gonna try to help him along.
The Man has much more hair than he used to. Unfortunately, it's not on his head. But what is on his head is turning a very distinguished gray. As it heads south for the winter.
The Man has great stamina. He naps for the longest time, at the drop of a hat. His narcoleptic tendencies are a running joke between us now.
He has a memory like you wouldn't believe. Meaning he forgets what he was supposed to remember as soon as he's told it.
He is a clean fanatic. His OCD tendencies are becoming firmly ingrained, so that, when we are old and gray, I won't have to do any cleaning, because, aside from naps and bathroom breaks, he will do nothing else.
The Man is aging into a terrific father. He's settling into his role with grace and style (and a touch of child induced deafness) and our children are the better for it.
And he might turn into an acceptable husband in time. Might. He's aging well, like a moldy cheese, and, I'm hoping, as he molds more each year, I continue to like that brand of cheese. If I start craving a sharp, young cheddar, there might be problems.
The Man thinks 41 is old. Well, honey, it is. But I think you've still got a few good years left before we start buying Depends and Geritol.
We'll save that for next year.
Happy birthday, honey!
Smooches!
(And watch me run away now!)

Memories

I didn't really want a daughter.
Don't get me wrong, I love my baby girl.
After two boys, a girl was a strange and frightening thing.
She still is, but I like the strange and frightening quality of my daughter.
But I've discovered another joy of having a daughter.
I can buy her the toys I had as a child that have come back in style.
Cabbage Patch Kids. Check. One will be under the tree.
My Little Pony. Check. Got two of those.
I haven't been able to find Strawberry Shortcake, but she has a birthday this month, so I'm hoping an aunt will take pity on me . . .er, her . . .and buy her one.
Having a daughter is my own personal accepted way to jog down memory lane and relive my childhood.
She can ask for the toys. I can play with them.
Seems fair.
Heaven help her if she wants something I can't play with and don't have fond memories of.
I don't think she'd be getting it!

It's a bird! It's a plane!

No, it's my child running away!
Bug has developed a new twist on his already twisted and convoluted behavior.
He wants to run away.
To New York.
To school.
To anywhere but here.
And I'm not allowed to go, but The Man is.
I want to go to New York, damn it!
I don't know what the deal is, what the allure is, because we simply key lock the doors and put away the keys when he gets in this mood.
No one escapes from mommy.
And he'll tell us it's not because he's unhappy (unless he's mad--then we are all unhappy!). He just wants to run away.
End of discussion.
His logic is childish and irrefutable.
And we're stumped.
If my baby is packing his bags, it makes me wonder . . .
If home is where the heart is, why does my oldest child ream of Broadway stages and escape?

Bribery and the bad parent

Does bribing my oldest to have a good day at school make me a bad parent?
I weigh the moral pros and cons.
Am I teaching him to expect rewards for behavior he should do as a matter of course?
Am I setting him up to expect rewards for every little thing?
Am I just trying to help him and his teachers have good days at school, without screaming, fighting, and battles?
Am I reading too much into it?
I'm not exactly buying him a pony for these bribes.
I'm using an advent calender and the thrill of surprise and chocolate as a reward.
Bug loves to open the door and see what is hidden there, and last week, he had four out of five great days as a result.
But am I teaching him to associate food with joy?
As I spin in circles, catching myself coming and going with every parenting conundrum, I wonder--how badly am I screwing this child up?
And then I head straight for my chocolate.

another year older

And not a damned bit wiser am I!
Seriously!
What did I learn this last year?
How to coupon my ass off to feed my family.
How to juggle bills so we have food, electricity, a home.
Patience? (That one earned a big old guffaw)
What have I learned this year that has value?
I have learned that my love of my children has no limits and that I am willing to move heaven and earth to help a five year old acclimate to school.
I have learned that I would cry when my three year old stopped sucking his thumb and suddenly became a big boy.
I have learned that a two year old can win an argument against me more times than i care to admit.
I have learned that, despite days where I want to walk away, walking away isn't an option.
They just follow me.
Asking for milk and telling me they are tired and that their brother is touching them.
Have I done anything worthwhile with another year of my life?
Not really.
I have survived, like the Gloria Gaynor song.
And this year, that was enough.
So pour me a birthday margarita and come sing drunkenly with me.
Because, this year, that is enough.

Forgetting

My mother called to talk with me tonight and reminded me of something I'd forgotten.
My birthday next weekend
Seriously. Didn't even register.
I loathe my birthday. who wants to watch the years going by and celebrate that? Who wants to count the days of my mortality? ticking off the days until the end of my time?
As a mom, I spend much of my time worrying about my kids birthdays and holidays to worry about my own.
For example, Punk turns two after Yule, and with the holiday and birthday and normal everyday stresses, I don't think of much else.
Let alone my birthday.
Which seems to surprise everyone.
I often wonder if this forgetting is a protective measure, a sign that I am far too busy, or a sign that I have lost a part of myself to the monster called motherhood.
I suspect its an amalgamation of all three, but still.
It's always puzzling that I forget my birthday, that it sneaks up on me every year unexpectedly.
It's not like its not the exact same date every blasted year after ll.
It isn't like one of those Whack-a-Mole games. I know when it's going to rear it's ugly head.
But every year, it's a surprise.
Maybe the surprise is that I am really another year older.
And not so very much wiser most days.

Today will be three years

Since my dear daddy passed away.
It's hard to believe.
Most days I still expect to see him walk through the door.
Or see him pat my mom's butt when she walks by.
Or watch him watching my kids.
When we are together as family, if I close my eyes, I can almost hear him chuckling.
I can almost feel his hand on my hair.
Or see him touch my babies as they run by.
Almost.
The hurt never stops. The missing never eases.
Every day, I wish he could just hold my kids. That my baby girl could have crawled into his lap and found the same comfort and safety there that I did.
That my boys could have run to him to tell them about their boyish adventures.
That I could hear the yell Peepaw and see his face light up with a bemused smile.
That I could say Daddy and have him call me Punk in that exasperated tone of voice one more time.
Tomorrow, I will hold my babies close and tell them about their PeePaw in the stars. The one who watches over them every day. The one who loved them so much.
Three years watching my children grow passes in a instant. Three years without my daddy is a lifetime.