True Love

“True love means never having to explain what you’re scratching while you’re asleep,” John stated as we lazed in some post-Christmas exhaustion the other night.  (We have our deepest conversations just as we’re about to pass out.)  His statement made me begin to wonder what other “true love-isms” we’ve established during our marriage. It’s these little love nuggets I’ve taken for granted during my married life.   I really hope that we never have to reenter the dating scene, because I’m pretty sure we’ve ruined each other for other people. 

We do have some pretty steadfast “–isms” in our marriage.  I’m not certain if any of them are normal, but if we’re judged by our offspring, I’m pretty sure they aren’t.  I may not be Jesus, but I have my own list of marital beatitudes. 

·      True love means it’s okay to fart instead of speaking a good morning greeting. 


Certainly, that must have taken a few years to establish.  I know it sounds pretty primitive, but it’s like I recently explained to Stancey when she expressed some concern that she might fart a bit while she’s sleeping,  “It really isn’t that gross.  In fact, for your dad and I, it’s kind of like a mating ritual.” 

The look on her face said it all.

·      True love means it’s okay to leave hair on the bar soap.  


Okay, maybe it’s not okay, but since John is kind enough to tolerate the three-inch hairs I seem to constantly neglect on the backside of my knees, I can’t really say much about the chest hair he leaves behind on my soap.

·      True love means even the best conversations can occur when someone is on the toilet. 


In our one-bathroom house, I’ve talked freely to John (and Mayle, Stancey, Madison, Samuel, Kenneth, AND even Max) all while otherwise engaged . . . as has John.  Most conversations have occurred through a closed door, but on the weekends, any given person can be on the job while someone else is showering. 

·      True love means I can pick my nose—all the way up to my second knuckle if I want to. 


And the same goes for flossing my teeth, adjusting my under garments, and checking the effectiveness of my deodorant. 

·      True love means I can tolerate the bathroom, kitchen, and dining room remodel John started a decade ago, but hasn’t gotten around to finishing.


. . . as well as the open hole in the kitchen ceiling below my leaky tub, the stagnant water feature in the side yard, and the lack of trim in almost everyone first floor room.

·      True love means that John can pretend that I’m almost as svelte as I was, say, four kids ago. 


And as long as he stays at least 20 pounds heavier than me, we have no problem. 

·      True love means we can share each other’s toothbrush from time to time. 


Sometimes it’s out of sheer oral hygiene necessity.  Having walked in on Max dipping mine in the toilet, flexibility is a must.  And as often as the other kids brush, John’s toothbrush is the safest wager.

I really do cherish that I’ve found someone with whom I can share all these every day commonalities.  Do I worry we’ve let ourselves go?  No, because I know we have.  Do I want to know why he’s scratching his butt cheek with such fervor in the middle of the night?  Not particularly.

And in case you’re interested, he’s all mine.

A White Trash Christmas Letter

Dear Friends,

2011 has been a lucky year for us.  For the first time in over a decade, we can afford to buy postage stamps.  If Obama is the angel of joblessness, then I’m glad he has decided to pass over our house.  Thankfully John and I are continuing to make just enough to keep us slightly above poverty level.  For now, the only form of assistance we receive is a modest daycare scholarship for Max. Now instead of $500 a month for three full days, we now only pay $400. I guess you could say we’re living the lower, middle-class dream.

Speaking of daycare, Max started attending this past September.  So far, it’s been a mixed bag.  It’s really nice having him destroy a foreign environment as opposed to hiring someone to come in destroy mine.  The tradeoff has been a never-ending series of colds since September. The latest version won him an overnight stay at Fairview Hospital. 

As socially stimulating as daycare has been for him, his verbal skills are still lagging.  His classmates don’t know what to make of his grunts, but they sure know how to get out of his way when he brings out his hitting hands.  When his teachers asked me how we disciplined him at home, I said with a wink, “We hit him back.”  I had a lot of education classes in college—I’m no dummy.

Kenny started kindergarten this fall, and much to my relief, he seems to really like it.  Helping the situation, I’m sure, is his pretty kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Freda. So far she hasn’t seemed to mind his blatant refusal to wear underwear.  Also working to our advantage is his newfound classroom shyness.  Yes, we’ve really lucked out.

Earlier this November, Sam shot his first doe and we now are the proud owners of a freezer full of venison.  At least it’s not opossum or squirrel.  So far he says his favorite meal is spaghetti and deer balls. 

Madison, now a freshman, has quite the impressive Christmas wish list this year.  Most of all, he wants a stab resistant vest.  High school must be rough these days.  Though I still don’t know what he wants with the gas mask and a radiation jumpsuit that John and I managed to find for him, I must draw the line with the vest. 

Stancey recently turned sweet sixteen.  She’s itching to get her driver’s license, providing she can eventually pass the pesky temps test.  To her defense, why does she need to know the various penalties for driving under the influence?  Isn’t it enough that she’s aware not to do it?

Finally, Mayle has temporarily moved back home to live in the basement.  This time she brought along her boyfriend Wes and her cat Grilled Cheese.  While it’s nice having all my chicks back under my ever-expanding wing, I do have somewhat of an issue with the cat.  He likes to poop under Madison’s bed.  My house has this complex mingling of scents:  Christmas tree pine, Scentsy cinnamon and cloves, and a slight undertone of cat feces.

Yes, friends, life is indeed good.  If 2012 follows in much the same way, I’ll have plenty of material to write about.  Please feel free to drop by our humble home and partake in holiday cheer.  Max will leave a chocolate on the toilet seat for you, and now that the kids are on winter break, they’ll always be someone awake to greet you.  Sam can even set aside a plate of deer balls. Just keep in mind we're now a family of nine with only one bathroom.

We'll leave the light on.

O Christmas Tree

Over the weekend, most of the family embarked on our annual quest to bring home the perfect Christmas tree.  Our trek was a smidgen Currier and Ives, a modicum of Norman Rockwell, but undoubtedly a generous better of Gary Larson’s Far Side.  Our Christmas tree pick off is definitely a tradition we’ve maintained; even when it might have been in our better interest to leave it be.

Our first Christmas together, John and I picked our tree from a traditional tree lot.  In the moonlight, it was glorious.  In the middle of our apartment, it radiated the most beautiful shade of Rust-oleum Meadow Green.  What made that particular tree even more special was the brand new angel that napped in her bassinet next to it a few short weeks later —Stancey Alise.

As the years progressed, our traditions became more complex. John evolved from a simple tree purchaser to a skilled tree lumberjack. And our kids, once easy to please, also evolved into the most scrutinous of tree connoisseurs. 

Ultimately, they have no say, but for fun, we let them think they do. 

The pinnacle of Christmas tree searches was the year I cut down the tree without John. Why it hadn’t occurred to me to just buy a damn tree still troubles me.  Broke and desperate (much like the majority of our Christmases), I frantically tried to arrange the most meager of holidays while John was working construction in Florida.  As the kids and I walked the field, I carried a toddler-sized Kenny on my hip and wielded a rusty saw in my free mittened hand. As we tripped over frozen patches of mud and dead tree stumps, the kids argued incessantly and my fingers twitched on my most hopeless of weapons. 

Within minutes, I casted an executive decisions and picked the ouchiest of trees. I precariously flung it to the van roof and secured it equally well.  As I sat in the driver's seat, I turned and glared intently at each one of them. 

“I hate you, and you, and you, and you!”

“I don’t think you’re allowed to say that,” Sam had whispered back.   

“Tell that to your therapist.” 

That Christmas we really could have benefitted from a spray-painted spruce. Sure it may have smelled a little funky, but after the little ones shove used-up toilet paper tubes and empty juice boxes into the branches, they all smell funky anyway.

This year, as we drug O Tannenbaum through the field, Kenny broke into song.  Though not the most traditional of Christmas tunes, Rocking Around the Christmas Tree seemed almost fitting.  A bit fractured and manufactured in spots, I was happy that at least he hadn’t chosen to sing the Paul McCartney synthesizer song. 

In my heart, there are the perfect Christmases; and with time and failing memories, all mine have become that.

Given that same cocktail of time and therapy, I’m nearly positive my kids will feel that way too.

Gone Hunting

“I hate my family,” I staidly said to ten-year-old Sam as I sipped my coffee and stared out the kitchen window two days ago.

“Hey! What did I do?!” he replied, almost inaudibly, as John bellowed upstairs.

That particular morning, Sam didn’t do anything to get lumped into my early morning hate-fest.  In fact, he hadn’t been around enough lately for me to get irritated at him at all.  The rest of the family, however, may have ejected themselves from this year’s Christmas list.

Adding to the early morning dishevelment was the lame attempt to get back to the weekday mindset following a certain weekend hunting trip taken by John. Ordinarily I wouldn’t care, but between flipping bedrooms with the boys (which took my entire weekend) and a few missed doses of Zoloft, I was ready for a weekend do-over.  

Upstairs, Kenny and Madison were hashing it out over bathroom rights. After a few noisy expletives and a mighty thwank, John put to rest the only door in our house with locking capabilities. Madison emerged grumpy and half showered, wearing hair that looked like it had been pummeled by a wild animal. 

As he exited, Kenny quickly entered and did his best to use the toilet and not the wall, floor, and toothbrushes in his haste to relieve himself. John continued to harangue Madison and futilely voiced to Kenny to keep his urine stream under control. 

Short of running out the door naked, I could only shake my head and continue packing lunches.

In my ear, Stancey tirelessly chanted, “I’m soooo tired.  Please, can’t I stay home?”

“Talk to your Dad,” I repeated again and again, as I prepared Kenny’s mustard sandwich.

“Please!  You tell him!  He’ll yell at me!  It’s his fault I’m so tired.  He’s the one who made me go hunting!” 

Seriously, how many vegetarians go on weekend hunting trips?

I might have accommodated her wish had she and I not become neighbors in our newly rearranged digs.  It seems to me she wasn’t too tired at 1 a.m. when she was on Skype with her friends.

Having been woken by the yelling alarm clock, it wasn’t long before Max stumbled into the kitchen "Kramer style" and took his usual post inside the fridge before perusing his refrigerated breakfast smorgasbord. 

“Max!  That’s gross!” Kenny exclaimed as he came in the kitchen clutching his sweatpants, wearing nothing but a t-shirt.

Some mornings it’s nearly impossible to get out the door.  And some mornings it’s just impossible not to.  Regardless of this particular Monday, most mornings, I am completely thankful to have a job away from home to go to.

Next weekend, I think maybe I’ll go on a hunting trip too. Only, instead of a gun, I'll bring my checkbook.

If my family’s lucky, I’ll have forgotten that particular morning and added them back on my Christmas list.  If not, I hope new mommy has a higher threshold for morning hijinks and doesn't mind a little man in her produce drawer. 

If You Touch Her Heart

Teenage love is hard the second time around.

If you consult my teen, she’ll tell you that in my advanced age I may be smart enough to know better, but now I’m way too old to be useful.  To my daughter, I have lived no previous life.  To her I’ve always been mom and somewhat roundish.  Certainly was I never young or romantic.  Predictable and monotonous, those are the sleek adjectives she would use to describe me.

As matronly as I am today, I can still remember just how flawed teenage boys can be.  In essence, all teen boys, regardless of their current chronological age, are connected.  Their traits are as timeless as the reasoning they use to advance their cause.  In short, no teenage boy should be allowed to date.  Most especially, no teenage boy should be allowed to date my daughter.

When Mayle’s first boyfriend went away to college, he dumped her almost as soon as the soles of his Converse shoes hit the Berklee campus.

“That bastard ate all those cookies you baked for him!” John had sensitively pointed out between bites of the leftovers. “And then he dumped her!”

Regardless of the parental support and empathetic heartbreak she received, Mayle managed to survive her first fractured romance, and successfully went on to have a few more ex-boyfriends.

But the tale of Stancey’s first boyfriend is still in a state of flux.  Since college for both is still a few years off, the on-again/off-again cycle of their romance is likely to affect our household for the next few years.

When they’re on—it’s bliss. 

When they’re off—someone’s going to get punched.

Comically, of all the boys that have entered and exited our life, it’s this particular boyfriend that John really likes.  While most fathers would be less than pleased to find their daughter’s boyfriend sleeping in the shed behind the house, John chose to view it as an asset and invited him to go camping with us last summer. 

And when they broke up the first time this past fall, John quickly jumped to side of the ex. 

“Do you think maybe it’s her attitude?”  He had sensitively pointed as he munched on some cookies.

I don’t know what exactly changed John’s mind after their most recent break-up.  Maybe it was the text message I sent him last week when he was in D.C., describing the hickey that had been branded on his sweet baby girl’s neck. 

My theory is that once teenage terrors become fathers, they suddenly understand just how terrible they were. You see, a mother will never forget, and a father will suddenly become conscience stricken. 

What bothers me more than the hickey on her neck is the hickey on her heart.  That’s a brand she will bare the rest of her life.  As her mother, I know that her first love will prepare her for her forever love.  Just as mine led me to John. 

Young love, in its idealistic state, is about touching someone’s heart.

Grown-up love, in its realistic state, is about touching someone else’s dirty underwear. 

Regardless of where you stand in the love/age continuum, both places equally stink.  But having lived through the former, I’ll take smelly underwear any day. 

  

Smite

I am renaming our residence the Morgan Street Sanitarium.  Not only have we met our family quota of colds and flu for this season, I believe we have exceeded it.  I’m not sure, but we might have filled the quota for our entire block.  The neighborhood can thank me later.

To date, we have two confirmed cases of pneumonia, one ear infection, and one case of bronchitis.  The rest of the hackers remain undiagnosed.  My children sound like I keep them on a steady diet of cigarettes and strong coffee.

I keep wondering how this is possible.  I have a dehumidifier running nonstop in the basement, a nighttime humidifier chugging away in the boys’ room, an ample supply of disinfecting wipes, and a nebulizer that is getting more action than my Mr. Coffee coffeepot.  Never mind I was diligent enough to get all under the age of sixteen their annual flu shots!  If I wasn’t such a good Catholic (tongue in cheek), I’d swear God is sitting at his computer, finger hovering over the smite key.

Last week, while John was in Maryland, I had the pleasure of tending five children, one smelly dog, and my job, all while under the influence of an unending fever.  What can I say, as far as treatment of each, you get what you pay for.  The kids survived on take-out, the dog lived mostly in the basement, and I ministered to my job at the library on an every-other-day basis. 

By evening, the best of me was spent.  Max, even though ear infected and wheezing, couldn’t be persuaded to stay in his bed.  During his self-administered extended bedtime, he was able to locate Sam’s secret Halloween stash.  He is now sporting an impressive bald spot where I had to yank a flattened Tootsie Roll from his hair. 

Candy or not, I thank God for Sam.  That sweet kid would roll off my bed every five minutes or so to reroute Max or enthusiastically wallop Kenny back into his bunk.  Without him, I would have had to lie in the middle of their bedroom floor and only hope that if it came down to it, they would feed off my dead corpse.

During my time riding the couch, Moxie took it upon her canine self to watch over me.  Her efforts to console in the form of licks and scents yielded her quick thumps on the snout,

“Quit it!”  I’d croak.  “I’m not dead yet.”

Two weeks later, I’d like to say we’re through the worst, but I’m not convinced.  I’ve had enough nursing school to be able to envision the worst, but not enough to be at all helpful.  I know that someday this will pass.  It must. We’re getting pretty close to our annual bout of the stomach virus and we need to be in top form for that.

Merry Halloween!

Every October, I begin to seriously think about renting out a room at our pediatrician’s office—better yet, a suite.  For the past 20 years, October has been the month for croup and strep, diarrhea and rashes, and overall maternal mental deterioration.  Just once, I'd like to take a healthy crew out for trick-or-treating.  Instead, I have a pale, whooping cough clan of sickly Thompsons.  This year I think we'll just encase ourselves in yellow caution tape and go as biomedical hazard wrapped mummies.

Mayle started this tradition almost twenty years ago with what became the annual Halloween croup.  I can’t tell you how much of her candy I consumed while giving her steam baths in the middle of the night.  That kid could bark!  In hindsight, I really should have bought her a seal costume.

In Halloweens most recent, I’ve unknowingly dragged a “Thomas the Tank Engine” Kenny around town with a festering case of strep throat.

“But my legs are tired,” he had kept chattering.  Luckily, he could still swallow and had swallowed enough sugar to buzz his way home.  I don’t know what I would have done if I would have had to carry him.

This past weekend, in pre-Halloween tradition, we spent some quality time with our family pediatrician. While attempting to talk to him, Kenny carefully penned an original masterpiece of what looked like an impressive depiction of the male anatomy.  As he shoved it into my shocked face, I quickly scolded him and hastily crammed it into my purse.  Within moments, Stancey was sniggering, and like contagion, I was wiping away tears while swallowing giggles. Fearing I was having a breakdown, the doctor quickly printed out two prescriptions and offered words of encouragement for a more healthful flu season.

But three days later, we were back again. 

Between a fecal blow out on Monday and coughing jag that resulted in a backseat barf fest on Tuesday, Max was the next patient to be seen.  Although not yet sick enough for a prescription, my psychic abilities twitch with the belief we’ll be back again soon.  If he isn’t really sick now, he certainly will be after trick or treat.

This all leads me to wonder about the cost effectiveness of door-to-door begging.  Why bother costuming at all for what inevitably will turn into an assortment of medical maladies?  Why can’t I just take the kids trick or treating down the Walmart candy aisle and let them pick what they want?  At least we won’t end up with a bogus collection of “Ike and Mikes”, circus peanuts, and candy corn.  A few bags of candy must be cheaper than a trip to the doctor’s office, prescription co-pays, and costumes. 

So far we’ve had at least a half a dozen office visits and easily spent a hundred dollars or more on medicines.  Cost wise, this Halloween holiday may end up costing us almost as much as Christmas. 

I'm thinking about tossing a fresh bottle of amoxicillin into their candy buckets before we head out the door on Monday.

Merry Halloween!

[Note to reader:  It was later learned that Kenny’s doctor's office art was really a self-portrait.]

[And no, he wasn't naked.]

A For Effort

What I’ve learned six weeks into this academic school year is that I'm earning about a D minus as a parent.  

I’m nearly failing my children by making them go to school even when they don’t feel well (“But my lips hurt real bad!” said Madison last week channeling Napoleon Dynamite).  I’m nearly failing school administrators because my family bus runs, on average, 65 seconds short of the starting bell.  And I’m completely failing myself because as of yet, I haven’t been able to raise any academic self-starters.    

But don’t take my word for it, this was all confirmed at parent-teacher conferences last week. 

Because I pride myself on being a lifelong learner, I will acknowledge that my terminology is somewhat behind.  Conferences have since been designated as Early Interventions, though I hesitate to fully embrace this new title. Having attended as many of these meetings as I have in my career as mom (x5), I would definitely call them something else.   I could teach seminars entitled “Poopy Parenting 101” or “It’s All Your Fault Your Child is Failing!”

But because two separate teachers called me on two separate days encouraging me to attend, I encouraged myself to push aside any maternal insecurities and suck it up.  And if that meant dragging along two teenagers, a ten-year-old, as well as Max and Kenny for the sake of intervention, then so be it. 

Take a picture—this is my life.

With interim reports and stroller in hands, we began our interventions tackling first the most precarious of academia.

Conference one was a twofer.  I wish I had known that Stancey and Madison shared a class prior to walking in.  As I talked with the teacher, Max and Kenny were content to climb from one desk to another, Madison rocked on his heels in worry, and Stancey observed through the fray of her bangs, quietly detached.  She did, however, interject that the class was “dumb” and “boring” and that she already knew everything.  She must be right because she’s holding a pretty strong D in there.  And Madison, in what was to become the theme of the evening, was a good kid but didn’t complete homework assignments. 

At the close, I affirmed that I would check their daily work.  I would download and print their study guides.  I would orchestrate study groups.  Hell, I would even take their tests if need be.  After ten minutes, and no serious injuries, I considered our first “intervention” a success. 

Unbroken, we moved on to intervention number two.  I thanked the teacher for her concerned phone call as I watched Thing One and Thing Two perform circus acrobatics on the computer lab chairs.

By the third intervention, the motifs of the evening were unobstructed.  Stancey knew everything and Madison did no homework. As I watched Max telletubbie across the dirty vinyl floor, I began to question why I was even there when it was apparent Stancey and Madison obviously felt interventions were not necessary.

Defeated, I walked my wounded soul back to the car, talking to another parent departing from her own intervention. 

Enthusiastically she said, “She’s doing great!  No complaints!  How about yours?”

I didn’t know where to start.  Dare I mention the collective missing assignments, tardiness, and bad attitude? 

“Great!”  I lied, smiling until my cheeks went numb.  “School…is… just… great!”

As I drove home, I gazed in the rearview mirror just as Stancey swiped Kenny’s head.  As he screamed in mock pain, I contemplated my effectiveness as a mom. 

As for the rest of the teachers I never managed to see that night, I followed up the next day with E-mail.  And I was right.  The theme of the evening never wavered.  Ultimately, I can’t make my kids be model students.  I can, however, threaten them.  And even if my grade as a parent is a D minus, I should at least get an A for effort. 

Namaste

Yesterday I played hooky.  After I put Sam and Kenny on the school bus, dropped Stancey and Madison off at the high school and Max off at daycare, I stopped back home to finish getting ready for work. 

But my head ached and all I really wanted was a nap. 

I don’t know where the idea came from but it overtook me as I parked my van in the driveway. 

Why not take some sick time for me?

I meant only to nap and then go into work.  But after a strong cup of coffee, my migraine suddenly dissipated.  I sat back and listened to the quiet and I thought.

When was the last time I had been alone in my house for more than 20 minutes? 

Five years ago?  A decade?

After making that realization, there was no way I could go back into work.  I needed this day. 

For two hours, I spoke to no one—not the dog, not the cat, not the phone.  I watched the Today Show, peeled apples, and contemplated life as a monk.


But also I felt guilty.  What kind of mother drops her toddler off at daycare and goes back home to do nothing? 

In my defense, I was drinking coffee and not a good cabernet.  So maybe I’m not such a bad mother after all.

For six glorious hours, I did laundry, made apples sauce, and cleaned my bedroom…all without watching any children.  I even attempted to throw in a Yoga session at the end of my day.  But as I reclined into corpse pose, I stopped.  With warrior-like stamina, I maintained that pose for 20 solid minutes.  It was blissful.

The only defect in my six hours of solitude was the one recoiling thought of what my life will become once all the children are gone.  They’ll be no more excuses for dreams unfulfilled because my beautiful distractions will be gone. 

You see, I’ve been a mother for nearly half my life.

And I’ve forgotten what it’s like to just be me. 

Short of making a new Thompson, I think I’m going to need a few more years and a couple more hooky days to figure this out. 

Namaste.

Bon Appetite!

My van is a mobile cesspool.  Sometimes I feel sticky just looking at it.  It’s not that I don’t clean it; I do…several times a week.  It’s just that it’s the opposite of Teflon.  The windows are smeared, the seats are crusty, and the broken glove box is kept closed with an eyehook—my clever $1.29 fix. After paying $80 last year to have it fixed at the dealership, I opted for the Wal Mart repair. Madison says I have “retard strength.”  Considering he’s the one who broke it, he might have been referring to himself.

Yesterday, while I gathered up the fast food artifacts from our busy weekend, I found a Burger King bun stuck to the carpet, two army men, and Mr. Potato Head’s tongue.  In Kenny’s cup holder, I discovered what appeared to be an uncontrolled sample of microorganisms that I can only guess to be a blend of soda, ice cream and boogers.  As I tried to vacuum under Max’s car seat, the separation of car and seat sounded like industrial strength Velcro.  Must have been the push pop from last week.

If all this tactile stimulation isn’t enough, there is the olfactory sense to accompany it.  By midweek, my travelling taxi reeks of sweaty football players and recycled chili.  If Max happens to load his diaper mid-destination, you can count on a not-so-subtle aroma of sweat, feces, and underarms.  If I were to lose my sight, I could find my van on scent alone. 

Sometimes I want to slip into a biohazard suit before I ever slip behind the wheel.

I am the ringmaster to a traveling circus of window lickers.  I could clean the inside of the glass, but it’s futile. Like tiny suction cups, little Thompson lips are passionately attached.  And it isn’t just Kenny trying to get the attention of people outside the car.  Sam did it last weekend while I was pumping gas.  What do you suppose we look like to fellow motorists?

The family van is an integral cog to our family machine.  Without it, we would be fifteen minutes late to every event instead of just five.  Aside from its less-than-savory accessories, it's a great van. It usually starts and it isn’t a theft hazard.  It makes my kids’ lives easier, if not mine harder.  I can’t wait until one of them can legally drive so that I can pass along the keys.  

I wonder if with their newfound freedom they will take on the task of cleaning it out.  

I doubt it.  

Do you think only Taco Bell has a fourth meal? Then I invite you to visit the crevices of our back seats.  

Bon appetite!

Enigma or Enema?

And so it begins.  Not yet four weeks into a brand new school year, and I have had my first teacher phone call.  Phone calls from teachers are seldom good and phone calls from high school teachers are never good. 

Stancey.  

How can one name say so much, but then again, so little?

She’s an enigma. Where did she come from?  I know what she came after—an unholy labor-inducing enema—but her unmitigated butt headedness?  I have no doubt she gets that from her father.

I’m quick to notice this theme.  I admit I have made John the scapegoat to all of our children’s characteristics that make no sense to me.  And though my contributing DNA may not visibly apparent, I do know that my idiosyncrasies too are there.  Mayle’s recent trips to the ER are courtesy of my genetic contribution.  She may not have my nose, but she did inherit my attacks of anxiety. 

Motherhood, it’s the guilt that keeps on giving. 

But Stancey came into this world defiant and John has bucked authority since the day I met him.  His motto is “I won’t pander to anyone!” and mine is, “Just play the game.”  Ultimately it’s a good balance, but when Stancey and John come to blows, everyone in our house tends to scatter—except Kenny, who shouts, “Guys, you’re too loud!  I can’t hear the TV!”

If I could speak for her during one of their arguments, I’m sure I could shave weeks off her inevitable grounding.  But when she digs in her heels and balls up her fists, I can only shake my head and try and remind myself that it must have been John’s idea to have more kids.  Brow to mono-brow they wrangle until she stomps off up to her room, John complains of chest pains, and I pour myself of glass of wine and utter a prayer of thanks that we only have two daughters.

The tumultuous toddler years have ebbed into the tumultuous teenage years, with little reprieve between.  When she was a toddler, she’d tell me to stop talking to her.  Now that she’s a teenager, she tells me to stop texting her.  Although I love her, I sometimes don’t like her, and just when I don’t like her, she’ll drop a chink in her armor and all is forgiven.

All of which leads me to explain the phone call from school.

She failed to show up for test day in science class. Without hesitation she explained that no one has noticed how hard she’s worked all year—all four weeks.  But everyone’s quick to yell at her when she screws up. 

That made me smile.  

There’s something we have in common.

Flowers and Rainbows

At age five, Kenny is already a seasoned pick up artist.  He quickly engages in clever conversation wherever he goes.  Although I’ve noticed he has a preference for blondes, really most any shade will do.

At the grocery store, his target is Oberlin College students.  His amazing powers have mesmerized the bag boy, "Man, I need to take lessons from him!"

Kenny can perform with or without props.  Fast food might pull the ladies in, but it’s his tapestry of one-liners that keeps them bewitched.

“Hey,” he’ll say hypnotically wagging a French fry back and forth, “I like flowers...and rainbows!” 

The little girls love that one.  I swear, they visibly swoon.  

In particular, it's John’s office assistant, Lindsey, that he likes most of all.  He once commented to her while petting her long, blonde hair, “So cute!  Can you make me a grilled cheese sandwich?”

I’m baffled by his flirtatiousness, because I know he doesn’t get it from me.  I blame his father.  Aside from telling me about every one of his ex-girlfriends, John likes to remind me that he kissed his own babysitter when he was only twelve.  I’m fairly sure that’s John's own urban legend, I can’t help but think how amazing it is that the two of us even collided.


Sigh, but that’s a story for another day.


Yep, Kenny is the Charlie Sheen of the kindergarten sect.  His goddesses include his twenty-something swim instructor Cora, five-year-old neighbor Breena, and, of course, me.  He can be a bit demanding, but then again, what man isn't?


Every mother thinks her son is going to be a heartbreaker, and I'm no different. As I sit back and watch him work, I can only imagine what he's going to be like when he's a teenager.  


I just hope by then he'll quit picking his nose.

Where's Max?

“Where’s Max?” 

It’s a question I ask aloud several times a day, usually when it’s too quiet or when I’m up to my elbows in salmonella making dinner.  If the gate to the upstairs is left open, he will rummage through the older kids’ bedrooms looking for stale Cheetos or attempt to flush whatever is nearby down the toilet.  He’s never missing long and judging from the way he reacts when he’s recovered, I’m guessing he’d rather not be found.

The fact that our family has remained intact given our hectic schedule is no small miracle.  Weekday mornings usually begin with multiple attempts of waking uneager children, packing lunches that generally get left behind, standing at the bus stop, and dropping off kids to high school and daycare, which all takes place before 8:30 a.m.

Likewise, afternoons are just as hectic.  The real work begins after work when I practically sprint across the parking lot, chase the school bus to the top of Morgan Street, and begin what feels like endless trips to and from school and practices, sometimes until 9:00 at night.

Oh, and let's not forget the almost daily pilgrimages the store for milk that inevitably ends in several bags worth of groceries.  If I'm on my game, I can sometimes do this on my lunch half-hour.


With all the picking up and dropping off, there’s considerable opportunity for someone to get left behind. It doesn't happen often, but when it does happen, I feel my status as mom superhero wane a bit.

This past weekend, I forgot Max.

Again, he wasn't lost for long--five minutes, at most, but for those five minutes he didn't exist.  It wasn't until I was scanning Sam's birthday card for signatures that I realized Max's imprint wasn't there.

"Shit!  Where's Max?!" I blurted.

In his car seat, where I left him.  I raced out into the drive and flung open the van door.  From the safety of his restraints, he grinned at me and continued to play with his feet.

If he would talk, he'd tell you he wasn't lost at all.  Instead, he squirmed and squealed as I carried him inside, once again not yet ready to be found.

Summer Swan Song

Here I am on the cusp of saying goodbye to another summer.  The summer may have begun with a kitchen full of fresh suds, but it has ended with an overflowing toilet, thanks to Kenny’s overzealous toilet paper usage.

Goodbye summer 2011.  I welcome this swan song. 

Goodbye $500 weekly grocery bills, tattling phone calls at work, nocturnal teenagers, and babysitters getting paid to do what I do for free.  It’s time for alarm clocks, homework, and football games. We’re now in the throes of new notebooks, pencils, and glue sticks.  When I multiply that by at least four, it makes me think we'll be lucky to have milk to pour on our corn flakes by the time our next payday comes around.

As a mother, I've experienced at least 15 of these back-to-school times.  Long have I given up my fantasy of waving my children off to school with tears in my eyes.  If I get teary, I will be wiping away tears of joy.  Within a week, folders full of homework will be left behind on a dirty dining room table and new lunchboxes will smell permanently of chicken noodle soup and sour milk.

As for Kenny, it is his first official school year as a kindergartener.  It has taken the entire summer for Kenny to resign himself to that.  I have fingers crossed for a year of nearly perfect attendance. Realistically, it’s going to take a whole lot of bribing to get him there.

For Stancey, I’m hoping it will not be another year of detention slips and power struggles.  If she needs a cause, I’m hoping it’s her brother Madison.  The two of them will be sharing the same halls at Oberlin High.  The one child I worry least about is Sam.  Inevitably, he’ll become a classroom favorite and model citizen. For him, school does not yet suck and every day is an adventure.

The only children not part of this back-to-school race are my oldest and youngest. Somehow Mayle has managed to enjoy the life of a college student without the inconvenience of the classroom, and as  much as I wish that were different, I respect her decision to postpone academics right now.

And Max, as far away as his first day of kindergarten may seem to me right now, I know all too well how quickly Mayle's first day of kindergarten morphed into her graduating from high school.  The days may crawl, but the years do fly.

Yay for the end of summer!  Yay for my own little break, even if it's condensed into a six-hour day.  Yay for the teachers who teach my kids and for the bus drivers who take them away.

Oh, and yay for Christmas break.  By then, we'll all need one.

Blessings

Publicized large families are going to be my family’s downfall.  First it was the Duggars. Now, thanks to a recent article in the Washington Post, it’s the Kilmers. These families with their wholesome values make my family look like the Osbournes.  

Without trying to sound presumptuous, having lots of kids is really not that big a deal.  I don’t understand how completely ordinary people with overactive fallopian tubes can appear extraordinary.  Trust me, managing lots of children is really just a matter of learning how to ignore.  A lot.

When I compare my family to theirs, I feel I might be doing a great disservice to all wholesome large families.

For example, the Kilmer’s have a cutesy roll call/cheer as they pull out of their driveway. 

My roll call?  It involves yelling out most of their names intermixed with a few choice words, because like a pack of wild dogs, my kids have yelped and snapped their way to gain front seat passage. To the victor--a slew of insults that range from “jerk” to nothing G-rated enough to note here.

The Kilmer children may hold hands from their respective car seats, but mine won’t.  My car seat duo flick boogers. 

The only time Sam and Kenny aren’t squabbling is when a Bruno Mars song comes on the radio.  As sweet as I may find it, Madison can’t bury his fingers far enough into his Eustachian tubes.  And Stancey, on the rare occasion she rides along, will glare through her darkly rimmed eyes before cranking up the volume on her IPod.

There is no doubt, my children are not friends.  They are siblings. It’s not “one for all and all for one.”  Rather, it’s “every man for himself,” and if you want that last piece of pizza, you better lick it. If you don’t mark it, someone will eat it.

In all fairness, not all our moments are that ruthless.  Sometimes, for no reason, Sam or Kenny will randomly blurt out, “I love you!” And as long as I can stop Madison from saying anything about their sexual orientation, the moment is golden.

Despite all of that, I still thank God each day for them--my blessings.  However ordinary I may be, I am always amazed by the extraordinariness they bring to my life. 

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

It has been about a week since our family vacation.  For four days, we roosted in the mountains of Pennsylvania about an hour northwest of Gettysburg.  This vacation was just as much about life experiences as it was about R&R.  For starters, the rigors of camping increase tenfold when you include an accident-prone toddler.  And though no trips to the emergency room were necessary, I can firmly attest that boxed wine for this traveling mom was the best kind of preventative medicine. 

It only took us six hours, three stops, and two diaper changes to make it to Burnt Cabins, Pennsylvania.  For three nights we stayed in a rented RV (which was very reminiscent of My Name is Earl).  Within a mere hour of arriving, Max managed to fall out of the camper door and Kenny’s pit stop in the camper’s restroom made it impossible for anyone to stay inside for any longer than you could hold your breath. My name may not be Earl, but it sure was fun pretending.  I’ll take polyester curtains and bad cable television over a leaky canvass tent any day. 

It didn’t take long to discover that feeding my family on the cheap was still pretty darn expensive on the open road.  Turnpike Starbucks just isn’t economical for two adults and a handful of teenagers. Even Kenny can eat only so many marshmallows and chocolate bars. I’m certain I saw a tear in Max’s eye when I finally managed to scare up some fresh broccoli on our second day. 

One thing that I had hoped would happen on our trip to Gettysburg, but didn’t, was some type of ghostly encounter. 

Lame, I know. 

After a candlelight ghost walk and a tour of one of the most haunted homes in downtown Gettysburg, it seems the only ambiguous ghostly experience we were destined to have was the face of our kitten Leonard (note:  who is still very much alive) in a timeworn windowpane.  It was probably just a foreshadowing of the litter box stench that would greet us at our front door upon our return home.  


By Friday evening, Kenny had had enough. 

“Can’t we just ride those horses and wheelchairs?”  he pleaded.

On our final night, Houdini Max figured out how to escape his port-a-crib.  I can now add to my list of life lessons how I managed to read a book, hold my plastic wine glass, and push the Billy goat that is my youngest son back into bed with one foot.

It was as I was urging him back into bed one final time that I had my “aha moment,” though not as profound as any of Oprah’s. My moment was the realization that if we spent any more money on this family vacation, we might well be living in our own RV if we didn’t go home soon.   

Next time we head back to Gettysburg, I’m going to brush up on my Civil War history and spend more time in the battlefields than I did in Friendly’s getting ice cream.  Also, I think I’ll stay in a location not as out-of-the way as Burnt Cabins Grist Mill—preferably one that has a pool. I’m all for historical, but those hairpin turns on Route 533 with a van full of kids in the dark of night was exhausting. 

I wonder, when my kids are older and John and I are gone, what parts, if any, will our kids recall?  I hope this is trip leaves a sweet memory.  As for feeding them until our next payday, I hope they still like marshmallows because it’s the only food we managed to bring home.

Peace of Mind and Other Myths

I think I was born with a furtive brow.  I worry about everything—things known and unknown. I pretty much worry all day long.  Currently I’m worried that the article I saw on the Today Show website might secretly be about me.  “Worrying about worry:  What it’s like to grow up with OCD.”  Now I’m worried I have OCD.  Tell me, is this normal?

Don’t answer that.

My worries have evolved as I have aged.  During childhood I worried I was retarded but no one wanted to tell me.  I also worried that ghosts would haunt me (even though I seem to lack a sixth sense).   I also worried my brothers would burn my dolls—it turns out that worry was well founded.

I have moved past most of my early fears and have exchanged them for more complex ones. If Stancey breaks her curfew, I’m certain her broken body is at the side of Plumb Creek.  If Max goes through an entire night without wetting his diaper, I fear his kidneys have shut down. Forget Walt Disney’s “If you can dream it, you can do it.”  My mantra is “If I can imagine it, I can worry about it.  And if I can worry about it, you bet I can obsess about it.”

Next week my family will take our first vacation in eight years.  You guessed it.  I’m a nervous ball of “what ifs.”  What if the car breaks down on the way?  What if someone gets sick?  What if it’s too hot and we all have a miserable time?  What if I drive off the road because I attempted to break up a fistfight? Never have I ever imagined a “what if” situation that was positive.  I am a cognitive therapist’s nightmare.  I don’t buy any of it.  I recognize my distortive thinking and I embrace it.  I expect the worst and feel relief only when things turn out for the better.  Vacation or not, I will not vacation from my worry.

Over the years, I have learned to keep most of my worries to myself.  John is not patient with my overzealous calling.  His stock answer to most of my speculations is, “You’ll probably be dead by morning, in which case it won’t matter anymore.”  The world is comprised of these two types of people--those who worry and those who let their spouse worry for them.

If I have OCD I guess I’ll stop worrying about it. I’m pretty sure my doctor would advise me to drink two glasses of wine and call her in the morning.  In which case, my worrying will have shifted onto a new target.  Luckily target is something we happen to have a lot of at my house. 

So Easy A Cavebaby Can Do It!

I suspect that John and I are not the best role models when it comes to emulating proper language usage.  Given that three of our six children have had some type of language delay must reveal the fractures in our communication style.  Eventually they all express their needs and wants.  In fact, five of the six are speaking right now.  Unfortunately Max, the Thompson caboose, still prefers to communicate via cavemanese.  Why talk when a grunt will suffice?

Stancey never demonstrated any trouble communicating.  As a toddler, she belted out her first sentence while waiting in the bank drive-through.

“Come on, jackass!” She called from the back seat.  Not too much has changed in her style of expression over the years.

Like Stancey, Sam had few communication issues.  From the beginning he has had a wonderful talent for confessing family secrets as just a matter of fact.  Last weekend when my co-worker dropped by, he told her the X-rated name John had suggested calling our newfound kitten.  I blush just thinking about it. 

And Kenny has no shame when it comes to voicing his cerebral musings, and because he has no "inside voice" most of what he broadcasts is awkward.

“Mommy, can we stop walking for a minute so I can scratch my butt?”

This only makes me laugh because I remember my friend’s daughter saying to a mute two-year old Kenny, “Talk, stupid boy!”

Given what my kids say and when they say it, perhaps I should be grateful that Max isn’t yet verbal.  However, there has to be a better way of getting his needs met that doesn’t involve his intricate system of pinching and shrieking.  He’s a week away from being two and toddlers are supposed to talk.  I know all about Your Baby Can Read®.  Someone needs to develop a program called Your Baby Can Talk.

I feel like a communications failure.  It’s like Stancey said to John sometime after the bank episode.  “It just isn’t fair.  You try and you try, but you’re still a loser!”

Maybe Max finds it suspicious that I spend so much time encouraging him to talk only to turn around and tell his siblings to shut up. 

Still, I wait intently for what Max has to say.  Silence may be golden but for this mom it’s overrated.

Doodling Fool

The graffiti on the outside of my house has nothing on what lies within.  I feel like I’m living a scene from Raising Arizona.  We may not live in a trailer but someone in our house has learned their ABC’s real good because they’ve etched “Fart House” across our front porch risers.  When you couple that with the dirty diaper that always seems to be sitting just outside the front door, "Fart House" seems like an appropriate name.  I’m amazed the mailman will even deliver to us.

Inside the house, Max is a doodling fool.  He prefers to create on tabletops and walls, but will settle for sketching on my sweeper in a pinch.  His alphabet skills are not yet as accomplished as his siblings, but give him time.  He’ll probably write long before he decides to speak his first word. 

Max comes from an enduring lineage of scripters and artists.  Years ago toddler Stancey drew some hair for her Charlie Brown-headed brother—another color other than green Sharpie would have been preferable.  And Madison was our sidewalk correspondent until one of his libel remarks upset the neighborhood children.  (No one wants to see his or her name connected to the phrase “is poop”)  Finally Sam did some fine engraving (in gravel) on my van door when he was honing his penning skills.   

So really, I should be grateful that they’re all so literate!

I’m not bragging.  I don’t for a minute think my kids are unique in their desire to want draw and write.  What I do think is unique is my indifference to their desire to create as the day goes on.

“Mom!  Max is drawing on the dog!”

Yah?  So what.  He goes to bed at nine.

Thank God for the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser.

As for the dog, it’s a good thing she’s dark because there’s only so much Mr. Clean can do.  What can’t be erased will be left for posterity.